Summary: Eddie doesn’t look up from where he’s crouched on the ground. His fingertips are grazing over the wood and Richie doesn’t have to look to know what he’s tracing.
“We were supposed to get married.” He finally glances over his shoulder, sparing Richie a quick look. “Do you remember?”
Richie nods numbly. “Yeah. Yeah, I remember.”
TW: N/A
Read on AO3
“Eddie.” Richie swallows the lump in his throat before continuing, “What are you doing here?”
Eddie doesn’t look up from where he’s crouched on the ground. His fingertips are grazing over the wood and Richie doesn’t have to look to know what he’s tracing.
“We were supposed to get married.” He finally glances over his shoulder, sparing Richie a quick look. “Do you remember?”
Richie nods numbly. “Yeah. Yeah, I remember.”
For a moment it’s silent.
Eddie sits, admiring the carvings of a fourteen year old Richie Tozier. And Richie stands, admiring the dirty and exhausted appearance of a forty year old Eddie Kaspbrak.
It’s a little disgusting. He’s covered in blood and filth from the sewers, mud caking his skin and dirt shoved under his fingernails. Richie can still see the puddle of blood seeping through Eddie’s jacket, where Pennywise had nicked him. Richie hates to think about what might have happened if he hadn’t gotten him out of the way in time. So he doesn’t think about it.
All in all, he’s in bad shape. But it’s not like Richie’s any better off. The only thing in the world he wants is a shower.
Well, he thinks, smiling softly at the back of Eddie’s head, maybe there’s one other thing he wants more.
Because despite all the grime and dirt, Richie still thinks Eddie’s beautiful.
“We couldn’t even get married at the time,” Eddie says suddenly. “But you were so sure. I didn’t think we’d have a fighting chance but you were so sure. I remember you tying that fucking string around my finger and telling me-”
“Spaghetti, as soon as the courts realize how dumb that all is and decide to legalize us, I’m marching right down to town hall and marrying your ass,” Richie quotes. He lets out a quiet laugh. For a moment he feels brave enough to say more. The moment passes. “How could I forget?”
Eddie shakes his head. “I’ve been wondering the same thing. How could I - How could I forget this? How could I forget you?”
Richie feels as if his heart’s been cracked in two. “It’s not your fault, Eds. We all forgot.”
“It’s not the same,” Eddie says. “You didn’t get married.”
“Eds-”
“You proposed and then I went and married someone else. How shitty is that? That’s like the ultimate cheater move.”
“Eddie, what are you talking about? You forgot everything. How could you have known?”
Richie wants to tell him how ridiculous he’s being. He wants to fucking nail it into his head: You’re being stupid. None of this is your fault. You didn’t mean to.
But all he can do is repeat the same words over and over again.
You forgot, you forgot, you forgot.
“You know I didn’t date anyone for nearly five years after I moved away,” Eddie says. He finally stands. Finally turns to look at Richie for good. Unshed tears are sparkling in his eyes and Richie wants nothing more than to lurch forward and hold him till they go away. But he doesn’t move. He can’t. “Took three years to even think about dating someone else. My first year of college someone was flirting with me and I told them I was seeing someone. I didn’t think I was, I couldn’t - I couldn’t remember. But it just felt right to say. When I finally started going on dates again I kept comparing them to you. I didn’t know it, but I was. Of course I was. The only thing I could think about was if they could make me laugh.”
“I get it,” Richie says. And he wants to say more. He wants to tell him he was the same. That every date he went on was compared to Eddie. But his throat closes up and he doesn’t say anything.
“Then Myra came along,” Eddie continues. “And she was nice, we were friends. She was my first real friend since moving. The first person I felt like I could really talk to. But my mom got in my head, convinced me I was in love with her. It all just kind of spiraled from there.”
“Are you?” Richie asks before he can stop himself. “In love with her, I mean.”
Eddie lets out a bark of laughter. “Am I in love with her? Richie, I’m gay. You should know that better than anyone.”
Richie shuffles his feet awkwardly. “I dunno. I thought maybe you were bi.”
“No,” Eddie says, shaking his head. “I just moved and immediately tried to re-oppress all my emotions.”
Richie chuckles softly. “Yeah, I hear you.”
“Sucks, doesn’t it?”
“Yeah, really fucked me up.”
Eddie’s frown deepens. “I think I fucked everything up. Myra’s not gonna be happy, I forced her into a fake marriage. And you - we - it’s too late for us.”
Richie chances a step forward. “You didn’t fuck it up, Eddie. Myra’s gonna understand. You said you guys are friends, right?” Eddie nods, though he still looks miserable. “She won’t be mad. As for us,” Richie swallows down the bile rising in his throat. “I would still do it.”
Eddie looks dumbfounded, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. “You would?”
A grin breaks out across Richie’s face and he rushes to close the gap between them. He grasps Eddie’s hands in his, pulling them up to hold against his chest. A wave of relief washes over him as soon as he does, as if he’s suddenly being reminded: Oh yeah, this is what I’ve been waiting for.
“Of course,” he says. “Of course I would.”
“You’ll have to get me a new ring,” Eddie says, a face-splitting grin on his face. “I lost the string one in a storm years ago.”
“I lost mine in an old apartment,” Richie admits. “I was devastated, even though I couldn’t remember why.”
Eddie giggles. “Can’t believe you forgot your own wedding.”
“Excuse you, I did not forget,” Richie says with a faux-horrified gasp. “Your mom looked very nice during our special day, by the way-”
“Shut up!” groans Eddie. “I cannot believe I agreed to deal with this again.”
“For the rest of your life, baby,” Richie beams, and he doesn’t miss the way Eddie’s cheeks turn pink at the nickname.
“We can’t just rush off to town hall though,” Eddie says, his voice serious again. “I’ll have to call Myra about getting a divorce.”
“Gives us time to plan,” Richie says. “Believe me, I am not wasting this on a town hall wedding. We’re gonna have the biggest, most obnoxious wedding of all time.”
Eddie laughs, the sound like music to Richie’s ears. “I don’t doubt that.”
And then Eddie’s kissing him.
It’s soft and sweet but also fast and needy, and it’s everything Richie’s been dreaming of since stepping foot in this hell of a town. It’s exactly like he remembers, Eddie’s arms around his neck and Richie’s hands on his hips.
“I love you,” Richie blurts, lips fumbling against Eddie’s.
His heart lurches to a stop in his chest. He hadn’t meant to say that. It’s too early. He can’t just say stuff like that-
“I love you too.”
Richie grins as he leans in for another kiss. He could get used to this for forever.
-
“I can’t believe you’re gonna be on the other side of the fucking country.”
Richie collapses on his bed, face buried in the mess of blankets.
“It’ll be okay,” Eddie says, gently carding his fingers through his boyfriend’s curls. “We’ll see each other during breaks. And we’ll write and call.”
“I know, but it’s not the same.”
“I know-”
“Your mom’s gonna miss me every night.”
“Fuck off!”
Richie cackles as Eddie shoves him off the bed.
“I changed my mind,” Eddie says. “I’m not gonna miss you.”
“Awe, c’mon Eds-”
“That is not my name.”
“I know you love it,” Richie grins as he clambers back onto the bed.
Eddie kisses him to avoid answering.
“You’re such an idiot,” he whispers. “I’m gonna miss you so much.”
“Not as much as I’m gonna miss you,” Richie says. He shuffles into a sitting position just so he can tug Eddie onto his lap. “Who am I gonna bother at school?”
“Everyone, I imagine.”
“Mhm, yeah, probably.”
Eddie kisses him softly. “You should just come to New York with me. We could get a shitty apartment. Maybe a dog.”
“That sounds nice,” Richie whispers. “But there’s no way we could afford it. Besides, your mom would murder me.”
Eddie huffs, his lower lip popping out in a little pout. It’s so cute that Richie can’t stop himself from swooping down and stealing a kiss.
“I can’t believe she’s following me all the way to New York,” Eddie groans. “Who does that?”
“People who know how cute you are, Eds,” Richie says, reaching up to pinch his cheek.
“Then why aren’t you following me?” Eddie says, a triumphant smirk on his face. “Huh? Does my own boyfriend hate my face that much?”
Richie just laughs, taking Eddie’s face between his hands and peppering kisses wherever he can reach. “I could never hate your face, Eds.” He kisses his nose softly. “I’m gonna miss this.”
“Me too,” murmurs Eddie. He worms his lower lip between his teeth, biting down hard enough to make him wince. “Rich? Do you really think this will work? I mean, what if one of us meets someone else? What if we can’t make it work? What if-”
“That won’t happen,” Richie insists, despite the fact that these same worries had plagued him during sleepless nights. “We’re gonna be alright, Eds.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. In fact-” Richie lifts Eddie off his lap, quickly scurrying to the other end of his room. For a moment he doesn’t say anything, just shuffles through a drawer that Eddie suspects has never once been cleaned. Then he turns around, a ball of string in one hand and scissors in the other. “In fact, I’ll make you a promise right now.”
He kneels next to the bed and snips off an end of the string. He takes Eddie’s hand gently between his own and wraps the string around his ring finger, just holding it in place.
“Eddie Kaspbrak, will you marry me?”
Eddie’s breath hitches. “What?”
“Do you want-”
“Yes,” Eddie nods furiously. “Yeah. Yes. Yes.”
Richie grins and quickly sets to work tying the string around Eddie’s finger.
“This isn’t even legal,” Eddie says breathlessly, but picks up another piece of string to tie around Richie’s finger anyway. “We can’t - You know we can’t - Not really -”
“Not right now, maybe,” Richie says. “But someday we can.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do know that,” Richie says, a soft smile on his face. “Because the world can’t be blind to love forever.”
“It doesn’t feel that way,” whispers Eddie. “All the slurs, all the laws. It feels like the entire world is against us.”
“Well, Spaghetti, as soon as the courts realize how dumb that all is and decide to legalize us, I’m marching right down to town hall and marrying your ass,” Richie grins.
And Eddie grins right back at him. “I can’t wait.”
Day 9 of these prompts. This one is...much lighter than the last couple. More about that rough phase of recovery where things aren’t quite okay, but overall it’s a positive. Also, sometimes a friend who cares is all the help you need =3
If you like my fics, feel free to tip through my Ko-fi.
Shackled
Class ended for lunch, and while other students had left the classroom littered with textbooks and bags, Chris put her things into her own bag to take with her. Even though her classmates had asked why she carried a heavy bag with her to lunch, and she had no answer to satisfy their curiosity, every day she stayed behind to pack her bag. She wasn’t comfortable explaining truths about her past.
“Yukine-san?”
Chris looked up to see a group of classmates, three friends who reached out to her daily. One of them, Otome, called for her attention while she was clipping her bag shut.
“What is it?” Chris asked.
“Do you want to have lunch with us?” Yuki held up a wrapped bento lunch. “It’s a nice day out, we were gonna hang outside.”
“Ah, maybe…” Chris ran excuses through her head. She was learning to socialize appropriately in the classroom, but the mere idea of spending lunch alone with people she barely knew made her heart pound.
“Ah, are you okay?” Otome reached out for the end of Chris’s sleeve, which had rolled up towards her elbow. Chris yanked her hand away and pulled her sleeve down over the scars around her wrist.
“Old injury,” Chris said hastily. “I uh, about lunch–”
“Was it,” Komichi lowered her voice to a scandalized whisper, “yourself?”
“It happened when I was a kid.” Chris stood from her desk and took a short step back. “I don’t talk about it.”
She fought against her binds for the first day. By the second, she was too tired to struggle. On the third, she’d stopped trying; her wrists had been rubbed raw and the burn of being touched was unbearable. The strength of a child was nothing compared to metal cuffs.
“It’s okay, you can talk with us,” Yuki pressed.
“We won’t judge you,” Otome said. “It’s not healthy to keep things to yourself.”
She’d been bound for so long that when she was rescued, feeling free was foreign. She never strayed far from where one of the adults had left her, despite the lack of restraints. Physically, she was capable of walking away as far as her atrophied legs could carry her, but the conceptual bonds hadn’t left her.
“I understand,” Komichi said. “It takes the pain on the inside away, I heard.”
“Do you need help?” Otome asked, taking a step closer.
“We’re here for you,” Yuki said.
Finé told her it was different when she restrained Chris, even if it felt the same as when her former captors had done it. She didn’t deserve it then, but she did now. This was for her own good, to protect her, to teach her how to behave. Chris hated herself for believing such an obvious lie.
“Chris-chan!” At the sharp cry of Hibiki’s voice, Chris flinched and looked to the doorway. “I forgot my lunch, can I borrow money to buy one?”
Chris silently thanked Hibiki for an excuse to leave as she pushed between the other girls, muttering, “Dummy, you couldn’t ask someone else?” Hibiki shrugged and flashed a sheepish grin as she goaded Chris out of the classroom.
Chris took a few deep breaths in the hallway and asked, “What did you want?”
“Miku has my lunch, I made it up.”
“Huh?”
“You didn’t show up so I got worried.” Hibiki rubbed the back of her neck. “You looked scared so I thought that would make them leave you alone.”
Chris huffed and stared at her toes as she walked. “Thanks, I guess.”
“Do you wanna talk?”
“Not really.”
Hibiki looked like she might implode from keeping her mouth shut, but to Chris’s relief, she had learned not to force herself into Chris’s problems. “Let me buy you something anyways,” Chris said. “I don’t want to owe you a debt or anything for this.”
Summary: “Is this the way it’s gonna be all summer?” Eddie asks, voice small.
Richie looks taken aback by the question. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, are you gonna stay over every night?” For a moment hurt flashes in Richie’s eyes, so Eddie hurriedly continues before he can get the wrong idea. “Are you gonna sleep in the same bed as me and then refuse to talk about it in the morning?”
He’s standing in a field, one he’s never seen in his life. But it seems almost recognizable. Richie’s only a foot away from him, blurry in Eddie’s dream-state. As if he’s seeing him through Richie’s own glasses. They always made the world blur together and his head spin.
His head isn’t spinning now, though. It’s crystal clear. He knows he only has one goal: get to Richie.
He steps forward, only to be abruptly stopped. It’s as if he’s walked into an invisible wall.
Thunk.
Curiously, he raises a hand and knocks against the force.
Once.
Thunk.
Twice.
Thunk.
Three times.
Thunk.
He glances at Richie, distraught, but the other boy doesn’t seem to have noticed. His expression is unchanging, staring at Eddie with a smile that makes his heart melt.
Eddie presses a flat palm against the force and waits patiently for Richie to join him.
Richie doesn’t move. Doesn’t step forward. All he does is slowly reach out a hand, as if begging Eddie to come closer.
I can’t, Eddie desperately wants to shout, you have to come here. You have to help me out here.
But he never gets the chance.
Because at that exact moment, he wakes up.
Thunk.
He glances groggily at the window.
For a split second he thinks he’s conjured Richie up with his mind. He dreamt about him, dreamt about begging him to come closer, and he complied. Of course he did.
But that’s ridiculous.
It’s the middle of the night, and he hasn’t even told Richie he’s gotten home yet.
Only, when he goes to peer out the window, it is Richie. He’s standing below him, hair mused and glasses sliding down his nose, with his right hand poised to toss another pebble towards Eddie’s window.
Eddie ignores the way his heart skips a beat.
“Richie?” he hisses. “What’re you doing here?”
The only response Richie offers is, “Jesus Chris, Eds, I was ready to give up on you.”
Eddie shakes his head, hoping it’ll help clear some of the sleep from his brain. “What on earth are you talking about?”
“Can I come in?” Richie asks.
Eddie nods and gestures for him to climb up.
“No, like, through the door,” Richie says, and he looks almost nervous. Feet shuffled and hands shoved into the front pockets of his jeans.
“The door?” Eddie wrinkles his nose. “You’ve never wanted to use the door before.”
“I know, but-”
“It’s only like a foot. You’ve climbed it a million times-”
“Eds-”
“You know it’s noisy. My mom will hear it and you know how that’ll end.”
Richie sighs. “Yeah. Yeah, alright. Just give me a hand.”
Eddie isn’t sure why Richie needs a hand, he’s never needed one before, but he reaches out nonetheless.
He doesn’t miss how Richie winces when he moves, or how he grinds his teeth when his feet hit the floor with perhaps a little more force than he intended.
“Is everything alright?” Eddie asks cautiously, moving to shut the window behind him.
“Just peachy.”
“Really?” Eddie’s eyebrows shoot up. “You decide to show up here in the middle of the night and ask to use the front door - which I’ve never heard you ask to do once in all my nineteen years of life - just for, what, kicks and giggles?”
“Well, yeah.”
“Bullshit.”
“What? I can’t miss my Eddie Spaghetti?” Richie reaches out to pinch Eddie’s cheek, and Eddie quickly knocks his hand away.
“Don’t call me that.”
“I see you didn’t miss me.”
His voice is teasing, but it still pulls at Eddie’s heartstrings.
“Of course I missed you,” he says softly. “I just...” He trails off, leaving the sentence dangling in the middle of the room. He just what? What could he possibly have to say?
“Aww, did ya?” Richie’s teasing him again, and it washes away any lingering awkwardness Eddie may feel.
Richie laughs as loudly as he dares (which isn’t very loud, with Eddie’s mom asleep in the other room) and sits himself down on the edge of Eddie’s bed.
“Can I sleep here tonight?” he asks, as casually as if he had just asked if he could grab a glass of water.
“Yeah, of course. Are you sure you’re alright?” Eddie, who had noticed the way Richie winced when he sat down, says.
“Mhm,” Richie nods. “Just tired. Night, Eds.”
And with that, he rolls over and burrows into the blankets. He doesn’t even bother to change out of his jeans.
Eddie cautiously climbs in with him, blinking owlishly at his back. He keeps expecting him to turn over, the way he usually does, so they can whisper words one can only hear when you’re an inch from your best friend’s face. But he never does.
2.
It’s only been an hour since Eddie last saw Richie.
They’d spent the day with the rest of the losers, spread out across Bill’s basement like when they were kids. There had hardly been a moment of silence the entire time, everyone rushing to catch the others up on the past year.
Eddie only remembers it in flashes.
He remembers Richie’s babbling about the student radio station at UCLA. He remembers Stan’s grin as he described the birds around his school. He remembers the sparkle in Richie’s eye as he talked about doing stand up at the local cafe. He remembers Bill’s rambling about the new creative writing program. He remembers Richie’s arms around his middle. He remembers Mike’s description of his new dorm room. He remembers the way Richie’s legs tangled with his own as they laid across the old couch. He remembers Bev’s story about the parties she’d stumbled into. He remembers how Richie pulled him flush against him. He remembers Ben’s flushed face as he admitted his daily visits to the campus gym. He remembers the way Richie’s face nuzzled against his shoulder.
He supposes he mostly remembers Richie.
He feels empty without his presence.
Not that he has to worry about that for long.
Thunk.
Something hot surges through Eddie’s veins and he leaps to his feet, nearly tripping over himself in his haste to get to the window. Sure enough, Richie’s staring up at him.
“Hey, ‘Chee!” Eddie grins.
“Hey! Help me up!”
“What? Not even gonna ask?”
Richie rolls his eyes as he wordlessly stretches his arm out towards the window. Instinctively, Eddie grabs him and helps hoist him up.
Richie’s barely made it inside before Eddie’s throwing his arms around his shoulders. Normally, Eddie would have enough sense to hold himself back. But he’s exhausted and his skin is still burning from where Richie held him earlier. He needs to be near him.
“Needy today, are we?”
“Shut up,” Eddie says, but there’s no bite behind it.
Richie chuckles, bringing his arms to rest around Eddie’s waist.
“Can I stay?”
“Of course.”
Eddie’s barely gotten the words out before Richie’s slipping out of his grasp and walking - limping - towards the bed.
“Do you want pajamas?” Eddie asks, ignoring the way his stomach drops.
Richie glances over his shoulder. “Aw, you gonna let me wear your clothes, Eds?” His grin stretches across his entire face, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.
“Fine. Whatever. Wear your jeans.”
“No! You already promised, fork them over, Kaspbrak!”
Eddie digs through his pajama drawer, chucking a pair of shorts and an old T-Shirt in Richie’s general direction.
Richie pulls his own shirt off without a second thought. But Eddie’s own thoughts come to a screeching halt. It’s not that he’s never seen Richie’s chest before, they would go swimming nearly once a week every summer. But he’s never been stripping in Eddie’s bedroom before.
“Enjoying the view, Eds?”
Eddie’s eyes snap back up to Richie’s face just as he drops his pants. Eddie wills his face to keep cool.
“Shut up, asshole.”
“So harsh.”
Eddie rolls his eyes, hoping his actions don’t betray how his stomach twists at the sight of Richie in his clothes.
“Yeah, I’m so mean for letting you take over my entire bedroom nearly every day.”
“Aw, you love it.”
Eddie doesn’t give him the pleasure of a response, because in all honesty, he does love it. He loves having this extra time with Richie. He loves having him all to himself.
He slips into bed beside him, frowning as Richie once again turns himself away.
“Rich?” he whispers, voice barely audible to his own ears.
But, apparently, Richie can hear it. He offers a small, “Hmm?” in response.
Eddie taps his shoulder blade gently, continuously jabbing his finger just under the bone, until Richie gives in and rolls over to face him. His eyes are shining slightly, the veil of tears hardly visible in the dull moonlight.
“Are you okay?” Eddie asks. It’s not what he meant to ask. But it’s what comes out.
“Yeah. I’m fine.”
“Okay,” mutters Eddie, even though the lie is obvious. “I love you. You know that, right?”
“Love you too, Eds.”
Eddie shuffles closer until there’s less than an inch between them. But he keeps his arms tucked close to his chest, careful not to touch the other boy.
“Richie?”
“Yeah?”
“Can we...” he hesitates, chewing uncertainly on his lower lip. Is he really about to ask this? “Can we cuddle?”
Richie’s eyebrows shoot up. Eddie thinks he sees a tear slip out. But he quickly shakes that thought away. It’s just his brain playing tricks on him. It must be.
“You want to cuddle?”
Eddie’s mind runs wild. What if he misread what happened at Bill’s? What if it’s all a joke to Richie? What if he knows what he really means?
Despite all this, he gives one, sharp nod.
Wordlessly, Richie closes the gap between them. His arms come to wrap around Eddie’s waist, and Eddie likes to think the way his hold is just a little too tight is Richie’s way of telling him, hey. I feel it too. I want it too.
Eddie buries his face in Richie’s chest, taking his chance to breathe him in. He can never pinpoint exactly what his smell is, he was never good at that, but his scent has always been distinctly safe. Not that Eddie could ever say that out loud, Richie would probably laugh him out of town if Eddie ever admitted it. But something about the way Richie smells never ceases to calm his nerves.
“Goodnight,” Eddie murmurs, fingers curling around the T-Shirt hugging Richie’s form.
Richie never responds.
3.
“Do you ever sleep at home?”
“I’m at home all day,” Richie says. It’s a lie. He’s out with the losers all day. “Besides, I’m an adult. I’m allowed to sleep wherever I want.”
Eddie, who witnessed Richie attempting to shovel an entire bag of jellybeans in his mouth just earlier that day, pointedly disagrees with this supposed adult claim. But he doesn’t say anything.
“Right.” Eddie chucks a new pair of pajamas at his friend. The ones from Richie’s last visit currently adorn Eddie’s own figure.
He flops onto the bed, choosing to stare up at the ceiling rather than relive the torture of watching Richie change again. If he had chosen the latter, then maybe he would’ve seen the bruises littering Richie’s chest and thighs.
But he didn’t. The only hint he has about these things is the grunt Richie lets out when he lands next to Eddie on the bed. Eddie can hear the pain in his voice, but he’s learned not to ask anymore.
“Is this the way it’s gonna be all summer?” Eddie asks, voice small.
Richie looks taken aback by the question. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, are you gonna stay over every night?” For a moment hurt flashes in Richie’s eyes, so Eddie hurriedly continues before he can get the wrong idea. “Are you gonna sleep in the same bed as me and then refuse to talk about it in the morning?”
“What’s there to talk about?”
Eddie shrugs. “I guess I don’t know. I just thought-”
“We’ve been doing this for years, Eddie.”
“I guess.”
“What’s different now?”
“I-” Eddie hesitates. He’s not sure. He knows something is different. He’s positive this is different from when they were thirteen and Richie would sneak in during those days Eddie’s mother was being particularly controlling. But he’s not sure how. He settles on, “We’re older now. And you refuse to talk to me. You sleep here and won’t even look at me most nights.”
“I’m tired,” Richie says simply. “I just wanna be with you, Eds. We don’t need to talk-”
“Do you know?” The words spill out of Eddie’s mouth without meaning to. They make his veins go cold and his hands go numb, but a part of him is glad they’re out. Maybe things will turn out in his favor. There has to be a reason Richie’s here every night, right?
“Do I know what?”
Eddie gnaws quietly on his fingernails. A trait he’s spent years trying to repress. He supposes it’s a bit ironic it’s coming up now.
Richie gently grabs Eddie’s hand, guiding it away from his mouth.
“Eddie. Do I know what?”
Eddie twists his neck to gaze at Richie, but the moment their eyes lock, Eddie’s tongue suddenly feels too big for his mouth. He tries to get it out - he really does - but the only sound he can make is a vague choking noise.
Richie squeezes his hand gently, as if to say, it’s okay. I’m right here. At least, that’s what Eddie would like to believe he’s saying.
Eddie tears his eyes away from his friend, focusing instead on the beige ceiling. Boring. He wishes Richie were that boring. Then maybe he wouldn’t be having this problem.
He clears his throat, as if making room for the words about to escape.
“That I’m in love with you.”
Richie’s hand - the one holding Eddie’s - goes limp, but he doesn’t pull away.
“We can’t talk about this.”
Eddie’s run this scenario through his head for the last six years. He’s gone over every possibly response - good and bad. But never in his wildest dreams had he considered this. And, somehow, it’s the worst possible answer.
“What?” Eddie winces at the way the word comes out more like a sob than anything else.
“I’m sorry-”
“You’re sorry?”
“Eds-”
“Richie what does that mean?”
“It’s just - we just can’t talk about it. It can’t happen.”
Eddie’s suddenly hyper aware of the hand still interlaced with Richie’s and he snatches it away as if he’s been burned. Richie doesn’t put a fight, but if Eddie had turned he might have noticed the tears threatening to fall in Richie’s own eyes.
“Alright,” Eddie says, hoping Richie doesn’t notice the way his voice wobbles. “Well, I’m sorry for bringing it up. You can go if you like. Wouldn’t want it getting out you shared a bed with the local fag.”
“Eds-”
“Goodnight, Richie.” His voice is sharp enough to shut Richie up for once. The silence is almost painful.
For the first time, Eddie’s the one to sleep facing away from Richie.
And if Eddie lets his tears fall in the safety of the dark, neither of them would discuss it in the morning.
4.
Thunk.
Eddie’s tempted not to answer.
Thunk.
He’s tempted to just leave Richie outside.
Thunk.
He’s tempted to teach Richie just how painful it is to be locked out.
Thunk.
But he can’t do that. Despite everything, he still loves Richie. So he storms his way to the window and throws it open, not bothering to help Richie up this time. He regrets that the tiniest bit when he hears the ragged breath Richie lets out.
But he doesn’t have time to ask about it.
“Gee, Eds, what were you doing up here? I was starting to think you were gonna abandon me out there.”
“Thought about it,” Eddie deadpans.
“Aw, c’mon. I know you love me-”
That, combined with the way Richie ever so casually comes up behind Eddie and throws his arms around his shoulders, causes something to snap inside Eddie.
“Fuck off!” he snarls, gripping Richie’s wrist and chucking it as far away from himself as possible.
He practically throws himself onto his bed, pulling the covers all the way up to his chin. If he can’t be safe in Richie’s grip, this is a close second.
“Eds,” Richie sighs, crossing so he’s kneeling in front of Eddie’s face. “You can’t keep being like this. Everyone’s noticed.”
“Oh how hard for them.”
“I don’t want this to ruin our friendship. I lov-”
“Then maybe you should fucking talk to me!” Eddie spits.
“I-”
“You can’t? How fucking funny. That’s fucking crazy. What a fucking wonderful conversation we’re having right now.”
“Eddie, please. Can’t we just act like everything’s okay?”
“You just want to ignore it?” Eddie shouts incredulously.
“I-”
“Well I can’t, Rich. I’m sorry if that’s inconvenient for you.”
“I’m sor-”
“Look, you can stay here tonight. Just be quiet, okay?”
Eddie barely gives Richie time to nod before he’s turning away from him.
The last thing Eddie hears is a soft, “Goodnight, Eds.”
5.
“I really need to use the front door.”
“Richie, we’ve had this conversation. It’s too dangerous, my mom-”
“Eddie, please. I really can’t make it up this time.”
Something in Richie’s voice makes him break. Something about how raw he sounds, something about how his voice breaks when he pleads.
“Alright,” Eddie nods. “Meet me out front. Be careful.”
Richie nods hurriedly and stumbles around the corner.
Eddie’s in less of a hurry. Each step seems to take an eternity. His heart is just about beating out of his chest the entire time. The front door squeaks as it opens and Eddie nearly shrieks in terror. All in all, it’s one of the more terrifying experiences of his life.
But, by some miracle, they make it back to Eddie’s room without disturbing Sonia Kaspbrak’s slumber.
Eddie doesn’t let himself breathe until his bedroom door is securely shut behind them. But once it is, he immediately wheels around on Richie.
“Why the fuck did you need to use the front door?”
And that’s when he sees them.
Bruises - or perhaps one large bruise - litter Richie’s neck. His original skin tone is barely visible, hidden behind a curtain of purple and yellow.
Eddie gently brings his hand up to brush against the nape of Richie’s neck, briefly forgetting their little tiff. But when Richie flinches, Eddie quickly snatches his hand back to himself.
“Sorry,” he says. “What happened? Are these finger prints? Who did this to you?”
“Relax, Eds,” Richie says, and Eddie winces at how hoarse he sounds. “It’s fine.”
“It’s not fine!” insists Eddie. “You have someone’s hand imprinted on your neck! How is that fine?”
“Just drop it.”
“No!”
Richie pointedly ignores him, instead taking it upon himself to search through Eddie’s pajamas.
“You want to ignore every other problem in your life? Fine. But you can’t ignore this! I won’t ignore this!”
“It’s not your problem, Eddie.”
“You’re my best friend, it is my problem.”
“That doesn’t make it your problem.”
“You came to me.”
“So?”
“So if you’re going to come to me with your problems, then you’re gonna have to deal with me trying to fix them.”
Richie sighs as he sits on the edge of Eddie’s bed. “I just don’t wanna be alone right now.”
“You don’t have to be,” Eddie says, rushing to sit by his side. “I promise. But I’m not going to just sit here and-”
“It was Patrick.”
Eddie’s taken aback by the sudden admittance of truth. “Hockstetter?”
Richie nods. “Mhm.”
“How did you run into Patrick at this hour?”
“I-” Richie suddenly looks like he’s thirteen again. Scared and vulnerable and unsure of his place in the world. It makes Eddie want to hold him in his arms and pull him as close as possible, to reassure him he won’t let anything happen to him. So he does. He wraps Richie in his arms and pulls him closer until his head in buried in Eddie’s shoulder. “I met up with him.”
“What‽” To say that is not what Eddie was expecting would be an understatement. “Why‽”
“It’s complicated,” Richie whispers. “A few days before you got home, Bowers and his gang caught me...” he fiddles his fingers, twisting and turning until the skin around his knuckles have gone white. “I was re-carving something. On the kissing bridge. And they figured out what it meant. And now they know...” He takes a shaky breath, and his hand shoots up to grasp the hand Eddie has around his shoulders. “And now they know I’m gay. And I guess Patrick is also -” He clears his throat hurriedly “- gay. And he...he wanted a supposed willing participant in...certain activities. And I dunno. I didn’t know how to get out of it without, ya know, dying.”
Eddie tries to push his own emotions to the back of his head. It doesn’t matter what he thinks. It doesn’t matter what he feels. Richie’s hurt. Richie needs help.
“It kind of looks like you’re dying anyway, ‘Chee.”
Richie chuckles quietly. “Yeah. I guess so.”
“So you’ve been coming here-”
“Straight from Patrick’s,” Richie says. “I’m sorry. I just can’t stand being on my own. The first few times I went home afterwards but all I could think about was his hands all over me and I felt gross and dirty. And then one day I remembered you were supposed to be getting in town so I figured: Hey, why not go check? And then it was so much easier to sleep at night when you were snoring beside me. I know that’s ridiculous-”
“No!” Eddie says. “No, it’s not ridiculous. You’re okay, ‘Chee. You’re alright.” He tightens his hold on his friend. “I won’t let him get to you. Not in here.”
Richie nods, burrowing closer to Eddie. “Can we go to bed?”
“Yeah. Of course. Of course. Do you wanna get changed first?”
Richie nods wordlessly, gathering the pajamas he had abandoned on the floor. He doesn’t move from his place on the bed, instead opting to awkwardly shimmy out of his jeans. Eddie sucks in a sharp breath as he finally notices the bruises across the rest of Richie’s body. But he doesn’t comment.
As soon as Richie’s gotten his pajamas on, he tugs Eddie under the blankets and curls up next to him. Eddie wraps his arms around him, holding him just a little too tightly. The only thing on his mind is to replicate the safety he feels when Richie’s holding him.
Richie presses himself as close to Eddie as he possibly can, as if he’s trying to melt into him.
“I love you,” Eddie murmurs. “I’m gonna help you get out of this, okay?”
“You can’t-”
“I will.”
He drops a kiss to Richie’s forehead, for once ignoring the way his head screams at him to pull away.
“I love you too, Eds.” The words are muffled by Eddie’s T-Shirt, but they pump Eddie’s heart full of sunshine.
Eddie shuffles closer, twisting their legs together. There’s hardly a centimeter of space between them, but Eddie desperately wants to bring them even closer. It’s the only thing he can think to do to protect Richie. And, right now, protecting him is the only thing on Eddie’s mind.
Various scenarios where Eddie saves Richie from Patrick’s vicious grasp flit through his brain. But none of it is realistic. None of it could happen. For now, all he can do is hold him and hope.
The last thing he hears is Richie’s voice, slurred with sleep, “It should’ve been you.”
6.
The next time Richie crawls through his window, Eddie’s quick to give him pajamas and let him curl up next to him, but he doesn’t say much. How could he? What’s he supposed to say?
Sometimes he imagines giving Richie a piece of his mind. He lays in bed, staring up at the ceiling, and pictures the whole conversation in his head.
How could you say that? He would shout. How could you wish something so awful upon me? After all I’ve done for you?
But then Richie shows up for real. And Eddie can’t bring himself to say any of it. Not when Richie looks so tired and beaten up already. Eddie can’t contribute to that. No matter how upset he is.
So, for the next three nights, the two of them hardly say a word to each other.
Eddie’s sure Richie can feel it. He can tell in the way Richie’s movements are nervous and careful, as if worried he might frighten him. He can tell in the way Richie avoids making direct eye contact with him. He can tell in the way Richie had never again initiated any sort of cuddling. In fact, he’s gone back to sleeping with his back to Eddie.
Not that Eddie notices. Or cares. He’s started sleeping with his back to Richie as well.
Even the other losers have noticed. During the day Richie’s still the same old Richie. He’s jokes and laughs and pokes fun at all of them. Eddie’s stopped laughing, stopped responding, stopped rolling his eyes. Most of the time, he acts as if he hadn’t even heard him.
And it tears his heart in two. Because every time Richie says something, Eddie can feel his gaze on the back of his head. Waiting for Eddie’s reply. But it never comes.
Sometimes the need to respond - to let Richie know he still cares - is so strong Eddie feels as if he’s on fire. And he almost sidles up next to Richie again, letting their arms brush together ever-so-slightly. Just to tell him, I’m here. I’ll always be here.
But then he remembers what he said. And the fire turns to ice.
So when Richie crawls through his window tonight, there are pajamas folded carefully on the foot of the bed and enough room in said bed for Richie to sleep comfortably without having to touch Eddie. But Eddie’s already asleep.
7.
“Okay, what’s wrong?”
Eddie blinks blearily up at Richie. The window is closed again and Richie’s changed into Eddie’s pajamas. He’s also pulled all the covers off Eddie and is currently standing above him, arms crossed and eyes full of fire.
“Dude, what the fuck?” groans Eddie. “Give me my blankets back.”
“No! It’s not my fault you’re cold all the time!”
“At this moment, it is. Because you’re the one who stole the blankets.”
“You can have them back if you tell me what’s been going on with you,” Richie reasons, looking smug with himself.
“Are you fucking serious?” Eddie hisses, because how could he not know? “Now you wanna talk?”
“You’re still hung up on that?” Richie spits. “That was forever ago! I spilled my entire guts to you like a week go, do you not remember that?”
“I remember.”
“Good. Then why are you acting like a piece of shit.”
“Me?” Eddie shouts incredulously, finally shooting upright. “I’m the one acting like a piece of shit?”
“Yeah!” Richie cries out. “I told you everything and the very next day you outright refused to talk to me!”
“And you’re surprised by that?”
“Yes! The night before you said you were gonna help me. You said you loved me.”
“I am helping you. I thought you said letting you stay here was helping you.”
“Not like this,” Richie insists. “This is so much worse than sleeping at home.”
“Then sleep at home!”
“No! I want to know what’s wrong!”
“Jesus, Rich,” snarls Eddie. “How are you so fucking stupid? You can’t say shit like that to people and then expect them not to be pissed-”
Richie’s facade crumbles. The anger falls away, and he’s left with nothing but hurt and fear. It almost makes Eddie want to pull him close again. Almost.
“This is because of what I told you?” he whispers. “Are you - Do you - Do you think I’m dirty?”
His eyes are wide and vulnerable, basically pleading for Eddie to give him an answer. He looks like one of the answers might shatter his entire world.
“No,” Eddie says. “No, of course not. I don’t-”
“Then why? What did I say, Eds?”
Tears are spilling out of Richie’s eyes now. Eddie wants to turn away, to act as if he never saw them. But it’s too late. It’s too late and now he couldn’t look away if his life depended on it.
Richie’s hands are shaking and his nose is snotty and his breath is ragged and he seems to have an array of brand new bruises and it’s all just too much for Eddie. Suddenly the thought of fighting back is the worst idea Eddie’s ever had in his life. Suddenly the words on his tongue are too vile even to think about.
So, even though it should be obvious, Eddie tells him. “Right before we went to bed. You said it should’ve been me.”
“Oh.” Richie moves to sit next to him, but keeps his hands to himself. “I didn’t know you heard that. I thought you were asleep.”
“Would that have made it okay? Suddenly it’s less fucked?”
Richie’s shoulders shake. Eddie wants to steady them. He also hates the thought of touching them.
“I thought you liked me,” Richie whispers, not bothering to hide how his voice shakes.
Eddie falters. That wasn’t a response he was expecting.
“I do,” he says. “But that doesn’t mean you can say whatever the fuck you want.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
“I know what you’re going through is rough,” Eddie says. “And you can do whatever you need to to get through it - I won’t stop you. But I just - it was scary.”
“Yeah. It’s scary,” Richie whispers. “But it would’ve been nicer with you.”
And suddenly the fire is back, surging through Eddie’s veins at an almost alarming pace.
“You think Patrick would’ve enjoyed fucking me more?” he snarls.
Richie blanches. “What?”
“That’s what you meant, right?” Eddie sneers. “It should’ve been you. I should’ve been the one Patrick set his eyes on. Right?”
“Eds. No. That’s not what I meant.” Richie dives forward, grabbing Eddie’s hands in his own. “That’s not at all what I meant. Holy shit.”
“What else could you have fucking meant?” Eddie spits, trying to pull his hands out of Richie’s grasp. But Richie holds on tight.
“I meant you should have been the one to take my virginity,” Richie says. “I didn’t - God. Patrick would never deserve you, not in a million years.”
“You - What?” Eddie can barely get the word out. He feels as if his brain has short circuited.
“Yeah,” Richie murmurs. “That should’ve been yours.”
“But - But - But you said you didn’t like me. Not like that. You said-”
“I know, I know. I’m so sorry.” Richie looks sorry. He looks like he’s about to fall apart. “It was just because of Patrick. I didn’t want you to get involved. I didn’t want anything to happen to you.” He takes Eddie’s face between his hands, grinning through the tears pouring out from beneath his glasses. “I like you so much, Eds. So much it hurts.”
Eddie nods. Because he understands. He understands exactly what he means.
“Kiss me?” he says, breathless.
“Eddie-”
“I don’t care about Patrick. I don’t fucking care what he might do to me. I just - I want to kiss you. Please, ‘Chee?”
And then Richie’s leaning forward, guiding Eddie’s face towards him as he goes. And suddenly he’s kissing him, and it might be the best thing to have ever happened in Eddie’s whole life.
8.
“I have good news.” Richie punctuates his sentence with a burning kiss to Eddie’s lips. “I have really good news.”
“Really? Because you look like someone tried to kill you.” It’s a joke, but it comes out more worried than Eddie intended. He can’t help it though. He is worried. He’s always worried.
“That’s part of the good news,” Richie insists. He’s bouncing on his feet as if he can’t even feel the bruises blooming across his skin.
“I can’t see how-”
“I told Patrick I wasn’t coming back.”
Richie looks so proud of himself, grinning despite the purple splotches beneath his eye and the crack in his glasses.
“Did you really?” Eddie says, feeling breathless.
Richie nods furiously. “I mean, you can probably tell it didn’t go great. But I think this is the first step to something good!”
“Yeah!” Eddie says. And then, because he can’t think of anything else, “Yes! Yes! OhmyGod!” He pulls Richie into a hug, fingers digging into his shoulders in his haste. “This is really good, Rich!” Then, softer, “I’m really proud of you.”
“Thanks,” murmurs Richie, his fingers carding through Eddie’s hair. “It’s all thanks to you, Eds.”
“No. No, no way. This is all you.” Eddie pulls away from the hug only to slot his lips against Richie’s. “You were brave all on your own.”
Richie sighs softly, his hand dropping from Eddie’s hair to rest against the back of his neck.
“I love you,” Richie says softly. “I love you so much. I’m so sorry it had to happen this way.”
“It’s okay,” Eddie says, his lips fumbling against Richie’s as he speaks. “It’s okay. It wasn’t your fault.”
Richie pulls him into another kiss, his free hand coming to rest against Eddie’s hip. Eddie can’t help but grin. This is what the rest of his life will look like, he’s just decided. Just him and Richie and far too much love in their hearts. The thought fills him with a sense of calm he hasn’t felt in years. Maybe hasn’t ever felt.
But Eddie’s never allowed to feel calm for long.
Thunk.
Eddie’s first thought is, Richie! But Richie’s right next to him. Richie’s fastened between his arms.
So then who the fuck is at his window?
Richie’s white as a sheet, and Eddie doesn’t understand why until he turns and sees a Cheshire Cat smile staring at him from behind the glass.
“Holy shit,” he whispers.
Patrick knocks again. A silent question, let me in? No, not a question. A demand. Let me in!
Eddie shakes his head. He won’t. He can’t. He promised.
“C’mon, Kaspbrak,” Patrick says, grinning like a shark poised to kill. “Don’t be a prude, let me in.”
Don’t be a prude. What does that mean? What does that mean?
“Let me in!”
Thunk!
His fist slams against the window.
“Let me in!”
Thunk!
Again.
“Let me in!”
Thunk!
“Let me in!”
Thunk!
“Let me in!”
Crack!
Patrick’s eyes are wide and crazed, darting between Richie and Eddie as if deciding on his next meal. He’s still grinning, but his voice, though muffled through the glass, is like jagged glass on a beach. Sharp and dirty and dangerous and strangled. Eddie’s a bit worried his vocal cords may snap. Actually, he’s hoping his vocal cords snap.
Speaking of which, Patrick’s fist is hovering over a large crack in Eddie’s window.
Eddie’s mom is going to kill him.
Fuck. His mom.
His eyes dart wildly towards his bedroom door. If she finds out about any of this he’ll be locked up for the rest of the summer.
Richie follows his eyes and, catching his train of thought, reaches over to squeeze Eddie’s hand.
“Open it, Eds,” he says softly.
“What? No!”
“He’s going to shatter your fucking window, Eddie. Just let him in.”
“No! He can’t be in my house. He can’t. It’s supposed to be safe here. It’s supposed to be safe! He can’t come in!”
Crack!
Eddie flinches as Patrick slams his fist against the window once more. The crack widens.
Despite the pleading look in Richie’s eye, Eddie shakes his head. He won’t. He won’t willingly endanger them. If Richie wants to open the window he’s going to have to work up the nerve to do it himself, because Eddie won’t.
Except that’s exactly what Richie does. He marches towards the window and throws it open, standing stiff as a board as Patrick clambers in.
He glances casually around the room, as if he hadn’t been screaming bloody murder a second ago. He takes in the pristine desk, the off-white walls, the unopened pill bottles lined up in a perfect row. He takes it all in. And fucking smirks.
“Well, Rich, if I had known you were coming here for sloppy seconds, I might have joined ya.”
The blood drains from Richie’s face. “That’s not what happened.”
Patrick cocks his head curiously. “Funny. That’s not what it looked like.”
Richie squeezes his eyes shut. The clear mantra of fuckfuckfuckfuck repeating in his head. It only makes Patrick’s grin widen. He reaches out to run his fingers through Richie’s hair, tugging until Richie gives in and steps closer.
They’re chest to chest now and Eddie’s blood boils at how Patrick’s hand ever so casually slips into Richie’s back pocket.
“Do you have something to say to me, Richie?” Patrick says, his voice low and dangerous. The same tone he had moments before he helped Henry break Eddie’s arm clean in half all those summers ago. It makes Eddie’s hair stand on end.
Richie shakes his head. Or he tries to. There’s not much he can do with Patrick’s hold on him.
“No?” Patrick tugs harder, pulling Richie’s head back to put his neck on full display. “Are you sure?”
The moment Patrick’s lips touch Richie’s neck, Eddie’s trance in broken. Something snaps inside him. He promised Richie he would be safe. This was supposed to be the one place he wouldn’t have to worry. He had promised.
Eddie lurches forward, tearing Richie out of Patrick grasp. Richie yelps as a fistful of hair is left behind between Patrick’s fingers and while the sound makes Eddie want to die inside just a little bit, it’s still better than the alternative.
Eddie quickly pushes Richie behind him, keeping one hand loosely around Richie’s wrist. He points the other accusingly at Patrick. “You need to get the fuck out of my house.”
“Finally decided to grow a backbone, Kapsbrak?”
Eddie’s glare holds steady, even as Patrick saunters towards him, a mocking pout on his lips.
“Too bad,” he says with a sigh. “I almost liked it better when all it took to break you was a few hits. You were always a blubbering mess by the time we were through with you.”
Before Eddie’s even had a chance to process the words, he’s being slammed against the mattress. He struggles and kicks and squirms but Patrick’s always been bigger and stronger than him, it would have been silly to think that would change now. It doesn’t take much before Patrick’s straddling Eddie’s waist, trapping him beneath his weight, and pinning his arms above his head with one hand.
“Maybe this will be fun,” he says, reaching up to pinch Eddie’s cheek with his free hand. “I had forgotten how feisty you were, Eds.”
“Don’t call me that,” Eddie spits. It’s not like when he tells Richie. Richie knows he doesn’t mean it. Richie knows, deep down, that Eddie likes the nickname. Likes the attention Richie gives him. Today, right now, he means every word.
“Patrick, come on, don’t do this.” Richie’s hidden from Eddie’s eyesight, overshadowed by the monster on top of him, but his voice still does wonders to calm Eddie’s nerves. It’s not like he’s at a fucking spa or anything, but at least he knows he’s still there. “Please.”
“Don’t worry, Rich, you can join us in a moment,” Patrick drawls. His hand trails down Eddie’s face, lingering at his neck. His fingers wrap around Eddie’s throat, tight enough to be uncomfortable (not that Eddie can imagine any situation where this is comfortable), but not quite cutting off the airflow yet.
Yet. That’s an important part of the sentence.
Eddie knows it’s coming. He knows he’s going to have his own set of bruises to match Richie’s in just a few hours.
The thought makes hot tears prick at his eyes. No matter how hard he tries to make them go away, they slip out. They slide down his cheeks like a hot knife sliding through butter. The horror that fills his chest only makes them come faster, which only adds to the horror. It’s a horrible cycle, really.
Patrick grins down at him. “There it is.”
The fingers around Eddie’s throat are just starting to tighten, jagged nails digging into his flesh, when suddenly Richie’s there, arms draped over Patrick’s shoulders and lips nipping at his neck.
“I missed you,” Richie says, eyelashes fluttering. “You can’t leave me out like this.”
In a moment of distraction, Patrick’s hands fall away from Eddie’s wrists, instead opting to tangle themselves in Richie’s hair.
Even though his hands are free, Eddie can hardly move. He feels as if hundred pound weights have been tied to his arms.
“But you’ve been bad,” Patrick drawls. “Don’t you think I should punish you?”
“Mhm,” Richie says, hands massaging over Patrick’s chest.
His eyes flick towards Eddie, then towards the lamp on the bedside table. Then back to Eddie.
Richie’s voice is light and teasing, but his eyes are anything but. Do it, they say, do it now.
And Eddie could never disappoint Richie. So Eddie drags one trembling hand across the mattress.
“What should I do to you?” Patrick growls.
Eddie’s nearly to the edge of the mattress.
Richie bats his eyelashes. “Whatever you think is necessary.”
Eddie’s fingers spill over the edge.
A smirk splits across Patrick’s face. “I like the sound of that.”
Eddie’s fingertips graze across the edge of the desk.
“I thought you might,” Richie says, trapping his lower lip between his teeth.
Eddie’s fingers close around the neck of the lamp. Before he can second guess himself, he lifts the lamp into the air and smashes it across Patrick’s face, just barely missing Richie’s head. Patrick lets out a shriek that under normal circumstances Eddie would fear would wake his mother, and nearly topples off the bed. Eddie quickly squirms out from underneath him, pulling Richie with him as he goes, and brandishes the half smashes lamp in Patrick’s general direction.
“Get the fuck out of my house,” he snarls.
Patrick stumbles, hand clutching the side of his face. Blood spills from between his fingers, dribbling down his chin and landing in little splotches along Eddie’s floor.
“Didn’t think you had it in you Kapsbrak,” Patrick says, eyeing his red-stained hands curiously.
“I’m fucking serious,” Eddie says, ignoring the way his voice trembles. “Get out.”
Patrick steps forward. Eddie’s knees buckle, begging to be at least one step further from Patrick, but he stands his ground.
Eddie’s still clutching the half-shattered lamp, though he’s suddenly not so sure what he plans to do with it.
“Oh?” Patrick says. “You gonna make me? How do you plan to do that?”
Richie’s there in an instant, a loose shard of the lamp clutched in his fist. He plunges the shard into Patrick’s shoulder, blood spurting across his face.
“Get out,” he growls. “Get out or I swear I’ll kill you.”
Patrick doesn’t look scared. In fact, he looks almost pleased. Like this is the exact outcome he wanted. But he starts to stumble towards the window anyway.
“You’re dead,” he says. “You better pray we don’t find you tomorrow because you’re fucking dead.”
With one yank, he pulls the shard out of his shoulder and chucks it in Eddie’s general direction. It lands at his feet with a hollow clatter. And then he’s gone. Leaps out the window and disappears into the night.
Richie slams the window shut, breathing heavy and ragged.
“Holy shit,” he whispers.
“He was in my house,” Eddie mutters. He slowly sinks to the ground, pulling his knees up against his chest. “He was in my house. He was in my fucking house.”
In a flash, Richie’s at his side. He pulls Eddie against his chest, gently running his hands up and down his back.
Richie doesn’t say anything, there’s nothing to say. No words of comfort can truly be comforting after an attack like that. So they just sit in the quiet, sharing silent tears.
Eddie’s not sure how long they sit like that. In reality, it’s probably only been a few seconds. But it feels as if it’s been hours when his bedroom door starts to shake.
His breath catches in his throat, frozen terror settling in his veins, as he considers the possibilities. Is Patrick back? Did he bring friends? Have they hurt his mother?
Ironically, it’s his mother’s voice that screeches through the door a moment later.
“Eddie-kins? Why’s this door locked? What’s going on in there?”
Eddie lets out a breath.
“It’s fine, ma,” he says, fighting to keep his voice steady. “Just fell out of bed.”
“Are you hurt? Let me in!”
“No, no, I’m fine. I promise.”
“I thought I heard yelling-”
“I’m fine, ma! Just go back to bed.”
Eddie buries his head in his knees as his mother’s retreating footsteps echo down the hall.
“She heard everything,” he whispers. “She heard everything and waited until afterwards to come and check. I could’ve been dead, ‘Chee!”
Richie threads his fingers through Eddie’s hair. “I know. But you’re not. You’re alright.”
“But-”
“You’re alright.”
And Eddie believes him.
“Can you stay?” he whispers into the soft material of Richie’s T-Shirt.
He feels Richie nod more than sees him. “Of course.”
Eddie slips out of Richie’s grasp and although he misses his warmth immediately, he knows it has to be done. He tugs the blankets off the bed, bundling them in his arms before scattering them around the cleanest patch of floor he can find.
Richie watches him intently, but for once doesn’t say a word. Because he knows why. He understands. He wouldn’t want to sleep in his bed either after that.
He follows Eddie’s lead, cocooning themselves amongst the loose blankets. He wraps an arm around Eddie’s middle, gripping him as if worried he might disappear, and buries his nose in his hair.
Neither of them sleep much that night, opting instead to share hushed whispers and secret smiles. But who can blame them?
9.
Thunk!
Eddie nearly leaps out of his skin at the noise. He tuns, half expecting to see Patrick grinning back at him. But the only person there is Richie.
His glasses are still cracked and bruises (though lighter now) still litter his skin, but he’s grinning like he’s the happiest man on earth. He looks better. A lot better.
Eddie scurries over to open the window, a laugh bubbling out of his throat as Richie awkwardly clambers inside.
“Climbed up all on your own today I see,” Eddie says.
“Yep!” Richie grins. “Aren’t you proud of me?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Do I get a reward?”
Eddie rolls his eyes. But, simply because he physically cannot resist Richie, he leans over and gently pecks his lips.
“Good?” he says, voice soft as velvet.
“Good enough for now,” Richie drawls. His eyes dart around the room. It has returned to its usual spotless state, the shattered lamp nowhere to be scene and the floor scrubbed until the blood was only a memory. “Is this where you were all day?”
“Mhm,” nods Eddie.
“You promised you were gonna meet up with us,” Richie says. “You told me this morning. Made me look like a damn fool in front of the others.”
Eddie scoffs. “You are a fool.”
Rich gasps, affronted. “How dare you! I’ll have you know this here is the smartest, most charming fool you could ever meet.”
“Uh-huh sure,” Eddie says. He moves to sit on the floor, pulling Richie down with him. “I was only gonna clean for a little bit. Just until the worst of it was gone. But-” he tugs his lower lip gently between his teeth. What if Richie thinks he’s weird? What if he thinks he’s lame? What if he doesn’t understand? Whatifwhatifwhatifwhatif. “-But the worst was all of it. I just - I just needed it to be gone. I couldn’t look at it anymore.”
He doesn’t realize he’s crying until Richie gently wipes the pad of his thumb across his cheekbone.
“I know what you mean,” Richie whispers. “I took the longest shower of my life after that first time. Scrubbed until I was raw red.”
Eddie shudders. “That’s awful, Richie. I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay,” Richie whispers, though the strain in his voice tells otherwise.
Eddie wants to insist that it’s not. He wants to beg Richie to tell him what’s wrong. He wants to pull him close and kiss him until nothing hurts anymore.
But he doesn’t do any of these things. If Richie wants to talk, he will.
Instead Eddie gently reaches out to lace their fingers together, fitting his head in the crook of Richie’s neck.
“Besides,” grins Richie. “I got to spend the last few weeks curled up in bed with this cute face.”
Eddie swats his hand away as Richie reaches up to pinch his cheek.
“Stop,” he groans. “God, you’re the worst.”
Richie lets out a boisterous laugh and wraps his arms around Eddie’s shoulders. He tugs him closer until he’s flush against his chest, Eddie basically on his lap, and presses a kiss to the smaller boy’s temple.
“You love me,” Richie says.
“Absolutely not,” Eddie says, though he makes no effort to get away.
Richie lets out a loud mock-gasp. “Eds, how could you say that? After I’ve just confessed my undying love for you-”
“Actually I think I confessed to you.”
“Details, details,” Richie says flippantly.
Eddie shakes his head, glad he’s facing away from Richie so the other boy can’t see the smile forming on his lips.
“I do love you,” Richie says, his voice softer now. “You know that, right?”
Eddie nods, but he feels as if the wind’s been knocked out of him. “I know.” He threads his fingers through Richie’s once more, bringing their intertwined hands up to brush against his lips. “Are you gonna stay here tonight?”
“Mhm,” Richie says, burying his nose in Eddie’s hair. “Was planning on it.”
“Good,” Eddie grins.
“Eds, I love you, but this floor hurts my ass.”
Eddie tumbles off of him and a moment later he’s being pulled to his feet. Richie gently tugs him towards the bed, but Eddie goes stiff at the sight.
“No.”
“Eds-”
“No, Rich,” Eddie says. He sees Richie flinch and it takes him a moment to realize it’s due to his own fingers tightening around Richie’s hand. He quickly loosens his hold, but it doesn’t do much to relax the rest of him. “No. I can’t - I don’t want to - I can still - I don’t-”
Eddie’s well aware that even he doesn’t know what he’s saying. Luckily, Richie seems to understand. He cradles Eddie’s face between his palms, peppering him in tiny kisses until his breathing evens.
“I know, Eds,” he murmurs. “It sucks. It’s always gonna suck. But he’s not here now, and you can’t sleep on the floor forever.”
“I could-”
“It would suck.”
“Well, yeah, but so would-”
“I’ll be there,” Richie says. And when Eddie looks into his eyes he sees the all too familiar terror. “I’ll stay with you all night. We’ll help each other, yeah?”
Slowly, Eddie nods. “Yeah.”
“Alright.”
Richie guides him into the bed, hands feather-light on his shoulders. For a moment all Eddie can think about is dirty hands around his neck and wandering eyes following his every move. It makes him feel filthy. So filthy that he nearly leaps out of bed and rushes down the hall to the shower.
But then Richie’s there.
Richie’s there and he’s pulling him as close as he possibly can. Eddie can hear his heartbeat in his ear and he knows Richie’s just as scared as he is. So he reaches out and slings an arm over Richie’s side, rubbing his open palm over his back.
“What is this?” he asks. He hadn’t meant for the words to come out, he wasn’t even aware he was thinking about them. But they’re out now, and there’s no way to put them back in. That seems to be happening a lot lately.
“I dunno,” Richie says. Not the most comforting answer. “Whatever you want it to be, I guess.”
Eddie knows what he wants it to be.
“I like this,” he says softly. “I like you. I’ve always liked you.”
“You’re such a sap.”
“Shut up.”
Richie chuckles. “You can’t put the cat back in the bag, Spaghetti. I should have known you were a sap for little old me. You always-”
“Do you want to be my boyfriend?”
Fuck.
“Oh,” Richie breathes out quietly.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck.
“Yeah,” Richie says. “Yeah, of course.”
Eddie lets out a breath he hadn’t even known he was holding. “Fuck you, that was the worst wait of my life.”
“It was like five seconds!”
“It was the worst.” Eddie gently presses his lips against Richie’s collarbone. “But definitely worth it. I love you.”
“I love you too.”
They fall asleep like that, cocooned in each other’s arms. And for the first time in a long time, when they wake up, the first thing they do is smile.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Sorry I haven’t been posting updates on here, but I recently posted chapter six of The Denbrough Show. I’m hoping the next chapter will be up soon! Please feel free to check it out! Summary: “Your entire life is being fucking live streamed on Television, Bill!” “I - what - no,” Bill shakes his head, as if that will somehow clear things up. “I would’ve noticed.” The stranger shoots him a look that’s almost akin to pity. It makes Bill’s stomach crawl. “I can prove it.“ — Bill Denbrough’s life is far from perfect. But he has everything he could have ever wanted. Friends that love him, parents that smile just the right amount, a boyfriend that would do anything for him. Nothing special. And yet a stranger in a fucking fanny pack goes the extra mile and breaks into his home, just to tell him his far from perfect life is being viewed by a million different people. It’s only fair to say this raises a few questions. Who can he trust to have his back? Where is Beverly? And, perhaps most important of all, what really happened to Georgie? Or: The Truman Show AU
All My Pictures Seem To Fade To Black And White - Stenbrough
Summary: Bill carries a photo of him and Stan in his wallet at all times. He knows the risks, knows what would happen if someone were to spot it. But he likes the feeling of having a miniature Stan in his pocket at all times. He likes the reminder of their love. Unfortunately, the day that risk becomes all too real is creeping up on him.
TW: Violence, homophobia
Read on AO3
“Do you want me to walk you home?”
Bill smiles softly. “That’s alright. It’s only a few m-minutes away.”
Stan glances behind him, eyes glazing over slightly. Bill knows what he’s thinking, and he wants nothing more than to lean over and kiss his worries away. But he can’t. Not here, not now. So he settles on a simple squeeze of the shoulder instead.
“I’ll be fuh-fine.”
It’s a struggle to even keep eye contact. He doesn’t feel fine, he never feels fine. Every turn he makes, he expects to see it there. He expects razor-sharp teeth and laser beam eyes and clawed fingers that are just ever so slightly too long.
But the lie is apparently strong enough for Stan.
His lips tug into a small smile. It’s barely there, a person less acquainted with Stan might miss it entirely, but it makes Bill’s heart soar nonetheless.
For a moment he imagines kissing that smile. He supposes it’s nothing special, just a quick peck of the lips. But the thought of doing it here, in the middle of the local diner with nearly a dozen people milling around, makes his heart pound.
“Buh-Buh-Besides,” he says, taking a step back before he can’t help himself. “I wouldn’t want you to be late. It’s an im-important day today.”
Stan hums softly. “So important that I got lunch paid for by my favorite person on Earth.”
Bill ducks his head in a rather pathetic attempt to hide his blush. Nearly a year and Stan is still able to make Bill red as a tomato with a surprising amount of ease.
“Exactly,” Bill squeaks out.
“Don’t worry, I won’t be late,” Stan says. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
“Great,” says Bill, feeling breathless. “I’ll see you luh-later then?”
“You better.”
The walk home isn’t far, but that doesn’t mean it’s not terrifying.
Bill tries to distract himself from the bottomless pit in his stomach by going over the details. He’s not sure how much good it really does, but it’s better than constantly glancing over his shoulder. He’s sure the people in this town are starting to think he’s crazy.
But he can’t think about that right now. Worrying about worrying is no better than just plain worrying. So he instead busies himself with the checklist in his head.
Candles? Check.
Matches? Check.
Candy? Check.
Cheap wine from his parents cellar? Check.
The positivity that his parents wouldn’t notice? Half-check.
Blankets? Check.
Stanley’s favorite movies? Check. One hundred percent.
The checklist does help distract him, and for awhile he’s grateful for that. But he’s forgotten that it’s never a good idea to be too distracted in a place like Derry.
He doesn’t even register the car grumbling quietly behind him until it’s too late.
A hand clamps tightly over his mouth, another twisting around his chest and arms to pull him firmly against the person attached. The person is clearly a lot bigger than Bill, but that doesn’t stop him from kicking and screaming to the best of his abilities. Which, unfortunately, isn’t much at the moment.
More voices spill out from the car, and while Bill can’t catch everything they say, he catches enough to know he’s in some deep shit.
“Get him in the car, dude!”
“Holy fucking shit!”
“I’m trying! Come out here and fucking help me!”
“Are you fucking kidding me? You can’t handle a fucking kid?”
“Dude, hurry!”
“Well he’s not exactly being fucking compliant now, is he?”
No matter how much he struggles, the person seems to pull him over to the car with relative ease.
The person slams him against the side of said car, hardly noticing how Bill’s head bounces off the top.
“Hurry!”
“Dude, where’s the fucking rope?”
“Man, relax!”
“I can’t fucking relax, don’t tell me to relax!”
As he says this, another pair of hands tugs Bill’s arms roughly behind his back. Bill squirms and fights and even manages to kick a shin once or twice, but the fight still ends with an old rope around his wrists.
“Give me those.”
“What the fuck? Man, I need those.”
“I’m not fucking holding him like this the whole way.”
“Oh fuck you.”
The hand around his mouth releases itself, but before Bill has a chance to yell for help, it’s quickly replaced by something soft and frighteningly wet being shoved through his lips.
Bill realizes with a not-so-well disguised gag that they’re socks. Unwashed socks at that.
“Now hurry, dude!”
“Get him in the car!”
“Not the fucking backseat, man!”
“Where the fuck do you want me to put him then?”
“The fucking trunk!”
“He won’t fit in the fucking trunk!”
“Yes he fucking will! Just might have to break a bone or two.”
Images of Eddie’s broken arm - bent at all the wrong angles - flash across Bill’s mind.
His screams are muffled against the socks. He’s positive no one else is going to hear him, but he screams nonetheless.
It takes two of the people to get him in the trunk (bones all unbroken, thank God) and Bill feels almost proud he made life that much more difficult for them. But then the trunk is slammed closed and Bill is alone.
The space is small, as most trunks usually are. Bill’s never thought of himself as a claustrophobic person, and yet he is finding it a little difficult to breathe.
He kicks furiously at the ceiling. Maybe someone will hear him. Maybe he’ll find a soft spot and kick a hole. Maybe this is all just a bad dream and he’ll wake up a moment later, thrashing violently beneath the covers.
But none of this happens.
The only thing kicking succeeds in doing is pissing off the people who are currently driving the car.
He learns this after either five minutes or five hours (he’s not sure which, but knows it’s a long enough period of time to make his legs numb), when the car finally pulls over and the trunk is popped open.
This is the first time Bill gets a real good look at them. There are three of them, all boys. They look young, probably only a few years older than Bill himself.
One of them has a lopsided Mohawk. The sides are patchy and uneven. For a moment Bill imagines the kid sitting on his bathroom floor, shaving off chunks of his hair only to realize he had misjudged where the center of his head is. In a better situation, it might have made him laugh.
The second kid has a knife. That’s the first thing Bill notices. And as far as he’s concerned, it’s the most important.
The third kid is obviously the leader. He’s placed in the middle, arms crossed over a bulky chest and car keys dangling from between his fingers. He stares down at Bill with what almost looks to be a smirk. It makes Bill’s insides shrivel.
“You’re going to ruin my car,” he sneers.
Bill blinks up at him. He imagines kicking him square in the nose.
“Get him up,” The Leader says, snapping sharply at Mohawk and Knife Guy.
He disappears quickly from Bill’s vision, leaving the other two to pull him out. He goes limp, a form of silent protest, but it doesn’t do any good. He’s forced to his knees, dead grass crackling against his jeans.
The Leader is leaning against a tree about a foot or two away, an unlit cigarette between his lips.
“Do you know why you’re here, kid?” he says nonchalantly, as he lifts a lighter to the cigarette. “Because rumor has it you’re somehow responsible for the arrest of Henry Bowers. Made him go crazy.” His eyes flicker down to meet Bill’s. “That true?”
Bill doesn’t answer. Well, he can’t. Because he has socks in his mouth. But even if he didn’t, he still wouldn’t have answered. He still doesn’t fully understand what Leader is getting at here.
“Henry and I were buddies, did you know?” he continues. He takes a step forward. “We had big plans, you know.” Another step. “Big plans.” Another. “But now he’s gone.” Another. “Because of you.”
He stops directly in front of Bill. He’s close enough now that Bill can smell the sweat gathering on his clothes.
“How’d you do it?”
Bill can hardly hear him over the rush of blood in his ears.
Smack!
“How’d you do it!”
Bill’s cheek stings. He swears he can still feel the warm impression of a hand against his skin long after the slap is done.
Something hot stings the back of his eyes, and panic quickly rises in his chest. He can’t cry. Not here. Not in front of them.
Leader catches his chin in a vice-like grip, yanking his head sharply so they’re eye to eye.
“Tell me.”
Leader’s breath washes over Bill’s face. It reeks of old sausages and boiled eggs. It makes Bill’s lunch churn in his stomach.
But luckily, none of it comes up. The only thing to come out of his mouth is his own muffled voice, garbled by the socks between his cheeks.
The leader jerks his head towards Bill. It’s so quick that for a moment Bill fears (hopes) his head will topple right off.
But it doesn’t. Bill’s almost disappointed.
Instead, Knife Guy appears at Leader’s side. He pries Bill’s lips apart with the knife, grinning at how the younger boy flinches. Then the socks are gone. They now reside in Knife Guy’s free hand, complete with a regrettable grimace. The look of disgust at the saliva-soaked socks gives Bill a small victory.
But it doesn’t last long.
Leader tangles his fingers in Bill’s hair, twisting his wrist until Bill hisses in pain.
“Tell me,” he says, voice far too casual for someone who just kidnapped a teenager. “How’d you do it?”
“I duh-didn’t,” Bill says. His voice is surprisingly steady, if a little out of breath.
“Liar!” Leader twists his hand harder, relishing in the feeble cry Bill lets out.
“How exactly do you th-th-think I muh-made him...do that?”
“I d-d-d-don’t know!” Leader leans in closer for the taunt. “That’s why I’m fucking asking!”
“And so polite.”
Leader finally lets go of his hair, but with such force that Bill finds himself suddenly on the ground. Leader towers over him, teeth bared and chest heaving.
“Don’t play smart with me!” he roars.
Bill holds his gaze. He won’t let him get to him so easily.
“Fine,” Leader sneers. “We can do this the hard way.”
A swift kick is delivered to Bill’s ribs. He grinds his teeth to stifle the cry that escapes him, but it’s no use. Leader catches it, grinning nastily down at him. His ribs are offered another blow. He quickly curls in on himself. If this continues much longer, he’s gonna have a few broken ribs on his hands. And he doesn’t think he can brush those off quite as easily.
The kicks slow eventually. Leader seems to get bored delivering blows to a rag doll.
He crosses to Mohawk, muttering something Bill can’t be bothered to hear.
A moment later Mohawk’s at his side. Bill shies away from his hands, but it’s no use. His wallet’s quickly tugged out of his pocket, and Mohawk hold it up triumphantly.
“Dude, there’s like ten bucks in here,” he says.
“Sweet,” says Knife Guy, snatching the bills out of his hands.
“Hey, I found it!”
“Yeah, but I grabbed it!”
“Fuck you!”
“Fuck you!”
“Shut up!” Leader snaps. He holds out his hand and, with a grumbled swear, Knife Guy places the money in his palm. “Thank you. What else.”
“Not much,” says Mohawk. “Just some arcade coins, receipts, whatever this is...” His voice trails off, leaving his words hanging in the air. “Holy shit.”
Bill’s stomach drops.
“What is it?” Knife Guy exclaims. He peeks over his shoulder, snorting loudly. “Oh my God.” He grins over at Leader, but there’s nothing pleasant about his smile. “Check this out.”
Leader crosses to their side, quirking his eyebrow at the paper in Mohawk’s hand. Silently, he plucks the paper out from between Mohawk’s fingers and starts to make his way back towards Bill.
As he does, Bill sends a silent prayer to anyone who even might be listening. Please don’t let that be what he knows it is. Please, please, please, please, please.
Leader squats in front of him, shoving the paper towards Bill’s face. Bill has to blink a few times before the picture comes into focus. Not that he really needs to. He would recognize that photo anywhere.
Bill has his arms wrapped tightly around Stan’s waist, whose legs are thrown carelessly over his lap. Stan’s placing a large kiss on his cheek, one hand holding his face in place, while Bill grins wildly at the camera.
The photo is soft and tender and everything that reminds him of Stan and it makes everything that much goddamn worse.
“This your boyfriend?” Leader asks, voice dripping false sweetness.
Bill doesn’t answer. The heat behind his eyes is back.
“Looks like we caught ourselves a faggot, boys.”
Mohawk and Knife Guy cackle in the background. They remind Bill of the hyenas he saw in the zoo all those years ago. The ones Georgie was always too scared to get close to, even with the glass guarding them. The memory’s like salt in an open wound.
“D-D-Do-Don’t say th-that,” he says softly, eyes never leaving the photograph.
How many times had Stan told him to put it somewhere safer? How many times had he begged him not to leave it in his wallet? How many times had he insisted he would end up exactly where he was now?
“What?” Leader grins maliciously. “Faggot?”
Bill winces at the word. He tries to hide it, he really does. And he thinks he does a pretty good job. He manages to diminish it to a small twitch of his head, something that would be almost impossible to catch by someone standing a normal distance away. Unfortunately, Leader is directly in his face. And he notices right away.
“Don’t like that, huh?”
Bill keeps his eyes locked on the photo.
He desperately wants it. Those hands don’t deserve to hold it. They don’t deserve anything that radiates the energy of Stan Uris. He needs to protect it from them.
But his hands are still tied behind him. No matter how hard he tugs, the ropes don’t seem to get any looser. All it does is rip the skin off his wrists a little bit more.
“Puh-Please don’t h-hurt him,” he forces out, feeling as if he’s choking on the words.
“Aw, I was thinking we could pay him a visit,” Leader says, an overdramatic pout on his lips. He turns the photo to face himself, and Bill immediately feels an ache deep in his chest. “He’s cute enough, sure would be a shame if something happened-”
“Fuck you.”
The words tumble out of his mouth with such venom that it shocks himself almost as much as it shocks Leader.
“What did you just say to me?” Leader hisses, leaning closer ever so slightly.
Bill spits directly onto Leader’s face. “I said fuck you.”
Leader lets out an animalistic cry, and lunges forward to grasp Bill’s hair once more. He yanks him to his feet, slamming him against the car with enough force to make him see stars.
A burning sensation creeps quickly across Bill’s cheek. He nearly grinds his teeth to dust with the realization that Leader’s cigarette has been put out on his face. Or, more precisely, Leader’s cigarette has been hurriedly smashed into his face.
But there’s not much time to process this. Bill’s head snaps backwards as Leader’s knuckles connect with his cheekbone, directly over the cigarette burn. Unfortunately, there’s nowhere for his head to go and it slams into the car behind him with a worrying thud.
“What the fuck is your problem!”
Leader’s knuckles are against his jaw now.
Has Bill’s mouth always tasted this coppery?
“Think you can just fucking do stuff like that?”
His eye.
“You’re the one with a fucking problem!”
His nose.
His head is starting to feel like one giant bruise.
“You’re like a walking disease.” This one isn’t followed by any punches. Instead it’s hissed directly into his ear, fingers digging hand-shaped bruises into his shoulders as they press him against the car. Bill’s beginning to very much dislike this car.
Leader tosses him back to the ground with about as much care he would if tossing a sack of flour. Leader prods him onto his stomach with the tip of his boot. As much as Bill tries to resist, one swift kick to his already bruising ribs is all he needs to make him comply. He can feel one of the boots firmly on his back. Hazily, he wonders how upset Stan will be when he finds out Bill got his jacket dirty.
“Give me that,” he hears Leader say, though the words sound muffled. As if Bill’s hearing them underwater.
A moment later Leader’s kneeling down next to him, replacing the boot against the small of his back with a knee. He tugs at Bill’s still bound arms, straightening them out like an artist smoothing out their canvas. Something cold as ice runs smoothly up and down Bill’s arm. And for a moment he can’t figure out what it is. His brain feels just as battered and bruised as the rest of his face, how is it supposed to recognize every foreign object? But then it clicks. The fucking knife.
He starts to struggle, but he’s exhausted and it only takes one more pair of hands to force him into place.
“I just want you to know,” Leader says, poising the point against Bill’s skin. “You deserve this.”
The last thing Bill remembers is a blinding pain in his wrist and the taste of dirt and blood as a scream he never gets the chance to hear rips itself out of his throat.
By the time he wakes up, the three boys are gone. The car is gone. The knife is gone.
But he’s still here. His entire body still aches. He has no idea how badly his arm is bleeding. And it’s dark out.
He wants to roll over and go back to sleep. He wants to stay here until he sinks into the dirt and never has to feel anything ever again.
But then something catches his eye.
The photo of him and Stan is sitting less than a foot away. It’s barely visible in the darkness and it’s been ripped in two, but it still causes the same reaction.
In the blink of an eye, he’s wide awake.
Stan. Fuck. He was supposed to be there who knows how long ago.
With a groan, Bill pushes himself to his knees. It takes awhile, and he spends most of the time with his face in the dirt, but by the time he’s upright he can get himself to stand with very little problem.
He wants desperately to take the photo with him. It feels wrong to leave it here, at the scene of the crime. It deserves to come with him, it deserves a chance to be safe. But his hands are still bound and he has no way of grabbing it without the threat of falling down again.
So he leaves it behind.
The walk back home is long. That’s the one word he can think of to describe it. Long. He hardly knows where it is and the dark makes everything look the same, so it takes twice the time it normally would to even get back to his neighborhood.
But once he starts to recognize houses, it’s not long before his own porch light comes into view. And sitting beneath it, head in his hands, is Stan.
Bill resists the urge to run to him. He can barely walk and he doesn’t like the thought of what this cement would do to his already broken face.
“Bill?”
Bill lets out a shaky laugh, wincing when a sharp stab of pain goes through his ribs. “H-Hey.”
“Where have you been?” Stan bites. “I have been waiting for-” Bill can feel the rant building up, but it comes to a halting stop as soon as Bill steps into the light. Stan shoots to his feet, hand flying out to graze over Bill’s cheek. “What the fuck happened?”
“Someone punched their c-cigarette into my fuh-face.”
“Jesus Christ, alright.”
“Muh-My keys are in my pocket,” Bill murmurs, breathing a sigh of relief that the boys didn’t take that too.
Stan silently fishes said keys out of Bill’s jeans before turning to unlock the door. He ushers Bill hurriedly into the bathroom, sitting him down on the edge of the bathtub.
“Is something wrong with your arms?” Stand asks tentatively.
“They’re s-s-stuck.”
“Stuck?” Stan peeks behind him, sucking in a sharp breath. “Okay.” His voice sounds small and unsure, but he settles into the bathtub anyway. Bill can feel his fingers softly against his wrists as he pulls apart the knot. “What did they do to your arm?”
“I dunno.”
“Alright.”
The knot tumbles off Bill’s wrists and he reflexively pulls his arms back towards himself. He rubs his wrists absentmindedly, trying not to flinch at just how raw they are.
“So tell me what happened,” Stan says as he kneels next to him. He’s clutching a damp towel now, though Bill has no memory of him leaving to fetch one, and starts dabbing tentatively at his arm. “You were ambushed?”
“Y-Yeah,” Bill says. “I was walking home and th-they grabbed me. Tuh-Took me into the woods and...” He shrugs, hoping Stan can figure the rest out for himself. “They s-seemed to think I had something to duh-do with Henry Buh-Bowers being arrested.”
“That’s ridiculous,” grumbles Stan.
“I-I know. Buh-But then they fuh-found my-”
He’s cut off by a soft gasp. Stan is staring at his arm, knuckles going white around the towel.
“Wh-What?” Bill murmurs, reaching out with his free hand to run his fingers through Stan’s hair.
“Do you know what this says?” Stan whispers, voice wobbly.
Bill shakes his head. Says? Why would it say anything?
Stan silently places his arm on Bill’s lap, and it only takes one glance for Bill’s stomach to drop. Because without the mess of blood, the cuts spell out a very clear message: FAG.
“My wallet,” Bill says, voice barely audible. “Th-They found muh-my w-wallet. The puh-puh-picture.”
Stan sighs heavily. Bill knows what he’s thinking: I told you so. I told you to hide it. I told you this would happen.
Luckily, Stan’s kind enough not to voice these opinions.
He focuses instead on silently bandaging Bill’s wrist. His fingers are feather light the whole time, as if he’s afraid too much force will break Bill in half. Normally, he would hate this treatment. As if he’s some fragile bird who can’t handle the slightest bit of force.
But it’s different with Stan.
Stan finishes the bandaging with a soft press of his lips against the injured area. It makes Bill’s heart flutter.
“You’re beautiful.”
Stan’s voice is so honest that the only response Bill can muster is a barely audible, “Oh.”
“You always are. Despite all of this-” he brushes a finger lightly over Bill’s cheekbone, frowning when he winces. “-you still are.”
Bill smiles softly. He takes Stan’s hands in his own and pulls him closer until Stan’s chest is pressed against his knees.
“Always nice wh-when an angel compliments you.”
A rosy pink creeps across Stan’s cheeks. “That’s ridiculous.”
Bill pulls Stan onto his lap, doing his best to ignore the way it makes his legs ache, and presses a quick kiss to his temple.
“It’s tuh-true.”
Stan, who has never been good at receiving compliments, responds with, “What else did they do to you?”
“Nothing serious.”
“Bullshit.”
“Ruh-Really, I’m fine.”
“That’s not how it looked when you first walked up.”
Bill sighs, trapping his lower lip between his teeth. “You’ve duh-done a good job puh-patching me up.”
Stan gently pinches the bridge of Bill’s nose between his thumb and forefinger. “It doesn’t look like you’ve broken anything else.” Bill hums softly, nuzzling in to Stan’s palm. “Why don’t you go lay down?”
Bill can’t help but think that’s the best idea he’s heard all day. The thought of his bed waiting for him, soft and warm, only a few doors down fills him with a sense of relief he hasn’t felt in a long time.
Despite this, he manages out a soft, “No. Today wuh-was supposed to be s-special. I-”
“Hey.” Stan gently cups his cheeks between his hands, forcing Bill to look him in the eyes. “All that matters is that you’re home safe. Who cares if we didn’t get to have our marathon. They’ll be there tomorrow.”
“But tomorrow isn’t-”
“I know. It’s okay. It’s okay if we’re one night late.”
He leans forward to press a kiss to Bill’s lips, soft and gentle. It makes Bill’s heart melt.
“Are y-you sure?”
Stan nods. “Mhm. Now come on, let’s get you to bed.”
Bill allows his boyfriend to pull him to his feet, gently wrapping an arm around his waist as Stan directs him into his bedroom.
“You’ll stay h-here, wuh-won’t you?” Bill asks as he tugs off his shoes.
“Of course,” Stan says.
He crawls into the bed, immediately pulling Bill close to his chest.
“Goodnight,” he whispers, carding his fingers through Bill’s hair.
Bill presses a soft kiss to Stan’s collar bone before letting his eyes flutter shut. “Happy anniversary.”
XV got me real bad guys, Carol’s back and interacting with Elfnein. I wrote a bit of them together to figure out this new canon-compliant grumpy/sunshine thing they have going on.
I have retroactively won every conversation I’ve had for the past four years where I was told “Carol is dead and never coming back.”
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