Archive of Our Own ^beta

Richie wakes up from an empty dream to the horn section of “You Can Call Me Al” blaring at top volume, his phone ringing. He goes to grab it off the bedside table and slams his elbow, opening his eyes to realize that he fell asleep on the couch again, limbs stuck out in odd angles. 

He rubs a hand over his face, sitting up gingerly and trying, blurrily, to figure out where his glasses ended up before he accidentally breaks them again. Thankfully, the phone stops ringing – he figures it’ll go to voicemail, if there’s any room left in there. He hasn’t answered the phone much in the last few months, afraid of talking to most people about most things. He’s been screening calls, muting notifications, and avoiding voicemails because he’d rather not get yelled at. It’s not that he doesn’t miss people – the Losers, specifically – it’s just that, for once in his life, he doesn’t have much to say. 

The horns kick up again, because of course whoever’s calling him is a persistent son of a bitch. He declines it only to have it immediately start ringing again, and he’s too out of it to deal with this shit right now. 

He answers without checking the ID, shoulders hunched. “Okay, seriously, I’m gonna need you to hop off my dick.”

“Fuck you, bro, answer your fucking phone–” 

Only one person could greet him already furious, and he feels himself relax a bit, in spite of everything. After Derry – the memories, the hospital, the horrible in-between – it’s still a relief to hear Eddie’s voice, even as he’s ranting. 

“– Richie ,” he’s shouting, as Richie tunes back in, “Are you even listening? What is your fucking address?” and Richie might finally be awake now, but he guesses he’s missing valuable context.

“Good morning to you, too, Eds, always a pleasure to wake to your dulcet tones.” 

A pause. “You were asleep? It’s 2 p.m., I texted you like 20 fucking times, what’s wrong with you?”

“Well, doc, it all started when I was 13, and a clown tried to – “

“It started when you were born, dipshit.” 

He imagines Eddie pacing back and forth, pinching the bridge of his nose, the furrow in his brow he always gets with Richie. He bites back a smile before realizing he’s alone in his own apartment and no one can see him. Fuck it. He grins, a full, dopey thing that feels like he’s opened his chest right up. Bickering with Eddie always feels like coming home.

Eddie huffs. “The point – the point is, get out of bed and text me your address, okay?” Another beat. “Please,” he says, in a tone that’s almost civil. 

He doesn’t know what to do with that. “Aw, Spaghetti, no need to be so formal! If you want to send me fan mail, you’ve got a direct line, drop by anytime.”

There’s something in Eddie’s voice he can’t quite place. “Maybe I will. Send the address, Rich.” And then the line goes dead.

Richie’s got at least 100 unread text notifications on his phone, a huge chunk of which are from Eddie, scattered across the last few months, picking up steam sometime last night (“Are you busy?”), and continuing to about 3 minutes ago (“ANSWER YOUR FUCKING PHONE, ASSHOLE”).

He has no idea what’s going on with Eddie – today or generally. He’s a coward. He hasn’t really spoken to Eddie much outside of the group chat Mike made for all of them. What do you even say, after everything that happened? There aren’t enough stupid polar bear jokes on earth to break that much ice. 

But Eddie asked, so he texts him his address and tries not to think about it, which of course means his brain latches on and won’t let go. 

Richie buzzes at a frequency that almost matches the furious pace at which his brain’s throwing any and every possible thought at him – he has to do something to get it out, which means he’s off the couch and trying to find somewhere to put all this energy. He tries jumping jacks, old theater warmup exercises, the fucking Macarena—anything to keep from vibrating clear out of his skin. 

It doesn’t work. He looks around, desperate for something to do with his hands. He’s existed at some level of depression funk since everyone parted ways in Derry, and it occurs to him that maybe it’s time to wash his scattered collection of stained novelty coffee mugs. He gathers them from all over the apartment, and then he’s elbows deep in a dishwater sink and singing to himself when a knock at the door shakes him out of his thoughts. 

“Uh–” He looks down at his hands, wet and sudsy. “Hold on!” He calls out in the direction of the door. The knocking continues, more insistent, as he wipes his hands off on a kitchen towel. He gives his outfit a quick once-over to make sure he’s not going to accidentally flash a delivery person or something. It’s not his best look, but at least he has sweatpants on. That’ll do, pig, he thinks.

He swings open the door without checking the peephole.

Whatever he was going to say gets caught in his throat, because Eddie – married, lives in New York, pain in his ass, light of his life Eddie – is standing outside his door. In Los Angeles. It’s almost too much to take in: hand on a roller bag, a duffel and a computer bag on his shoulders, and somehow juggling two coffees on top of everything else. 

“Uh,” Richie says. “Hi?” 

“Move,” Eddie says, handing off a coffee and pushing his way past Richie into the apartment, already on a tear. “I don’t remember how you like your coffee so I got it black but then I remembered you’re a child so I dumped like, three packets of sweetener in it even though that is so bad for you, we’re not as young as we used to be and you should really cut down on your sugar intake and…” He trails off when Richie doesn’t interrupt. “What?” 

Richie’s buffering, trying to reconcile the facts at hand – Eddie Kaspbrak is in his apartment, carrying what looks to be everything he owns, and he brought Richie coffee about it. Richie has no idea how to process any of this. He’s managed to close the door and set down his coffee, but that’s about as far as he’s gotten. Eddie looks nervous at the silence, though, and some latent survival instinct kicks in. 

He holds his hands up in the shape of binoculars, swinging around to look through them at Eddie and his luggage, crouching behind the couch. 

“Ah, here we have a rare sighting, the Kaspbrak outside his natural habitat, deigning to grace such likes as the grimy, smog-filled air of Los Angeles,” he says in his best Attenborough.

Eddie rolls his eyes and slides his duffel and computer bag off his shoulders onto the floor. “What are you doing.” 

“Shh...we must be very quiet so as not to startle him.” 

He creeps a little closer, still looking at Eddie from a distance, through his hands. He’s kind of shocked he hasn’t tripped over anything yet. He stops while he’s ahead, shifting his binocular hands to more of a camera gesture and making a clicking noise. He uses his rusty improv skills to pantomime a Polaroid coming out of a camera, shakes the empty air till it develops. 

“Spaghetti caught on film, can you believe this?” He holds the imaginary photo out to Eddie, who refuses to entertain the notion. He pushes Richie’s arm out of his face and starts doing that chopping thing with his hands. Richie braces himself for a frenzy and takes a seat on the couch. 

“Can you just FOCUS! For five seconds!”

“Oh, shit,” Richie says absently, and tries to remember the last time he got his meds refilled. 

“Richie. Please,” and he sounds so tired that it kind of makes Richie’s chest ache. 

He softens his tone, makes space for Eddie on the other end of the couch. “Yeah, buddy, what’s up? Wanna sit?” 

“I just – let me get this out. No interruptions, no jokes.” 

Based on that murderous glare, Richie decides to take this seriously. 

As he watches Eddie pace in short lengths on the other side of the coffee table, gesturing to himself as he works up to whatever he’s about to say, Richie realizes he truly, genuinely has no idea what’s happening here. Like, he’s been trying to keep up with the rest of their friends to the extent he can bear looking at the group chat, but Eddie is different. Especially considering they both nearly died. 

Richie knows it’s his own fault. Things would be so much easier if he could just not feel like this – gay, generally speaking; specifically, in love with Eddie.

He finally turns to face Richie, and Richie looks up at him, not sure how to brace for whatever this is about to be. 

“So obviously Derry was fucking batshit,” Eddie says. 

Richie hums in an affirmative tone, determined to keep his mouth shut. 

The rest all comes out to the signature rapid-fire Kaspbrak beat. 

“I’m not good at talking about shit but I talked to Stan and he said a therapist was probably a good idea so I got one and I figured some things out and you wouldn’t talk to me and you didn’t answer your fucking phone, but you said – you said I could come visit anytime, before we all went home, and if you didn’t mean it you’re a real fucking asshole, because I’m here now and I didn’t really have anywhere else to go or stay because I’m, because,” He sighs and drags his left hand down his face, conscious of his scar, and Richie clocks something before his brain catches up, “Because I got divorced. Also, I’m gay.” 

He opens his arms wide, as if to put a little “ta-da” bow on his speech before bringing them back together, running a thumb hard against the palm of his other hand. He looks twitchy, like he’s on the razor’s edge of fight or flight. He still doesn’t make eye contact with Richie, which is lucky, because Richie has no idea what his face might be doing. 

He doesn’t know what to say. He feels so much, surprised and proud and so searingly jealous, just – his brain is overwhelmed, trying to process this, how he should react. He can’t even begin to think of what it means. Eddie’s looking at him nervously with those big eyes, chin tucked a bit to his chest. Richie tries to think of what he’d want to hear upon coming out, if he ever manages to nut up and do it.

He swallows thickly. “Shit, man, that’s… congratulations? Is that the right vibe here?” 

Eddie crosses his arms, closes himself off. “I know you want to say something fucking dumb, so get it over with.”

Jesus. Even Eddie thinks he’s a genuine asshole who can’t take anything seriously. 

“No!” he sputters, “No. No jokes, man, I’m just like...proud of you?” 

Eddie just stands there, arms crossed. “I am!” Richie stands up, moves over to him. “I’m proud of you, man, I just, uh. Can I – “ He awkwardly puts his arms around Eddie, who full-body slumps into him and lets himself be hugged, even if his arms are hanging by his sides.

“Uh. Thanks,” he says, face muffled against Richie’s chest. “Holy shit, dude,” he says, pulling back and breaking that weird tension. “When was the last time you showered?” Richie sniffs his own shirt, alarmed. 

“Oh god,” he says, embarrassed. “Sorry, I’m gonna just, uh...yeah. You can make yourself at home, second bedroom’s over there, you’re welcome to it.” 

Eddie clears his throat, a bit red around the edges. “So it’s, uh – it’s cool if I stay here? With you?” 

Richie stops in his tracks. “Eddie. Of course. Like, listen, I have more space than I really need, and clearly I need adult supervision to make sure I like, bathe and eat or whatever, so just. Stay, okay?” 

He feels like he might throw up. This is a lot for one day, and he’s been awake for like, what? An hour, max? 

Eddie just keeps standing there, somehow not a figment of his imagination. “Yeah,” he says, “Okay. Thanks, Rich.” 

Richie’s relieved and confused, thoughts ping-ponging off the inside of his skull.

“I mean, somebody’s gotta do something about the way you live, dude, holy shit it’s like a frat guy and kid-you had a fight in here and everyone with eyes lost. You have so much money and this is what you do with it? You could pay for a cleaner, I know you could, you fuckin slob –” 

Eddie bitching at Richie is probably Richie’s favorite sound, and isn’t that awful? The place already feels like he belongs here, like he’s added some missing touch of familiarity.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m disgusting, I’m the worst, tell me how dirty I am, baby,” he says, grateful for an opportunity to steer the conversation to something more normal – well, normal for them at least. “Talking about hiring a cleaner as if you’re not dying to get your weird neurotic rocks off with some gloves and disinfectant.”

The corner of Eddie’s mouth quirks, and Richie wants badly to kiss it. That’s going to be a problem.

“Shut up,” he says, and pulls out his phone, starts tapping. Eddie examines the couch and takes a seat on the edge, apparently finding it acceptable enough under the circumstances. “What cleaning supplies do you have and how recently did you buy them?” He asks, not looking up.

“Uh…” Probably he has something, somewhere, right? He’s definitely cleaned something, at some point in his adult life.

“Never mind, I’m making a list.” 

“Ooh, lemme see, I bet you have very specific brand name and scent preferences.” Richie leans over the back of the couch and swipes at Eddie’s phone, missing, knocking them both over, half on the floor, and they’re kicking and half-wrestling and how can you be 13 and 40 at the same time, Richie wonders. Tune’s the same but the key’s changed, and he’s still warbling along. 

“Get off – “ Eddie kicks him and pulls his phone to his chest. “Go shower, you gigantic greaseball. Make yourself presentable for the public eye, we have a lot to get done today.” 

Richie laughs. “Okay, you bossy little prick.”

“I am average height – “ 

Richie smiles all the way from his bedroom to the bathroom. Thinks, you keep your face like that, it’ll get stuck that way. 

-

After the most intensive shower of his life and throwing on what he’s pretty sure are clean clothes, Richie re-enters the living room to find Eddie still seated on the couch staring at his phone. His expression’s changed, though, no longer the scowl of a man on a mission.

Instead, there’s...well. He’s embarrassed just to think it, but somehow the tone of the furrow between Eddie’s eyebrows has changed. It makes him look genuinely upset, not just generally irritable. Richie’s hand flexes involuntarily, he wants to go over there, he wants to run a thumb over the skin there to smooth it out, he wants–

He wants a lot of things. The point is, something’s bothering Eddie, and it doesn’t seem to be Richie, which means it’s his job to redirect that focus.

“Frown at your phone any harder and it might burst into flame, man.”

Eddie lets out a pissy little huff of air, clearly worked up about something. “I fucking hate the internet.”

Richie kicks back on the other end of the couch. “What?” His mouth keeps going past his brain. “Oh no, did you download Grindr and get besieged by an onslaught of Los Angeles dick pics?” He gasps. “Eddie! Your poor virgin eyes!”

He leans over to make grabby hands at Eddie’s phone again, trying to keep him from lingering on the comment.

Eddie elbows him back toward his seat. “Shut up, asshole, it’s not like I haven’t seen a dick before.”

Richie blinks. “Congratulations?”

Eddie throws his hands up in frustration. “God, this is so fucking stupid. No, I was just, like. Trying to figure out what the fuck I’m supposed to eat, because I’m willing to bet there’s nothing edible in your apartment, based on everything I know about you as a person.”

“Oh dude, if you want edibles I know a guy, let me text him,” Richie says, pulling out his phone.

“Thanks, thanks, really fucking helpful,” he says as Richie types gibberish into his notes app. Eddie sighs. “No, it’s stupid, I was just trying to find – recipes?” He cringes. “I don’t really know. How to cook. Myra didn’t really...let me. And all these fucking websites, it’s like four pages of personal backstory before they even mention the ingredients, it’s stupid, why can’t they just get to the fucking point and tell me what’s in it?”

“Whooooa there, buddy, breathe,” Richie says, holding out his hands.

“Don’t ‘whoa’ me, I’m not a spooked horse.”

He grins. “If you say so, Mr. Ed.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“No, listen, you’re overthinking it, man. I haven’t starved to death yet, so like, you can definitely do this. Let’s start with the basics, we can pick up normal shit, make sandwiches or whatever. What do you usually eat?”

Eddie sighs, looks at the ceiling. “I don’t know, whatever, I guess. I kind of just ate whatever she made, and after I moved out, I just kind of did whatever. Tried that fucking Soylent shit some of the guys at work drink.”

“Soylent Green is people,” Richie can’t help but throw out. Eddie doesn’t reply. “Okay, so what are your favorite things to eat?” 

Eddie grimaces. 

“Hey, it’s not a trick question, just trying to come up with ideas,” Richie says. “So we can make a list, or whatever geek shit you do.” 

“I don’t know!” Eddie says. “I don’t know.” He looks at his hands. “I don’t have opinions on food, man, don’t make me do this, it’s embarrassing.” 

“You don’t like... anything?” He feels like someone’s rearranged the furniture in his house without him asking, left his usual routes full of shin-bruisers and he doesn’t know how to proceed. 

“Don’t,” Eddie snaps. “Don’t fucking make fun of me.” 

“I’m not –” He holds up his hands in defense mode. 

“It’s just, when exactly was I supposed to enjoy food in between all the fake allergies and sensitivities my mom lied to me about and the fucking fake diet shit my ex-wife put me on, please explain to me how I was supposed to learn my likes and dislikes, because I’m really coming up fucking short right now, Richie!” His breath starts to hitch, and Richie watches his hands start to go for the inhaler he doesn’t have anymore, the one he never needed because it was never real. 

He puts a hand on Eddie’s arm. “Dude.”

“What?” 

He has no fucking clue what he’s doing, but scrambles for a plan anyway. 

“Uh...Okay. Hear me out. Do you have a list of your allergies?”

Eddie sighs. “I have them memorized.”

“And you’re sure they’re fake?” 

“Oh, so you think maybe there’s one thing my mom didn’t lie about –” Richie raises his eyebrows. “I went to three allergists. I’m allergic to sulfa medication and that’s pretty much it,” he says flatly. 

“Well damn, there go my dinner plans,” Richie says. He’s rewarded with an eye roll and a near smile. “Let’s just wing it, dude. No plan. We can start from zero, maybe try some stuff you couldn’t eat before, and see what strikes your fancy. I mean, fuck it, right?”

Eddie shrugs. “I guess.”

“Love your raucous enthusiasm, as always,” Richie says, dragging him up by the arm. “C’mon, put your shoes on, do you have your exhaustively detailed list ready, your highness?”

“It’s called being prepared –” 

“Yeah, yeah, you fuckin’ Boy Scout, let’s go get you some fruit, bitch.” 

-

Eddie insists on going down every single aisle of the grocery side of Target, which would be irritating if it wasn’t already the best shopping experience of Richie’s life. He’s determined to read the nutrition labels of damn near everything before making choices, and picks fights with Richie about half the stuff he throws in the cart – it’s too much sodium, it’s too much sugar, you’re not gonna live forever, you know. Richie’s just happy to be there. 

It’s a little cringeworthy, how easily he lets himself fall into this “yes, dear” rhythm. He’s not exactly delusional – he’s aware, obviously, that it’s not real, not like that. They’re just friends! Lifelong best friends, give or take a few decades. Roommates, shopping for the apartment they suddenly both live in now, platonically, as roommates, in separate rooms. Just because arguing with Eddie makes something in his chest purr doesn’t mean it has to be like, domestic. 

But he lets himself pretend, a little. Just that it could be, just enough that it hurts. 

He’s deep enough in his own brain that he almost runs over Eddie, who’s come to a dead stop in the middle of the cookie aisle. 

“What the hell is this?” Eddie asks, staring at the shelf.

“Hm?” He follows Eddie’s gaze. “It’s Oreos, dude. You do remember Oreos, yeah?”

Eddie turns to him. “Fuck you, obviously I know what Oreos are! But last time I checked there weren’t so many fucking – I mean, what is this?” He asks, holding up a package of Golden Oreos, which Richie’s pretty sure are just vanilla, and therefore pointless. “Why are there so many kinds? Mint?” 

“Uh, I dunno, dude,” he says. “Honestly, feel like we could’ve stopped at Double Stuf and society would be good.”

He watches Eddie frantically pull packages off the shelf, tossing each one into the cart. “Cinnamon roll, blueberry pie, they made Oreos flavored like fucking marshmallow Peeps who asked for this –” 

“Uh, are you good, Eds?”

Eddie wheels around, a package in each hand, his eyes lit up the way they did as a kid, when he had some terrible idea that was going to get them both in trouble. 

“Richie,” he says a little wildly, and Richie bites his lip to keep from laughing. 

“What’s up?” 

“Someone has put fucking POP ROCKS inside of OREOS.” He’s more or less yelling now, and people are starting to look at them. “SWEDISH FISH – !” He throws both packages in with the rest and looks at Richie, throws his hands up in the air. “What is happening?”

Richie’s got tears in his eyes. He can’t help it. "Oreo scientists were so preoccupied with whether or not they could that they didn't stop to think if they should.”

Eddie lets out a hysterical little screech and stands there, trying to collect himself. “I am going. To take a walk. I will be in the home goods,” he says. “If you put a single one of these packages back, I swear to god I will make your life hell.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he says, meaning it. He watches Eddie storm off and allows the fondness to creep onto his face, just for a second, before he remembers who and where he is, and shakes it off. 

-

Richie finds Eddie a short while later, standing in front of the pillows in the bedding aisle, mumbling under his breath and “testing” the firmness of each pillow type a bit more robustly than necessary. The feral energy is still coming off him, but less so than before.

“You good, Spaghetti?” Richie swears Eddie puts six inches of space between the floor and his shoes, and he immediately feels awful as Eddie places a hand over his chest, over – well. Richie knows what’s under there. 

“Jesus fuck, bro, you can’t just do that – fuck!” 

“Shit, I’m sorry,” he says, gingerly placing a hand on Eddie’s arm. “I’m not exactly sneaky, I figured you heard me coming.”

Eddie wilts a little. “I was kind of preoccupied, man.” He turns back to the choices at hand. “What’s your sleep like?”

“Why, Eddie,” he asks, all false modesty, “Are you asking what I’m like in bed? You know there are much more exciting ways of finding out.” He waggles his eyebrows suggestively. 

"Shut the fuck up, I'm seriously asking," Eddie says, waving off his dumb comment. "There are different levels of pillow firmness that are best depending on how you sleep, genius." 

He shrugs. "I just kinda pass out however and whenever, man, I guess I never gave it all that much thought." 

Eddie sighs. "How the fuck did you survive without any of us with a brain there to keep you alive?”

Richie smiles. "Eddie, baby, I have no idea," he says, a little more quietly than he means to, a little more sincere. If he thinks about it – and he’s thought about it a lot since Derry – he's not sure he'd call what he did during those years living. He's not sure he'd call what he's doing now living either, not with all the lies he's juggling, but he figures it's a little closer, a little less lonely, at least. 

"Now tell me about these fancy ergonomic pillows," he says, leaning into Eddie's space just because he can. Eddie lets him.

Richie’s (mostly) listening to his explanation when he's startled by someone clearing their throat behind him. Now he's the one feeling jumpy. 

"Hi there! So sorry to bother you, but are you –" Richie's stomach sinks and he gathers himself before he turns around, putting necessary distance between himself and Eddie and sliding into the slight sleaze of the Trashmouth.

"Oh shit, it totally is! You're Richie Tozier!" There’s a young woman there, looks barely 25. He feels gross already. 

He laughs, and it sounds hollow to his own ears – he can only imagine what Eddie's hearing. Or does he notice any difference at all?

"Haha, yeah, what’s up!” It’s been a minute since he ran into a fan – ran into anyone, really – but he regrets not giving Eddie any sort of heads up. It’s been so long since he really went anywhere, he almost forgot he could be seen. 

“Wow, you’re so tall in person,” says the girl, whose name Richie neither asks nor cares about. “You’re like, one of the only comedians my boyfriend and I both like. Honestly kinda shocked to see you’re not, like, dead or something.” Richie freezes. He can’t see Eddie’s face, and worse – he doesn’t know what he might see there.

He tries to laugh it off. “Uh, what?” 

“Yeah, Reddit’s been going crazy since you totally ditched your tour – which like, appreciate the refund at least – somebody said you brained a guy and went to jail?” She shakes her head, bats her eyes a little. He hates it. “Just awful, huh.”

“Yep,” he says with a strained smile. “Crazy how those rumors get started. But everything’s chill now, just – had some life stuff happen.”

“Aw, I hope everything’s okay!”

“It’s all good now, thanks.”

“Oh good,” she says, beaming. She leans in conspiratorially. “Listen, can I get a selfie? Colby’s never gonna believe I ran into you, he’s gonna be so jealous!” 

“Sure,” he says. She swiftly scoots in closer to him, closer than he’d like. He’s almost disappointed he showered before they left the house. He plasters on a false grin, throws an arm around her shoulders, and smiles through a few different takes and angles before she seems satisfied. 

“Thank you so much, you’re the best! I’ll tag you when I post these,” she gushes. “Have a great rest of your day!”

“Nice meeting you,” he manages, and she’s gone. Now it’s just him, the bedding, and Eddie, and he’s not sure he can look at Eddie right now. 

“So. Pillows, huh?” he says. 

“That happen often?” Eddie’s voice is measured, even. He can’t read it, and it feels like the world’s tilted on its axis.

“Hm?”

Eddie cuts him a look. “Do fans often come up to you in public to hit on you?”

Richie shrugs, uncomfortable. “I don’t think that’s what that was.” 

Eddie rolls his eyes. “She literally said you were taller in person. How is that not a line?”

“I don’t know how to break this to you, shortstack, but sometimes people are just tall. Anyway, I’m way too old for her, she should be going for – I don’t know, Bo Burnham? Not a crusty old slob like me.” 

“Whatever,” Eddie says. “So if you’re a side sleeper –”

The rest of their trip is uneventful, thankfully, but Richie feels overexposed. Eddie wasn’t supposed to see him slide into the Trashmouth. 

All ghostwriters and stage personas aside, he does feel like – well, like he’s been caught masturbating. Like Eddie can see down into the dark dirty endless well of want at the center of him, this insatiable need for attention, the awful truth that he’ll take what he can get, real or not. 

It so rarely is, he thinks. Eddie’s one of the few who can look at him and actually see through all the bullshit, or – well. Most of it. There are those things he keeps to himself, though he wishes he didn’t have to. 

-

Richie waits until later that week when Eddie’s out of the house on some arcane errand before he calls Bev. 

“Richie? Is everything okay?” He hates that she sounds surprised, but he knows he deserves it. It’s been a minute.

“Hi Bev. Sorry I haven’t. You know.”

“If you’re really sorry, this will be the first of regular calls rather than once every six months, jackass.”

“I’ll put it in my calendar, we can make it a date.”

“No dates, I’m spoken for.”

“And how’s that going for you?”

He can feel her smirk through the phone. “ Very well, thank you.”

“Big Ben good at ringing your bell, huh?” he says.

“Are you calling my bluff, Trashmouth, or do you want details? Because–”

He shudders. “Oh god no, please spare me. You’ll make Haystack blush.” 

“That’s what I thought, coward,” she cackles. “But we’re good, we’re good. It’s...nice, to have someone safe around. We’re still figuring it out, I think. We’re not who we used to be, but we kind of are.”

“What do you mean?”

“Like, he’s the same Ben he was as a kid, but there’s so much that happened after that. Does that make sense?”

“Kind of,” Richie says, meaning it. “You’re playing three decades’ worth of catchup every day.”

“Yeah,” she says. They’re quiet for a moment. “I hate that I missed so much. For all of you, not just Ben.” 

“Me too,” he says, a little softer. “We’ve got a lot to make up for. You should come to L.A., stay with us sometime.”

“Us? So he really did it, huh?”

Richie’s taken aback. “You knew Eddie was going to come out here? And you didn’t say anything?”

“Sacred blood oath,” she says. “You’ve heard of those, right? Divorcees gotta stick together. We’ve got a new club member, too, not sure if you’ve heard – don’t worry, it’s not Stan.” 

“Oh thank god, Patty seems so fucking cool. But Bill? Damn.”

“I think it was a long time coming, but it doesn’t help that he hasn’t told her anything. It makes a lot hard to explain.”

“Yeah, I’d bet. Rolling back into town all, ‘Hi honey, I’m home and re-traumatized. Re- traumatized? Yes, it’s a very long story, how much time do you have and are you afraid of clowns? Well, you will be.’”

Bev snorts, an indelicate thing, one of his favorite sounds. “Well, when you put it that way…It does feel like we’re kind of stuck together.” 

“For better and for worse, in sickness and in health, et cetera et cetera. Anyway, yeah, Eddie’s been here a couple of days.”

“And? How’s that going?”

He pauses.

“Is something wrong?”

“No! No, it’s fine, it’s just.” He hesitates. It’s good, it’s so good just to see him every day, but then there’s knowing it will come to an end someday, and then the everything else about it. “I don’t know, I haven’t seen him in years and now I see him every day. It takes some adjusting. And the other day, some fan came up to us in public and Eddie thought she was flirting with me, which: hilarious, right?”

“Oh really,” Bev says in a faux-casual tone. “What’d he do?”

“What do you mean, what’d he do? He just stood there. What does Ben do when you’re approached in public?”

“Interesting you’d compare me and Ben to you and Eddie...wanna get into that?”

He wishes he had some plausible deniability. “Nope! Not even a little bit! Actually, I have to go–”

“Richie–”

“Talk to you soon, bye, Bev!” He hangs up and silences her return call, sends a followup “i’m sorry i can’t do this yet” text when he’s hit by a wave of guilt. 

“Sorry for teasing you,” she sends back. “Here when you’re ready to talk about it.” 

He doesn’t deserve her. 

-

He’s lying awake in bed later when it hits him that letting Eddie stay with him is a colossally dangerous idea. 

Whatever he’d felt as a kid, that was one thing – but seeing his face again for the first time in Derry, everything came rushing back so hard it knocked him flat on his heart’s ass. 

He’d kept a short but intense bedside vigil at the hospital, after it was all said and done. Remembering the sympathetic glances from Ben made him feel nauseous and naked; he’d semi-successfully wormed his way out of some pointed questions, but he figured, well, everyone conscious must’ve seen it written all over his dumb fucking face. Why make him say it out loud?

The space that came after that, the part where they’d all gone their separate ways to pick up whatever pieces of their old selves were worth hanging onto and getting started on the rest of their lives, he’d thought, well, I can live with this. Yearning from afar – across an entire country – has its appeal, like the satisfying ache of pressing on a bruise. 

But this cohabitation situation – it’s not playing with fire so much as trying to fuck a lit match using gasoline as lube. 

Richie lets out a quiet huff of amusement. It’s a pretty good line, he thinks, and grabs his phone to jot it down. Might be usable somewhere, if he can divorce it from the original context of making his own life hell by letting his best friend/lifelong secret love move in with him temporarily. And that’s not even touching the fact that Eddie’s also gay – 

“Richie? RICHIE!” 

He’s startled out of his thought spiral by Eddie yelling his name in distress, and he’s out of bed before his brain catches up with his feet. The door to the guest bedroom is closed – Eddie gave Richie some lecture on how a closed door is important in case of household fires and privacy – but thankfully it’s not locked, and he barges in without a plan.

In the near-dark, he can make out Eddie’s sheets – brand new, purchased and washed today – tangled around his legs as he shifts restlessly, breathing erratic, calling out for Richie in his sleep. It is not, Richie’s hindbrain observes, what he’d meant the countless times he’d pictured Eddie, in bed, calling his name.

He doesn’t know the protocol for waking someone up from a nightmare. He has plenty of his own, but always wakes up alone. He leans down to gently shake Eddie’s shoulder.

“Eds? Eddie, hey, buddy, you gotta wake up, it’s okay,” he says as soothingly as he can. 

Eddie jerks awake, his hand coming up defensively and smacking Richie in the face, knocking his glasses askew. 

“Fuck!” Eddie’s voice is scratchy from sleep, from yelling, and as he blinks up at him, Richie is overwhelmed with the desire to hold him, press a kiss to his forehead, do anything to pull him back to the (relative) safety of the real world. He doesn’t. 

“Shit,” Eddie mutters once he seems to have a grip on things. “Are your glasses okay? Sorry, I…” he trails off. “Sorry.”

“They’ve been through worse. You okay?” 

“I, uh. Nightmare.” 

“Yeah, I figured, from the, uh. Yelling.” Eddie looks embarrassed. “Hey, no, it’s fine, I was still awake – do you wanna talk about it?” 

“It’s –” Eddie looks at his fancy little techno watch on the bedside table. “Three a.m., why weren’t you asleep, god your sleep hygiene is nonexistent – “

“Cool deflection, do you want to talk about your nightmare, though?” 

Eddie’s face takes several micro-journeys. “No.” 

“Are you sure?” 

“Yes,” he says firmly. 

“Okay.” He sighs. It’s like Richie’s body just heard and filed Eddie’s complaint, and his exhaustion hits him all at once. He sags. “Well, if you’re good, I’m going to go...sleep. Not because you said so, but because I want to, you're not the boss of me.” The joke falls flat; they’re both too tired for this. He turns to leave.

Eddie sits up. “Wait,” he says, grabbing Richie’s wrist. Richie is hyper aware of the warmth of his hand, how thin the skin is there, how Eddie must feel every beat of his pulse under his fingers. “Can you...do you mind, just, staying in here for the night?” He pauses. “Please.” 

God, Richie thinks. He sounds young, scared. He looks down at his feet, then at Eddie. “Yeah. Yeah, let me go grab a blanket or two, I can set up camp on the floor like it’s sleepover time.”

“Don’t be a moron,” Eddie says, no heat to it. “It’s 3 a.m. – “

“So I’ve heard, recently –” 

“And you look like you’re about to pass out, so just – “ He scoots over to make room, throwing back the covers. “C’mon.” 

Richie feels disoriented, like he’s not inside his skin. He can feel his brain itching to throw in a joke, shake him off the scent, convince Eddie he only has extremely normal heterosexual feelings about climbing into bed with him, but he’s just so fucking tired.

“Yeah, okay,” he says. He folds his glasses and places them on the bedside table. “Door open or closed?” 

“Closed is safer, I told you – “ 

“Yeah, yeah, I know.” He pulls the bedroom door shut until he hears a quiet click, and clambers into bed with Eddie. He starts running the complex mental numbers on how much distance to keep between them. He falls asleep before his calculations are finished. 

-

It turns out it’s hard, living around each other. Or—maybe it’s just hard for Richie. He’s not used to sharing space like this, not one-on-one. There’s no buffer. It scares the shit out of him. 

His whole life, Richie has wanted something he couldn’t put a finger on, spent years knowing he wasn’t quite living the life he wanted but not understanding why he kept stretching out his arms, hoping to grab onto some hazy dream-thing that would satisfy him. 

It turns out all he wanted was to get in Eddie Kaspbrak’s way. 

It was easy as kids to invade each others’ space, especially with the rest of the Losers, just a handful of twerps bugging the shit out of each other in the clubhouse, which didn’t have that much space to begin with. And Richie always was all knees and elbows, so if he happened to sling an arm around Eddie more often than not, well, it’s because he’s the perfect height for an arm rest. If Eddie grabbed his arm during a scary movie, that’s a happy coincidence, could’ve been anybody. No one had to know about the look Stan gave him when he (thankfully) swapped spots. 

But they’re not kids anymore. The whole puberty thing already knocked Richie for a loop in terms of who was allowed to touch who and how and what it meant, so between that and the whole adulthood reunion thing, he figures. Well. Better to just keep his distance. Safer that way, really. Less temptation. 

He’s gone 27 years without the casual physical intimacy of his closest, most life-defining friendships—what’s the rest of his life gonna hurt? If he looks at it the right way, the deep repression is really just a kickass power-up. 

Somewhere in there, he finds himself down a deep internet rabbit hole that started by wondering if he could build a bit off this no-touching thing, some kind of...something with monks, maybe? He thinks it started with monks, but now he’s got 17 tabs open, and between “limitless pill real?”, the lyrics to “Don’t Stand So Close to Me,” and r/NoFap, he’s pretty sure he’s lost the plot. 

Still, he resolves to give Eddie his space. He scoots around him in the kitchen, he gets dressed in the bathroom post-shower instead of walking around naked to dry off, and he wears pants now. Pants! In his own home, all the time! It’s miserable, but he’s determined not to make Eddie uncomfortable by crossing some unspoken boundary or – okay, by popping some deeply ill-timed boner and having to immediately die of horniness and shame. 

- 

They’re in the living room watching old cartoons one night when his brilliant plan falls apart. Eddie and Richie are sharing the couch, half-eaten packages of the better bizarre Oreo flavors on the coffee table. Each of them is pressed into their respective couch corner, approximately the furthest they’ve sat from each other since 1987, Richie thinks. 

He takes his eyes off the screen to find Eddie already looking at him, eyes keen under furrowed brows. He makes a little inquisitive noise.

“Why are you being so fucking weird?” Eddie asks, more than a bit accusatory, and Richie feels caught out. 

“No weirder than usual,” he throws out weakly, hoping to avoid whatever hellish conversation they’re headed toward. 

Eddie throws a pillow at him. “No, fuck you, you’re not getting out of this, asshole. You’re being fucking weird, and I want to know why.” 

He lets out a strangled laugh. “Okay, jokes aside, you are gonna have to be a little more specific, Eds.”

He huffs. “Fine. For one, it’s 11 at night and you’re wearing jeans to sit on the couch and watch TV, what the fuck is that about? You hate wearing pants, you have specifically bitched about having to wear pants to formal occasions , and you’re wearing denim at home? On purpose?” 

“I—“ Richie sputters, feeling pinned. 

Eddie fixes his eyes on Richie and he squirms under the scrutiny. He always wants Eddie to look at him, always has, but not like this. 

“Rich. Stop fucking around,” he says, and something in Richie snaps to attention. “Are you—“ he pauses, swallows, “Are you uncomfortable with me being gay? Because if you’re a fucking homophobe, dude, I swear to god—“

His chest aches. “Christ, Eddie, no, I’m not homophobic, holy shit.”

It would be almost funny, if he didn’t feel like such a shitstain.

“I mean, some of your old standup would definitely call that into question—“

“You know I didn’t write that!” he says, a little desperately, face hot. 

“No, but you stood there and delivered it,” Eddie snaps. 

He’s right, of course. Richie thinks he’s going to vomit, nearly bolts for the bathroom. Old episodes of Thundercats are still playing on the TV. He tries to steel himself, to say the right thing, explain himself. 

“You’re right,” he sighs, resigned. “Fuck. I said a lot of shit I’m not proud of, and there’s no one else to blame, really, I don’t—I don’t want to be that guy, Eddie, I’m not that guy, and there’s no excusing it. But I’m not homophobic, you know that, right? You have to know that, you know me –” 

“Do I?” Eddie’s eyes search his face, and he feels like his skin’s on fire, self-conscious, wondering what he’s seeing there.

It’s worse when Eddie looks away, hands tangling in his lap. 

“Fuck, maybe moving in was a mistake. I shouldn’t have come here.”

“Eddie, no –”

“You know, my mom was a piece of fucking work. She fed me a lot of lies, and I’m trying to work through all that shit, but God, she hated gay people. Said all that fear-mongering bullshit about AIDS, which. Fuck,” he says, his voice thick. Richie recognizes that he’s trying not to cry, and that he might fail. He reaches out without thinking and Eddie jerks back. 

“I’m not stupid. I can connect some dots, looking back. The fucking clown knew I was afraid of being gay before I even came out to myself. But I can say it now, I’m gay, and it’s–it’s fine. It’s not bad.”

He clenches his fists, looks back at Richie with hardened resolve even as his voice wavers. “But I won’t stay here if you’re going to avoid me like I’m contagious. I’ll move out. I won’t live like that again.” 

“Hey,” Richie says, as softly as he can. “I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry. Your mom was wrong about–well, everything, but especially the gay stuff. I’m sorry I made you feel like you were back there.”

Eddie sniffs, shrugs. “Yeah. Thanks, I guess.”

“And I’m sorry I made you feel like...like I wasn’t okay with you. You’re my best friend, I swear to you, I don’t care that you’re gay. Any weirdness from me has nothing to do with you being gay, I promise.” 

“Then what’s your deal, man? You can’t act like you haven’t been acting strange.”

Richie searches for a way to tell the truth without saying everything. Tact may not be his strong suit, but he’s smart enough to know now is not the fucking time to confess. 

“I’ve lived alone for years, yeah? Before Derry I was just. I spent most of that time by myself. I forgot how to be around people,” he says. It’s not a lie. “And you know, I like – I just got you back, I didn’t want to make you feel weird. It’s been years, I didn’t want to just assume things were okay and cross your boundaries, you know?” 

Eddie sighs, wipes his eyes with a shirtsleeve. “No, yeah, that makes sense I guess. It’s just like,” he gestures vaguely. “You were always in my space when we were kids. I’m so used to you invading my territory, I didn’t know what to do when you didn’t.”

“Oh, I was invading your territory?” Richie jokes, scooting over to elbow Eddie, to try to bring some warmth back into the room. “Who kicked who in the face trying to fit a second body into a shitty hammock built for one?” 

“Okay, how is it my fault you can’t fucking take turns,” he says, smiling a little and giving Richie a small shove. Everything feels a little more normal, a little less fraught. “I know you’re like, allergic to sincerity, but. Thanks. I’m...glad I’m here.” 

“Me too, Spaghetti,” Richie says, ruffling Eddie’s hair as a gesture of goodwill and his normal level of annoying.

“Don’t –” 

He stands up, unbuttoning his jeans. “Please excuse me as I free myself from this denim prison. Jean jail for my genitals, if you will.” 

“Jesus Christ,” Eddie groans as Richie shucks off his pants and throws them in a corner. He’s glad he’s wearing his nicest novelty boxers. “We bought a laundry basket, bro!”

“I’m getting comfortable! Honestly, you should just be glad I wasn’t going commando,” he says, sitting back down closer to Eddie than he’d been before. 

“Who the hell goes—the chafing, holy shit what is wrong with you,” Eddie gripes, kicking a foot into Richie’s face. He grins, takes hold of it and settles it across his knees, and Eddie pauses before stretching the other leg out to join it. It feels like something’s righted itself in the universe. 

-

It's a hell of a thing, to be coming home to someone instead of an empty apartment – to Eddie, specifically, really – but he tries not to get too attached to the feeling. He doesn't know how many times he’ll get to do this.

When he returns from his first work trip since Eddie moved in, he flings the door open wide, having lost all sense of space and time, and shouts, “Spaghetti, I’m home!” at top volume in his best-worst Ricky Ricardo impression. 

It's only then that he realizes Eddie is on the phone, pacing the living room in his work-at-home getup, clearly ranting at someone on the other end of the Bluetooth headset clipped to his ear like it's 2007 or something. Shit. 

He gives Richie a deeply unsettling glare and a double set of the finger before returning to his Business Voice and heading into his bedroom, closing the door behind him. Richie drags his suitcase to his room and tries to find something to do with his time to keep himself occupied. Unpacking does not occur to him. 

The thing is – Richie has the terrible feeling he's going to get yelled at. He can feel it in his bones, he knows he's embarrassed Eddie. And it's not like he’s never been annoying before, but there's something about it this time that just feels worse than usual. 

He wouldn't feel so bad if his trip had gone better. They’d made him fly out to meet with some Netflix executives, work with his ghostwriters, and check in on a few things. The whole song and dance just left him feeling useless. He wonders why they even have him show up at these meetings anymore– no one on his team really lets him make decisions, so he just kind of sits there, the face and voice of the Image that is Richie “Trashmouth” Tozier, and lets his work happen to him.

It makes him feel small. He flops down onto his bed, surprised to find it freshly made – Jesus, Eddie – and resigns himself to some self-indulgent self-loathing and Bejeweled to pass the time until, eventually, Eddie's off the phone and can yell at him.

It's fine. He's used to being a nuisance, he's just not used to having anyone in his home to disrupt. He'll have to be better. He knows Eddie's already thrown his life out of whack bad enough, the last thing he needs is Richie to ruin it further.

He's still staring at the ceiling thinking about how much he sucks when he hears a sharp rap at his door.

"It's open," he says, "obviously."

He hears a signature Eddie huff from the doorway. "Yeah, but some of us are considerate roommates, jackass."

Richie pulls his arm away from where it's covering his eyes and sits up. "Shit, I'm sorry, I didn't realize you were on a call."

"Obviously," Eddie says drily. He holds out a hand. "Give me your phone."

Richie's taken aback. "What, why? Am I in trouble? Am I losing my Twitter privileges?”

Eddie rolls his eyes. "You're forty fucking years old, I'm not grounding you, dipshit." He snatches Richie's phone from his hand, starts tapping away. "I'm gonna add my GCal to your phone."

He looks up. "And you really should have a password on this thing, you're telling me there's no sensitive info on here you ought to protect?"

Richie winks. "The most precious data on there is the size of my wang, but I’ll tell you if you ask nicely.” 

Eddie doesn't look up, but he can tell he's rolling his eyes even if the corner of his mouth quirks a little. "Wow, your calendar is shockingly organized."

"I'm not completely incompetent –"

Eddie gives him a knowing look. "Okay, my manager puts most of the important shit in there, but I also add stuff! I...wait. Why are we syncing schedules, anyway? You trying to keep a closer eye on my coming and going so you can avoid me at all costs?"

"No, idiot, I'm trying to preserve some sense of dignity at work so I don't have any more calls interrupted by my semi-famous roommate barging in to ask me to add toilet paper to the grocery list, as if he's not a grown-ass man who can do that himself, and then having the rest of the meeting derailed by people asking, 'Was that Richie Tozier? Do you live with the Richie Tozier?' and then I have to say 'It was, and I used to, until I had to murder him for being the most insufferable bastard on the planet,' and then Zoom HQ has audio of my confession and I go to jail for a hundred years because you couldn't learn how to knock on the door of my bedroom, where I do work, during normal human business hours."

Richie grins up at him, places a hand on his chest, gasps, "You think I'm semi-famous? Oh my god! Eddie Kaspbrak thinks I'm almost sort of relevant!"

Eddie's mouth is a grim, straight line. He waits with his arms crossed. "Are you done?"

Richie shrugs. 

"Anyway," he continues. "I thought it'd help us stay out of each others' hair during important work stuff, you know? At least until I move out, I guess."

Richie’s stomach turns. He’s been trying not to think about it, but there it is anyway, the horrible inevitability that one day, their faux-domestic bliss will end, and he’ll be alone again. Richie, a quiet apartment, and his own fucking thoughts. Great. 

"No, yeah, that makes sense. I would hate for us all to have narrowly escaped death and arrest in Derry just for you to ruin your life on my account," he says. "Lemme put my info in your phone?"

Eddie fidgets, then hands over his phone reluctantly. "Don't fucking...go through my shit, okay? Just add your calendar and give it back, I don't need you having opinions on my apps or whatever."

“I would never go through your personal things and make fun of you for it, that doesn’t sound like me at all.” 

“It absolutely does, asshole.”

“What’ve you got on here that’s so secretive and special, anyway? Are you the one man alive who actually uses the Stocks app? Could I mess up your imaginary money just by pressing the wrong button? Or – ohoho, don’t tell me you’ve got dick pics on here!” 

He regrets it as soon as it’s out of his mouth.

Eddie grabs his phone back and Richie figures he’ll immediately pivot them both from this topic of discussion, but–

"Actually," he says, and Richie's brain shorts out. But then Eddie closes his mouth. The rest of his face keeps moving, but he's just sort of hanging there.

They sit there, uncomfortably silent, until finally Richie feels like he’s going to jump out of his skin with anxiety.

"Look, man, I can tell from your eyebrow action you've got something else to say, so just get it out."

Eddie sighs. "Listen, I don't – I'm not trying to like, be weird, or invasive, or – I don't need details or for you to like – plan in advance or anything, but if. If you need me to get the fuck out for the night or something, just like. Let me know, and I can fuck off super fast, I don't mind, I – "

Richie is having so many thoughts and feelings he absolutely cannot take the time to sort through and assess them. He is certain his eyebrows have taken on a mind of their own – like maybe there's a little "buffering..." symbol on his face where an expression should be.

"Whoa, buddy, you wanna run that by me again, maybe in entire sentences this time?"

Red spreads from the tips of Eddie's ears throughout his face. "I – what is there not to get, bro, I'm just saying, if you need me to ditch the apartment, I can go on pretty short notice, just give me a heads up and I'm out – "

Eddie looks like steam’s going to come out of his ears. Richie can almost feel the warmth radiating off his face as he tries to say something without actually being direct, and it takes him a second, but then he realizes what Eddie means. 

He freezes. He absolutely needs to hear Eddie say the words himself, because the only way he’s making it out of this conversation alive, with minimal shame and embarrassment, is to make it a bit.

So he plays dumb. "I don't understand, what do you mean if I ‘need you out on short notice – ‘"

"Jesus Christ." Eddie rubs a hand from his temple down his entire face, which is now a beautiful deep shade of crimson. "FOR CASUAL SEX, RICHARD. I am trying to tell you to give me a heads up, and I can leave, so you can FUCK SOMEONE IN YOUR OWN APARTMENT WITHOUT YOUR DIVORCED GAY ROOMMATE GETTING IN THE WAY."

Richie's face might be permanently stuck this way, brows stretching back to try and meet his hairline. He has no idea how this has happened to him. He's so taken aback by the phrasing, he can't tell whether to cry or laugh.

And honestly, what the fuck. Who the fuck does Eddie think Richie is? What kind of action does he think he’s missing out on because of his divorced gay roommate, considering said roommate is the love of his life? What's the point of looking at anyone else, even if he could?

Of course, that's not even factoring in his lifelong residency in the closet, which is a whole other can of worms.

"What – why are you – are you laughing at me, you fucking asshole, I'm just trying to be a considerate –" Eddie throws his hands up, exasperated, before slicing them through the air. "I know your standup is ghostwritten, dickwad, but surely you have, at some point, had sex! You – you haven't had anyone over since I got here, so I thought..." He trails off, embarrassed.

Holy shit.

"Wait – wait wait wait," Richie says, "You think you're – you think you're cockblocking me?" He shakes with the effort it takes to not laugh directly into Eddie's face. He may be an asshole, but he doesn’t want to hurt Eddie’s feelings, just throw him off the scent. 

"Let me get this straight. You think the only reason I'm not wading through pussy nightly is because I have a roommate?"

There’s a sick sense of relief, that his cover works so well even his best friend can’t see through it. It turns his stomach, how close Eddie’s gotten while still missing the mark entirely. 

Eddie wrinkles his nose. "Jesus. Do you seriously have to phrase it like that?"

"Trashmouth, baby," Richie shrugs. "Seriously, though – you think I'm getting it on the regular?" He gestures to his general everything. "Me? Holy shit, that's fucking hysterical."

He rubs a finger under each eye, wiping away actual tears from laughing so hard. "Words cannot describe how much laid I am not getting, oh my god. No, Eddie, no one is lining up to fuck the gross, clown-traumatized 40-year-old basket case in a Hawaiian shirt, trust me."

He lets his glasses fall back into place and looks over at Eddie to see something change in the set of his chin, the way he's holding his arms. He watches warily. He's not sure how much more of this conversation he can take and still leave with his dignity intact.

"I – come on, Rich, it's not that ridiculous," Eddie says. "I mean, you're not, like. The worst. To look at."

This conversation was crafted in a lab to be Richie's own personal hell. Yes, please, let the guy he wishes would fuck him six ways to Sunday kindly explain that Richie's not hideous and theoretically, someone, someday, might want to look at him for an extended period of time. Very helpful, not at all like having someone gently remove his skin with a vegetable peeler.

"Thanks for your half-hearted attempt at a pep talk, but I'm good," Richie says. "My body is an acquired taste, and to acquire that taste you have to undergo several head injuries, I got it."

"Oh my god, seriously? Seriously, you're –" Eddie sighs, somehow rolls his eyes with his entire body. "You are fucking hopeless. I'm just saying, like. Just because you dress like a tornado hit a Goodwill doesn't mean you don't have, like." He looks up at the ceiling, hands on his hips. "Shoulders?"

Richie wishes he could exit his body. He’d like to exit this conversation, at least. 

"Sure. Shoulders. Hey, don't you have, like, work? To be doing? Don't you have important reports to type and people to bore to sleep, or something?"

"Richie..." Eddie says, a little softer than expected. "I'm just saying, there's nothing wrong with you. If you wanted to – get out there, it's not, like, a lost cause, you know?"

He really knows when to sink his teeth into a topic and refuse to let go, Richie thinks. Jesus.

"Seriously, I don't know what you're so worried about, Eddie, I'm in a very committed polyamorous relationship with my hand, the shower, and memories of your dearly departed mother –"

That shakes him out of whatever the fuck this bizarro situation is. "Oh, fuck you, bro," Eddie says, "That's the last time I try to be nice," and wheels around, taking his phone and his weird mood with him.

"You call that nice?" Richie calls after him, but he's already gone.

-

Richie wakes up in the guest bedroom, rolls over and sees Eddie turned toward him, face still carrying some worry even as he’s curled up on his side, asleep.

It’s still early. Foggy, he remembers Eddie having another nightmare, remembers coming in here to wake him up out of it, to climb into bed next to him to offer – well. Whatever it is that he can do for Eddie just by being there. He doesn’t understand it, and Eddie never explains. It’s just one more routine they’ve settled into without much discussion. 

Eddie snuffles and sighs in his sleep, and there’s a sweetness to it that makes Richie’s heart constrict in his chest. That’s not for him to see, he thinks, but he’ll take it anyway. He’s awake before Eddie for once; he allows himself the luxury of gazing at him unguarded, no fear of his seeing being seen.

He traces the planes of Eddie’s face with his eyes, listens to him breathe, thinks about how still he is, what he could be dreaming about. He doesn’t talk about his nightmares and Richie’s stopped asking, not interested in pushing the issue. It’s not a fight he feels like having, and anyway, he can guess well enough.

He has his own nightmares, sketched-out rehashes of the worst days of his life, but he figures he must not make much noise. He’s always woken up alone. He ought to be waking up alone now, he thinks – he really can’t make a habit of this. It’s one more thing to miss when Eddie’s moved out and the warmth of his body in sleep is someone else’s.

He holds the feeling a moment longer, and then he ruins it.

Eddie startles awake.

“Jesus! Your feet are like fucking ice, get them off of me,” he mumbles, kicking his legs to get Richie to move. “Does your blood not circulate all the way down to your toes? Have you gotten that checked out?”

Satisfied, Richie grins. “Yeah, the doctor said all the blood gets waylaid to my monster dong.”

“Fuck OFF, fuck off, go away, I’m SLEEPING, you dick,” Eddie says, pulling the covers over his head and turning away.

“You talk a lot for a guy who’s asleep, you know that?” 

Eddie sticks one hand out from under the covers to flip him the bird. Richie sticks his head under the blankets to join him.

“What do you want for breakfast, grumpy?”

“Mrrrp,” Eddie says, eloquently. “Waffles.”

“No waffle maker, bud, sorry. I can do pancakes, though. I’m great at pancakes.”

“I know, but waffles are better,” Eddie whines. His eyes are closed. “Crispy. Little pockets for butter.” He opens one eye to look at Richie. “Do we have any in the freezer?” 

“Not unless you bought some.”

Eddie groans and rolls over, his back to Richie again. “I’ll buy a waffle iron.”

Richie reluctantly gets up, as much as he doesn’t want to leave the warmth, or Eddie.

“Unless you can acquire it in the next thirty minutes without leaving bed, you’re getting pancakes.”

“Fine,” he relents. “Add it to the list for next time we go out, though.”

“Only if we can get one of the novelty ones. Wait, can we buy one of the ones that makes ‘em Texas-shaped?”

That makes Eddie sit up, finally. “There’s no way that’s a real thing.”

“It definitely is, and it’s the only waffle maker I’ll accept. Chop, chop, get to Googling.” 

“Why do you want to eat a waffle in the shape of some shitty state you’ve never lived in?”

“Sorry, would you prefer your waffles to be clown-haunted?”

Eddie throws a pillow at him. “Fuck you, I’m going back to sleep. Wake me up when breakfast is ready?”

“Okay, your highness. You want anything else while I’m at it, slaving away in the kitchen?”

But Eddie’s already back under the covers and silent, the shape of him moving up and down with his breathing as he settles back into sleep.

Richie watches him for a minute longer before moving to the kitchen, gathering all the ingredients. He’s made pancakes often enough that his body takes over like muscle memory, leaving him on autopilot while he mixes the batter and starts heating up the stove. 

Unfortunately, that means his brain is free to spiral. This is one of the nicest mornings he’s had in a long time. Waking up with Eddie, a little squabble to start the day, talking to him before he’s had his coffee and his brain’s really awake. Making breakfast for both of them, food they’ll eat together, probably at the table, talking and making plans for the day. 

He thinks about what it’d be like for most mornings to be like this. If he could fall asleep next to Eddie on purpose, wake up to him the same way, knowing that they were on the same page. He gets as far as daydreaming about them holding hands in their sleep, rings clicking together, when the smoke detector starts beeping.

He comes back to reality and pulls the current batch of pancakes, badly burned, off the heat, setting them on a cold burner before searching for something to fan the smoke detector with. 

Eddie comes running out of his bedroom, still wrapped in a blanket, but wide awake. “Is everything okay?” he says, alarmed. 

Richie’s waving a stack of old magazines at the smoke detector, his shirt riding up his belly. He wishes he had enough hands to hold the magazines and pull his shirt down at the same time. 

“Everything’s fine, just burned a couple of pancakes.”

“I thought you said you were good at making them!”

“I am, I just got distracted!” The detector keeps beeping shrilly. “Shut up! God, this is why I usually take the batteries out of these things.”

“Please tell me you’re fucking with me,” Eddie says. 

Richie grimaces. Eddie smacks him on the arm. “Richie!”

“It’s fucking loud and too sensitive!”

“It doesn’t matter how much it annoys you, it’s about safety, jackass! Do you even know what to do if you wake up and your apartment’s on fire?”

“Uh, call 911 and hope the firefighter they send out is sexy?”

Eddie looks like he’s going to explode. He takes the papers from Richie and starts fanning underneath the alarm feverishly until the noises stop, then drops them back onto the counter.

“If you swear to me you’ll never even joke about removing smoke alarm batteries again, I’ll pay for brunch.”

Richie considers. “Does the carbon monoxide detector count?”

Eddie’s eye twitches. “I’m going to kill you and you’re going to wish it were carbon monoxide poisoning.”

Aiming for brunch gives them enough time to finish bickering. Eddie gets the waffles he wanted all along. 

-

Eddie gets more involved in the kitchen after he learns about meal delivery kits from a podcast ad. They’re a handy way to figure out more of his food preferences (yes to brussels sprouts, but only roasted; hard no to tofu), and they can always order takeout if Richie cooks something and Eddie can’t eat it. Eddie picks out each week’s recipes, and they save the cards for ones they both like so they can cook them again later. 

They’re in the kitchen prepping some sort of stir fry. Richie’s got his sleeves rolled up, cutting vegetables while Eddie supervises. What he lacks in knife skills, he makes up for in opinions. This is true of many areas of Eddie’s life. 

“You’re doing it wrong, this says they’re supposed to be ‘coarsely chopped,’ not diced infinitesimally small.” 

“Okay, Mr. SAT Words. You’re the one who doesn’t like big chunks of onion.”

“The texture–”

“I know, why do you think I’m making them so fuckin’ tiny, man?”

“Oh. Thanks.”

“No problem.” He keeps dicing. “So, how’s work?”

“Honestly glad I don’t have to go into the office much, some of these people make me want to scream.”

“Oh yeah?” Richie finishes with the onion, starts working on a couple of carrots.

Eddie rattles off a list of complaints so specific and detailed, so laden with jargon, that Richie finds them incomprehensible even while actively listening.

Richie wipes at his eyes with his forearm. “God, I didn’t understand a word of that. You’re boring me to tears, Spaghetti, see?”

Eddie rolls his eyes. “Hilarious. You just cut a fucking onion, asshole.”

“Okay, why aren’t you crying then, genius?”

Eddie pops his gum. “I read somewhere chewing gum helps keep you from crying about cut onions. It’s about like, engaging your muscles in something else, distracting your brain or some shit.” 

“So like eating peanut butter when you have the hiccups?”

“Like fucking what?”

“You don’t remember that? Maggie always gave me a spoonful of peanut butter if I had the hiccups, I’d eat it and they’d stop.”

“I was convinced I had a nut allergy, dipshit, your mom always locked that shit away when I was around, remember? I think she didn’t wanna hear it from my mom. I looked at a Snickers once and Sonia thought my life was in danger.” 

“Jesus. Hey, are jokes about your mom still off-limits, because I was thinking–”

Eddie glares at him. 

“Well, there goes my new set.” 

“Hysterical. Are you working on new stuff?”

Richie snorts. “I don’t work on anything. That’s the ghostwriters’ job, I’m just like, a sad little puppet man. Someday I’ll be a real boy.”

Eddie frowns. “They’re still making you do somebody else’s material?”

He huffs. “It’s a little more complicated than that.”

“How complicated can it be? I bet if you showed me your contracts I could try and figure something out.”

“So you’re a lawyer now? Who said I wanted to get out of it, anyway? It’s been working for me so far. God, I hate trying to cut tomatoes, they’re all squishy and wet.”

“Leave it out, the mouthfeel is just miserable. What’s it doing in a stir fry, anyway?”

“Oh, the mouthfeel?” 

“It’s a real term, shut up! And I don’t know, you don’t seem very happy about your standup.”

Richie chucks the tomato in the trash and moves onto the rest of the vegetables – a head of broccoli, a couple of bell peppers. Eddie likes the orange; he likes the green. 

“Nobody really likes their job, Eddie, didn’t you know? That’s how adulthood works.” 

Eddie pauses. “You really think that?” 

“Yeah. Either way, the ghostwriters are the only reason I even have a career. Without them, I’m the same unfunny loser I’ve always been.” 

“Fuck you, that’s not true.”

“You’re right, at least I’m rich now. Tall, too.” 

“No, listen to me, asshole. You know I think you’re funny, right?”

“You don’t have to say that shit just to be nice, man.”

“No, it’s true–I used to catch you sometimes when I’d flip through channels, I’d be like, why does this guy suck so bad?”

“Wow, great pep talk–” 

“Shut up, I’m not done. I’d be like, he should be funnier. I don’t understand why, but I know he’s funnier than this. I guess deep down I remembered how you used to be, and I could tell that whatever you were doing on screen wasn’t really you.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. I don’t know, man, I think if you want to ditch the ghostwriters and do your own shit, you should go for it. You can practice on me, captive audience or whatever.” 

“Oh, uh, thanks.” Richie grabs the ginger root and holds it up to the light, trying to figure out how he’s supposed to peel it. He gets a smaller knife out of the drawer and wonders what angle to approach this from. 

“Of course. I mean, I know you think my job is boring, but I think about risks all the time. Some of them are worthwhile. If you fire your writers and write your own shit and fail, at least you tried, right? If you fuck it up, we’ll figure it out. Trashmouth can crash and burn, but Richie will still be my best friend, you know?” 

Richie fumbles the knife, cutting his finger. He hisses in pain. “Shit!” 

Eddie’s at his side immediately. “Are you okay? Let me see,” he says, not waiting for an answer before he takes Richie’s hand to inspect the damage.

Richie winces. “Does it sting?” Eddie asks. He nods, nearly bonking heads with him, he’s that close. 

“What’s the prognosis, Dr. K? Will I make it?” 

Eddie examines him closely. “It doesn’t look too deep, and it’s not bleeding bad enough that you’ll need urgent care or anything, luckily.” He grabs a clean kitchen towel. “Here, apply pressure, I’ll go grab a bandaid.”

Richie does as he’s told. He watches as Eddie rummages through the cabinets to find the first aid kit he put together shortly after moving in, digging through the box to find antibacterial ointment and bandages. It took some convincing, but Richie did get him to buy some with Minions on them. He had no idea what they were, or that Richie’d had a bit part in the latest movie. 

“I still can’t believe you made me buy the ones with these little yellow bastards on them,” Eddie says, gently applying the ointment and wrapping a bandaid over the damage–not too tight, but enough to stop the bleeding.

“Bee-doo,” Richie says solemnly. 

Eddie cleans up the minor ginger carnage, washes his hands, and surveys the scene. “Hm.”

“What’s up?”

“Well, you already got everything out,” he says. “You’re absolutely not cooking now, but.” He pauses. “I don’t want anything to go to waste.” 

“We can always chuck it in the fridge and cook it tomorrow,” Richie says. 

“I was thinking–”

“Did it hurt?”

He flips Richie the bird. “ I could try cooking, for once. I know I don’t know what I’m doing, but I can follow instructions, and you’re here if I fuck up. It can’t be that hard, right? ” 

“Oh, dude, stir fry is nearly idiot-proof, you got this. The hardest part is making sure the chicken gets cooked through.” 

“The FDA says it needs to reach an internal temperature of 165 degrees Fahrenheit,” Eddie rattles off without thinking, then grimaces. “I forgot I’d have to touch raw meat.”

“You’ll have to get used to that part of your new lifestyle,” Richie says. 

Eddie snorts. “Okay, smartass, what’s the next step?”

“You gotta prep the chicken. I’d get a new cutting board and knife if I were you.”

“Oh, I figured I’d just use the same one you bled all over,” he says, “that seems safe enough.”

Eddie sets up the fresh cutting board and opens the package of chicken breasts, gingerly pulling them both out and placing them on the board. He makes a noise of disgust and shudders. “God, how do you do this?”

“It’s all mental, man,” Richie says. “Set your mind to overcoming the grossness of it. Think of it as a competition: you gotta beat your meat.”

“It’s not your best work,” Eddie says, unaffected. 

“I’m wounded,” he pouts, holding up his hand. “You have to be nice to me.”

Eddie stops in the middle of cutting the chicken into strips and looks Richie dead in the face. “No.”

Richie cracks up. Eddie checks to make sure the frying pan on the stove is hot. He looks a little smug. 

“Okay, so what now?”

“Now you throw the oil and the chicken in there to do the actual cooking.” 

“I don’t think you should throw oil anywhere,” he says, pouring it carefully. He goes quiet, observing the chicken’s progress, turning it over when it’s time. Richie watches him watch the protein go from pink to white. He likes the way Eddie pays attention to things that are important to him.

“What?” Eddie says, realizing Richie’s looking at him. 

“Nothing,” he says. “It should be good to go by now.” 

Eddie pulls out a meat thermometer Richie didn’t know he owned, sticking it in each individual piece to ensure a precise internal temperature of whatever-the-hell it’s supposed to be. 

“Yeah, it’s all cooked through,” he says. “What now?”

“Okay, set the chicken aside on a plate, add more oil, and add the veggies.”

“We’re not supposed to clean the pan between the chicken and the vegetables?” Eddie asks, frowning.

“Nah, it says so right here–’Do not clean the pan.’ It’s about the uh, whatsit, the seasoning or whatever. Makes it tastier.”

“Are you sure that’s safe?”

“I don’t think they’re legally allowed to give us instructions for food poisoning, so it’s probably fine, dude.”

He hums, taking the recipe card from Richie and looking it over. Satisfied, he adds the vegetables and seasoning as instructed before adding the chicken back in. Richie stands behind him and hooks his chin over Eddie’s shoulder, a move he’d always hated.

“Looks good, Spaghetti!” 

Eddie sighs. “Yeah?” He asks hopefully. 

“I told you, stir fry is pretty easy.” 

“Well, you haven’t tasted it yet. I still could’ve fucked it up somehow.”

“I doubt it,” Richie says, watching Eddie spoon the stir fry into bowls. They eat at the kitchen table, which has been used more often since Eddie moved in than it was in the years before he lived with Richie. It’s nice; it feels almost like they’ve built a real life together. 

-

Richie wakes up in Eddie’s bed again, again, again. This time, he hears Eddie before he opens his eyes. He’s talking to someone.

“No, I get you. I thought for a long time it was about clothes, or about comparing myself to other men and being mad that I wasn’t built that way, you know? ...Yes, he is very tall and handsome. Yes, I’ve seen the nose ring.” 

Who’s tall? Who’s handsome? He’s a little groggy, but determined to stay still, to figure out what’s going on. He’s too nosy not to. 

“Yeah, I don’t know if I’ll ever get over it. Feels like kind of a permanent thing–but hey, wait, this is about you and your Mike problems!”

He wonders who’s got a problem with Mike. Or maybe it is Mike? He hopes everything is okay. He knows it’s probably none of his business, but he can’t make his brain shut off long enough to fall back asleep, and he doesn’t want to interrupt, so he’s stuck.

“I don’t know, Bill, I can’t decide for you. It’s like. You gotta figure that shit out yourself, you know?”

Ah. It’s Bill. He knows Bill’s getting divorced, but he’s not sure what that has to do with anything. It’s hard to make out from half a conversation, even as he runs it back and forth in his head to try and let free-association do its thing. Eddie starts talking again, a little softer this time, a little more serious. 

“At the Jade, when I saw–yeah. Yeah, I remembered some stuff but. You know what’s funny? I couldn’t face the actual gay thing until we were all under Neibolt. Richie told me I was brave. He made me feel brave, like I could do anything, be anybody, even myself.”

Richie feels like he can’t breathe. 

“It’s not that it stopped being scary–it’s still fucking terrifying, actually–it’s that it got harder to be someone else‘s idea of me. Between the fear of staying in and the fear of coming out, I knew what risk was worth taking.”

He’s glad he’s feigning sleep; he doesn’t know what he’d say if he weren’t. He can only imagine how Bill’s responding. Eddie’s silent for a good minute, and Bill sounds like a Charlie Brown adult from what Richie can make out, which isn’t much. Eddie starts talking again. 

“No, I don’t think he’d think that of you. But if you’re worried, you could always wait? Give it time, maybe try sleeping around for once, whatever it is normal people do, who knows.”

“Okay, but I’m just saying showing up wherever he’s at on his road trip right now and immediately proposing might be a lot, even for Mike. Then again—” Eddie pauses, and Richie feels eyes on his back. “No, he’s still asleep. BILL—no, it’s different! It’s an entirely different situation! Because I say it is! Well at least I’m not stalking him across the country!” 

Richie feels like he’s been listening too long. Or maybe—maybe he’s still asleep. Because he can’t really be hearing this. He can’t parse it, doesn’t know what Eddie’s talking about—because it surely can’t be him. 

He can hear what he wants to hear, but at the end of the day, it’s not about him. He knows this to be true. He doesn’t know what it means, other than Eddie cares about someone. 

And it’s not that he doesn’t know Eddie cares about him—he does, clearly—but it’s not the way he’d like. Eddie’s given him so much, but Richie’s selfish enough to want more than his friendship, his company, his time. He wants everything. And he can’t ask that of him. It’s not fair, how big his wanting is, how strong. How long it’s gone on. 

Maybe it’s time to give up the ghost. Or maybe, a braver part of him thinks, it’s time to be honest. He can’t ask anything more of Eddie, but what he can do is present the facts and let Eddie make his own choices. It’s only fair—so many have been made for him, and Richie never wants Eddie to experience that again. 

So he pretends to wake up. It’s not his most convincing work, but he’s a comedian first, actor second.

He shuffles around, snuffles a bit, yawns. When he grabs for his glasses, he hears, “Oh, I think he’s awake, I gotta go—no, I’ll text you later, man. You, too. Bye.” 

He puts his glasses on and sits up. It’s their usual routine, pretending there’s nothing weird about waking up in bed with your best bro and never talking about how sometimes he spoons you in his sleep. It’s very normal. 

“Morning,” he says, voice scratchy. “Who’s that?” 

“Good morning,” Eddie says. He looks nervous. “It was Bill, he’s just—he had a question. About taxes!” 

“And he called you? Stan is literally an accountant.”

“Does it matter?” Eddie snaps defensively. “It was just Bill calling to ask advice, okay, I even told him to ask Stan!” 

“Okay, okay, sorry,” Richie says. “Everything okay?” 

“Yeah,” Eddie says. “I think I’m gonna go for a run.” He gets out of bed and starts digging through his dresser drawers.

“How you can want to run around on purpose, I’ll never understand. Don’t you know there’s weather out there?”

“Some people like it,” he says. “Uh—do you mind?” He’s pulled out shorts, a tank, his usual running gear. 

“Hm?” 

“Can you leave so I can change?” 

“Oh. Yeah, I’ll just. Skedaddle into the kitchen, then.” He gets up, moving past Eddie on his way out. “Do you want me to make breakfast when you get back?” 

Eddie pauses. “No, I’ll take my card, figure out something on my way back. But thanks, Rich.” He closes the door. 

-

Eddie’s half of the conversation plays on loop in Richie’s head. It bounces around in there like the logo screensaver on a DVD player—he can’t let it go. 

He made Eddie feel brave? Him? His pep talk was genuine, if pulled out of his ass in a moment of fear for all of them, but he didn’t think it was life-changingly inspiring. 

It’s funny, truly, that a coward like him made Eddie feel brave enough to come out when Richie can barely admit to himself that he’s gay, let alone tell anyone else. Sure, Bev knows—and probably Ben, and definitely Stan—but it was half-accident. Every other part of his life, he’s been lying, if not outright, then by omission. Faking his way through jokes about girlfriends who never existed, crass talk about women when he’d never really looked at one twice. He’d tried having a girlfriend in his early 20s, Sandy, only for her to realize she was gay and dump him. He should’ve learned something from that, he guesses. 

The thing is—the thing is, he’s so fucking tired. He’s tired of all of it, the whole shebang, making himself feel rotten for being gay or for lying about it, miserable either way.

He thinks about what it would be like, to be out. To be honest. He’s not what he would call comfortable with himself, but it’d be a start. Hard to work on yourself when you’re so busy beating yourself up for who you are and remembering being physically beaten up for the mere idea of being gay. He imagines maybe it’d be easier, as an adult—not perfect, not magically safer or less terrifying, but less lonely. Hell, he’d have at least one gay friend now. 

If he were out—well, he’s not cultural icon material, but he remembers what it was like to be young and hear that a celebrity was gay. Even ones he didn’t care about, it was like proof that it didn’t end your life or maybe even ruin it. People could be happy. 

He could be happy, even. 

-

It’s a long conversation, telling his manager, but considering he begins with “I want to fire my ghostwriters, and I want to come out, and also by the way I’m super gay,” he supposes he’s lucky there’s a conversation at all. 

In the end, Steve compromises by imposing deadlines by which he needs to hear new Richie-written material, and Richie heads to Marc Maron’s garage to record the most nerve-wracking podcast interview of his life. 

“I’m gay,” he tells Maron with the audio rolling, and Steve’s in the corner with a thumbs-up. He texts Bev afterward, once he’s done anxiety-puking.

“maybe im ready to talk about it” he says. “also maybe i told a podcast before i told all of you but if i tell the losers to listen to the episode can you just be cool about it please”

“I’m proud of you, bub,” she texts back. “I’ll listen. I love you.”

“lol gay” he replies. 

-

The day the episode goes live, he texts the group chat and asks the rest of the Losers to listen, says it’s important to him. His phone’s muted again, too many notifications and requests for interviews. There are only seven people whose opinions matter to him today. 

Eddie comes storming out of his bedroom, one Airpod still clinging to his right ear for dear life, and stands in front of Richie where he’s seated on the couch, hands on his hips.

“When were you going to tell me?” 

“That I was on Maron’s podcast?” he says unconvincingly. “I didn’t know you were such a fan–”

“Richie. Not the fucking time, man.”

He wishes he could disappear into thin air. “I don’t know. I don’t know, I guess I was–afraid. Of what you’d say.”

“Richie…” he says, taking out the other Airpod, taking a seat on the couch but affording Richie some room. 

Richie can’t look at him. He doesn’t know why Eddie's upset, only that he is, and his brain starts spinning, trying to figure out what he’s done wrong. 

He slumps his shoulders, tries to make himself smaller. “Eds, I’m sorry, I —“ 

“You’re my best friend. We live together, for fucks’ sake, were you just not going to say anything?”

“Well, it worked for the first 40 years, yeah,” he says, mouth dry. He feels nauseous. 

“Rich.”

A sudden, panicked thought. The way they’d been acting, like they were kids again, casually touching and teasing and the accidental home of it all—he’d slept in Eddie’s bed, they’d woken up spooning, and Eddie hadn’t known about him, about —

“Oh god, Eddie, if this is about the, the...sleeping together, I’m so fucking sorry, I wasn’t trying to—I swear it wasn’t like, I wasn’t trying to be a creep or something, just because we’re both—I mean, it didn’t like, it doesn’t mean anything, if that’s what you’re worried about—“

He is well and truly freaking out, and he thinks he might vomit. He goes to stand up and Eddie catches him by the wrist. 

“Hey,” he says. “Stop freaking the fuck out. I know.” A beat. “But it could.”

Richie's sure he didn’t hear that right. Heart pounding in his ears too loud, too many things he’s not said, he’s gone system overload. Brain glitch. He falls back to his seat on the couch.

“What?” he asks, a hitch in his throat. 

“It could mean something,” Eddie says. He moves his hand down from Richie’s wrist to take his hand, loosely, leaving him space, the choice. “If you, uh. if you wanted it to.” 

He meets Richie's eyes. “That would be okay.” 

Richie is—completely overwhelmed. He looks down at his hand hanging in Eddie's, warm but unsure. He doesn’t know how to trust this. 

“I—I don't...” he trails off. His brain’s working 90 miles a minute, but his mouth can’t keep up. He closes his eyes to try and lessen the sensory overload.

He feels Eddie's other hand on his face, gentle as it tentatively cups his cheek. A thumb brushes his cheekbone. He braces himself against the shudder he can feel his body moving toward. He keeps his eyes closed tight, his jaw tense against everything he’d like to say. 

Eddie tilts his head up. “Rich? Look at me.”

“I‘m always looking at you,” he mumbles. 

He opens his eyes. Eddie's right there, focused in his field of view. He can’t look away–not, he thinks, that he’d want to. 

“Hey,” Eddie says softly. His gaze is curious, searching, but not overly intense. He looks like he’s making up his mind. 

Richie’s always gotten distracted in movies when the actors are trying to stare deeply into each others’ eyes. He gets caught up watching the flick of their focus go from one eye to the other, back and forth, and misses half the dialogue, has to rewind to catch the scene itself. He thinks that’s probably what he looks like now, wide-eyed, trying to read what’s happening. 

And then he’s not thinking much at all, because Eddie's kissing him. 

Eddie's kissing him, and it’s soft, and new, and everything, and for once, Richie’s mind goes pleasantly, blessedly quiet.

-

Later, as Eddie’s pressed against Richie’s back, face tucked into the crook of Richie’s neck, he murmurs something Richie can’t hear. 

“That tickles,” Richie says, squirming. “What’d you say?”

“How long, Rich?”

“I think you can guesstimate by now–”

Eddie gives his shoulder a nip. “Focus, Richie.” 

He shuffles around to face Eddie. “How long what?”

“How long have you, you know.” He gestures vaguely between the two of them. “Felt like this?”

He hesitates. There’s a part of him that’s still afraid, despite the kissing, the touching, the physical, tactile proof – like he’ll wake up to find he dreamt all of this, as far back as Eddie’s arrival, or further. 

And beyond that, it’s...a lot. He wants it to match up, wants to know that however he feels, Eddie’s there with him. But he’s afraid to blink first.

“Does it matter? We’re here now, right?” There’s a tremor in his last word as he tries to fight the doubt. 

“Don’t fucking deflect, I’m asking you a question! I think it’s perfectly reasonable for me to want to know how long you’ve.” Eddie pauses, considering. “Had feelings for me?”

Feelings, he says, like it’s that simple.

“You go first,” Richie says. 

“I already did! I kissed you!”

“Okay, but –” 

Eddie places his hand to Richie’s cheek again, strokes it with his thumb, tilts his face to make him meet his eyes. “Sweetheart, please.” 

The earnestness turns Richie’s heart to ice cream, and he never could deny Eddie anything anyway. 

“How long have we known each other?”

“Richie.”

“Humor me.”

“Forever, give or take a few stolen decades,” he says. There’s a feeling of loss there, the time they can’t get back. Time that could have, should have been theirs. 

“Let me do the math,” he says quietly. Eddie rolls his eyes, but it’s all fondness. To buy himself time, Richie pretends to count on his fingers, on the hand that isn’t holding Eddie’s

He’s afraid to say it, but he does anyway. Eddie makes him feel brave.

“Well, Eds, I guess I’ve been in love with you my whole life,” he says sheepishly. It makes him feel raw, and he’s already naked. It shouldn’t be this frightening, he thinks. It’s just Eddie. 

He dares to look at Eddie, who’s looking right back at him, so tender he feels like he shouldn’t be seeing it. He breaks eye contact and fidgets. 

“If that’s, like. Okay. Sorry.”

“Sorry? I’ve been here for months! Why didn’t you ever say anything!”

“Why didn’t you!” 

“Did I or did I not show up on your doorstep the moment I was divorced?”

“Okay, but –”

“We have at least five other friends, some of whom live in the same city I did, and I flew across the entire country for you, to you, Rich.”

“Buh,” Richie says, brilliantly. 

“And you gave me a place to stay, and you let me be a person, and when you woke me up from nightmares, I asked you to stay with me.”

“We did that as kids, it’s not new,” he argues.

“Yeah, and it was gay then too, Richie, Jesus! And literally earlier this evening I kissed you and I meant it, I meant it, what part of that did you not get?"

A warmth spreads from Richie’s heart out through his entire body. He feels like he’s tingling from head to toe as it dawns on him, but there’s still a piece of him that can’t trust it until he hears the words. 

“Look, I had a very big fall a few months ago and it’s jumbled my brains, you’ll have to excuse me. I’m very stupid, can you spell it out for me?” 

Eddie looks him dead in the eyes, squeezes his hand. “Rich. Of course I love you. What else is there?”

Richie feels like he’s going to dissolve. He feels like the world’s biggest doofus and universe’s luckiest man, and a pair of fat tears well up in his eyes.

“Honey–” Eddie says slowly, rolling it around in his mouth like he’s trying out the taste. “Don’t cry.”

“Fuck you, my therapist’s been trying to get me to cry for ages, apparently it’s good for you or something.”

Eddie rolls his eyes, carefully removes Richie’s glasses and rubs his thumbs under his eyes to catch the wet. And he kisses him senseless.