golden > reddie oneshots

5555

"Whatcha thinkin' about?" Eddie asks, dragging Richie from his thoughts, a small hand on the seat between them. "That's your thinking face." My thinking face, Richie thinks, hands tightening on the steering wheel, smile pulling at his lips. At Richie's silence, Eddie raises an eyebrow and dramatically sinks back into his seat, "Fine. Don't tell me. I don't wanna know anyway."

"Aw, Eds," Richie says, the nickname slipping off his tongue real easy. "You hoping I'm thinking about you, or what?"

"You know I hate when you call me that," Eddie says, crossing his arms, still pretending to look upset, but there is an obvious smile eating at his lips. "And I would blow chunks if you were thinking about me."

"You're so cute when you pretend I annoy you. And you're a pretty good actor, too." Richie glances over at Eddie.

"I'm not pretending. You really do drive me up the wall."

Ignoring Eddie, Richie sticks his eyes back to the road, pleased to see they are the only ones out here. They are somewhere dry, though the atmosphere mirrors not the weather. With his window opened halfway, the cool autumn air is refreshing on Richie's skin.

"Hand me a cigarette, will you?"

"You know I hate the smell of smoke," Eddie says, but he stretches his body over and reaches his hands down toward his feet, where Richie's jean jacket lies pitifully on the floor. He pulls a cigarette out of Richie's pack and hands it over. Richie opens his mouth slightly, and Eddie narrows his eyes before sticking the cigarette between Richie's parting lips. Richie then gives Eddie a certain look, and Eddie sighs. "Where's the lighter?"

"Glove compartment," Richie says, cigarette still resting on his pillow of a bottom lip. Eddie pops open the glove compartment and lifts the lighter over to Richie's cigarette, flicking it on, and watching as a flame is born. This feels oddly domestic, Richie thinks, Eddie leaning over his seat to light Richie's cigarette, all the while both Richie's hand remain on the steering wheel. "Thanks, Eds."

"Don't thank me—when you get lung cancer I'm not going to be held responsible for feeding into your gross habit," Eddie says, crossing his arms and looking out the window.

"Gee," Richie replies, taking a drag. He pulls the cigarette between his index and middle finger, propping his hand against the steering wheel. "You've sure got a way with words."

"Shut up," Eddie says grumpily. A beat of silence passes between them before Eddie glances at the car dashboard. "I'm cold," he mumbles, and he moves to turn the heat up. Richie ignores him and continues smoking, wondering how much longer it'll be until they pass a motel. It's been a while of driving, and it'll be getting dark soon. The two of them need to find a place to stay and grab some grub. "Five miles," Eddie suddenly says, and Richie looks over at him, brows furrowed. "Five miles until the next gas station. The sign said so. I want a slushie."

"Maybe there's a hotel nearby, too," Richie thinks aloud. He takes one last drag of his cigarette before flicking it out his open window. "I could go for a slushie. Blue raspberry?"

"Cherry." Eddie narrows his eyes at Richie. "Blue raspberry is the worst flavor. It's not even real."

"You've never had a blue raspberry?" Richie asks, feigning shock as his eyes dart from the road ahead to Eddie rolling his eyes. "They're delicious. Probably my favorite fruit."

"You're so full of shit, Rich," Eddie says with a breathy laugh. Then it is too quiet, without them talking, so Richie switches on the radio and mumbles along to the song that's playing. He doesn't know it too well, but he's heard it enough to remember the chorus. "I don't know how you remember every song you hear."