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The clock has just struck eleven when an unsettling feeling wraps around Eddie like a warm blanket, paralyzing him for a moment.
Eddie found himself no longer able to focus on his book (A yellowing, dog-eared copy of Frankenstein for Mrs. Albright’s AP English class that, according to the punch-card in the back, had been in rotation at the school library since 1948), eyes scanning over the words but not really processing them.
He went through a mental checklist in his mind of everything that could be wrong, but came up with nothing.
His homework was on the way to being done. His mother was seemingly fine since he could hear her snoring in the next room over. The front door was locked. The stove was turned off.
That just left the possibility that something may be wrong with one of the Losers. He had gone to see a movie with Bill, Mike, and Stan just a couple of hours before. Beverly and Ben were on a date to that new Chinese place. Richie couldn’t come to the movies because he said his parents were making him go to some boring dinner with Mr. Tozier’s boss.
He mentally shook himself. Nothing was wrong. He was just being anxious for no reason, overthinking like he always does. Eddie blinked hard and tried to zone back into the book, where the creature was describing stalking a blind man and his family, but the feeling wouldn’t go away.
Dread swirled around his stomach, curdling like he ate something rotten. The litany of somethings wrong somethings wrong somethings wrong kept bouncing around his skull, not quitting until he paid it attention, but there was no problem for him to solve, so how could he-
A loud thunk startled him so badly that he nearly dropped the book. It was coming from his window. Instantly, Eddie knew who it was.
He hopped out of bed, cool December air immediately chilling him when it hit his legs, since he was only wearing a t-shirt and boxers to bed. He threw the curtains open, a half-hearted scolding on the tip of his tongue, but the words died in his throat as soon as he got a look at the figure standing beneath the window.
It was indeed Richie; Eddie’s instincts hadn’t failed him there (how could they? This had been their routine for as long as Eddie could remember), but what he could never have anticipated is what Richie looked like.
A gasp was ripped out of Eddie’s throat, sharp and awful, and Richie flinched. Eddie pressed a hand over his own mouth, trying to muffle the horror that he thought may come spilling out of it like vomit.
Neither of them say anything for a long moment. Not until Eddie remembers what Richie is probably waiting for. He opens the window with trembling hands, and he thinks, somewhat deliriously, that they haven’t shook this bad since the leper chased him across Neibolt’s lawn, right into the clown’s line of sight.
Eddie reaches out for Richie’s hand to help him through the window. There’s blood smeared across his palm. Eddie almost gags.
Richie collapses onto Eddie’s bedroom floor when he finally makes it inside. Ordinarily, he would sit up and make some tasteless joke about Eddie’s mother and then crawl into bed and poke and prod Eddie until Eddie was slapping his hand away and telling him to go to sleep, even though they would both stay awake, lying inches from the other’s face, and whisper to each other for hours. That’s why Eddie’s complaints about Richie’s nighttime visits have never once been genuine; they give way to Eddie’s favourite moments with Richie, the ones that he holds onto when he allows himself to indulge in the fantasy that Richie might return the feelings that Eddie has tried so hard to bury.
Tonight, however, he doesn’t do any of that. He doesn’t move. Richie is so, worryingly still, so un-Richie-like, that Eddie nearly worries that he’s dead, until Richie lifts his head to look at him.
“Eds.” He breathes, voice breaking as tears spill down his pale cheeks.
“Richie.” Eddie kneels at his side, hands hovering, unsure of where to touch or where is okay to touch. Richie looks like he could shatter at the slightest pressure, like one of those porcelain dolls that Eddie’s mother uses to decorate the TV stand in the living room. “What… what happened?”
Because Richie’s face.
He is a tapestry of black and blue and bright red from the blood flowing from just about everywhere. From his split lip and a cut across his eyebrow and a visibly broken nose and a gash across his cheek that makes him look like Johnny from The Outsiders. The left lens of his glasses are shattered, giving Eddie a hundred different angles of his watery eyes. The worst part, however, is his forehead. There, in thick black sharpie across the long plane of skin, reads FAGGOT.
“I- I didn’t- I couldn’t…” Richie stuttered, arms wrapped tight around his legs. His limbs were both similarly bruised. One of his shoes was missing, and his sweater was all torn up near the bottom. “I couldn’t go home. I didn’t want my parents to- to- I didn’t want them to see me like this.”
“But… what happened?” Eddie asked again, desperately. “Who did this to you?”
Richie just shakes his head, wiping at his face with a bloody hand. It smears even more blood across his cheeks, and Eddie wants to sob. Hot tears sting his eyes, and he pulls in a gasping breath before Richie can see him break.
When it becomes clear that he is not going to get a response from Richie, Eddie clenches his fists and closes his eyes tight, willing himself to be calm enough to help him. Right now, even though it kills Eddie, the whos and whys don’t matter, not when Richie is hurt. “I’m gonna’ go grab the first aid kit, okay?”
He sneaks as quickly but as quietly as he can out of his room and across the carpeted hallway, into the bathroom. He reaches under the sink to grab the white box, and already, he feels better. Certainly not at peace, but the first aid kit is like a well-worn sweater, something that is achingly familiar, something that he can’t mess up.
Eddie spares a glance into his mother’s bedroom. She is dead asleep, arms splayed across the bed as she snored like a trucker into the pillow. By some miracle, Sonia Kaspbrak has always been a heavy sleeper; a fact that has saved Eddie and the other Losers on too many occasions to count.
When he returns, Richie is right where he left him, crumpled on the floor. Eddie sinks to his knees next to him, ignoring the intrusive thoughts that float through his mind about infections and bacteria and blood as he situates himself in front of Richie, surveying his injuries.
“It’s okay, Rich.” Eddie whispers, trying to soothe him in any way he can, because even though it hardly looked like it, this was the same boy that he loved so much that it physically hurt him. “I’m gonna’ help you. I’m gonna’ get you fixed up.”
The tiniest beginning of a smile curls up Richie’s lips, so soft it is barely noticeable. “Thanks, Dr. K.”
Richie winces as he sits up fully, scooting to lean against the end of the bed. He makes a soft sound, almost a cry, and something in Eddie’s chest cracks.
Gently, (with stupid, useless, shaking fucking fingers) he removes Richie’s glasses for him. Richie blinks up at him, and Eddie knows that the world is nothing but a colorful blur for him right now without the aid of his glasses.
He starts cleaning the blood from Richie’s face slowly, fingers brushing soft skin as he wiped at clusters of dried blood. It made his heart beat faster, but he forced himself to ignore it, ashamed that he can find any kind of joy when Richie is suffering so entirely.
“I thought you were supposed to be at dinner with your parents?” Eddie asked quietly after a while. He didn’t want to upset Richie, but he needed to know. He wouldn’t let Richie just slip silently into bed or back out the window without a word of what happened tonight, of what brought him to Eddie’s window beaten to a pulp and with that word written across his forehead.
Richie sighed heavily as Eddie stretched a bandaid onto a cut under his chin. It looked like the result of falling chin-first onto the pavement. Of being pushed chin-first onto the pavement.
“I… I didn’t tell you guys the truth, okay? There was no dinner with my dad’s boss.” Richie was avoiding eye contact, fixated on the tiny bookshelf next to the window. “My parents think we’re all staying over at Bill’s for the night.”
Eddie felt oddly relieved that his parents were none-the-wiser about whatever happened tonight. He truly adored the Toziers and couldn’t imagine them ever hurting Richie, but he was still scared. His mind was trying to grasp onto any explanation it could have, and knowing that he doesn’t have to try and come to terms with a reality so different from the loving parents he knew filled him with comfort.
“Where were you?” Eddie asked. He had moved on to taping gauze over the other gashes.
“Eddie…” Richie trailed off before mumbling, “It doesn’t matter.”
“Richie, of course it…” Eddie’s eyes keep tumbling over the word on Richie’s forehead. He can’t stop looking at it. Once, in the seventh grade, Eddie spent a half hour scrubbing away a message in a stall in the second-floor boys’ bathroom; richie tozier sucks flamer cock. He had never told Richie about it. “It matters, okay? Of course it matters. It matters because someone obviously hurt you, Rich.”
Richie stays silent, lip quivering.
“Was it Belch?” Eddie asks.
Richie furrows his brows. “No.”
“Victor Criss?”
“No, Eddie-”
“Greta Keene and her friends?”
“I’m not playing this game, Eddie.” Richie snaps. Eddie’s hand stills over the wet towel he is using to wipe the blood from his nose. “Sorry, I just… it’s just stupid shit, you know? Just Derry being Derry, and me being an idiot.”
“You’re not an idiot, Richie.” Eddie whispers. Richie scoffs. “No, I’m serious. Remember that paper you helped me on a few weeks ago? The one about wealth inequality in The Great Gatsby? I got an A- on it.”
It at least gets a small smile out of Richie, before he seems to remember their current predicament and it quickly fades.
When all the blood is gone, Eddie slips Richie’s glasses back on for him. They stare at each other, and Eddie wishes that he could take all of Richie’s hurt away and transfer it to himself. He wishes Richie would pass over all his pain like some delicate thing for Eddie to hold. Doesn’t Richie understand that? Doesn’t he know that Eddie would burn Derry down for him and they would run off into the woods together, hearing the crackle of the flames of the life they once lived?
Eddie presses the damp towel against Richie’s forehead, rubbing each letter. He works on the F for a minute and, although not completely gone, it’s mostly faded into a black smudge. He repeats the process for each letter, and his heart cracks more and more as the word slowly disappears. He doesn’t want to picture what happened to Richie and how the word came to be, but his imagination is filling in the gaps and it might be worse than the actual story.
When all that remains is the OT, Eddie feels a tear slip down his cheek.
Richie looks alarmed. “Eds?”
“Sorry.” Eddie muffles a sob with his hand and wipes his eyes harshly. When he speaks, he can’t stop the tears from coming, however, and it all rushes out in a sob. “It’s just- Richie, I… we love you. You know that, right? The Losers all love you. You- you’re everyone's favourite, I think.”
Tears are filling Richie’s eyes now and he presses his lips together.
They don’t say anything while Eddie scrubs away the final two letters. They don’t say anything while Eddie lowers the towel and hooks his fingers under Richie’s chin to make sure that he didn’t miss any blood. They don’t say anything while he helps Richie (who, Eddie notes with anger and sorrow, is limping) stand up and finds him a t-shirt and flannel pyjama pants that are way too short on his legs to change into. They don’t say anything as they both climb into Eddie’s bed, shoulders touching as they stare up at the ceiling.
Richie is the first one to break the silence, turning over to face Eddie in bed. “I’m really sorry about all of this, Eds. I didn’t want to bother you.”
Eddie shakes his head, turning over, too. He doesn’t dignify the self-deprecation because the only thing worse than having to see his best friend in this state would be knowing that Richie was trying to deal with this all on his own, hiding it from everyone who loved him because of the humiliation of the big, shiny word displayed for all to see.
“You can tell me anything, you know.” Eddie says.
Richie breathes out shakily. His eyes search Eddie’s for a long time; maybe he’s trying to confirm the sincerity of those words.
“I was at Bassey Park.” Richie eventually whispers.
“Okay.” Eddie says slowly, carefully, like talking to a cornered animal. He has finally broken down Richie’s painfully constructed walls, and he can’t mess it up now. “What were you doing there?”
Richie swallows thickly, closing his eyes tight before continuing, “I was meeting up with Craig Stanton.”
Eddie feels his brows raise up to his hairline. Richie pries his eyes open to look at him, scanning his face fearfully, but Eddie can’t hide his surprise.
They have all gone to school with Craig Stanton since kindergarten, but Eddie can’t think of a single situation where Craig would ever interact with one of the Losers. He plays for the basketball team, drives a silver Mclaren that half the school loves to gawk at when leaving for the day, and lives with his filthy rich parents on the nice end of town. Craig Stanton might as well exist in a different universe than Richie.
“Why?” Is all Eddie can force out, genuinely baffled.
Richie grimaces before he continues.
-
Soft snowflakes were just starting to break through the sky when Richie slipped out of the front door of the record store.
He had gotten a job there with Ben the previous spring. They didn’t get much business now that everyone just used CDs, but it was a decent paycheque and Richie was saving up for his one-way plane ticket to California next summer. Plus, with barely any customers to help out, Richie and Ben would spend most of their time goofing off and pretending to clean.
Ben had the day off today, so it was just Richie as he put in a few hours after school, blasting Thriller and sloppily finishing his chemistry homework. He was locking up the front door now, silently cursing at the blast of cold air that hit him as soon as he stepped outside (his final winter in Derry before he could spend his days in the sun for the rest of his life, he reminded himself gleefully).
“Hey, Richie.” A voice appeared beside him. Richie glanced up and was wholly surprised to see Craig Stanton standing there, talking to him, knowing his name.
“Uh… hey?” Richie manages, key forgotten in the door. Main Street was empty at this time of night, a fact that was confirmed with a quick glance around, leaving just the two of them outside. He could see his fancy silver car parked in front of the shop. “We’re, uh, closed for tonight, but we open tomorrow at nine.”
“Oh, no, I didn’t come for a record. Can’t believe this place is still in business, honestly.” Craig grinned easily, leaning against the wall. He was wearing his varsity basketball jacket like a total douchebag. “I was asking your little redhead friend about you and she told me you worked here.”
If Richie was confused before, he was truly perplexed now. He couldn’t come up with a single reason for why Craig Stanton would be asking Beverly about him, except for the fact that he may want to beat the shit out of him. He unthinkingly takes a step backwards, but Craig doesn’t seem to notice.
“Are you… geez, sorry, I’m nervous.” Craig laughs a little. “Are you seeing anyone?”
“Seeing anyone?” Richie repeats dumbly. “No?”
“Cool, cool.” Craig nods, smiling. “Do you- okay, maybe I’m way off here, but I’ve heard people talking about you and I thought… would you wanna’ hang out tomorrow night? Like a date?”
Richie felt his mouth drop open. The panicked litany of someone knows someone knows drums through his head, a fear so sharp that it nearly makes his eyes water, until his brain really starts to process the sentence.
Craig Stanton was asking him out on a date. Handsome Craig Stanton, with his sandy blonde hair and easy-going grin and eyes that were green in the light, likes boys. Craig Stanton knows that Richie likes boys.
It all fades away into optimism, pure and bright on the horizon. Maybe these next eight months in Derry wouldn’t have to be something to just endure or survive, maybe his traitorous heart could finally latch onto someone else besides the one person he knows that he can’t have.
“Yeah.” Richie breathes out too happily, too eager. He cringes at himself. “Yeah, yes, that sounds great!”
Craig laughs a little, hands stuffed in his pockets. “Great.” He looks around for a second before turning back to Richie, voice lowering. “You won’t tell anyone about this, will you?”
“Nah.” Richie shakes his head. “Not really in the mood to have my face broken in, so…”
“Good.” Craig nods. “Meet me at Bassey Park tomorrow night at ten.”
Richie spent the next twenty-four hours more nervous than he has ever been. He bounced between excitement and terror and shame and, of course, guilt. He felt like a traitor, which was ridiculous because Eddie was his friend and would probably throw up if he knew how Richie felt about him, but he knew his heart and he knew that it belonged to Eddie entirely.
That doesn't matter, he reminded himself as he left the house that night, shouting to his parents that he was going to Bill’s. He hated lying to the Losers, but the alternative was telling them the truth about this evening and Richie would rather die.
When he got to Bassey Park, Craig was there, standing in the grove separating the playground from the street. Richie felt a smile light up his face, he rushed as quietly as he could down into the grove.
“Hey.” Richie said.
Craig didn’t say anything, but he was smiling broadly, and a voice that appeared from behind Richie startled him.
“Hey, faggot.” The figure greeted. It was Aaron Packer, another basketball player that Richie had seen hanging out with Craig for years. Another person stepped out from the grove right after; Sally Mueller’s boyfriend Derek Ellis. And another behind him; Tim Fitzpatrick.
“This is the queer kid that wanted to stick his tongue down your throat, Stanton?” Aaron laughed. “Fuck, he’s what, eighty pounds soaking wet?”
“No, it’s Bucky Beaver, man.” Tim slapped him on the shoulder and giggled loudly. “You know him. He’s always hanging out with that Jew from Spanish Class.”
Richie’s stomach clenched uncomfortably. The realization of what this was, of what he walked himself into, was sliding down his back like ice cubes.
“Fuck off.” Richie mumbled, turning to walk back up the grove, but Craig grabbed him by the back of the shirt and tossed him to the snow-covered ground. Richie surveyed the others. Four-on-one. Hardly seems fair.
“You need to get over yourself, you little faggot.” Craig spat. Richie flinched. “And get the fuck out of my town, pervert.”
Derek Ellis threw the first punch.
The tears didn’t come until Craig brought the sharpie out.
-
When Richie finishes the story, he is crying so hard that he is nearly heaving. He shoves his face into Eddie’s pillow to muffle the sound, cheeks blazing red.
Eddie is crying, too. He mops up the tears with the back of his hand. The image that Richie planted in his head, tricked and beaten and humiliated, fills him with this kind of fury that he has never experienced before. He’s caught brief glimpses of it throughout his life; when he was thirteen and found out about the placebos, when Greta Keene poured a spiked punch down Beverly’s dress at their winter formal a few years ago, when Mike got beaten up by those racist freaks last summer, but this rage has never felt quite as sharp.
Beyond the anger is this deep sort of understanding that gives way to sorrow. Richie liked Craig Stanton. At least, he liked him enough to want to meet up with him, to probably kiss him and hold hands and do all the things that Eddie had spent his nights dreaming about with great shame since middle school.
Richie liked boys the same way Eddie did, he just didn’t like Eddie, and that hurt even more than the reality that he has begrudgingly accepted, which was that Richie didn’t like boys at all and therefore was incapable of liking Eddie. He liked boys like stupid Craig Stanton, the complete opposite of Eddie.
Eddie mentally shook himself. He was being selfish. He was making Richie’s suffering about his own unrequited love. Above all, Richie was his friend. His best friend. Eddie wasn’t going to turn him down in his time of need just because Richie hadn’t allowed himself to stoop down to the level of liking asthma-ridden, short, annoying, selfish Eddie Kaspbrak.
“Richie…” Eddie reaches out to squeeze his shoulder. “I’m so sorry, that’s so-”
“No, no, it’s my fault, it’s my fault.” Richie shook his head rapidly. “I’m sick, Eds. I’m fucking sick. This is what happens to fags who can’t keep it in their pants. They were just giving me a taste of the real world.”
“That’s not true!” Eddie says too loudly. He paused and took a deep breath before continuing in a much quieter voice (lest he wake his mother), “That’s bullshit, Rich. Craig and his friends are all fucking assholes, and they had no right to do that to you.”
Richie didn’t respond, flipping over onto his back to stare up at the ceiling. Eddie reached out for him again but he pulled away, and Eddie tried not to look too disappointed.
“I wish I was different.” Richie said after a long time. The wetness on his cheeks was visible in the dim light of Eddie’s bedside lamp, and it made him look like a beautifully tragic painting, one that Eddie could study for hours. “I wish I wasn’t… like this. I’ve tried so hard to stop but I- I just can’t. I’m fucking sick and there’s nothing I can do about it.”
“You’re not sick, you’re-”
“I am, Eddie. I’m not like you or Bill or Stan. I can’t- I can’t get these stupid thoughts out of my head.”
Eddie grasped for a way to fix this, a way to soothe the self-loathing pouring off of Richie in waves. He doesn’t know what to say or how to repair the damage that, clearly, goes so much deeper than Craig Stanton.
It comes to him in an instant, then falls out of his mouth in an unthinking rush, “If you’re sick then I’m sick, too.”
Richie’s eyes slide to his, sniffling. “What?”
Eddie almost regrets it, almost, but he would do anything to make Richie feel better. “Shit, Richie, I like boys. I’m gay.”
Richie stared at him in wonderment, mouth slightly agape and eyes impossibly wide behind his glasses.
Eddie continues, “It’s not… I’m not saying it’s ideal, or anything like that. I’m not, like, super proud of it, but… I can’t help it. It’s just who I am, I guess. So, if you’re sick, then we’re sick together.”
His chest aches with the weight of his confession, but Richie doesn’t look disgusted or laugh like he does in all of Eddie’s nightmares.
“You’re not joking?” Richie asks.
Eddie feels himself smile ruefully. “No.”
They both fix their gazes back to the ceiling. Eddie likes tracing the movement of the white paint with his eyes. Usually, it looks like a smattering of ocean waves, but sometimes the texture looks like a one-eyed man, or a rabbit.
“How did you figure it out?” Richie asks softly, curiously. “Like, how old were you?”
“Um, I was twelve and my mom was watching her Dirty Dancing DVD in the living room one night.” Eddie gestured wide, embarrassed. “Patrick Swayze, y’know?”
Richie snickered softly. Eddie couldn’t help but smile back.
What Richie didn’t know was that Eddie was lying. He really was heavily attracted to Patrick Swayze when he was twelve, but that was months after the realization that he didn’t like girls like he was supposed to. The real moment that Eddie could finally admit to himself that he liked boys was at a sleepover at Richie’s house one night. The three boys were playing pretend pirates and Richie had stood on top of the sofa in the basement, an eyepatch he found in his mother’s dresser snapped across one eye, and declared (in a horrible accent) that he was the king of the sea. Eddie remembers looking up at him and thinking, without reason, I love him.
“How old were you?” Eddie asks.
“Eight.”
“Wow.”
“I realized that I was really in love with someone that I knew. A boy. And I just put two-and-two together.”
A hot strike of jealousy slashes through Eddie’s heart like a knife. He can’t stop himself from asking, “Someone we went to school with?”
Richie presses his lips together, looking contemplative. “One of my friends.”
The jealousy was a burning-hot sun now, a pulsing feeling that made Eddie feel disgusted with himself and angry at the world.
Stupid Stanley.
Eddie briefly considered the possibility that Richie may have liked Bill, but abandoned it quickly. Stan, however, was a different story, and Eddie had to admit that he had been envious of Stan and Richie’s relationship before. They had been friends since they were toddlers, and they had this sort of bond that Eddie couldn’t really describe.
Of course, Richie would be in love with Stan. Intelligent, genuine, funny in a really dry way Stan. Richie had bawled in response to Stan’s suffering when he was attacked during their rescue mission for Beverly back when they were kids, repeating over and over how much they all loved Stan, how they were sorry for not protecting him.
It was horribly selfish, but Eddie found himself unreasonably angry with Richie. Richie is in love with Stan, but Eddie is the one he goes to when he needs to be patched up. Eddie is the one he sneaks out to visit at least once a week. Eddie is the one he swaps secrets and shares comic books with.
The bitterness must show on Eddie’s face, because Richie looks regretful as he says frantically, “Oh, no, Eds, I don’t- it was just a dumb elementary school crush. Not that you’re dumb! I don’t- it’s not like I- I’m not trying to come onto you, or anything.”
“Coming onto…” Eddie echoes before it hits him. “You were in love with me?”
Richie’s face was bright red. “When we were eight, yeah, but, Eds-”
“Just when we were eight?”
Richie gulps. “Maybe when we were nine, too?”
“And now?” Eddie asks before he can stop himself. There’s this buzzing sound in his ears, a rush of noise, and all the uncertainty has been muted with it. “Are you in love with me now?”
Richie is staring at him like he has never seen him before. They are still lying down face-to-face, so close that their noses are almost touching. “Eds…”
Eddie leans in and kisses him.
He has spent an embarrassing amount of time picturing what it would be like to kiss Richie Tozier, but his fantasies, he discovers, have never quite measured up to the real thing. It’s almost a familiar feeling even though it has never been done before, like wearing your favourite sweater for the first time in a while, or listening to the opening notes of your favourite song.
Richie clutches Eddie’s shoulder as if he will disappear, leaning further into his lips. It’s a beautiful thing. A soft thing. Eddie never wants to stop. One hand migrates to settle on Richie’s uninjured cheek, thumb stroking the space next to his eye.
When they pull apart, Eddie is dizzy with longing and relief mixing into one, potent cocktail of emotion.
“It was never Patrick Swayze.” Eddie whispers, lips ghosting over Richie’s. “It was you. It was always you.”
A laugh bubbles out of Richie, overjoyed and thick with emotion. Eddie can’t help but laugh, too. What a sight they must make, Eddie thinks. Richie is all bruised and covered in carefully applied gauze and his forehead is still a cloud of black marker, but he looks so beautiful that Eddie hardly notices.
“It’s always been you too, Eddie.” Richie managed after the laughter had died down. Their noses brush together, still tight in each other's space. “I never liked stupid Craig Stanton. I don’t think I’ve ever liked anyone besides you. I’ve been trying to get over you since I was eight years old.”
And how else is Eddie supposed to respond but to kiss him again? Richie’s tongue slides into his mouth this time, and Eddie groans, hand cupping Richie’s neck. He tastes like mint and citrus, and Eddie is so wildly, madly in love with him that he could spend the rest of his life in this exact spot.
In a burst of confidence, Eddie grabs Richie by the shoulders and hoists himself up so that he is sitting on top of Richie’s waist, hands pressed against his chest. He leans down to keep kissing him, and feels Richie’s fingers tangle into his hair.
“Eds?” Richie mumbles against his lips. His eyes are half-lidded, following Eddie’s mouth every time he breaks for air.
“Hmm?” Eddie is hardly paying attention, entranced by the way the lamplight shining across them made it look like Richie had an angel’s halo.
“You’re a much better kisser than your mom.”
Eddie shakes his head, but he’s smiling. “Shut up, Richie.”