"Tozier!"
Richie doesn't lift his head, but continues walking across the field with his eyes cast downwards. His bag weighs heavily on his shoulders, the weight of the day weighs heavily on his mind, and all he wants to do is go home and listen to his records.
"It's rude to ignore people, Tozier," the voice is closer, more demanding. Richie lifts his head, annoyed with the interruption, and slides his headphones off of his ears.
"What is it, Hen?" Richie sighs. He glances at the familiar hazel eyes, bright and demanding like a sandstorm, but unfamiliar all at the same time.
"Henry," Henry Bowers spits, but it doesn't appeal as cutely as it does when Eddie corrects him.
"Mhm," Richie nods, then turns and keeps on walking.
His "don't give a fuck" attitude seems to piss something off within Henry, and even though he's shorter than Richie, he's got muscle where Richie just has bone. He throws a hand on Richie's shoulder and pulls the boy backwards, his fist tightening by his side.
"Little birdy told me that you've got yourself a boyfriend," Bowers growls.
"You should know I'm not gay, but whatever," Richie shrugs. "Which bird told you this?"
"I did, dumbass," a more familiar tone interjects, announcing the arrival of the other three terrorists that love to pick on anybody they deem weak enough.
"Ah, Belch, how kind of you to live up to your promise," Richie reaches up to slide Henry's hand off of his shoulder. Skin memories sends gentle molecules into flurries of carbonation. It's familiar, but neither will admit it. "Is this where you kill me? That is what you said, isn't it? I'm a dead man?"
"Look at that," Patrick sneers. "Didn't know queers could think about anything other than dick!"
"You're one to talk," Richie raises his eyebrows. Richie drags his eyes back to Henry and says "Does Patrick know about New Years Eve? The one in fifth grade?"
This seems to be the last straw, which he quickly finds out from a swift punch to the jaw. Richie stumbles backwards, gaining his composure, but quickly retaliating by throwing all of his might into his fist.
Richie's a good fighter, he always has been. Despite his bony structure, he has the deeply rooted unresolved issues that give him more muscle than all of Bowers' men combined. He's quick as well, and when you combine that with his long arm span, you get a boy who can certainly hold his ground in a fight.
And he does. He does well. Henry looks much more worse than Richie does when the other three finally step in, pinning Richie to the ground while simultaneously kicking his ribs in. If he were to go one on one, this would have been an easy fight. But it's not. And now here he is, bloodied, losing consciousness, and defeated.
"Stop it! Stop it! Get off of him! Get the fuck off of him!" Eddie Kaspbrak's voice is as clear as a church bell. Richie lifts his head up to identity the sounds, seeing the way that Eddie punches his tiny fists against Patrick's back, and the way that the rest of the losers are standing about a block away on their bikes. Eddie's is discarded nearby, telling a story all on its own. Eddie turned the corner, saw the fight unfolding on the school field, and dropped it the second he ran up.
"Fucking queer," Belch turns, shoving Eddie to the ground. "Come to protect your boyfriend?"
Eddie springs back to his feet like a resilient little bastard, trying to push Henry Bowers aside but merely angering the boys more.
"Leave him the fuck alone!" Eddie screams, then, without any warning at all, kicks his leg so high up that it somehow manages to hit Victor directly in the jaw.
"Ow, fucking faggot kicked me! He fucking kicked me!"
Richie watches as all the attention is turned to Eddie just then, the small boy's courage quickly diminishing as he becomes the primary target. Without even thinking about it, Richie's body kicks into overprotective mode. He has to do everything that he possibly can to make sure that Eddie is not touched.
"Hey, pissface," Richie sits up, pain flourishing throughout his body like forest fires. He shakily stands to his feet, pulls a fist back, and punches the closest person to him. His vision is blurring so he's not sure who it is, but he knows he's pissed them off. Richie spits directly in the attacker's face, and then smirks at Eddie Kaspbrak. "I'll see you around, Eds."
Eddie doesn't run, of course he doesn't. Upon realizing this, Richie takes it into his own hands and decides to be the one to take off.
He leads the four abusers off of school property, taking large strides and thanking the god above for gifting Richie with such long legs. Occasionally he will look over his shoulder and see them struggling to keep up, but persisting through.
Richie loses them somewhere in town, ducking into shops and hiding behind display shelves. Employees gasp at the sight of him, a boy beaten and spitting blood, but he doesn't have time to assess the damage. He just needs to shake them from his trail.
After walking around downtown Derry for half an hour with no sight of them, Richie finally gets the hint to go home. He doesn't want to, he knows it will be empty, but he has no other choice.
Richie keeps his head down the whole time, approaching his front lawn and not noticing the bike collapsed in the yard until he hears a squeak from the porch followed by clumsy footsteps. He looks up, watching the way that Eddie Kaspbrak clambers down the stairs to meet Richie on the sidewalk. Eddie stands on his tiptoes, pulling Richie's face down to inspect it, his wide eyes full of concern.
"Look at you! Look what those assholes did to you!" Eddie exclaims, dropping away and reaching into his fannypack.
"H-Hey Eds..." Richie mumbles, rubbing the back of his neck nervously. "Is there a reason you're stalking me?"
Eddie ignores the comment, instead he says "Are you serious? I needed to check up on you after they... they... they'll fucking pay for this, I swear!"
"What are you gonna do, challenge them to a game of Dungeons and Dragons?" Richie rolls his eyes. He steps around Eddie to start heading inside, but at last second, he lets his hand fall on the kid's shoulder to pull him along.
"You think that would work?" Eddie's naive nature gets the best of him.
"No, dipshit," Richie laughs.
Eddie jogs ahead, jumping up on the porch and swooping up the bag crumpled on the steps. He holds it in his arms, little legs shifting restlessly beneath him.
"I came by to drop off your bag but... you weren't home. I didn't know what happened to you, I got... I got scared you were," Eddie looks away in embarrassment. "Lying face down in a ditch somewhere."
"I'm still kickin', sorry to disappoint," Richie reaches him, taking the bookbag that he hadn't realized that he dropped and looks inside nervously. His Walkman seems fine, along with the countless amounts of tapes that he has hidden away in pockets and pouches.
Eddie stands on the front porch, watching as Richie unlocks the front door with bleeding fingers. Eddie had been wondering how Richie's knuckles got to be so wounded, but he guesses he knows now.
Richie slips inside, kicking his shoes off and throwing his coat over the couch. He stands, stretching the muscles in his arms that are bound to be sore tomorrow, when he glances back and notices the empty space where Eddie Kaspbrak should be standing.
Eddie startles when Richie pokes his head back out the front door, the tall boy leaning against the doorframe expectantly. "You comin' in or what, kid?"
Eddie seems to be woken back up, grabbing his second fannypack from the porch and quickly following Richie inside.
"You know, I am the exact same age as you, Richie," Eddie frowns, following Richie into the living room. "You can't call me 'kid' like I'm the little boy you babysit."
"Nah," Richie shakes his head. "You've got the body of a ten year old girl and the personality of a 70 year old grandpa."
"What, and you look like a normal fifteen year old? You're basically nine feet tall!"
"Five foot ten inches," Richie corrects him.
"Whatever," Eddie shakes his head, looking around the living room to inspect the decor. Richie lives in a completely normal home, which takes Eddie as surprising. Eddie was expecting broken family photos and run-down furniture, not the posh, upper class interior that they're walking through. One thing he does notice, however, is that there isn't a single photo of Richie in their family photos.
Richie walks through the kitchen and into the guest bathroom, flicking the light on and finally taking a look at the aftermath of fighting four people. It's not pretty, but then again, Richie doesn't think his face was very good to begin with. Behind cracked glasses, his left eye is nearly swollen shut, the other flourishing with blues and purples. (Richie bruises too easily, which might be the only reason that his parents don't throw him around anymore. Too much evidence.) His lip is cut in three different places, most likely from knocking into his own teeth. His nose isn't broken, thank god, but it is running fresh blood over the stuff that just can't seem to dry fast enough. There are various cuts up and down his cheeks, along with a gnarly gash running up his jaw that must be the proof of a particularly rough uppercut.
"Fucking Bowers," Richie sighs, "Damn asshole wears a ring the size of a moonrock. At least mine aren't so fucking monstrous."
Richie looks down at his hands, each finger holding a silver band except for the ring finger of his left hand. His eyes linger on the gold plastic ring slipped over his thumb, and he tries not to think about how Henry has a matching one. Henry doesn't wear it anymore, and Richie wonders if the boy had decided to keep it or not. After all, they won it at the arcade together when it had first opened up in Derry.
Eddie watches him wiggle each ring off, setting them in a cup by the toothbrushes, and then turn the faucet on. Richie stares at the water for a moment, his hands gripping the sides of sink while blood drips from his nose into the running water. He breathes heavily, the events catching up to him all at once. Too many punches. Too many boots. Too many kicks.
"Where's your first aid kit?" Eddie asks, leaning over to come into the mirror's frame. Richie looks at their reflection for a moment, the way that Eddie's chin just barely clears his shoulder.
"Uh," Richie pauses, looking down at the water now billowing with hot steam. "Not sure. Don't think we have one, to be honest."
Eddie watches the way that Richie dips his hands into the water, gently rubbing the blood off of each knuckle. The water must be scolding, the boy's hands turn pink almost the second they come into contact with the harsh flow. Eddie reaches out to touch the scalding hot faucet handle, flinching backwards but persisting through and turning the sink off to avoid Richie getting third degree burns. Then, without a word, Eddie puts his hands against Richie and guides the tall boy down to sit on the toilet lid. Richie opens his mouth to object, but Eddie merely closes Richie's jaw with his finger.
"You'll give yourself an infection if you don't clean yourself up properly," Eddie lectures the boy, unzipping his first fannypack and pulling out a travel size first aid kit. In Eddie's handwriting, Richie reads the words written on the side of it. 'for emergency use only!!!!! EMERGENCIES!!!'
"How much shit do you carry around, Eds?" Richie asks, his hands draping between his legs helplessly. He feels awkward, wanting to pull away from Eddie, but he shouldn't deny someone trying to help him.
"Only necessities," Eddie shakes his head, pressing a peroxide-coated cotton ball to the skin torn open on Richie's jaw. "That's why I carry two fannypacks."
"Shouldn't even be carrying one," Richie scoffs, his eyes lingering on the two belt-purses looped around Eddie's tiny waist.
Eddie smacks the side of Richie's head, and then, to apologize, he rubs his hand against the curly hair as softly as he can. Eddie moves about Richie's face with delicate ballerina fingertips, cleaning up each cut and applying a Hello Kitty bandaid to each wound. Richie doesn't comment on how feminine it is, only smiles at the fact Eddie has that particular brand in the first place. Maybe 'girly boy' isn't that far off from the truth.
"May I?" Eddie asks, his fingers latching on to the sides of Richie's glasses. Richie reaches up and pushes them back for him, holding his long messy hair back and out of his face by propping his spectacles on top of his head.
Eddie freezes, watching the way that Richie's eyes open up and show a whole new side to the boy that people don't usually see. Richie looks a lot different when his hair is pushed back, or when he's not hiding behind huge frames. He looks... older, but more vulnerable. Eddie stares at Richie's eyelashes, and then moves on to admire the brown sugar and cherry red pools that mix and swirl together in Richie's irises.
"I didn't know you have freckles," Eddie breathes out, his thumb grazing along the sharp cheekbone.
Richie looks away, recoiling from embarrassment. He wants to push Eddie back just so that the boy can't notice anymore flaws about him, but Richie doesn't have the heart to lift his arms. "Is that a bad thing? You do too."
"No, no! It's... um..." Eddie trails off, making Richie shy away even more. He can't even think of a lie? Geez, how fucked is his face? He didn't think it was so bad. Eddie rests his hands on the sides of Richie's face, forcing the bashful boy to look up in embarrassment. With a certainty that Eddie has never felt before, he says "You're pretty, Richie Tozier."
"Pretty?" Richie asks, subconsciously nuzzling into Eddie's hands, desperate for human contact. Eddie sees this, and instantly identifies the craving of affection is one that comes to attention deficient people that have been deprived and neglected all their life. Richie's eyes hold a kind of naked, pure, rawness that Eddie has never seen before. He doesn't think anybody has ever gotten to see Richie Tozier like this.
"Beautiful, even," Eddie says quietly as if he's tip toeing around all these vulnerable things that he's picked up on. He strokes the apple of Richie's cheek with his thumb, and then he says "Breathtakingly handsome."
If it were anybody else, Richie would shove them away and spit on their face, maybe get a good punch in, but because it's Eddie Kaspbrak... Richie just smiles and allows himself to accept the compliments. That doesn't happen often, only because not many people actually give Rich compliments to begin with, but those who do are usually shut out of Richie's thick walls.
As if the words hadn't left his mouth, Eddie returns to cleaning Richie up very silently. He's focused as he works, his eyes fixated on small portions of Richie's face instead of the whole thing. Sometimes, smaller details and brushstrokes are just as lovely to examine instead of the bigger picture.
"You'd make a good doctor," Richie speaks up. He lifts his hands, looking at the dried blood, but he hopes that Eddie cleans that up too so they have an excuse to touch. Not knowing where to put his hands, he boldly reaches out and let's them settle on Eddie's narrow waist.
Eddie takes a step back in alarm, glancing down at the way Richie holds onto him. Then, muscles relaxing a bit more comfortably, he steps forward once more and continues sliding a bandaid across Richie's forehead.
Richie takes this as permission to keep touching him, so he idly rubs his thumbs back and forth over Eddie's shirt, his tiny protruding hips poking into Richie's hands like little thorns. Eddie shifts around on his legs a bit, and feeling brave, Richie pulls him in closer. Eddie stands between Richie's long legs, trying to ignore the persistent hands on his hips.
"How'd you know where I live?" Richie asks, his eyes fluttering close as Eddie cleans a notch in his eyebrow.
"Bill told me," Eddie says, followed by "He said to look for the house with the rose bushes. You had a sleepover with Stan and Bill and you didn't invite me?"
"I didn't think you would want to come," Richie feels embarrassed, his fingers clenching the fabric of Eddie's shirt. "I'm sorry. Do you want to stay tonight?"
"Are you kidding? It's a school night, my mother would have a stroke," Eddie exhales, followed by "Richie, where are your parents?"
Richie opens his eyes, staring at Eddie with a void, vacant expression. The warm, fuzzy feelings diminish from his chest, and so he pushes Eddie back and stands up from the toilet.
"Does it matter?" Richie asks, looking at himself in the mirror and picking at the bandaids plastered on his skin.
Eddie feels guilt nip away at him, but he still smacks Richie's arm. "Stop it! Leave them be."
Richie glares at him, leaving the bathroom and climbing the stairs up to his bedroom. Eddie, of course, follows.
"You know, you could say thank you," Richie says over his shoulder.
"For?" Eddie responds.
"Getting my face caved in for you," Richie spits, pushing his door open and throwing his bag on the bed.
"Hey, I didn't ask you to fight them! Don't blame me for this, fucker," Eddie huffs, "I only asked you to walk me to class. You could have easily said no!"
"I wouldn't have to do that if you just-" Richie rubs his eyes in frustration, dropping his glasses down on his face. He turns to Eddie, his eyes conflicted and confused. He wants to push this boy away, to not let him in close, but then again, he's tired of being tough. He's tired of being strong. He doesn't want to be stoic Richie anymore, he wants to trust someone to not hurt him. Softly, his voice drifting like a feather in the wind, he says "If you just spoke up for yourself, Eds. I know you've got it in you, I've seen it... there's a fire inside that little body of yours, shouldn't you just let it burn?"
Eddie falls back, staring at Richie, crossing his arms over his chest. "I can't. I'm... I'm weak."
"Says who?" Richie scoffs, "Your mom? Fuck that. You threw yourself right into a fight of four people to defend me. That takes a lot of bravery, Eds. You don't need me to protect you, you are more than strong enough."
Eddie sits down on Richie's bed, crumpling over in defeat and shame. Richie sits next to him, unsure of what to do, when he remembers Bev. Beverly is great at comforting people, and when Richie is in a bad mood and doesn't want to speak, she always touches him to remind Richie that she is there.
Richie reaches over and lets his fingers delicately brush across Eddie's arm, as if he's scared of being burned. After coaxing himself to continue, Richie lets his fingers slip around Eddie's wrist while his thumb rubs the delicate skin.
"I didn't mean to yell," Richie apologizes.
"You didn't," Eddie says quickly. "You didn't do anything wrong."
Richie leans forward to get a look at Eddie, only to be met with an angry stare.
"Are you okay, Eds?" He asks.
"Yeah. I am. I really am. You know what? Fuck my mom," Eddie throws his head back, a burst of confidence igniting in his eyes.
"Already did that," Richie slips out, then smiles and gives Eddie an apologetic look. "Sorry. It's a habit."
Eddie shakes his head, continuing "No, seriously. Fuck my mom! Fuck her. I'm not her precious baby boy! I'm fifteen! Fuck her."
"Yeah," Richie nods, holding a fist up encouragingly. "Fuck her!"
"She can't keep sheltering me! I'm not fucking sick, and I don't... I don't need these bullshit pills!" Eddie shouts. "I'm perfectly capable of standing up for myself."
"Of course you are," Richie moves his hand down to Eddie's palm, going to hold the tiny boy's hand, but thinks better of it. Richie's hand retreats to just rubbing Eddie's back. "You're brave, and you're strong."
"And I'm staying over at Richie Tozier's house on a school night," Eddie adds to the list, and then his face falters. He looks over to Richie, his courageous attitude quickly being replaced by sheepishness. "If that's okay?"
"Y-Yeah!" Richie blurts out, fumbling around and nearly punching himself in the face while trying to adjust his glasses. "That's- That's more than okay. That's perfect. Do you need anything? Do we need to stop by your house and pick things up?"
"No, she'd never let me leave if I went home," Eddie says through clenched teeth. "Let's just stay here. Can you show me some of your favorite music?"
Richie smiles, not hesitating for a moment at all, simply standing up and turning on his boombox. Richie doesn't have a favorite tape, they're all so important and special to him, but he still pretends like he's looking for one in particular.
"Do you like The Cure?" Richie asks.
"The who?" Eddie asks.
"No, The Cure," Richie says, sliding a tape in and pressing play. "The Who is a good band too, though. I love Baba O'Reiley."
Eddie smiles, watching Richie babble on about the difference in tapes and records, feeling himself enamored with how passionate that Richie becomes. Eddie doesn't see Richie get excited about anything, any time he sees the taller boy sulking around school he always looks so sullen and forlorn. But now, he's pacing his room and talking with animated hands, letting himself giggle each time that he makes a reference that Eddie doesn't understand. It's a side of Richie that is hidden deep beneath the hard exterior, and it's a side that Eddie wouldn't mind seeing more of.
Richie points out guitar solos and will rewind the tape so Eddie can hear certain vocals again, but it's not like Eddie minds. Richie is rambling on and on as if he's been dying to let these words out since the day he was born. It's clear that Richie doesn't talk much, but Eddie is starting to think that nobody around is really willing to listen. The empty photo frames in the living room paired with a vacant house only proves that Richie's parents neglect the boy as if he doesn't even exist. So Eddie listens. He listens to every single word that leaves Richie's lips, and he replies, and he nods, and he says "Oh yeah?" to show Richie that he's not just listening, but paying attention as well.
Richie doesn't know the last time that Beverly listened to him talk without interjecting about some trauma of her own. She doesn't even ask about the simple things, like what Richie's favorite song is. Eddie does, and as the two clumsily stumble down to the kitchen in excited manners after hours of talking, Richie explains that it's either Soft Cell's Tainted Love or Heartbreaker by Zeppelin.
"But honestly? Anything by Queen. Freddie Mercury is... he's a god, you know? The man is a fucking legend. I'd kill to see him and Bowie live," Richie explains, pulling out pots and pans to start making dinner. Richie is actually quite good at cooking since he had to start doing it for himself at such a young age. Tonight, he has extra motivation to make something better than his usual mac 'n' cheese.
"Doesn't Freddie Mercury have AID's?" Eddie asks, looking over Richie's shoulder as the boy digs through the fridge.
"He better not," Richie shakes his head. "If he dies, I will kill myself."
"That's not funny, Richie," Eddie frowns.
"Just a joke, my love." Richie stands up, nearly bumping into Eddie as he sets his ingredients down on the counter. Before he does anything else, Richie leans over and turns on the kitchen stereo, changing it from the news station his dad enjoys to the rock station Richie has memorized by heart. "God, I love Joy Division. This one's called Love Will Tear Us Apart. Have you ever heard a song this raw?"
Eddie doesn't hear anything but vocals and instrumentals, but Richie still pauses and nods his head like he can feel the music in his brain. Eddie thinks that's so unique, Richie has a personality that he's never seen before. Music has always just been music to him, but for Richie, he hears so much more. Whether it's the soul, or the energy, or the passion, he hears it with a supersonic frequency sense of sound that is rare within the Derry genetic pool. Richie then resumes his movement, going over to wash his hands in a manner that Eddie wouldn't deem clean, but he won't make comments.
When Richie turns around, his chest bumps into Eddie's face, and Eddie nearly falls over from the collision. Richie laughs, patting him on top of the head to comfort the kid, and then says "Okay, little guy. You're going to get in my way all night if you keep standing around. So, what we're going to do is put you riiiight up here like a cute little doll."
Richie picks Eddie up by the waist, turning and sliding the boy onto the unused counter space. Eddie yelps, but then relaxes a little, his hands settling over Richie's chest as the boy sets him down. Before Richie can pull away, Eddie grips the front of his shirt and pulls him back in. His bruised knees bump against the sides of Richie's torso, and when he realizes that he's holding on, he quickly releases Richie in embarrassment.
Richie smiles, doesn't say anything, and goes about cooking while listening to the radio. Richie asks Eddie about the classes he's taking, just to hear Eddie's thoughts after rambling on about music for so long. Eddie talks easily, not uncomfortable or awkward, and it's almost as if the two have been friends for years. During cooking, Richie will grab a clean spoon and have Eddie taste the marinara sauce, asking if it's too salty or too sweet. It tastes better each time that he shoves the spoon into Eddie's mouth, but Richie doesn't accept that it's good enough and keeps adding a dash of this or a pinch of that.
"It's good, it's really good," Eddie tells him when the two finally sit down to eat. Richie's eyes avoid the liquor cabinet that his mother loves more than her own son. "I would never have taken you as a chef, Tozier."
"What can I say?" Richie shrugs jokingly, then says "This is my second favorite type of spaghetti."
"Second?" Eddie asks, "What's your first?"
"You, of course," Richie says, leaning back in satisfaction. "Eddie spaghetti."
Eddie rolls his eyes, but does not make a remark like he usually would.
When Richie finishes washing the dishes, he meets Eddie up in his room. Eddie is sitting at the desk, his fingers trailing over the polaroids of Richie and Beverly taped to the wall.
"She's beautiful," Eddie claims, glancing at Richie in the doorway. His fingers graze against a picture of Richie, two cigarettes shoves in his nostrils while he's crosseyed behind his glasses. Eddie traces the outline of Richie's jaw in the photo and says "She's... so beautiful."
"Y-Yeah," Richie stutters, trying to figure out what to do so that Eddie doesn't grow bored and want to go home. What did he do to keep Bill and Stan entertained?
"Do you love her?" Eddie asks.
The question catches Richie off guard, the boy nearly tripping over his own feet as he tries to get to his bed.
"What?" Richie asks. "Do I what?"
"Love her," Eddie repeats himself, pulling the photo of Richie off the wall and turning around in the swivel chair to face the boy in the photograph. "Ben and Bill are her best friends and they're both head over heels for her. Do you love her too? You're, like, her best best friend."
"No," Richie scoffs. "I mean, I love her, yeah, but only as my bitchy older sister. I don't... I'm not in love with her. There's a difference, I think."
"Oh, cool," Eddie nods. Then, he looks up from the picture in his hands and asks "Do you have a crush on anybody at school?"
"No," Richie responds. "They're all cunts."
"Not all of them," Eddie mumbles, kicking his feet out a little stubbornly.
"Oh, and Greta Bowie isn't a massive fucking cunt?" Richie scoffs, lying back down on his bed and tossing his lighter up in the air before catching it.
"H-How'd you find out about that?" Eddie asks, moving over to sit on the edge of Richie's bed.
"Bill mentioned it," Richie says, followed by "Don't tell him I ratted him out, though."
"I don't like Greta," Eddie says.
Richie sits up, looking at Eddie skeptically. Eddie looks confident, however, his eyes not daring anywhere else except for Richie's face.
"Is that so?" Richie asks, catching his lighter and digging around in his other pocket to find his cigarettes. Richie gets up, pushing open his window, and lights up his last cigarette. Fuck. Bev usually gets him a new pack.
"She's a bitch," Eddie says, moving up the bed to sit closer to the window Richie is hanging out of. "I only told my friends that I like her so that they wouldn't think... that I'm a fruit."
"Well, are you?" Richie asks, raising an eyebrow as he takes a long drag. His lungs crumple like burning paper, yet it ceases the nerves that have been coursing through him the second that Eddie asked where his parents are.
"What? No! Don't be fucking sick," Eddie protests. "Everyone says that I am, I just don't want them to believe the rumors."
"You know, if they're really your friends, they wouldn't give a shit about rumors," Richie says. "How much shit do you hear floating around about me? And do you believe any of it?"
"Well, no, but-"
"But what?" Richie asks, turning his whole body towards Eddie.
"But those aren't true. I know those aren't true," Eddie shakes his head. Richie looks at the kid's body language, reading the tight posture and clenched fists.
"...Eds, are you... gay?" Richie whispers. The thought never even seriously crossed his mind, but now that Eddie is alluding to it, Richie can't deny the fact that it... adds up.
"No! No I'm not! I'm not fucking gay, I'm not," Eddie shakes his head, aggressively denying all allegations.
Richie looks at the cigarette in his hand, his last one, and thinks fuck it. He holds it between his lips and reenters his room, coming over to sit beside Eddie and skipping over all boundaries that are set with new friends. He pulls the small kid into a one armed hug, squeezing Eddie into his side, careful to not let any cigarette ash flick into the boy's hair.
"You don't have to answer to that," Richie says. "And... and if you are, it's okay, you know? Like... it's okay. Your friends will still like you."
"And you?" Eddie asks anxiously, his voice shaking.
"Well, you're still sitting here, aren't you?" Richie asks.
Eddie looks up at him, and from this angle, Richie can count every perfect freckle dusting across his skin. "Are you...?"
Eddie trails off, but it isn't hard to figure out what he's implying. Richie shakes his head, taking the cigarette from his mouth and saying "No, I'm not. Too many ladies to please for me to play for the other team, it would be a damn shame. Who else is supposed to keep your mom well satisfied?"
Eddie laughs, one that sounds fake, and Richie watches the way that the boy curls in on himself uncomfortably. "I'm not gay."
"Okay," Richie nods, "I believe you."
"I don't want to give them the satisfaction of being right," Eddie shakes his head, then says "But I'm not gay, so it doesn't matter."
"Okay," Richie says again. "Do you wanna play a board game?"
Eddie shifts around uncomfortably, but then gives in and says "Yeah. Not Twister."
"Nah, that game's reserved for your sister only," Richie chuckles, standing up and opening his closet door. He doesn't play with them often, only because he doesn't have anybody to play them with. After careful consideration of all the board games, Richie looks back and asks "Do you know how to play chess?"
"Oh, I'll beat your fucking ass, Tozier," Eddie's bright smile is back in an instant.
The two play chess until Eddie can barely keep his head up. It's no surprise that he goes to sleep earlier than Richie, but it is a surprise that he's tapping out at nine o'clock sharp. Richie heads down to retrieve the blankets from the dryer that Stan used, and when he brings them back up to his room, he's met with a sight so adorable that his heart could burst.
Eddie, passed out on his bed, clutching onto the pillow in place of a person, sleeping soundly. Richie covers him up, propping a pillow beneath his head and brushing his hair back, before sitting down in his desk chair.
Something's missing.
He can feel it the second he sits down, and as he scans the messy papers tossed carelessly all over, he realizes what it is. A photo. A photo of him is missing from the wall of memories he's created, and his mind traces back to Eddie holding onto it tightly. Wherever he put it, it's somewhere that Richie can't immediately see.
"Help," Richie hears, a needle bursting through the silence of the air. He turns, seeing Eddie twisting around in the bed, and sighs when he realizes there's no immediate danger.
Eddie shifts about some more, his face contorted in pain, and Richie can recognize the hurt and can't help but compare it to the crushed roses that he comes home to from constantly crawling down the trellis they grow on. Beauty; smashed, oppressed, hurt.
Richie stands up, digging through his backpack to find the Walkman that he hasn't touched since school this morning. The day seems fuzzy and far away, even the fight doesn't seem real, but Richie guesses that Eddie just has that effect. Time slows for him. The natural laws of reality don't apply to Eddie Kaspbrak.
When he finds it, he slides the headphones on the boy, pressing play on the tape and lowering the volume to a soft level. Eddie's chest expands and collapses quickly, and as Richie strokes the boy's soft hair, it slowly steadies out. Richie sits there, the bed dipping beneath his weight, and watches as Eddie's pain slowly eases up. The crumpled roses beneath his window no longer compare, because Eddie relaxes, his petals unfold and bloom into their natural beautiful state.
When Richie is certain that the boy is comfortably asleep, he turns the light off and lays flat on the ground. He doesn't want to intrude on the germaphobe's space, nor does he want to come off strongly and scare the poor kid. Richie lies there in the darkness, counting mistakes in his head, his hands aching from the pressure they were subjected to today. Richie knows he shouldn't fight, but fucking Bowers and his god damn new friends.
Just as Richie starts to uncover suppressed memories, a clumsy arm falls over the side of the bed and the soft knuckles hit Richie right in the chest. He looks down, smiling at the reminder of who is here with him, and slowly places the arm back onto the mattress. When the arm falls down a second time, tiny fingers grip Richie's shirt stubbornly, and so Richie leaves it.
As he's falling in and out of a deep sleep, he quickly realizes that he's subconsciously holding onto Eddie's hand. He didn't mean to, and yet... he doesn't want to let go.
So he doesn't.
Not even when Eddie is nudging him awake in the middle of the night, holding the headphones up to Richie's ear and asking "What song is this?"
Not even when he leans up, listens, and then sleepily responds with "More Than A Feeling by Boston."
Not even when his back cramps up and he has to roll over to stop the hardwood floor from dooming his muscles.
Not even when Eddie rolls over in his sleep, pulling his arm up with him, and taking Richie's hand with him in turn.
The two don't let go of each other, not for a single second, not until the sun comes up like a fairy returning to a swampland. The glimmering pixies kiss the edges of Eddie's skin, and watching the boy slowly wake up and come to life, the forest nymph dust covering his features, it suddenly all makes sense to Richie how someone can be so beautiful. An epiphany washes over him. Fairies kiss him every morning, and maybe, just maybe, Richie wants to be one of those fairies.