In The End We Are Still The Same (Reddie)

Seperation of the heart

Chapter 6: Part 2

If life is like drifting out at sea, then most days, the water is still, and forgiving. It will rock you, the waves will push and pull, against the shore, it will guide you along the currents, and float you along the open water.

The days Eddie can be a kid. Be with his friends, and be care free.

But some days, there are storms. It's relentless, and knows no mercy, thrashing, and swirling, daring to drag you in, pull you down into the depths.

Fear. Is it clean? Is it safe? What if, what if, what if. It's a fucking plague. No matter how much he knows the fears are irrational, they eat at him, telling him— what if? What if you get sick, what if you get hurt— it's a voice nagging him, always present, some days louder then the others. When it's quiet. That's when it's the loudest. Because Eddie must speak for it.

Eddie-bear—

He shuts his eyes tight, and doesn't let the lights pour in. Even when he knew she wasn't right, he still had this inclination to listen. To heed her warnings, to entrap himself in bubble wrap, and never face the world. Because it was hard, and scary, and sad.

So sad.

Eddie watches from the corner of Richie's bed, he feels like there is a battle happening in his brain, fighting to breach his chest and plow through his rib cage. Thousands of soldiers charging out of his lungs, into the sea of open promises and one never kept. He keeps his lips sealed however, as to not let the ocean waves come crashing out. He watches with a pained expression as Richie touches the multiple cigarette burns on his arms, and thighs. His fingers barely press in, just gliding along the tough patches of skin gently. Eddie knows they don't hurt anymore. Not physically at least.

They are all finally faded, which is comforting to know, no new ones have been appearing on his skin. Still, Eddie can't help but notice the furrow of Richie's brows.

There's a slight pauses before he lets out a tired sigh. "I hate the marks." He admits. And Eddie already knew that. Still, he moves closer and rests his head on Richie's shoulder. For once Eddie can't find any word, nothing to explain how things will turn out. He honestly doesn't know. He doesn't know a lot of things. He knows, he cares about Richie though, "It's okay."

Trying to make things better, even when you can't relate. Means the world.

Slowly, Eddie invades Richie's space, rubbing his hands up his arms, Richie's breath catches in his throat every time Eddie passes over a scar. "I'm sorry." Eddie offers, and Richie laughs softly, "sorry? It's not your fault Eds—"

"I know. But I can still feel sorry." And it's true, there's this deep pitted feeling of dread, not pity, but sadness, that Eddie is powerless to take the pain away, to give Richie relief when all Eddie wants is for Richie to not feel this way. His heart dares to jump from his chest, and into the cradle of Richie's hands. But it's no longer scary.

"Don't feel sorry for me. I don't want that." Richie lays back, his voice is small, but sure of itself. When he finally gets his back onto the bed, he hits his head on the wall behind him in the process. He doesn't say anything about it, but Eddie stifles a laugh.

"I'm just unfortunate enough to have this body thats all." Richie tries to play it off as a joke; but it doesn't land.

"Stop hating on your body." Eddie pries, and Richie shakes his head, a self-effacing smile playing sad on his lips. "What is there to like?"