Chapter Text
Eddie woke up with half his face in water, so he’s already choking.
He weakly crawls up on his hands and knees, falling twice from loss of balance, but manages. When he focuses his blurred vision on his palms digging against wet stones, he recognizes he’s in some kind of creek. He finally looks around.
He knew where he was. Somewhere along the Derry creek.
What was he doing half-drowning in Derry’s creek?
All of his limbs ache, like he’d ran an eight-hour marathon then slept funny on concrete. He doesn’t even have time yet to register just how unbelievably filthy he currently was, because he was trying again and again to stand on his own two feet. With another groan, he gets up.
Where are his friends?
Where is everybody?
“Hello?” He croaks, then coughs harshly, his throat painfully dry.
He looks around once more, then down at himself and tenses stiff. His shirt is tattered with a huge gaping hole in the middle of it. What’s more shocking, is that he’s soaked in blood. Stained deeply all over the front of his shirt, splatted all over his pants. In a panic he grasps his palms all over his abdomen, only then trying to calm his own hyperventilating when he sees that he’s unharmed.
If he’s uninjured, then whose blood is this?
What exactly happened again?
His mind throbs as he tries to remember. Despite the memories he’s trying to reach only being the last twenty-four hours, they seem buried deep.
An array of memories try and push through, Bev’s laughter at the restaurant, the news about Stanley, Mike’s panicked voice. Pennywise’s haunting laughter.
And then-
“WE CAN STILL HELP HIM! WE CAN STILL HELP HIM-“
A sharp pain suddenly shoots through his skull, making him wince and rub at his temples.
Why can’t he completely remember? And where the hell are his friends? He’s unsure whether to be anxious or simply bewildered. It was hard to feel either though, for he felt exhausted. He needed to lay down.
He’ll head back to the inn, look for his friends there, then get his rest. That’s what he’ll do.
He starts taking his first steps, and notices something odd lying among the rocks. A leather jacket. He thinks harder. Richie’s jacket. He isn’t sure what he was doing with his jacket, the idiot must’ve left it behind. At least it’s a clue that someone else had been here. He picks up the jacket, and despite its sogginess, brings it with him. It could have some kind of sentimental value to Richie that he doesn’t know about. It can be washed.
He wasn’t really in a clear mind, too tired and sore to be his complete self. It seemed too difficult to look for a car to use than to just walk back to the inn, so despite his worn out bones he chose to walk.
By the time he got there, the sun had been set and the streetlights were on. His heels throbbed and he was dizzy with fatigue. He finally reached the front of the Inn, and decided that there would be a change of plans. He was thirsty, and starving, and needed his eight hours of sleep. He really needed to find his friends, and what on earth was going on, but he knew right now he couldn’t. Even as he opened the front door, he almost collapsed.
He discovers that friends are all quietly sitting in the lounge room. They look uncomfortable, too solemn. It unsettles him, but then he remembers that they’re all back in their traumatic hometown on the hunt for a traumatizing murderous shapeshifter. So it’s understandable that they all want to sit there and think in silence.
Eddie decides he’ll talk to them when he has a chance. Right now he’s just moments from passing out. And he fucking smells like grey water and not to mention he’s covered in blood. He needs a shower too.
As he struggles to get up the stairs, his ears perk up to the sound of Ben’s voice.
“What should we do?” He utters. “Should we- should we just go?”
There’s silence again.
“Maybe h-he just needs time,” Bill tries.
“He hasn’t left that room since we got here,” Bev says woefully.
“Has anybody checked on him?-“ Ben asks nervously.
“We all have,” Mike then says. “He… he just lays there.”
Eddie stops at the middle of the stairs, trying to understand the context. Who are they talking about?
“Well what do we do?” Ben strains. “I don’t know what to do.”
“None of us do,” Bill says. There’s another pause of silence. “M-m-maybe- maybe what we did, it was a mistake. We- we just- we f-fucking left him there-“
“What else could we have done?” Bev pleads. “We had to make a choice-“
“How are any of us supposed to live with that choice?” Bill stresses. “How are any of us supposed to live with ourselves, knowing he’s still down there-“
“We can’t get him out of there, Bill, you know we can’t-“ Mike tries.
“Yeah. We can’t,” he says bitterly. “And you w-wonder why he hasn’t left the room all day.”
Eddie doesn’t like wherever this conversation is going, so he continues heading upstairs to his bedroom. He doesn’t like it when his friends fight, never has. They’re probably just as tired as him, and by morning they’ll all be okay again. He’s sure of it. He has to be.
He slips into his bedroom, the one he’s been staying at since arriving at the Inn. He quietly closes the door behind him, throws the leather jacket in the corner of the room, and is about to let out a big sigh, finally able to have a shower, and a bed, after the shitty last few days he’s had. But he’s quickly startled by the unexpected guest.
Richie’s lying in his bed, atop the sheets in damp, dirty clothes. He’s curled up in a ball, but a man his size he’s unable to shrink himself. His body rises and falls slowly, and with the perspective Eddie has at the door, he can’t tell if he’s awake.
“Richie?” He tries at an average volume. He’s unresponsive.
Eddie walks up to the side of the bed, now standing over him. He’s asleep. His glasses are still on his face, and Eddie notices one of the lenses are cracked. He tries to recall if they were already like that these last few days, but he would’ve noticed something like that. He’s still wearing the same clothes, his yellow button up tousled to the floor, but still sleeping in his jeans, belt, shoes and all.
He sniffles in his sleep, with red around his eyes and tear-stained cheeks. He’s been crying. Why was he crying? It’s not like Richie. Ever since he’s known him, Richie has done everything in his power to avoid crying. He suffocates his feelings with jokes, or avoids and deflects his issues, or pretends he couldn’t care less about the trouble he’s in. Richie only cried at the worst of times, when he was truly too overwhelmed to play it off. Eddie recalls when they were children and how difficult it would be to calm him down, because once Richie finally started crying, he didn’t know how to stop.
Eddie feels another wave of nausea hit him from his fatigue, and realizes he’s been staring at him for far too long. He needs to sleep.
“Richie,” he tries again. “C’mon. Get out of my bed. You have your own.”
Richie makes a whine in his sleep, eyebrows furrowing before his eyes even opened. “Eddie?” He mumbles weakly.
“Yes. It’s Eddie. And you’re in his bed. Do you not know what room you’re in?”
He could’ve been a lot ruder, with being as tired as he was, but this was the most gentle he was going to get with Richie, recognizing that the man’s obviously not feeling well.
Richie leisurely sits up with a groan, finally fluttering his eyes open and looking up at Eddie. His eyes widen at the sight of him. He looks absolutely horrified.
“What?” Eddie asks, confused. “What- why are you looking at me like that?”
Richie says nothing. He’s speechless. Just staring at him. His face slowly shifts from shock, to panic, to devastation, and finally, to anger. Eddie witnesses this all at once, and he’s unsure if he’s ever seen Richie look this way before, and he starts to feel nervous.
“Could you get out of my bed? I promise we can talk after- I’m just so drained-“
“Fuck you.”
Eddie’s completely thrown off. And hurt, because the words seep with venom and disgust. “What?” He says meekly.
“We fucking killed you,” Richie spits. “We fucking killed you- you’re supposed to be dead- and you come back and fucking taunt me-“
“What the fuck?-“
“-pretending to be him!” Richie raises his voice. “I’m not fucking scared of you. I fucked you up twice already, and I’ll do it as many times as I fucking need to until you’re finally dead-“
“Why are you talking to me like this?” Eddie felt more docile and distraught by the minute. “What did I do-“
“Stop fucking pretending to be him- I know you’re not him- how fucking dare you come back-“
“What are you talking about?-“
“SHUT UP!” Richie screams. “YOU’RE NOT HIM!”
“Richie-“
Richie picks up the bedside lamp. Eddie starts backing up with his hands up in defense. Richie lifts his arm to throw the lamp at him.
“Are you out of your FUCKING MIND?” Eddie screams, backing up further. “Are you on fucking drugs? Richie- are you on fucking drugs?!”
That seems to snap Richie out of whatever trance he’s in. He lowers the lamp slightly, and looks genuinely stunned by Eddie’s reaction.
“Look, I don’t know if you fucking- took something to cope with Derry- I’m sorry you’re going through it-“ Eddie rambles loudly. “But I swear to god, if you throw that fucking lamp at me, we’re going to have a problem!”
Richie drops the lamp completely, still staring intensely. “Am I hallucinating?”
“No! Maybe?! It’s me! It’s Eddie!” He shouts in desperation. “I’ve been walking in these wet shoes all fucking day- I’m hungry- I fucking smell- and now you’re trying to throw fucking lamps at my fucking head- so will you just-“
The door swings open hard enough that the knob leaves a dent in the drywall. Eddie backs away from it and slams his back into the dresser against the wall. His friends are all carrying likely the first weapon they could grab. Bev has a bottle, Ben has a broom, Mike has a bat and Bill somehow got his hands on a rolling pin.
Eddie pants heavily, feeling terrified. They look back at him just as terrified. Bev’s so shocked she drops her bottle, leaving it smashing to the floor. The others just stare, unsure whether to withdraw their weapons.
“Am I hallucinating?” Richie says again, this time looking at the group.
The Losers shake their head in awe.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” Eddie gasps. “I know that everything has us on edge but guys what the fuck-“
“Is it a t-trick?” Bill interjects.
“No,” Mike answers without taking his eyes off Eddie. “It can’t be. We killed IT. We did.”
“Do we know that for sure?” Bill replies.
“I-“ Mike thinks hard while staring at Eddie. “I don’t know.”
“Should we-“ Bill hesitates on saying it. “When I proved that IT was p-p-pretending to be Georgie- should we-“
Eddie takes off one of his shoes and whips it right at them. “What the FUCK is wrong with you guys?! What the fuck are you all talking about?! Did you all do fucking shrooms while I’ve been practically fucking crawling to get back here? This asshole tried to throw a fucking lamp at me and now you come busting in here like the fucking Avengers discussing if you should fucking shoot me to prove that I’m not Pennywise?!”
“I…” Richie finally speaks again. “I- I think it’s him.”
Eddie looks back at him bewildered, and back to the group. Everyone looks equally aghast. “What’s going on?”
-
They’re all together in the lounge room. Eddie really, really wants to sleep. But what’s currently happening feels more important.
“What is happening, exactly?” Eddie speaks up. So far since they sat down here, his friends have been ogling him like some zoo animal, whispering things to one another. It made him feel self conscious. Richie sat at the couch across from Eddie, and has contributed nothing verbally, and has refused to take his eyes off him. It’s a bit off putting, the way he just stares in silence.
“You’re all scaring me,” Eddie frowns. “This isn’t funny.”
“Eddie,” Ben tries to say, like the name itself is heavy in his mouth. “What do you remember?”
“Like- of Derry?”
“No,” he hesitates. “What’s the last thing you remember?”
Eddie stops to think. He really tries to think about it. It’s like it’s right there, right around the corner, but he just can’t reach it. Not completely.
He looks at Richie, who looks right back at him, with a paranoid look in his eye.
Richie was by his side for… something. He had Richie’s jacket. And when Richie left, he hugged it tighter. He can’t really remember why. What was so important about the jacket?
“Richie’s jacket.”
Richie doesn’t seem at all pleased with the answer. He finally looks away.
“Richie’s jacket?” Bill asks.
“He gave it to me,” Eddie explains. “And I was holding onto it. I brought it back here with me.”
They look to one another.
“Okay- can we please just spit it out?” Eddie pleads. “I’ve had a weird fucking day and I really want to know what’s going on, and then go to bed.”
“You weren’t just… holding onto my jacket,” Richie mutters. “I was trying to stop the bleeding.”
Eddie blinks.
“Eddie…” Bev says carefully. “You- you were dead.”
Eddie blinks a few times. Then he laughs bitterly. “Good one.”
“Listen-“ Mike tries.
“I’m not dead, though,” he scoffs. “I’m right here.”
“But you did die, Eddie,” Ben says. “You did. All of us. We all saw it.”
“No- you didn’t- because I’m right here!” He starts to raise his voice in frustration. He flips through memories in his mind. “I- I was with Richie- and- and we were at Neibolt and-“
Suddenly it all comes to him at once. As quickly as it was when Pennywise had stabbed him. He… he had stabbed him. Eddie puts a shaky hand to his ribs. The other hand stressfully goes in his hair.
“I… I don’t understand,” he murmurs.
“Where did you wake up?” Mike asks him.
“I woke up in the creek, and none of you were there-“ Eddie’s mind then shifts. “Why were none of you there?”
The question seems to have pained them, and they all look like they aren’t sure what to say. He looks to Richie, and Richie has spent the last five minutes focused on picking at the skin of his cuticles. He’s so deep in it that Eddie can see the blood begin to appear all the way from his side of the couch.
“Did none of you try to look for me?” He asks warily.
“There was no looking for you,” Bill says. “You were dead.”
“Then why didn’t I wake up here?” Eddie’s starting to get it, though he really wishes he didn’t.
They’re all speechless. Most of them look away.
“You left me behind?” He hates how his voice cracks, how weak he sounds at his question.
“Eddie-“ Bev tries, but she doesn’t even look sure of what she’s going to say.
Eddie interrupts her anyhow. “Where did you leave me?”
“U-under Neibolt,” Bill confesses. “Which is why we don’t understand how you-“
“You left me down there?” He laughs sharply. “You left me there?”
“We-“
“How could you leave me down there?” He starts to sound emotional, maybe hysterical. Tears well up in his eyes, he always did have the habit of choking on his own emotions. “You guys are my friends. I thought you were my friends-“
“Richie didn’t want to leave you there,” Ben says, as of that’s helpful. “But the place was going down and-“
“Well at least one of you fucking tried,” he raises his voice. He notices Richie flinch at that, hunching in on himself even more. “And the rest of you?”
“Eddie, it wasn’t like that-“ Bev says, tears forming in her eyes.
“I would’ve tried. I would’ve tried with every single one of you,” Eddie spits, now getting more angry by the minute. “Beverly, I came back for you, when IT took you- and tonight I show up to see you all just- fucking sitting here-“
“Eddie, you were d-dead,” Bill interjects. “Completely dead. T-the place was falling apart- we panicked-“
Eddie could feel himself begin to hyperventilate. He couldn’t breathe. And the tightness in his chest felt a lot worse when he wasn’t sure how he was even alive. He buries his head in his hands, shutting his eyes tight and trying to stop his forthcoming panic attack.
“This isn’t real,” he mumbles. “This isn’t real.”
He can feel them all looking at him, and he feels like a freak more than ever. Zombie boy crawling all the way back to a group of people who had left him to rot underneath the rubble of Neibolt. The last place he’d ever want to be.
And then he realizes he’s still filthy, still coated in blood- his blood- enough blood that had him bleeding out with no end.
He suddenly remembers his last memory before waking up in the creek. He could hear his friends shouting at IT, he remembers wishing he could be there for it, but patiently waiting. Waiting. He was hugging Richie’s leather jacket tightly, maybe to try and keep pressure on his wound, but maybe it was something more. Maybe it was because each breath was getting shorter, and he wasn’t sure if he’d make it in time to even say goodbye to the closest friends he’s ever had, and so he hugged what belonged to his best friend and he-
“I’m fucking dirty- I need a shower- I’m going to go shower,” he blurts, already standing up and heading for the stairs.
“Eddie, please-“ Mike tries.
“No! No- I’m going to shower, all of you just- just leave me the hell alone.” He doesn’t bare to look at them as he leaves, can’t bare the vulnerability he’s already given.
He stares at himself in the mirror for a long while, the sound of the shower spraying in the background. The longer he looks at himself, the more he remembers everything. The creek’s water must’ve washed off a good amount off his skin, but not enough. He was coated in dirt, or mud of some sort. Probably from being underground. There’s dry blood all along his chin, from when he was choking and coughing on his own blood. There’s a mix of dirt and dry blood under his fingernails. He gets phantom pains if he looks too long at his chest. He realizes the bandage for his cheek is still on strong somehow, even though it’s more brownish-red than anything. He peels it off, and inhales sharply when he sees that there’s nothing underneath. No wound. Like it never happened. Like none of his injuries in the last day had ever happened. He was just… fine.
Was he fine?
He spends a good amount of shower time crying, letting the water wash away what it can while he hugged himself and sobbed. He let out as much as he could in that moment, then spent the rest of his shower scrubbing every single inch and crevice of his body until he was red and raw. Like an intense cleanse would really do the trick of whatever the fuck was happening to him.
He throws on a t shirt and boxers and crawls into bed with a heavy sigh. He sighs again, this time more irritably, when he realizes his bed is damp. Fucking Richie. He tries to lay on his back and stare at the ceiling anyhow, hoping that he’s burnout enough from the day to sleep anyway.
But he can’t. He’s so tired, but even more anxious. Everything just feels like too much, too overwhelming to just find a way to sleep. The more he tries laying down, the more he feels like he’s just stewing in his misery, his grief and his disturbed thoughts.
How the hell are you supposed to sleep after being told that you were completely dead, and nobody knows how you’re alive?
He wishes he could talk to someone about this. But he’s yelled at all of his friends, and he’s still far too upset to even know where to start with them.
He’ll call Myra. That’s actually the last person he’d expect himself to want to call. Their marriage hasn’t been good since… well, it’s never been good. But he’s kept at it all these years because despite all the emotional distress she put him through, he didn’t think it’d get better than that. And maybe he was right, because right now he was freaking out, and felt that in terms of seeking comfort, it wasn’t going to get better than her. Or maybe he’s just desperate. Maybe he’s just losing his mind right now.
He sits up and grabs for his phone. It’s waterlogged and busted. Figures. In any other circumstance he’d be genuinely stressed that his phone broke, but right now it’s the least of his worries. There’s no pay phone nearby, not that he has any quarters either.
He bites the bullet, despite his stomach twisting, and knocks on Richie’s door. Under the roof of this Inn, he’s the person Eddie’s yelled at the least.
“Yeah,” the voice answers flatly behind the door.
Eddie’s afraid to ask, but hopes that with the whole ‘used to be dead’ thing, Richie will go easy on him. He opens the door, slipping in meekly. Richie’s sitting up on his bed, seeming to be doing absolutely nothing. Was he just sitting in silence?
When he realizes who it is, he looks at him fearfully. Like he’s looking at a ghost.
“Uh, are you okay?” Eddie asks first.
“I have no idea how to answer that,” Richie says bluntly. He lifts one hand to the side of his face, and uses the other hand to point at Eddie. “Your face…” he trails off.
Eddie lifts his hand to his own cheek, remembering that his previous face wound is now gone. “Oh, uh, yeah. I- I don’t know.” He almost forgets what to say next. “Um, my phone’s- uh- it’s broken. Could I use yours to call my wife?”
Richie nods, grabbing his phone from his dresser and stretching out his arm. Eddie closes the space, walking up to him and gently taking the phone from his hands. Richie won’t take his eyes off him the entire time he approaches him, staring at him the way an infant does with a stranger.
Eddie looks back at him, wondering if staring back would make him look away. It doesn’t. The eye contact feels too intense to hold onto, and so Eddie clears his throat and pulls back.
“Thanks,” he murmurs.
“Sure.”
It’s awkward, and any words that could be said seem unavailable. So Eddie just smiles awkwardly and leaves the room.
It takes three tries to get Myra to pick up, since for her it’s an unknown number.
“Hello?” She finally says. “Who is this?”
He feels almost relieved to hear her voice. Their marriage was troubled, but he still cared for her. Perhaps not in a way a normal husband would, their marriage was absent of any sex or romance, and the relationship itself was more of some unhealthy power dynamic where she controlled his schedule and medications and he sought out some sort of approval in her. And maybe it was too similar to his mother, and maybe he already knew that and stayed anyhow, because his mother made him feel that he had nobody but her, and then she was gone, and so Myra it was.
“Myra,” he breathes. “It’s me. It’s Eddie. I-“
“Where the fuck have you been?” Her voice already risen. “Do you have any idea how many times I’ve called you?”
“I know, I know- I’m sorry, really, I am sorry,” Eddie speaks sincerely. “I know that I just- left without saying much- and I would’ve called you sooner- I swear-“
“You think I’m going to listen to your excuses?”
“It’s- it’s not an excuse Myra,” he stammers, already feeling nervous. She always made him nervous. “My phone is broken-“
“And whose phone are you using then?” She demands.
“A friend’s-“
“A friend’s huh? Oh I’m sure she’s just a fucking friend-“
“No- that’s- it’s a guy-“
“You don’t have friends, Eddie. I’d know, if you had friends,” she huffs.
“Myra, there’s a lot that I have to tell you- really, and if you could please just listen-“
“This is exactly why I don’t trust you, you know that?” She lectures shrill. “I don’t ever want you questioning again whether I know what’s best for you. Look at you. Running off in the middle of the week- doing god know’s what- you’re a fucking mess! You need to come home, now-“
“Myra,” he interjects loud and stern. “I have had, a really, really bad day. These last few days, have been really hard for me. If you want to say ‘I told you so,’ fine. I am sorry. Truly. I just really don’t feel good right now. And I need you-“
“Of course you need me,” she patronizes. “You always need me.”
He squeezes his eyes tight, gripping the fabric on his pants. He tries to be vulnerable. “No, I need you right now. Emotionally. Please. I- I know that you and I have had our differences, but I feel really alone, and really scared, and I- I don’t know what to do-“
“This is what you get for running off, Eddie,” she says apathetically.
He’s not going to get through to her. And it’s not like explaining it in great detail would be any better. Hey, I was pronounced dead this morning, and my childhood best friends admitted to abandoning my body, so could you maybe pretend that you’re actually comforting and loving, even if that’s never the way it’s been? There’s just no point.
“I’m just gonna go, okay? I- I really can’t get yelled at by you right now, I’m already on edge-“
“I’m not fucking yelling at you, Eddie,” she seethes. “You’re just unable to handle my truth.”
“Myra, I have to call you back,” his voice audibly shakes. “Like I said, I’m really not feeling good-“
“How do you think I feel?” She retorts.
“I know, I’m just really anxious right now-“
“Oh YOU’RE anxious?” She laughs angrily. “I was the one calling you non-stop, wondering where the fuck you were-“
He can’t get into this right now. He is sorry, he really is, but any more conflict of today and he just might explode. He’s already feeling another panic attack coming.
“I’ll call you back when I can, okay?” He tries weakly.
“Don’t FUCKING bother. Don’t even fucking bother Eddie.”
“I-“ he struggles what to say. “I’ll call you later, bye.” And he hangs up like that.
Eddie comes back into Richie’s room with a deep breath to return the phone. The man still hasn’t left his spot on the bed.
“Here,” he hands it to him, struggling to keep his stable composure. “Thanks for letting me use it.”
Richie holds it heavy in his hands. “Was the call okay?”
“Never is, with her,” he tries to chuckle, but it comes out bitter. “But it’s fine.”
“I’m sorry,” Richie says quietly.
“It’s fine,” Eddie lies. He turns for the door. “Goodnight Richie.”
“Eddie, wait.”
Eddie turns around before he’s even finished speaking. Richie looks small, sitting on the bed with jittery hands.
“Could you… um,” he’s wary of saying it. “Could you maybe stay here?”
“Here?” He repeats.
Richie nods.
“I’m really tired,” Eddie says before thinking. It wasn’t necessarily an objection, more of a confession.
“I am too,” Richie admits himself. “But I’m having a really hard time being alone right now, and I… I don’t know.”
Eddie stares deeply into him, trying to read him. So docile. He still looks a mess from whatever day he’s been having, watery eyes with dark circles underneath. He probably hasn’t ate or drank a thing. He desperately misses the boy he once knew, the young boy with the colorful-striped socks and the crooked smile. The boy who used to visit him late at night, rap a fist on his childhood bedroom window, muffled voice yelling “Room Service!” while Eddie shushes him and pulls him through. Now so many years has passed, the layers of baggage and trauma wearing the both of them down. Now in front of him the boy was forty, and his hands won’t stop shaking.
He sighs heavily, then moves to sit at the edge of the bed. Richie hesitantly scoots up to sit beside him. They sit like that for a while, close and quiet, and Eddie’s unsure if they’re content with the silence or they just have no clue what to say.
“I’m sorry for thinking you were Pennywise earlier.” He mutters. “And trying to throw a lamp at you.”
“It’s okay,” Eddie murmurs. “I’m sorry for freaking out at you. And the others.”
“You don’t have to be sorry for that,” Richie assures. “I- I understand.” It seems that he wants to say more, but doesn’t.
They sit together in silence once again. Eddie tries to imagine what it must’ve been like for him, to beg to bring back Eddie’s body, only to be denied even that, to spend all day knowing it was buried under Neibolt and believe there was nothing he could’ve done about it now. He tries to imagine what he would’ve done if it were Richie, and the thought alone causes him grief.
A heavy amount of empathy seeps through him, or maybe he’s just sad in general, and he reaches for Richie’s hand. It’s very hesitant, careful and gentle, and eventually he grabs ahold of it and pulls it closer to him.
It has nothing to do with Myra, or the fact he feels like Richie was the only one who fought for him, it wasn’t even any of his repressed feelings for him that he’s forever left untouched. He just can feel the amount of pain that he’s in, knows that Richie feels just as alone and just as freaked out. They used to be just two kids, fighting over hammocks and doodling on each other’s faces when the other was asleep. Now look at them. Who could have expected this?
He holds his hand for a long moment, staring ahead quietly, and Eddie thinks that maybe this is good. It feels intimate, though neither would admit it. Then Richie hastily pulls his hand away, and Eddie’s heart drops. He feels rejected once more, and thinks maybe he should just leave, but then he looks over to Richie. He has his glasses in one hand, and the other is covering his eyes. He’s hunching over himself, shoulders shaking, and tries to withhold a sniffle.
Eddie opens his mouth to say something, and closes it. He tries again. “Richie…” but he trails off. He reaches for the man’s shoulder, but the moment he touches it Richie tenses up completely, so he pulls back again.
A sob slips out of him. Then he briskly lifts his head towards the ceiling, trying to wipe away at his eyes. He lets out a nervous laugh. “Fuck, I don’t have a joke for this.”
Eddie’s eyebrows furrow. “I can’t imagine how you would find a joke for all of this.”
Richie laughs again. “I know. I just… lightening the mood is kinda my thing. And I just- I got nothing, honestly- I don’t.”
Eddie scoots closer, hoping that he doesn’t mind that their sides are touching. “That’s okay. I don’t really need the mood lightened.”
Richie starts crying again, and Eddie’s unsure of what to do. He probably should be crying just as much, but he already cried in the shower, and with everything that was happening today he thinks he hasn’t completely registered it enough to have a real breakdown about it. He knows he will eventually, just not now.
“This is really fucking weird,” Richie mumbles, wiping at his face again.
“You tell me,” Eddie sighs without thinking.
“I’m sorry- I know right now it’s a lot worse for you,” he babbles. “I- I don’t know why I’m freaking out- I-“
“Rich, it’s okay,” he says gently.
Richie sobs again, curling in on himself further and turning away so Eddie can’t see him.
Eddie wants to help him. Past his growing numbness he feels an ache to console his best friend, who’s experiencing emotions he can imagine feels physical burdening. Despite being apart from one another longer than they ever were together, the grief is just as heavy. If not heavier, because of how much time was lost and how much time they’d never get to have.
He wraps an arm around his shoulders as much as he could, and uses his other hand to gently take his glasses from his hand. He puts them at the end of the bed, tugging Richie by his arm. He pulls him into his lap, his head lying against his thighs. He starts rubbing his shoulder with one hand, and with the other his fingers are curled in his hair.
“You don’t have to do this,” Richie mewls. Though he doesn’t move.
“It’s okay,” Eddie whispers.
“It should be the other way around- I should be-“
“I’m okay.”
“No-“ Richie croaks.
Eddie shushes him, petting his hair. “I’m okay. It’s okay.”
He technically, was definitely not okay. However Richie needed to hear it, needed to hear it in Eddie’s voice, because he’s probably going crazy in all that’s been happening. So he holds him, and tells him that he’s okay.
Eddie knows that he and Richie are different from the others. Not just because of the betrayal he’s feeling from the rest of the group. They’ve just always been different. And it’s an unspoken thing that remains unspoken. Even now.
Richie cries in his lap until he’s done, then crawls out of it and slumps onto the bed. He’s grateful for the console, but hates being vulnerable, and it’s shown by the way he curls up in bed and turns his back to Eddie.
“Can you still stay?” Richie says barely over a whisper.
Eddie answers by crawling to the pillow beside him. He lays on his back and stares at the ceiling, listening to Richie’s sniffling. Then he rolls his head over to look at him. Richie’s frowning into the pillow, his eyes focused on the lint he’s picking at.
Eddie makes a risky move. He rolls over on his side, facing the woeful man. Then he manages to slip underneath the heavy arm, and hopes highly that he’s not pushing his luck. He curls up against Richie’s front, keeping his arms to himself but pressing his forehead against his chest. Richie hovers his arms over him for a long time. Then there’s the sound of shuffling, and very hesitantly he puts his arms around Eddie. He wraps him up in a gentle embrace.
Eddie still keeps his hands to himself, but he nuzzles in deeper. Richie’s naturally warm, heat constantly radiating off of him. He feels Richie’s body expand and contract against him from deep breaths. It’s quiet. He’s comfortable.
He falls asleep in a matter of minutes.