Archive of Our Own

"You are embarrassed about your blood, its redness, the way it is just coming out of you with no concern for anyone’s feelings. You are (…) embarrassed to be alive."

— In the Dream House, Carmen Maria Machado

It starts like this:

One minute he’s staring up into the furious eyes of It, mouth wide, the next he’s tumbling down a hole so white and evil he’s unsure if he’ll ever escape again. He sees Stan’s wet and broken body; he sees his death mirrored in Adrian Mellon’s; sees Bev’s red, rolling head break away from her body, blood splattering Ben’s shocked face, before he, too, is cut in half by an unseen claw. Bill’s face contorts as he screams, twists into something grotesque and inhuman, teeth lengthening and shortening all at once as his eyes roll up and begin to bleed, pop out. Mike is nowhere to be seen, only ash, ash, ash. Stan, serious and beautiful and annoying and wonderful Stan, body bleeding from a thousand cuts, a flood of tears pouring from his eyes, heartbroken and scared and blinding. And then Eddie.

He sees Eddie, clear as day, grinning. “I think - I think I fuckin’ did it, Rich! I fuckin’ killed It! I-”

Blood, so much blood. Comes pouring out his eyes and his mouth and the doors in the old Synagogue and the palms of his hands and the vesicles of his heart - watches as blood spurts from Eddie’s chest as he’s impaled, eyes widening, face turning porcelain pale. Eddie’s blood splatters across Richie’s face, and Richie’s own blood tumbles out of his skin in sympathy. At least they’ll die together, at least they’ll all be together, Losers stick together, they’ll all -

The scene rewinds. Plays again. Mike’s eyes turn white and he burns from the inside out. His own body becomes a pansy and is crushed under Eddie’s soft heel. Eddie’s mouth unhinges as It throws his skewered body against the wall, the crack of his bones louder than anything Richie has ever heard before. Eddie screams, and the image breaks, reconstructs itself. Eddie dies in his arms, over and over, until it’s almost as if every dying version of himself layers over one another, like a series of refractions, the warmth of his blood seeping into Richie’s ribcage, into his chest, his heart, his -

Richie blinks violently, and looks up into the panicked face of one Eddie Kaspbrak, whose face turns bright and relieved once Richie hazily meets his gaze, white teeth glinting in the darkness of the sewers.

“I did it, Rich, I-” Richie shudders, feeling like he’s going to chuck, and closes his eyes, Eddie’s voice becoming background noise. Something’s wrong. There’s something wrong, something he’s missing.

“Hey, Richie, you okay? Dude, I’m going to need you to look at me. Fuck, you’ve probably got a concussion, or brain damage, or a haemorrhage, or - or you’re dying, fuck, I should have gotten you out of the Deadlights sooner, Christ .” 

Deadlights. His eyes snap open, and Richie grabs Eddie by his upper arms, hauling him face-first into his chest, before rolling them over. The sound of rock breaking fills his eyes, and a sharp sting flares from his right cheek where splinters of sharp rock cut into him, Eddie’s shocked yelp echoing in his ears. Fuck, the Deadlights, fucking Eddie, there’s so much blood everywhere, there’s so much blood.

No. Wait. There’s no blood. He’s confusing things - he’s. He’s going to get Eddie hurt if he doesn’t stop fucking splitting everywhere. He’s going to -

Eddie curses and heaves himself up, clasps Richie’s hand, and runs for it, dodging another hurtling claw as they scramble back up to the ledge where the other Loser’s distraught faces greet them, relief and fear and love and exhaustion all mixing together. Eddie scurries into a smaller alcove, the rest of them hurrying behind him.

“Okay, shit, okay,” he’s panting, and it’s not asthma because Eddie doesn’t fucking have asthma, dumbass, that was all bullshit but he is breathing hard and heavy, a sick wheezing sound rattling his chest, eyes bright and darting everywhere. “I have an idea, I think. I think - fuck - I think we have to make him small. Like, make him so fuckin’ inconsequential that he’ll just piss himself looking at us.”

Bev shakes her head (there’s a cut on her chin, thin and long, no longer bleeding but stark against her pale skin, so similar to that bright fiery hair that Richie could almost mistake it for a stray strand, but it’s not, it’s not it’s not it’s not it’s), brushing sweat off her forehead with her arm. They all yell as the concave space shudders, two of It’s claws slamming against the rock, the group struggling to stay on two feet. “Fuck. How are we meant to do that? He’s got the upper hand.”

Eddie grins, maniacal. “Believe it.”

‘Fucking - what? Believe it? The fuck does that mean?” It’s the first time Richie’s spoken since his ‘sloppy bitch’ monologue, since falling into a white hellscape, since he -

“ Dumbass, it means you have to believe he’s small,” Eddie snaps. “I did it in the fuckin’ pharmacy. Believe he’s small, that he’s weak, and he will be. It kills monsters -”

“If you believe it does.” Bev finishes, eyes flicking up to Eddie, a small smile beginning to spread across her face. She huffs. “Alright. Let’s do this. Let’s kill this stupid bastard.”

God. God. He can’t believe they’re doing this. He feels sick, like he’s gonna throw up again, just like back in the library, or after getting his token; or that brief reprieve from human contact back in his room at the Inn, where he stood in the shower, the water turned to its hottest setting, cascading down his back and thighs as he pressed his swimming head to the cold tiles, wishing he could just be swallowed up by a hole in the ground right there and then.

Fuck. He might end up being swallowed after all.

Richie shivers, follows his friends as they pour out of the mouth of the crevice, jeering at It. It looks surprised, offended, even. Tries to snarl and snap back at them, but they keep going, with Eddie - bright, beautiful, brave Eddie - at the front, screaming insult after insult.

“You’re weak,” he shouts, but doesn’t believe it, and god, he’s going to be the reason why they all die because he fucked up again, they’re going to - It’s going to -

It’s head swivels towards him, eyes flaring, before a large, ripe grin full of razor sets of teeth tears open It’s face.

“Richie, don’t you wanna play? I got more movies for ya to see!” It giggles as It watches Richie shiver and shake, rushing forward before being pushed back by the collective force of Bev, Eddie, and Bill triple-teaming the affront on It. He feels a hand grip the back of his neck soothingly, and tips his head to see Mike staring stonily at It, jaw clenching.

“Your movies are shit, just like you!” Eddie snarls, and Richie’s chest throbs with either fear or love.

He breathes out, shuddering, watching as they push back against It’s hulking presence, watching as It slowly begins to shrink and shriek, passively joining in with the rest of the Losers, feeling disconnected from his body and voice. He feels like he’s working on autopilot; mouth running as usual, but watching the images from the Deadlights replay in his head over and over again, stuck on a loop (Bill’s broken body, Mike’s burnt corpse, Bev’s inhumanly pale face crying blood, Eddie, EddieEddieEddieEddieEddieEddie), until he blinks and all of a sudden is clasping It’s heart in his hands, Mike and Bev’s below him, Ben, Eddie and Bill’s above. Watches as it squishes and throbs, disintegrates, watches Eddie’s look of disgust and the way he mutters “ gross, gross, gross ” under his breath, watches It crumble away into nothing.

They run through the sewers and out of Neilbolt as it collapses around them. Richie still doesn’t feel quite like he’s there, doesn’t feel real until the cold water of the barrens hits his overheated skin, soaks him until the shock stops and restarts his heart, forces him kicking up and out to the surface.

“This is fucking disgusting. Do you know how much fucking bacteria are in this lake? We’re all going to get an infection, and then we’re going to die, and it won’t be because of some Ronald McDonald wannabe.”

Eddie’s pitched, rapid voice acts as a beacon, gently guiding Richie to the rock pile the shorter man is hunched on. Eddie glances at him before shuffling to make room for Richie, and all of a sudden he feels small in his too-big body, breaking and rebuilding himself to fit in the crevices of Eddie’s space. 

“I’ll take the infection over the clown any day,” he murmurs, just loud enough for Eddie to hear. He feels exhausted, and closes his eyes against the piercing light of consciousness. He wants to bury his head into Eddie’s stomach and fall into a coma. Or a deep sleep. Either will do.

“You fuckin’ would, you goddamn barn animal,” there’s a heavy pause, before Eddie softens his voice. “You okay, dude?”

Richie hums. “I’ll be fine. I just need to sleep for a year and then get the fuck out of here.” Eddie snorts.

“Yeah.” He sighs, a loud series of pops as he cracks his neck from side to side. “I think I’m going to have to actually make arrangements for an apartment before I go back to New York.”

Richie’s eyes shoot open.

“What?”

“Dude I just - I cannot go back,” Eddie’s hands start doing a dance of their own, waving grandly in the air. “I can’t go back and live with her when I remember everything about Derry, and It, and my mother, and you guys, and I.” Breathes heavily out from his nose, jaw clenching. “I think I know who I am, and it’s not who I was back there.”

He breathes in. Out. Chews the inside of his lip. “If you need somewhere to stay…” Richie trails off, and Eddie looks at him from under his lashes, a soft smile tugging at the corners of his lips, moving to brush his shoulder against Richie’s.

“Thank you.” They gaze at each other for a while longer - Eddie’s eyes brown and honey and quiet, Richie’s wide and something closer to a cornered animal - before he looks away, cheeks hot, feeling like his body is buzzing. “Not until it has been fucking deep cleaned, I know what your bedroom looked like and I cannot even begin to fucking imagine how that translates to a whole house. God, I swear, me and Stan -” Blanches quickly at the mention of their lost ( dead, dead, dead, dead, dead ) friend. “- had planned so many fucking times to just knock you out and clean that fucking room up ourselves.”

“That was when I was sixteen, asshole.” He rolls his eyes, ignoring that feeling of fear and love clawing at his chest again.

“Yeah, and you dress and act like you’re still sixteen, so my point fucking stands, dipshit.” Eddie scowls, but it’s not nearly as harsh as it could be.

Richie smiles, shaking his head, but doesn’t respond. Instead watches as Mike and Bill splash water and chase each other like they were kids again, Bev cackling in the background, Ben shooting lovestruck looks at her. Watches the sun softly set on the ripples of the lake, turn the sky from death-grey to a homey orange, a lone bluejay singing his ancient choir song somewhere in the distance.

It’s well past dark by the time they return to the Inn, still as desolate as before. They’re all tired, and Mike doesn’t even hesitate before he picks up the front desk’s phone and calls for food to arrive. Bev curls up next to Ben on one of the sofas in the lounge, looking halfway ready to sleep already, while Bill and Mike take the only two stand-alone seats in the room, pushing them closer to each other. There’s only the loveseat in the middle left for him and Eddie, and if he weren’t so fucking bone-tired, he might have something to say about that, or at least freak out a little internally, but as it is he just slumps down into the cushiony pillows and makes sure there’s enough room for Eddie to comfortably sit. Eddie, of course, decides to be an absolute pain for Richie (and his dick), and lays almost on top of Richie.

“Dude,” he groans. “Get off. You’re not a weightless thirteen year old anymore.”

Eddie rubs his face into his jeans-clad thigh. “No, fuck off, I’m tired and I’m using you as a pillow. You owe me.”

“For fucking what ?”

“Saving your dumb ass from becoming a hanging hamburger helper, asshole.” Richie jolts both at the finger poking at his side and Eddie’s words.

“Don’t - don’t talk about that right now, guys,” Ben says, grimacing.

“Sorry,” Eddie mumbles, burying his head further into Richie’s body, setting his skin on fire again. He hazards a glance down, and almost fucking melts at Eddie’s sleepy, squished face pressed close to him. Cute, cute, cute - remembers teasing Eddie about it all the time, pinching his cheeks until they were red (only it wasn’t a joke, never was, never will be, always was just a little too real, a little too truthful and honest). He swallows and looks away, briefly catches the knowing look Mike sends his way.

Fuck.

“I uh.” He starts, blinking. “You know what? I’m actually smashed. I’m just gonna - go to my room. Sleep. I’ll see you guys tomorrow. Enjoy the uh. The food.”

Waves away Eddie’s spluttering, “Wait - fucking, Richie - what?” and takes the stairs three at a time, not stopping until he reaches his door, shuts it as quietly as he can with how jerky his movements are. He lets out a shaky breath, leaning against the door. He can still feel the warmth where Eddie’s body pressed against him, feeling more solid than his own, weighing him down into the love chair.

Eddie. Half-formed images flash before his eyes, and Richie groans, pressing the heels of his hands to them. He can still see the Deadlights, only it’s all Eddie now, it’s all Eddie being ripped up and torn through and impaled and shredded open and - okay. No. No. He’s not thinking about this, this is not conducive towards fucking anything.

Richie pushes off the door and begins to undress, throwing his soaking and - quite frankly - gross clothes into a corner of his bathroom, before pulling on a fresh shirt and boxers, moving to sit on the bed. He breathes out again, wills the sweat building on his hands to go away.

Fuck. He really does feel disgusting. He’s going to need a shower.

That makes him think about Eddie again, his neurotic, germophobic, gremlin of a man, which in turn makes him think about Eddie naked in a shower, and he feels hot with arousal. Now is not the time to be thinking about - wet, hot, freshly pinked and soft-skinned Eddie - that. Christ.

He looks up towards the door, biting his lip guiltily, before shuffling to the bathroom and turning on the shower. Gets it hot as he can handle, before stepping in, scrubbing down, adamantly refusing to think about Eddie, naked or no, cleaning in between his toes and under his arms (the way Eddie would, too - he’d clean everywhere and everything, maybe even lower, between his thighs and up to where the soft furrow of his -).

Richie shudders, a soft moan tumbling from his lips. Bites his lip. He… really shouldn’t. He really fucking shouldn’t, but between the mess of his now flunked comedy tour, and the fucking clown, and even the whole mess before, he hasn’t had any time for anything other than to quickly rub one out. He pants, fingers slowly trailing down his stomach and between his legs, pushing carefully at his hole, before slipping a single finger in. Richie moans again, and fuck, it’s a little loud, but they probably can’t hear it, and he pushes back against the intrusion, huffing. Thinks about Eddie (and oh, that’s a dangerous thought), about Eddie doing this to him, holding his neck down and pressing his body close to Richie’s, hard dick rubbing against his back and thighs. Whispering things to him, fragments of dirty nonsense that Richie’s picked up and remembered through the few dark bathroom flings he’s had, all good boy and fuck you’re so pretty ’s. Slips another finger in with the first, presses as far in as he can and ignores the burn in his wrists. God, but Eddie’d be able to get it in deeper, harder, than he can - be able to take him apart with just his hands.

He’s so close, a soft, breathy chant of Eddie, Eddie, Eds, Eddie falling from his lips, trying to quiet his moans by biting the meat of his arm, whole body beginning to shake. He’s so fucking close, about to pull out and jack himself to completion, when he hears a knock at his room door.

“Richie?”

Pleasure zaps up his spine and before he can control himself, he’s cumming, shaking, desperately muffling his gasp into his arm and hoping Eddie hasn’t heard. Fuck, he'll throw himself out the fucking window of this stupid fucking Inn if Eddie even vaguely gleans onto what he's doing. He pants into his arm, eyes squeezed shut.

“Hey - Richie! You okay in there, dumbass? Fuck, he’s probably got a concussion, fuck, fuck, I should -”

“Shut up, moron,” Richie calls out, trying to sound as normal as possible. “I’m having a shower, hold on.”

He curses under his breath, switches the temperature to blast cold, before he steps out, shivering against the cool air of the bathroom. He drags his boxers and shirt on, before exiting the bathroom and opening his room’s door.

“Hey,” he says. Eddie looks back at him, eyes wide.

“Uh. Hi.” Blinks. He seems to shake himself, and clears his throat, raising a duffle bag. “I need to uh. Use your bathroom. Mine’s still covered in blood. It’s gross. I swear, does fucking no one work here?”

Richie raises an eyebrow, before stepping aside and letting him in. “Mi casa, su casa, Eds.”

“Don’t call me that.” It’s automatic. “Besides, this isn’t your fucking house, Richie.”

He shrugs. “The sentiment stands.”

“No, it fucking doesn’t,” Eddie huffs, before seeing his pile of dirty clothing on the bathroom floor. “Are those your clothes from today? Why aren’t they in a bag!”

“Because I couldn’t be fucking bothered, Eds, that’s why,” Richie rolls his eyes. “Give me at least four hours to recover from this shitshow of a day before I start doing laundry.”

“That’s so - that’s so fucking gross, Richie! God, I don’t know why I came here to shower, fucking Christ .”

Richie laughs at him, ruffling Eddie’s hair and ignoring the ensuring “ fuck off, jackass!”, moving over to lie on his bed, throwing an arm over his eyes. He feels like he’s only just closed them when Eddie comes out of his bathroom, freshly cleaned and hair dry and soft, eyes drifting over to him, catching briefly on the small sliver of skin showing where his ratty shirt slips up.

“You okay?” He asks, and Eddie nods.

“Yeah. Uh, listen, this is going to sound weird but could I uh.” He seems to wince, turn his eyes upwards. “Could I stay here? My room is a fucking biohazard right now.”

Richie stalls, mouth opening and closing ( like a dumb goldfish, four-eyes, says a nasty voice that doesn’t quite sound like him). Almost misses Eddie turning his head to look expectantly at him.

“Y-yeah. Yeah, that’s fine, dude.” He says quickly, hoping he doesn’t sound too eager. “Whatever you want.”

“Thanks,” Eddie shuffles over to where he dropped his duffle, shoving his dirty clothes into a plastic bag, which he then shoves into two more plastic bags. “I didn’t want to make things weird.”

“You’re always weird,” he says. “I’m used to it.”

Eddie snorts, and walks over, stalling slightly. “Where do -”

“Oh! Uh,” Richie moves over, flipping the covers back. “Sorry.”

“‘S fine,” Eddie climbs in, soft feet brushing against his legs. Richie feels like he can feel each individual hair on Eddie’s body connect with his, like he could count them. Fuck, he’s so fucked.

The light clicks off, and they’re left only in the darkness of the room. Richie tries not to squirm, tries to ignore the heat of Eddie’s body next to him. Tries to ignore the soft rise and fall of his chest as he breathes in and out, ignore the butterflies in his stomach, the way his head swirls and spins and scatters. It’s embarrassing, but he wants to roll over and stick his face into Eddie’s neck, feel the loud pounding of his heart and prove to himself that yes, it’s okay, he’s here, he’s alright. Wants to brush Eddie’s hair out of his face, kiss the soft skin behind his ear. Wants to -

“I lied.”

He pauses, waits.

“Sort of.” Eddie sighs out long and hard. “I didn’t just come in here because my room is an airborne disease waiting to happen - which, by the way, I reiterate, does no one fucking work here?”

Richie still says nothing but turns his head slightly. Eddie’s looking up at the ceiling, deliberately avoiding eye contact.

“I couldn’t stop thinking about it,” he says, and his voice is thin, weak. Richie wants to reach out and grab at whatever it is that makes it sound like that, makes him sound like that, his brave and wonderful Eddie. “The way you just hung there, suspending in the air. You. You didn’t fucking move , Richie.”

Oh. Oh.

“I couldn’t - can’t - stop thinking about how close you were to It’s mouth, It’s fucking jaws, and those stupid fucking Deadlights, lighting up half the fucking sewers and blinding the rest of us. And then you just - Dropped. Fell right to the fucking ground, and christ, Richie, you could have died. You almost died today, and I don’t know what I’d do if I had to leave those sewers without you. What I’d be like.”

“And then you startled awake and looked up at me, and you looked at me like I was the most terrifying thing you’ve seen. Like I had hurt you , like I was hurting you, and I almost fucking lost it there. What did you see that you were so afraid of me, Richie?”

There’s a long pause.

“You still look at me like you’re afraid.”

Richie’s chest burns, and he feels his stomach drop. Eds, no, it’s not you, it’s me, it’s always been me and my stupid, stupid heart and my stupid feelings. It’s not you I’m afraid of, it’s me, it’s me and want I want. Richie opens his mouth, but no sound comes out.

“Anyway. Goodnight, Richie,” Eddie finally moves, still as he’s been for the last three minutes, and turns away onto his side, away from Richie, shoulders bowing inwards. Richie stares at the hard line of Eddie’s back, wanting to reach out towards him, but it’s as if there’s a wall between them, solid and unbreaking. He wants to pull it down but he doesn’t deserve to, doesn’t - shouldn’t - burden Eddie with the endless well of his love for him. Not when it’s not what Eddie wants.

Richie finally looks away, eyes burning with unshed tears, and falls into a dreamless sleep.

There’s a bluejay cooing outside. Someone’s curled up tight behind him, their nose pressed into the crook of his neck, legs tangled up in his own. Richie hums contentedly, a hazy sort of throbbing in his thighs and groin, pressing back against the person’s own hardness. They respond in kind, groaning lowly, softly, and grind forward into the curve of his ass. Richie’s about to turn around and give them a proper morning wakening, when a soft breathy sigh catches his attention.

“ Richie ,” Eddie sighs. Richie’s eyes blink open, body going taught. Behind him, Eddie shuffles a little closer, before the arms wrapped around his waist go stiff, and very particularly still.

“Shit.”

Richie wants to laugh hysterically at that, because yes, shit indeed , but all he can do is stare wide-eyed at the dirty white wall in front of him, lips parted. Eddie still hasn’t fucking moved , just stopped pressing his cock into Richie’s clothed ass, which means he can still feel Eddie’s rock hard fucking dick against his back, making him flush hot and cold simultaneously. Richie squeezes his eyes closed, biting down on his lip hard and wills himself with every bone of self-restraint possible in his body, to not move backward, to not push back onto the very aroused, very sexy , man behind him.

“Richie,” Eddie’s voice is shaky. “Rich. Can you just - can you just fucking look at me, maybe?”

Richie pushes out a shuddering breath and shuffles around to face Eddie, who does not move away from Richie at fucking all, and almost moans outright at the sight of Eddie’s pupils blown wide and cheeks stained red. God, he looks so fucking gorgeous, he wants to kiss him, wants to -

Eddie’s eyes drop down to Richie’s lips, before he licks his own. Fuck .

“I’m sorry,” he blurts out. Eddie’s brow furrows.

“What fucking for?”

“For - for this, and for -” he chokes, breath caught. “For feeling too much , and I’m sorry, Eds, I’m really sorry, but we can forget about it, and you don’t have to be bothered by me and my shit, like we can just laugh it off and call it a day and I’ll just, y’know.”

Eddie’s eyes widen and soften at once, mouth relaxing from its tense, pursed line. He looks almost fondly exasperated, and that… stops Richie’s rambling just as effectively as any well-placed beep, beep. Because Eddie doesn’t look at him like that, shouldn’t look at him like that, as if he likes him, like-likes him - loves -

Eddie gazes at him, the sunlight pouring in from the open window highlighting the freckles dusting his face, the deep chocolate brown of his eyes. He huffs, smile soft, hand coming up to clasp Richie's cheek and oh, fuck, this isn't good, his heart feels like it's going to burst out of his chest and -

"I've loved you since we were kids, you know?" He murmurs, shattering and rebuilding Richie's world with just one sentence. "Loved you since that Summer. Since before that Summer. I think I loved you even when we left and forgot everything, there's always been something sitting there, and I reckon that was you."

“Eddie…”

“No, shh, lemme speak, Trashmouth,” he smiles, thumb rubbing back and forth against his jawline. “We could have worked this out a long time ago, if I had opened my mouth as often as you do.” He tilts his head. “Okay?”

Richie nods, one hand timidly reaching up to grasp onto one of Eddie’s wrists, holding him, grounding himself. Eddie smiles again, open-mouthed and bright and beautiful, a huff of a laugh puffing across his face. “Good. Now, hey, relax.”

Before Richie can ask him what he means, Eddie leans forward the few millimetres between them, eyes closed, and presses his lips to Richie’s, moving them softly. Richie breathes in swiftly through his nose, only to exhale a long moan when Eddie slowly pries his lips apart with his tongue, tonguing at his bottom lip. He’s so confused and so fucking horny, an aborted “wha-? ” getting lost between the soft, wet gap of Eddie’s open lips. Eddie bites down softly, then harder when Richie groans, pleased. In turn, Richie licks behind Eddie’s teeth, shifting closer, a hand going to grasp the hair behind Eddie’s head on the nape of his neck, getting desperate. Eddie moves his lips back, detaching with a wet sound, a thin trail of spit still connecting them. Richie feels like his head’s swimming, hips twitching forward on their own, quiet, panting moans pushing past his swollen lips.

“Fuck, you’re gagging for it,” Eddie mutters, and Richie almost creams his boxers there.

“Fuck, fuck, where did you learn to say those kinds of things, Kaspbrak?” He shudders again, swooping forward to reconnect their lips. Eddie indulges him for a bit, before retreating again, snickering at Richie’s whine.

“Shut up, dumbass,” he bites lightly at Richie’s jaw. “Do you have anything?”

“Anything?”

“You know, lube, condoms.” Eddie laughs as Richie whines again. “I’ll take that as a no.”

“No, fuck off, no, I - shit, Eds, stop, I need to think, fuck,” Eddie sucks a hard mark under his jaw that is definitely going to show for the next few days. “ Christ. Yes, I have stuff. I-In my bag, left pocket.”

Eddie hums, sucking at his skin one last time, before getting up to grab the - Jesus fuck - lube and fucking condoms from Richie’s travel bag, losing his boxers on the way back. Richie almost loses it right there, because see - Richie’s made a lot of jokes about his “massive hog”, both as kids and as a closeted, edgy comic, and he’s not exactly overcompensating, not by any means - but his dick fucking pales in comparison to Eddie’s. Eddie, who’s thick and long and hard; big in a way that makes Richie’s thighs quiver and his mouth dry up. Eddie practically drips with precum, smearing against the dark trail of hair from his bellybutton to his groin (and Richie makes a mental note to make fun of Eddie later for what looks like to be meticulously well-groomed pubes around his cock, christ ). His legs and arms are covered in the same dark hair, and it makes Richie want to leave marks all the way down his toned thighs, back up to his flat, muscled abdomen.

“Eddie, what the fuck,” Richie says weakly, legs falling open as Eddie walks closer. The man in question raises an eyebrow, grins.

“What? Feeling overwhelmed, Tozier?”

“ Dude, fuck off,” he laughs. “I am not taking off my shirt now, not after seeing that. Or my fucking boxers, for that matter. Holy shit.”

Eddie scowls. “Yes you are, I like you just fine, Rich. Now take your fucking underwear off, Jesus Christ.”

Richie salutes him, gets a box full of condoms in his face in reply, and slides his boxers off, before more reluctantly stripping off his shirt. Eddie crawls up and above him, kissing him deeply, moving to the side of his neck, his chest, and runs a hand up and down the inside of his thighs. It makes Richie shiver, feeling exposed, but in a good way. 

“Kaspbrak, you been holdin’ out on me?” He murmurs. “Where did you learn how to be such a stud in bed?”

Eddie giggles - actually giggles, like they’re sixteen again and he’s laughing at a particularly stupid joke of Richie’s - and nips at a spot above Richie’s nipple. “No, dumbass. I did go to college, you know. In New York. I wasn’t married to Myra all of my life.”

Richie gasps when Eddie takes one of his nipples into his mouth, sucking at it, slowly biting down hard, wrenching a startled moan from Richie. Eddie glances up, catches his eyes, and fucking winks, like the absolute asshole he is, giving his nipple one last hard suck, before continuing licking and nipping his way down Richie’s body. His hands continue to press bruises into the meat of Richie’s thighs, rubbing and groping at him. Richie shudders out a sigh and drops his hands to clasp on top of Eddie’s, pressing them down even harder, fingers stroking the back of Eddie’s hands. 

He thinks about that; about a young nineteen and twenty year old Eddie, cruising around New York and hooking up with other men, fucking them in his dingey college dorm, being fucked in his dingey college dorm, and he doesn’t know whether to be jealous or turned on. It might be both. It’s certainly different to Richie, who kept all of his encounters to quick bathroom blowjobs, and sleazy frotting in the dark corners of clubs, his desires kept tightly inside him and hidden away.

Any thoughts of Eddie fucking other men (okay, and now that he phrases it like that, yeah, he’s a lot jealous) fly completely out the window when Eddie sucks a deep mark into the inside of his upper thigh, licking at the bite. Richie groans, and threads a hand softly into Eddie’s hair, who looks up at him, smiling quickly, before returning back to marking up Richie’s thighs.

“Eddie, please,” he says, tugging slightly at the soft strands clasped in his hand. “ Please get on with it, I’m fucking dying here, man.”

Eddie snorts. “Don’t call me ‘man’ when I’m fucking, you.” Bites down hard right where the flesh of his thigh meets his ass, and Richie shouts, beginning to shake again. “Quieten down, we’re not the only ones here.”

“Easy for you to say, you’re not being ruined by a literal sex god,” Richie mutters, moving his free arm up towards his mouth so he can muffle his noises into it. Eddie laughs outright, a bright and bubbling thing, and pushes himself up again. He keeps one hand on Richie’s upper thigh, holding him open (and god, does that makes him flush hot with something thick and heavy) while his other hand brushes away a stray curl from the edges of Richie’s face, before clasping the back of his neck and hauling him into a slow but deep kiss. Eddie gets his tongue in wet and deep, rutting the wet head of his cock into Richie’s lower abdomen, and it makes him dizzy with want and love and heady giddiness.

Eddie pulls back, smiles at him. “I love you.”

It’s gentle, soft; quiet in the way decades-held confessions are, but it makes Richie’s entire body explode and cave into itself, before the little bits of matter swirl back into some semblance of a human body again. He heaves.

“ Fuck .”

Which. Isn’t what he actually wanted to say, but Eddie laughs regardless, and kisses him again. He’s so caught up in the wonderful feeling of being kissed by Eddie Kaspbrak (being loved by Eddie fucking Kaspbrak), that he doesn’t realise Eddie’s grabbed the lube until two slicked fingers tease at the outside of his hole, gently massaging. Richie drags himself out of the kiss to groan, head thrown back, and Eddie takes this as permission to give him even more fucking hickies, as if they’re a pair of teenagers fumbling around in the back of a car (and oh, isn’t that an image? One that sixteen year old Richie chafed his dick raw to, but it’s nothing in comparison to now, to the intense, single-minded focus that Eddie’s giving to him, all grown up and grown into himself).

“Think you can take two, baby?” Eddie murmurs against his neck, and Richie whimpers at the pet name. He wants to hear it again, hear it a thousand times more. He nods. “Yeah? Alright, then.”

Eddie’s fingers slip over the ring of his hole once, twice, three times, before finally slowly pushing in, met with little resistance. Eddie hums appreciatively, kisses a line from his neck to his shoulder, then back up to his mouth.

“You’re adjusting pretty well, Rich,” he says. “You finger yourself a lot?”

Richie grins, lets out a sharp ah! when Eddie brushes against his prostate, before putting on his most obnoxious Voice.

“Well, Edwin, darling, I was just thinking about you then, befor- oh, Jesus fuck, Eddie!”

“No fucking Voices in the bedroom, asshole,” Eddie snaps, rubbing ruthlessly against Richie’s prostate again, as if it’s meant to be a punishment.

“ Fuck, yeah, whatever you say, just hurry up and get your dick inside me now, Kaspbrak,” he squirms, shifting his ass down on Eddie’s fingers, trying to get more. Eddie huffs into his shoulder.

“What, like you run the show now?” But he presses in another finger between thrusts, pulling them all out to add more lube, pushing in wetter and sloppier than before. It makes Richie feel dirty and used, and a thrill shoots up his spine at the idea that Eddie’s making him messy on purpose, as if he likes it when Richie’s dirty and wet and gross.

“Okay, enough, fucking enough,” Richie pushes Eddie off him, who goes, confused and vaguely concerned. “Get in me, Eds, I swear to god, I want your dick in my ass.”

“You’re not nearly prepped enough, Rich, can’t you just be fucking patient for two goddamned seconds?” But he pulls his fingers away, plucking at a condom wrapper.

“I’m a grown man,” he ignores Eddie’s responding snort and muttered ‘could’ve fooled me’. “I know my fucking limits, and I’ll tell you if your fucking schlong is too much. Fucking hurry up, god .”

Eddie gags. “Don’t call it a fucking ‘schlong’, jackass, that’s so fucking gross!”

“ You’re gross! Get in me already!”

Eddie’s noise of disgust almost distracts him from the image of Eddie rolling a condom onto his dick, and for a moment he feels vaguely alarmed by just how  fucking big Eddie is, it looks like he’s not going to fucking fit, and god, he’s going to be able to feel him in his guts, and okay, that’s fucking hot. That’s really fucking hot and Richie feels like he’s going to cream himself at the very first thrust. He says as much to Eddie, who huffs.

“If you come before I can ‘rearrange your guts’, then I’ll just keep going, dipshit,” and he doesn’t mean it, of course, Eddie doesn’t mean it, but the slight threat of Eddie just continuing to fuck an already-fucked out Richie until he’s satisfied makes him press his thighs together, squeezing and rubbing as heat rips through his body. Eddie scowls.

“Rich, open your legs, come on,” he pushes a toned thigh between Richie’s, forcing his legs to spread, and Richie moans weakly.

“Please fuck me,” he says, and it sounds breathy and pathetic, but he’s too fucking horny to care.

“I’m going to, relax.”

Eddie kneels between his thighs, bringing them up and around his own waist, before gripping his cock in one hand and slowly pushing in, the other gripping at the meat of one of Richie’s thighs, hands hot and hard. Richie shakes as he pushes slowly in, thighs clamping down, whining as he’s split open around Eddie’s hot cock. It hurts, but in a good way, like the bruises and marks Eddie’s already left. It hurts until it doesn’t, until he’s leaking precum onto his stomach and Eddie’s balls-deep inside him, moaning and swearing himself. And fuck, Eddie’s so fucking hot, cheeks flushed and pupils blown and mouth wide open, gazing down at where they’re connected, lifting his hand off Richie’s thigh to thumb at his stretched hole. Richie moans again, and it’s like it’s the only noise he can make, dick-drunk on Eddie’s monster cock pressing so deep inside him that he can feel it in his fucking throat.

“Look at you, baby,” Eddie breathes, sounding just about as wrecked as Richie feels. “Never had a dick like mine, huh?” And he sounds so fucking smug, and it irritates him as much as it makes him flush hot and cold.

“Fuck, fuck, what the fuck, Eds, what - where the fuck did you learn to fucking talk like that?” His brain’s scrambled and mushy, clogged up with lust and heat and sweat, or maybe that’s just his body, god, who cares, he wants Eddie to fuck him like he means it.

Eddie grins, eyes closed, beginning to pull out and thrust back in. “Already said I went to college, remember?” He pants, edging his way back in. “ Fuck, you’re tight, Rich.”

“No, you’re just fucking big, asshole,” Richie’s losing his fucking mind. “God, who needs a dick this big, what the fuck ?”

Eddie leans down, which makes his cock push and prod in a completely new way, and kisses him, hands slipping down and grabbing his ass. “You okay? We can stop if you need.”

“Don’t you fucking dare, Jesus Christ,” he sounds like he’s about to cry, and fuck, he might just do so. “I want you to fuck me, Eddie, I wanna feel it for a fucking week .”

Eddie groans, burying his face into the side of his neck, hips stuttering. He pulls back slightly, catching Richie’s eye, before going to town on his ass. Richie shouts, then whimpers, hands clawing at his back as Eddie rocks in and out of him hard, rails him into the mattress like he asked, like he’s always wanted. Eddie’s cock barely has to move to brush against his prostate, it’s in that deep, and it feels like Eddie’s hips are going to bruise his ass by the time they’re done. He moans again when Eddie pulls out and manhandles him, sliding behind him and pushing right back in, getting it nice and deep, slides his hand down to press down on Richie’s abdomen like he’d be able to feel his cock inside. The thought makes Richie shake (as if he hasn’t been fucking shaking this entire goddamned time), being able to see or feel Eddie’s dick, feel it bulge slightly against his stomach. He turns his head to sloppily catch Eddie’s lips.

“‘M gonna cum,” he breathes once they’ve separated, and Eddie nods.

“Me too, baby, fuck, you’re so good, Rich.”

The noise that pushes out of Richie’s chest is high and embarrassing, and he bites down on his lip to avoid any more coming out. For a brief moment, he wishes that Eddie had gone in bare, wants to feel the wet heat dripping into him, and then later, out of him. Wants Eddie to mark him up, make him messy, make Richie his.

He’s close, and he takes himself in hand, pumping in time with Eddie’s now erratic rhythm, and it doesn’t take more than a few more aching thrusts before he spills over his hand, moaning and whimpering and making enough noise to put a pornstar to shame. Eddie grunts behind him, something low and deep in his chest, and Richie’s dick gives a weak twitch.

“Come on, Eds,” he turns slightly, to catch Eddie’s lips and bring a hand to Eddie’s cheek, careful of the bandage around his still-open cheek wound. “Cum for me, I want it, wanna feel you, want it deep in me next time, so it can leak out and get us dirty, so I can feel it for days after.”

“Jesus fuck, Rich,” Eddie moans, sounding both in love and exasperated all at once, making Richie laugh.

“Come on, stud. I love you, let go.”

Eddie sucks a surprised breath in, before he shakes through his orgasm, grinding his hips hard into Richie’s ass, moaning the entire time. Richie kisses him through it, on the corner of his lips, on his nose, under his chin, and licking into his mouth, until Eddie finally stops shaking and slumps forward, a dead weight on his side, pinning him down.

They still.

There’s no sounds except the happy singing of birds outside and their heavy panting breaths. Eddie traces nonsensical patterns on Richie’s chest, almost absentmindedly. Richie presses his forehead against Eddie’s, breathes in the smell of his shampoo and soap and sweat. The room fucking reeks of sex, and he’s sticky and hot, and the bedsheets are soaked, but he loves it. Yeah, he’s never had a dick like Eddie’s, that’s true, but he also hasn’t had this, either; the afterglow, the content, lazy haze that wraps around them and buzzes through his chest, the feeling of being wanted and loved.

“I wasn’t afraid of you,” he blurts, and instantly regrets it.

Eddie’s hand stills, waiting. It feels as if the entire world has gone quiet.

“What you said, last night.” He clarifies, which, really, he doesn’t have to because Eddie’s not stupid. “It wasn’t you I was afraid of, it’s - it was. I was - am - afraid of losing you, of being too much.” He pauses, waits for Eddie to say something, but it’s like they’ve switched roles, and it’s his turn to spill all his vulnerable little secrets, expose the soft underbelly under his hard shell. “In the Deadlights, I. I saw everyone, you. And I couldn’t stop thinking, about what It showed me and about you, and you - you died, Eddie, you died and I had to just leave you there, as if I wasn’t leaving behind my entire fucking soul with you in that stupid fucking - fuck!”

He’s crying now, just slightly, hiccupping breaths and clenched jaw. He doesn’t want to ruin everything, but now that he’s started, he can’t stop. It’s like a floodgate has opened, and if he doesn’t let it all go, he’s going to drown. Eddie’s still silent, before he sighs, a quiet little thing, and shifts to pull Richie into his arms. Richie goes willingly, sobbing, clutching at Eddie’s chest.

“You have terrible timing, Rich,” he murmurs. “Could have used this last night.” Richie cries harder, and Eddie shushes him, disquieted. “Hey, easy, I’m not upset with you. I’m here, Richie, I’m not dead, and I’m not going to die, not until I’m fuckin’ ninety years old on my deathbed, with you right next to me so you can judge my last words like the jackass you are.” Richie laughs wetly, burrowing further into the comfort of Eddie’s chest and arms.

The quiet returns, and the previous content mood along with it. Richie slowly stops crying, breathing evening out and returning to normal. Eddie keeps running a hand through his hair, and one up and down his back, gentle and soothing. He listens to the steady beat of Eddie’s heart, and closes his eyes, indulging in the quiet tenderness of it all.

Eddie shifts, and groans. “We’re disgusting.” Richie snorts.

“Lasted longer than I thought you would,” and Eddie elbows him in the side, as best as he can.

“Shut up. We’re having a shower.”

Richie stretches, yawns, as Eddie shifts and moves off the bed, grimace on his face. “That’s nice.”

“ Richie .”

“Yes, Eddie my love?”

“Get in the fucking shower, you heathen.”

Richie grins, closing his eyes and stretching again, noting all the places where he’s sore (thighs, chest, neck, back, arms, ass, and fuck, inside - that’s new) and slowly gets up to follow Eddie into the bathroom, where the shorter man is already muttering and fussing over his state. Richie smiles.

“You’re so cute when you’re grumpy,” he grins, and doesn’t flinch when Eddie snarls and hits him in the face with a towel. “You’re like an angry little elf.”

“A fucking - a fucking elf ?” Eddie’s voice is high and manic again, getting ready for one of his rants. He turns on the shower. “Shut - literally, shut the fuck up or I’ll never touch your dick again.”

Richie laughs, overjoyed at still being able to rile up this gremlin of a man, and steps in after Eddie into the hot spray of the shower, humming appreciatively at the water, and then once more when Eddie begins to slowly wash his hair and back, gently massaging him. 

“‘S feels nice,” he mumbles, and Eddie chuckles.

“Good. You’re going to be sore for more than a week after this,” he replies and turns Richie around to face him, starting to lather his chest and stomach. “You okay, though? It wasn’t - too rough, right?”

Richie opens his eyes and looks down at the small frown on Eddie’s face. Pushes the wet hair out from his forehead.

“Stop worrying, I’m fine. I liked it, if you couldn’t tell,” Richie leans down to kiss him, hands rubbing at Eddie’s back and waist. He pulls back, adds shyly, “Love you.”

Eddie blinks once, twice, and gives him another one of those thousand-kilowatt smiles. “I love you.” Noses at Richie’s face.

“Now get the fuck out, I have to clean myself. And for the love of god, please try and find something to replace those bedsheets, they’re covered in cum and sweat and lube, and I am not fucking sleeping in that.”

Richie laughs until his stomach hurts.

When they finally leave their room and make their way down the stairs, shoulders and hands brushing sweetly, the others are already at the bar, a pathetic excuse for a breakfast laid out on the table. They all look up when they enter, a mixture of amused and wry looks on their faces.

“Nice morning, boys? Had a good sleep in?” Bev says, grinning, and Bill snorts into his takeaway cup of coffee. Richie hazards a glance over at Eddie, and - yeah, his face is about as red as his own.

“We, uh. Yeah. Morning.”

The rest of the Losers crack up laughing, and Eddie thumps him in the back of the head.

“Excellent use of your vocabulary, Richie, tell me, how the fuck did you manage an A average in fucking English?”

“Fucked my way to the top, baby!” Richie crows, waggling his eyebrows. Eddie’s face travels through several different emotions before finally settling on disgust.

“Gross,” he mutters. “That’s so fucking gross.”

“I wonder what count our ‘gross’ metre will total by the end of today?” Richie says, only just dodging Eddie’s furious elbow.

“Shut the fuck up, Richie.”

“I’m glad that you two finally dealing with your repressed attraction to each other hasn’t gotten rid of your bickering,” Bill dryly notes. “Actually, I think it made it worse.”

“Go write another fucking botched screenplay about it, Billiam.” Richie’s graced with Bill’s sour look and middle finger.

“When you’re all finished, I’ve got some, um, good news,” Mike says, quietly interjecting before Richie can really start on his best friends.

Well.

“Mike! You’re confessing your undying love for me?” He gasps delightedly, ignoring Eddie’s enraged, garbled yell. “Oh, but I’m so sorry, you left it for too long, I’ve had to settle for second best, Michael darling. I’m afraid I cannot give my hand to you.”

“ Second - second best? Who are you fucking calling second best, you asshole?” Eddie hisses, just as Mike replies, “I’m sure I’ll cope with the heartbreak.”

Richie grins down at Eddie, who’s turned red in his effort to tear Richie a new one, glaring hard enough that smarter men would back away for fear of their balls’ safety. Richie is not a smarter man, and so he picked Eddie’s cheek, cooing.

“Guys!” Mike’s laughter breaks up what is most likely going to end in Eddie lunging at Richie and wrestling him into the hard, wooden floorboards. “Seriously, can you two stop for five seconds, please?”

Eddie glares at Richie one last time, before turning back to Mike and slapping away the hand that was reaching for purchase on his right asscheek. “Sorry. Continue with what you were saying - I swear to fucking god, Richie, I’ll chop off your fucking hands.”

“I got a call this morning.” Mike pauses. “It’s...it’s Stan. He’s fine.”

The room goes silent, everyone straightening up and turning their full attention onto Mike.

“How? He was dead, we know he was dead because his fucking wife answered the phone call and told us he had died, Mike.” 

“Yeah,” Mike runs a hand through his hair, leaning back into the couch, sighing. “He called this morning. He woke up, in his bedroom, next to Patty, as if nothing had happened. Retained both the memories from before you all left, and the ones before he. You know.” Mike waves a hand. “I don’t know what could explain it, other than It’s finally dead. It’s gone for good.”

Bev purses her lips. “The others aren’t coming back, though, are they?”

“No.”

Richie glances over at Bill, who looks both joyful and heartbroken. Thinks about the loudmouth of a kid that died at the carnival, and winces. Don’t think about that, dickhead, don’t fucking focus on that right now.

“Is Stan…?” He trails off, not really knowing what he wants to ask, but desperate for any kind of news about Stan, even if it means Mike repeating the same thing over and over.

“He said he was going to fly down, but I told him to wait.” Mike shrugs his shoulders. “I figured after this, you’re all heading home, and I certainly want to get out of Derry. We can wait until we’re all back home before we meet up again.”

Richie wants to complain, but Mike’s right. None of them want to stay any fucking longer in this awful fucking town, even if he wants to be able to annoy the shit out of Stan again. His chest aches. He suddenly feels the ache of missing Stan, the closest thing he had to a brother, how he had grown up without Richie there by his side to infuriate him the entire way through. He reaches for Eddie’s hand, clasping it.

“I think everybody but me lives in New York,” he says, ignoring Eddie’s concerned look. “We can have our grand Losers Club reunion somewhere there. Preferably in one of Ben’s big fuck off mansions.”

Ben laughs. “I don’t have any mansions, Richie.”

“My apologies - big fuck off skyscrapers, then.”

Ben hums in response.

“How long are you planning on staying here?” Bill asks Mike, leaning forward. “Because you could come back with me. You don’t have to try and figure your stuff out all by yourself.”

Mike smiles, soft and warm. “I’d like that.” He murmurs. “I’d really like that.”

Richie scoffs. “Gay.”

“Richie I swear to god, are you incapable of interacting like a normal human being for the duration of a single fucking conversation?” Eddie snaps, turning to scowl at him.

“Absolutely not!”

“You fucking - you’re such a fucking dumbass, Jesus Christ.”

Richie smiles and watches Eddie launch into another rant about Richie’s lack of maturity and general misery unto the world. In the corner, Bev laughs and leans further into Ben, watching them trade insults and affection alike, while Bill rolls his eyes and Mike watches him closely, too. 

And outside, an old bluejay sings, spreading its newly moulted wings, soaring into the bright blue sky.