Work Text:
The view up here is fucking amazeballs.
Like, no bullshit, it’s real fucking beautiful. Like something straight out of a movie, or like, Candyland, or wait, isn’t there a Super Mario map that this shit reminds Richie of?
Whatever. The point is, it’s super pretty. Some kinda like, Ansel Adams shit, if Ansel Adams shot in color, or — wait, that’s what this shit reminds him of, of course, it’s those Willard Metcalf landscapes, the ones
with all the snow and shit, but like, way more trees than ol’ Willy ever put in those pieces.
There’s not much snow, only three or so inches of it, but it still serves to lighten up the scenery, trees covered in a light dusting of it as far as the eye can see, like a bunch of hyper-realistic gingerbread house decorations.
Although, Richie thinks glumly, as the rush of joy from taking the landscape in fades into a dull kind of stinging that targets his nostrils and ears with a vengeance, I could’ve seen the same exact shit by just googling ‘Winter Wonderland’, and then I wouldn’t be freezing my balls off out here, oh god, the shrinkage is going to be fuckin’ insane.
Richie decides to keep his thoughts to himself though, and instead stuffs his hands into his coat pockets, hoping past-him had the foresight to grab some gloves.
Next to Richie, or maybe a few feet away max, Eddie clears his throat.
“Richie, can you put sunscreen on my face for me?”
Richie huffs. “Seriously? It’s like minus eight thousand degrees, and you’re wearing sunscreen? What are you, like a snow vampire or some shit?” Fuck, no mittens either, Richie’s screwed. He settles for leaving his hands in his pockets, hoping they won’t be out here long enough for him to freeze to death.
“Not like I’d expect you to know it, but snow can reflect UV rays, jackass, and I’m not interested in getting a fucking sunburn in the middle of December,” Eddie snaps, stomping through the minute amount of snow toward Richie so that they’re less than a foot away from each other.
“What, and you can’t do it yourself? What are you, three years old?” Richie questions incredulously, which is awful brave of him, really, especially since Eddie’s all up in his business with that signature little furrowed brow of his, looking suspiciously like a cracked-out squirrel, what with all the fidgeting he’s doing.
(About ten feet behind them, from their seat on a bench, Ben makes to stand up, starts to say “Eddie, if you want, I can—” only to be cut off by Bev yanking him back down and shushing him with a finger placed over his lips. He looks at her, confused, about to ask her what was up, when she raises her eyebrows suggestively, and all is revealed. Ben smiles and settles back into his seat, hand finding Bev’s as easily as if they were two parts of a whole.)
“Obviously I can, I’m not some fucking idiot, it’s just better when someone else does it for you, dumbass,” Eddie snipes back, yanking Richie’s hand from the pocket it was stuffed in and squirting sunscreen into it as he speaks.
“What, and you didn’t put sun screen on before we left? Who are you and what have you done with my best friend?” Richie interrogates, even as he resigns himself to doing Eddie’s bidding like some kind of manservant, as always.
“I did!” Eddie says forcefully, scowl staying firmly planted on his lips even as Richie obliges him and begins carefully rubbing the sunscreen in on the lower half of Eddie’s face, “You’re supposed to reapply it while you’re out!”
“Yeah, but I’m pretty sure that’s every few hours, not every few minutes,” Richie grumbles, although there’s no heart in it. He finishes applying the sunscreen to Eddie’s chin and jaw area, trying not to get distracted by how smooth it is (what, is Eddie a fucking cherub or something?), before moving up to the apples of Eddie’s cheeks.
Eddie’s eyes flutter closed, and now Richie really needs to put effort in not to get distracted, fuck.
(Then again, what kind of man would he be if he didn’t take advantage of this opportunity?)
Eddie’s skin is baby soft, and, despite his religious use of sunscreen, covered in small freckles that look like stars.
(Richie wants to kiss each one.)
His skin is warm to the touch.
(Richie’s little space heater. Eddie has always run hot, and Richie’s always made sure to take advantage of it as much as he can without being too obvious.)
Eddie’s cheeks are filled with a slight flush — from the exertion of the hike, no doubt.
(It’s mesmerizing and difficult to look away from, even if all Richie’s doing is imagining what it would feel like to be the reason Eddie blushed.)
Richie blinks his eyes hard, once, twice, three times, and snaps out of his reverie. He gets some more sunscreen on the hand he’s been using to apply it and starts in on Eddie’s forehead.
———
They begin the trek back down about twenty minutes later, all Nature Appreciation-ed out (at least in Richie’s case).
Conversation comes easy between the four of them, as it always has.
“So, what movie d’you guys want to watch when the rest of the Losers get here?” Ben asks after a short lull in the conversation.
“Ooh, what about Die Hard 2? I think it’s on Netflix right now,” Bev suggests immediately.
“Sounds good! Richie, Eddie, what do you think?”
Richie, as he is wont to do, looks over to Eddie to gauge the other man’s opinion before offering his.
Instead of any kind of look of approval, or even of disapproval, though, Eddie looks sad. His eyebrows are turned in the slightest amount, and his bottom lip is poked out a little, even as he responds to the question.
“Yeah, sounds good.”
Richie nods his agreement when everyone looks over at him.
“Sweet! Die Hard 2 it is!”
About halfway back to the cabin, Ben and Bev seem to speed up for whatever reason, and Richie and Eddie are left in their dust, so to speak.
“You alright, Eds?”
Eddie makes a questioning sound.
“I just mean, you looked a bit bummed back there when they brought up watching a movie later. What, do you not feel good?”
Eddie’s eyes dart to meet Richie’s before darting away just as quickly. He sighs, a big gust of breath that Richie can see in the chilly air.
“No, it’s not that..” Eddie says, voice so dejected that it’s kinda freaking Richie out a little, “It’s just… I still haven’t found my box of movie tickets from when we were kids.”
“Fuck, man, that sucks,” Richie says sympathetically, huffing out a breath through his teeth, “I was hoping you’d find it in a random box when you finished unpacking..”
Eddie hrrmms in the negative, lips twisting sharply to the side.
“Me too, but no dice.”
———
The walk back to the cabin is, luckily, relatively short and uneventful.
Eddie spends it oohing and ahhing at the scenery, snapping a million photos a minute. The sun has begun to get ready for bed, and as a result, the sky is a brilliant mishmash of orange and red that reminds Richie of a bunch of bell peppers all smashed down against a cutting board.
Richie, meanwhile, quiets down, deep in thought.
When they get back to the cabin to wait for the other Losers, Richie excuses himself to the bathroom.
(“I gotta take a hee-yuuge dump, guys, so like, no molestar me in the el baño, please favor, I’ll be super busy.”)
The groans from the other three had only followed him down the hallway, but his own self-satisfied snickering follows him all the way into the bathroom and lasts all the way up until he shuts the door so hard that the wood of it shudders a little, smile dropping off his face like he’s just been tazed.
All the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding in his lungs is let out in one big whoosh of air.
Richie sucks in another breath, shuts his eyes as tight as anything, allows himself one, two, three seconds to calm down before he opens them again. In a second, the calm stillness transforms into a flurry of movement as he begins frantically patting at each and every pocket on his person, starting at the top secret inside breast pocket of his coat (which contains a lighter and an emergency cigarette, just in case), both the outer and inner pockets too (which contain several scrunched up tissues, a few random coins, a glasses wipe, and several caramel candies out of their wrappers).
After several moments of frantic searching, he locates his wallet in his back left pocket (so the same place as always; why did he even bother searching? He blames the goblins that live in his brain) and pulls it out frantically.
(So frantically, in fact, that he very nearly drops it on the tiled floor of the bathroom but just barely manages to catch the wallet before it plummets to certain death.)
Richie holds it in both hands like it’s the cure to cancer, grip trembling slightly. He sets it on the bathroom counter after a moment, not trusting himself not to biff it again. Finally, he opens the wallet like he’s Indiana Jones in Raiders of the Lost Ark (and is privately disappointed a little bit when it doesn’t glow like in the movie).
He slides his fingers between the leather of the cardholder and the main body of the wallet and pulls the slip of cardstock contained within out with the precision of one of those robots that perform surgery on grapes or whatever.
Richie holds it aloft with trembling fingers, staring at it wide-eyed. He sighs out a breath of relief that he hadn’t realized he’d been holding as it finally settles into his brain that, yes, in fact, it’s still in mint condition; it hadn’t evaporated into dust since yesterday when he’d put the ticket in his wallet in the first place.
The ticket reads DIE HARD 2, 26 AUGUST 1990. Before Richie can ponder it further, someone knocks on the bathroom door, and Richie only just barely manages to stop himself from poofing up like a startled cat at the scare — although he can’t say the same for his heart, which first skips a beat before speeding up like he’s just snorted some Grade A cocaine.
“Rich, stop fucking around on your phone and come out already. Stan and Patty just pulled up, and Mike just messaged to say that they’re only five minutes out.” Eddie’s voice comes from beyond the wood of the door after a moment’s pause, only serving to heighten Richie’s anxiety.
“Okay, okay, just gimme a sec.” Richie responds, clearing his throat a little. He carefully slides the movie ticket back into the sleeve with the precision of someone performing heart surgery. He snaps his wallet shut before shoving it unceremoniously back into his back pocket.
“Alright, but don’t be too long! Mike’s bringing Cards Against Humanity, and he’s insisting on you being the Card Czar for the first round because apparently you do the voices the best.”
“But of course, mon cheri,” Richie purrs in his Pepe LePew Voice, flushing the toilet quickly to keep the ruse up before swinging the door open, “I would be honored.”
Eddie stands there with his arms crossed derisively, utterly unimpressed. This is the furthest thing from news in Richie’s book.
(Try as Richie might, he’s never been able to get Eddie to come around on the Voices. Eddie just doesn’t Get them, which, as far as Richie is concerned, is Eddie’s one and only major character flaw.
Oh well, Richie refuses to give up on him. Maybe over the next few days, he can change Eddie’s mind somehow?)
“Not gonna wash your hands?” Eddie interrogates, eyebrow raised testily.
Richie takes a deep breath in before sighing it out as loudly and full of anguish as he can manage.
(Which, as a big ol’ guy with big ol’ juicy lungs, is pretty impressive, if he does say so himself. And he does.)
Unfortunately, Eddie isn’t swayed in the slightest, so Richie relents. He backs up the few inches it takes to be in front of the sink and begins washing his hands, giving Eddie the most somber, kicked-puppy look he can manage.
Eddie continues to be unimpressed. After a moment, he turns and heads off back towards the living room, although not without tossing “And don’t forget to dry your hands off! If you drip on the floor I will strangle you in your sleep.” over his shoulder.
“I’ll strangle you in your sleep,” Richie mocks under his breath.
“What did you say?” Eddie calls back.
“Nothing!”
When Richie makes his way down the hallway, the first thing he sees is Stan facing away from him, kneeling in front of the large fireplace that takes up nearly half of the wall it sits against.
He sticks his index and middle fingers in his mouth and wolf-whistles.
“Nice ass, Standra Bullock.”
Stan sighs in acknowledgment of Richie’s presence but doesn’t turn around to greet him, which, like, suuuper rude.
“Whatcha up to?” Richie questions, coming further into the living room and collapsing onto one of two couches, lying sideways, with his head at one end and his feet dangling off the other. He cushions his head on his right arm, which curls upwards involuntarily due to the position, hand dangling uselessly above his head like a claw in a crane game.
“Starting a fire,” Stan responds, although he pauses and then appends it with, “although I haven’t been very successful thus far.”
Richie hums empathetically, even though, truthfully, he’s never even attempted to light a fire in his life — he’s not Mister Outdoors or anything; the furthest thing from it, honestly. He’s way more Mister Indoors, or maybe Mister Video Games and Microwave Burritoes.
“Maybe you should try rubbing two sticks together?” Richie suggests, because he’s helpful like that, “Or maybe like, you could get a magnifying glass and angle it just right so that the sun can start the fire for you?”
Finally, Richie succeeds in getting Stan to turn around.
“Riddle me this, trashmouth, do you base your entire life on cartoons, or is it just the practical knowledge? Are you about to try to levitate three feet off the ground when Ben takes the apple pie he’s making out of the oven, because if so, please tell me in advance so that I can point and laugh.”
“Wait, Ben’s making an apple pie? And no one told me? Man, I had like twenty fruit roll-ups on the way here; I’m not even sure if my tastebuds are working properly anymore,” Richie whines, deciding to take the high road and ignore Stan’s very rude and very uncalled-for remark against his intelligence, because he’s practicing maturity this holiday season, unlike some people.
The doorbell rings a second later, and Ben comes rushing out of the kitchen to answer it. He smiles at Richie and Stan, although it looks slightly forced.
The door opens to reveal Bill and Mike, both rosy-cheeked. Mike has a backpack slung over one shoulder, with the other arm weighed down by a duffel bag, while Bill holds a bottle of unidentifiable-from-this-distance booze (although it looks like whiskey?) and the cards against humanity box, cradling both in his arms like a newborn.
“Mikey Bay! Billy Shakes!” Richie crows, scrambling up off of the couch to greet them.
Stan curses in the background over the sudden din of a Ben-Bill-Mike-Richie reunion as all four come together in a flurry of fist-bumping, hugs, and shoulder-shaking.
After a moment, Stan hisses out a fuck yeah as he succeeds in lighting a fire. He sets the lighter down, stands up primly, carefully dusts his knees off, and walks leisurely over to where Ben and Mike are bear-hugging while Bill and Richie are trying to work out the logistics of a chest bump. The second Stan reaches them, however, his demeanor shifts drastically, and he shoves at Bill’s shoulder playfully before joining in on the bear hug.
The heterosexuality in the room is eerily reminiscent of a sports bar; as it is, only two of five men in this huddle are actually straight.
(For the record, it’s only been a few weeks since the five of them had all been together last, but when you’ve gone twenty-seven years without seeing your best friends in the whole world, even such a relatively short period of time seems like a hundred more.)
Bev, Eddie, and Patty finally come out of the kitchen shortly thereafter, each holding a half-full wine glass. They join the group by the front door, and the commotion only grows as everyone greets everyone else.
After a few minutes, the hubbub quiets down. Patty and Ben scurry off to the kitchen to check on dinner. Bill follows them with what was indeed a bottle of whiskey after having handed the Cards Against Humanity box off to Richie, who holds it like it’s made of glass as he brings it around to set on the coffee table in between the two couches. Mike disappears down the hallway with his and Bill’s bags, and everyone else sits down on one of two leather couches that face each other.
Bill returns a few moments later, holding two whiskey glasses with three fingers each in them. Richie monkey ooh ooh oohs at them the second he sees them, making grabby hands at Bill until the other relents and hands one over.
Mike comes back in as Richie’s dealing out cards for their first round of Cards Against Humanity and explaining the rules to a very intrigued Patty, and Eddie and Ben join them just as Mike’s finally sitting down.
———
After about an hour’s worth of Cards Against Humanity rounds (in which Bev reigns the unquestionable champion, with Mike a distant second and Eddie a close third), a timer dings on Ben’s phone, which, he tells the group, means that dinner should be ready in about ten minutes. Everyone heads into the kitchen, partly to help set the table and to make drinks but mostly just to be nosy about what Ben’s prepared for their holiday dinner.
“Hey, that reminds me,” Ben says, after a spirited chat with Bill over the whiskey that Bill had brought, “did everyone bring their White Elephant gifts? We’ll do it after dinner, before our movie marathon.”
There’s a chorus of yeses from around the open-plan kitchen and dining area.
Richie responds in kind, although he feels his heart skip a beat at the reminder. He pats his wallet where it’s still safely in his back pocket absentmindedly before grabbing the bottle of whiskey to pour himself, Bill, and Ben another generous glass.
———
Dinner is straight-up scrumptious.
Like, downright fucking scrumdiddlyumptious. Ben has prepared a veritable feast. It’s like some kind of shit straight out of The Grinch, complete with roast beast and everything — which like, wait, who’s the Grinch in this scenario? Is it Richie, just because he has a good four or five inches on the next tallest person in the group, in which case, rude, because Richie’s the furthest thing from a Grinch, he’s closer to Santa Claus, honestly, what with how jolly and cool and beloved by all worldwide he is.
Other than a baked ham, Ben’s included all the classics: deliciously cheesy macaroni and cheese, some bangin’ mashed potatoes, stuffing, roasted vegetables, and homemade bread rolls to boot.
They have a great time, and food is only spilled twice (by whom the world may never know), which is a miracle, considering the way that the alcohol flows freely, not to mention how lively the entire table is.
(It was Richie, okay? Richie spilled the food. In his defense, Ben should have planned around Richie’s clumsiness.)
When everyone’s had as many helpings as they’d like, they sit around the dining table and chat for a while longer, before Ben claps his palms on the top of his thighs and stands up from his seat. Everyone else follows suit without skipping a beat in their individual conversations, beginning an assembly line to wash dishes and put away leftovers. They’re done within fifteen minutes, and the party moves to the living room once glasses have been refilled.
Everyone else has only gotten happier and louder as the night goes on; Richie, however, is the complete opposite. He enjoyed dinner plenty, sure; how could he not, it was fucking delicious, and was even able to forget his impending doom during it, but the second Ben had stood up, the anxiety had returned in full force like a dam had broken abruptly.
Richie stays standing while everyone else sits, hands twitching around minutely like he’s doing some kind of lame, unenthused flapper dance.
He decides just to say fuck it and bite the bullet.
“So, should we begin the Non-Denominational Losers Holiday Get Together Gift Exchange: 2017 Edition?” Richie enquires, eyebrows waggling for emphasis.
“That’s a bit of a mouthful, isn’t it?” Bill asks although it’s clear that what he’s actually saying is let’s move on from whatever bit you’re trying to pull rather than a genuine question.
“That’s what she said,” Richie blurts the second he sees the opening. To his despair, he gets minimal reactions to his attempt to be deliberately annoying; Richie knew there had to be some downsides to friends who know you better than you know yourself.
The gift-giving between the rest of the Losers goes by in a blur, anxious as Richie is; as it is, he’s so busy anxiously overthinking his own gift that he couldn’t name a single thing any of his friends get each other.
Eventually, Stan gets to the end of his list because of course, Richie is at the end; of course, Stan doesn’t want to put him out of his misery; Stan, of all people, hates him and wants him dead.
Even though he’s fully expecting it, when Stan finally calls his name out, Richie still startles a little. He grabs the carefully wrapped box from where he’d hid it under the couch when he’d first arrived at the cabin, but when he pops back up to standing like a Weeble post wobble, Eddie’s already less than a foot away, a poster tube thrust the remaining distance in between them.
Richie looks at Eddie. Looks down at the tube. Looks back up at Eddie again.
“Well, hel-lo,” Richie purrs, to mask the shock of Eddie being his gifter, “is there a poster in that tube or are you just happy to see me?”
Eddie’s face scrunches up like he’s an eight-year-old seeing two people kiss, although instead of ewww, cooties!, he replies, “What the fuck does that even mean?”
Richie sighs and shrugs his shoulders in the direction of the rest of the Losers, although his eyes don’t leave Eddie’s. Can’t win ‘em all, the gesture radiates. His audience will understand.
After a moment, Eddie jabs Richie’s chest with the tube. “C’mon, Tozier, we don’t have all day. Take the damn gift.”
Richie forces a pained yelp at the assault but obeys regardless. He sets his present box on the arm of the sofa he’s standing next to before accepting the poster tube, scrabbling with the cap for a long moment until Eddie sighs frustratedly and yanks the tube out of his paws.
Eddie pops the cap out immediately, the show-off, handing it back immediately.
Richie takes it with his right hand, left hand turning into a chicken foot to painstakingly remove the poster from its prison. He succeeds after a second (a real Charlie Sheen Hashtag Winning moment), and he sets the tube down carefully on the floor (read: drops it, but like, it’s only a foot or two in the air, and it’s just a tube anyways, so literally who cares) to the ire of Eddie (of course Eddie’s the one person in the fucking world who would care) before carefully unrolling the poster.
What he sees when he does is a mystery fit for not only Columbo, but Poirot, Jessica Fletcher, Sherlock, and the whole damn Mystery Crew too.
The poster is designed to look like a motivational poster, that’s for sure. At the bottom of the poster, the words HANG IN THERE! are printed, a glossy, blocky white lettering against a matte black background. They’re not the star of the show, though.
What is the star of the show is the rectangular photo that has seemingly replaced your everyday kitten hanging onto a tree branch for dear life.
Instead of a cute little kitty cat, a stock photo of a businessman hanging with a noose tied around his neck is printed, an office chair just barely in the corner of the image.
Richie bursts out laughing the second he processes the poster. He keeps laughing until tears are streaming down his face, and his stomach starts cramping from the unexpected stress. Eddie snatches the poster out of Richie’s hands when he begins to grip at it a little more harshly than he really should and stares at Richie as he continues wheezing with laughter, utterly bewildered.
“Eddie, what’d you get him?” Bill asks intriguedly, leaning forward from where he sits on the couch behind Eddie.
“Just a motivational poster.” Eddie says woodenly, although the way that his voice tilts up at the end of the sentence makes it sound more like a question than a statement.
Bev, sitting right next to where Richie is now doubled over laughing, takes the poster from Eddie and unrolls it again. When she does, she snorts and shows the rest of the couch.
“Eddie,” Bev says, between bouts of laughter, “I mean, I don’t think I should’ve expected anything else, but of all of us, of course you’d be the one to get him the perfect gift.”
Eddie makes a questioning sound. “What do you mean?” He asks helplessly. “It’s just a motivational poster?”
Bev turns the poster around so that the other couch can appreciate it, and sure enough, all three of them start laughing, too. The way she holds it means that Eddie can finally see it, too, and the blood drains from his face.
“That— that’s not what I got him!” Eddie protests, nearly stomping his foot in denial, although he’s almost completely drowned out by the raucous laughter that erupts from the other couch, “I got him one of those motivational posters! You know, the ones you hang up in your office!”
Bev lays a hand on Eddie’s forearm sympathetically. “I think you must’ve gotten tricked by a prank website, honey.”
“What, am I a fucking idiot now or something?” Eddie splutters incredulously, “I did not get tricked by a fucking prank website!”
In order to defend himself further, Eddie pulls his phone out and scrolls angrily (which is apparently a thing that can be done) through his emails, tapping with an impressive force at the screen when he finally reaches the order confirmation for the order. He hands the phone off to Bev, who’s managed to calm herself down somewhat, although she’s still smiling so hard that her cheeks must hurt with the force.
She inspects the email carefully; eyebrows furrowed in mild confusion as the smile slowly dies down. After a couple of moments, she taps through to the website Eddie had ordered the poster from, at which point she snorts so hard that she sounds more pig than human.
Eddie, meanwhile, only grows even more confused. “What?” He demands, but Bev can’t help him; now she’s doubled over in laughter, too.
“Jesus, Eddie, I think I’m gonna be sick,” she chokes out.
Ben takes the phone from her hand and puffs out a laugh of his own, although he’s kind enough to hide most of it under the guise of clearing his throat.
“Eddie,” Ben starts, only to be cut off involuntarily by another chuff of laughter; in a sign of true professionalism, he only takes a second to compose himself before continuing, “Maybe you didn’t get tricked by the website, but this is definitely a prank website. As in, it’s a website for buying things to do pranks with.”
“A what?” Eddie bites out.
“Eddie, look,” Ben tries, tapping at the screen of Eddie’s phone a few times before turning it around so that Eddie can see.
The screen displays several variations of what seem to be… run of the mill calendars, with pictures of cute dogs in scenic places or impressive scenes of nature. When Eddie looks a little closer, though, he can clearly see the titles of several of them.
DOGS POOPING IN BEAUTIFUL PLACES CALENDAR 2018
NATURE’S DICK PICS CALENDAR 2018
CUTE PUPPIES CALENDAR 2018 ⚠️PRANK CALENDAR! 12 POOPING DOGS INSIDE ⚠️
The blood that had previously drained from Eddie’s face abruptly returns with a vengeance as he realizes what’s happened.
At this point, Richie very nearly falls to the ground with his laughter, slapping a hand down on his knee like the joy within him is being converted into kinetic energy. “Ed-die,” he wheezes, shaking as he speaks with the strength required to pause his mirth, “if I didn’t already think we were soulmates before, I’d be pretty fucking convinced of it now.”
Eddie’s so red that if he were a cartoon character, the top of his head would be blowing off. As it is, Richie’s surprised that steam isn’t actively coming out of the other man’s ears.
Finally, Eddie seems to muster up the ability to speak. “Obviously I didn’t fucking know! Why would I get you a poster with a fucking suicide joke on it?”
Richie wipes at the tears that have been streaming down his face roughly before he clears his throat
“Eddie Spaghetti, look me in the eyes and tell me that you honest to god thought I would enjoy one of those depressing posters that corporate slaves put up in their four by four cubicles? What, were you between hang in there! and fucking Rosie the Riveter saying we can do it?” Richie snorts again at the end of his sentence, although he tries his best to school his expression into neutrality if only to fight against the soreness in his facial muscles, “Shit, I haven’t laughed this much in a long time, Eds. Never fucking change, alright?”
Eddie scowls in response. “Oh, what, and you got me the fucking Ark of the Covenant?”
Richie smirks. “Something like that, yeah.”
With that said Richie picks the previously forgotten present box up from where it’s been sitting patiently on the arm of the sofa next to him.
The box looks very much like what you might see if you googled ‘cartoon present.’ It’s a green box with a red ribbon wrapped around it to hold the lid onto the body, wrapped in a neat little bow dead center on the top.
(How fancily the bow is tied has the benefit of giving the appearance that Richie had spent much more time tying it than he actually had. Once he’d found a YouTube video he liked, it took like… ten minutes, tops.)
Richie thrusts the box at Eddie unceremoniously as nerves begin to overcome him once more.
Eddie raises an eyebrow at the sudden shift in mood but accepts the present. He undoes the fancy bow on top like he’s defusing a bomb and takes the lid of the box off with the same delicacy, although his expression sours the second he sees what’s inside, slamming the lid back on almost immediately.
“Fucking seriously, dickhead?”
“Well, technically not yet, but if you want to make use of that coupon— ow!” Richie’s cut off by Eddie kicking him in the shin, which, like, suuuper rude and super uncalled for.
“Leave it to you to get the world’s worst gift ever, asshole,” Eddie says, although he’s smirking, a little lopsided grin that he can’t suppress despite his best efforts; it leaves Richie absolutely giddy.
“What did he get you?” Bill calls out, and just like that, the little bubble of Richie-and-Eddie bursts.
“See for yourself,” Eddie says, turning towards the other man and tossing the box over.
Bill does just that, lifting the lid off and snickering the second he takes the contents of the box in. Carefully, he lifts them out.
Item One: a long-ish rectangular box with a green penis decal on the side. The inside of the penis reads, in sideways, block letters, CLONE-A-WILLY.
This, Bill holds up with two fingers by the hanger, gingerly presenting it to the rest of the Losers like a lawyer presenting evidence at court before dropping it gruffly back into the box.
Item Two: a clearly handmade coupon of about the same shape and size as a movie ticket that reads GOOD FOR ONE CLONE-A-WILLY CLONE, JUST FOR YOU EDDIE BABY WINKY FACE WINKY FACE, I KNOW YOU’RE A SIZE QUEEN, AND I’M NOTHING IF NOT A PROVIDER.
Bev and Patty were already yucking it up at the reveal of the Clone-A-Willy box, but Richie’d only gotten Mike and Ben when Bill’d started reading the slip of paper out to the group at large like fucking Alex Trebek or some shit. Even Stan let out a chuckle at the big reveal of the coupon, and Bill, after dutifully narrating the coupon out, had huffed a laugh out too.
Meanwhile, Eddie’s face has twisted like he’s just stepped in dog shit.
Richie counts this as an absolute win.
“Of course you’d get me a shitty gag gift, you asshole,” Eddie says, but Richie’s good enough at reading Eddie’s facial cues and shifts in tone that he can tell that Eddie’s just barely not hyuck-hyucking it up with the rest of the Losers.
“Eds, don’t try to lie to my face and tell me that you’re not going to abuse that poor Clone-A-Willy, whether it’s Little Richard or not.” Richie goads, “Plus, you don’t have a leg to stand on, my good friend, not when you got me a laminated suicide joke.”
Eddie splutters at that, which, fucking sa-wing and knock it out the goddamn park, knock it out of the fucking stratosphere even, it’s really all coming up Richie today for real.
———
Since Richie and Eddie were the last in line to exchange gifts, after that’s all said and done, it’s time for some drinking and a few movies, as many as they can watch before they’re all half-asleep and stumbling off to their respective bedrooms.
Without a second of discussion, each Loser silently elects themselves to one job or another. Mike makes everyone popcorn while Bill and Bev mix fancy cocktails. Stan stokes the fire and adds several logs, even going so far as to brave the weather outside to grab a few more just in case. Eddie and Patty aid Ben in gathering all the blankets and pillows from the linen closet, and Richie volunteers himself for the very important job of sitting on the couch and scrolling through Netflix.
He’s staring long and hard at the info page for the 1986 absolute classic Howard the Duck and debating whether or not to suggest it as part of tonight’s movie night (for the fun of subjecting his friends to the horrors of the movie) or to wait until the end of this trip to watch it at home alone (in order to appreciate the true artistry fully) when the rest of the Losers file into the living room, sitting down one by one. It’s a bit of a tight fit, even on these big ol’ fancy ass couches, but none of them mind in the slightest; if anything, they’re probably all a bit closer to each other than they really particularly need to.
Eddie sits next to Richie, nursing a glass of something or another, but unfortunately, he decides to sit squarely on his own cushion, and Ben and Bev on the other side of him give Eddie no grief about taking so much space up, cuddled up as they are, so Richie’s shit outta luck re: Oh No I Just Accidentally Touched Eddie, How Awful Is That, But Also, There’s No Space To Not Cuddle, So Like, I Mean, I’ll Follow Your Lead, But Like, We’re Kinda Outta Options Here.
(Richie’s going to be mourning the missed opportunity until the inevitable heat death of the universe.)
They watch Die Hard 2 first, and it’s just as good as Richie remembers.
(To be fair, he only half watches the movie. The other half of the time is spent deep in his own mind, catastrophizing about the fact that he definitely missed his chance earlier actually to give Eddie the real Christmas present he got him.
Which means that Eddie thinks that Richie thinks that all their friendship — their relationship — is a joke, some kind of haha funny knock knock joke where the punchline is all that matters, and the punchline in and of itself is some kind of surface-level cheap gut shot, some kind of yo mama’s so fat, I took a picture of her last Christmas and it’s still printing one-liner that Richie doesn’t care about.
The thought that Eddie could think that Richie doesn’t care for him makes Richie nauseous. Makes him want to upchuck all over the thousand-dollar-a-yard wood flooring of Ben’s fancy cabin.
Richie cares so much about Eddie. Eddie is all Richie thinks about or at least wants to think about. Even more than just caring, than just thinking about Eddie, Richie… Richie loves him. Richie loves him so fucking much that some days it threatens to gain sentience and claw its way out of his stomach like a fucking xenomorph.
And if that’s not what Eddie thinks is happening…
Well. Then all this is over before it even started, huh?)
When the credits start rolling, despite the hearty yawning going around the room like the flu or something, Ben elects to put on White Christmas, insisting that it’s his favorite holiday movie. Richie barely pays attention to a single minute of the runtime, though, still so wrapped up in his own thoughts that he mauls each and every single fingernail on both hands, biting them down and picking at them until they’re nothing more than stubs that sting idly.
By the time the movie ends, most of the Losers are half asleep. Against the glow of the Netflix home screen, one by one, they stand up and say their good nights before heading off to bed. Richie stays as still as a statue all the while; like if he doesn’t move, then they can’t see him.
(His efforts prove futile, however, when Bev presses a kiss to the crown of his head before wandering off down the hall towards the master bedroom. Oh well, it was worth a try.)
Finally, it’s just Richie and Eddie left. Eddie stands, turns towards Richie wordlessly, silhouette casting a shadow over Richie and blocking everything else out. Like this, all Richie can see is Eddie, even if he can only just barely make out the sharp features that make up the other man’s face.
They stare at each other for a long moment.
(Or maybe they don’t, Richie can’t really tell, it’s really fucking dark, okay?)
Eddie’s the one to break the silence.
“Ready for bed?”
Richie hmmphs noncommittally finishes off the last of the whiskey in his glass before setting it down on the coffee table.
“I’m something of a night owl, actually, so like, I’ll be good for another few hours, y’know how it is — or well, you wouldn’t, ‘cause you’re super old, and I bet this is the latest you’ve stayed up in like two decades, but like, night time is prime writing time for me—” before Richie can continue, he cuts himself off with a nearly jaw-dislocating yawn.
Damn. Hoisted by my own petard.
“It’s only like eleven, dumbass,” Eddie says, holding a hand out toward Richie.
Richie takes it, and is grateful for Eddie’s support in this trying time because his legs feel like someone replaced the bones with jell. Eddie pulls Richie up like he’s a tow truck, and Richie is a car that some poor dumbass has crashed into a ditch, a slow but sure pull.
When Richie’s finally stood up properly, Eddie lets go of his hand.
(Richie mourns the loss immediately. He’s not sure if he’ll ever recover.)
They amble off to the bedroom that they’re sharing — two twin beds because, of fucking course, Ben has a four bedroom house, but only three king-sized beds.
Eddie heads into the bathroom as they pass it on the way down the hallway, and as the door closes, Richie breathes out a block of air that he hadn’t realized had been poking at his lungs uncomfortably until it was already forcing its way out of his esophagus and being shaven down into thin sheets by his gritted teeth.
Richie rushes into their shared bedroom and shuts the door as quietly as he can manage with how drunk he is, pressing his back squarely against the wood of the door and feeling a wave of déjà vu and anxiety rush from his head down to his toes as quick as a flash, splashing down like someone’d put a bucket of water above the door before he’d opened it.
He’s running out of time. They have a few days left in the cabin, sure, but…
Richie knows himself. If he doesn’t do this now, he never will.
His hand slides down from where it’s been braced against the door like he’s been expecting Eddie to burst through it any second now and pats at his wallet comfortingly like a talisman. After a moment, he slips his wallet out of his pocket and walks over to the bed closest to the door, sitting on it heavily. Richie stares at the leather of his wallet and rubs against it with his thumb thoughtfully while he sits and just… waits.
The door opens what must be only a few minutes later, even though it feels like it’s been hours, days, even. Eddie enters quietly and makes a questioning noise when he sees Richie sitting quietly on the bedspread.
“Everything alright, Rich?” Eddie asks, picking up the duffel bag that had been sitting directly next to the door and heading over to the other bed.
Richie hums in response; he’s not sure if his vocal cords can be relied on. Eddie seems to accept that as an answer; he doesn’t say anything more.
Richie can feel his chance slipping through his fingers.
He cranes his body so that he can look at Eddie; the other man seems to be still searching his bag.
Abruptly, surprising even himself, Richie stands. He walks woodenly over towards Eddie and stands there like a golem, clutching his wallet so tightly that he can feel himself leaving indents in the leather.
Eddie startles a little when he turns around and sees Richie.
“Richie?” Eddie inquires lowly.
“Eddie—” Richie starts before cutting himself off. He swallows and feels his throat click. “Eddie,” he tries again.
Eddie’s eyebrows twist like he’s a clay figure someone has just jabbed their thumb and forefinger into the forehead of and twisted, hard. “Yeah?”
“I have something for you.” Richie says, but makes no move to open his wallet, or even to do anything at all.
Eddie squints confusedly. “... yeah?”
Mentally, Richie shakes himself by the shoulders. Come on, he shouts, you’re gonna lose your fucking chance, you idiot!.
Richie clears his throat, raises his wallet. Eddie looks at it and then back at Richie.
“Your… wallet?” Eddie questions.
“No! No, just…” Richie says, quickly flipping his wallet open before pausing, “just… just close your eyes?”
Eddie sighs but complies anyway. His hands come up from where they hang to do a small Are you happy now? shrug.
(For the record, no. Richie’s about two seconds away from flipping his shit.)
Before he can chicken out, Richie flips his wallet open. He slips the movie ticket out as carefully as he can and says, “Put your hand out.”
Eddie huffs, but does as he’s told, left hand raising to chest height.
It’s now or never.
Richie places the ticket in Eddie’s hand. Eddie’s eyebrows crinkle again, but he still keeps his eyes closed.
“D’you remember when we went to the Aladdin to see the second Die Hard, just the two of us?”
“I do,” Eddie says, voice soft.
“You were sick the day it came out, but the other Losers thought you were being hyperbolic and went anyways,” Richie says, and though his voice is trembling. Still, it’s like he can’t stop speaking, like the words are pouring out of his mouth, “I almost went too, got all the way to the corner of Main street before I pictured you all alone at home, sick and miserable and knowing that they were having a great time without you. I couldn’t do that to you, though.”
“Open your eyes.”
Eddie does. He stares at the ticket for a long while and doesn’t speak, but the furrow in his brows disappears like it had never been there in the first place.
Eddie’s right hand comes up to touch the ticket gingerly as if he’s inspecting a butterfly that’s just landed on him, but he doesn’t say anything.
Richie lets out a short, shuddering breath, and then continues, “So I ditched them, and ran all the way to your house, and I scaled the tree in the backyard all the way up to that big branch right outside your window, and thank god you noticed me because I really hadn’t thought that far ahead,” he smiles self-deprecatingly, but Eddie’s little snort lets Richie know he hasn’t lost Eddie, at least not yet, “and you saw me, because you always saw me, even back then, when I was a scroungy little beansprout of a kid, and you opened the window for me, and after I’d endured your hour-long safety lecture, we read comics together the rest of the afternoon until I had to go home for dinner.”
“It wasn’t an hour long,” Eddie says in that same soft tone, though he tries his best to sound derisive, “I’d timed it before. More like fifteen minutes, and most of that was just me saying ‘Richie, please don’t actively try to get yourself killed’ anyways.”
Eddie’s holding the ticket almost reverently up to his face now, thumb softly brushing it like he can’t quite wrap his head around it yet.
“Fifteen minutes is basically an hour,” Richie scoffs, rolling his eyes, but barrels on before Eddie has a chance to bite back, “anyways. When you finally got better, we went to see the movie just by ourselves, and it was so much fun to do that, something just by ourselves, without anyone else around, even though we hung out just the two of us all the time, it was different, because it was almost like a- a date, even, like we were — something more than friends,” and shit, Richie really doesn’t know where he’s going with this, maybe winging it wasn’t the best idea, “a-and, I, I liked the idea of that, so much, that, that I kept the ticket, just like you always did. And even when my family moved to Chicago the year after, I kept it, even though I didn’t remember why. I just… I put it in my wallet, and every time I felt nervous, or anxious, or stressed out, I’d… all I’d have to do was touch my wallet, and it was like the ticket was a-a charm, a talisman or something, I don’t know, and I’d… it’d help me out. I’d feel safe, calm, like you were— like you were there, helping me through it. And I just…”
Eddie tears up all of a sudden and Richie panics.
“Look, if you’re feeling bad because you got me a shitty gift and I actually got you the perfect one, it’s alright,” Richie’s blabbing before he can stop himself, “you just need to feel your feelings, okay, little buddy? I know it’s hard not to, but you’ll need to get used to it, because I’m pretty fucking amazing—”
“Richie,” Eddie interrupts, looking directly into Richie’s eyes, although he doesn’t raise his voice from the soft, hushed tone it’s fallen into in the slightest, “shut up.”
Richie shuts up. His mouth snaps closed with a slight click sound as his teeth collide a little; he winces from the force but doesn’t stop staring into Eddie’s eyes.
“Richie,” Eddie wobbles, “you—” Eddie cuts himself off, turning towards his bed and carefully setting the ticket on the bedspread. He turns back to face Richie, and they stare at each other for a long, heavy moment.
Eddie takes a deep breath. Richie mirrors him, which is good because he only realizes as he’s doing so that it’s been a good long time since his last imbibing of the good ol oh-two, and he was probably only seconds away from exhibiting symptoms of withdrawal.
“Richie.” Eddie’s staring into Richie’s eyes again, and shit, when was the last time Richie blinked? He does so a few times, just in case.
“That’s my name, don’t wear it out,” Richie breathes.
“Didn’t I just tell you to shut up?” Eddie says, face scrunching up like he’s just smelled a whole carton of rotten eggs.
“Sorry.”
“You—” Eddie rolls his cute little eyes so hard that Richie’s worried for a moment they might fall out of Eddie’s cute little head, wiping the tears away from his face, “Seriously, why do I have to love you so much?”
Richie’s eyes pop open so hard that if he were thinking at all, he would be worried about his own stupid eyes falling out of his own stupid head.
Eddie —
Eddie loves him?
Richie? Eddie loves Richie?
Eddie does?
“You love me?” Richie says dumbly, all thoughts having fallen out of his head like a piano falling out of the sky.
Eddie goes bright red like he didn’t actually mean to say that.
“So what if I do?” Eddie demands, arms folding over his chest defensively, shoulders scrunched up to his ears.
“I— you don’t love me, I love you!” Richie splutters.
“What the hell does that mean?” Eddie spits, face somehow scrunched up even more so that he looks like a kindergartener’s art project more than he does a real, living human being, “Don’t be a fucking idiot. Obviously I fucking love you, you dumbass.”
“That doesn’t make any fucking sense!” Richie realizes he’s nearly shouting now, so he tries to lower it a notch, “Since fucking when?”
“Since we were like ten fucking years old!” And now Eddie’s shouting, wow, isn’t it super late, and all their friends are sleeping, aren’t they, maybe they should chill out?
“Well, I’ve loved you since we were eight years old, so there!” Richie says, sticking his tongue out.
Only then does he actually realize the gravity of what they’ve both admitted to. By the look on Eddie’s face, it’s the same for him.
Richie decides to clarify, just to make 100% sure they’re both up to speed. “Wait. If I love you, and you love me, then—”
Eddie cuts him off, although this time it’s not with a quip, but instead, his lips pressed to Richie’s. He surges forward, and it’s nothing pretty; their noses almost smash together, and Richie can feel Eddie’s teeth through both sets of lips, but it’s fucking perfect.
Richie shuts his eyes, letting his arms raise so that they can encircle Eddie’s shoulders, tugging the other man closer.
———
They push the beds together so that they can cuddle; they don’t say it out loud, but both of them privately think that they’d wither away if they went another minute without being together.
(Seriously. Richie has half a mind to figure out if any doctors are willing to like, stitch them together at the hip or something, although now that he’s seriously thinking about it, that would mean no boning, so it’s out of the question, sadly.)
Richie’s already in bed when Eddie comes back in from the bathroom. He’s lying on his side, staring at his phone blankly.
Eddie gets in bed and turns the light off. Richie turns his phone off and sets it aside.
Eddie fusses around for a bit, trying to get comfortable, and keeps it up until he finally settles up close to Richie, to the point that they’re all but spooning.
It’s dead quiet for a while, to the point that Richie is sure Eddie’s fallen asleep and is doing his darnedest to follow the other man’s example before Eddie speaks.
“Wait. Richie, you weren’t just going to give me that fucking gag gift for Christmas if you chickened out? You had a backup gift, right?”
Richie wisely stays quiet, even lets out a few honk shoo mimimi, honk shoo mimimis to really sell it.
“Richie. Richie, seriously, answer me.”