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The year is 2006, and Eddie Kaspbrak is obsessed with his job.
He’d seen other young people come and go in this field, swamped with anxiety and shame and stress that they couldn’t handle, thinking it’d be easy and glamorous to get close to celebrities, to become their friends and get to know them, only for it to come crashing down on their heads when they realise they had a hand in ruining careers and exposing secrets.
But Eddie? No way. Eddie loved being in the paparazzi.
He hadn’t always been a paparazzo. His mother would never have dreamed of her special Eddie-bear out there in the night and only wielding his camera for safety, too sickly and weak to stand up for himself. She'd kept him safe, locked away in their house away from the other kids, kept him medicated, kept him sane and safe from the big scary world. She always said they wouldn't understand his hunger, his desire, his need to consume, and that only she could keep him safe, keep him sedated, keep him healthy and happy. But after she'd died, Eddie had consumed her sorrow and had to take care of himself.
He’d started out driving limousines, taking the elite from their homes to red carpets, making small talk and kissing their feet, but it’s easy to get fed up with. His life plan hadn’t included moving from stroking his mother’s ego to stroking these strangers' egos, and the way they always ate it up made Eddie ravenous with rage. Why should they get to control him like his mother always had?
Anger bubbling beneath the surface of his skin had quickly become his default. One day, on his way to drop Ellen DeGeneres off at the premiere of some new animated film, he almost hit a paparazzi with the limo as the kid dove out in front of the black, shiny hood. Eddie slammed on the brakes, and before he knew what was happening the kid had run right around the car and was shoving his camera as close to the window as he could, trying to get the first picture of the night of Ellen before she debuted on the carpet. The windows were tinted, and she faced away from him, so Eddie knew his images would have been complete crap, but his energy, his determination was infectious. He was slamming his palm on the glass and rapidly clicking his camera, yelling and screaming through the window, saying everything he could to try and snap that first photo. Some of the language was pretty egregious, so when the light turned green he sped away quickly, but once he had a minute to himself he realised that was the most alive he’d felt in his entire life. And he was hungry for more.
Some weeks were slow, when there was no juicy celebrity gossip to follow up on, no one in particular roasting in the spotlight. Eddie would answer calls from celebrities trying to stir something up or doing an advertisement for some new brand; up-and-coming designer Beverly Marsh had been relentlessly calling him trying to get him to pap Angelina Jolie or Lindsay Lohan wearing her newest collection, and she’d pay him quite nicely, so he had no issue with it. Otherwise, it was up to him to follow the tabloids to keep up with which celebrity was searing right now so he could sell their pictures to some shitty gossip magazine and make some proper money.
Following celebrities around was what gave him the biggest rush. Not just showing up when they expected him to so they could complete some contract, or papping them on the red carpet showing off their red-bottom shoes, but finding them at restaurants and parks, at the grocery store or even just trying to get out of their house, jumping out and getting those unprepared pictures. Those always sold best, celebrities at their rawest, in their household clothes with no makeup on, the pressure of whatever scandal they were involved in weighing them down, the struggle and stress of being exposed and hung out to dry like a rotten smell permeating the air around them. These pictures sold well on their own, but once Eddie started needling and prodding celebrities to get a reaction, he could easily sell a picture for thousands of dollars.
“Is it true you cheated on Sienna and slept with your nanny?”
“Was she stuck at home with your children while you fucked her?”
“Does Brad have a small dick?”
“Did Jennifer leave you for someone richer?”
“Are you jealous of Angelina’s tits?”
“Do you think Ryan is happier without you?”
“Do you enjoy riding off your boyfriend’s success?”
“Does Tom actually fuck you?”
“Do you know your boyfriend is gay?”
Eddie wasn’t above verbal abuse; how could he be? That's how he made his money, nothing was off the table in his opinion, and the best photos came from the darker stories with the stronger ammo. If he could really bait someone into giving him a physical reaction, he’d be able to make enough money to cover his rent for the next three months, which was pretty impressive in New York. Eddie had been yelled at and spat at, pushed and shoved, detained by security guards more times than he could count; but never hit, never punched, and never arrested. There was nothing quite like the thrill of a celebrity holding him by the scruff of his shirt, fist pulled back, hot, angry breath pummelling out of their mouth and straight into Eddie's nostrils as they geared up to make contact, to bruise his flesh and leave their mark. A bright purple siren on his face was, in this industry, a badge of honour, but it hadn't happened to him yet.
His latest paparazzi victim was Sandy Fischer. A former American child-star turned whore pop-star, Sandy had made headlines about 5 years earlier when she’d made the drastic change to her image sometime around her 21st birthday. Eddie hadn’t been in the game then, but he remembers reading the articles slandering her sexual nature, wondering how she could traumatise her young audience, making comments about her maturing body that Eddie had read all of with rapt fascination. Sure, he did still read the tabloids, even though he knew they were exploitative. That almost made them better, the nitpicking and comparing, pitting celebrities against each other, using horrible language like celluloid and top-heavy, slut-shaming her new fashion style, circling parts of her body with a bright red arrow to point out the parts of her that were the least appealing. Now, however, she was making the rounds through the tabloids for a completely different reason, after Eddie had caught her coming out of a restaurant holding hands with a man that was definitely not her long-term boyfriend, fellow pop-star Justin Robson.
The man Sandy had been caught with was the person Eddie had actually been following, and was someone he had papped many times. Richie Tozier had only recently come into the celebrity limelight, being hired as an SNL cast member last year at the start of their new season, and was the star of many hilarious sketches, receiving the praises of critics everywhere. He was funny, he had stage presence, good impressions, and it was clear he understood comedy, Eddie could admit he had talent. He'd received a call from Studio 8H after Tozier had been hired, saying that he would be coming out of the building around 8pm that night and they wanted him in the magazines to garner excitement and tension for the new season’s cast. They’d been particularly worried no one was going to warm to the newbies since they had recently lost Jimmy Fallon, and Chris Parnell and Tina Fey were practically out the door, so they wanted to hype up the new cast before the show’s premiere. So Eddie and a few other paps had been waiting, cameras at the ready, when Richie pushed open the doors and started walking down the street, paying them no mind.
“Richie, Richie, over here!”
“Tozier, congratulations, how does it feel?”
“What did your mother say when you told her?”
Eddie called out among the other photographers, pushing his video camera towards Tozier. He’d been so glad he had the foresight to bring it, knowing most of the paps would bring their regular cameras to sell to mags, but Eddie had known Hollywood Dish would pay more for a video if he could get Tozier to flip out. He knew parents were an easy target most of the time, especially for celebrities desperate for attention; usually mommy or daddy didn’t give them quite enough of it as a child.
“She was happy, but not as happy as your mother was last night.” Tozier retorts back quickly, spinning around to grin with his crooked teeth and wink behind his coke-bottle glasses. A couple of the paps around him chuckled under their breath, snapping Tozier’s charming wink and running after him as he span away from Eddie and kept walking, but Eddie was stunned. He’d never had a celebrity bite back at him quite like that; sure, he’d had his fair share of profanities thrown at him, and more than a couple stern talks with security guards, but he'd never had someone truly dish it back to him like that. It was impressive to say the least; his feet felt cemented to the ground as he watched Richie and his swarm of cameras shuffle down Rockefeller Plaza, but he felt on fire at the same time, feeling the desperate hunger and need for more.
After that, Eddie had become Richie’s number one paparazzo, constantly following him out of 30 Rock, berating him with questions only to get crass remarks back, and he sold quite a few videos of Tozier to late night celebrity gossip shows, quickly earning him the nickname 'Trashmouth' in the tabloids, which Eddie was ecstatic with. He’d never had such a big part in a particular celebrity gossip story or tabloid article, so driving these reactions out of Richie gave him a serious thrill he hadn’t felt since he’d almost hit that kid with his car. It was a bit of a cat and mouse game they had going on; at this point Richie knew Eddie by name, and Eddie could swear that when Tozier saw him in a crowd of paparazzi his eyes would light up just a little, even more if he knew he’d have a chance to hurl some stupid retort his way depending on the setting. Sometimes, when Richie shot him a particularly dazzling smile, all crinkled eyes and stunning crooked teeth, he could swear Richie maybe even liked him.
There was something so enchanting about Richie, something that had struck Eddie as so different from every other cotton-head celebrity he had been following around for the last few years, and Eddie had narrowed it down to one thing: where most celebrities were fickle and hollow, no real humanity left in their stumbling skeletons, Tozier had heart. He had passion for his life careening through his veins, filling his movements and mannerisms with a bloodied fervour that was so uniquely raw. Every wink, every quip, every photo felt like he was capturing the real, exposed heart of Richie Tozier, and Eddie wanted every crimson inch.
His pictures of Richie and Sandy coming out of the restaurant had sold for more than he had ever sold anything for; magazines were desperate to get their hands on the exclusive shots, deliriously salivating to unearth all the old trash about Sandy being a whore, sleeping around, some sort of Hollywood slut that would sleep with anything that moved, and standing next to Richie Tozier made it easy for the tabloids to paint these elaborate tales. Sandy was gorgeous, anyone could see it; silky, blonde hair framed her fair skin and apple cheeks, large blue eyes bugging out of her face giving her an innocent look that made her look far younger than her years. Richie, on the other hand, had messy brown curls that were either untamable or unstylable, giant thick black frames with a prescription that meant you could see every eyelash crowning his lids, and a crooked row of teeth that stuck out of his lips at an awkward angle when he grinned at Eddie’s camera. He wasn’t even close to ugly, in fact Eddie thought he had a handsome charm to him, such an unparalleled authenticity that made Eddie's hear beat loud and hard in his chest. But standing beside Sandy Fischer, in the eyes of the media, there was no competition. The headlines were everywhere within the next week of selling the photos, and suddenly Eddie was seeing his pictures of Richie and Sandy plastered at every bodega, every corner magazine stand, every department store impulse aisle, all with different takes on the relationship;
SANDY’S INSATIABLE LIBIDO: COMEDIAN TURNED BOY TOY
SANDY’S FISCHING FOR NEW TALENT: THE END OF SANDY + JUSTIN?
JUSTIN ROBBED: WHO IS SANDY’S NEW MAN?
SAD SAD SANDY: THE RISE AND FALL OF AMERICA’S CHEATING SWEETHEART
SNL: SANDY’S NOT LOYAL! TOZIER VS ROBSON
Now when Eddie showed up at Richie’s usual spots to pap him, he was followed by at least 10 other eager kids with their cameras, who brought with them a tense air of jealousy when Eddie would show up. They knew they were his photos, and this was a competitive workspace, but Eddie wasn’t quite acclimated to being on the receiving end of this seething envy. He’d thought bantering with Richie might cheer him up, but Richie no longer seemed happy to see him. He no longer spat remarks back at him when Eddie would give him his worst.
“Richie! How do you enjoy being Sandy’s boy-toy?”
“Did you ever have a threesome with Sandy and Justin?”
“Do you think she’s going to cheat on you like she did with Justin?”
No matter what he tried, Tozier refused to acknowledge him. It irked him in a way he hadn’t been prepared for. He didn’t realise how attached he’d become to Richie’s attention over the last year that now, when it had been taken away from him, receiving the cold shoulder over and over again, it almost felt painful. His heart would thunder behind his rib-cage and his lungs would pull desperately for the oxygen that evaded him, the anger coursing through his veins at an alarming speed. It was the closest to regret Eddie had ever felt after selling pictures, but it wasn’t close enough. He’d gotten a taste of the cash, the kind of money that could make him comfortable for the rest of his life, but not only that, he'd been able to capture Richie in a vulnerable spot. It had felt so intimate, to see this part of Richie through the lens of his camera, and now Richie was shutting him out completely. How dare Richie take that away from him? He doesn't know what Eddie's doing for his career, how much Eddie is helping him, and if it helps Eddie too then that's a win-win, right? They're supposed to be in this together.
Over the next month, he followed Richie everywhere. Restaurants, shopping centres, Studio 8H, his home, Eddie thinks he accidentally followed him to a doctor’s appointment one time. As the days went on, the number of paps haunting Rockefeller Plaza waiting for Richie to leave for the day began to dwindle. No one had managed to catch Richie with Sandy since Eddie's initial shot, and he was sure this was by design. He’d seen through the tabloids that Sandy had been pictured once or twice with Justin back in LA, and the story spinning its way through the magazines was that they were trying to work it out. But where other paps had started to abandon the Tozier angle, Eddie only became more vigilant.
Richie's lack of attention was keeping him hooked like a dog on a leash. Surely, if Richie was ignoring him, it meant he had something to hide, something Eddie could capture, peel back his skin and see the ugly parts underneath, the heart he was now hiding from Eddie. He hadn’t sold a photo for weeks, no one wanted another picture of Tozier in an ugly button up shirt sauntering through Rockefeller Plaza yet again, but Eddie had been paid well enough from his last photos that it didn’t particularly matter. He just wanted to see Richie, prod him and question him and needle him until he cracked, and he had slowly begun humouring him again. Small things like a smile or a laugh at something Eddie said, stopping to wink as he climbed into a taxi, small things just for Eddie. It felt strangely intimate, and it only made his hunger grow, but why he needed Richie’s attention so desperately he really couldn’t pinpoint. He kept telling himself it was the rush, the thrill of chasing after a celebrity, of getting that perfect picture, but he knew it was something else. Something about needing Richie himself, capturing that scarlet authenticity all over again.
During the month he had been papping Richie, Sandy had flown back to LA to smooth things over with Justin, but Eddie had heard through the paparazzi grape-vine that she had been spotted at the airport, no Justin in sight. This could be a second wave of cash hitting his account if he could be the first person to catch Richie and Sandy together again after all this time. And what would be better than catching Sandy and Richie together right at Richie’s home, right as they embraced for the first time? If he could get a kissing shot, he’d be set for the rest of the year.
Eddie was no stranger to staking out locations for long periods of times. If a celebrity was in hot water, it was pretty common to go to their home and wait for them to show their face as they tried to attend meetings and live their life. It felt like a whole new ball game, however, sitting in his big black Escalade, ignoring his stomach's growling hunger as he watches the doors to Richie’s building swing around and around over and over, but not seeing Richie or Sandy come or go for hours. He’s adorned a black baseball cap and a big pair of sunglasses just in case he's seen, but he does wonder if he looks far more suspicious this way. In the end, it doesn't even matter; the sun is starting to set when he finally starts to get fed up. Maybe he should have just waited at the airport, or Rockefeller, where Richie was most days of the week anyway, but he knew Richie’s schedule back to front, and he should have been here; at the very least, he should have seen Richie leaving his building.
As if summoned by Eddie’s frustration, Richie suddenly appears, stepping out through the revolving glass doors and into the street, looking both ways with a backpack slung over his shoulder. Bingo, Eddie thinks, shoving his keys in the ignition, preparing to follow Richie wherever he might be going. He watches Tozier hail a cab and slip into the back seat, then quickly pulls off the curb to follow him.
At first it seems like the cab is heading towards Rockefeller again, and Eddie can feel that frustration boiling back up under his skin as he wonders if he has truly wasted his opportunity to catch Tozier embracing Sandy in an incriminating display of affection, but the cab keeps driving steady down 6th past the turn-off, and Eddie feels his hope returning. They drive in tandem, Eddie trailing cautiously behind, and after a few more minutes the car pulls up outside of a hotel on 8th. Tozier clambers awkwardly out of the car, his gangly limbs catching on the floor of the car as he attempts to right himself. He slings his backpack over his shoulder, holds out a hand of thanks to the taxi driver, and then walks briskly inside, looking back and forth on the street as he does.
The hotel isn’t particularly nice, but it’s not terrible either; definitely no bed-bugs in the sheets or rats in the kitchens, but probably an abysmal room service menu and no valet service. Usually, when celebrities are trying to maintain some semblance of privacy, they’ll book somewhere incredibly nice and private to maintain as much anonymity as possible. It’s almost always impossible to pap someone in a lobby like that, and given the nature of Richie and Sandy’s supposed relationship, it feels strange to him that she wouldn’t piss the money away to keep pricks like Eddie out of their business. But he doesn’t think on it too hard, counting his lucky stars that they’re apparently dumb enough to choose a hotel with far lower security standards, and drives a bit further up the street to park his stupidly suspicious Escalade in one of the parking duplexes he has a pass for. He leaves his hat and glasses in the back seat, not wanting to draw any more attention to himself than he already will with his big ass camera; at least this way he could pass as a tourist rather than a hungry paparazzi stalking a C-list celebrity.
He enters into the lobby of the hotel and immediately looks around for Richie. It took Eddie about ten minutes to get out of the parking garage and then back down to the hotel, so he’s clearly checked in and made it to his room long before Eddie had made it inside, but they can’t stay in the hotel all day. If Eddie’s lucky, Sandy might not even be here yet and he might catch her on her way in, and he can snap their reunion right there in the lobby. He sits in the corner, the best vantage spot he can find where he can see the front door, the reception desk, and straight down the hall to the elevators. There’d be no point trying to figure out exactly which room Tozier is in.
The longer he sits in the lobby, the more antsy he gets. He watches people come and go, families on vacations, suits on business trips, the occasional single traveller with a coffee or a camera ready to soak up the sights, housekeeping and staff meandering through the lobby as they move clean towels and sheets around amicably, but no sign of Richie or Sandy. The hotel is nothing to write home about; it’s clean and tidy, and the staff are all dressed nicely in their formal vests and button-up shirts, but there’s no security, no valet, no drink service, no bellhop waiting eagerly to accommodate guests with their luggage. Why would an A-lister like Sandy Fischer stay somewhere like this, where paps like Eddie could easily find her? He knows no one would bat an eye if Richie walked through here; he’s only been on SNL for a year, and living in New York means you run into half the cast at least twice a year trying to buy a hot dog from a food truck. But Sandy is far more high-profile than a place like this, so what the hell is she doing here?
He waits for two whole hours, the sun well and truly set as he sits and watches for Richie or Sandy to make an appearance, fiddling with his camera settings and avoiding the watchful eyes of the staff who are probably starting to wonder what he’s doing there, but not quite caring since they’re too busy to deal with a strange lurking man who hasn’t really done anything wrong. He snaps a few pictures of the hotel to keep himself busy, and he has his camera pointed perfectly at the elevator when it pushes open and he finally, finally lays eyes on Richie again.
Snap - Snap - Snap
Eddie instinctually takes a couple of pictures, sitting far enough away from the elevators that Richie doesn’t seem to hear his camera clicking quietly. Eddie quickly notices that Richie isn’t alone, but the person he is with is not Sandy.
The man he’s leading out of the elevator looks young, younger than Sandy, probably no older than 25, blonde curls overgrown into what could be mistaken for a mullet if you squinted hard enough, a messy moustache painting his top lip leading down to stubble that could easily be a week of growth based on his age. He’s only a tiny bit shorter than Richie, who has his hand on his lower back and is walking him towards the lobby past the closed metal doors of the elevators. The boy is talking to him, but Eddie is too far away to hear what they’re saying. Whatever it is seems to embarrass Richie, because he watches his cheeks flush a deep red through his camera lens as all of the blood rushes into his face. Tozier brings his eyes up from the floor and looks nervously around them.
Snap - Snap - Snap
His eyes don’t land on Eddie somehow, despite the big bulky camera he’s pointing directly at them, despite the fact that Eddie wants him to, wants to be noticed and harassed by Richie. Eddie watches through his camera as the boy stops Richie before they’d round the corner into the view of the majority of the lobby. He’s still talking, but he moves his hand up from his side and places it softly on the side of Richie’s face, running his palm along his 5 o’clock shadow. Richie seems to lean into it, closing his eyes and breathing deeply. Eddie can feel his heartbeat start to pick up as he watches the boy’s hand move sensually down from Richie’s harsh jawline, down his neck to his shoulder, where he thumbs at his shirt and exposes a bright purple hickey that's been bitten on his skin under the collar.
Snap - Snap - Snap
He watches as Richie’s hands land on the boy’s hips, seemingly of their own will since Richie’s eyes are still closed, listening to the words the boy is saying.
Snap - Snap - Snap
After a moment, Richie opens his eyes, his expression softer than Eddie has ever seen it. It’s strange to see so much vulnerability on the face of a man who has become synonymous to the world with crass comments and goofy expressions, with his SNL characters and his uncanny impressions. But Eddie had thought he was special, that Richie smiled small enough for only Eddie to notice, winked when no one else was looking for Eddie, always made sure to catch his eye in the crowd, licking or biting his lips subconsciously, that quiet intimacy was reserved for him. Now, watching this private moment no one was ever supposed to see, Eddie was watching it be given to someone else so completely, through the lens of his camera. He felt that same thundering anger pounding in his chest, swirling his stomach into angry knots that send acidic bile up the back of his throat.
Richie leans down and plants a soft but impassioned kiss on the boy’s lips. He kisses back.
Snap - Snap - Snap
They pull apart and the boy smiles kindly at Richie, like they really care for each other. Richie hands him some cash, presumably for a cab-
Snap - Snap - Snap
-then the boy turns on his heel and peels out of the lobby. Eddie pulls his camera down and just watches Richie for a moment. He’s breathing heavily, trying to steady himself, eyes closed and hand ghosting the darkening purple spot on his neck Eddie had captured in high-definition, the other hand on his heart. Eddie's sure it must be keeping pace with his own, thundering loudly in his ears and drowning out the din of the lobby, knows they must be beating in tandem when Richie takes a few deep breaths in. He turns away from the lobby and steps back into the elevator, disappearing completely from Eddie’s line of sight.
Eddie watches the spot where the boy and Richie had been just moments before, staring at it like it would change what he just saw, what he just snapped on his camera, immortalised forever. As he’s staring at the hall of elevators, hot and angry, he notices Richie’s backpack has been abandoned on the floor, just sitting there, completely nondescript except for a keychain of a red and white clown, for anyone to take. Anyone like Eddie.
He hops out of his chair, as nonchalantly as he can, wanders over to the elevators, and slings the bag over his shoulder as if it’s belonged to him his whole life.
Eddie has to get the fuck out of there.
He power-walks towards the front doors. He’s so busy looking behind his shoulder, terrified that Richie is going to spawn behind him and know what he’s done, break his camera and his nose when he finds the photos he’s taken, that he runs straight into his camera’s subject. The blonde stumbles forward a little with the force of the collision.
“Hey, watch it, asshole.” He huffs out, turning back around to the street and continuing his attempt to hail a cab, completely ignoring him. Eddie cradles his camera protectively, feeling flustered with the shock of crashing into Richie’s paramour.
“S-sorry, man. Sorry.” He mumbles, running a hand down his face as he openly stares at the guy. He somehow looks even younger up close, but there’s no way he’s younger than 20. He’s looking back at Eddie now with a confused look in his eye, watching him like a ticking bomb that might explode at any second.
“Are you okay?” He asks, his attempts to hail a cab quickly losing priority over figuring out what the hell Eddie was doing.
“Yep, yeah, fine.” He dismisses angrily, realising in real time that he can't breathe, taking a big breath in to the best of his ability but feeling his ribs constrict painfully around his lungs. He reaches weakly for his inhaler, patting his pockets and quickly realising he's left the damn thing in his car.
“Hey, relax, man-” The blonde tries to reach out and touch him on the shoulder, but Eddie jolts out of his way and takes a few steps back. His heart is hammering behind his sternum, all he can hear is the blood rushing through his ears as he stares at the boy's offending hand, hanging lamely in the air between them. The boy just watches him, confused, clearly not wanting to scare him but also unsure of how to handle Eddie’s neurotic meltdown. “I’m Connor, okay? What’s- wait, where’d you get that backpack?” Eddie watches Connor’s eyes fix on the jangly clown keychain swinging off the bag, very obviously marking it as Richie’s.
A surge of fear and adrenaline courses through his veins, travelling down to his right hand where he balls it into a tense fist involuntarily. Before he even knows what's happening, he's pulled his elbow back as far as he can and thrown it forward, his knuckles colliding with Connor's stubbled jaw. The pain is instant, a sharp shock to his bones that burns up his wrist and jolts through his nerves. Connor yells out, stumbling back a few steps, shocked, hands coming to the reddening spot on his face where the flesh across his jaw is beginning to turn tender and sore. Eddie turns on his heel and books it down the street towards the parking garage.
He’s happy he wore his runners today, because he swears he can hear Connor on his tail, but it doesn’t matter. He’s smaller and faster than that gangly twenty-something who is no doubt disoriented, and he manages to make it up the stairs to his car without Connor even seeing which direction he’d run off to. He slams into the front seat, finally feeling safe from prying eyes, but he doesn’t dare open the bag or look at the pictures until he’s driven safely back to his apartment and has locked himself inside.
He deadlocks his front door just for the peace of mind and pulls the SD card out of his camera carefully, bee-lining for his computer in the back corner of his living room. He plugs it into the adapter and opens up the pictures. Scrolling past the boring shots of the hotel and the people inside it, he lands on the ones he really wants to look at. They’re a bit grainy due to how far away Eddie was, but you can tell that it’s Tozier, plain as day. He clicks through the other pictures and finds the photos of Connor’s hands on his neck - bingo. The purple hickey stands out, bright and angry against the floral white button-up Richie had been sporting, a perfect bite into his tender muscle.
He ignores the tingling sensation of his own salivating in favour of clicking over to the pictures he got of the two men kissing; he chews on his lip as he stares at the spot where Connor's pink lips meet Richie's, blooming red and engulfed in the sensation, the intimacy radiating nuclear out of the image. Eddie knows Richie's lips would be warm and hot against his own, that they'd kiss each other with so much heart that their teeth would clack together as their tongues tasted each other's flavour, a flavour you couldn't wash away with time, one you'd taste once and be chasing for the rest of your life. He swears he can taste it now, warm and metallic dripping down the back of his throat. Something lands on his hand, on the back of his bruising knuckles, hot and wet. Another follows, and when he looks down his hand is being painted with dark crimson drops falling from his face. He touches his lip on instinct and finds it tender, liquid dribbling down his chin in a waterfall of blood. He wipes at it, collecting what he can on his fingers, sucking his lip into his mouth and swallowing the excess blood, lets the warmth pool comfortingly in his stomach as he stares at the photo lighting up his screen. The image is blurry, but it’s very obviously Richie, and the person he is kissing is very obviously not Sandy or any one else; that’s a 6-foot man with a moustache and a mullet.
Eddie reaches a hand out to the fuzzy screen and wipes his bloodied fingers over the monitor, right across Connor's face, dancing past the spot on his jaw that's pristine in the photo, but only moments later will be blossoming pink, red and blue with the force of Eddie's punch. He hears himself giggle, the ringing sound mixing with the sound of his blood rushing through his ears and down his throat. He can no longer see Connor's face, obscured by the scarlet drag of Eddie's fingers; only Richie is visible, handsome and loving, reserving all that heart for Eddie and Eddie alone.
Satisfied, albeit still shaking, Eddie turns his attention to the backpack.
The bag itself was fairly light, but he could feel items rattling inside as he had been running from Connor. He grabs onto the frankly creepy clown keychain and pulls the zipper open, looking inside the biggest pocket of the bag. He reaches inside to pull out the first items on top; a change of clothes, obviously worn. The shirt is wrinkled, the pants are stained, but most of all they stink. Before he can think about what he's doing he's lifting the shirt to his nose and is taking a long, deep breath in of the fabric, letting the mix of scents and fibres fill his airways and travel down to the bottomless pit of his lungs. It stinks like Richie's cologne, a smell he's never been close enough to catch before, earthy and musky, mixed with the permeating stench of cigarette smoke, but underneath it all… Eddie swears he can smell him. His real smell, the scent that comes off someone when they're hot or overexerted, nervous or excited, the raw smell of Richie's salty skin staining his clothes with sweat, sweat, sweat.
He sets the clothes aside and pulls out the next thing he can get his hands on. It's an old wrapper from a food vendor, one he doesn't recognise based off the nondescript trash. He can tell, though, that whatever was once inside the packaging had to have been a meat sandwich of some kind. There's bread crumbs tumbling out of the paper, juice from the meat staining it in a way that only rare meat does. Probably steak, then, Eddie assumes, ignoring the way he has to swallow away the iron spit moistening his mouth, wondering offhandedly if he and Richie have more in common than he could have guessed. He places it beside himself with the clothes, not quite having the heart to throw it away, and pulls out the final items floating in the bottom of the canvas bag. It's a box of open condoms and a tube of half-finished lube.
Jackpot.
Turning the items over in his hand, he can't help but wonder what kind of sex Tozier is having with these. If you saw Tozier walking down the street with that blonde kid Connor, you’d make your assumptions pretty quickly about who’s on top, who’s in charge, but is that the reality? Richie's taller and bigger than Connor, but an image floats through Eddie's head, picturing Richie on his back, vulnerable and exposed rather than large and in-charge. He can't bring himself to see Connor in the fantasy, his anger flaring dangerously in the back of his throat; instead, he pictures himself there, looking down at Richie's unguarded expression, begging Eddie to give him exactly what he needs. Telling him to take him, do whatever he wants to him, he belongs to Eddie, Richie's all his. Serving himself up to Eddie on a silver platter, his perfect skin preening and desperate for Eddie's hands, Eddie's body, Eddie's mouth on his. How thankful he'd be, how he'd look at Eddie with all those secret stolen glances finally out in the open. He can almost hear the words ghosting the air between them;
I love you. Please, love me too. Take me, for all that I am. I'm yours.
He knows what he wants. And he knows how he’s going to get it.
The next day he takes his SD card with the photos he wants to get printed to the nearest picture kiosk, just down the street at the drugstore on the corner of his block. After he's got them tucked away safely, he takes the clown keychain off the bag and places it inside an envelope. Inside, he writes his own address, along with a date and time; this Sunday, 7pm, come alone. He has no way of knowing if Richie will come alone, but he can only hope the threat of the key chain is enough to coerce him into submission.
He spends the day meticulously cleaning his home. Vacuums every crevice of every room, dusts every shelf, does all the dishes, dries them and returns them to the cupboards, cleans the windows, aligns all of the furniture in his home so each piece is perfectly neat and perpendicular to one another. He sets the little two-seater dining table he has perched by the balcony with plates and cutlery, looking out over the New York skyline, the twinkling lights of the bustling city making the perfect romantic backdrop for the evening Eddie has planned.
Now, he just needs to wait for Richie to arrive.
It’s 7:30pm when he finally hears the sound of someone buzzing his apartment number, the noise breaking the anticipatory silence that had consumed his home. He buzzes Richie in, giving himself a final once-over in the mirror he has hung beside the front door and looks over to watch as Richie pushes his way into his home. He’s sweating, whether he’s been exercising or is genuinely that nervous is unclear. Eddie is close enough to smell it, that same musky, salty smell coming straight from the source, and it sends a thrill of pleasure through his core. They make eye contact, and for just a brief moment he looks really, very terrified. But it’s almost as if the sight of Eddie relaxes him, and he lets out a heavy sigh as he pushes the door shut behind him.
“It’s you.” Is all he says, wiping the sweat out of his brows with the back of his hand.
“You don’t seem surprised.” Eddie supplies helpfully, taking a few steps back out of Richie's personal space so he can't smell him anymore. He can already feel his heart starting to flutter in his chest, that creeping feeling that starts to quiver behind his ribcage that makes his fingers itch for his inhaler to bring him back down to earth, to replace the hungry salivation with the medicinal artificial air. But he wants to ride this high tonight, so he stuffs his hands into his pockets to keep them distracted.
“Well, I was privy to your description before coming here. It was either you or Anthony Perkins finally perfected his time machine.” Eddie doesn’t humour Richie, doesn’t give him the laugh he was obviously gunning for, and it seems to disarm him. He starts to fidget, shifting his weight from one foot to the other as he’s stuck standing in the middle of the too-small doorway.
“So- um, why did you send me this?” Richie asks, reaching into the breast pocket of his worn leather jacket and pulling out the envelope Eddie had left at the front desk of his apartment building. He pulls the little clown keychain out of the envelope, moving forward through the space so he can dangle it in Eddie’s face.
“I think you know why I sent that to you.” Eddie says, cool and calm; he can't quite help the giddiness bouncing through his chest in time with his heartbeat, but he does his best to steel his expression so he doesn't give anything away too early. Richie squirms under Eddie's gaze, his face contorting into a terrible impression of a smile, all uncomfortable angles and sweat as he re-pockets the keychain and looks around the room faux-inquisitively,
“Well- I recognise it, but, you know, it belongs to my friend. The friend who gave me your description. Says you socked him in the jaw and then took off running with it, so I’m glad you're returning it. Very noble of you.”
“Hm,” Eddie muses, looking over Richie's demeanour. He's nervous, certainly, but the jokes and sarcasm make him think it's a good sort of nervous, like he's gearing up for the rollercoaster Eddie's about to take him on. He takes a deep breath, as deep as he can without his inhaler, and turns away from Richie, wandering over to the table he'd set so elegantly hours before. He pulls out a chair, the chair furthest from the door, and sweeps his palm across the backrest in a silent invitation. Richie seems to hesitate, looking between the chair and Eddie, then around the apartment, eyes jumping from detail to detail, shelf to couch to cabinets and cupboards, but Eddie had cleaned every single inch; he won't find a single imperfection, no reason to think Eddie might be dirty, dirty, dirty, like his mother used to tell him, no reason to keep his distance from him. Richie looks at the door behind him, visibly contemplating whether he should leave, but seems to decide against it. But he still doesn't sit down.
"Sit, Richie."
"Look, man, can you just give me the backpack so I can go?"
Eddie feels his breath hitch in his throat; it can't be over this soon.
"No. Sit down."
"This isn't funny, okay? I have places to be."
Eddie's frustration starts to coat his blood, thick and heavy as it pools in his fingers.
"You don't have anywhere else to be. None more important than this, I promise. I'll make it worth your while. Sit down."
Richie seems to take in the apartment one last time and, deeming it safe, moving away from the door and sitting in the seat Eddie has pulled out for him. Eddie knew he would; he cleaned it just for him.
He takes the seat opposite to Richie, leaning down out of Richie’s line of sight and pulling the black backpack out from where it had been sitting safely under his chair, letting it land loudly onto the wooden table. “This belongs to your friend?” He asks, watching Richie carefully. More diverted gazes, more sweat, more fidgeting.
“Yep, yes it does.” Eddie catches him trying to lean forward to swipe the back off the table, but Eddie is able to grab the strap before he can make contact with the canvas, pulling it back down into his lap.
“So, do you have any idea what’s in here?” Eddie ponders, letting the illusion of mystery shroud Richie, seeing if Richie will have the decency to be honest with him.
“Nope, no idea. Haven’t the faintest.” Richie attempts to shrug nonchalantly, but the movement is stiff and uncoordinated as his eyes shift from Eddie to the backpack and back again, over and over. His frustration simmers hotter, behind his ears and under his collar. He doesn't like that Richie is lying to him.
“Oh, well, I did take a small peak inside myself.” Eddie lilts his words in an innocent way, as if he really couldn’t help himself, and slowly unzips the larger pocket to punctuate his statement. Richie’s face breaks back into that uncomfortable grin, his brows flying up his head as he tries awkwardly to wipe more sweat away.
“You did, huh?” He breathes out shakily, eyes darting from Eddie to the backpack, watching with rapt attention as Eddie stands and dumps the contents of the bag out onto the table. The clothes tumble out unceremoniously, flopping onto the table as Eddie shakes the bag until he’s completely sure all the items have hit the table; the wrapper from his food, the condoms flying out of the packet, the tube of lube thunking down on the wood, everything on full display for Richie to see. When he looks back up at Richie his eyes are wide with shock, his cheeks bright red and shiny, and if Eddie didn’t know any better he’d think Richie truly hadn’t seen these before and was genuinely embarrassed.
But he did know better.
“Seen these before?” He asks casually. Richie is quick to shake his head no, a bead of sweat flying off his chin and landing on his jacket as he does, very obviously completely unable to control how much perspiration is rolling down his face.
“And your friend, he’s just a pal of yours?” Richie’s gaze jumps from the condoms on the table up to Eddie’s face, eyes wide as he tries and aggressively fails to hide his fear and shock.
“Just a friend.” He mumbles under his breath, sticking to his guns. Admirable, really, considering Eddie has very obviously got him dead-to-rights.
“Right.” He probes, but Richie keeps his lips sealed shut. Eddie shrugs, sitting back down and reaching under his chair for a second time to locate the large, yellow envelope he had also hidden down there, and throws it on top of Richie's clothes carelessly.
“How about this?” Richie eyes the envelope nervously, but reaches forward and picks it up. With the paper in his hand Eddie can really see how much he’s shaking, pulling the photos from the packet and shifting through them one by one.
Eddie had very deliberately ordered them; first, a shot of Richie stepping out of the silver elevator and into the lobby, backpack slung over his shoulder carelessly. You can’t see Connor in this shot, which is why Richie scoffs quietly before shuffling it to the back to look at the next photo Eddie has strategically printed.
Next is the shot of Richie leading Connor out of the elevator, his eyes frantic as he searches the lobby for prying eyes but completely missing Eddie’s big black camera, hand incriminatingly soft on Connor’s lower back. Richie’s face flushes red with embarrassment, mirroring the photo in his hand. He shifts the picture to the back to look at the next one.
Connor’s got his hand at the base of Richie’s neck here, unknowingly pulling his collar down to expose the angry hickey adorning the skin of his throat. Richie’s eyes are closed in the photo, but in front of him they grow wide with shock, his hand unconsciously raising to rub the spot on his neck where the hickey is, no doubt, still painting his skin a colourful shade of purple under his shirt. Eddie's eyes follow the movement, trying to catch sight of it, but he can't. Instead he brings his fist to his mouth and shoves it between his teeth, attempting to bite back the smile tugging at the corners of his lips. Richie shuffles the photo to the back to check the next one, his hand visibly shaking as he moves.
The next shot is the money shot; Richie’s hands on Connor’s hips, Connor’s hands holding firmly to Richie’s neck, Richie’s brows furrowed as they share a kiss. Not some chaste, polite peck on the lips; a real kiss, intense and meaningful, a private moment Eddie should never have seen, should never have captured, or printed, or handed back to Richie in this moment. He stares down at the photo, the paper fluttering with the force of his trembling, and Eddie can see the tears welling in his eyes as he looks down at the picture. It’s almost enough to make him feel bad; but Eddie only feels the corners of his lips trying to twitch up into a smile. Something about Richie’s palpable fear is sending thrills through Eddie’s veins, overtaking his frustration with a dangerous glee, and he finds he's surprised at how much he’s enjoying himself.
Richie stares down at the photo of him kissing Connor for a long time, silent and shaking, blinking tears away as his eyes dance across the print. He keeps opening his mouth, as if he’s finally going to say something, but each time no sound comes out, his mouth floundering around the words he can’t seem to find. Eddie’s fed up with waiting, so he pulls his fist away from his mouth and clears his throat to bring Richie’s eyes screeching up off the page to Eddie’s face.
“I’m sure you know how valuable those pictures are,” He begins, deliberately cryptic, just to see how Richie reacts, his mouth feels drenched with the drool threatening to spill out over his lips, saliva tingling on the back of his palette. Richie's eyes flutter in disbelief, intaking a sharp breath as his jaw swings open yet again, but he seems like he might actually speak this time.
"You're bleeding."
Confused, he looks down at where his hand had landed on the table. Sure enough, there's blood gushing from his finger, small teeth indentations outlining where his skin has been broken. He brings his hand up to his lips and touches the spit, pulling it away to see the bright crimson blood now painting his middle and ring fingers. He can suddenly taste it, the metallic iron coating his tongue and dripping dangerously down his throat. He swallows reflexively, wiping his mouth on the back of his sleeve and pulling the cuff of his black turtleneck down over the wound on his pointer to hide it from Richie's view, feels his heartbeat hammering from the site as more blood pours carelessly from the cuts.
"I'm fine." He clarifies, not wanting Richie to worry about him, rather preferring they return their focus to the images. He gestures with his unwounded hand at the pictures still caught in Richie's hand. "The photos. I could sell them, easily."
“You can’t,” The words come out as barely a whisper, his grip on the pages like a vice as he stares at Eddie, eyes wide and glossy with tears.
“I can. I think you already know that I can, and I will.” He won’t; but Richie doesn’t know that, his shivering not letting up as a lone tear spills over onto his cheek.
“Eddie, please, please don’t. I won’t tell anyone, we can both just leave here and I’ll never talk about any of this ever again. I swear.”
“Those pictures could fetch me a pretty penny, Tozier. The photos of you and Sandy certainly did, I could retire in the Caribbean for the money I’d make off these.” He gestures at the pages in Tozier’s grip again, uncontrollably fluttering in the air.
“I’ll pay you, I can pay you-” Richie jumps into action, dropping the photos back on the table on top of the clothes and reaching into his jacket, pulling out a dark leather wallet and opening it. There’s a small flurry of notes in the fold, but Eddie knows it’s not enough. Not even close to the amount of money he’d make off the pictures, and not at all what he wants. Richie pulls all the cash out, shoving the wad of green papers in Eddie’s face in a rush of movement. When Eddie makes no move to take the money, Richie’s mouth downturns into a grimace, shaking the money as if he could draw Eddie’s attention to it like a toy being waved in the face of a disinterested cat.
“Please, please take the money. I have more, we can go to an ATM, or I can write you a cheque, anything.”
“I don’t want your money.”
“Then-” His voice breaks, almost unnoticeable but unmistakable still. He starts shoving the money back into his wallet. “-then what do you want? Connections? I’ve met half of Hollywood through SNL, I can connect you with almost anyone. Or a job- I could get you a job at Studio 8H, anything you want I’ll make it happen. My manager Steve, he can get you anything-”
“Stop.” He cuts off Richie, who immediately falls silent. “I don’t want to meet some crappy celebrity on the verge of a nervous breakdown. I don’t want a job at your over-glorified clown studio stroking the egos of wankers with too much money to function. I don’t want your money or your job or your manager.” He spits the last word incredulously, as if being offered Steve was unbelievably insulting. Eddie’s met Steve before; that guy’s a dick. A fleck of Eddie's reddened saliva lands on Richie's black pants sitting abandoned on the table, soaking indiscernibly into the fabric
“Then what?!” Richie’s voice is picking up volume, the panic starting to show as he throws his hands out to the empty apartment. “What could I possibly offer you? If you don’t want money and you don’t want anything I can give you, then why have you brought me here? Just to scare the crap out of me?!”
“Who said I didn’t want anything you could give me?”Eddie quirks his eyebrow, looking at Richie from under his eyebrows. Tozier’s brows twitch in confusion as his brain tries to do the math, tries to supply him with the one thing he has yet to offer. It’s obvious to Eddie, but apparently not to Richie, who nods aggressively.
“Anything, I’ll give you anything. Just please don’t sell those pictures, I’ll do anything.” Eddie runs his tongue along his sharp teeth, resisting the urge to reach out and smooth his thumb across Richie’s stubbled jaw with his bloodied hand. This could be the closest they’ve ever been to each other without a camera between them, face to face with no one watching them.
"Eat with me." Richie's brows crease in confusion, eyes darting between his gaze and his lips. Eddie licks them self-consciously, tastes the metallic blood still ghosting the chapped skin.
"What?"
"I want you-" He leans over, scooping up the clothes and the condoms and the rubbish into his arms and dumping them unceremoniously back into Richie's backpack, revealing the set table that had been hiding underneath. "-to eat with me. One meal." Richie looks down at the plates and the silver cutlery, all perfectly polished. Eddie swears he can see Richie's reflection in the ceramic, his glistening eyes making their way back up to Eddie's own.
"That's it? There's nothing else? You just- want me to eat?" He sounds completely disbelieving, scared, shivering with the force of it all. Eddie wants to put him at ease.
"That's all. Just eat one meal with me." Eddie watches Richie relax minutely, the tension leaves his face and it looks like he's almost going to smile, that tiny, quirked smile he always gives Eddie on the street through the lens of his camera. He nods, puts the photos back in the yellow envelope and drops them on the backpack.
"Okay. One meal. And then I get to leave with the backpack and the photos, right?" Eddie feels his smile spread wide and painful in his cheeks with his excitement, the anticipation and giddiness bleeding out of him with no control.
"Right." He appeases, watches the way Richie's face muscles twitch in a million tiny different directions, unnoticeable to the untrained eye, but to Eddie it's too easy to spot. Richie's eyes fly all around the room; down to Eddie's hidden wound, across the plates and cutlery, into Eddie's immaculately clean apartment and out the window to the dirty, dark streets of New York. His face is illuminated only by the light of the buildings and the light Eddie had left on in the kitchen, a yellowed tone highlighting Tozier's face in a soft, intimate glow. While his gaze continues to dance, landing everywhere except Eddie, Eddie's stays steadfast, locked onto Richie, waiting to catch his eye.
Richie opens his mouth to ask, "So, what's for dinner-"
Eddie cuts him off, "How long have you known Connor?"
The question seems to confuse him. His eyes finally land back on Eddie, brows creased low under his glasses as he considers the question.
"Does it matter?"
"I want to know."
He looks down at the plate, into the washed-out, whitened expression staring back up at him from the ceramic.
"It's been a while."
Eddie doesn't care much for the cryptic response.
"Are you two dating?"
Richie scoffs, crossing his arms defensively across his firm chest. "What difference does it make?"
Eddie doesn't like that he's being withholding.
"It's okay. You can tell me, I won't bite." He goads, letting a small, comforting smile paint his cheeks. Richie watches the twitch of his mouth, and Eddie feels his tongue lick across the bloodied skin around his lips.
"We're not dating. My lifestyle doesn't really lend itself to traditional dating." The words sound bitter coming off his tongue. Eddie looks down at the table, takes his wounded hand out of the cuff of his sleeve, starts to fiddle with the cutlery in front of him.
"He doesn't love you?" Eddie probes, desperate to know what Connor is really giving him that Eddie couldn't give him. Richie rolls his eyes.
"It's casual, okay? What's your point?" Eddie feels an anger crack through his chest. He grabs the photos off the bag and digs through them until he finds the one of Richie and Connor kissing, eyes closed, Richie looking impassioned and lovesick.
"This is casual?" He demands, slamming the photo back in front of Richie. His hand splays across the print; he had continued to bleed out under his cuff, his skin stained red and moist as he paints the image with his beating wound. Richie stares incredulously at the image, at Eddie's scarlet hand holding it in place. He's silent. Eddie taps his finger over Connor's face, tap, tap, tap, covering his face with blood again as he stares at Richie, feeling the pounding of his heart in the very tip on his finger as it makes contact with the paper over and over again.
"He doesn't love you." Eddie concludes, continuing to tap the paper rhythmically as Richie stares at the image.
"So what? I don't want him to. We could never date publicly, anyway, so what difference does it make? Why do you care about this so much?" He's starting to get frustrated, his leg jittering under the table anxiously as he drags his eyes away from the photo, a sickened grimace on his face.
Eddie schools his expression as best as he can. This is the best part, where it's all been leading, and if Richie says yes he could finally have everything he's been wanting. Richie's body, his soul, his heart would be his.
"I could get rid of him, if you wanted." He says it as casually as he can, but he's giddy with excitement, barely able to sit still as he withdraws his hand from the scolding image of Richie and Connor and returns the wound to his lips. The warmth of the iron spreads through his mouth and down into his chest as he watches confusion wash over Richie's expression.
"What the hell does that mean?" He asks, voice pitching up slightly as he does.
"You shouldn't be with someone who doesn't appreciate you. Your talent or your authenticity, your raw personality, your beautiful heart and soul. You should be with someone who loves all of those things about you."
Richie's expression twists into a disbelieving wince. "Oh yeah? And who's that?"
"Let me get rid of him for you. Let me show you what I could do for you. Let me be all the things he could never be, let me complete you."
He knows he's coming on a bit strong, but this is a love confession, after all, and he's not going to let Richie walk out that door without knowing how he feels about him. All the blood leaves Richie's face in one go; he's pale and blanched as he stares at Eddie, eyes wide and fear magnified behind his glasses. His eyes dance quickly from inside the apartment to out the window, then back down to the empty plate, his white ceramic reflection staring back at him yet again.
"Where's the food?"
Eddie doesn't respond. Richie hadn't dignified him with a response, why should he do the same?
Richie's voice is shaking minutely when he speaks again. "You said we would eat one meal, and then I could go. Where's the meal?" Eddie fiddles with his cutlery, rubs his bloodied fingers across the silverware subconsciously. Their eye contact is searing; Eddie feels like he can see straight through Richie's eyes into his soul, his heart on his sleeve as his emotions paint his face plain as day. He's doesn't seem excited, or interested, or even remotely happy with Eddie's idea like he'd hoped he'd be.
"Let me get rid of him for you, Richie." He repeats sternly. Maybe Richie just didn't understand. Connor isn't good for him, Connor doesn't know him or understand him like Eddie does. Eddie can fix this. He watches a clear bead of sweat roll down Richie's temple, down his cheek where it drips off his jaw and onto the plate below him. Richie takes a deep breath in, shaky and slow, and he moves his hands to the back of his chair, like he's about to get up. Eddie mirrors him; it's too soon, he can't leave yet, he hasn't accepted his proposal, he needs to hear all the wonderful things Eddie has planned for them.
Richie pushes his chair out and stands. Eddie does the same.
"Eddie. I'm leaving. You have to let me leave."
It strikes Eddie like an arrow through the heart. He's shaking his head no, no, no, as Richie steps out from the table, and Eddie does the same, blocking his path to the door.
"You can't leave. We haven't eaten."
Richie looks back down at the set table, then over at Eddie again.
"I'm not eating. I'm leaving." He swipes the pictures off the top of the backpack and holds the paper in front of Eddie's face. "You need to leave me and Connor alone." The images shake with his hands, betraying the tough exterior he's trying to portray. If only Richie knew how easy he was to read, how well Eddie understood him, how much he needed someone like Eddie who really knew and appreciated him.
"Connor doesn't love you. I love you. I can take care of you. Let me do this, you have to let me do this." He insists, standing his ground. Richie looks completely shellshocked as he absorbs the words. His eyes water, his lip quivers, and for a beautiful moment Eddie thinks he's going to accept his proposal, throw his arms open and accept Eddie into his body. But he doesn't; he shakes like a leaf as the tears spill over onto his cheeks. He frantically tears up the photos in his hands and lets the tattered papers fall to the floor, confetti at their feet as Richie makes his intentions clear.
"Please, you have to let me leave. Please, man, I promise I won't tell anyone about this. It'll be our little secret, okay?" Richie pleads, but it's no use. Eddie doesn't want Richie to leave, he doesn't care if Richie tells people about this. He's supposed to tell people, he's supposed to be proud to be seen with Eddie, he's supposed to gush about how much Eddie loves him and knows him and cares for him. He's supposed to have some damn heart, and now it's nowhere to be seen.
"You can't leave." Eddie repeats. Richie scoffs out a laugh, terrified and disbelieving.
"I'm out of here."
Richie starts to walk forward, attempts to side-step Eddie, but he doesn't let him. He pushes against Richie's shoulders, hard, sending him stumbling back a few steps.
"No, you can't leave. We haven't eaten."
"I'm not fucking eating with you, man. Get out of my way."
He tried to move forward again, with more gusto this time, but Eddie sees red. Richie just doesn't understand that he's not leaving until he accepts Eddie, until he and Eddie are together. His heart is pounding adrenaline through his veins, screaming under his skin, and before he knows what he's doing he's started to move.
He bolts from his spot, runs straight at Richie, and tackles him directly around his soft middle, just like he's seen footballers do on television. His hard, firm body collides with his shoulder, Eddie hears all the air leave Richie in one go as he loses his balance and they both fall hard towards the ground. Richie's head hits the leg of the table, his skull smacking against the wood with a sickening crack. His glasses fly off his face, way out of either of their reach, and Eddie watches Richie scrunch his eyes shut and groan out in pain. His hand finds its way to where his head collided with the wood, touches his tender scalp and opens his eyes in an attempt to look at his hand. There's blood there, he's cut his head open, but his eyes struggle to focus on it without his glasses, and Eddie is certain the whack to the head definitely disoriented him.
Eddie settles himself on Richie's bewildered torso, putting all his weight on his stomach to hold him down. Richie struggles to take a deep breath in, Eddie crushing his diaphragm, putting his hands on his shoulders and bringing his face low to meet Richie's. Their noses brush, like couples' do before they share a kiss, and Eddie's heart pounds harder in anticipation. Richie's gaze can't seem to focus on him, despite his proximity, so Eddie helps him. He leans down low and brushes his lips softly against Richie's; they're just as soft and warm as he imagined, hot and lively beneath his own. He's not kissing back, though, and as his eyes attempt to focus his hands come up to his face, trying to push Eddie off him. He succeeds minorly, their kiss breaking as Richie attempts to catch his breath, his strength regaining as his arms move down to Eddie's torso.
"Get off me, what the fuck-" He mumbles under his breath, but he's still dazed and can't seem to get ahold of his bearings. Eddie pushes his arms away and they fall heavily to the hardwood floor, bringing his own up to either side of Richie's face. He grips his head, as hard as he can, and pulls his head back up to his own to reconnect their lips. They touch, Eddie's pursed lips meeting Richie's limp ones, and he can feel Richie squirming unsuccessfully below him, trying to push Eddie off him, but Eddie refuses to let go. He can't let Richie leave without knowing how much he loves him, how much he needs him. His nails dig hard against his scalp as he grips Richie for dear life, pushing his lips harder against his mouth, his teeth scraping against his skin as he tries to pour as much love as he can into the movement. It's hot and wet, it tastes exactly how he thought it would taste, and for one moment all he feels is bliss as he consumes Richie's mouth.
He hears Richie yell out before he registers what he's done. The soft tender muscle of Richie's lip bleeds hot and crimson into his mouth as his teeth puncture the flesh, the metallic flavour coating his tongue as he sucks on the wound he's made, desperate and thirsty as the liquid flows into his mouth and down his throat. Richie starts to squirm far more from underneath him, groaning and yelling in pain as he tries to free himself from where Eddie is anchoring him to the floor, but he has no leverage. It doesn't stop him from jostling Eddie quite aggressively though, tearing the ripped muscle of his mouth off his face as it swings grotesquely from between Eddie's canines.
Richie's eyes widen with fear, his yelling turning to screaming as he tries desperately to pry Eddie off him, trying to pull Eddie's arms off his head, but it's no use. Eddie has dug his nails into Richie's scalp, the hair curled and knotted around his fingers like a rope tethering them together. Tears stream steadily down Richie's cheeks, his eyes sparkle beautifully up at Eddie, raw and desperate without his glasses to shroud them.
"P'ease, p'ease Eddie, p'ease p'ease p'ease…" He mumbles incoherently, his speech hindered by his missing lip as he begs.
"Just tell me you love me." His own voice sounds loud and foreign in his ears, the chunk of flesh falling carelessly from his bloodied mouth as he looks down into Richie's terrified expression. He shakes his head, no, no, no, more tears streaming from his eyes as his head gyrates in Eddie's grasp.
"I lo'be you, I lo'be you Eddie, I lo'be you, p'ease let me go, p'ease, p'ease you ha'be to let me go." He sobs through his words, his mouth filling with blood which gurgles in his throat as he tries to tell Eddie what he'd been so desperate to hear. But Richie doesn't look how Eddie imagined he would. He's supposed to be happy, showing off his wide, crooked grin, all teeth and wrinkles, smile-lines pronounced and squinting as he looks at Eddie like he's hung the stars. But Richie's expression is reddened and permanently grimaced, his eyes are filled with pain and pleas, tears spilling uncontrollably from his terrified irises. It fills Eddie with rage, rage he cannot contain as he grabs harder still onto Richie's head and starts to slam his skull into the hardwood floor.
"Why not?!" Crack. "Why don't you love me?!" Crack. "What's so wrong with me-" Crack. "-that you can't just accept me?!" Crack. "Where is it?!" Crack. "Where is your love?!" Crack. "Where is your heart?!" Crack.
Richie's eyes are fluttering, dancing around the ceiling as he tries to stay conscious through the assault, groan after groan gurgling from his throat with each crack of his skull on the floor. His arms flail around at his sides, as if trying to grab onto something to ground himself, but he can't seem to find reality. Eddie knows he can help him, bring him back to life, save him, so he does. He leans down, much like a prince in a fairytale, and kisses his bloodied mouth again, letting the hot liquid coat his lips as he drinks Richie down, down, down through his oesophagus and into his stomach, warming him from the inside out, gorging himself on Richie's very being. Something like a moan gurgles out of Richie's throat, and it only spurs Eddie on, pushing him up onto his knees as he feels his teeth puncture Richie's cheek, the stubbled flesh ripping high from his cheekbones, exposing his molars to the cold air as Eddie chews and swallows, chews and swallows the tough, raw meat.
The heat of the blood, crimson and dripping through his insides, the searing flesh stuck between his teeth send waves of bliss through his veins; he can taste the humour of Richie's personality in each frenzied bite, his salivating mouth moving down from his face to his throat, listens to his blood-soaked groans as he tries to speak, but all Eddie can taste is the sentience of his flesh. Each chew of the meat is soaked with scarlet authenticity, saturated in the very fibres of Richie's being, the taste of his soul finally satiating the starving hunger he'd been feeling for Richie from the moment he'd seen his face, heard his voice, seen the blood pulsing beneath his skin.
A cackling laugh bubbles from his chest as he pulls his hands from Richie's hair and tears the cotton of Richie's shirt, straight down the centre, revealing his firm, fuzzy chest underneath, undeniably masculine and real under Eddie's wandering fingers. His touches stain Richie's white skin, leaving a maroon trail of evidence as he grabs at his muscles hard, scratches down his ribs and massages up his sternum, feels the way his chest rises and falls with his quickened, shallow breaths. He leans his nose down between Richie's pecks, smells the raw, earthy smell he'd caught off Richie's clothes, inhales it right from the source, salty and electric as Richie's fear beads off him with wettened desperation. He licks up the sweat, tastes the salt and finds it's not enough, his mouth is drooling with the need for Richie's essence, his soul, his heart.
He clamps his fists together and brings them down on Richie's sternum once, on his ribs twice, on his other side a third time, listens to the crunching and popping of Richie's ribcage as he brings his fists down over and over, watching the skin blossom red and purple under his blows as the bones break beneath the skin. Richie screams with each blow, loud and curdled, echoing off the desolate corners of Eddie's apartment as he searches desperately for help that isn't coming.
"Where is it, where is it, where is it…" He hears himself mumbling, the flesh tearing as a rib breaks free from Richie's skin. Eddie grabs at it greedily, ripping it from Richie's chest with all of his might, finally exposing the flesh and organs hiding behind the cage of bones. It's a sea of bloodied confusion, muscles and tendons connecting shifting meat, but he finds what he's looking for, nestled between Richie's fluttering lungs, working overtime to re-oxygenate his dying form.
There it sits, pounding and thundering, sending blood through his weakening limbs and his dizzied brain, beating loud and proud in Eddie's sight. Finally, his heart is visible to Eddie, beats for Eddie, fights for Eddie, belongs to Eddie. Eddie reaches his wounded hand into Richie's chest, faintly registers Richie's desperate screaming and pleading behind the sound of his own heart synchronising with the rhythm of Richie's, and wretches the muscle from its organed home.
He looks up into Richie's eyes as he brings his heart to his lips. His eyes are wide and conscious as he takes in the scene before him, a horrified, silent scream painted across his face as Eddie grins widely, lets the blood run messily over his chin and his chest as he bites into the muscle, heavy and sweet, hidden away now exposed for Eddie to consume, to take and control, to keep inside him, to carry with him for the rest of his life.
The heart in his hand stops beating as he chews on the rubbery tissue, slurping the spilling blood down like gravy. Richie's eyes go hazy, the muscles left in his neck lose their tension, and as Eddie swallows the last strings of his heart, Richie's eyes land on the skyline outside and go blank and lifeless.
He belongs to Eddie now, completely and entirely, heart and soul, as Eddie always knew he would.