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Eddie doesn’t leave Derry immediately. One by one they trickle out of town, Beverly and Ben hand in hand, unable to stop smiling at each other. Bill, with his shoulders slumped, the weight of those he couldn’t save still clearly dragging him down. Mike, back to his crowded attic to do God-knows-what among the relics. Prepare for the next threat, maybe. Richie… Richie’s been talking about leaving since he got here. Maybe he’s already gone.
Not Eddie. The first thing he does when they get back from the quarry is call Myra. She cries. And then she screams. No one else will love you, Eddie, not the way I do. No one else will take care of you. Don’t you understand that?
He listens to the shouts that devolve into sobs, an emptiness growing in his chest where Pennywise had stabbed him, and finally he carefully, so carefully, hangs up the phone. Taking off his wedding ring, he places it on the maplewood bureau in the corner before removing his shoes. There’s a hole in one of his socks, he notes absently as he pads to the bed and lies down on top of the covers. He brings his knees to his chest, wraps his arms around them, and stares out the window.
He wonders, absently, if Richie left. Surely he wouldn’t leave without saying goodbye. He hasn’t been far from him since it happened, since he’d bodily dragged Eddie from the caves, through the water as Eddie coughed blood, one arm around Richie’s neck and Richie’s wrapped firmly around his waist.
He wasn’t dying in the caves, Eddie had known. The look in Richie’s eyes had told him that much. He hadn’t tried to fight when Richie hauled him upright and staggered after the others.
Richie had stayed close all the way to the quarry, Eddie half in his lap, crammed in the back of Richie’s ridiculous car while Beverly drove, her white-knuckled hands steady on the wheel. Eddie couldn’t stop prodding at the knot of gnarled scar tissue above his breastbone, until Richie took his hand and moved it away. He held it the rest of the way to the quarry, and Eddie had been afraid to breathe in case it reminded him.
In the water, Beverly had fussed about the cut on Eddie’s face, telling him not to get it wet.
“Bev,” Richie had said in that dry, deadpan way of his, “he just jumped off a cliff. I think that ship has sailed.”
The others had laughed, and Beverly had splashed Richie, and Eddie had watched as Richie laughed too, pretending to cower. He’d even smiled, almost, when Richie turned to share the joke with him, his dark hair plastered to his face.
“What happened?” Eddie asks after a few minutes of Richie clinging to him, as if afraid he’ll vanish if he looses his grip.
Richie rubs his cheek against Eddie’s shoulder and it’s Ben who answers, eyes dark and serious.
“Richie… wouldn’t let you die,” he says. “Made us—made us agree you were fine.”
“And I just was?” Eddie demands. He dislodges Richie enough to unbutton his shirt. The scar throbs faintly, a dim tingling that seems to go straight to the core of him.
“Things work different down there,” Beverley says softly, and kisses Eddie’s bare knee where it’s poking out of the water, drawn to his chest. “We believed. We believed, and you didn’t leave us.”
Richie’s grip tightens but he says nothing.
Someone knocks on his door but Eddie tightens his grip on his knees and doesn’t look away from the window.
“Ed,” Richie says. “Eds, open up. Come on, I know you’re in there.”
Eddie says nothing, and a moment later, the doorknob turns.
“The security in this place is for shit,” Richie remarks. He closes the door behind him and tiptoes across the room to crouch beside Eddie on the bed. “Hey,” he says quietly.
Eddie closes his eyes.
“Don’t do that,” Richie admonishes. He plucks at Eddie’s wrist, at the watch Myra bought him. “Eds, man. Don’t shut me out. You gotta talk to me.”
“Go away,” Eddie croaks. His voice feels rusty, like he hasn’t used it in a month.
“Why, so you can sit here and wallow?” Richie shoots back. “I don’t think so. Incoming.”
Then he’s up, scrambling over Eddie’s body, a knee digging painfully into Eddie’s hip, the same sharp, bony knee pushing between Eddie’s as Richie snugs himself up tight to his back and drapes an arm over his waist. There’s a pause, a breathless, suspended moment when they can’t get their limbs to fit, and Richie swears under his breath as he pushes and tugs, but then it’s like they slot into place. Richie blows out a satisfied puff of air and goes heavy and limp, half on top of Eddie. His breath is hot on the back of Eddie’s neck, but Eddie can’t muster the energy to complain.
Instead he looks out the window again. The oak tree’s growing too close to the house—its branches are rubbing against the window. The owner will have to prune it soon.
“I told Myra,” he says abruptly.
Richie’s arm tightens but he doesn’t say anything at first. “Told her what?” he finally asks.
“You know what,” Eddie snaps. “Don’t be cute.”
“But I am cute,” Richie protests, sounding wounded. His thumb sweeps across Eddie’s abdomen, inches from the scar, and his voice is serious when he speaks again. “She didn’t take it well?”
Eddie wrenches away at that, dragging himself out from under Richie’s smothering embrace to stand on wobbling feet. Richie blinks up at him, owlish behind his thick glasses.
“How the fuck do you think she took it?” Eddie snarls. “No, you moron, of course she didn’t take it well. I left her. I left her. She’s relied on me, ever since we’ve been together, and I just—” He swallows hard, rubbing a shaking hand across his mouth as Richie rolls to his feet.
His eyes are serious now. “Myra’s a grown woman,” he says quietly. “And just because your marriage is over doesn’t mean you can’t help her get back on her feet.”
Eddie shakes his head, turning away, and Richie puts a hand on his shoulder.
“Come with me,” he says.
Somehow, Eddie finds himself following Richie’s lanky form down the stairs, out of the inn to his car. He slides into the passenger’s seat, watching as Richie folds himself down to fit behind the wheel. His knees bump the steering wheel panel, and strange tenderness rises in Eddie’s throat. Richie doesn’t fit right, any more than Eddie does, but somehow he doesn’t let it define him. Instead he just keeps going, jagged edges and sharp elbows, middle fingers extended to the world.
They drive for awhile and Eddie divides his time between watching the scenery go by and Richie’s face as he thumps his fingers on the steering wheel and hums along to a very irritating song that seems to be mostly a few phrases repeated over and over. He’s surprised when Richie slams on the brakes and jerks the wheel hard. He parks the car with one tire hanging off the pavement and raises an eyebrow at Eddie, who looks around.
“The Kissing Bridge?” Eddie says, blinking. “What are we doing here?”
Richie just motions with his chin and climbs out. Eddie sighs and follows him. Richie takes him to the railing, carved with lovers’ initials from a century or more of teenagers swearing their undying loyalty to each other.
Eddie stops a few feet away. “Rich,” he says, losing patience. “My face hurts and I fought an evil clown and also possibly died today. I’m tired. Why are we here?”
Richie points, wordless, and Eddie follows the direction of his finger.
The air leaves his lungs when he sees it, the red dust of the road swirling around his feet.
R + E
Eddie glances at Richie, who’s pulled out his pocketknife and is frowning. He takes a quick step forward and crouches, flicking the blade open and scraping at the long line of the E.
“Richie—” Eddie says, or thinks he says. He still can’t remember how to breathe. “Did you—”
Richie ignores him, cleaning up the E and then turning his attention to the R. He scrapes away the accumulated dirt and grime of the last twenty-seven years, digging in until the wood beneath is laid bare. Eddie thinks vaguely his heart is being bared in much the same way. There’s a curl on Richie’s neck, clinging to his skin damp with sweat or maybe the quarry, and Eddie wants, suddenly to brush it aside, to press his mouth to the same spot, to know what kind of noise Richie would make.
“Rich,” he says, but his voice dies, and Richie rocks to his feet, clearly worried. Eddie swallows, tries again. “Richie, did you—”
Richie takes a step nearer, his eyes intent behind the thick lenses. “Yeah, Eds. Of course I did.”
“When—” But Eddie knows the answer before Richie speaks.
“We were thirteen,” Richie says, and his voice has lost its customary layer of teasing. “It took me awhile… to figure out. And longer to accept it. But it’s always been you and me, Eddie. Always. ”
It’s the dust getting caught in his throat that’s making it hard to swallow, Eddie tells himself. But Richie takes another step, a mixture of hope and pleading in his eyes, and Eddie’s heart does a weird tumble-flop in his chest.
“I—I don’t—” He remembers his mother, voice thick with hatred and disgust as she watches the emaciated men on the evening news.
Another step. Richie’s almost toe-to-toe with him.
“If I say something, will you run away?” Richie asks.
Eddie bristles automatically. “When have I ever—” Richie’s look stops him and he deflates. “Yeah, okay, fine. Whatever.” He squares his shoulders. “Just—say it.”
“I love you,” Richie says, his voice softer than Eddie’s ever heard it, and Eddie only thought it was hard to breathe before.
He stumbles back a pace, folding to put hands on his knees. The scar tissue on his chest pulls, and his cheek throbs painfully.
“You can’t,” he chokes.
Richie doesn’t answer, but his look speaks volumes. He moves nearer again, one hand coming up tentatively to touch Eddie’s shoulder, and Eddie can’t help the way he instinctively leans into it.
“Can and do,” Richie says, clearly trying for lighthearted. “Against my better judgment, obviously, but try telling my heart that.”
Eddie thinks faintly he’d be less frightened if Pennywise materialized right behind Richie, maniacal scarlet grin and jagged yellow teeth. Richie can’t love him. He can’t.
Richie pounds him between the shoulder blades. “Breathe, you fucking moron,” he says, sounding alarmed. “Of course you’re having a panic attack during my confession of love. Goddammit, Eds, breathe.”
“Don’t—” Eddie sucks in air, ignoring the faint wheeze of his lungs. “Don’t fucking call me that, you dense motherfucker.” He straightens, looking anywhere than Richie’s face. “I’m—I can’t—”
Richie moves quickly, catching Eddie’s cheeks in both hands and forcing him to look into his face. “You can,” he says, and he sounds so serious, so uncharacteristically not- Richie that Eddie can’t do anything but stare at him helplessly. “You do,” Richie says, but he’s starting to sound a little unsure of himself, eyes sliding to the side.
A car rolls past, kicking up more red dust and making Eddie sneeze. Richie lets him go, taking a step away as if to give him privacy. His shoulders are rounded, hunched around his ears, and his hands are shoved into his jacket pockets.
“I’ll take you back,” he says to the dirt, and Eddie’s heart cracks down the middle. Everything falls away. His fear, his anxiety, the memory of Myra’s voice—it all fades to a faint buzz in the back of his mind and he’s moving before he realizes it, grabbing Richie’s wrist and dragging him off the road into the underbrush.
Richie makes a startled noise but goes willingly. He’d follow Eddie into hell—has followed Eddie into hell. Eddie doesn’t deserve him, but he’s not stupid enough to let him go a second time.
He keeps going, pushing branches aside and trampling ferns under his feet, heedless of anything but Richie’s wrist in his circling fingers, the bones oddly delicate and his grip unresisting.
Eddie doesn’t stop until the road is out of sight. They’re in a clearing, he sees when he lets go of Richie’s arm, trees arching high above them and their branches lacing together in a knotty tangle that blocks out the sun.
“What are we doing, Eddie?” Richie asks carefully.
Eddie swallows hard. “All this time.” His voice sounds about how he feels—fragile like handspun glass, close to shattering. “You—all these years?”
Richie shrugs a shoulder, eyes almost invisible behind his ridiculous glasses. “Since always,” he says quietly, and truth rings in his voice.
“You could have died because of me,” Eddie blurts.
Richie rolls his eyes. “First of all, I didn’t. Obviously. Second, you stepped up when it counted.” His voice gentled. “You saved me, Eds. From the Deadlights. From It. From—” His voice cracks and he clears his throat. “From life.”
“Your glamorous life as a standup comedian playing to sold out crowds,” Eddie sneers, but Richie’s eyes are serious.
“My life without you in it,” he says steadily, and there’s nothing left for Eddie to do but kiss him.
Richie makes a noise against his mouth but kisses him back hard, arms snaking around his waist and pulling him close. His breath is a little sour, but Eddie doesn’t care. He curves his hand around Richie’s neck and opens his mouth, licking inside as Richie groans, shaking in his arms.
“Eds,” he manages when he tears his head away. He licks his lips and Eddie watches the movement of his tongue. “Are you—”
“Am I what,” Eddie growls. He can’t look away from Richie’s mouth.
But Richie shakes his head and frees himself, taking a quick step away. “I can’t,” he says, almost to himself. He lifts his head, misery in his eyes. “I won’t be your rebound, Eddie, or your gay experiment. I won’t.”
Eddie stares at him, dumbfounded. “You think—Jesus Christ, Richie, I knew you were a dumb fuck but how the shit did you get there?”
Richie’s mouth works and he doesn’t answer, uncharacteristically at a loss for words.
Eddie takes his arm, sliding his fingers down Richie’s forearm and watching him shiver. “I didn’t think this needed to be said, but you’re not a rebound, you idiot. Or an experiment. I’ve wanted you too. Remember the hammock?”
Richie’s eyes warm. “I remember you sticking your feet in my face. And shoving your way in every time even though it was my turn.”
Eddie pulled him closer. “Yeah, moron. Because I couldn’t figure out how else to get close to you.” They’re pressed up against each other, Richie’s dark curls falling messily into his eyes as he blinks down at Eddie. He doesn’t seem sure where to put his hands, so Eddie solves his dilemma by grabbing them and pulling him to his waist. “Is there a middle-school boy in the world capable of expressing his feelings properly?”
Richie almost laughs. “Probably not.” He gazes down at him, eyes somber. “I—do you think you can say it, Eds?”
Eddie rolls his eyes. “Not if you keep calling me that, asshole.” But he belies the words by pulling Richie down into another kiss. “I love you,” he whispers against his mouth.
Richie groans and the kiss turns heated, fast. Eddie plasters himself up against Richie’s front, hands roaming. He slips one under Richie’s shirt, spreads his fingers along satin-soft skin just to feel Richie shiver, and cups his groin with his other hand, thumb stroking deft and sure over the head of his cock.
“Jesus,” Richie chokes, and he lets go of Eddie just long enough to fumble with his belt and shove his pants down. Eddie follows suit and then they’re back in each other’s arms, Eddie doing his best to memorize Richie’s mouth by taste and feel alone, even as the brush of Richie’s cock against his abdomen makes him shake with need.
“I want—” he gasps.
“Yeah,” Richie mumbles, slipping a hand between them. The relief when he closes it on Eddie’s shaft is enough to make tears spring to his eyes. He clings to Richie’s shoulders, mouthing at the column of his throat, even as his knees threaten to give out.
A bird calls above them, wind rustling the branches, and Eddie can’t stop the force of the orgasm as it rushes over him, setting him alight from his scalp to the soles of his feet. He cries out and Richie’s arm tightens around his waist, holding him up.
It takes him a few minutes to settle back into his bones. Richie murmurs nonsense in his ear, words Eddie can’t pick out, but their meaning is clear, the affection in his voice washing over Eddie’s skin like warm, soothing water.
Eddie stretches and sighs, leaning back enough to look up into Richie’s face. Richie’s eyes crinkle and he bumps their foreheads together.
“I’d ask you if it was good, but it’s pretty obvious I haven’t lost my touch,” he says smugly, and Eddie has to punch him in the ribs for that.
Richie yelps. “No punching the guy with a hard-on! Dirty pool!”
Eddie laughs for the first time in what feels like weeks, letting it cleanse him from the inside out. Richie grins, but there’s hunger in his eyes, so Eddie holds a hand up to his mouth.
Richie gets the idea quickly and licks a broad stripe across it. Eddie leans in to kiss him as he drops his hand and clasps him.
He likes this, he decides. The way Richie swears, thick and garbled, as his forehead falls to Eddie’s shoulder and his hips rock into Eddie’s hand. It’s not too different from doing it to himself, the angle awkward at first but then he shifts and Richie jerks, fingers tightening to the point of pain on Eddie’s hips as he swears again.
“Eds,” he gasps. “Eds, please—”
Eddie presses their cheeks together, keeping his rhythm steady, as the rest of the world falls away. Nothing exists except the man in his arms, the man who’s loved him for as long as either of them can remember. The man Eddie loves. Nothing else matters. They faced the monster and won. And Eddie has Richie right there, shaking apart with a muffled sob, knees buckling.
He takes them both down, sprawling on the forest floor. Richie’s chest is heaving, mouth hanging open. There’s a branch poking Eddie in the small of his back and a patch of what looks suspiciously like poison ivy close to his head, but he can’t help the laugh.
“Your O-face is ridiculous,” he says.
“Fuck you,” Richie groans. “Like yours is any better. I think you killed me.”
Eddie pats Richie’s bare hip with a wavering hand. “You survived a murderous clown, something tells me you’ll survive a sloppy handjob.”
Richie pulls his pants up, tongue caught between his teeth, and then rolls until he’s half on top of Eddie, gazing down at him.
“You’re paying for the drycleaning,” he finally says.
Eddie sputters. “Whose idea was it to come out here? You owe me an entire new outfit, asshole!”
Richie rolls his eyes and stands, holding a hand down to help Eddie up. “A little jizz improves that outfit, you ask me. You going for Barbeque Dad of the Year or something?”
They continue to bicker as they make their way back to the car, and Eddie realizes halfway there that he can’t stop smiling. He still has to face Myra, still has to break his life down to spare parts and rebuild it when he leaves Derry, but somehow he’s not scared anymore. He’s got Richie, after all.