Chapter Text
“You don’t understand, dude!”
There’s a long-suffering sigh on the other end of the line, and after a long beat a slightly irritated “what the fuck do I not understand?”
“He could be a maniac! He could be dirty and smell like Doritos and ignore the Cleaning Agreement!” The sentences stumble out of his mouth like they’re just one gigantic word. “Do you not get the gravity of the situation, Stan? Why’d you have to leave me?” Stan can’t see him but he knows he’s pouting.
“Look, Eddie, I am very sorry.” A hysterical voice tries to interrupt him but he continues talking, “I really am. But you’re crazy if you think I’m gonna pass on a single just because your new roommate might ‘ignore the cleaning agreement’,” and he says that last part as if it’s the dumbest thing he’s ever had the misfortune of hearing in his whole entire life. “If you need anything you can come over,” he adds, a bit softer, “it’s really not that far. But now I really have to go. See ya.”
Eddie sighs, cross legged on his bed. He’s been staring at the door for at least an hour, and there’s no sight of his asshole new roommate. Whoever he is, Eddie hates him already.
He wants to hate Stan, too, for all the anxiety he’s had to put himself through, but he can’t help but admire the boy’s talent to get anything he wants. Whenever he asks him how the fuck he managed to snag a single, he just shrugs and gives him a mysterious “I know a guy.”
Eddie starts to wonder, admittedly not for the first time, if Stan is actually in his 30s and part of the Secret Service when the door slams itself open. He startles out of his thoughts, but there’s really nobody there.
“Pshhhhttttt, we interrupt your regular scheduled programming” a long leg takes a step forward, but the rest of this idiot’s body is still hidden behind the doorframe, “to bring you new-roommate-extraordinaire Richard Tozier” the guy comes into view and cheers to himself, waving his hands up like some crazy person, and oh. Oh……
It’s That guy.
He’s even fucking taller up close, a skinny disaster with messy black hair and a thin silver nose ring. Eddie would probably feel like more of an idiot for staring if only this Richard guy wasn’t staring right back looking just as dumb, mouth hanging slightly open.
“Well, well, well,” he says, in a stupid drawl, “looks like I must be in the wrong place. Nobody told me this was angel school,” he grins while he plops down dramatically on the bed opposite to Eddie. “You can call me Richie, angelface,” and Eddie would have punched that wink right out of his face if he wasn’t blushing so damn hard.
“Don’t fucking call me that!” he huffs, already exasperated, “I have a name, you know that right?”
Richie just stares back at him with an oddly fond look on his face, and he snaps “Why the fuck are you looking at me like that???”
“Sorry, you’re just so damn cute.” Eddie’s face scrunches up. “What can I call you?”
“Eddie is fine,” he softens a bit, offering a small smile.
“Okay, Eds!” And he wants to kill him all over again.
*
Turns out even though Richie is A Lot, he’s really easy to get along with. Eddie has no idea how it happened, but they fall on an easy routine of continuous banter and mutual teasing. And even though Richie is chaos incarnate, and actually does smell like Doritos powder sometimes, he agrees to help Eddie clean twice a week. Honestly, he might get in the way more than he actually helps, but Eddie appreciates the company either way.
He also has amazing friends that thankfully take up to Eddie like he’s always been there. That first week, a head of red hair popped up on their door mid bickering session with a “hello, Eddie. Is this idiot behaving himself?”, followed not much later by a ridiculously kind guy who’s apparently on their football team.
They come to hang out often and Eddie makes a mental note to introduce them to Stan, Bill and Ben, the only people he talks to regularly at school, but still some of the best friends he’s ever had.
Right now, though, they’re on their own on a lazy Saturday afternoon. Eddie is making him finally unpack all his stuff (“Richie, it’s been 5 weeks!”), and helping him hang his clothes neatly in their shared wardrobe.
Richie has a really odd sense of style, his clothes half goth, half dad on vacation. He’s currently showing Eddie his collection of long socks with wacky prints, under the premise of being a “fashion icon”.
“Rich, you own like 15 Hawaiian shirts. Are you seriously implying you’re anything more than a future What Not to Wear nominee?”
“First of all, how dare you,” Richie puts a hand over his heart, “Second of all, What Not to Wear was cancelled like a century ago. Sorry to burst your bubble, Spagheds.” And he has the nerve to pinch Eddie’s cheek while he makes his way to the wardrobe.
Eddie opens his mouth to protest, but Richie has spotted something, and he’s sporting that annoying face that says he won’t shut the fuck up about whatever it is for weeks.
“Oh,” he breathes, “whoa ho hoooo,” and he’s grabbing something from inside their wardrobe, “here they are,” says Richie through a grin, “the infamous Red Shorts!”
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” Eddie splutters.
“You can’t possibly think I’ve never seen you around, can you, honeybun?” his eyebrows wiggling as though they have a life of their own.
And Eddie really fucking hates it when he does that.
Fine. He knows Richie’s a flirt, so why can’t his stomach get the message and stop fucking dropping whenever he says that stuff? He’s seen the boy say similar things to all of his friends, and they all laugh it off and roll their eyes and push him playfully.
Sometimes, though, when he lets himself think too much about it, Eddie kinda feels like it’s different with him, somehow. His eyes softer, his touch lingering. And that’s terrible, it’s no fucking bueno, because he knows Richie and he knows he’s straight.
He’s seen the way he dances with girls at parties, and he still hasn’t forgiven him for all the times he’s made him wait in Stans bedroom while he fucks whatever rando he’s found that night.
“I have no idea why they keep going home with him!” He gestures drunkenly to an unimpressed Stan. “Like yeah, okay, he might be handsome, or whatever. If you think 6’4 of lanky idiot is attractive, I guess. But come on! He’s so fucking awkward, Stan! The guy manages to trip over his own damn feet and knock off everything in a 2 mile radius wherever he goes!”
Stan blinks at him slowly, and Eddie takes it as an invitation to keep talking. “Not to mention how goddamn annoying he can be. And his cheesy lines! Ugh, terrible. I can’t believe anyone would fall for it,” he rambles, words spilling easily out of his mouth.
“Eddie,” Stan starts carefully, like he’s been thinking it over and trying to decide if it’s actually worth saying, “are you jealous?” And he’s already holding his breath, because he knows Eddie way too well.
“What?!” The words come out way higher than necessary, and Stan absentmindedly puts his fingers on his temple, “No!! He’s just inconvenient! I want to fucking sleep! That room is mine, too, remember?” Eddie stares at him incredulously, “Because you fucking left me!!!” He adds.
“Okay, god, I’m sorry,” but Eddie knows he’s not sorry at all.
*
Life truly sucks sometimes. Really, it all feels like one big joke on Eddie’s expense. Because when his stupid gay brain finally, FINALLY, begins to accept that Richie’s only just kidding when he flirts with him like that, that his pointed looks and bashful smiles are just a part of one big elaborate gag, he sees it.
He was hanging out with Bev on a dingy dorm party, not even minding all that much how sticky the floor feels and how loud they’re blasting the music with the pleasant buzz his mind is in. When Bev excuses herself to smoke a cigarette outside and says she’ll text Eddie when she gets back in, he doesn’t particularly care that he’s alone. He might even make some rounds and look for a cute guy to make out with.
A small crowd catches his attention while he’s on his way to grab another drink, and he worms his way inside it. Being a lil bit short can have its perks, he reasons, even though he’ll fight whoever dares to imply he’s anything but average sized.
“Shit,” the words come out of his mouth on their own volition, but he honestly can’t blame them.
Inside the circle of loud college students stands Richie, violently making out with some guy. The crowd cheers and wolf-whistles, a chant of “RICH, RICH, RICH,” almost unintelligible, and Richie flips them off without opening his eyes.
Eddie immediately turns around with full intention of just bolting to find Bev, needing the comfort of good old familiarity, but life, as usual, refuses to let him get what he wants. He stumbles head first into Bill.
“H-Hey Eddie!” Bill shouts over the music and the roaring partygoers. “So, Ruh-Richie, huh?” He points vaguely with his thumb in the direction of the crowd, clearly way out of it himself.
“Oh, yeah. Just some stupid bet,” Eddie says quickly, trying to slip out of the conversation. But Bill, as fucking always, has other plans.
“Bet?” He frowns slightly. “Doesn’t s-seem like a bet t-to me,” and he’s eyeing Eddie curiously now, in a way that makes his face start to get hot, for some reason.
“Oh, you know this guy, Big Bill,” he tries for enthusiastic, “never chickens out on a bet. Thaaat’s Richie. Ha, ha. Listen, man, I gotta go now. See you around!” and he’s making his way outside without waiting for an answer.
*
He tries to forget about The Incident. He really does. But it creeps up on him constantly, in the most inconvenient moments, and he wants.
“You truly are incapable of staying still for a single fucking second, huh?” Eddie tries holding Richie’s hand steady, applying black nail polish evenly to Richie’s nails. Or as even as he can manage, with Richie constantly turning to look around the room, his legs jiggling rhythmically, the living image of restless.
“Eds, this is booooring,” he whines, “there’s nothing wrong with my cracked nail polish. It’s a whole ass look. You just know nothing about style.” Richie sticks his tongue out at him like a child.
Richie’s nails were a true mystery to Eddie. There was always some kind of cracked black nail polish on them, that I-have-been-wearing-this-for-weeks look. Thing is: Eddie’s been living with him for a few months now. And he’s never seen Richie reapply it. But he’s also never seen it completely fade away, either. It was a baffling paradox and Eddie couldn’t stop thinking about it.
So he makes Richie let him paint them, have them looking manicured for once in his life.
“They looked straight up filthy, Richie! What the fuck!” He adds a fresh coat to Richie’s middle finger.
“You should see the filthy things these fingers can do,” Richie grins at him, glint in his eyes. “Also, what if looking filthy is my thing, sweet cheeks?”
“Then you’re really achieving the look.” There’s a fucking idiot muffled under his breath. “When was the last time you brushed your hair, if ever?” He brings his hand to Richie’s curls to prove his point, smoothing over them, and his hand catches immediately. Richie holds in a small moan at the tug. “See?” Eddie starts, but Richie’s cheekbones are dusted pink and he’s avoiding his eyes.
Huh, guess I might’ve gone too far? Eddie shrugs, unaware. Whatever.
When Richie finally shuts the fuck up, Eddie lets his mind wander while he carefully paints the remaining nails. It goes to the only place his subconscious has known ever since The Incident.
Richie’s hands are beautiful, enormous but elegant. Fingers long and slim, greenish veins poking through his skin. “You should see the filthy things they can do,” and yes, he’d very much love to. The thought of his huge hands sliding through his neck, his waist, slipping under his shirt. One of them gripping him hard by his middle while the other slips down and down and down until it’s squeezing his ass, Richie’s hot breath on his neck.
He shuts his eyes hard to will the images out of his mind.
“Eddie?” A voice pipes in, curious, “you okay?”
“Y-yes. All good.” He takes a good look at his work, and decides it can’t get any better than that. “We’re all finished.”
“They look pretty,” Richie says, so soft it makes his heart ache. “Thank you, Eds.” He goes to grab at Eddie’s hands, grateful, and the moment ends.
“Oh my god! Your hands, spaghetti!” He looks in awe, “they’re tiny!”
Eddie stares at his hands, engulfed in Richie’s, and they’re so fucking big, and it’s so fucking hot, and he only manages a “shutthefuckup” before he makes an excuse and gets the hell out of there. If he jerks off in the shower thinking about what else those ridiculous hands could be doing, then nobody has to know.
*
“Okay, but that’s not all,” Eddie grabs Ben by the shoulders, both of them halfway to blackout drunk, and makes him look straight into his eyes, “I go in our room, right? And Rich is watching a movie. I climb on his bed with him, yeah? We always watch movies together and stuff, and he’s usually into some trashy B horror shit, but lo and fucking behold,” He looks at Ben dramatically.
“What? What happened?” Ben urges, giggling slightly. The boy loves a bit of scandalous gossip. There’s never much happening with the Architecture students.
“It’s Titanic. He’s watching Titanic. And I’m thinking, no way, this is so fucking gay. And I go ‘why the fuck are you watching Titanic’ and guess what he fucking says, Ben,” Eddie looks like he’s going to lose it at any second now, “He goes: ‘Young Leo’s fucking hot, man. You don’t even want to hear the things I’d like to do to him,’ and he fucking groans theatrically at that,” Eddie looks as though he’s about to cry of frustration, “and he cuddles me through the whole movie saying dumb Richie shit but I’m completely out of it, Ben!! How can I focus on anything after he says something like that!” He finally finishes.
Eddie had called Ben, his reliable straight friend, to get drunk and thoroughly analyze Richie’s every move for the past few weeks. Some kind of sexuality investigation team, if you will. Ben had told him already how dumb it all was, and to just ask Richie, but just the idea of talking to him about it makes the contents of Eddies stomach churn.
So Ben had indulged him, like the good friend he is, and there they are, sitting on a booth in their cheapest local bar.
“That’s strange, yeah,” Ben says, thoughtful, “But I mean, young Leo Dicaprio really is easy on the eyes. Not even the straightest of obnoxiously straight guys can deny that,” he adds, always one to think rationally.
“Ugh, Ben, I’m gonna die. I’ve been so horny for him these days, it physically hurts. It’s a constant state of blue balls and if I ever have to watch his shirt ride up while he stretches again I swear I’m-“
“Okay, Eddie, I think we should wrap it for today,” Ben cuts him off hurriedly. “You know you’re overthinking it, right? Just ask him already. Or maybe Bev, or something,” he looks at him sympathetically. “It’s all gonna be okay, Eddie. Promise.”
But Eddie doesn’t think he can take the suspense anymore.
*
And that leads him to now, sprawled on his bed, still half drunk, and absolutely exhausted. Jawbreaker (1999) is playing on his laptop, forgotten while he spaces out, big pack of skittles thrown at the foot of the bed and a few colorful candies spread around his blanket.
There are two loud knocks on the door, and without waiting for an answer (typical), in comes Richie, big goofy smile on his face.
“Hey, Eds!!!” He says, overly enthusiastic, a bit too loud. “This is Jacob!” He gestures his hands dramatically to the guy leaning on him, arm thrown around his neck.”
“Hey, man!” Says Jacob, who Eddie tries to discretely check out with a brief once over then guilty smile.
“Uh. Hello.” He’s looking at them, waiting for whatever the fuck they could possibly want from him at 2am.
“So….” Richie raises his brows.
Eddie stares at them.
“Can you give us a minute?” Richie tries, smiling sheepishly now. Huh. That’s new.
“Maybe a couple hours,” Jacob pipes in, and whatever bashful energy had gotten hold of Richie promptly leaves him while he cackles.
“He’s right, spaghetti man. I’m nothing if not thorough.” And he fucking. Winks at him.
Holy shit.
“Uh, sure…” Eddie mumbles, a bit pathetically, “er, sorry,” and he hasn’t felt this awkward in a long, long time.
When the door clicks shut behind him, he exhales deeply. What the fuck. What kind of weird alternative reality is this. Eddie always urged Richie to shut his annoying mouth about his damn multiverse theories, but turns out maybe he should’ve listened.
Oh my fucking god, Eddie thinks. How’d I end up in an alternative reality where listening to what Richie Tozier has to say is a good idea?
Well. It’s whatever, Eddie hyperventilates. Not a big deal. Breathe in, breathe out.
A muffled but unmistakable moan comes from behind the door.
Yup, that’s it. I’m done, Thinks Eddie while speedwalking to Stan’s room.
*
“Stan!” He barges into the room.
A messy head of curls peeks at him through the darkness. He can hear him saying something under his breath. It sounds vaguely like a prayer.
“Richie’s bi!” He all but wails at his friend.
Stan stares at him, expression serious and unimpressed, like he’s trying to figure out if this is some sort of sick joke. When he’s sure Eddie has nothing more to add, he says, “No shit, Eddie,” and buries his face back under his covers.