(It was true. It was always the biggest stuff, the real stuff that Eddie kept quiet about. Him shrieking about all of those diseases he never had a chance in high hell of getting had always just been booming echoes of his paranoia. A paranoia his mother had carefully helped to cultivate throughout his entire life. Paranoia that worked like a comfortable shield against all of the stuff that really haunted Eddie. It wasn't being sick he had ever really been afraid of.
Blowjob...Want a blowjob, kid?
No. No it wasn't flu season at all that had laid him flat out in his bed late at night, shaking at the way the trees outside of his window had made ominous shapes across his wall. Just like when he had cried over that lousy seagull in the train yard, he wasn't just crying because of some dumb bird. He'd been crying because that bird was capable of everything he hadn't been: escaping.
Richie and Eddie were both like that. Tucking all of their hurt deep inside where they hoped no one would ever be able to find it. All of their real insecurities were kept barricaded firmly behind certain attitudes, certain performances. It was bottling- Richie was right- that made Eddie sick. That had him chewing on anxiety pills because it worked faster than swallowing.
It works because it's always worked. Eddie was fantastic with directions, but throw himself into his own head and he'd be lost for hours. Richie's always been good at wrenching him away from himself. He has to blink a few dozen times when Richie first grabs his face. Then he's being pulled in close and Eddie clings with his entire body. He hugs Richie tightly, and winds up just outright on his lap because of it and it's far from the first time, and it'll be far from the last time.
For a second he just lets himself work it loose. He presses his face into Richie's shoulder and bawls his fucking eyes out. He's shaking something fierce and crying in gasping sort of sobs, because it's been years of this, years of sliding through so much fucking hell, and years of feelings, years of missing Richie, years of thinking about awful things he's found out, years of loss. There's just been so much, and the entire time one thing has always remained the exact same: he's just wanted Richie. Everything would have been so much god damn easier if Richie was just around.
It takes some time, but eventually Eddie calms down, the shaking tappers off, his gasping turns into soft hiccups, and he remembers piece by piece where he was. The body wrapped up around him was warm, was real, and very much still there. Richie smelled like summer and familiarity, and Eddie squeezes so tightly around him for a second, his whole body curling into it, and he just wanted to be burrowed deep inside of Richie where he felt like nothing would ever hurt him again. Eventually a singular clear, distinct feeling opens up wide in his chest, and it's an easy, wonderful, effortless love, and all Eddie can think of was how much love he felt for this boy. He's too hectic, too worn around the edges to worry about it, to think too hard. It's always been so easy to love Richie. Love all of the Losers, certainly, but loving Richie was something else and always had been.
He exhales. Rubs his face against Richie's shoulder in a way that's clearly to try and rub some tears away, and then he picks his head up, his eyes a little pink, and a little puffy, but brilliantly shiny and he looks much calmer now. The tip of his nose was a little red, and there were streaks down his face, but he no longer looked like the world was about to end.)
Sorry-. I think I'm. I think I can breathe now. (He sniffs, and they're close, way too close- if he were in a different state of mind, he'd be dying, but this was-. It mattered. He needed to be close to Richie right now.)
I've missed you so fucking much, Rich. Jesus. Give me a second.
this is literally so much prose i am so sorry lmao
Blowjob...Want a blowjob, kid?
No. No it wasn't flu season at all that had laid him flat out in his bed late at night, shaking at the way the trees outside of his window had made ominous shapes across his wall. Just like when he had cried over that lousy seagull in the train yard, he wasn't just crying because of some dumb bird. He'd been crying because that bird was capable of everything he hadn't been: escaping.
Richie and Eddie were both like that. Tucking all of their hurt deep inside where they hoped no one would ever be able to find it. All of their real insecurities were kept barricaded firmly behind certain attitudes, certain performances. It was bottling- Richie was right- that made Eddie sick. That had him chewing on anxiety pills because it worked faster than swallowing.
It works because it's always worked. Eddie was fantastic with directions, but throw himself into his own head and he'd be lost for hours. Richie's always been good at wrenching him away from himself. He has to blink a few dozen times when Richie first grabs his face. Then he's being pulled in close and Eddie clings with his entire body. He hugs Richie tightly, and winds up just outright on his lap because of it and it's far from the first time, and it'll be far from the last time.
For a second he just lets himself work it loose. He presses his face into Richie's shoulder and bawls his fucking eyes out. He's shaking something fierce and crying in gasping sort of sobs, because it's been years of this, years of sliding through so much fucking hell, and years of feelings, years of missing Richie, years of thinking about awful things he's found out, years of loss. There's just been so much, and the entire time one thing has always remained the exact same: he's just wanted Richie. Everything would have been so much god damn easier if Richie was just around.
It takes some time, but eventually Eddie calms down, the shaking tappers off, his gasping turns into soft hiccups, and he remembers piece by piece where he was. The body wrapped up around him was warm, was real, and very much still there. Richie smelled like summer and familiarity, and Eddie squeezes so tightly around him for a second, his whole body curling into it, and he just wanted to be burrowed deep inside of Richie where he felt like nothing would ever hurt him again. Eventually a singular clear, distinct feeling opens up wide in his chest, and it's an easy, wonderful, effortless love, and all Eddie can think of was how much love he felt for this boy. He's too hectic, too worn around the edges to worry about it, to think too hard. It's always been so easy to love Richie. Love all of the Losers, certainly, but loving Richie was something else and always had been.
He exhales. Rubs his face against Richie's shoulder in a way that's clearly to try and rub some tears away, and then he picks his head up, his eyes a little pink, and a little puffy, but brilliantly shiny and he looks much calmer now. The tip of his nose was a little red, and there were streaks down his face, but he no longer looked like the world was about to end.)
Sorry-. I think I'm. I think I can breathe now. (He sniffs, and they're close, way too close- if he were in a different state of mind, he'd be dying, but this was-. It mattered. He needed to be close to Richie right now.)
I've missed you so fucking much, Rich. Jesus. Give me a second.