Chapter Text
Mike videocalls them from Arizona a few days later. Or rather, Mike calls Richie from Arizona, and Richie flops onto the couch where Eddie is trying to write an email, crowding him to get them both in the frame.
“Get off me, asshole,” Eddie grumbles, and leans into Richie’s shoulder to wave at Mike, who appears to be sitting on top of a mountain. There’s a stark blue sky behind him, a steep rocky slope decorated with scrub grass and towering saguaro cacti. Mike is wearing reflective shades and a bright smile; he’s been growing out a beard, too, and it suits him. “Hi, Mike. Nice beard.”
“You think so?” Mike strokes his chin, grinning. “Still not sure about it.”
“Oh yeah. The whole rugged mountain man look suits you,” Richie says.
“I’m a librarian.”
“Rugged mountain librarian,” Richie amends. “They have libraries in Arizona, right?”
“No, they still do it all by pony express,” Mike says. “Actually, I think I’m going to keep heading west, anyway.”
“Wait, to California?” Eddie asks, in the same moment that Richie whistles the bridge from Go West, Young Man. Eddie elbows him in punishment. When he looks up, Mike is watching them with a warm fondness that still seems kind of disbelieving after all this time. Eddie thinks that Mike, more than all of them, still has trouble getting his head around the idea that they’re all still here.
“Yeah,” he says. “I saw one ocean, I figure I should see the other one before I settle down.”
“You spent twenty years settled in fuckin’ Derry,” Richie says. “You could just spend the next decade traveling the country.”
“Yeah, well, not all of us are millionaires, Rich.”
“Nah, man, what you gotta do is get set up with an Instagram account. Become an influencer. They love that kind of boho shit. Artsy topless photos, corporate sponsorship, whole nine yards. You’re definitely hot enough for it.”
Eddie flushes, but Mike is laughing. “Yeah, I don’t think so. This has been a good year for me, but I think I’m ready to find a place to put down roots.”
“Hey, whatever, man,” Richie says. “As long as it’s not Derry. You go back there after all this, we’re gonna have to stage an intervention.”
“So, you’re coming to L.A.?” Eddie interjects. “That was the subtext, right?”
“I was thinking about swinging up through Sequoia National Park first, but after that, yeah. Not sure how long I’ll be sticking around yet.”
“Well, you can always stay with us,” Richie says, then stops and gives Eddie a sheepish sidelong look. “Or, uh, me, I guess. Eddie if he’s still here. But there are three bedrooms, so…”
“Thanks,” Mike says, either oblivious to or ignoring the sudden awkwardness. Eddie feels like his stomach is trying to turn itself inside out; he’s suddenly very aware of how close he’s pressed to Richie. How easily Richie said, us. Fortunately, Mike is still talking. “I already talked to Bill, though—I’ll be staying with him and Audra for a little bit, and after that we’ll see.”
“Cool, cool,” Richie says, shifting slightly so that he’s not touching Eddie anymore. Eddie forces himself not to lean back against him. He doesn’t know what to think about the fact that Mike seems totally unsurprised that he’s still here. That nobody has seemed surprised by it. That Richie still hasn’t fucking asked him when he’s leaving.
“Anyway,” he says, trying not to sound desperate. “Tell us about Arizona, Mike.”
“Well, you’ve seen all the pictures—”
“Yeah, I never realized you were so good at that," Eddie says. He's laying it on a little thick, but that's better than trying to look at Richie right now. "That shit should be in magazines, seriously.”
“Thanks, Eddie,” Mike says warmly. “It’s been great, honestly. It’s like a different world. The heat, man. But you get used to it.”
“Yeah, tell me about it. First time I got off the plane here I thought I was walking into an oven.”
“It’s nice, though, isn't it? Hell of a lot different than Maine.”
“Yeah, fuck Maine,” Richie interjects with deep sincerity, and this time Eddie is the one who folds over laughing. Mike is laughing too, the sunlight reflecting on his mirrored shades and the wide desert landscape spreading out behind him, and even as uncertain as Eddie feels right now—it’s good. It’s good. It feels like healing.
They end up out by the pool after Mike signs off to call Stan and Patty. Richie is in swim trunks but he hasn’t gone in yet; Eddie rolls up his pants to dangle his legs in the water, watching the sunset turn the sky orange overhead.
“So, uh,” Richie says eventually, and Eddie tries not to let his shoulders tense visibly. “About what I said earlier—I mean, it’s none of my business.”
Eddie doesn’t have to ask what he means. “It’s your house, Rich. It kind of is your business how long I’m planning on camping out in your spare room.”
“Yeah, but.” Richie pauses, and when Eddie glances back at him he won’t meet his eyes. “I like having you here, man. But you have a whole life back in New York, so…”
“Not really,” Eddie says. He scoots backward out of the pool, feeling Richie’s eyes on him as he drops into the other chair and picks up his beer, more to fiddle with it than to drink. “I, uh. I should have told you earlier, but—I quit my job. I’ve been looking for something out here.”
“In L.A.?” Richie asks.
“Yeah.” Eddie looks down at his beer, then takes a drink. “Yeah. I haven’t heard anything back yet, but—anyway, Bill sent me his realtor’s information, once I have something lined up, I’ll start looking for my own place. I don’t want to overstay my welcome, or anything.”
“You told Bill first?”
Eddie shrugs guiltily. “I mean, you didn’t ask.”
“No, I guess not.”
The silence stretches out. Eddie takes a long swallow of his beer, hoping that it’ll imbue him with some kind of courage. “Are you—I can’t tell if you’re pissed at me.”
“I’m not pissed,” Richie says, and when Eddie risks a glance at him, he’s smiling a little. It’s an odd smile, but it’s still there. “You don’t have to tell me everything.”
“I want to, though. I should have. I just… I don’t know.” Eddie pinches the bridge of his nose. “I’m overthinking shit, I think.”
“You? No fuckin’ way.”
“Yeah, fuck you.”
Richie laughs, and Eddie lets his shoulders relax, relieved. “You can stay here. You know that, right? I like having you here. I would’ve said something if I didn’t.”
“Yeah, I know, but…” he trails off. “You don’t think it’ll get weird?”
“Why would it?” Richie asks warily.
“Not like, I mean—shit, sorry, I’m saying this all wrong, just—I don’t know. What if you wanted to bring a—a guy home? Like a date?”
“A date?” Richie asks, like it’s the most outrageous concept he’s ever heard of.
“Yeah,” Eddie says defensively. “What? It could happen.”
“Historically, not likely,” Richie says, but he sounds more relaxed now. Amused, almost. “I think you’re really overestimating how many guys in West Hollywood are dying to get with all this. I hook up with, uh, dudes on tour sometimes, but that’s just… I don’t know. Skeevy, on a number of levels. I don’t really…” he trails off, then wobbles his hand a little, looking awkward. “You know. Actually date. Surprisingly, there's not a huge demand out there for schlubby middle-aged closet cases.”
Eddie squeezes his eyes shut. He really doesn't want to picture Richie hooking up with some guy in an anonymous hotel room in fucking Reno or something. He takes a deep, steadying breath, lets it out, and then says, “Look. I’m going to say something sincere, and if you make fun of me I’m going to dump you in the pool.”
“Huh?”
“I mean it. You, the chair, all of it, right in the pool. Got it?”
“Okay, I got it.” Richie affects a serious expression. “Lay it on me, Eduardo.”
Eddie takes another breath, then says, “Stop saying shit like that about yourself, okay?”
“I—”
He chops the air sharply, and Richie shuts up. “I wasn’t done. You need to stop talking about yourself like that. You’re funny, and you’re smart, and you’re fucking charming when you want to be, and you’re—attractive, okay, I’m saying this as your friend, and I’m serious: you have a lot going for you, and any guy would be lucky to date you. Okay?”
Richie stares at him for a long moment, wide-eyed. His mouth is softly parted; he looks stunned.
Of course, then the moment ends, and he starts to grin. “Aww, Eddie…”
“Yeah, that’s it,” Eddie says, and sets his beer down to stand.
“Wait, wait, I didn’t mean it,” Richie yelps as Eddie advances on him. “I’m sincere, I’m being sincere, look at me, I’m totally sincere.”
“I take it all back, you’re an asshole,” Eddie says, and lifts the back of Richie's chair to heave him into the pool. He hits the water with a flailing splash, then surfaces a moment later, still laughing. Eddie folds his arms and glares down at him as he splashes to the edge of the pool and leans on it, grinning.
“That’s cold, man,” he says. “What if I’d lost my glasses, huh? What would you have done then?”
“Apologized,” Eddie says. “Maybe.”
Richie laughs and folds his arms against the edge. His wet shirt clings to the lines of his shoulders and biceps in a way that might actually be more distracting than if he wasn’t wearing one at all. He doesn’t make any attempt to pull himself out of the pool. “So, what about you?”
“What about me?” Eddie asks.
“You asked about me bringing somebody home, which, like—yeah, not likely. What about you? You’re going to want to date again eventually, right?”
“I… not really. Not anytime soon, anyway. I just…” Eddie trails off and looks down at his hands. The words are at the tip of his tongue. Hey, Rich, actually, I think I might be gay too. I think I might have been bullshitting myself this whole fucking time.
I think maybe I want—
He can’t get it out. Especially not that last part, but—any of it, really. It’s not even that he’s afraid. Richie is probably the safest person that he could possibly tell. It’s just fucking embarrassing. He’s forty-one years old. He should have figured this out by now.
“Come on,” Richie says coaxingly. “I have it on good authority that women really dig guys who compulsively do the laundry. I haven’t had this many clean clothes at a time since I stopped living with my parents. It’s hot.”
“You are such an asshole,” Eddie sighs. He’s definitely blushing now. “I’m just not ready for it, okay? There’s some… stuff I need to work out first.”
That’s as close as he can come right now to saying the words out loud, and from the thoughtful, penetrating look Richie gives him, Eddie is simultaneously hopeful and terrified that he’s worked it out. He doesn’t ask, though. Instead, he says, “Hey, come here.”
“Why, so you can dunk me? I don’t think so.”
“Come on, man, I just need you to set my glasses somewhere so I don’t actually lose them.” Eddie narrows his eyes, and Richie slips his glasses off, holding them out with a very innocent look. “Please?”
“Fine,” Eddie sighs, and crouches down to take them. He has just enough time to set them down on the seat of Richie’s chair before Richie surges out of the pool like some kind of fucking sea monster to catch him around the waist and drag him in. Eddie lets out a mortifying shriek even though he was expecting it, then hits the cool water and lets himself sink down when Richie lets go of him before kicking to the surface. His wet pants cling to his legs, hobbling him enough to make it difficult.
“You motherfucker,” he hisses.
Richie is laughing again. “Hey, don’t dish it if you can’t—”
He breaks off as Eddie dives at him, forcing his head under the water. Richie could probably fight him off if he felt like it, but he doesn’t. He just grabs at the back of Eddie’s neck as he goes under, pulling him down too. It’s like being back at the quarry, grappling in the murky water and pretending they were trying to murder each other.
Looking for an excuse to touch.
Richie slips out of his hands a moment later, then grabs him around the hips to drag him down. And the thing is, Eddie knows that it’s just that he’s trying to avoid jostling the mostly-healed injury by grabbing at his shoulders or arms, but it feels almost painfully intimate. When they surface this time, gasping, they’re face to face, way too close. One of Richie’s hands still rests on his hip, large and warm, like they’re slow-dancing in the water. Eddie is hanging onto him, fingers digging into his upper arm for balance, and their feet bump as they kick to stay upright.
It’s a moment that seems to stretch out for an eternity. Eddie thinks that any second now one of them will let go, pull back, make a joke—that Richie will spit a fountain of water at him so he can yelp and flail and swear about it, or he’ll try to force Richie’s head underwater again, and normalcy will be re-established, but that doesn’t happen.
Richie’s hand flexes on his hip, fingers digging in, and Eddie inhales sharply. This close, there’s no way that Richie missed it. He goes to pull back, and Eddie tightens his grip, and their eyes meet.
Richie’s face always seems strange without his glasses, almost uncomfortably bare. His eyes are luminous in the dim light, pupils dilated until there’s just a thin rim of blue around them. This close, he must be able to see Eddie just fine, but he still looks like he’s trying to focus—like he’s seeing something he didn’t expect and can’t quite believe is there.
Wildly, Eddie thinks, I could—I could, right now, I could just—
“Eddie,” Richie whispers, a dry rasp, and Eddie is sure, he’s completely sure, that he sees Richie’s gaze flick down toward his mouth.
A siren goes whooping down the main boulevard five blocks over, and just like that the spell is broken. Eddie jumps, and Richie lets go of him, expression shuttering.
No, wait, come back, he thinks, but Richie is already moving away, and Eddie’s pants are tangling around his legs like weeds threatening to drag him down.
“I should, uh.” He flails his way over to the side of the pool, and pulls himself out, landing on the patio in a wet, awkward tumble. “I should go get some dry clothes on.”
“Right, yeah,” Richie says behind him. His voice is unreadable, and when Eddie turns back toward him, he’s not meeting Eddie’s eyes. He swims over to the edge of the pool, much more gracefully than Eddie managed, and pulls himself out. Water sluices off of him, his clothes clinging to the lines of his torso, the lean muscles in his thighs, and Eddie takes a shaky breath, drags his eyes away, and escapes into the house without a backwards glance.
He’s already in his room when he finally hears the patio door open again, then shut. There’s a clatter, then Richie swears softly. A moment later, his soft footsteps move across the house. His bedroom door opens, then shuts.
Eddie knocks his head lightly against the wall, then gathers up dry clothes and takes himself over to the bathroom before he can drip on the floor any more.
He rinses off the chlorine in the shower, changes into dry clothes, and hangs his soaking wet ones on the edge of the tub. Even though he got dressed in the bathroom like he always does, he feels intensely awkward sneaking across the hallway with a damp towel to mop up the worst of the puddle of chlorinated water he left on the floor of his room. Richie is nowhere to be seen, but Eddie can hear the shower running in the other room. It shuts off as he goes to hang the towel up, and there’s the sound of Richie moving around behind the door. He’s not whistling the way he usually does.
Eddie feels like the worst person on earth, and he’s not even sure if it’s for the fact that he almost just kissed Richie, or the fact that he didn’t.
That he fucking chickened out, once again. Like he always does.
Back in his room, he sits down on his bed, and rubs both hands through his wet hair until it’s sticking up in absurd spikes. He feels jittery, wired, restless, shot full of adrenaline like he’s been fighting or falling.
“Fuck,” he mutters, then pops up to his feet, paces the length of the room, pauses by the window, looks out. He can still see their wet footprints on the patio. The chairs crowded close together.
Before he can talk himself out of it, he slips out of the room, crosses down the hallway, and stops outside of Richie’s door. He shifts his weight, crosses his arms, then uncrosses them and knocks.
It feels a little like standing in front of the house that first day, months ago. Waiting for Richie to let him in. It feels like it takes at least as long before he hears the bed springs creak, and then soft footsteps. The door swings open, and Richie is standing there in a Pink Floyd t-shirt and plaid boxers, his damp hair at least as much of a wreck as Eddie’s is. The room is dim, a single lamp on the dresser turned almost all the way down. It’s just enough to illuminate the disheveled bed, the clutter of unfolded laundry on the floor, and Richie’s guarded expression.
“Eds?” he says.
Eddie takes a deep breath. “I’m really sorry. Can I come in?”
“What for?” Richie asks, but he’s already standing aside instead of slamming the door like Eddie was afraid of. He sounds determinedly nonchalant. “Yeah, sure, what’s up?”
“I. Just now, in the pool.” He stops.
Richie makes a face, scrunched up and awkward and just exaggerated enough that he’s clearly aiming for comedy, even if he doesn’t quite get there. “Yeah, look, I’m sorry I made it weird. We’re both too fucking old to be horsing around like that anyway. How’s your shoulder?”
It’s an out, Eddie knows, but he doesn’t take it. “It’s fine. And you didn’t make it weird, I did. I’ve been thinking, I wanted to tell you—”
“What?” Richie asks, softly. He’s wearing his glasses again—he must have retrieved them from his chair on his way in—but his expression is very nearly the same one he was wearing in the pool. Intent, searching.
Like always, it’s intoxicating to be the singular focus of all his attention.
“Just please tell me I’m not reading this all wrong,” Eddie says all in a rush, and closes the distance between them to kiss Richie clumsily on the mouth.
For a moment, Richie is so still that Eddie is sure he’s made a catastrophic miscalculation. He’s about to pull back and start apologizing when Richie makes a soft, swallowed noise that sounds like Eddie’s name, and kisses him back. He’s careful about it, almost tentative, which is not what Eddie would have expected of Richie Tozier; his hand hovers over Eddie’s cheek for a moment before settling lightly against it, thumb sweeping over his cheekbone. Eddie sighs into the kiss, and then Richie pulls back. Not much; just enough to rest his forehead against Eddie’s.
“Holy shit,” he says into the quiet space between them.
Eddie laughs raggedly. His heart is racing again; Richie is still touching his cheek, and he swears he can feel every single nerve ending beneath his warm palm. “You’re such a fucking romantic.”
“You want romance, I’ll give you romance. Jesus Christ, Eddie. What the hell.”
“Is that good, or bad?”
Richie breathes out a quiet laugh. “You really have to ask?”
“You’re not as transparent as you seem to think.”
“Look who’s talking.”
“I didn’t know,” Eddie admits. “Before I came out here, I didn’t know.”
“You didn’t know,” Richie repeats slowly, like he’s turning it over, trying to pick out the meaning. “Like—about this,” he gestures between them with his free hand, then settles it lightly on Eddie’s hip. Eddie burns. He suppresses his reactive twitch for fear that Richie will pull away again. “Or…?”
“Or any of it. Anything. I didn’t know. Fucking—when Myra called the other day, she asked me if I’d been having an affair with you, and—”
He’s not that surprised when Richie starts laughing, but he smacks him lightly with the hand still at his nape anyway.
“Dude, it’s not funny. I had a fucking crisis about it.”
“Yeah, I remember,” Richie says, composing himself, barely. “Hey. I’m sorry. I’m a dick.”
“I know you’re a dick,” Eddie grumbles. “Apparently that’s my type.”
“Oh, man. I’m sorry,” Richie gasps, laughter leaking out around the edges of his voice, and leans down to kiss him again. “Join the club.”
“Oh, fuck you,” Eddie says, but his mouth won’t stop smiling, so it doesn’t come out as rudely as he intends.
“I mean, if you want—” Richie begins, still laughing, and Eddie yanks him down into another kiss.
It’s less tentative this time. Richie is less tentative about it: his hand is on Eddie’s jaw to tilt his head up, his tongue slipping at the seam of Eddie’s lips until Eddie opens up to let him in. He’s taller than anyone else Eddie has ever kissed, by a lot, and there’s something thrilling about that—about the size of him, his broad shoulders and big hands and the rasp of stubble when Eddie pulls back to kiss along his jaw.
He gets a little distracted by it, actually, nosing down Richie’s throat, worrying at the hot skin there with his teeth until there’s a purpling mark when he pulls back.
“Did you just give me a hickey?” Richie asks breathlessly. “You fucking maniac.”
“Yeah, well, what are you going to do about it?” Eddie retorts, which is the sort of challenge that Richie apparently still can’t resist. He leans into Eddie and traces inside the shell of his ear with his tongue. It’s wet and lewd and just—objectively gross, and it sends a jolt of heat to Eddie’s groin.
“Holy fucking shit,” he manages, weakly. Richie laughs right in his ear and does it again. Eddie grabs at him, hauling him closer, and it’s only then that he remembers that Richie is still in just his underwear.
Also, they’re both starting to get hard.
His own erection is a surprise; he can’t remember the last time he was this turned on just from kissing someone. And it’s weird that it’s a guy, it’s really fucking weird that it’s Richie who can apparently get him jittery and overwhelmed like this just from some high-school making out, but that’s nothing on the fact that he can feel Richie’s dick pressed against his stomach, a stiff line of foreign heat.
“Okay, okay, Jesus,” Richie says, and starts to pull back. He sucks in a breath when Eddie tightens his grip, fingers digging into the faint give of fat and muscle over his hip bones. His shirt is rucked up so that there’s just warm skin under Eddie’s hands. Eddie wants to fucking bite him. “Eds?”
“Shut up,” Eddie says, and does bite him again, just below the hickey he already left. Richie makes a little punched-out noise in the back of his throat, his hips stuttering forward. It makes Eddie want to grab at him, to shove them both down on the bed, to drop to his knees right there—makes him want a dizzying array of impractical things that he’s not even sure are on the table, and he pulls back just slightly, pushing his burning face into Richie’s shoulder, his thin, body-warm t-shirt, smelling soap and the faint tang of chlorine still clinging to his skin.
“Eds,” Richie says again, carefully. “You good?”
Eddie groans. “I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing.”
“You don’t actually have to jump right in the fucking deep end, you neurotic little vampire,” Richie says. It’s gentle, but it’s also just mean enough for Eddie to laugh and bite him again, a sharp nip, all teeth. It must hurt, because Richie hisses through his teeth, but Eddie is pretty sure he feels Richie’s dick pulse where it’s trapped between their bodies, which is—certainly something. Richie lets out a shaky breath and says, “We can go slow. Or, you know. Go sit on the couch and talk about it. Or something.”
“I don’t want to fucking go slow,” Eddie says, kissing the mark he just made in apology. “I’ve been going out of my mind here. I just. I think I might suck at it?”
Richie folds against him, wheezing laughter, and before Eddie can get too offended about that he presses a lingering kiss to Eddie’s mouth and says, “Eddie, baby, where you’re concerned I am the world’s easiest lay.”
“Baby,” Eddie mouths. It’s mortifying, how much he likes the sound of it like that in Richie’s mouth. Sweet, without any of the sharp edges they normally use on each other.
Richie grins and kisses him again. “Honey. Sweetheart.”
“I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.”
“No,” Eddie admits. “I don’t.”
“Yeah, likewise,” Richie says, and it’s so tender that it feels like a bruise. His fingers slip up under Eddie’s shirt. “Tell me if you don’t want this.”
“I want this,” Eddie says, and reaches back to haul his shirt the rest of the way off, before he can get too nervous about it.
“Jesus Christ,” Richie sighs. His hands slide up Eddie’s sides, then stroke down over his shoulders. It’s reverent in a way that he didn’t think Richie was capable of, in a way that makes any of his lingering fears about the grotesque scarring on his chest vanish. Richie touches him like he’s unwrapping the best present he’s ever gotten in his life. “Happy fucking birthday to me.”
“Your birthday’s in March, dumbass.”
“Oh, yeah, call me some more names, baby,” Richie says, deadpan. “It turns me on so bad.”
“I honestly can’t tell if you’re joking.”
“I would never joke about this,” Richie says, and lets Eddie shove his shirt up and out of the way. It gets tangled up around both of their hands as they try to get it over his head. He’s pink and laughing, glasses askew, by the time Eddie finally tugs it off and tosses it somewhere over his shoulder, where it’ll inevitably get lost in the chaos on his floor.
It’s hard to be nervous with Richie: this feels in some ways not that different than wrestling him in the hammock or in one of their beds when they were kids. Or on the couch, a few weeks ago, or in the pool, half an hour ago. Like maybe they were always heading inevitably for this.
“You joke about everything,” Eddie says.
“Yeah, but I genuinely do love it when you’re mean to me.”
“Sounds like a personal problem.”
“Nah, just a kink.” Richie kisses him again, still smiling. His fingers slip beneath the waistband of Eddie’s pajama pants: not quite shoving them down, not yet, but the potential is there. Eddie takes a deep, shuddering breath, and before Richie can ask him again if he’s sure about this, he reaches down between them to cup Richie’s cock where it’s straining at the front of his boxers.
“Jesusfuckingchrist,” Richie breathes against his mouth, all one word, shocked slurry consonants like he was still expecting Eddie to pull away or turn this into some kind of joke.
“Is this okay?”
“Fucking—yeah, it’s okay.”
“So it’s okay it I—” He shoves at Richie’s boxers until they’re down around his thighs, freeing his cock. It’s uncut, which Eddie already knew; big, like everything else about Richie. Hot skin and beading moisture at the tip that’s slick when Eddie rubs his thumb over it. It’s not a novel sensation, but there’s something very different about touching someone else like this, and Eddie gets so distracted by his exploration that it takes him a moment to notice that Richie is shaking against him, fingers flexing restlessly on his hips. Eddie tilts his head and nudges him into a kiss, and Richie leans blindly into it, his eyes closed behind his glasses, mouth open and wet.
“You okay?” he asks, and Richie lets out another wheezy laugh.
“I’m fucking great. Are you trying to kill me here?”
“No,” Eddie says, and strokes him again, slow and deliberate. Richie shudders all over, and then his hands are shoving at Eddie’s pants with actual purpose now. Eddie lets him do it, shimmies his hips a little ridiculously to get them down without having to stop touching Richie. He kicks them off and pulls at Richie’s boxers until he gets the hint and shoves them off too. And then they’re naked, pressed close, Eddie’s cock sliding against the sweat-damp groove of Richie’s hipbone. “I’m not trying to kill you.”
“That’s fucking debatable.”
“We should, uh…”
“Bed?” Richie asks, like he was reading Eddie’s mind, and starts steering them that way when Eddie nods. It’s a clumsy stumble, since neither of them want to let go of each other, but eventually the mattress is there and Richie is spinning him around, crowding him onto it. Eddie falls back, seated, as Richie leans over him and kisses him again and then says against his mouth, “Can I blow you?”
Something sharp and not entirely pleasant passes through Eddie. It takes his lust-fogged brain a moment to identify it—hey kid I’ll blow you for a dollar I’ll do it for a dime I’ll do it for free—
The moment he’s aware of the thought, he shoves it viciously away. He opens his eyes to see Richie looking at him: his pink cheeks, his messy hair, his glasses slightly fogged. He’s hot, and a little ridiculous, and as familiar as Eddie’s own reflection. He’s safe.
He sees Richie’s mouth start to open and knows he’s about to take it back; Eddie kisses him before he can do it.
“Yeah,” he breathes when they break apart. “Yeah, I want that.”
“Oh,” Richie says, sounding startled, “okay, then,” and he kisses Eddie for a long time before he finally sinks to his knees. There’s a faint crack as his joints bend, and Eddie would make some kind of joke about that if it weren’t for the fact that Richie is pushing his knees apart to settle between them, his big hands gripping Eddie’s thighs. Eddie feels broken open, exposed, embarrassed by it and embarrassed more by how much he likes it. Richie grins up at him, then turns his head to bite the tender inside of his thigh. Not gently.
“Jesus fuck,” Eddie yelps, heat blooming through him like a punch. “What the fuck was that?”
“Payback,” Richie says smugly, and slides his mouth over Eddie’s cock, swallowing him to the root.
The retort that Eddie was going to make comes out in a strangled groan that might just be the most undignified noise he’s ever made, in bed or out of it. At least Richie can’t laugh at him with his mouth full, although he makes a noise like he wants to. It shifts into a groan when Eddie touches his head, cups the back of his skull, sliding trembling fingers through his damp hair, and he can feel that too, a feedback loop of startled pleasure.
It isn’t the first time someone has done this for him, but it’s the first time in a while, and by far the most enthusiastic. Richie’s shoulders shift; his hand rubs over Eddie’s hip and then drops, and Eddie peels his eyes open to see that Richie has it down between his own legs, that he’s jerking himself off in the same rhythm he’s using on Eddie’s cock. His shoulder flexes, the head of his dick slipping red and wet through the circle of his fingers, and the whole thing is so obscene that Eddie has to squeeze his eyes shut, his cheeks flaming. Then he opens them again. Finds that he can’t look away.
“Rich.” It comes out rough and uneven. “You—you better not make yourself come before I do, I want to do that for you—”
Richie pulls off to press his face into Eddie’s thigh, the frame of his glasses digging in. “Fuck, Eddie.”
His voice sounds fucking wrecked. Beset by a strange tenderness, Eddie slides his fingers through his hair again, and Richie turns his head to press a kiss to the hollow of his elbow before he fits his mouth over the head of Eddie’s cock again. His hands land on Eddie’s hips, dragging him forward until he’s almost sliding off the end of the bed, and Eddie grips his hair hard, somewhat accidentally, for mooring.
Richie groans loudly, and Eddie can feel it this time, and he suddenly realizes what that shivery heat climbing through him means. He tries to choke out a warning, but Richie doesn’t pull back; he slides down farther and swallows around Eddie’s cock, his nose pressed into the dark thatch of Eddie’s pubic hair and his hands gripping him tight, and Eddie arches up into it and comes with a hoarse shout.
There are bright sparks behind his closed eyelids and his body still feels shuddery and warm when Richie finally pulls off. He settles his cheek against Eddie’s knee; his hands slip away from Eddie’s hips to brace against the edge of the bed. He’s still breathing hard, his shoulders heaving with it. From this angle, Eddie can’t see his expression.
He slides his fingers through Richie’s hair again, gentler this time, then over his cheek, his stubbled jaw, the slick curve of his mouth. Feels Richie’s breath hot against his fingers.
“You okay?” Eddie asks. He feels like his brain is only about fifty percent back online, but there’s a thread of unease winding through his pleasant post-orgasmic daze when Richie nods against his leg and doesn’t look up at him. He cups a hand under Richie’s chin and nudges his head up, and after a momentary hesitation, Richie lets him do it.
His mouth is red, his cheeks flushed, his glasses fogged. Eddie leans down to kiss him before he even thinks about what he’s doing.
There’s the bitter alkaline taste of ejaculate on his tongue, which is—okay, kind of gross, but it’s also weirdly hot, and it’s worth it for the way Richie shudders and then opens up to him.
He sighs when Eddie pulls back, then swallows, a hard click in the back of his throat. “Eds, you don’t have to—”
“Are you trying to give me an out right now?” Eddie demands, outraged. “Is that why—?”
He breaks off, hooks his hands under Richie’s shoulders, and hauls him up onto the bed. It only really works because Richie starts helping him halfway through, but then they tumble onto the mattress, the rucked-up blankets lumpy beneath them. Eddie winds up on top, straddling Richie’s torso, his still-wet cock slapping between them as he leans down to kiss Richie again, furiously this time. Richie’s hands smooth up his back, then settle on his hips, and he lets his head fall back against the mattress when Eddie releases him.
“Okay, fine, I get it,” he grumbles, but he’s lost some of the tension. He’s looking at Eddie with a kind of wonderment that Eddie can hardly stand and definitely doesn’t deserve.
“You better get it,” Eddie says back, which barely makes any sense, but he thinks that shifting back enough to grab Richie’s cock kind of makes the point for him.
He’s tempted to slide all the way down and return the favor, but the last thing he wants now is to risk freaking the fuck out halfway through, and anyway, this way he can watch Richie’s face while he touches him. Watch his slack mouth and his squeezed-shut eyes, the flush creeping down from his face to his chest while Eddie experiments with speed and pressure, trying things he does on himself and seeing how much Richie likes them too.
Richie holds pretty still to start with, fists clenched in the sheets so hard that the tendons stand out in his forearms, trembling with suppressed tension, but then Eddie lets him go to lick his own palm, wetting it before starting again, he makes a swallowed, hurt noise, his hips shifting. Eddie can feel the muscles in his thighs flex, lifting him slightly where he’s sitting across them. Richie could lift him up easily, he’s pretty sure.
Something to revisit, for sure.
“Eddie, Eddie,” Richie mumbles, and his hands flex, hauling at the sheets, and when he opens his eyes his expression is broken open, helpless, dazed, and Eddie has to pitch forward to kiss him. The angle is awkward like this, but he doesn’t pull back, and Richie curls into him, breathing open-mouthed against his lips. His hand comes up to grab at Eddie like he’s anchoring himself, and then his hips roll up off of the bed, his cock pulsing slick heat over Eddie’s fingers as he comes.
Eddie isn’t sure how long they stay like that, curled together in a sweaty heap. He lets his hand fall on Richie’s chest, feeling the speeding drumbeat of his heart, and only realizes a moment later that it’s the one still covered in come.
“Are you leaving jizz handprints on me?” Richie mumbles into his throat a moment later. It’s too late to get away with any kind of dignity, so Eddie pinches his nipple sharply instead. “Ow! Jesus!”
“You need another shower,” Eddie tells him, but he drops his hand, belatedly, to wipe it on the sheets.
“Yeah, whose fault is that?” Richie rolls away, though, sliding off of the bed. Eddie watches him: the breadth of his shoulders, the pale, freckled span of his back, the dip of his spine just above his ass. There’s jizz smeared across his chest and the softness of his stomach, his cock still hard, slick and red against his thigh, and Eddie thinks, dazed, I did that.
Richie grabs his shirt off of the floor and cleans himself off with it, then tosses it at the hamper and tugs his boxers back on. He glances back at Eddie, then grabs his sweatpants and boxers unerringly from the tangle of clothes on the floor and tosses them to him.
“Thanks,” Eddie says, mortified.
The corner of Richie’s mouth ticks upward slightly, and he nods toward the bathroom. “Go ahead. I know you’re dying to wash your hands.”
Eddie would like to protest, but he’s right. He holds his sweatpants in front of him with his clean hand as he escapes into the en-suite bathroom.
The light seems very bright after the dreamy sunset glow of the bedroom. It’s cleaner than he would have expected, toiletries laid neatly out on the countertop, which is the same vaguely retro green glass tile as the bathroom that Eddie’s been using. The hand soap is expensive and citrusy in a glass pump dispenser. Eddie washes his hands thoroughly, then dries them on the towel hanging off the shower door, then untangles his boxers from his pants and pulls both on, wincing slightly at the chafing seams. Richie didn’t leave any marks on him, but he looks debauched all the same when he stares at himself in the mirror. Flushed pink with his hair all over the place, his mouth so red it seems bruised.
He can’t remember ever looking like this before. Ever feeling like this, so awake that he could shake out of his skin. Loose and warm from the memory of someone else’s hands on him.
The bedroom is empty when he comes back out. Eddie considers trying to locate his t-shirt in the chaos on the floor, then gives up and pads out into the darkened main house. Richie hasn’t turned any of the lights on, but Eddie drifts into the kitchen automatically, the tile cold on his feet.
“In here,” Richie calls quietly from the living room. He’s on the couch, feet tucked up under him like he’s a kid. His glasses reflect the moonlit glow coming in through the glass doors as he turns toward Eddie. He’s still shirtless, but he’s pulled pajama pants on over his boxers. He looks wary, almost skittish, and he twitches slightly when Eddie drops onto the couch next to him.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hey,” Richie says back, and swallows audibly, and then doesn’t say anything else.
Eddie breathes out into the quiet air. “Are you freaking out?”
“Are you?”
“I don’t know,” Eddie admits. “Yeah. A little bit, yeah.”
Richie nods. “Me, too.”
“Why? At least you fucking—at least you knew.”
“Yeah, but you’re like—” he breaks off, then laughs. “I had such a crush on you, man. Like, since we were kids. I never thought—”
“Wait, when we were kids?”
“I carved our initials on the Kissing Bridge,” Richie admits, rushed and uneven, and then he heaves forward so violently that for a horrible moment Eddie thinks he’s going to be sick. But he just curls around himself, tucking his arms in. It’s the kind of pose that Eddie hasn’t seen on him in months and months—since Derry. Like he’s trying to fold himself down, make himself small.
“Oh,” Eddie says, gut-punched and soft.
“Yeah. Fuckin’—that summer, after you broke your arm, when your mom had you on lockdown and the rest of us were fighting with each other, and—”
“Richie, you don’t,” he says helplessly, and reaches out, settling his hand on Richie’s shoulder, curling into him. They don’t really touch like this; they never have. They’ve never been gentle with each other, and that’s something Eddie always liked: that Richie would wrestle him into the dirt and put him into a headlock that he couldn’t get out of and pin him like that until Eddie shrieked at him—that Richie never seemed to know how to be careful with him, or even think that he should try.
Eddie has always taken his cues from Richie, and Richie has always seemed unbreakable.
But he wasn’t, really. Not now, and certainly not then. Eddie’s old enough now to get that, with the benefit of hindsight.
“You don’t have to tell me,” he says.
“I mean,” Richie says. “I just did, so.”
He splays his hands out like a Vegas performer, the sharp cut of his smile gleaming.
Eddie catches him by the back of the neck and kisses him hard, mashes his lips against Richie’s teeth, ugly and awkward. Richie subsides, laughs brokenly against his mouth, and kisses him back before sinking back into the couch.
“Sorry,” he says.
“I’m not fucking—” Eddie breaks off, breathes out harshly. “I wanted this, okay?”
“Okay,” Richie says, small.
“I’m sorry it took me so fucking long.”
Richie curves toward him, kisses him again. Gentler this time, and Eddie lets him do it. Lets him be gentle about it. That’s never been what he wanted from Richie, but they’re not kids now, and Eddie thinks he can re-adjust.
“What are we doing here, Eds?” Richie asks quietly when they break apart.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean. You said you weren’t ready to date yet, so…”
“Yeah, because I have this giant crush on my fucking roommate, genius.”
“Roommate,” Richie repeats, and then grins, startlingly bright. “I like it. Old-school.”
“God,” Eddie says fondly, “you’re such a pain in the ass.”
Richie’s eyebrows quirk, and Eddie doesn’t have to be a mind-reader to know exactly what he wants to say, but he manages to keep it behind his teeth for once. He leans down to kiss Eddie, then breaks away and says, “Hey, I meant what I said before. I like having you here. So you should stay. If you want to.”
“Okay,” Eddie says. “But fair warning, if I do, I’m not going to be sleeping in the spare room forever. Your drum kit is a fucking safety hazard, man.”
“You know,” Richie says, still cautious, almost smiling, “my bed is pretty big. I think we can make it work.”
“Well, good,” Eddie says, and leans in to kiss him again, careful and deliberate.
Yeah, he thinks. They can make it work.