Archive of Our Own ^beta

April 23rd, 1993

Richie is a fucking idiot. This, of course, goes without saying, especially if you ask any of his friends. But on this day specifically, Richie is the biggest fucking idiot on the planet.

Well, that’s probably, like, Ronald Reagan or something (at least, if you ask Papa Wentworth Tozier) but Richie’s hot on his heels in the competition for dumbest person alive. Why? Well, it’s really the same reason as always— he pushed something too far. Only this time, he pushed Eddie too far.

It’s something he does a lot. They’re a funny little pair, the two of them. Their friends say they argue like an old married couple, which always makes Richie turn as red as a fire truck because none of them know just how much he’d like to be an old married couple with Eddie. It’s true, though, they bicker like siblings or— God help Richie— an old married couple. Richie can expertly push all of Eddie’s buttons and, though he’s typically pretty good at stopping before it goes too far, he sometimes goes a little over the top. Today, though, today he’s gone so far over the top he’s not sure if he’s going to be able to hold down his lunch.

“You should go apologize to him,” Stan says, surprisingly gentle after what they just witnessed him do. Richie doesn’t know exactly what to say to that, more worried that if he opens his mouth at all he’ll spill the contents of his stomach on the floor.

“It’s okay,” Beverly says softly behind him, also surprisingly gentle. “You didn’t know.”

When he feels her lay a hand on his back, he realizes for the first time that he’s shaking. 

“He said he hated me, Bev,” Richie whispers, still aghast with horror. Maybe a tad of humiliation, as well.

“He didn’t mean it,” Ben says, sounding very confident in his words. It pulls Richie halfway out of his stupor.

“He’s never said that before,” Richie snaps. He instantly feels horrible and reigns himself in. “Not like that.”

“Thuh-That just means huh-he needs you now more thuh-than ev-ever,” Bill encourages, ever a leader.

“Would you want me to talk to you if I had said something like that about Georgie on the anniversary of his death?” Richie snarls. His chest is rising and falling faster, which might be good considering he wasn’t breathing at all before. “Last time I uttered a word about him you punched me in the face.”

“That was duh-different,” Bill answers firmly.

“Honey, it was just a joke,” Beverly pets at his back.

Mike lingers a step away from everyone else, seeming to mull something over in his head. Without a sound, he steps forward and grasps Richie’s shoulders. “You’ve always been the only one who can cheer him up. You need to go in there and make him feel better. You can mope about this later.”

“Why didn’t he tell me?” Richie whispers, because he’s always turned to Mike for answers to unfamiliar questions. Mike rubs up and down his arms.

“He’s been on edge all day. He probably didn’t tell us because he didn’t want to snap,” Mike lets out a sigh. “Like he just did.”

Richie stares down at his feet. “What do I even say? ‘Hey, sorry I made a horrific joke about having a threesome with your parents on the anniversary of your dad’s death and when you seemed upset about it I just went into more horrifically sexual detail but in my defense I didn’t know it was his death-aversary’?”

Mike snorts. “No, you can just stick with ‘I’m sorry’ and move on from there. Like I said, you have always been the only one who can make him feel better. I can’t help you, you’ve got to use your Richie powers for this one.”

Richie shakes his head emphatically. “I don’t think my Richie powers are going to cut it.”

“Yes, they are. Get your ass in there, Tozier,” He squeezes Richie’s shoulders one last time. 

“Oh no,” Richie whispers, horrified, still not really thinking properly. 

Regardless, he creeps his way toward Bill’s bedroom where Eddie has holed himself up. Without trying the knob, he knocks, wanting to give Eddie the choice of whether or not he’d like to see Richie right now.

“What?” Eddie snaps from the other side of the hollow wood. He sounds like he’s crying, and though Richie had certainly guessed that was the case, it doesn’t mean his heart doesn’t rip in half with a force so loud he’s scared the other Losers may hear it from the living room.

“Eds, I—” He cuts himself off impulsively, as though he’d been expecting Eddie to interrupt him by now. There’s no sound from the room. He struggles for words to fill the silence. “Can I come in? I— I’ll stay all the way across the room from you, if you want me to. I just want to apologize to your face.”

The room is very quiet for at least thirty seconds, but just as Richie’s about to make a pleading face at the others down the hall, Eddie speaks up.

“I guess,” Is all he says, but it’s enough.

Richie opens the door, which was, in fact, unlocked. He stays across the room like he promised, because Eddie despises being touched when he’s angry. He bunches up and heat comes off of him in waves, so Richie’s learned that he has to use words to soothe him— Which sucks, because words are the very thing Richie is terrible at using properly.

Eddie is sitting on the bed sniffling, which is the only sign that he has been crying at all. He hates to be seen crying, so he’s become an expert at crying without a trace. The sniffles tug at Richie’s heart strings, of course, but so does the way he’s tucked his knees up into his oversized sweater, making a large cocoon.

“Fuck, Eds,” Richie says, sounding incredibly sad. The sound of his own voice forces him to pull it together, because the last thing he wants is to make Eddie feel like Richie is like Mrs. K, trying to manipulate Eddie into guilt. “I’m such a fucking idiot, I’m so sorry.”

“Tell me something I don’t fucking know,” Eddie bites out, sounding choked. He clears his throat. “You’re a real dick, Richie, you know that?”

“Fuck,” Richie repeats. “Yeah, of course I fucking know that. I mean, I made you cry on what is already, like, the worst day ever for you.”

Eddie’s defenses visibly go up. “I’m not crying.” Richie tries not to roll his eyes.

“You are,” He says sadly, “And it’s my stupid fault.”

“Yeah,” Eddie spits, clearly still angry and searching for a fight. “You can never just figure out when to stop. You just, fucking, have to push and push and— Why can’t you just stop?”

“I’m sorry,” Richie says again, and he’s not sure if that’s what he should do since Mike didn’t give him a limit. “I just, I never know when you’re play mad or when you’re real mad.”

“Oh, so it’s my fault that I’m mad about you making jokes about my dead dad?” 

“No, of course not, Eds! I just— Fuck, I’m so bad at this,” He sighs, collapsing onto the ground with his legs crossed, back propped against the wall next to the hamper. He presses fingertips against his eyelids underneath his glasses. “I just want you to know that I’m really sorry and I didn’t mean to hurt you and I just want to make you happy again. Or— Or a little better, at least, because I know this isn’t a happy day and that my—“ He gestures grandly at himself, “— Richieness isn’t going to make you feel much better.”

Eddie stares at him for a moment, big brown eyes piercing Richie’s. He doesn’t look too angry anymore. 

“I’m not usually this upset,” He mutters quietly, breaking eye contact with Richie for only a second before bouncing back. “It’s just… I guess my dad wrote a letter for me when he realized he wasn’t going to be around for graduation. He asked my mom to give it to me on my birthday during Senior Year, but I guess she just forgot, because she didn’t give it to me until now.”

“Oh,” Richie whispers, feeling his chest splinter at how sad Eddie looks. “Can I… What did it say? If you, don’t mind—”

“Just… stuff.” Eddie shrugs. “I wish he hadn’t died. He seemed so nice, especially after reading that letter. It makes me wonder what I would’ve been like if he had been around. Probably less like…” He makes a sweeping motion towards his face.

“Hey.” Richie cocks his head, realizing that the anger has dissipated and has been replaced by something he does not quite recognize. He gets to his feet and makes his way towards the bed. “What does that mean?”

Eddie does not appear to breathe for the entire time it takes Richie to get to the small twin bed and wedge himself in next to him. 

He lets out a huff. “Uptight.” He sounds strangled. “And mean. And… I don’t know. Just, maybe I would’ve had a better example and not turned out to be—” Again, with the vague sweeping motion.

Richie’s brows draw tight together. He thinks the sudden onset heartache he feels right now might just be enough to kill him.

“I love the way you turned out,” He says, completely honest. It doesn’t seem that Eddie believes him, because he laughs, but it’s not the pretty sound Richie is used to. It’s sad and sounds more like a sigh. He won’t look at Richie anymore. The bedspread seems to have acquired all of his attention. But still, he hesitates like he has something else he’d like to say.

He takes in a shaky breath. “I don’t.”

The silence that permeates every atom in the room is deafening. Richie thinks his ears may be bleeding. He knows for certain that his heart is.

“What?” He says, so soft he hardly even hears it. Eddie still isn’t looking at him. “Eddie, what?” He scrambles to sit in front of his stubbornly quiet best friend. 

“You heard me.” Eddie is trying to sound angry, but it’s snuffed out by the thickness in his throat. “Why would I, Rich? My dad was clearly this amazing person and in the letter he… he had this big idea of what a ‘kind and courageous’ young man I would be. And I’m just— I’m not!” His chest is heaving though he’s still talking to the blanket rather than Richie. His voice picks up in pitch and speed at the same time. “I mean, I turned out just like my mom! I came in here to cry and made you feel so awful just for making a stupid joke that I would usually laugh at and I knew that you didn’t know any better. I… I’m manipulative, and mean, and— Oh,” He cuts himself off with a frustrated whimper as fresh tears start to flow down his cheeks. It must hurt, how aggressively he’s wiping the tears off of his face, so Richie gently takes his wrists in his hands. 

“You are none of those things, Eddie. You are nothing like your mom, holy shit. I can’t believe you thought that for a second, you dumbass,” He tries to smile, but he can feel it wavering back into a frown. The urge to cry is building up in the back of his throat, because how did he not know about this sooner? “You weren’t manipulating me. I’m a little offended that you think I’m that easy to manipulate,” He chuckles dryly. “You were hurt. It’s okay to be upset with me when I hurt you. That doesn’t make you mean or manipulative. I need someone like you to check me when I’m being too much, because I never want to hurt you.”

“But I’m—” Eddie tries weakly, fighting against the grip Richie has on his wrists. Richie lets him go easily. “I made you apologize like, ten times. I should’nt’ve—”

“You should’ve. I was a dick,” Richie argues. “One apology for every year you’ve put up with me.”

“I don’t put up with you,” Eddie mumbles.

Richie smiles. “And hey, your dad was right. You are kind and courageous. You’re the baddest motherfucker I’ve ever met,” He says. “I mean it,” He tacks on when Eddie looks at him suspiciously.

Eddie doesn’t move to make an argument, so he pushes on. 

“Also, you think you’re not kind?” He splutters, putting on a bit of a show to explain how ridiculous that notion is, throwing his hands in the air. Eddie smiles just a little bit. “Did you just hear how worried you were about maybe hurting my feelings or manipulating me? You may be a snippy, sharp little shit, but make no mistake, you have a heart of gold. I get that you’re scared of being like your mother, and that’s okay, but you’re not. Not even close. I know these aren’t crocodile tears.” 

He takes a brave step and thumbs the tears out from under Eddie’s eyes. He’s amazed that Eddie lets him willingly.

“I just don’t want to be like her,” He whispers, “But sometimes it feels like it’s ingrained in me.”

Richie shakes his head, sighing and removing his hands from Eddie’s face.

“As long as you know what you want to be, shortstack, that’s what you will be. Nothing that you set your mind to ever goes unaccomplished.”

That seems to make Eddie smile a little brighter, so Richie counts it as a win. 

“Sorry for snotting all over you,” Eddie cringes, getting a tissue to wipe under his nose and dab at his eyes.

“It’s okay, Spagheds. It’s not the first Kaspbrak fluid I’ve gotten on me,” He quips.

“Oh my God,” Eddie says, sounding utterly exasperated despite being distracted by crumpling up the tissue and chucking it into the trash can next to the bed. “I love you,” He sighs, moving to look back at Richie before seeming to realize what he just said.

“What.” Richie blinks. It’s not something they’ve ever said to each other. They’ve said it to the Losers as a whole, of course, but not like this. Both of them are frozen in place. Eddie looks like a deer caught in the headlights. Richie imagines he looks the same.

“I love you,” Eddie says slowly, and at this point he could try to pass it off as  friendly or brotherly kind of love, but it would be too late. Richie is slowly thawing as Eddie’s mortified reaction is giving away that this was some sort of Freudian slip.

“You…?” He says, pointing awkwardly at Eddie. Eddie nods. Richie still doesn’t know what to do. He points back at himself. “Me…?”

Eddie nods again.

“You love me?” He thinks that’s what he says, but it sounds a lot more garbled when it hits his ears. Nevertheless, Eddie nods. “You love me.” He repeats. This time, Eddie shakes his head, like that will actually take the words out of the air and put them back down his throat. Richie’s grin spreads over his entire face. “You love me!” He shouts, for no particular reason at all.

“Yes,” Eddie says quietly, looking a bit nervous and like he’s planning on saying something else. Richie won’t have it.

“Me too,” He says. “Like, I…” Years of swallowing this down have made the words a bit difficult to say. That, and never having said them to anyone before. “I think I love you too.” He winces. “That’s bullshit. I know I love you too. I don’t know why I—”

He doesn’t get to finish, because Eddie’s Bambi eyes grow just a smidge wider and he surges forward to press a chaste kiss to Richie’s lips. It doesn’t last longer than about three seconds, but Richie makes sure to kiss back with all the passion he can muster and presses one of his own to the corner of Eddie’s lips when he goes to pull away.

Eddie laughs sweetly. Richie wants to swallow the sound. This moment doesn’t feel real. He thinks he must be dreaming, which wouldn't be entirely implausible. He’s dreamt of this many times before.

“This is the longest you’ve ever been quiet,” Eddie murmurs. Richie realizes suddenly that he’s just been staring at Eddie’s lips for at least a minute or two. Eddie seems unbothered by it. “Where’s my loud Trashmouth gone to?”

Richie giggles. “Heaven,” He smirks.

There’s a creak from the door, and Richie whips his head around just in time to see a trace of red hair vanish from view. He’s about to scold her, but her voice comes from down the hall, loud and clear.

“They’re bumping uglies!” Bev shouts. 

“Finally,” Richie hears Stan mutter.

“We are not!” Eddie shouts back at the same time Richie hears Bill whine “Nuh-Not on muh-muh-my bed!”

“I’ll wash the sheets, Billiam!” Richie calls, placing another kiss on Eddie’s groaning lips.

“We are n-not...!” Eddie splutters, “Bumping fucking… uglies or... whatever!”

“In due time, sweetheart,” Richie murmurs and thoroughly enjoys the punch to his arm that will definitely bruise later.