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It’s 1993 and Eddie’s at the edge of the cliff when Richie knows, for maybe the seven hundredth time, that he loves him.
The summer sun is taking its last few breaths for the day, submerging itself back into the horizon, bringing along with it blazing oranges and yellows. Sweat-stains on shirts, curls sticking to the back of their necks. They were laughing at something Richie said. He’d tell you what it was, but all memory of what left his mouth was erased and overridden with its effect instead: Eddie’s eyes crinkling, a big loud chuckle ripping from somewhere deep within his chest, him saying: “That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard, Richie!”
God – Yeah. Eddie’s silent now, eyes closed and most of all, peaceful. His legs are stretched out while his arms are behind him, palms on rocky ground. His breaths are steadying and grounding. The quiet that’s fallen over them doesn’t feel like something Richie needs to fill, but rather a comforting weighted blanket that reinforces how much he likes being with Eddie. He’s Resident Trashmouth for a reason – Richie flings out words from his throat with a goofy smile to relieve the tension when he knows others need it – but with him? It’s easier to wear silences, to live in the moment.
It’s a good moment.
Golden hour looks good on Eddie. Sunbeams kissing every corner of his cheeks, his neck, hands, the same way Richie desires for his own lips to press into every inch of his body. The scar on his arm from thirteen. A bruise on his knee from the other day. (He patched that one up quickly, though Richie insisted that he do it for him, for once, for all the other times he’s done it.) The freckles that seem like the stars hung up in the sky. The way his hair, usually so neatly combed, is let loose, messy as ever. The mole on his neck Richie discovered when he was twelve.
He takes him in, itches with it. The magnetic pull from him to Eddie; From his slightly bruised knuckles to the veins that course through his fingers, in them exists a string with an attractive force that rivals the gods. To him, Eddie, the boy he’s loved since he first saw him. Back then, his mind for all the words it delivers, like the world’s most efficient postal service, could only serve him one: Cute. (In which Richie takes time to tell him over the phone or with a pinch to the cheek.) Richie was eight and unknowing. In the dark that the boy across the playground that played with him that recess would become part of a seven. (Lucky Seven – coming together so eerily right, he doesn’t know what his heart would be without seven of them, each of them breathing life into him.) On some level, though, he knew Eddie would be the love of his life.
Eddie’s grown up, of course. They’re not eight at the playground anymore. They’re seventeen, hardened and shaped by Derry, cuts evolving from the places where scabs just developed. In all the ways that Richie is lanky, Eddie’s grown just right. In every shared bed is a new opportunity for Richie to realize that they’re not the same kids they were, but are the same in the ways that matter. It’s a new opportunity to stifle the almost drunken grin that arises–faces so impossibly close, his chest beating overtime–from knowing he had the privilege to grow beside him.
And what a privilege it is to keep growing beside him. To see courage lay itself on his shoulders, radiate off of him, encouraging the rest of the Losers to be brave, too. Despite and because of the world that they were shoved into, always out to get them and strip them to their bare bones. If Derry lays him barren, scraping out every bit of Richie till there was nothing left but the very core of him, they’d find that the love for the Losers would persist. His love for Eddie is fundamental to who he is and what he wants to be. Find that Richie Tozier, boy of Voices, is nothing more than a love song for the people he cherishes the most.
How could he not fill his chest with the easy fondness that comes with loving Eddie? It’s Eds. The boy who smiles and the world becomes brighter. The boy who cleans his glasses and pushes them up the bridge of his nose when he’s distracted. Eddie who Gets Off A Good One when people least expect it, surprising hearty laughter that rings off the walls. (It’s chuckalicious, if he’s being honest.) The boy who is the definition of brave, against his mother and those that give him too much unwanted attention then turning a blind eye to him. Even if Richie wishes he didn't have to.
The boy that gives Richie space to share what’s on his mind in the small raftered room above his garage – reading comics together until the sun starts to set. Seeing him for who he is, even as he's tangled and mangled, and still saying he’s good, anyway. The boy that grabs hold of his hand and jumps off this very same cliff into the Quarry. What did he say? Bravery defined.
The boy who patches him up so tenderly on the edge of the bathroom sink, he has to clutch his chest to make sure his affection for him doesn’t spill all over the floor. The boy who knows directions in the same way he knows the Losers. He’s their compass, Losers they are but lost they are not when he’s around to point the way. He’ll bring them home. The boy’s a lover at heart, trudging into Richie's own heart and making him learn love every day.
Eddie my love, Richie calls him and it’s the most absolute simple truth. Even if the Voices he adorns mask his real emotions most days, how he adores his friends isn’t something he’d ever want to lie about. It’s the same kind of absolute truth that the sun will rise tomorrow, that water flows in the Kenduskeag, that the trees that line the Barrens have their leaves fanning out into the sky.
“Eds,” Richie says, not really knowing why.
(He knows well enough.)
Eddie turns to look at him, “Don’t call me Eds.”
A timeless ritual done for years, something that hasn’t changed. When Richie calls out to Eddie, Eddie will answer.
“What’s up, Rich?” Eddie continues, when Richie doesn’t. A beginning of a soft smile on his lips as the sun dips into the horizon completely. The stars peek out of the young night, little dots reminding Richie of how lucky he is to be here. Distantly, he thinks of freckles. He looks toward Eddie, and oh how he loves him.
“Nothing, Eds,” Richie tells him instead, “Let’s get going, I’ll bring you home.”