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ghosttotheparty · 11 months

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like tears from the sky

richie tozier x eddie kasprak also on ao3 // M; 5k words cw: f slur

It’s been raining for three days.

It rains a lot in Derry, but this is a bit much, even by Derry standards. The sound of the rain on the rooftop outside Richie’s window turns to white noise, only interrupted when he puts his headphones on. He watches it all, sitting on his desk that’s just by the window, cleared off enough for him to have space without knocking anything to the ground, and he’s reminded of that summer as he watches the rainwater wash down the road, falling into the sewer drains. It’s been a long while. Nothing’s happened.

Except for the occasional headline of a runaway kid, a random disappearance that puts everyone on edge before the kid is found a day or two later, hiding out at some bus stop or at their friend’s house. It’s the same as the other disappearances, the average runaway count higher than anywhere else in the country.

Richie doesn’t blame them. He hates this fucking town.

Hates the school and the graffitied bathroom walls that read things like richie tozier sucks cock. Hates his bedroom and the peeling floral wallpaper and lights that flicker. Hates his parents and their voices that are rough from years of cigarette smoke and yelling. (He’ll sound like them someday. He knows it.)

There are only six good things about this town. (Seven if Richie counts his dealer, but even he kind of sucks. He isn’t very nice. Richie doesn’t really care, though.)

But even they’ll leave someday. Someday soon, given that they all graduate in the summer. They still have time, but it feels like it might as well be tomorrow.

Richie thinks about it sometimes. Leaving. Running away like all the other kids try to do, before he’s supposed to. Packing a bag and sneaking out his window while his parents argue at night, taking off down the road to a bus stop and paying for a ticket to New York or something with money he stole from his mom’s purse. He’s thought about it a lot. But he’d feel bad if he just went without warning, without telling the other Losers he was taking off. (He’d bring them if they wanted. He thinks maybe Eddie would want to come. Maybe Stan, too.)

Richie leans back, looking down the road as a car runs the stop sign without slowing. It looks blurry from the rain, the headlights glowing like they’re smudged. He sighs, letting his head fall back. The sound of the rain is oddly comforting, endless. Thunder rumbles a few seconds after a brief, vague flash of light.

He would go to sleep. It’s only six-ish, but he would sleep if he could.

If he fucking could.

It’s not easy to sleep like it was when he was little. He used to be able to fall asleep to his parents yelling at each other like boiling kettles, screeching and loud. But even the slightest sound is too loud now, even the quiet creaks of the house settling, a car driving past outside, a photo falling to the ground from his wall. He waves up to nothing some nights, his heart pounding, feeling like something is watching him, and he turns the lights on just to make sure the room is empty. And he stays there, sitting in bed, looking at the wall as he waits for the feeling to go away, as he waits for sleep to take him again, but it doesn’t work.

He knows he looks rougher now. Rougher than he used to. His glasses are perpetually slipping down his nose, and his cheeks are hollower, the bags under his eyes bluer and purpler. His hair is longer, but it doesn’t look nice the way he’d like it to. It’s too dry, frizzy and unkempt, but he can’t be bothered to do anything about it. So he doesn’t. He leaves it alone, keeps scrubbing it dry with his towels after showers even though he’d almost certain that that’s something that contributes to his split ends. He ties it up out of the way sometimes, steals hair ties from Beverly’s wrist because he never remembers his own.

Even his fingernails are brittle now. Constantly breaking, ripping, even though he keeps them as short as he can to avoid it. His knuckles are always a little red too, probably because he’s so pale now. He doesn’t go out much, except to go to school and hang out with the Losers sometimes.

Anyway. The rain.

He watches it for a while. Watches it rush down the street the way he wants to. He kind of wishes he was rain. No one would miss him when he was absorbed into the earth. It’s a nice idea, weird as it is.

His window fogs over after a while as he sits there, leaning against the cold glass.

After a few minutes he shifts, tucking his hair behind his ears in a way he knows would make the boys at school laugh at him, but he doesn’t really care. No one is here to see him. He moves to cross his legs, reaching to the drawer of his desk, and he rummages through it for a moment, searching, but he stops when he remembers he smoked the last of his weed yesterday.

“Damn it,” he mutters to himself, shutting the drawer louder than he needs to, and he leans back again, looking back at the rain. He has a stash of weed in the clubhouse, tucked behind a loose board of wood. He assumes the others know it’s there, but they don’t care. Bev probably has her own stash there too.

He eyes the rain, biting his lip as he thinks. It would probably be good for him, to get out of the house. He hasn’t left in days, since before the rain started, and he’s barely gotten any fresh air except the soft breezes of the cold October air when he left the window open when he smoked. He could take his bike down to the clubhouse. Get soaked in the rain. Feel something.

He grabs a jacket before he slips his shoes on. He’ll take a shower when he gets back to warm up.

His mom isn’t home, he realizes when he goes down the steps quietly. His dad’s car is in the driveway, but he can’t find him either. Probably passed out in their bedroom, Richie thinks, which means Mom is out. At a friend’s. Or a “friend’s.”

He can barely see in the rain, his glasses spotted with drops, his hair soaked within a few minutes, plastering itself across his neck and face, and it’s fucking freezing but he can’t really bring himself to care. It feels good. A nice change from the stuffy air of his bedroom.

He’s shivering when he gets to the clubhouse, pushing his hair out of his face and tugging his glasses off to wipe them clean on his t-shirt, which managed to stay dry under his jacket. The rain is even louder in the clubhouse than it is in his room, like steady static that’s taken over the sky.

He puts his glasses back on, shaking his hands out to dry them a little bit, and he heads further in, but he stops short at the sound of a sniffle. It’s quiet, almost inaudible under the sound of the rain, but he’d be damned if he couldn’t recognize the sound of Eddie Kaspbrak crying.

“Eds?”

He turns, pushing his glasses up as he looks around, and his eyes find him, curled into a trembling ball, sitting against the wall where Richie hides his weed.

“Hey, Jesus,” Richie murmurs, moving closer and taking off his jacket when he realizes Eddie isn’t wearing one, his long-sleeved shirt damp as he shakes. He kneels on the ground next to him, draping the jacket across his shoulders. “What the fuck are you doing here?” he asks, his voice rough because he hasn’t used it in days. “It’s freezing, Eddie, God.”

Eddie lifts his head, looking at him, and Richie’s chest clenches. His eyes are red, his eyelashes clumped with tears, his cheeks marked with glistening tear tracks, his nose rosy. He reaches for the lapel of Richie’s jacket, pulling it tighter around himself as Richie rubs his arm gently.

“What’s going on?” Richie asks quietly, shifting closer as Eddie’s eyes fill with tears again. “Did something happen?”

But Eddie doesn’t say anything, and he instead just falls forward toward Richie, his shoulders shaking as he cries. Richie wraps his arms around him tightly, shifting so his legs are around him too, and Eddie presses closer, his quiet sobs muffled in Richie’s chest.

He stops crying after a while, and Richie waits for him as he catches his breath, running his hand over his head, listening to the rain and feeling Eddie’s shoulders rise and fall with each measured breath as he calms down. Richie closes his eyes because he can’t see his face.

“What happened?” Richie asks softly, his mouth close enough to Eddie’s ear that he can hear him over the rain.

“My mom has friends over,” Eddie says after a moment of hesitation. “I… I heard them talking about me.”

Richie’s stomach twists, and he tightens his arms around him.

“What’d they say about you, sweetheart?” he says. He doesn’t mean to let it slip out. He only ever calls Eddie that to make fun of him, to tease him, to watch his cheeks flush red and his eyes roll. Only ever jokingly, sarcastically. But now…

It comes out soft. Like he means it.

Which he does, obviously. Not that he’d ever tell anyone.

Eddie doesn’t seem to mind it right now. He presses closer, hides his face, reaches to grip the fabric of Richie’s shirt.

He’s quiet for another moment, and Richie waits, combing his fingertips through Eddie’s hair. It’s gotten longer. Not as long at Richie’s but longer than Sonia likes.

“They were… They were talking about how— how I’m different,” Eddie says. His voice is weak, almost choking him, and Richie kind of doesn’t want him to tell him. He kind of wants him to just fall asleep here, in Richie’s arms, even though Richie is freezing. “How I— I’m f–feminine.”

Richie’s eyes open. His stomach twists again.

“And— And one of them asked if— if I’m a fag, and Mom said it’s just— it’s just a phase, that I’m just quirky, and I—” He breaks off with a sob, and Richie feels fucking sick, nauseated.

He runs a hand over Eddie’s back gently, rocking him as he cries again.

“I just fucking left, I couldn’t— I couldn't say anything, I’m just…”

“Hey,” Richie says softly, shifting to look at Eddie’s face. “Eddie. They don’t fucking know you, okay? They’re just… They’re just a bunch of bitches, just fucking talking, okay? They’re just…”

Eddie stares at him. His lip quivers.

“They’re right,” he says. He’s barely whispering, his voice weak.

Richie blinks, freezing. It falls silent except for the loud shower of rain.

“...What?”

“I’m gay, Richie,” Eddie says, pushing him away a little bit, still holding his jacket tight around himself, and his voice is louder, firmer, angrier. “I’m a fucking faggot, they all know it.”

Richie feels like he’s falling over. His lips part in awe, the words spinning around in his skull, ricocheting off the bone as he stares at Eddie, at the tears on his freckled cheeks, at his shining eyes.

It’s quiet. Eddie looks back at him, and Richie realizes with a twist of his stomach that Eddie looks scared. He looks cornered, like a hunted rabbit, like Richie is dangerous, and Richie swallows, reaching out to touch him. But Eddie knocks his hand away, moving back again, his lip quivering as a tear slips down his cheek. Richie aches to wipe it away, but his hand falls.

“Don’t tell anyone,” Eddie chokes, the words barely audible, and Richie shakes his head.

“No, I— I won’t tell anyone, Eddie, I…” He takes a breath, looking at him desperately. “Me too.”

Eddie blinks tears out of his eyes, looking at him, the fear in his expression faltering for a moment.

“You too?” he says softly.

“I’m— I’m gay, I— Me too,” Richie stutters out, shifting to sit across from him again, his face flushing with heat, his hands trembling. He feels a little lightheaded.

He’s never said it out loud before. Those words. He’s never even thought them. He’s known, obviously, he’s known for years, but he’s never wanted to admit it to himself. Not when everyone already seemed to know without him even saying anything, even as he looked at the ground in the locker room at school, avoiding eye contact with the other boys, avoiding looking at their legs, their chests, their… They were always so shameless. Richie was glad that he didn’t have to take gym this year.

But Eddie’s eyes fall to Richie’s mouth, like he’s watching the words from on his lips.

“...Really?” he asks weakly.

“Yeah,” Richie says. “I…”

They stare at each other, and it’s like the air has shifted, and Richie could so easily tell him right now. Tell him that he’s had a crush on his since they were kids, since before It. That all the silly kisses he’s blown to him in the hallways and across the clubhouse, all the sweethearts and Eddie babys, all the obnoxious cheek and forehead kisses were all genuine. That he brought him donuts from his favorite bakery when he was sick because he knew it would cheer him up, that he knew exactly what kinds to get because it’s like he remembers every word that comes out of his mouth. That he was the one that slipped the chocolate and origami heart into his locker on Valentine’s Day last year.

But he can’t get anything out before Eddie is hugging him tightly, lunging at him and wrapping his arms around his neck so tightly Richie can’t breathe for a moment. He hugs him back, squeezing his eyes shut as he wraps his arms around his waist and pulls him close. Eddie buries his face in Richie’s neck, shaking, trembling, crying again.

“‘S okay,” Richie whispers, pulling him so he falls into his lap. “I got you, sweetheart.”

Eddie lowers to his lap, and Richie makes sure the jacket is still around him, pressing a hand over his back to rest on the small of it, holding him closer. Eddie is shaking, breathing hard, and Richie’s chest aches as he closes his eyes, pressing his face into his neck. He smells like citrus and rain.

Eddie pulls away when he stops crying again, arms still around Richie’s neck. He pulls away slowly, almost tentatively, and his hands slide over Richie’s neck so he’s holding the sides of it. His fingers are cold, still trembling, and even though Richie is freezing, damp from the rain, it feels so good his eyes flutter shut for a moment.

Eddie’s forehead presses to Richie’s. Richie slides his arms around his waist, holding him gently. He can feel his breath on his face.

When Eddie pulls away after a little while, Richie looks at him, and he feels desperate as he looks at him. He reaches up to touch his cheek, to swipe his thumb over it even though there aren’t any tears for him to wipe away. Eddie leans closer.

The rain is so loud. But Richie can hear his own heartbeat, pounding away like he’s just run a mile.

He wants to say something. To ask if this is okay, whatever the fuck this is. He doesn’t know what’s happening. But even as his heart beats like the world is ending, this feels oddly… fine.

He opens his mouth to speak, to whisper, but Eddie kisses him before any words can get out.

It’s a quick kiss, chaste and dry and brief, but it erases all the words from Richie’s mind, and Richie looks at him, his eyes wide as he processes it. Eddie’s eyes are wide too, nervous and shy and scared again. So Richie touches his face again, pressing his palm to his cheek that’s tacky with drying tears. And he nods, his lips spreading into a slow smile.

Eddie kisses him again.

He doesn’t seem to know quite what he’s doing, but he doesn’t seem to care at all, kissing and kissing and kissing Richie, over and over like he’s desperate, his cold hands holding his jaw. Richie slips a hand into Eddie’s hair, his other hand pressing into the small of his back and he pulls him closer, and he kisses back, tilting his head and parting his lips. It takes a moment for him to realize his glasses are in the way, that Eddie’s nose is bumping them, and he pulls away just long enough to rip them off his face so haphazardly he might break them, but he doesn’t care. He sets them on the ground next to them and leans back in, tilting his chin up to kiss him again as Eddie hums weakly.

Richie’s world might be flipping upside down. Inside out. Eddie is kissing him, sitting on his lap and hugging his neck and pushing his hands into his curls, pulling just hard enough that Richie lets out a groan as sparks spread through his nerves. Eddie is kissing him, his teeth catching on his lip and tugging, letting out quiet, breathy hums. Richie almost expects to wake up at any moment, to blink his eyes open to find his bedroom ceiling.

But it doesn’t happen.

Eddie keeps kissing him, and his fucking tongue slips over Richie’s lip, and holy fucking shit, Eddie is fucking frenching him, and Richie opens his mouth, hugging his waist tightly, furrowing his brows as Eddie licks into his mouth. It feels better than when Richie made out with Cynthia Holden last year. The inside of Eddie’s mouth is warm, but Richie shivers anyway, humming as their tongues slide, as the air fills with the sound of their slick mouths, as Eddie holds his chin like he’s holding him in place. He still thinks he’s dreaming. There’s no way this is actually happening. There’s no way Eddie Kaspbrak is making out with him like this, messy, sloppy, almost fucking gross.

There’s a string of spit connecting their mouths when they part, and they’re both breathing hard. Richie watches as Eddie catches it on his tongue.

“Holy fuck,” he breathes, squeezing his eyes shut.

Eddie kisses him again, slowly and carefully, humming quietly.

“Come home with me,” Richie whispers after a moment. Eddie just nods, pressing their foreheads together. It takes a little while for them to actually get up, not wanting to let go of each other.

Eddie keeps Richie’s jacket on, and he stands on the back of the bike as they go back to Richie’s, his hands on Richie’s shoulders. It’s still pouring, but Richie doesn’t think Eddie minds, especially when he stretches his arms out, spreading them to the sky like he’s welcoming the rain.

The house is still silent when they get home, both of them soaked to the bone with rain, their hair and clothes dripping, and Richie leads him upstairs by the hand after they kick their shoes off.

“You should take a shower,” he says as he’s pulling clothes out of his dresser for him. “So you don’t get a cold.”

Eddie is quiet for a moment as he watches, and he takes the clothes hesitantly, looking at them. Folded boxers, sweatpants, and a hoodie.

“...Will you come with me?” he asks quietly, looking up at Richie shyly.

“...To… To shower?”

Eddie nods, his eyes shining.

Richie blinks at him, his glasses still spotted with rain, and he nods.

“Yeah,” he says softly. “‘Course.”

It’s quiet as they go to the bathroom. As Richie gets them towels, shivering as his clothes dry a little bit. As Eddie turns on the shower, familiar with it after so many nights he’s stayed over, scared of the dark, scared of being alone. As they pull their clothes off, draping them over the laundry basket to dry. Richie gazes at him as he slides his underwear down his freckle-spotted legs. He always looks so sun-kissed, even in the middle of October, even when it’s cold and dark outside.

Eddie catches him looking. His cheeks flush pink, and he suppresses a smile as he kicks the underwear into the laundry basket. He doesn’t look at him again as he steps into the shower, and Richie looks at him. Watches his legs move, watches his muscles shift under his skin. He looks so soft. Richie wants to press his fingertips into his flesh. He wants to squeeze and grope and knead.

He follows him into the shower after putting his glasses on the counter. The water is a little too hot, but Eddie looks like he’s melting under it, his head tilted back to wet his hair, eyes closed blissfully. Richie gazes at him even though he’s blurry.

Eddie opens his eyes after a moment, smiling when he sees the way Richie is looking at him, and he holds a hand up, holding it out to Richie, who takes it, twisting their fingers together. Eddie pulls gently, tugging Richie closer, and he guides his hand to his waist, reaching up to Richie’s shoulder. Their skin is slick with water, and their hands slide across each other as they hug. Eddie shivers when their bodies press together, under the spray of the water.

When they finally part, Richie washes his hair for him. He watches Eddie’s expression relax into bliss again, eyes closed, lips parted, shining with water, and he experiments. Watches how his expression shifts as Richie scratches his scalp, tugs his hair, combs through it. Eddie’s hands find Richie’s waist, holding him. His hands are warmer now.

Richie tilts his head back to rinse the shampoo away, blocking his forehead with a hand so he doesn’t get soap in his eyes. Eddie is smiling. Richie does it all over again with the conditioner, lets it sit as he reaches for the body wash and the loofah, pulling Eddie out of the water gently and pushing him to wash his back. Eddie lets him, moving pliantly, head fallen forward, exhaling slowly as Richie scrubs his skin as gently as possible.

“Is that okay?” Richie asks after a few moments, and he smiles when Eddie hums.

“Yeah,” Eddie murmurs. “Feels so good.”

Richie washes him. Watches him smile as Richie lifts his arms, watches his eyes flutter open to watch as Richie kneels to wash his legs. Watches him bite his lip as Richie cleans his soft dick carefully. Eddie’s head falls to rest on Richie’s shoulder as he reaches around him, grabbing his ass gently.

“Okay?” Richie checks again, whispering.

“Mm. Yeah.”

Richie smiles at the tile wall, squeezing and pressing. He is soft.

He doesn’t let go when Eddie lifts his head and presses a kiss to his jaw.

“You never told me what you were doing at the clubhouse,” he says quietly, his voice right in Richie’s ear. Richie squeezes again, tilting his head so Eddie can kiss him again.

“Was getting weed.”

“I knew you keep weed there,” Eddie says adamantly, and Richie snorts, giggling immaturely as Eddie smacks his arm. “You didn’t get it before we left.”

“Mm. Was a little preoccupied,” Richie says softly. “This really hot guy started making out with me like we were both gonna die, so…”

“Ah,” Eddie says, reaching to drape his arms over Richie’s shoulders, tilting his head. “Got a little distracted, huh?”

“Mhmm.”

Eddie lifts his chin to nudge their noses together. Richie smiles.

His hands tighten when Eddie kisses him again, his teeth catching his lip again, and he’s almost grinning against his mouth, sliding his hands across his ass, his back, over his arms and his shoulders and his neck. Eddie lets out a strained breath, pushing his hands into Richie’s hair, his fingers curling into the strands and tightening, pulling it. Richie’s jaw drops as his scalp aches, and Eddie takes the opportunity to slip his tongue into his mouth, and Richie smiles again, humming.

Their chests press as Eddie sucks on his lip, licks into his mouth, tugs on his hair. Their soft sounds echo around the room, bounce off the tile, quiet under the spray of the water, the pounding rain on the roof. Eddie hums softly as Richie squeezes his ass with a hand again before he slides his hands to hold his waist. Richie tilts his head, letting his tongue fall out of his mouth so Eddie can lick at it, which he does, happily, humming and breathing heavily.

Eddie sucks on it for a brief moment before he pulls away, panting, eyes almost shut as he looks at Richie’s mouth.

“Rich,” he breathes.

“Yeah, Eddie baby.”

Eddie smiles softly, his cheeks flushing pink.

“Can you, uhm…”

“Can I what?” Richie asks softly, touching his face, kissing his lips gently for a moment. “What do you want?”

“Uhm.” Eddie looks down, face red, hands gentle on Richie’s arms, squeezing gently like he’s fidgeting nervously. “Can you— Can you spit in my mouth?”

Richie blinks, and his eyebrows jump as Eddie looks up at him through his eyelashes.

“...Are you sure?” he asks quietly. Eddie nods, glancing at his mouth.

“Want it.”

Richie smiles, his heart beating fast, and he gestures with a jerk of his chin.

“Open your mouth.”

Eddie’s eyes shine, and his head tilts back as his mouth falls open, and his tongue lolls out as he waits, as Richie gazes at him. He holds his chin gently, leaning closer, gathering spit in his mouth as Eddie’s eyes watch his jaw work. He spits carefully, watching it land on Eddie’s tongue. And it’s fucking filthy, almost ironic that they’re in the shower doing this. But Eddie is so happy with it, letting out a quiet groan, his eyes wide and shining as he closes his mouth, pressing his lips together and swallowing. Richie watches his throat bob.

Eddie smiles after a moment.

“Can I wash your hair?”

Richie scoffs at the lightness of his tone, and he nods.

“Yeah, sure.”

Eddie kisses him before he pulls away to reach for the shampoo.

He’s careful as he does Richie’s hair, as he combs his curls out until they’re untangled, as he scratches at his scalp, massaging the shampoo into his hair, and when Richie opens his eyes to look at him, they’re close enough for him to see his face clearly. He’s biting his lip, brows furrowed in focus, and he’s so fucking adorable Richie has to stifle a sigh.

Eddie works slowly, rinses Richie’s hair, runs the shampoo through his hair, head tilted fondly, and he washes Richie’s body the same way he did Eddie. Slowly, gently, almost fucking tender. It feels so good. No one’s ever touched Richie like this, so carefully.

Eddie kisses the jut of his hip as he kneels on the tile to wash his legs, and Richie’s eyes sting.

They have to separate to dry themselves off, and Richie scrubs his hair dry before he ties the towel around his hips. The air is freezing as the steam from the shower fades.

Eddie looks sleepy as he dresses, sighing softly as he pulls Richie’s clothes on.

Richie looks away as he gets dressed, as he pulls on a sweater and some cut-off shorts, as he hangs his towel up on the back of his door.

“Oh, you asshole,” Eddie’s voice says behind him, and Richie tilts his head at the towel in confusion before he turns around, raising an eyebrow, but he just flushes with embarrassed heat as Eddie holds up an origami heart, standing at his bedside table. It’s one of the practice hearts he did, hidden away in his drawer with his cigarettes and lube and random things he’s accumulated over the years.

“Shut up,” Richie says, suppressing a smile as Eddie’s face lights up.

“That was you?”

“Duh,” Richie says, fixing the towel as it threatens to fall off the hook.

“Duh,” Eddie repeats like it’s absurd.

Richie turns back around, shoving his hands into the pockets of his shorts as he looks at Eddie, who’s cradling the heart, holding it to his chest like it belongs beneath his skin.

“...How long have you known?” Eddie asks after a moment, his expression softening.

“Uh,” Richie sighs. He leans against his desk, looking at Eddie. The light is dim in the room, the golden glow of the lamp making Eddie look even more sun-kissed than usual. “I kinda… realized I had a crush on you in, uh, fifth grade.”

Eddie blinks.

“...Really?”

Richie just nods, twisting his mouth.

It’s quiet, except for the fucking rain. (Is it raining harder? Richie might have to check the basement in the morning.) And then Eddie is moving closer, holding the heart in his hand as he reaches for Richie’s sweater with the other, tugging him into a kiss. Richie closes his eyes, reaching for his waist and pulling him close, tilting his head and ignoring his glasses as they tilt, uneven on his nose as Eddie kisses him harder.

“Holy shit,” Eddie breathes when they part.

“Yeah?” Richie pants.

Eddie just hums, kissing him again, nibbling his lip.

“I, uh,” he says breathlessly after a moment. “I realized in seventh grade. That you… You weren’t like the others.”

“Oh,” Richie says weakly. “So we could have been doing this for, like, years.”

Eddie giggles quietly, their lips brushing as he smiles, his hands finding Richie’s neck.

“I don’t think I would have wanted to make out with you,” he says. Richie giggles with him, sliding a hand over his back gently. It’s true. He wouldn’t have even wanted to hold his hand back then, too paranoid about germs and sickness and bacteria. But…

“You’ve gotten so much better about that,” Richie whispers softly, smile widening when Eddie’s cheeks turn pink and he smiles bashfully.

“Therapy helps.”

“Proud of you,” Richie whispers, his lips brushing Eddie’s, and Eddie’s shoulders hunch happily as he ducks his head. Richie tilts his head fondly, smiling at him.

“I still have it,” Eddie says after a moment, looking into his eyes.

“...Still have it,” Richie repeats blankly.

“The heart,” Eddie clarifies. “The one you put in my locker last year.”

“Oh. You still have it?”

“Mhmm. ‘S on my desk lamp.”

Richie smiles, caressing Eddie’s cheek.

They kiss again. Eddie’s hand is on Richie’s chest, fingers curled around the paper heart, and Richie holds his waist and his face, gentle and soft as Eddie kisses him slowly.

“How do you feel?” Richie asks when they part, looking at him. His glasses are smudged from pressing against their faces, but he doesn’t care. He’ll take them off when they go to bed.

“Good,” Eddie whispers. “Better.”

“Yeah?”

“Mm. I, uhm. I feel good,” Eddie says softly. He’s leaning against Richie’s body as Richie rests on the edge of his desk, one of his arms around Richie’s waist. “I don’t even, like… feel anxious about going back.”

“To your mom’s?”

“Mhmm.”

“Why?”

“Just…” He rests his face on his shoulder, sighing. “I know I can come back here,” he says softly, quietly, almost like he’s talking to himself. “...I know you’ll take care of me.”

Richie’s eyes burn, and he wraps his arms around Eddie so tightly that Eddie yelps, giggling as Richie lifts him up, burying his face in his neck as he groans. He kisses him again after setting him back down, their mouths crashing together as Eddie’s back arches, leaning back as Richie kisses him and kisses him.

“Yeah,” he says weakly. “I’ll take care of you, Eddie baby, I…”

Eddie hugs him around the neck tightly, almost climbing up him, and Richie lifts him, burying his face in Eddie’s neck, his glasses pushing up to his forehead.

“Can we go to bed?” Eddie asks after a few moments, his fingers running through Richie’s drying hair.

“Mm. ‘Course.”

They brush their teeth together. Eddie already has a toothbrush in Richie’s bathroom. It’s blue, and it goes in a cup by the towel that hangs by the sink, across from Richie’s. Richie had his favorite toothpaste too, two separate tubes because Richie started using it after getting it for him. (Maybe subconsciously wanting his mouth to taste like Eddie’s favorite mint. Maybe. It pays off though, because Eddie is kissing him before his toothbrush is even back in his cup.)

“I can go home tomorrow,” Eddie says as they’re climbing into bed. “Make sure Mom knows I haven’t died.”

“Probably a good idea,” Richie says. “And then?”

Eddie pulls at his sweater, pulling him closer and wrapping an arm around his waist as Richie settles on the bed. He lays his head on Richie’s chest. Richie’s always been self-conscious of his chest, scared that he’s too thin, too boney, but Eddie nuzzles into him, sighing and relaxing, melting like Richie is the hot water from their shower.

“Come back,” he mumbles, his voice muffled by Richie’s chest. Richie runs his hand through his hair before he slips it under the neck of the hoodie he’s wearing, touching the warm skin of his neck and his upper back. “Make out for a while.”

“Sounds fun,” Richie says, smiling at the ceiling.

Eddie hums, and he’s already falling asleep, his head rising and falling with each of Richie’s breaths, peacefully curled up against his body. Richie closes his eyes, fingers still pressed against Eddie’s warm skin, and he feels him breathe, listening to the rain.

♡ buy me a coffee ♡

#put the ship at the top bc I've never written for them and i do not have an IT following #anyway this is probably the only thing ill write for them bc I've wanted to write this for like two years #but that being said i am weak so i may have more ideas who knows we'll see #anyway love u all mwah #reddie #reddie one shot #reddie fanfiction #richie tozier #richie tozier fanfic #eddie kaspbrak #eddie kaspbrak fanfic #it stephen king

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