Archive of Our Own

Richie drops to the ground, mind whirling from a horrid future played out in his head. That spot in his heart where Eddie will forever have a home is burning and setting him ablaze. He feels like a bonfire of fear and grief. Eddie says his name. Hands grip at his arms, shake him into a clarity. He feels the body of the person above him. It’s Eddie. Without another thought, Richie shoves Eddie into a roll. The sharp edge of Pennywise’s claw cuts through the air, slicing the skin of their arms, and crashes into the dark earth. He and Eddie scuttle for cover, twin cuts on their biceps. They regroup with the others and argue over retreat.

“You have to make it small,” Eddie says. They all look at him. “Before, I was strangling IT. I was winning; I made myself big and I made it small.”

“It must abide by the size of its container,” Mike says. “But how do we make it feel small?”

Ben says, “We bully IT.”

After they kill IT the whole damn place starts to collapse. Around them the cave and sewers crumble at their heels until they’re running up the stairs of the Neibolt house. Six pairs of wet feet thunder across the floorboards, across the lawn, and out to the road. They watch the house get sucked into the earth. They watch the hole at the back of the lot long after all is quiet. Mike drives them out to the quarry, and it’s weird to see the land of their youth paved over and fenced. Jumping off the cliff feels the same. They wash the worst of the gore off in the quarry before heading back to the inn. They spend some time quietly admiring their continued existence while sipping on drinks lifted from the bar. Bill falls asleep in a chair, his head tilted back and mouth open as he snores.

“Let’s go take a fucking nap,” Eddie says. His eyes turn to Richie. They’ve been as close as they always were as children, but that near miss is playing on repeat like a bad song stuck in their heads.

Sitting with their uninjured arms pressed together isn’t close enough. He wants to crawl inside Eddie’s chest, fall asleep and never leave. Richie swallows the last of his liquor, hissing at the burn. “Yea.”

A pit of dread opens in Richie’s chest as they climb the stairs. It widens with every step. Eddie will split off to his own room--out of reach and out of sight--and Richie’s not so sure he can survive the separation. They reach the top and his room is at the end of the hall, but Eddie’s is only second down. Richie resigns himself to a long lonely walk and a cold lonely night. He’ll have to settle back into the life he had, where Eddie is absent and Richie is alone. It’ll be the same as it was, but Richie will know the source of his mysterious angst. He’ll be able to map the hole in his heart and excavate memories of the one who left the imprint. They’re passing the second door now, and Richie expects a sleepy farewell and a shuffling departure.

“Hey, wait,” Eddie says softly, “I need to get something. Stay here?”

Richie nods although he is confused. He watches Eddie duck into his room, then into the en suite. He hears the zip and soft clatter of Eddie packing things. Already the break in his line of sight from Eddie is terrible. It’s brief, however, as Eddie steps out and crosses the room to the bed. Richie brought nothing more than a duffle bag, but Eddie has a whole ensemble of suitcases that is frankly mind boggling and yet not surprising. Richie watches as he digs through the largest one and retrieves a set of pajamas. Then he returns to Richie’s side.

“Okay,” he says with a curt nod, “I’m ready. Let’s go.” Eddie must see the confusion on Richie’s face, because he says, “If you think I’m sleeping alone after everything that has happened, you’re an imbicile.” He gestures down the hall and starts walking, so Richie follows.

When they get into Richie’s room, he is ready to fall into bed and never wake up. He’s stopped by a hand gripping the back of his shirt--not the collar because Eddie’s a bit too short for that. Richie is redirected to the bathroom with firm orders to shower off his filth.

“Man,” Richie complains, “I’m gonna fall asleep and drown in the tub.” He doesn’t not want to shower, but Eddie’s hands are at his back as he pushes Richie around. Richie likes it, finds memories from their youth wrestling each other, and puts up some resistance.

It has Eddie shoving at him more, being a bit rougher. “Only a complete moron would drown standing up in a shower,” he says. “Now get those hideous, filthy clothes off. You smell like the bottom of a drain pipe.”

He’s always wanted Eddie to get him naked, but this is probably the least sexy scenario. They smell like piss and shit, they’re still bleeding from multiple wounds, and exhaustion is set into every nook of their bodies. Eddie pads out of the room behind him. Richie begins to strip. The clothes were disgusting. Sewer muck ground into the fabric. The quarry dip had helped dispel the worse chunks, but it left the clothes feeling like sand and dirt were primary materials. He shucks the ruined yellow top and pulls the t-shirt off. As he tucks thumbs into his waist band, Eddie steps back into the room, setting out a towel and a medkit for later. He’s gone just as quickly and Richie wastes no time dropping his trousers and hopping in the shower.

He expects Eddie to disappear to shower in another room and if he doesn’t change his mind about the sleepover, he’ll be back in twenty minutes. In an attempt to soothe his anxiety, he tells himself that this is an acceptable absence. He turns on the water and adjusts the temperature to something just shy of scalding. Eddie is still in the room--Richie can see the shadow of his figure moving around. Richie realizes Eddie is collecting his clothes and shoving them in a garbage bag. He’ll miss that yellow button up, but he doubts it was salvageable. Peeking over the shower curtain, he can see the top of Eddie’s head as he pulls off his equally gross shirt. Richie tries not to think about Eddie getting undressed on the other side of the shower curtain. Through the curtain he watches as Eddie leaves the room and Richie sighs in relief.

His nerves are a little on end--have been since coming back to Derry because of that whole clown thing, but also, currently, from the surprise of Eddie’s company. A sheepish kind of euphoria is passing through him, like a balloon expanding behind his ribs. Richie scrubs his body, working the bar of soap over the hair of his chest, and considers a quick wank so nothing awkward happens during their rest. The idea of laying down with Eds warms his heart, but he needs to be careful. Whatever relationship they have a chance to build, now that they remember and are free of that devil clown, Richie doesn’t want to fuck it up. Like a terrible school-yard song, he hears IT’s voice singing: Richie’s got a secret. No, don’t let the other boys know. No, no, no.

The sharp ring of the curtain getting pulled across the metal rod makes Richie jump and the soap slips from his hands. Whipping around, Richie sees Eddie--very naked--step into the tub.

His voice is embarrassingly high when he says, “Eds?”

Eddie is looking at him from a foot away, completely naked. He says, “You good?”

“You’re in my shower.” Without his glasses, he can’t see the details of Eddie’s face, but he can see how the blur of his features move into what Richie assumes is a bitchy glare.

“My shower is full of blood. My blood. I had to pull a knife out of my face in that shower because our deranged mullet-headed childhood bully broke in and stabbed me in my face.” His bitchy look is set to max, and yeah--Richie wouldn’t want to go back to a room he got stabbed in either. Then Eddie looks at Richie’s whole body. “Have you just been standing under the water? You’re not clean at all!” He gasps softly, “Oh, do you not know how to bathe?”

“Ha ha,” Richie says and rolls his eyes. He’s trying really hard to be unaffected, to look at Eddie with the same casualness that Eddie is giving him. He’s trying not to look down. This will be like every post-gym class shower of their middle and high school years.

“Where’s the washcloth?” Eddie looks confused, shaking his head in affronted disbelief. “Where’s the soap? Do you really not know how to bathe?”

Richie flushes. “I dropped the soap when you jump-scared me man!” This is both his worst nightmare and his wildest fantasy. His blood feels like it is rushing everywhere at once--blush rising across his whole body. He feels it keenly in every sprawling bruise, but most at the cut across his bicep.

“Oh my god,” Eddie groans, and now he’s looking down, searching for a bar of soap that is roughly the same color as the tub. Richie can’t exactly help, he’s basically blind sans glasses. Eddie isn’t, so he’s getting a good look at every part of Richie’s lower half. Richie has a dash of hope that his body insecurities are strong enough to wilt his desire. “There,” Eddie says, “It’s behind you, left foot.”

“Oh,” he squeaks, “cool.” So now Richie is bending over in the shower, naked, with his childhood best friend and life-long crush. There are no thoughts in Richie’s head, only the swirling howls of disbelief and glee wrapping around a high pitched scream of aroused terror. Richie fumbles his hand along the tub floor until he finds the slippery beast. Standing, he hands the soap to Eddie.

“No washcloth?”

“Oh, um.” He knows it’s something he should have. “I usually just,” and he plucks the bar from Eddie’s grasp. As earlier, he scrubs it across the hair of his arms and the thicker hair of his chest. The suds build quickly, even as the shower spray washes over his back and shoulders. Richie was tall enough that Eddie was kept mostly dry until Richie bent down to retrieve the soap. His hair is more moistened by the humidity than the spray. Eddie is staring at him, mouth open and Richie can’t guess what he’s thinking, but his gaze has Richie preening. He offers Eddie the soap, says, “Here.”

Eddie shakes his head and refocuses on Richie’s face. The blurs of skin and shadow--Eddie’s facial features, presumably--form what Richie might call a playful scowl. He remembers a similar one from their childhood but twenty-seven years of forgetting has the edges razed down. It’s not distinct and neither is this because Richie can’t fucking see. “Well that’s not so helpful to me, now is it?” Then Eddie is dragging a hand down Richie’s arm, collecting the foamy soap, and scooping it onto his body. He clears the other arm and takes a moment to wash himself before stepping closer so both hands can sweep up Richie’s torso to harvest the soap across his chest.

Richie has to fight back a moan, swallowing it, so he can’t think of any witty response. “Okay.” He chuckles and soaps up his body once more. Eddie steals his suds at will to wash his thighs and legs. An act that Richie definitely doesn’t watch. Instead he washes his body resolutely staring at the ceiling as his long arms stretch to reach his back.

“Here,” Eddie says. His hands come to Richie’s hips, gently spinning him so he’s facing away from Eddie, and then he’s taking the soap from Richie’s hand still frozen over his shoulder.

Richie has to close his eyes, his breath is coming quick, and he’s sure all the blood in his system is rushing south. The hands on him are larger than Richie expected, but they are also as soft as he had ever imagined. Eds isn’t the type to have calluses; he has travel lotions. When Eds washes up his neck, fingers digging into his hair, Richie has to duck his head into the spray of the shower. How Richie is going to get out of here without showing Eddie his boner is a fucking mystery, one that he is far too distracted to solve. He bites into the knuckle of hand, flexing other parts of his body, firming and releasing the muscles of his thighs, torso, and arms. It works, his muscles already strained and pushed beyond their limit.

“There,” Eddie hums. His hand sneaks through the slim space between Richie’s side and inner arm to pass off the soap. Eddie’s chest presses into Richie’s back, his other hand a light touch at his hip. “Now do me,” he says. His voice is close. Edde’s chin bumps at Richie’s shoulder with each word. As he backs away, Eddie pats him with both hands twice on the softest part of his waist. The second pat lingers and then Eddie is moving away.

Richie’s mind goes offline. “Uh.” He turns around to see Eddie facing away, presenting his back for a proper wash. “Yeah, of course.” His hands shake and his breath skips when he starts to rub the soap over Eddie’s shoulders, but the suds don’t form. “Oh, shit. Hold on.”

He foams the bar of soap on his chest--carefully avoiding his nipples, okay he doesn’t need more teasing--and transfers the pile of bubbles to Eddie’s back. He works over the skin of Eddie’s shoulders and neck before trailing down his spine and sweeping up his sides. His hands take up so much space on Eddie’s back, he kind of gets lost in the movements, but Eddie doesn’t stop him. If asked Richie will say he was being thorough to meet Eddie’s hygienic standard. When he is finished, he leans to the side and allows the spray of water to wash it all away.

Still faced away, Eddie asks, “Shampoo?”

“Oh,” Richie looks around for the bottle, says, “It’s a two-in-one,” as he passes it over.

He hears Eddie chuckle and pop the lid. “Of course it is.”

Eddie holds the bottle for Richie and squeezes some onto his hand. It’s a surreal experience for Richie, the two of them washing their hair not a foot apart after escaping death and killing a cosmic clown. Two days ago he couldn’t remember his best friend, and now they’re together and their memories are back. Richie rinses his hair and is about the step out of the tub when Eddie slides past him and into the shower spay. Eddie’s hands graze the skin of Richie’s waist and just below he feels the brush of something. It has Richie’s head spinning. He has to get out of this shower--as nice and dream-like as it is--or he might implode.

He dries his legs first. Standing up straight again sends a twinge to his back that reminds Richie of his middle age. He’s quick about it, eager to wrap the towel around his waist so the semi-boner he’s had the whole shower is less noticeable. Putting on his glasses is a little unhelpful as they are cloudy with hot air. He fumbles for the door knob. The steam billows out into the sleeping area. He doesn’t walk anywhere because he still can’t see and then Eddie orders him to stay put.

Eddie hums, and says, “Actually, come sit on the toilet. You may find this difficult, but just stay there for a moment.”

Richie stays. “What, no fidget toy to entertain me?”

He hears Eddie huff in annoyed amusement and a moment later a toothbrush is shoved into Richie’s hands. “Brush your teeth.”

The steam is dissipating and the fog of Richie’s glasses begins to clear. Richie obediently brushes his teeth. He can see now that Eddie is similarly wrapped in a towel, though a shorter one that stops mid-thigh than at the knees. On the counter top is a med-kit and Eddie is selecting wipes, ointments, and bandages and setting them aside in a neat row. He kicks at Richie’s feet, gets him to shift so that his right arm--the one that was cut-- is accessible. Richie watches as his wound is cleaned, pinched and sealed with liquid skin, and wrapped. The pain is mild in comparison to the terror of the day. He feels like every emotion has run through him thrice over and he might have gone numb. Eddie steps away, letting Richie lean over and spit into the sink.

“You really are good at this,” Richie says, “Thanks, Eds.” He drops his toothbrush into the sink and settles back into his seat.

Eddie is focused on the mirror, cleaning and dressing his stab wound. “I know how to use this stuff is all. It’s nothing special. We should both go get stitches at the soonest opportunity, but I’m tired and this will do for tonight.”

“Sure,” Richie says, because he knows it’s hard to take a compliment. He stands, picks the liquid skin off the counter and says, “Let me help.”

When they were younger, Richie remembers getting weak in the knees from Eddie’s big brown puppy dog eyes. It’s the same feeling now. Eddie turns. He lets Richie, who fumbles and curses when it’s not as easy as it looked, tend to him. The seven Losers shared a cut on their palms, but this will be a scar shared between the two of them. For a moment, when he’s finished but before he pulls away, they gaze at each other, Richie’s thumb sweeping and soothing over the bandage.

Richie coughs. “I should get dressed,” he says softly.

He doesn’t move until Eddie nods once, and says whisper-light, “Okay.”

Exhaustion is taking over his body now that he’s clean and about to climb into bed. He pulls on a fresh pair of underwear, some sweatpants, and is digging through his duffle for a shirt when Eddie finishes brushing his teeth and steps out of the bathroom. He’s yawning, fighting a full-body stretch that has his face scrunching up. Richie takes the opportunity to admire Eddie’s bare chest and exposed thighs. Their time in the shower was made fuzzy by Richie’s poor vision, but he’s in his glasses now and able to appreciate Eddie’s lean figure and toned abs. He’s still balking when Eddie strides over to his neatly folded pajamas set on the foot of the bed. In what feels like both a flash and an eternity, Eddie drops his towel--which, sure, they were just showering together-- and steps into a pair of heather gray boxer-briefs. So now Richie is zoned out, watching his friend put on pajamas that must have been stolen from some geriatric. He turns to the bed, mechanically pulling back the covers, the image still in his brain. Eddie shuts off the lights and Richie can hear the soft pad of his bare feet as he strides back to the bed. Then they’re slipping beneath the sheets together.

For a long while, Richie stares at the ceiling. He breaks the silence, “Hey Eds?” Next to him Eddie hums, he sounds like he’s on the brink of sleep. “I’m glad you made it out.”

Another mumbled aknowledgement and Eddie shifts to his side. He lays a palm on the general area of Richie’s shoulder that has him turning his head to look at Eddie, squinting his eyes to see him better. He thinks Eddie’s eyes are closed, but he can’t really tell.

“I’m glad we made it out.” Eddie doesn’t move his hand and a moment later his breath evens out in slumber. The sound helps lull Richie into a deep sleep.

Richie dreams of their childhood. It’s not a specific memory, more of a collection of many moments. Reading comics as they swing in the hammock; laughing in the sun as they ride bikes down to meet the others; and late, late nights lying in bed together. He remembers being that young, waking in the dark and stealing a look at Eddie’s sleep-rested face. It was so easy for Eddie to get worked up and even when he was composed worry weighed down his brows and lips. The dream shifts, and now Richie is crouching in front of the railing of the Kissing Bridge. He’s carving a R into the wood with his pocket knife. In real life, Richie knows he was alone, filled with shame and sorrow and frightened that someone would walk up on him. In the dreamscape he’s safe, there is no fear, and he’s not alone. With only a R --, Richie pulls back and hands the knife to an equally young Eddie Kaspbrak. With no small amount of awe he watches Eddie carve out | E, bitching the whole time about the dangers of splinters and knives. Then they’re bickering like they always do, but their hands are held firmly together and the Kissing Bridge proclaims their love: R + E.

Richie wakes up slowly, surrounded by warmth and a calm nighttime glow filling the room. He doesn’t know what time it is and can’t tell because his glasses are off and the bedside clock is visible to him only as a fuzzy blue bar on the night stand. It doesn’t matter, he figures he could use a few more hours. Even though he is not all that tired, Richie is unwilling to move an inch. He’s curled on his side and there’s a second, smaller body fit to the curve of Richie’s back and legs. Eddie’s arm is slung over his waist hand tucked between the meat of Richie’s chest and the bed.

For once in his life, Richie wishes he could stay still, be quiet. He tries to burn this memory into his mind. If he leaves with nothing else, he has this moment. Between his shoulder blades is the press of Eddie’s face and the warmth of his steady exhales. Richie is keenly aware of a firm spot of heat between his ass and Eddie’s lap that sends Richie’s mind into the stratosphere. He tries to think of Martha (Myriam? Myra?) and fails because he doesn’t know what she looks like. In his youth, whenever Richie was overcome with affection or that childish lust he had for adolescent Eddie, he would picture Eddie’s mom. It may be the only thing that can cool the slow roll of Richie’s arousal.

He tries to focus on something else, but finds his mind void of anything that isn’t Eddie and that flash of cock he saw last night. His brain--unhelpfully--supplies him with the memory of their dicks brushing together briefly in the shower. Eddie grumbles at his back. Then there are sleepy, wandering feet caressing Richie’s calves. His hips shift without his permission, a stifled cant into Eddie’s groin that has Richie swallowing his breath and biting his tongue. The arm wrapped round his chest tightens and a groan is muffled into his back. Air is neither entering or leaving Richie’s body when Eddie’s hips push back into his.

Still not breathing, Richie tries to rationalize--to remind himself that Eddie is actually married and it’s completely possible that early morning sleepy sex is a thing he does with his wife. Eddie is probably too asleep to realize he’s rutting up against Richie. This line of thought--as distracting and soul-crushing as it is--does not actually kill his simmering arousal, it only makes him jealous of a woman he doesn’t know. Richie’s head is starting to spin, but that may be because he’s still not breathing.

“Beeb beep, Richie,” Eddie mutters. The hand cupping Richie’s pectoral moves and pinches the closest nipple it can find.

“Ow,” Richie yelps--it was not a mild pinch! Nonetheless, the pain goes straight to his groin. “What the fuck, dude?”

“You stopped breathing,” he says as he soothes a hand over Richie’s nipple. “I can only assume you had a thought and it overtaxed your brain which isn’t used to doing two things at once.”

“Oh, you’re so funny. You should be a comedian,” Richie says. His body is full of electricity, surging at every point of contact between them.

Eddie chuckles and rubs his face against Richie’s spine. In the motion his arm tightens around Richie, hips grind into his ass. Eddie says, “At least I’d write my own jokes.”

“Hahah, hoho, so funny!” Richie needs to get out of this bed. It is everything he’s dreamed of--and more, so much more--but he’s entering a point of no return. He reaches to the night stand and blindly pats the surface until he finds his glasses. Checking over his shoulder, Richie can see that his bed companion is still committed to sleeping. Eddie’s eyes are closed and his tired, grumpy face is turned into the pillow. It’s adorable, really. “I, uh, need a drink.”

Releasing his hold, Eddie’s arm drops, flopping onto the mattress like dead weight. He’s grumbling at the cold air invading the warm cocoon of blankets and body heat. Richie leaves him. He escapes to the bathroom and contemplates his next step. Originally, he had a vague plan to quickly and quietly jack off into the toilet, but Eddie’s awake and Richie is a coward. Turning on the tap and cupping his hands beneath the flow, Richie laps at the pool of water in his palms.

“Use a cup,” Eddie hollers.

Richie drops the water. “There are none,” he says.

He uses the restroom and washes his hands, buying time so he can get his breathing under control. Then he steps toward the bed wherein is the world’s finest dessert that he is not allowed to eat. Eddie is splayed out. The blanket is half off of him, lying where Richie tossed it as he fled. His eyes remain closed but Eddie isn’t motionless. One hand is dipped below the sheets touching himself with a mindless, unhurried rub. Richie is captivated. Not quite believing this isn’t a dream, Richie really isn’t sure how he’s supposed to handle this. Should he comment on it, ignore it, or crawl beneath sheets and suck him off? Eddie lets out a soft moan as a ripple of pleasure rolls through him. Then he sighs and pulls his hand up, interlacing it with the other and resting them on his sternum. Richie decides to climb into bed. He’s starting to think this snack is totally edible.

Eddie looks at him, asks, “What are you going to do after Derry?”

Halfway under the blanket Richie considers pretending to fall instantly asleep. He sighs, “Honestly, I’d rather go back to watching you rub one out than talk about how I bombed my career last week.”

Eddie says, “I watched that. I’ve seen all your recorded sets.” He’s staring at the ceiling and Richie wonders what memories are flitting through his brain. “You’re not even funny, but I always watched them. Never knew why.” Eddie asks, looking at him, “Do you ever feel like that?”

“Like you’ve been looking for something,” Richie pauses, because he always knew it wasn’t an object, “someone for decades and finally found it?” Even this amount of honesty has him feeling laid open. He should have just gone straight to sucking Eddie off and dodging all of the vulnerability.

When Eddie answers his voice is soft, “Yeah.”

Richie gets horizontal, avoiding Eddie’s searching gaze. “Can’t relate.”

“Dick,” Eddie says, but it’s wrapped in a low laugh.

“Actually, it’s Richard, but I go by--” A pillow meets Richie’s face and he’s tackled into the mattress.

Stopping short of asphyxiation, Eddie lets the pillow be yanked out of his hands. He’s smiling, looking down at Richie with the softest eyes.

Richie asks, because he has to know, “What are you going to do after Derry?”

Eddie’s gaze goes a bit far and that playful grin falls. He doesn’t answer for a long time, and Richie starts to think he won’t when he says, “I’m not sure. Had I known–I mean, had I remembered everything, I feel that I would’ve made different choices.” He lets out a big, heavy sigh and flops back to the bed. “I don’t think I like my life. I’m not happy… or even content. Not with who I am, where I am, who I’m with, or how I spend my time.”

Something shaped like hope down in the depths of Richie gives a flutter and it reverberates through his body like an earthquake. “What,” Richie jokes, dragging out the vowel, “risk analysis doesn’t do it for you anymore?”

“Fuck off, I actually like my job,” Eddie swats him, but it is nothing more than the back of his hand meeting the skin below Richie’s short sleeve. “It’s everything else that has me listless. I don’t want to go back.” He says it like a revelation, a conclusion he’s arrived at just after the words have left his mouth.

That creature of hope in Richie’s chest is ambling about, blind but still searching for the edges of the well it lay dormant in for what feels like Richie’s whole life. “Obviously,” he says before he can lose courage, “you need to ditch all that, come to LA, and live with me. Together, you, me, and Bill can convince everyone else to move out to Californ-I-A.”

“That sounds nice,” Eddie says. When Richie turns to Eddie the man is already looking at him. His eyes are soft--or maybe they’re just sleepy. “You’re not saying that--” he breaks into a long yawn before finishing, “because we’re both in shock from reliving our crazy childhood trauma?”

Choosing to be honest, because he wants Eddie to know his offer is serious, Richie clarifies, “I’m saying that because I want you around. Not just for phone calls or annual reunions. I don’t want to miss out on more just because we think we have to be responsible adults.” He’s turned his gaze back to the ceiling. Mostly honest, but not entirely brave.

“You’re the furthest thing from a responsible adult.”

Richie would defend himself, but there’s not much to defend. Instead, he raises a hand to flip Eddie off. He gets a chuckle in return. Eddie curls onto his side facing away from Richie. His earlier arousal has ebbed and the heaviness of his limbs and eyelids forecast a swift slip into sleep. Then Eddie is reaching out, patting around blindly until he lands on Richie’s hand still resting on his stomach. Gripping his wrist, Eddie pulls Richie close so they are in a reversal of their earlier positions.

Eddie hums, twining their fingers together as he settles into the bed. “Let’s catch a few more hours, huh.”

He feels every inch of Eddie. Has his heartbeat beneath his palm and can smell his shampoo in Eddie’s hair. Richie feels like a constellation, each line of contact leading to a luminous star.

Richie’s mind is offline, having reached its limit of functionality hours ago in the sewers below Derry. He means to say goodnight and snuggle into the warm body in his arms. What he says is, “Are you not going to deal with your hard-on?”

Snorting in amusement, Eddie says, “Like you’ve been dealing with yours?” He pushes into Richie’s lap.

“Fuck,” he swears lowly, giving in to one slow grind of his hips into Eddie’s ass. It’s perfect, plush, and Richie will remember it forever.

Eddie yawns again, says, “We can deal with it in the morning,” and is asleep in moments.

It’s like Richie suddenly notices he is standing on the surface of the sun. His body flashes dead cold then white hot. He feels like he’s been dipped in water and electrified. This is what being ‘shook’ is, Richie realizes. So many thoughts assail his mind that Richie has to physically shake them from his head.

“What the fuck,” he mouths and forces himself to breathe.

Eddie is asleep in his arms--he can tell by the easy, even rhythm of his breath--but Richie is now far from drowsy. Moving is the last thing he wants to do so he grits his teeth, ducks his face into Eddie’s hair, and tries to get his breathing somewhere in the vicinity of calm. It’s not easy. Heat is building between their bodies, a cozy warmth spreading through Richie. The deep, steadying breaths have unveiled a scent at Eddie’s neck that is wholly Eddie. In Richie’s mind is a dumb fucking montage of their time here in Derry--from the Jade to the sewers to now--with their every interaction set on replay. The mere possibility of actually getting to touch Eddie in any amorous way has Richie thickening in his boxers. All he can do is focus on his breathing until he falls to sleep.

When he wakes it is to a sun-filled room and an empty bed. For a moment he’s struck frozen with fear. Perhaps last night didn’t happen, was actually a cruel dream woven to lure Richie into the most vulnerable state he could possibly be in: hopeful. He fumbles around for his glasses, can’t remember taking them off after Eddie commandeered his hand--if that actually happened.

“They’re on the nightstand,” Eddie says from the center of the room.

Richie has to scooch over before he can pad around the blur of the nightstand for what he needs. Eddie is still in the room, wearing pajamas and striking a pose that Richie vaguely recognizes as some yoga-thing. He watches as Eddie moves at a relaxed pace. He stands tall, reaching to the sky and coming up to his tip toes before diving and folding in half. Hands and feet flat to the floor, Eddie walks his hands out until he’s a human triangle. Richie thinks this position is called down dog. Shifting to a plank, Eddie lowers himself to be nearly on the ground before pulling his head and torso up and straightening his arms. Richie marvels at the show, letting it sink in just how limber Eddie is--a fact that Richie will fantasize about later. He cycles through the movements a few more times then gets to standing and makes his way back to the bed. Eddie looks better than anyone has any right to be this early in the morning after being stabbed in the face and hunted by a clown in the sewers.

He settles on the bedside closest to Richie--and he’s grateful because that jolt of fear after he woke up is nesting in Richie’s throat. There’s a very real possibility that with the raising of dawn Eddie has reconsidered last night’s flirtations. Richie wouldn’t blame anyone for needing the security of another person after all they’ve been through in the last two days. He likes how tactile Eddie is being, and more than willing to ease whatever ache and angst he carries. Richie knows he should tell Eddie--that talking about it would greatly increase the probability of anything developing between them, but Richie is also scared. As scared as he was in the sewers yesterday and as a child. As scared as he was on the Kissing Bridge, clammy hands wielding a pocket knife because it was the only way he could stand confessing.

Speaking up, Eddie says, “It’s been a while since I’ve laid so close to someone like that.” He’s looking down at his fingers twiddling with the drawstring of his grandpa pajamas.

Richie’s caught in the gentle curve of Eddie’s lips. He’s going for levity when he says, “Was it good for you?” It comes out far too soft.

Smiling at him, Eddie says, “Yes, your plush and unusually sized body was quite comfortable.”

If there was ever a chance to confess, Richie thinks, this would be the moment. He’s always felt a certain gravity pulling him to Eddie and now is no different. “Glad to be of service,” he says. Richie made a career out of Voices and disguising any trace of his truly delicate heart, so finding the words to unleash a secret thirty years in the making is probably the biggest stone he could have chosen to pick up. His words--not that he had selected any--get caught on that fear in his throat.

“The others are having breakfast downstairs,” Eddie says, looking at the door of their room.

Losing the meager steam he had, Richie says, “We should join, I’m starving.” In his mind is a red balloon proclaiming him a Coward in big white letters.

Richie starts to shift out of bed when Eddie turns back and stills him with a light touch. He’s leaning closer, every inch increasing the rapid beat of Richie’s heart. Eddie pushes him until his head rests on the pillow and his back is flat to the mattress.

“Yeah, but first,” Eddie says, staying close and throwing a leg over Richie’s body, “we have plans.”

Hands coming to Eddie’s thighs bracketing his hips, Richie’s mind struggles to catch up even as his hands follow the curve of Eddie’s spine. Pulling him closer, he can see how Eddie’s brown eyes are dark with desire. It’s the last thought he has before their lips meet. The hand on Richie’s chest slides up to cup the bolt of his jaw. Eddie’s lips are soft on his, a gentle firmness before moving barely an inch away. He wants to breathe in Eddie’s exhales and get high from carbon dioxide poisoning.

“Woah," Richie says. He knows his eyes are filled with awe--that he must look like a saint seeing God--he can’t find it in him to care. “Kiss me again."

Eddie has a toothy grin spreading across his face when he leans back in and kisses Richie’s lower lip. It turns into a nip and Eddie soothes his tongue over the swell of the lip. Richie moans, opening his mouth for Eddie and thrills at the taste of him. He wants to open his whole body up to Eddie, let him sink into his skin and tunnel down to the home in Richie’s heart kept just for him. Settling for pulling him closer, Richie gets lost in the feeling of their bodies pressed together. He gets hands beneath Eddie’s night shirt or whatever he fucking calls it. Eddie’s skin is smooth and warm wherever Richie’s hands roam. Their slick lips feel like perfect counterparts and heat is building in Richie’s gut without any of the exhaustion of last night.

He hears the sound of two firm knocks on the heavy wooden door of the room. Richie ignores it, but isn’t aware of that decision. His hands are full. So are his lap and mouth. The other people at the Inn are simply not on Richie’s mind. In fact, the whole population of Derry--no, the world--could stop existing and Richie wouldn’t care.

The door opens. Bill says, “Ben and Bev are leaving soon, they want you to come down before they go.”

There’s not a hint of surprise or displeasure in Bill’s tone. Richie still feels like a deer trapped in the headlights of an 18-wheeler. Atop of him, Eddie lets out an irritated sigh. Bill is looking at them expectantly so Richie starts bumbling for a response he doesn’t have as he absently straightens his off-kilter glasses. Before he can get anything out, Eddie’s hand shifts from his neck to cover Richie’s mouth.

Looking over his shoulder, Eddie tells Bill, “We’ll be down in ten minutes.”

Since Richie is really just a child in a grown man’s body, he licks at the palm of Eddie’s hand. It gets a small reaction. Eddie applies more pressure, his other hand coming to stabilize Richie’s head as he then attempts to shake free. Richie isn’t even bothered by the smothering--it’s kind of doing it for him--but Eddie not looking at him? The worst.

“I’ll let them know,” Bill says, nodding.

Before Bill can make a swift retreat, before he can even finish speaking, Eddie’s attention returns to Richie. For a man so small, Eddie has a very attractive glare. It’s offset by his hungry smile, and the way his thighs flex as he rolls his hips down into Richie’s. Moaning into Eddie’s palm, he lets his hands glide to grasp at Eddie’s waist when he can’t help the buck of his hips.

“You’re fucking disgusting,” Eddie growls, removing his hand to pet at the broad, hairy chest below him.

Richie’s a little breathless when he responds, “You love it.” Eddie’s thumb skims the corner of Richie’s lower lip, so he sucks on it, and lets his tongue curl over its length.

To his delight, Eddie responds. He let’s out a shallow, “Fuck,” as he presses his thumb deeper into the slick heat of Richie’s mouth. It makes Richie smile from an overwhelm of manic glee. Ultimately, it ruins the suction. Eddie replaces his thumb with his mouth. He dips his tongue in and licks at Richie’s soft palette. He always thought Eddie would taste vaguely medicinal, or at the very least minty. There is the fresh taste of recently brushed teeth and something vaguely floral. Richie lets his hands rove where they please--up Eddie’s nightshirt and down to his ass. When he gets Eddie shirtless, all thoughts of the four other Losers are long gone.

“Damn,” Richie says, splaying his hands across the other man’s toned chest and stomach. The view he had last night after Eddie stepped out of the shower, when they were tending to their wounds but before they slipped into bed, was enjoyable but this is much better. He can touch and see every small reaction. “Fuck you doing, hiding all this under your nerdy ass clothes?”

“Fuck off,” Eddie says, but there’s a deep blush high on his cheeks and his eyes are full of desire.

As eager as the night before, Richie replants his feet, each now pushing into the bed to better grind into his partner. Eddie gasps. The hands on him are explorative, eager to learn every inch of him. Richie gropes at the plush muscle of Eddie’s pectoral, thumb teasing at his peaked nipple. Head falling back, Eddie uses one hand to steady himself on Richie’s knee and he moans. It’s all too much for Richie. His life of shame-filled bathroom trysts along his tour routes couldn’t have prepared him for the sight and the feel of what he has right now.

Eddie grabs at one wandering hand and brings it to his mouth. There’s a wicked little smile on Eddie’s face when he nips at Richie’s fingers and says, “At least I dress like a working adult and not a fucking circus tent.”

Before Richie can even think to reply, Eddie licks his lips and sucks two of Richie’s fingers straight down to the knuckle. “Oh, that’s--oh fuck, that’s--” Richie has to squeeze his eye closed because Eddie is attacking him on all fronts. He’s slurping around Richie’s fingers as he pumps them slow into his mouth; he’s pressing himself down on Richie’s cock still nestled under Eddie’s athletic ass; and worst of all, his hand skirts the base of Richie’s neck, thumb pressing into the dip of the clavicle so that his skyrocketing heart beat feels like a beacon. Richie’s breath comes out short, lightly restricted by the pressure on his throat. He can hear and feel Eddie’s pleased chuckle. Finally, Richie thinks of a response: “Oh yeah, what is it you do for work again?”

He’s ready to fake snoring, but Eddie yanks the hand from his mouth and says, “Shut up, Richie, I know you’re thirsting for my cock.” Which, facts.

Eddie dives in close, grabbing Richie’s face and kissing him hard. The kiss doesn’t linger, but trails over his chin and down his throat. Eddie bites at the bone of his clavicle, pulls at Richie’s shirt collar so he can follow it to his shoulder. Richie decides it is a great time to lose his clothes. He tries removing his shirt and while Eddie’s hands are helping to ruck the fabric up while petting enthusiastically over the soft hair of Richie’s chest, Eddie’s mouth is at the bolt of Richie’s jaw, halting progress.

The little whimper he lets out is involuntary. “Eds,” he sighs.

Richie feels like he’s lost the thread when Eddie unlatches and ushers the t-shirt past Richie’s shoulders and head, his glasses falling loose and askew on the tip of his nose. Eddie is back on him in an instant, returning to the curve of Richie’s neck where he flattens his tongue against the skin and licks right up to his ear. It has Richie shuddering, hands gripping the body above him. Eddie snakes one clever hand into Richie’s sweatpants while he bites and tugs on the lobe of his ear.

In a low voice, almost like a purr, Eddie whispers, “I wanted you in the shower.” He pauses to chuckle at the memory, breath puffing against Richie’s ear. “You couldn’t see because you’re blind as fuck.” When Eddie drags his tongue over Richie’s ear, he can feel the smile stretched across Eddie’s lips.

Too much and not enough, Richie finds himself momentarily overwhelmed. He steadies his glasses, then he’s letting out a battle cry, twisting his hips, and rolling them to the side. He has a strange sensation of deja vu with the moment in the cave after he woke from the Deadlights. Crying out, rolling, living. This is so much better though, it’s a nice bed in a nice room and there are no fear-mongering aliens set on eating them. Most of all, there’s Eddie. Living, vibrant Eddie. He arches into Richie’s touch and keens under the attention.

Humming in satisfaction as Richie kisses down his neck, Eddie keeps talking, “I wanted you in the fucking Jade. As--” He breaks off to moan as Richie bites into the meat of his pectoral, releases, and laves his tongue over the nipple. “Fuck--as soon as I remembered you.” He peppers open-mouthed kisses down Eddie’s belly and dips his tongue in his navel. “Had a weird ass boner when I crashed my car.”

It makes Richie bark out a laugh, the idea of risk analyst Eddie rage driving through traffic, crashing, and being in the unenviable position of having to explain any of the details. Start to end, it sounds insane. He looks up at Eddie, who is flushed hot and writhing beneath him, and asks, “Did you deal with it before or after the paramedics arrived?”

Hand coming to rest on Richie’s head, fingers tangled in his dark hair, Eddie says, “I’m getting it dealt with now.”

Usually, Richie isn’t one to follow directions, but Eddie is always the exception. He hooks his fingers into the bands of Eddie’s sleepwear to tug them past his hips and ass, and then gets his mouth on Eddie’s cock. That distinctly Eddie scent--the one driving him crazy last night--is stronger here where Richie’s nose is pressed into the trimmed hair of Eddie’s groin. He swallows along the length and bobs his head, swirling his tongue over Eddie’s hard tip before driving it toward the opening of his throat. The salty taste and Eddie’s tightening hold on his hair has Richie groaning in pleasure.

Gasping his name, Eddie taps his shoulder and guides him by the hair back up Eddie’s body so they can join in a lurid kiss. Richie lays his weight into Eddie and sighs at the relief of their hips pressing together. Holding him in place with a hand in his hair, Eddie pulls their bare chests flush. The expanse of skin on skin is making Richie a little dizzy in the best possible way. As they kiss Richie’s glasses press into the soft join between his brows and nose, and he knows his thick frames are also pressing into Eddie’s face, but he won’t take them off because he doesn’t want to miss a single detail.

Eddie’s hand is clutching at his bicep, fingers digging into the bandage on his arm. It veers past the fun kind of hurt and sends a sharp spike of pain through the muscle. Breaking the kiss, Richie says, “Eds--”

“Sorry,” Eddie gasps, hand soothing the tender spot. The fingers in Richie’s hair soften and gently rub at his scalp. Again, Eddie says, “I’m sorry.”

With the same air of supplication Eddie pulls him closer and settles them back into a kiss that is a touch slower, deeper, and filled with intent. Richie gets lost in it, and it should be concerning how easily that happens but he couldn’t be bothered to care. Eddie’s hands are wandering his back, settling for a second on Richie’s pudgy waist, thumbs drawing circles into his skin. Without haste, their bodies roll into each other. Trapped between them is the hot, damp line of Eddie’s dick alongside Richie’s. The building friction, the drag of his cotton underwear causes him to break their kiss to catch his breath.

It’s Eddie who reaches down, hand dipping into Richie’s sweatpants to grip his cock. Richie tucks his head into the curve of Eddie’s neck, hips rocking to meet the downward stroke of his unyielding hand. Quivers run through Richie’s limbs that tease the heat pooling at the base of his spine. His hand retreating, Eddie pushes at Richie’s shoulder. Glasses askew and brain hazy with arousal, Richie is slow to catch on when Eddie lifts his palm in the space between their faces.

Rolling his eyes, Eddie orders, “Spit.”

Sucking all the saliva in his mouth and gathering it on his tongue, Richie complies before he fully comprehends. It all clicks when Eddie gets his hand wrapped back around Richie. Grunting as he shifts, Richie shuffles to tug down his sweats and boxers. The feel of their hard-ons rubbing together flesh to spit-wet flesh is amazing. Richie feels as though he were on a cloud--elated and so ready to fall. He kisses Eddie; it’s sloppy, uncoordinated, his glasses are getting knocked loose, and he can’t stop these small little noises from edging into his ragged breath. Giving up, he rests his forehead against Eddie’s. Their noses brush together--just barely, but Richie loves this closeness. He tries to sync their breathing, so that he can inhale every one of Eddie’s labored exhales. When Eddie wraps a hand around them both Richie’s concentration devolves.

He shoves his right hand between them and grabs himself at the base, gasping, “Eds, fuck.”

Eddie doesn’t pause or slow his pace. He repeats Richie’s name with a growing urgency. “Richie. Please, Rich, I--”

This might be Richie’s new favorite song. Label it ‘Eddie at the Edge.’ He hopes they can make a whole sprawling discography. Readjusting his hand, Richie grips the both of them. Eddie’s hands are smaller than his--an unnoticeable fact if it weren’t for the instant comparison. Richie is bigger than Eddie in other ways, too. Pumping his fist to match their rhythm forces Eddie’s hand up closer to their tips where he begins to squeeze tighter. Transfixed, Richie watches as their thrusts drive their cockheads through the channel of Eddie’s vice grip.

“Oh god,” Eddie groans, his body seizing.

Richie watches as his eyes roll, as Eddie tosses his head back into the pillow and his staccato breath comes out in a more hurried paste. He takes the opportunity to kiss the underside of Eddie’s jaw and exposed neck. Against his cock he can feel Eddie’s release--a stiffening with each surge of his orgasm--and then the glide of them through their hands slickens. Richie tries to hold on, wants to make this moment last but then an almost whimper conveys Eddie’s increasing sensitivity and it’s all over.

He pulls back, letting go of Eddie’s waning cock before clasping tight around his own. A few frenzied thrusts and he’s spilling onto Eddie’s heaving chest and stomach. Through the haze of his pleasure-fogged brain Richie marvels at the streaks of their spend melding together on Eddie’s wonderfully lean torso still flushed red from their union. Mouth ajar and breath heavy, Eddie looks at him with heavy lidded eyes still darkened by desire.

Wetting his mouth, Richie gulps and says, “Where’s my phone?”

Eddie’s crooked, satisfied smile drops. He says, “Absolutely not.”

“I have a poor memory!” Richie defends, but it’s only so he can watch Eddie glare and huff in annoyance.

“Its not my fault you’re stupid.”

Straightening his glasses, Richie dives forward in retaliation and drags his tongue through the mess slowly pooling on Eddie’s torso.

A squawk of horror and Eddie pushes stiff arms into him as Richie moves in closer aiming for a kiss. “Gross, dude--Ah!” He grabs Richie’s wrist where his thumb was swiping through a dribble of cum as his hand moved to toy with Eddie’s nipple. “No, you’re so fucking nasty.”

Looking at him, Richie smiles as he says, “I think you like it.” He says with honest amazement before darting down to suck in the swollen bud of Eddie’s unguarded nipple and roll it between his teeth.

Eddie’s hands tighten on his shoulders, nails digging into the skin. “Fucking asshole,” he says through a clenched jaw. “We--fuck--the others are waiting. It’s been ten minutes, Rich, we need to get cleaned up.”

With an exaggerated sigh of complaint, Richie rolls to the side and shimmies his trousers into place. “Why are they in so much of a rush to get out of here?” He bemoans, “Why killed the death clown. An extra hour so we can sno--”

“Beep beep, Richie.” Eddie’s at the door to the bathroom, he’s discarded the rest of his clothes and is looking at Richie with an expression that is immeasurably fond. He says, “ C’mon Rich, I know you’re not used to showering, but with time and practice it’ll get easier.”

“Fuck you.” Richie laughs as he hauls his body up off the bed.

Smiling, Eddie says, “Later. Right now we need to shower. Don’t worry, I’ll be there the whole time; I can show you how to use a washcloth.”

“Fine,” Richie says, joining Eddie in the bathroom. He shucks the last of his clothes and steps inside. “I’m keeping my glasses on this time.”

As a small act of defiance, it fails. Not only does it not affect how Eddie sees, but the steam rising from the hot spray of water fogs Richie’s glasses to the point of blindness.

“Fuck!”

There in the warm mist around him is Eddie’s laughter. When he reaches out Eddie grabs onto him, pulls him into the water and begins scrubbing the bar of soap through his chest hair.

“Weren’t you going to show me how to use a washcloth?”

“I will,” Eddie says primly. Then his hands pause on each pectoral, thumbs swirling over his nipples. With a smug smile, he says, “I’m enjoying myself first.”

Richie can’t help but laugh. He bends to kiss Eddie. As Richie’s head tilts the hooks of his glasses slip from his ears. Moving on reflex, his hand swoops up to catch them. A sudden pain across his thumb has Richie inhaling sharply. Inspecting further is useless without his glasses, so he returns them to their perch on his nose. He can see the crack in the lens--as he has since falling from the Deadlights in It’s lair--but red paints half of the view of his left side.

“You’re bleeding,” Eddie says, worry creeping into his tone. “Fuck, Richie, shit!” The water shuts off and Eddie wrenches the curtain across the metal bar.
At first Richie tries to rub away the smear, but the water still on his body has the blood flowing fast over his fingers. Through his right lens, Richie has an unobstructed view of Eddie toweling off.

He says, “No more shower?”

Eddie scoffs, “No, dumbass.” Then he reaches for Richie, gets a gentle grip around his wrist, other hand at his elbow as Eddie guides him over the tub edge. He says, “We’re clean enough.”

Eyebrows raising, Richie says, “Never thought I’d hear you say that--”

“Fuck off.” Eddie gripes as he turns to the counter and begins to unpack the med-kit. “Grab a damn towel. Sit down.”

More frenzied than the night before, Eddie is no less efficient at cleaning and dressing the wound. It’s a strange reprise of yesterday and while Richie doesn’t really have any active hopes for injury, he can’t help wanting more of this--of Eddie tending to him. His gentle handling of Richie’s finger belies the harsh tone set into the babble streaming from Eddie’s mouth. He’s asking about a back-up pair of glasses that Richie doesn’t have and then is lecturing him on the thoughtlessness of not having an extra pair.

“Alright, done.” Eddie says, packing away his mobile med-kit, “Fuck’s sake, Richie, you’re legally blind without these things. What if you lost them?”

“I would lose all sense of who I am.”

Eddie leaves the bathroom, says, “Maybe then you’d have a better sense of style.”

He follows Eddie into the room. Richie digs the only extra pair of clothes from his duffle. As he dresses, Richie can’t keep his gaze from lingering on Eddie’s pale skin slowly disappearing beneath layers of clothes. He’s keenly aware that their middle of the night conversation about their lives post-Derry had no resolution. While Richie truly hates Derry and can’t wait to put the whole town in his rearview mirror, Richie would stay here if it meant having Eddie at his side. It’s one thing to entertain a crazy idea under the cover of night and another to carry into the light of day.

Straightening his shirt, Eddie asks, “Did you mean it? When you said you wanted me around?” He sounds a bit nervous, his words coming out in something of a rush.

There’s no hesitation for Richie, he says, “Ya, I really did.”

It has a beatific effect: Eddie’s tense little frown blooming into a sideways grin, pink coloring his cheeks as he ducks his head, his eyes flicking to the floor before bouncing back to lock with Richie’s. He makes a decision then that Richie can only guess at. He strides over til they stand chest-to-chest and Richie is leaning down even as Eddie presses onto his tip toes so they can meet in a kiss.

Coming down the stairs of the Inn, it feels like a new world. That fear alien is dead, they all have their memories, and Eddie is walking hand in hand with him. Nothing is as it was three days ago and things are better for a change. Richie doesn’t try to fight the goofy smile affixed to his face because he has nothing to hide from the Losers. Bill saw them anyway, so the word was probably passed on the instant he walked back down the hall from interrupting them earlier. Someone wolf howls as they descend the stairs--he thinks it’s Bev--and everyone is applauding as they stop in the foyer. Ben rushes to hug them, arms hooking around their necks as he pulls them closer to his unusually fit body. Bouncing like a bottle rocket, Bev looks like she is ready to fly.

Mike raises the watch on his wrist, says, “You two were supposed to be down here forever ago.” His faux glare is overshadowed by a blinding grin. “Congradulations.”

Covering a sudden wave of embarrassment, Richie says, “Yeah, well. Eddie cried; it was a whole thing.” He’s shrugging and waving it off when Eddie swats him hard with the back of his hand.

“Fuck you.”

Raising his brows, remembering their pre-shower exchange, Richie says, “Later.” Then he winks.

That earns him a quick inhale, a double take, and a distinct delay in Eddie’s response. It’s exciting to have such an effect on him, even if Richie’s guts are swirling because he said that in front of all their friends. Those friends were in the sewers with them not twenty hours ago, destroying an eldritch horror with school-yard names, so this is probably alright.

Composed, Eddie scoffs, “Richie cut his finger on his fucking glasses.” His gaze returns to Richie. “I can’t believe you don’t have a back-up pair.”

His face is red, Richie knows it, can feel it burn even as he shrugs with an exaggerated air of nonchalance. He always thought it would be weird, strangely vulnerable to have people know about him. But standing at Eddie’s side with their closest friends (sans Stan), nothing feels more right. The good-byes get drawn out until the better part of an hour passes and Ben and Bev risk missing their flight.

Looking back at Eddie, Bev points to him and then herself. She says, “Divorce buddies?” Eddie lets out a long, weary sigh and nods. “Divorce buddies,” Bev cheers.

What is left of the Losers watch as the pair walk down the stoop and start to argue over whose rental is getting left behind so they can ride off into the sunset together. For the first time in Richie’s life, he’s truthfully considering his own sunset and all that it might entail. All those years he couldn’t remember any of the Losers, Richie was sure that there would be nothing and no one for him. The things he pursued went to fill that space and all the fame tasted bitter when it wasn’t enough. There’s an excitement building within Richie’s chest. It is that strange creature of hope, sprung free from its well and stretching its wings--ready to soar.