Chapter Text
Richie loves driving.
He isn’t good at it, per se- his friends refuse to get in a car with him behind the wheel, and they’d been refusing since he first got his license at the ripe age of sixteen- but he’s passionate, and he always feels a close connection with his vehicle when he has two hands on the wheel and a foot on the gas. Richie isn’t driving the car, and the car isn’t driving him, rather they’re driving together, a complete circuit, a team.
That being said, Richie doesn’t know shit about cars. He knows there are two pedals, one steering wheel, three mirrors, four wheels, and (thank fucking god, or so Stanley would say) five seatbelts. But the mechanics of his truck? That’s a concept Richie doesn’t even want to try to comprehend, and that is completely fine because he doesn’t plan on becoming a mechanic anytime soon.
What isn’t completely fine, Richie will later come to realize, is when his car begins to spit steam at him, burning his hands and his face and knocking his “manliness”- a concept that Beverly would argue is useless and idiotic and toxic, her favorite word- down a couple notches.
He’d been singing, window rolled completely down, music blaring almost painfully in his ears, mouth hung open wide around the iconic, timeless words of Madonna’s Papa Don’t Preach, when rather than the stale air of Derry, Maine, Richie got a mouthful of sour tasting car steam.
The insides of his truck, hidden primly beneath the shit-colored hood, are a maze of metal that Richie can’t even look at without going a little cross-eyed. As Stan would tell Richie if he was there, the only thing under Richie’s messy curls is more curls and no fucking brain! Richie resents that because he’s smart in other areas of life, like breathing which he’s got twenty-two years of experience in, and sometimes he wants to take the little Stan trapped in his head and throw him out of a window.
Richie pulls his phone out of his pocket, blanching at the fact that it’s nearly eleven at night and no one in the town of Derry stays up past six pm, and Googles local Derry mechanic shops. (Is he supposed to call a tow-truck? The police?) He filters through the options, frowning when most of them read back CLOSED, CALL AT A DECENT TIME ASSHOLE.
He grins at the 9AM-12AM marker at the bottom of a shop called Eddie’s Place , clicking the call button and sticking his phone against his ear under all of his hair.
It rings three times before a voice filters through the line, not automated like Richie’d been expecting, very real and very lyrical when it says, “Eddie’s Place, this is Eddie. How can I help you?”
“Wow, are you the Eddie of Eddie’s Place? I feel like I’m talking to a famous person.” Richie smiles at the laugh and small ‘yes’ he gets in return and continues, “Anyways, my truck is steaming and I’m scared to drive it because steaming always leads to fires in the movies.”
There’s a hum on the other line, and some shuffling, then the clanking of metal meeting metal. “Did the car stop running and then start steaming, or did it start steaming while you were driving.”
“While I was driving,” Richie says, throwing a forlorn glance at his car, still steaming but with less dedication than before, in small puffs of smoke that are probably ripping holes in the Ozone as Richie speaks.
“Okay. Is it coming from under the hood or out of the tailpipe?”
Richie moves to the back of his car, peeking at the tailpipe, releasing a relieved sigh when he finds it completely steam-free. “Under the hood. I love it when you talk mechanics to me, Eddie. We can talk about tailpipes all night.”
Eddie doesn’t so much as laugh, as Richie had been hoping for, rather he lets out a small, adorable huff of air that crackles down the line. “Unless you want to remain where you are until the morning I suggest you drop the shit. If you’re not too far off the grid, I can come fix your car up, but otherwise you’ll have to call a tow-truck.”
“I’m near the intersection of Main and North,” Richie replies, tucking his I bet you could fix me up, couldn’t you Eds? joke right in his back pocket, because he doesn’t want to remain where he is until the morning, and he also has the sudden, terrifying thought that he’s flirting with some seventy year old man with four grandkids and children the same age as Richie’s parents. “It’s cold and I promise not to jump you, please tell me you’ll come do your magic to my truck. She’s my baby, and also my parents would decapitate me if I broke another vehicle.”
Eddie laughs at that, just as pretty and lyrical as his voice and Richie is already creating a mental picture of him, hoping for once that his active imagination turns out to be at least a little bit right. “I’ll be there in fifteen. Just sit in the truck, and please don’t fucking touch anything. I can easily fix this issue but I refuse to fix anything else, got it?”
“Sir yes sir,” Richie says, giving a salute that is lost to the world because Eddie can’t even see him. When he hears the beeping of Eddie hanging up and the silence that his phone naturally produces he shoves himself back in his truck, arms wrapping tightly around his middle.
The sky is clogged up with smatterings of stars, and probably a planet or two although Richie can’t ever be too sure about that one, twinkling against the silver pool of the moon. Derry, despite being the shittiest place in the entire world, and possibly a not-so-secret portal to hell, has the best view of the night sky. Richie’s a bit scared to leave it because he’s so accustomed to sitting on his windowsill and watching how everything twinkles and winks and shines and keeps on moving even when he feels stuck in the same place.
He leans as far back in his seat as he can and stares out of the front windshield, unwrapping one of his arms to point at the stars while he counts, starting at one and dozing off around fifty-six.
Richie jumps awake with a tap at his window, shaking out his head before sitting up, rubbing at the ache to stay asleep that pounds at his eyes. He turns and squints through the fogged up glass, slowly pushing open his door.
“Are you here to rob me?” He asks, slipping out of his truck and standing fully to face the man staring back at him. The moonlight provides a bit of shifting, low light that dances around them, illuminating who Richie presumes to be Eddie. He’s definitely not seventy years old, and he’s not what Richie was expecting at all, quite a few inches shorter than Richie’s 6’3”, with glimmery brown eyes and a head full of blonde hair.
“No, although I just might if you keep looking at me like that. I know I’m short but there’s not a textbook definition of what type of person is allowed to work on cars,” Eddie says, and his voice is sharp, like he’s used to people commenting on his looks- just like Richie had been doing in his mind- and he’s tired of it.
Richie nods, pushing his glasses up on his nose with a small smile. “I’m sorry for assuming anything. Thank you for coming so late.”
Eddie’s mouth opens a bit in surprise, eyes widening just a smidge further than they already were, and Richie has a sudden, annoying little hope that his truck breaks and breaks and breaks because he wants to see that expression on Eddie’s face again and again. “You’re welcome. Two things: your name, and then you need to hold up a flashlight while I fix your truck.”
Richie nods again, seemingly the only thing he can do, and motions to the front of his truck, where the hood is still hung open. It’s not steaming anymore, but Eddie seems to already know what the problem is because he pulls a black jug out of his tool bag, setting it down on the ground beside his feet.
“I’m Richie,” he says, when his throat stops feeling dry at the sight of Eddie’s hands covered in oil. It shouldn’t be as hot as it is, but at this point in life Richie’s realized he can’t stop himself from liking what he likes, and if he likes this tiny man with oily hands and big brown eyes then that’s that. “You said something about a flashlight.”
Eddie wordlessly tugs a flashlight from the pocket of his pants, handing it over to Richie. Their fingers don’t touch and Richie wants to hand the flashlight back and start over so he knows if Eddie’s hands are warm or cold or soft or calloused. Richie’s hands have always been embarrassingly soft, another thing Beverly hates that Richie notices, and there hasn’t been a day in his life when he put on lotion for anything other than masterbating, and even then it was only one of his hands.
“I thought you’d be in a jumpsuit,” Richie says, only so that he can fill the silence and stop thinking about lotion on Eddie’s hand and his hand on Richie’s dick, oil and all.
Eddie shakes his head with a little laugh, bending down to pick up the bottle from the ground. “That’s a myth. They only do that so mechanics can be sexy in movies, but really it’s fucking gross. Oil gets everywhere. Point the flashlight here, please.”
Richie does as he’s told, glancing over at Eddie and seeing the shadow of freckles dotted along his cheeks, noticing the slope of his nose and the way his eyelashes curl and brush feather-like against his skin when he blinks. “I know you said to cut my shit out, but can I just say that you are much sexier than any mechanic I’ve ever seen.”
“No, you cannot say,” Eddie replies, but the rose-red blush on his cheeks is answer enough for Richie.
Eddie uncaps the bottle leaning forward to glance into the inner workings of Richie’s truck, his eyes shifting around and completely understanding everything they’re seeing. He reaches over and moves Richie’s hand where it’s wrapped around the flashlight, pointing it where he needs it. Richie makes note, mentally and physically and emotionally, that Eddie’s hands are warm and rough when they brush against Richie’s skin.
Richie watches Eddie reach into the truck to uncap something, holding the lid out for Richie to take while he bends back over, slowly pouring in the liquid.
“It looks like you’re pouring coffee into my truck. Please tell me that you’re not. I know I said that you’re cute but I don’t think I’d be able to pay you if that was the case.”
Eddie’s lips tug up into a smile, and he shifts his head to glance at Richie out of the corner of his eye. Richie’s already watching and he doesn’t feel any bit embarrassed when he sees that blush on Eddie’s face again. “It’s called coolant. And you didn’t say that I was cute.”
“I didn’t? I think I specifically remember calling you cute. Enlighten me, then, Eds.”
“You called me sexy,” Eddie replies, and his voice doesn’t waver on any syllable but his eyes are shy when they catch Richie’s. “The sentiment is mutual, in case you were wondering. I’ve got no idea how you manage to pull off the purple hair and red glasses and, honest to god fugly truck, but somehow you do and it’s frustrating. Also you’re tall and I have to look up to look at you and it is completely unfair why does a person need that much leg?”
Richie grins at the admission, bending down until he’s at Eddie’s height, his body folded awkwardly across the front bumper of his truck, his knees pressed hard against the metal. “To reach high shelves, usually. And to woo average height mechanics?”
Eddie smells like oil this close up, not that Richie really has any idea what that smells like because, again, he’s illiterate in cars, or what the fuck ever, but it burns when Richie inhales too deeply and he thinks he might be getting a little high off of the scent because when Eddie smiles up at him his knees go soft and his head- which is already empty, thank you tiny Stan- fogs up and clouds with cotton.
“I’ve been wooed since you called,” Eddie replies, because he obviously wants to give Richie chest pains. “I’m all done here.”
Richie shakes his head, holding up the cap he still has held responsibly in his grip. If he threw it over into the bushes then Eddie wouldn’t be able to leave and Richie thinks he might just do that but Eddie’s already reaching for it. Their hands brush again and Richie wants to kiss Eddie, kiss him right on the lips and take him home, or maybe just right here where anyone could drive by and see them, just so that he could kiss him until their lips bleed or fall off or whichever happens first.
Eddie looks over again and Richie notices the smudge of oil on his forehead, in a small little blob of black directly above his eyebrow, and Richie tugs his sweater over his hand to wipe it away.
“You don’t have to be all done here,” Richie says, and his voice has hit that sweet spot right between being hoarse and being non existent, something he’s dubbed his ‘bedroom voice’ and Eddie seems to agree with the title because his eyes widen and his cheeks are back to being pink. “Your website says you’re open ‘till midnight and my phone says that it’s only eleven fifteen. That’s forty-five minutes of quality Richie time.”
Eddie grabs Richie’s hand when it moves away from his face, wrapping his own around it and bringing it up to his mouth to blow on. He’s so warm compared to Richie that it makes a chill run down his spine. “Okay. What do you suggest we do during our quality Richie time?”
“I hadn’t thought that far,” Richie replies, and Eddie huffs out a little laugh against his skin that’s sending goosebumps racing down his arm. He can think of a few things that he wants to do with Eddie but he doesn’t want to try and fuck some guy he barely knows and will likely never see again. “We could talk? If you want?”
Eddie shakes his head, his blond hair shuffling on top of his head with the movement, a few of the curls falling down onto his forehead. “I want to kiss you. Can I kiss you? You can say no.”
Richie blows out a heavy breath, and he pretends that it’s not visible directly in front of him because sure it’s October but it shouldn’t be visible breath weather, before bending down to press his lips softly against Eddie’s. Eddie’s lips are just as warm against Richie’s as his hand is, and his mouth is somewhere between soft and chapped and when he presses hard against Richie their teeth clack and it’s wonderful.
Richie’s had a lot of kisses and he’s had one first kiss but this feels like a million first kisses all at once and he thinks that maybe it’s the cold air wrapping around them that makes it feel so new, like their mouths pressing together is the only thing that’s keeping the world from freezing over completely. Eddie’s hand wraps tighter around his and the press of their mouths is less intimate and more demanding.
Eddie pulls away first, gulping in a deep breath of air, and Richie follows, hating the burn of cold that fills his lungs but loving the way his mouth tingles and feels warm against his fingers. “God your mouth is cold. Did you swim in fucking ice before you decided to go driving?”
And it’s such a funny thing to say after their very first kiss that Richie lets out a laugh that echoes on the empty street around them, and Eddie seems to find that funny because he’s laughing too and their laughs are intertwining and jumbling up until they become one big laugh. They’re practically falling apart in the middle of the street and Richie can’t find it in him to care.
“I didn’t,” Richie says, when his lungs are done rumbling with laughter. “Now, if you’re done laughing at my early on-set hypothermia- and please don’t tell me that that’s not how hypothermia works because I’ve seen every episode of Grey's Anatomy twice and I can assure it is- I have a heater in my car and it’s begging for attention.”
“You laughed too, asshole. And don’t just think that because I’m getting in your car it’s a free ticket into my ass, because it’s not. I’m not even sure I like you yet.”
“There’s always tomorrow.”
Richie doesn’t have a ticket to Eddie’s ass, and he’s been told this by Eddie multiple times, as if he’d forgotten the first time because now all he can think about is Eddie’s ass and how he can’t go anywhere near it, but apparently he’s got one for Eddie’s dick.
It’s a bit awkward considering the back seat of Richie’s truck is off limits because (as Eddie so kindly said) “it looks like it has diseases” so they’re both squished into the passenger seat. Eddie’s knees are on either side of Richie’s thighs, and his pants are unbuttoned and Richie’s got one hand down his boxers.
How did he get here, you might ask? Richie has no fucking clue. Him and Eddie had been talking about something useless like why the sky is blue or why the pyramids are really there (aliens: 1 vote, really smart egyptians: 1 vote), and then Eddie’s mouth was on his, unrelenting and hard and heavy against Richie. It blows Richie’s mind that he’s spoken the words ‘I would have sex with an alien only for the experience points and also because I am deathly curious’ directly to Eddie’s face and Eddie still wants to kiss him.
Richie swallows the gasp that Eddie presses against his lips when he wraps his fingers around Eddie’s dick, tugging him out of his boxers. He runs his thumb along the slit, gathering a few beads of precum that have leaked out of the tip and pressing his finger into his own mouth.
“Jesus Christ, Richie,” Eddie says, and his voice is a whine laced with a moan and Richie blinks up at Eddie through his eyelashes.
Richie releases Eddie’s dick and holds his palm up to Eddie’s mouth. They’re about eye level with Eddie on his lap and Richie can see the way Eddie’s eyes are nearly completely black with lust and how the moonlight pooling in through the windows and the windshield turn him into a mess of colors. “Spit, please.”
“Are you going to eat that too?” Eddie asks but does it anyways, sitting up and looking disgusted at the way Richie smacks his hand right back onto Eddie’s dick.
Richie leans forward and presses a sweet kiss against Eddie’s mouth, his hand still moving between them, their noses nudging together. Richie can hear the soft puffs of air Eddie pushes out of his nose and it tickles along his cheeks, and so he presses a kiss against Eddie’s nose. Richie’s dick is throbbing in his pants, because the sight of Eddie with swollen red lips and hot cheeks is making Richie’s entire body swell with a desperate want that’s tugging at the hidden corners of his body.
“You’re so good, Eddie,” Richie says against Eddie’s mouth, and it’s far too intimate for some quicky hand job in his truck but it’s all Richie can offer without taking Eddie home and having to explain that to his parents. “So good for me. Look so good.”
Eddie’s moving his hips minutely against Richie, his eyes squeezed shut so tight that his whole face is scrunched up. He gasps at Richie’s words and once his mouth opens it doesn’t close, stuck wide around the feeling of Richie’s hand on him, his fingers digging into the fabric of Richie’s t-shirt.
It’s almost as if Eddie suddenly remembers that’ this is exactly a quicky hand job in Richie’s truck because then he blinks at Richie, and his eyes are wide and his mouth is still open but his hips aren’t moving and his gasping breaths have turned into something normal. “What about you?” Eddie asks, and his words sound far too innocent for Richie to currently have a hand around his dick.
“I just figured that I’d get you off and just deal with it? I’m the asshole who made you drive all the way out here… and, anyways, watching you do all of that is absolutely the hottest thing I’ve ever seen in my life.”
Eddie smiles and it lights up his entire face and feels a bit weird for being aroused because it’s so cute. “I’m surprised that you’re not more of an asshole. I guess with this truck you don’t have the right to be an asshole.”
“Stop talking shit about my truck! She just got you good money, I’ll have you know.” Richie’s had this truck since before he could drive and it’s an integral part of him, like his liver, and no matter how many times he’s been left stranded Richie has never forgotten any of the journeys he’s taken in this very vehicle.
“I’m sorry,” Eddie says, and it’s very sincere, especially when he leaves a scalding kiss against Richie’s neck, and another on his jaw, and a final one on his lips. “And I wanna make you feel good, too, Rich.”
Richie nods, and then he nods again and again because he wants Eddie to be happy and because he can’t stop thinking about Eddie’s hands and his fingers. Eddie makes quick work of his jeans, unbuttoning them and shoving them unceremoniously down his thighs, leaving his dick to spring up against his stomach, hard and red at the tip.
Eddie’s eyes flick up to Richie’s and his eyes are so much like a physical touch, hot and expressive and reading directly into Richie’s mind and giving him what he wants. He holds his hand up to Richie’s mouth and doesn’t seem the least bit grossed out when Richie gives him a handful of spit, only moving down to wrap around Richie’s dick, his grip firm.
“Feel so good,” Richie pants out, and the words are barely a whisper in his throat, trying to break out of his mouth. He moves his hand sloppily around Eddie again and the angle is awkward and their elbows are bent weird against the car and each other but it feels so good that Richie’s moaning out Eddie’s name and Eddie keeps pushing out these little ah, ah, ah, sounds that are driving Richie insane.
Eddie’s head falls onto Richie’s shoulder and he nibbles at the exposed skin of his collarbone, teeth nipping in a way Richie would probably find painful if they weren’t in this certain situation, and he hopes Eddie leaves marks because that’s something he does want to explain to his parents so that they’ll fuck off about a girlfriend or a boyfriend and realize that this mechanic right here? Has ruined other people for Richie, because logically speaking Richie knows he’ll never meet someone exactly like Eddie again and that damn near sucks ass because he’s never felt this good from something as juvenile as a hand job.
“I’m close,” Eddie warns, and his mouth brushes warmly against the shell of Richie’s ear when he speaks and it sends a shiver down Richie’s spine. “Doing so good, Chee.”
Richie speeds up his hand, ignoring the protest that his wrist gives, watching how the tip of Eddie’s dick keeps appearing and disappearing into his palm. It’s mesmerizing and so fucking hot that Richie doesn’t give Eddie a warning before he’s coming over Eddie’s hand, his body still so hot against Richie’s and his mouth wet and warm against his skin.
He runs his thumb across the tip of Eddie’s dick, feeling how Eddie shivers on top of him, and so he does it again, rubbing against Eddie’s slit and breathing against Eddie’s throat. “Come on, baby, you did so well. Come for me, Eddie.”
Eddie thrusts shallowly into Richie’s palm four more times before he’s moaning Richie’s name and coming in his hand and on Richie’s shirt. He falls against Richie bonelessly, and his breaths are still ticking at Richie’s ear and his free hand his tangled up in Richie’s sweater.
Now we’re to Richie’s least favorite part of the after-orgasm, when Eddie packs up and leaves and they never see each other again. It’s common and yet Richie doesn’t want to see Eddie hop into his little car with its little doors and little wheels and drive away.
“I’m going to need your number,” Eddie says, and his voice is soft but it’s loud against Richie’s ears and it pounds through his body like a punch because he’s either going fucking crazy or Eddie might want to do this again. “Your truck will one hundred percent break down again and I refuse to allow you to go to any other mechanic.”
Richie lets out a little laugh that’s muffled against Eddie’s shoulder. He leans his head back enough so that his mouth is free and his words are intelligible when he says, “Is that the only reason, Eds?”
He feels the shake of Eddie’s head against his shoulder and he knows that his grin could probably light up one million Derry night skies because it hurts his face when he releases it, and he presses a kiss against Eddie’s shoulder, something like a promise because he’s too embarrassed to open his mouth and say thank god, I thought you were going to leave .
“We can clean up and swap numbers, ‘kay? Just wipe your hand on my sweater, it has already been thoroughly ruined.”
Eddie looks a little guilty when he swipes Richie’s come off on the soft fabric of, admittedly, Richie’s favorite sweater- if it wasn’t his favorite before it sure as fuck was now- before tugging his pants back up and buttoning them tight.
Eddie pulls his phone out of his back pocket, and the time reads back twelve oh one, and Richie smiles because it has, officially, been forty-six minutes of quality Richie time. “What’s your last name?”
Richie blinks up at Eddie, opening his mouth several times and closing it shut immediately after. He mumbles his answer so quiet he’s sure Eddie doesn’t hear it and he looks down at his come-soaked sweater when he says, louder, “Tozier.”
Eddie’s quiet and his phone is quiet and the world is quiet, everyone taking front seat to listen because, “Isn’t that the Mayor’s last name?”
“It’s- well, yeah, I suppose. It’s also my last name,” Richie reiterates, because if he wasn’t clear the first time he sure a fuck was this time. “Because he’s… my dad. And stuff.”
It’s quiet. Richie hates quiet- he talks so much because he can’t stand to be quiet, to hear the quiet, and it maybe has something to do with memories of a silent house with no parents and no anyone and just Richie, or maybe it’s just because Richie fucking adores attention, truly can’t live without it! One of the upsides of being the mayor’s son is that he’s living completely under the spotlight.
Richie looks up and Eddie’s eyes are comically wide, wider than they’ve been all night, wider than they were when Richie apologized and wider than they were when Richie complimented Eddie, and really all it ever takes is for people to find out Richie’s the mayor’s son. Him, Richie Tozier with the purple hair and red glasses and shitty truck and loud, dirty mouth, was the sperm that won.
“I just… you just… and you’re? You’re Richard Tozier, who’s known for being a total dickback? I don’t get it.”
“What’s there to get, Eddie,” Richie replies and his voice is sad because he feels like his last name is some stupid fucking curse and his dad just had to be the mayor of Shitville, Maine. “There’s a clear reason I didn’t tell you.”
Eddie leans back on Richie’s thighs but he hasn’t gotten off or asked Richie to move or left Richie’s car and said fuck you. “So you’re telling me that your family is the richest family in this entire town and you drive this? Interesting.”
“That’s what you’re worried about? My fucking truck?”
Eddie shrugs as if to say what else is there to be worried about? Not the fact that he just saw what Richie looks like with his dick out and come all over his hand- no, the fact that Richie’s truck is a royal piece of shit vehicle that rarely gets him from point A to point B without falling into ten million tiny little pieces. “Sure. So, your number? I’m surprised you don’t have some fucking mechanic already at your house.”
“My dad’s not the pope,” Richie replies, but his heart isn’t in his throat or his stomach or halfway down the street but it’s right where it should be, pumping away in his chest. He feels light and when Eddie laughs he can almost positively say that he’s never heard something so wonderful. “Thank you, Eddie. For not… having a meltdown, or whatever. I’ve seen people in tears before.”
“Your dick wasn’t that spectacular,” Eddie says but he’s smiling while he says it and it has the near opposite effect of what it should have. He pops open the side door and slides out of Richie’s lap, his smile never leaving. “Bye, Tozier. Call me when you need me but not for anything else, got it?”
Richie nods silently and watches Eddie walk away and pushes call on his phone.
“I literally told you half a second ago not to call me unless you need me.” Eddie’s voice is so pretty and Richie feels comfortable clinging on to his every word without Eddie watching him do it.
His smile feels unfamiliar and pathetically fond when it spreads across his lips. “I don’t know your last name. Seems unfair to me.”
“Kaspbrak. Now hang up before I pop one of your tires.”
Richie does as he’s told and waits until Eddie passes him and drives off before he lets out a heavy sigh, his body falling numbly into the seat. As soon as he can walk again he’s nosediving off the nearest cliff directly into a pool of water and he’s not coming back up until his dad quits his job and the Toziers become normal human beings once again.