Chapter Text
In his shitty, run-down apartment in an even shitter neighbourhood in New York, Richie sat on the ripped couch he'd bought a thrift store and he planned how he was going to kill himself.
A few hours later, after a swift trip to the hardware store, he was standing on the roof of his apartment building. The thing about somewhere like New York, is that even the shittiest apartment complexes were at least 5 stories tall. His happened to be 8. It was ample distance for him to hang from the rope he was fastening to a pipe, tying knots he'd researched on Youtube to make it so it would hold his weight when he jumped. Even if it broke, he'd plummet, and he'd die anyway.
His mother's text was still sitting, unanswered on his screen. How are you doing, sweetie? She'd asked him the same thing a few days prior.
It was funny, really, how for as long as Richie could remember growing up, his parents hadn't given a damn about what he was doing or who he was with, he'd come and go from his house without either of them batting an eye. No, they didn't care about him, until they had figured out he had grown into something they'd rather be dead than admit to being the parents of. And it was such a drastic change, since then, his mother texted him at least thrice a week to check on him, to make sure he was still hanging in there, that he wasn't spiralling. He was spiralling, but not in the way she cared about. His father hadn't spoken to him in years.
He was staring at his phone, resolute, that he wasn't going to answer her text. She would call him until he assured her that all was well if he didn't answer within the hour, but this time, it wouldn't matter. She could find out on the news. He was staring at his phone, the screen had gone black after a while without touching it when it lit up with a call. It was a number Richie didn't recognize, he answered.
"Hello?"
"Oh. Um. I must have the wrong number." The voice says. It's light and breezy and unmistakably male.
"Must be." Richie agrees. He could've just left it at that, but he doesn't. "If your clear disappointment upon hearing my voice wasn't any indication."
The man laughs, one quick; "Hah!" And then he says "I'm not disappointed! Just, surprised, that's all."
Richie is surprised that this guy hasn't just bid him farewell and hung up. Beyond that, he's even going so far as to defend himself to him.
"Relax, being infuriatingly disappointing is my specialty these days," Richie says, he delivers it like he'd be grinning when he said it, even though the words make him want to do anything else but smile. "Anyway," he says, realizing how self-deprecating that statement is. Who is he to drop all of his shit on some random stranger? "I hope you actually get your number right this time. Adios." And then he takes the phone from his ear and hangs up.
And that's the last he thinks that he'll hear of that. He sighs deeply through his nose, running his fingers through his hair as he contemplates whether his neck would break quickly, or if he'd be dangling for a while, struggling to breathe and awaiting death. But then his phone rings in his hand again. He thinks to himself how unlucky it is that everybody wants to call him now of all times as he looks at the screen, it's a number he doesn't recognize. There would be no way that his jumbled brain would recognize it's the same number that called him just a moment earlier.
"Hello?" He answers. He can't keep the sigh out of his words even if he were actively trying.
"Hey, uh, me again."
Fuck, it's the same dude from before.
"I think you might have dyslexia," Richie says.
"No, I called on purpose. I, uh- are you okay?"
The question catches Richie right off guard. He pauses, considering. Obviously, the answer is no. But he shouldn't say that. He should say "yes, my jokes are just really depressing and not funny and that's why nobody wants to give me any gigs and why I'm looking down at the exact spot where I'm going to go splat if the rope around my neck breaks when I jump off this roof."
Well, maybe not that.
"Do you usually check up on everybody you butt-dial?"
He doesn't laugh like Richie thought he might. With his luck, this guy is perceptive and actually noticed Richie avoiding the question.
"Just you." He says after a beat. His voice is soft, calming, though it has a buoyant edge to it at the same time. Richie's heart slams against his chest for seemingly no reason at all. "I couldn't just go about the rest of my day after what you said. You sounded so sad."
A good samaritan, just what I need right now. No, really.
"Well you have nothing to fear, I am perfectly un-sad, and will let you get back to your day in peace-"
"Wait!" Richie waits. Nothing else comes.
"What?" He finally asks.
"I didn't actually have anything to say. I just didn't want you to hang up on me." The voice says.
When was the last time anybody had cared about Richie completely unprompted? He couldn't remember, couldn't remember past the texts making sure he hadn't gone backwards, that he was still on the right track, and it never felt like real concern. The concern towards him from a complete stranger who only knows him by his voice makes him want to curl up and sob. But he doesn't. He doesn't say anything for a while. What does he say? He has nothing good to say to this guy, no good news about his wellbeing, and he's never been particularly good at lying. But it can't be that hard if it's just his voice over the phone.
"Don't you have better things to do with your time?" Richie asks, finally.
"Don't you have better things to say than just trying to get me off your case?" The voice shoots back. Richie is momentarily impressed before he speaks again. "You sound like you think that every single thing is more important than you are."
Richie says nothing. After a while, he hears; "Am I right?"
"No." The lie sounds strangled in Richie's throat. He clears it. Don't cry, don't cry. "Just that it's sort of weird you're so hung up on my wellbeing, you don't even know me."
"Well, what's your name then? Mine's Edward, but I hate the shit out of that, so I just go by Eddie."
"Richie." His name leaves his mouth before he even thinks about it. It's like this guy, Eddie, is just pulling the truth right out of him and he can't do a single thing about it. "It's short for Richard, but, well, you know."
"Richard, yeah that's disgusting. No offence, I like Richie better."
Against every single intent in his body, Richie smiles. "Yeah well, at least it isn't Edward. Did your folks hate you?"
"Did yours?" Eddie asks. And Richie knows what he's getting at. He's trying to ask him things about him, trying to pinpoint where his trauma comes from. And it's not going to work, Richie decides right then and there.
Oh no, you don't. It's too late to save me. I gotta cut this guy loose.
But it doesn't stop his mind from answering no, anyway.
"Did I seriously get stuck talking to a therapist?"
Eddie laughs. "Nothing like that, I'm just a driver, I swear." And Richie is thinking of ways, excuses to end this conversation when Eddie says; "But my friends tell me I'm really good at telling when somebody needs help. And I give some wicked advice."
"Sounds like you're wasting your time driving people around," Richie says lightly, still racking his brain for a seamless way to hang up while not alerting Eddie to his emotional peril.
"And Richie," Eddie says, "I can tell that you're in need of help."
And the way Eddie says his name makes his heart jump up into his throat. The way he says it scares him. This concern, the effort, all of it, scares Richie so much that he barely thinks about it when he presses the 'end call' button and sticks his phone in his sweater pocket. A few seconds go by before he hears it ringing again, so he sticks his hands in his pocket and turns the ringer off. Then it starts vibrating. Richie ignores it. A few minutes go by, and the phone won't stop vibrating. And Richie misses the sound of Eddie's voice, oddly enough, but he holds steadfast that it's better off this way. He can't get Eddie caught up in a case like his. Eddie will never really know what ended up happening to him, anyways. Richie squeezes his phone in his hand, willing Eddie to stop calling him. It's easier to ignore someone when they aren't trying so hard to care.
It's better this way.
After a minute or two, finally, Eddie stops calling him. Richie breathes a sigh of relief, his conscience weighing less heavily. He pulls his phone out, slowly, daring a peek at his screen. He doesn't see the 11 missed calls first. He sees the text notification from an unfamiliar number, but at this point, he can easily guess who the text is from. Against his better judgement, he opens it.
This isn't doing anything to make me any less worried about you than I was before.
A minute later;
You've got your read receipts on. I know you see this.
A few seconds later;
Please say something.
Richie can't think of a single thing to say. Why is this guy so intent on making sure he's okay? It's so hard to actively bring harm to yourself when there's somebody pestering you to tell them every little thing that's wrong. It's all so much easier when there's nobody to care about you. And until 20 minutes ago, Richie had had exactly that.
What do you want from me? Richie decides upon asking.
The reply is almost instant.
I want you not to do what you're thinking of doing.
And I also want you to be okay.
A bit late for that.
Richie decides to sit while he thinks of what to say. He's been standing, overlooking the edge of this building for a little over 45 minutes, and the balls of his feet are protesting his weight distribution. He sits on the edge, staring at his phone screen. The noose isn't around his neck, but he thinks of putting it on, slipping easily off of this balcony and plummeting. But he doesn't. He sits with his feet dangling, so dangerously close to falling, willing himself to think of something to say.
And what if I'm not? Richie sends it before he can take it back. No more pretending like what he said over the phone didn't mean something, didn't point Eddie in the direction of his obvious mental breakdown. You can't take that on yourself.
Richie watches the typing bubbles pop up, disappear, pop up again, for a full minute before Eddie sends his reply; What's the harm in letting me try?
What's the harm, Richie thinks, is that you're already getting to my guilty conscience.
Richie has no idea who Eddie is beyond his name and that he's a nosy fucker, and yet he's already feeling sick at the idea of going through with his own suicide after Eddie's putting in so much effort to deter it. This man who he doesn't know is making him second guess this plan more than any internet forums were.
You'd be wasting your time.
It's my time. Eddie replies. So let me waste it.
Stop it. Stop, stop it.
Richie takes his face in his hands and rubs his eyes, hard. Puts his glasses back on. He should just block Eddie's number, end this right here and now. But he's so physically ill at the thought of Eddie, realizing what Richie had done, taking it upon himself that he wasn't enough to stop him. This random man is making Richie seriously second-guess himself, at least for the time being. But if not now, then when? What if he loses the nerve he'd built up, what if in a few days he's too chickenshit to go through with it like he's so close to doing now?
It's all so much more painful when somebody wants to insist they care. And so much more frustrating, because Richie truly wants someone to care, he really does, but he knows that Eddie won't give a damn about him anymore beyond their text conversation when he's satisfied with the outcome. It seems a waste to keep himself alive when he knows he'll be in the exact same emotional state tomorrow.
His phone vibrates again, making him realize it's been a few minutes since he last answered.
Just tell me what's wrong. There's no harm in telling me, a total stranger, right?
Richie sort of agrees with that logic. But there's something completely unattractive about being vulnerable with anybody, stranger or not. It's easier to type to him instead of talking, it's easier to let the words out through his fingers and not his voice. The tears can fall silently when he types and nobody can hear what it means in his voice.
What do you want to know? He types. My life doesn't and will continue to amount to nothing, I've got no friends, no living relatives, everybody who I think might be interested in me always jumps ship once they meet me in person, and oh yeah, I'm an abomination.
He deletes the last part, not wanting to explain what it means, he figures everything else is good enough, and sends. He doesn't stare at the phone this time, anxious for Eddie's reply. He gets one way faster than he would've thought.
You do now.
Do what?
Have a friend.
Richie laughs outwardly at this. For now.
What do you mean? Eddie replies. He even sends a confused emoji to boot.
You shouldn't get caught up with me. You'll decide I'm not worth it. I'd prefer if that were sooner rather than later.
Eddie's reply is swift. That's not happening. You're stuck with me now, Richie.
It's getting cold out now. Richie feels the cold right through the pullover he's wearing, the breeze wafting up against his stomach. He takes one last look down below him, standing up, and he decides it's time to go home. He'll try this again tomorrow.
Richie and Eddie text back and forth all evening, Richie reluctantly tells Eddie all the pitiful details of his life, or at least enough details that'll keep him happy. He doesn't reveal everything, some things are just too pathetic to talk about, even in text form.
It's around midnight when Richie falls asleep on his couch, phone perched beside his head, glasses sitting crooked on his face. The phone had been vibrating for a good half hour before it actually wakes Richie up. He stirs, picking it up, and his vision is hazy so he can't see the caller ID, but he picks it up, and he doesn't say anything for a moment.
"Hello? Rich?" It's Eddie. Richie groans sleepily in reply. He hears Eddie exclaim "thank fuck" underneath his breath. "Jesus Christ, Richie, are you okay? You haven't answered my texts."
"I fell asleep," Richie says breezily. His eyes are heavy with exhaustion. Even as tired as he is, he still says; "You sound like my girlfriend."
"I didn't know you had a girlfriend," Eddie says. His voice is uncharacteristically quiet. His voice no longer sounds pressed and desperate.
"I don't," Richie replies, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. You sound like my mother, though. "It's a joke. Ever heard of one?"
"Hardy har," Eddie says sarcastically. "Where are you right now?"
"Uh, in my house?" Richie replies, confused. Eddie is silent for a good minute, Richie is too tired to think too much about how it's because he's listening to the background noise to make sure what Richie says is true.
"Alright," Eddie says, satisfied. I'll let you get back to sleep now. Sweet dreams."
What a... soft thing to say. Eddie hangs up before Richie can say anything in reply. He is wonderfully perplexed, but not enough to not fall back asleep the second his back hits the mattress full of springs. It's two hours later, at precisely 3:42 when Richie wakes up again to his phone vibrating.
"Mhm-what?"
"Oh, good. You're alive." Eddie sounds relieved.
"Is that why you keep calling me?" Richie asks. "To make sure that I'm alive?"
"I don't find you particularly trustworthy yet, Rich."
Richie sighs heavily into the phone. "I'd want to kill myself less if I could sleep for a few hours without interruption."
"Dually noted. Goodnight, again." And Eddie hangs up. It takes Richie a few more minutes this time to fall back asleep, but eventually, he does, his phone cradled in his palm.
It's 5:34 when the next call comes. Richie jerks awake, his phone having stuck itself to his cheek in his sleep, vibrating against his skin.
"I swear to fucking god," He answers, not caring if it isn't Eddie who's calling him, he'll be dead by tomorrow anyhow, but it's most certainly Eddie who must be calling at this ungodly hour.
"Hi again." Is Eddie's reply. His voice is deeper, several octaves in fact, that the sound of his voice makes Richie feel like he's just been entirely undressed.
"I'm alive, congratulations! Please stop calling me."
"Not likely." And he hears Eddie yawning.
"Why are you awake?" Richie asks, annoyed.
There's silence on the other end. After a moment, Eddie says; "I had an alarm."
"What the fuck are you waking yourself up at this hour for?" Richie can't think of a single goddamn thing he'd ever even consider waking up this early in the morning for.
"To make sure that you're okay." Wait, he's been setting alarms to wake himself up just to call and check on me? "And now that I have, I'm going to go back to sleep."
"You shouldn't tell me that you're going to sleep, not smart." Richie jokes, trying to override the insistent pounding of his heart once he'd realized Eddie was awake purely because of him.
"Fuck, Richie! That's not funny!" And Richie laughs at Eddie's disapproval, and Eddie says; "I'm serious! There's no way I can go back to sleep now!"
"I sincerely wish that was my problem," Richie replies, sarcastically. He hears Eddie groan on the other end.
"Do we have to hang up?" his voice is soft when he asks, it makes Richie swallow thickly. "I mean, you can mute me, but I'd feel better going to sleep knowing you were on the other end."
This request should be weird, Eddie has known him for less than a few hours, it sounds like something you'd say to your boyfriend. Girlfriend Richie corrects. The word leaves a bad taste in his mouth every time he applies it to himself.
"Richie?" his voice sounds almost nervous. Richie must not have answered for a bit. "Yeah," he replies, clearing his throat. "Okay."
"Okay." He can almost swear that he can hear the smile in Eddie's voice when he says it. They don't say goodnight, but he can hear Eddie shuffling around in his bed, likely getting into a comfy position in his blankets. The sound makes Richie's stomach flip uncomfortably, listening to a man in his bed, and Eddie said he could mute him, but he doesn't. He should, but he doesn't. After a while, Richie can hear the soft sounds of Eddie's breathing shallowing out, he likely fell asleep again. And Richie lays in his own bed, hearing the voices telling him he's reverting, he needs to make an emergency call to Chris tomorrow, so he doesn't keep going down this road, listening to another man in his bed while he's in his own. He knows it's just as bad as sexual intent. But he can't bring himself to mute Eddie, and the next morning, after he'd dozed off to the sound of Eddie's breathing, he didn't call Chirs, and he ignored his mother's calls.
The next few days go on like that, Eddie calls Richie every night before he goes to bed, and they fall asleep to the sound of each other's breathing. Eddie doesn't hang up on Richie unless he absolutely has to, still on call when he's driving people around during his shifts, he mutes Richie so his customers don't know he's on a call, but every time he drops them off he unmutes himself to ask if Richie's okay. And he chats with Richie until he has another person to drive, and repeat.
The only time Richie gets to himself is between Eddie's driving, and he relishes in the customers that have him driving more than a half-hour to any given place. Richie uses that time sitting in the bathtub, one that hasn't been scrubbed in what looks like centuries. But he doesn't care, because he's just making it dirty anyway. He sits in lukewarm water, he hardly ever uses hot water when bathing, it stings more, and he watches the water around him turn red. Sometimes Eddie will come back when he's still in the tub, his voice blaring from his phone on the edge of the sink.
"I'm just making lunch," Richie said once, the other time he said he was making his bed. Something he never did, and he hardly ever made himself lunch either, but it satisfied Eddie, and Richie nodded or hummed while Eddie told him about his day. Eddie really liked to talk, and Richie really loved to listen. Eddie still asked him about himself, to which Richie gave very vague answers. Eddie seemed satisfied to just talk to Richie in any context, which made Richie feel like he could both laugh and vomit.
One day, it was a week or two later, Eddie asked him.
"What do you look like, Rich?"
"Like shit," Richie replied, without missing a beat. Eddie didn't laugh.
"I'm being serious, I want to visualize who I'm talking to." Neither of them had ever mentioned just video chatting, and if Eddie brought it up, Richie would promptly shut it down.
"You're the one who insists on talking to random people you butt dial."
"Oh my g- for the last time, I didn't butt dial you! I don't even have back pockets!" Eddie snaps at him. Richie stands in the middle of his living room, phone in hand. He looks out the window, wondering if anybody has found his rope yet. He can buy more if it's not there. Whenever Eddie grows bored of him, he'll go right back up to the roof and off himself the way he should have before. Every day he's still alive is more painful than the last, the only thing that keeps him here is Eddie. Eddie, who wouldn't be able to sleep at night if he knew Richie had killed himself between phone calls.
"So?" Richie blinked, he had spaced out and hadn't replied again. "So?" He repeated, mockingly. He heard Eddie heavy sigh right into the microphone. The hair on the back of Richie's neck stood.
"I'll tell you what I look like, but then you have to tell me too," Eddie said. Richie hummed in agreement, he didn't really plan on actually keeping up his end of this bargain, but he was curious to be able to visualize who was on the other side of his phone.
"I'm 5'9, it's average height for adult males, just so we're clear. My eyes are brown, so is my hair, it's short, straight, I like to comb in but it's naturally curly. My face is sort of long, I guess? My eyes are a weird distance from each other." He paused. Richie was caught onto every word he said, building a person in his mind from his descriptions. "I don't know what else to say. Your turn."
Richie took a breath. "I'm 6'3," he said, easy enough.
"Okay. And?" Eddie pressed.
"My hair is... dark brown. My eyes are brown. I have glasses. Can I be done now?"
"What's your hair look like?" Eddie asked. Richie's cheeks burned at the question, he wasn't sure why, nor why describing himself was so utterly painful. If Eddie grew bored of babysitting him, a voice through a phone, that was one thing. If he knew what he looked like, visualized him, and didn't like it, that was something else entirely.
"It's curly. Grown out a bit, neck-length." My cheeks are too caved and my eyes are too big and I grow hair everywhere and it's disgusting and I can't wear T-shirts because my arms are disgusting and all of my pants hang weird off of my hips and I'm so undeniably ugly I know every description of me never does just how truly disgusting I am justice, and I-
"Richie?"
Richie blinked, "Sorry," he said, the first thing he thought of.
"It's okay, you just kind of, went quiet for a bit. Are you okay?" Eddie asked. Richie shook his head, but he said: "Yeah, I'm good." He had a headache. Sometimes he got dizzy when he shed so much blood, and a headache followed soon after. It was more of a frequent occurrence in the last few weeks.
"I want to meet you," Eddie said, and Richie damn near dropped his phone. No way was his first thought. Richie hadn't seen another face in close to three weeks, had only spoken to Eddie through his phone. If Eddie met him, he would surely decide Richie wasn't worth it. Richie already knew it, but it was too much to think of Eddie realizing it too, too much to think of the disgusted facial expression he'd make when he saw him.
"I know you're already formulating a plan to say no, but hear me out," Eddie said before Richie could reply. "We can meet anywhere you want, even if it's just for a moment, just once. Please, Richie." The way Eddie said his name made Richie's heart swell, and he took several deep breaths to try and calm his heartbeat down. This feeling is for a woman, this feeling is for a woman. He chanted it to himself over and over again. Because although Richie didn't like to reveal too much about himself, Eddie had somehow coaxed quite a bit out of him anyway. How he'd been diagnosed with depression, how in-debt he was, how he hadn't eaten anything but microwavable noodles for weeks. But there were some things Eddie didn't know, how his mother had hidden his medication, insisting it would stunt his progress, make him forget what he'd been taught, how there were multiple videos of him on youtube, on stage, shaking as he tried to make the audience laugh with the only jokes he could think of and they'd all booed at him.
But Eddie didn't know a lot of things, the thing Richie couldn't say out loud without dry heaving. If he met Eddie, he was so sure that Eddie would know immediately, would see it on him like a plague. Would spit on him, tell him he was disgusting, tell him that he never thought of him like that, you disgusting f-
"I want to know that you're okay, to see it with my own eyes. Please." Eddie was begging him at this point. And even with every voice in Richie's voice screaming to tell him no, he couldn't say no to Eddie with his voice like that. He couldn't say no to Eddie then, either, couldn't off himself like he should have when Eddie had said he wouldn't be able to handle the guilt.
"Okay," he said.
As much as Richie hated the idea of meeting in a public place where anybody could see him, could look at him and know what he was, he hated, even more, the idea of meeting Eddie in his apartment, it was a complete mess, and from what he'd learned about the other man thus far, it was that Eddie liked neat and clean. And if he were to meet Eddie at his place, he didn't know where any of the exists were, that thought had made him shudder even though it wasn't cold, and so Richie had decided the Starbucks directly across the block from his apartment complex would be the best place to meet. He knew where both exists were, the route home, a shortcut route home, and another route home, though that one was longer. Just in case.
For the first time in weeks, he had taken care to wash his clothes, he had taken a shower instead of a bath, he had tried to rope in his curls as much as he possibly could, they'd become even more unmanageable after he'd given himself a sloppy trim, twisting in any which way over his face, but at least now it wasn't grossly long and unwashed. He wore a pair of jeans he'd had since he was a teenager, he fit into them now having lost weight, faded black with a hole in the knee from wear. He spent far too long in the mirror comparing two Hawaiin style button-ups, one that was navy blue covered with pineapples, the other a light orange decorated in cartoon dogs and string lights. He went with the navy blue one, buttoning it overtop his white T-shirt, grabbing his favourite jacket to go overtop, he never went anywhere without that jacket, the sleeves were long enough that they hid his fingertips if he wasn't stretching. His sleeves wouldn't ride up.
Richie couldn't place why he was so concerned over the way he would look to Eddie, besides the fear of abandonment from a man he hadn't known three full weeks, there was something more than that, something he couldn't think about, he was afraid of it, afraid of what it meant, afraid of what that made him, afraid of, most of all, how Eddie would think of him.
They were supposed to meet at 3 pm, in between when Eddie had driving gigs. Richie stood on his balcony at 2:54, watching the people go by the building and seeing if he could pinpoint anyone as Eddie. From what he knew about Eddie, he thought that he would be a person who shows up early for everything. But after people watching, at 2:58, Richie decided he couldn't put it off any longer and left the building, taking another route as to not walk directly across the street, in case Eddie saw him before he was ready to be seen. When he walked in, there weren't many people, and he was sure that none of them were Eddie. He sat himself on a chair opposite another chair with a small table between them, crossing his legs, hunching his shoulders, trying to fall into himself as much as he could. He looked around the place, trying to look like he wasn't looking like he wasn't expecting someone.
He heard a car door shut distantly, and when he looked to his left, out the window, he saw a man exiting a black car, a car that had been sitting in the parking lot since Richie had been people-watching. He had thought that there was nobody in it, but whoever owned it was now walking in. And as soon as Richie saw him, a few feet in front of him, he knew that this man was Eddie.
He was small, his hair was dark and neatly combed, he wore dress pants and a blue collared shirt with a darker blue knitted sweater overtop. And he only looked around for a moment before he spotted Richie, walking towards him. He wasn't even two feet into his walk over when he started smiling. Richie's heart stuttered, he couldn't do anything, he was stuck to his spot. He just stared as Eddie approached. It was then he realized just how attached he'd grown to this stranger's voice on the other end of his phone, because now that he could see Eddie, truly, in the flesh, it was harder to pretend he didn't feel something he wasn't supposed to.
Eddie stopped and stood for a moment, his smile was almost infectious, his face was the brightest of anybody Richie had ever seen. It was like he didn't remember he was supposed to sit until a few moments went by. He sat in the opposite chair, he sat differently than Richie. He put his elbows on his spread knees and watched Richie, face in his hands. Up close, Richie could see the freckles along his neck, dipping below his shirt collar.
Neither of them said anything for a while. Eddie just stared at him, like he was in shock, and Richie squirmed uncomfortably under his gaze.
"Eddie," Richie said, finally. At that moment, he didn't feel like bugging Eddie about how he was staring, he found his mouth to be dry, the only thing he could think of saying was Eddie's name. to make sure it was really him.
"Richie," Eddie said like he had been waiting for Richie to speak that whole time. Then he leaned back, his finding it's way to the back of his neck. The position gave Richie ample room to see the growing muscles along Eddie's arms, even through the fabric of his sweater. "Sorry, I know you would've liked to not be the first one here. I just, I have a bit of social anxiety, I wanted to make sure you actually showed up so I didn't look stupid sitting here."
"Were you sitting in your car 'till you saw me?" Richie asked, causing Eddie to blush.
"Yeah, uh, sorry." He laughs awkwardly. "It's hard to explain why, I have this thing, it feels like real fear when I'm in public by myself. I just-" he pauses, his face looking like he's considering his next words carefully. "I find it hard to face my fear by myself. I don't know if any of this makes sense."
"It does," Richie replies, softly. In a way, what Eddie's talking about feels familiar to him, strangely so. More than that, this is the first he's hearing of Eddie having anxiety, he doesn't want to say he doesn't make sense and have him shut down. He wants to know more about Eddie, anything that he's willing to tell him.
It's been a long time since he's put this much emotional investment into any person, his stomach churns uncomfortably, the feeling familiar to him. The fact that Eddie is a man instead of a woman, like Richie is supposed to be looking for, gives him the nagging feeling that he's constantly doing something wrong. It's hard to look Eddie in the eyes, he wishes he would've bought a drink to hide his face behind. If he had the money for it, that is.
Eddie just looks at him, a soft smile on his face. Instinctively, Richie crosses his arms over himself, wanting to hide from Eddie's intense gaze.
"I'm glad you showed up."
Richie snorts. "What, you really think I regularly show people up?"
"No," Eddie replies, earnestly. The softness of his features surprises Richie, yet doesn't surprise him at the same time. Eddie is as he pictured him to look like, but in some ways, he's completely different. His lips are thin, he has creases on either side of his mouth from smiling so much, his eyebrows are lower on his forehead than Richie's, like he could be perpetually frowning if he weren't so smiley. His dark brown eyes are framed with long eyelashes, a slightly lighter colour than the hair on his eyebrows. "You're just so intent on hating me, I take my small victories."
"I don't hate you," Richie says, defensively, before he can really think about it, think about how Eddie could've gotten such an impression.
Eddie looks taken aback. "You always complain whenever I call you. You don't even say hi when you answer, just say "What is it now, Eds?" You always tell me to shut up when I ask you any question, and honestly, you're just an asshole in every general sense."
Richie is silent for a while, unsure of what to say. Eddie is right, in any case. Now that Richie really thinks about it, he feels bad about being such a dick, but really, it's all just a defence mechanism. He was determined to push Eddie away before he could leave himself, not let him get too close, and yet, Eddie had weasled his way in anyway.
Why do you even put up with me then? Richie wants to ask, but all he says is; "I'm sorry."
"It's fine, I've grown used to it. I think if you were nice to me, I wouldn't have as much fun talking to you." Eddie chuckles when he says this, but all Richie hears is you're a temporary amusement until I get annoyed with you.
"Do you want a drink?" Richie's pulled from his thoughts by Eddie's question. He's got his hands on the chair, bracing himself to stand. His hands are so tiny, just like the rest of him, his hands look perfectly moisturized and soft. Richie wonders, briefly, how his fingers would fit in between Eddie's, before the alarm in his mind starts sounding and he realizes he shouldn't be having those thoughts, shouldn't entertain them when they arise.
"I'll just have whatever you have," Richie replies, his ears ringing from the sounds that are coming from nowhere but his own mind.
It was a bad decision because Eddie comes back with two cookie crumble frappes, with a shit ton of pumps of caramel syrup. It turns out that he has the biggest sweet-tooth of anybody Richie has ever met, whereas Richie drinks his coffee completely black and used to gag over anything covered in powdered sugar. After awhile of blending the whipped cream into the drink with his straw, Eddie just takes Richie's and drinks it too.
They spend the better part of an hour chatting somewhat comfortably, Eddie laughs heartily at things Richie says that the studio would've told him was miraculously unfunny. Richie deflects Eddie's questions about his life with questions of his own, careful to keep his voice as uninterested as he can, even though he's been thinking of his questions for weeks since Eddie's been talking to him in-between his driving gigs.
The look Eddie gives him when he doesn't answer one of his questions, well, it makes Richie wants to answer them. But Eddie already knows so much, and as selfish as it is, Richie doesn't want Eddie to go anywhere. He certainly will if he knew just how deep Richie was in his self-depreciation, just how bad it was inside of his mind. The less Eddie knows, the better.
But when Eddie asks him what he does for work, thinking he's sly in phrasing it another way than the last few dozen times he's asked, Richie actually answers him.
"I got fired a month ago."
"What?" Eddie is, presumably, more shocked that Richie answered him than the fact that he got fired. "Why?"
"I worked at an open-mic night club, organizing the order people went on, made sure everything went smoothly, all that. I wanted to do my own gigs, I wanted to be a comedian." He paused. Want to be a comedian. "They let me do a few stand-up gigs, none of them landed with the audience. I guess I was so bad I was bringing the business down, I didn't even have to be doing a gig for someone to up and walk out, just from seeing me backstage, thinking I'd be going up, I guess. So yeah, I got fired." He shrugs like it's no big deal, but saying all of that out loud, makes him want to cry.
"None of those people know what they're talking about," Eddie says, fiercely. Richie is almost terrified of the intensity of Eddie's words, the expression on his face. "You're the funniest person I've ever known. But I gotta ask, you've been out of a job for a month?"
"Well, yeah. I didn't think that I'd-" That I'd still be alive by now. He doesn't say it, but Eddie seems to understand anyway. He doesn't say anything, but Richie can see the way his face falls, and he regrets ever almost saying it. This is a weird feeling, caring about what you say around this person who cares about whether you're alive or dead.
"Shit, I gotta go, I've got someone waiting for me to pick them up." Eddie puts his phone in his pocket from where he'd been looking at it. He stands, offers his hand to Richie. Richie takes it tentatively, Eddie's hands are warm where his are cold. His grip is strong too, he all but hoists Richie from his seat. "They can wait a minute or two, you live close, right? Let me walk you home."
"No, that's okay," Richie says, but Eddie is already leading him out the door by a hand on his elbow. He knows Eddie won't give up, no matter how many times he says no. The little bugger is relentless like that.
Richie leads him to the crosswalk a few feet away, crossing the street with Eddie in tow. He walks through a few backyards, hands in his pockets, and Eddie is rigid in a way that makes Richie think he doesn't really like the idea of trespassing, but he does this all the time and nobody's called him out yet. Finally, they reach the door to his apartment complex. Richie doesn't look up towards the roof, for fear of Eddie looking too, but his neck burns from where he wants to look, badly, to see if the rope is still there, if it isn't too late.
"Well, thanks for walking me home," Richie says, awkwardly. Eddie shakes his head, and Richie's heart sinks.
"I have to make sure that you get inside safely," Eddie says, standing, unmoving, as Richie reluctantly unlocks the door with his key. His heart is hammering, he wonders what this is, some sort of power move? He tries not to think about what Eddie's intentions are, what it could mean, the nobility he recognizes in pretty much any teen movie. But those had been a boy and a girl, he doesn't dare think about Eddie thinking of this situation as anything remotely like those. He can't.
His door is on the fifth floor, third door to the left. He turns around to say something, but Eddie is holding his arms out toward him, and Richie steps into them, and Eddie gives him the tightest hug around his waist he's ever received. And Richie doesn't realize until too late that his back isn't against the door anymore. But finally, Eddie waves at him, even though he's right in front of him, and he leaves. After they'd both seen the eviction notice on the door.
"Do you still want to kill yourself?"
It's two days after they met for the first time. Eddie called Richie like normal. Richie tried to be his regular grouchy self with Eddie, but ever since their conversation at Starbucks, Richie can't help being conscious of how likeable he finds himself on a moment's basis. Not very, but especially not when he's being a dick to Eddie for no reason, if only for his own protection.
He doesn't know what to say, at first. He knows what the answer is, but he knows that it's one that Eddie isn't hoping to hear.
"Why?" He asks instead.
He hears Eddie take a long breath into the receiver before he says; "I know this is sudden, you barely know me and all that, but I was thinking that- y'know, since you're gonna lose your place in- how long? This week? Something like that. Anyway, I hope that you don't want to kill yourself because I'd love it if you lived. Anyway, would you maybe want to live with me?"
Richie doesn't say anything as Eddie continues to ramble, he's only half-listening to him anyway. The nervous way that Eddie just keeps spouting words makes Richie's heart race.
Live with Eddie? As roommates? Is he offering his home to me out of pity? Probably, just because he knows I'm a few days away from eviction.
The part of Richie's brain that he usually listened to in times like these was telling him not to accept, his getting evicted was a perfect excuse to just do it, to off himself and get it over with. But it was so much harder now with Eddie offering him a place to stay. It was all hard, with Eddie there, barely ever letting Richie out of his his range. The selfish part of him was telling him to accept the offer, live a better life than the one he was now, because he knew he could be happy with Eddie. He would be happy with Eddie. But would Eddie be happy with him? It was selfish of him to take the offer, to make Eddie put up with him more than he already was.
But the selfish part of him won anyway.
"Okay."
Richie doesn't have a lot of possessions to pack up. Eddie comes over in the evening to help him, even though Richie had insisted that he didn't, but did anyway, because he never listened to Richie when he didn't want him in his boundaries. If Eddie felt any sort of disgust over the state of Richie's apartment, he didn't say anything. Richie had thrown out the majority of the empty food containers strung about, stuffed all the laundry on the floor into a suitcase and stuffed it in his closet. When they lifted his sad, faded excuse for a love-seat, Richie almost dropped it on Eddie's foot in his haste to cover up all the wrappers that had made their way under it.
Eddie had furniture in his place, and Richie didn't need the well-used seat anymore, so he gave it to his neighbour down the hall who was down on funds herself, and the only furniture they took with them were the two mattresses Richie made into a bed. He didn't have any dressers anyway, his clothes simply organized by piles along the wall, no bookshelf, because he had no books to inhabit one with. He had a few garbage bags full of his clothes and linens and two boxes full of dishes and a few of his favourite action figures, and then they were up and out of the apartment.
Eddie didn't say anything during the drive, Richie's knee was bouncing with anxiety, what if Eddie had decided just then that he didn't want Richie anywhere near him anymore? He was most certainly offering his home out of pity, but it wasn't like Richie had any other options. He could've moved back in with his mother, but then he thought about his father, and there was no way he'd go back into his childhood home after he fought so hard to escape it. And if Eddie grew tired of him, it would be easier to leave everything behind then, when he had nothing and nobody to lose. He was just waiting for Eddie to give up on him.
"Do you want pizza? To celebrate?" Eddie asked him, not taking his eyes off of the road.
Celebrate what? I'm nothing worth celebrating.
"Sure."
It was the evening after Richie had moved in, they were sitting on Eddie's couch, a velvet navy blue, undoubtedly brand new. Eddie had a rather nice house with a lot of nice and expensive-looking possessions. Every room of the house was entirely spotless. Richie had been practically tiptoeing between the guest room, his room, for the time being, the bathroom, and the living room, when Eddie wanted him. He was afraid to tarnish anything in Eddie's home. The first thing he'd noticed when he moved in was that there were no knives in the kitchen, no pills to speak of in the bathroom cabinet, no razors in the shower. Eddie had completely baby-proofed his house. They were eating leftover pizza, watching some cooking special on the food channel, but neither of them was really paying attention.
"Did you sleep last night?" Eddie asked him. His leg was crossed on top of the leg he had folded under him, plate balanced on his thigh.
Richie wasn't sure what to say. It had been the first night, since more than a month ago, where he wasn't on call with Eddie. Why would he be, when he lived with him? But the room had felt quiet, in his apartment, he had grown used to the sound of cars whizzing past and honking throughout the night. In Eddie's house, the night was silent.
"Did you?" Richie deflected, not wanting to tell Eddie that he hadn't been able to sleep a wink last night.
Eddie glared at him, but his face softened almost as fast as the glare had been there in the first place. Eddie only used a few facial expressions when addressing Richie, and a soft smile was the most frequent one, like one that you'd use when trying to coax a shy child. "Not really." He admitted with a shrug. His leg was stretched out that it almost touched Richie's, even though they were at opposite ends of the couch. Richie curled his legs up into himself instinctively.
"It was the first time I wasn't listening to you snoring," Richie cringed when he said it, "it was weird."
"Yeah," Richie muttered in agreement. But it felt weird to suggest they should call each other just to listen to the other breathe. Richie wouldn't admit that listening to Eddie sleeping helped him sleep too, but they lived together now. And there was no reason that they should've gotten so used to it in the first place. Richie didn't know what to suggest to fix it, and even if he had, he wouldn't have said anything.
"You can take your sweater off, you know," Eddie said, looking at Richie with a caring look on his face. "You live here now."
"That's alright, I'm okay," Richie said. Eddie was wearing a simple T-shirt and gym shorts, it was really warm most of the evenings, and the air conditioning wasn't quite up to par with the heat. He had seen Eddie looking at him yesterday, he hadn't said anything, but Richie had flushed under his gaze, it was only a matter of time before he would bring it up. Of course, Richie was sweating like a motherfucker under his hoodie, but there was no way that he was going to take it off.
"Whatever it is, Rich, I don't care. You're safe here." Eddie said it in the most tender voice, like he was addressing a traumatized child. And the thing was that, Richie believed him. And that terrified him. To think that Eddie wouldn't immediately kick him out of his house once he saw what covered the entirety of most of both of his arms, he would've rather that Eddie were disgusted, a reasonable reaction. Richie was scared, Eddie was so good, too good for him, Richie was nothing in the grand scheme of Eddie.
"I-I'm tired," Richie said, standing. He didn't look at Eddie as he turned and retired to his own room.
Richie was laying on his back in his bed, watching the way the light from outside reflected across the ceiling. He'd been laying there for hours, he hadn't heard a single thing from Eddie since he'd heard the sink running and the TV shut off. He assumed he had gone to sleep. Richie knew he had another sleepless night ahead of him.
And then he heard the sound of his door opening, softly, and he sat up in a haste. It was hard to see in the dark, but he knew it was Eddie as soon as his face broke from behind the door.
"You're awake," Is all he said. Richie said nothing, just staring at him, his heart pounding, wondering what he should do, wondering if he could tell Eddie to leave a room in his own house.
"You can't sleep either?" Richie shook his head, no, and somehow Eddie took that as his cue to move in closer. Richie stiffened, his mind immediately going to the shirt he was wearing, ratty and ripped, how he was wearing nothing else but his underwear. From what he could see, Eddie was wearing a shirt and pyjama bottoms. He watched as Eddie approached the bed, too afraid to say anything. He stopped just at the foot, in the dark, Richie could see the soft, calming smile on his face, the crinkles at the corners of his mouth. "I got used to sleeping with you. With my phone, I mean, not you actually." It sounded like Eddie was nervous. Was he? Richie couldn't tell. It was so dark, he was so terrified.
"Would it be weird if I just, asked to sleep here, tonight? I can sleep on the floor, I don't care, I just- it's weird. Sleeping, or trying to, without you."
Richie knew what Eddie meant. He couldn't sleep without Eddie either. "It's your house." He said, he hated how broken his voice sounded.
Eddie was frowning, he could almost see through the darkness. His voice was suddenly serious. "This is your room, Rich. I'm not going to do anything you don't want me to do. If you don't want me here, I'll leave. All you have to do is say the word."
Richie didn't know what to do, could barely think clearly. He wasn't going to say no to Eddie, not when he couldn't get a good night sleep without hearing Eddie's breathing, soft beside his ear. He couldn't let him sleep on the floor, but the only other option was the bed, next to him. Richie was shaking just with the thought of Eddie sleeping directly next to him.
"Go to sleep." Is all Richie said. He shuffled over to make room for Eddie in the bed, his body trembling, but he covered himself up in blankets so Eddie wouldn't notice.
But Eddie did notice. There was nothing Richie ever said or did that Eddie didn't notice. He came over and climbed in on the other side, inching himself under the blankets. He stayed a respectable distance from where Richie lay, but the bed was only so large. Richie lay there for a while, listening to Eddie breathe, he couldn't stop trembling, and he thought surely Eddie could feel it, but he didn't say anything, but he could feel his concerned gaze on him. A few minutes later, Eddie's breathing evened, and Richie thought that he had fallen asleep. He slowly looked over, to see Eddie already looking at him.
"You're okay," Eddie said, his gaze never wavering. He didn't touch him, didn't try to move in closer, he seemed comfortable and relaxed where Richie was rigid and trembling, yet Eddie was taking up the least amount of room on the bed. Richie fell asleep to Eddie murmuring that same phrase to him, over and over.
They were in the grocery store when Richie watched Eddie have a panic attack for the first time.
They were looking at lettuce, Richie was barely paying attention, everything was fine until Eddie had looked behind him, and his face had turned white as a sheet. And then he looked back, reaching for something in his pocket, but coming up empty. "Fuck." It all seemed to happen in a fraction of a second. Eddie, perfectly fine, Eddie, intaking breath rapidly, dry heaving while other shoppers stared at him.
"Eddie?" Richie asked, and in between heaves, Eddie was saying something that Richie couldn't interpret.
Richie abandoned their basket, hardly filled anyway, and dragged Eddie out of the store, setting up around the back, muttering "Sit down Eddie, it's okay." Eddie sat against the concrete, his chest heaving with every breath. Richie had no idea what was happening, no idea what to do, until Eddie was shoving something into his hand that was pressed into his jacket pocket. He extended it, taking what turned out to be Eddie's car keys. And then he heard what he had been trying to say.
"Inhaler." He gasped. Richie understood, then. He sprinted to Eddie's car, unlocked it, grabbed the inhaler out of the dashboard, that he'd noticed but hadn't asked about, and ran back to Eddie, colour returning to his face but his breathing still hard to come by. He brought the inhaler to Eddie's mouth, and Eddie took a few long puffs of air. He sat for a while, catching his breath, and then he said "thanks."
"Are you okay?" Richie asked. Eddie waved him off, standing up on his wobbly legs, bracing himself against the wall. "M' fine.
Richie didn't offer his shoulder for Eddie to brace himself on and Eddie didn't ask. They walked to the car and drove off, the groceries forgotten. Richie couldn't stomach the idea of going back in there, at least for today, after that, and it seemed like Eddie felt the same way.
"I'm sorry," Eddie said after a few moments of driving in silence. "About that. It doesn't usually get that bad."
"It's okay," Richie said, softly. He knew by now that Eddie had anxiety, but he'd never seen him have a full-blown panic attack before.
"I thought-" Eddie choked on a laugh, running his hands through his hair, embarrassed. Richie tried not to stare. "This is so fucking crazy. I just- I thought I saw my mother. She's been dead for like, a few years, and I still panicked, even knowing that she's dead."
"Isn't that fucked up?" He asked, he sounded amused, but Richie could see he was anything but.
"I'm sorry." Is all Richie could think to say. Eddie mumbled something like thanks, and all Richie thought about the way home was how Eddie's mother could have made him that panicked at the idea of seeing her. But he didn't ask, and he nodded mutely at everything Eddie said for the entire drive home.
When Richie had nightmares, which he did almost every night, he didn't wake up in a cold sweat, screaming or panting or gasping. He simply opened his eyes, his entire body shaking and his heart thudding out of his ribcage, the words he'd heard in his dream echoing loud enough for his ears to ring. The last few times Eddie had slept beside him, he didn't wake up. Richie just lay there shaking until he stopped and he could go back to sleep again. But tonight was different, because when Richie woke from his nightmare, he looked over, and Eddie was awake, staring at him.
"Richie? What's wrong, you're shaking." He asked as if Richie hadn't noticed that he was shaking.
"Nightmare," Richie said through gritted teeth, willing his body to stop trembling. He hardly remembered what his nightmare had consisted of, the entirety of him was focused on Eddie, not scaring Eddie, not letting Eddie find out just how terrible and broken he was.
They had switched to sleeping in Eddie's bed a few nights ago, because his bed was bigger, the distance between them farther, so Richie had to be shaking pretty hard for Eddie to notice in the dark. Eddie quickly got up and out of bed, his bare feet padding down the hall on the hardwood. Richie lay there, he couldn't fucking stop shaking, and he was sure that Eddie had just left, to sleep on the couch or in the guest room and away from Richie's crazy. But then, Eddie was coming back, he had something in his hands.
"Here," he said, coming over to Richie's side. "Sit up," it was an order, but his voice was gentle. Richie felt Eddie's hand between his shoulder blades helping him sit up. He sat himself up with his weight on his arm, and Eddie was putting something in his hand, moving his fingers to hold it so it wouldn't burn him. "Here you go, Richie." Eddie's voice was the most tender it had ever been as he, with his hand over top of Richie's holding the mug, coaxed Richie's shaking hand up to his mouth. His hands were still shaking badly, but Eddie hadn't filled the cup full. He took a tentative sip, it was tea, with absolutely nothing in it, just like he preferred. He took another sip, his heartbeat calming down, but then it started up again when Eddie softly moved a strand of curls from Richie's forehead.
"Thank you," Richie said after he'd drank all of it despite the fact that it was scalding against the back of his throat. What he really wanted to say was you're wasting so much of your time on me. But he didn't.
Eddie smiled at him, taking the cup from Richie's hands and placing it on the desk next to the bed. He normally would take dishes to sink immediately, but for some reason, he left it and crawled back into bed. Richie didn't lay back down immediately. And Eddie reached over and rubbed his back, comfortingly, and Richie let him.
Eventually, Eddie's hand motions slowed, and Richie realized he was falling asleep. He lay back down and shuffled under the covers, Eddie had moved his arm, but it still lay close to Richie's body. Once he'd settled, he lay facing Eddie, who's eyelids were lidded, but was gazing at him too. Richie watched as Eddie's hand moved under the covers between them, Eddie watched Richie watch him, watched Richie's reaction as his hand tentatively found the back of Richie's. Richie squeezed his eyes shut, resisted pulling away. Every fibre of him was screaming that he wasn't supposed to be doing this, he shouldn't like it. But he always had a hard time denying Eddie, especially Eddie who was sleepy.
Eddie's hand found Richie's. Richie spread his fingers, slowly, wondering if Eddie would pull away, feeling the coarse hair that grew from his wrist over his knuckles. But he didn't. His hand slowly, so slowly pushed against his, palm against palm, and slid his fingers in the space between Richie's. Richie's heart was thrumming through his ears, Eddie's grip on him was so soft, soft in case he'd pull away, but he didn't. And when Richie risked opening his eyes, Eddie's were closed, but he was smiling.
It was the second week of living with Eddie when Richie got a call from his mother that he actually answered.
"Richard! I've been trying to call you for weeks! Where are you?!"
She hadn't even waited for him to say hello. "I'm at home." He replied.
"No, you're not." She argued. "Your landlord said that you've been gone for two weeks."
"Wait, you're here? In New York?" Richie's stomach dropped.
"Of course I am! What choice do you give me when you don't answer my calls! I thought you were dead!" His mother had always had a flair for the dramatics. Still, he couldn't help the flicker of guilt that he felt for ignoring her calls. So it didn't even occur to him not to give his mother directions to Eddie's house.
By the time she had finally found her way through bustling New York to the small neighbourhood Eddie lived in, it was well into the evening and Eddie had gotten home an hour ago.
"I don't mind if your mother stays," Eddie said, once Richie had told him his mother had popped up for a surprise visit. He didn't mention the minor details, like how he wanted to cry just from the idea of having to see his mother after so many years away from her watchful gaze. But if he could suck it up, act like all was fine and dandy and convince her that he was doing well, she would leave, eventually.
The doorbell rang. Eddie stood up to answer it, because it was his house.
"Hi, Mrs. Tozier, come on in, Richie's just in here." The living room was a room over from the entryway, but Richie could see the shadows of Eddie, and then his mother, stepping through the doorway. A shiver ran through him, but he stood up obediently to greet her when she finally made her way to the living room, Eddie trailing behind her.
"Richie! My darling boy!" She practically squealed, opening her arms for a hug that Richie stepped into, pretending not to be hesitant about it. Eddie looked at him uncertainly from behind her, he knew something was wrong. He always knew, no matter what.
"Hi, mom." He mumbled into her shoulder.
She finally released him, leaning back to look at him. She was grinning, holding his shoulders tightly, like she couldn't believe that he was real. She hadn't been this excited to see him since... since-
"Would you like a drink?" Eddie asked, awkwardly, because he was a good host.
"Water will do just fine, thank you, young man." She replied. Eddie went to the kitchen to bring her back a glass of water. Once he'd left, her act immediately dissipated. "We need to talk." She said, simply, leading Richie to another room in the house, one he hadn't dare step foot into yet.
Richie followed his mother until she stopped and promptly turned around to face him. He startled, stopping in his tracks.
"You should've told me you're not doing well, honey." The phrase should have been kind, sweet, but her voice was venomous. That's what she always did, chose carefully calculated words that wouldn't have anybody batting an eye, anybody that didn't hear the underlying tone of her voice. "You know what they taught you about making those sorts of friends," she lifted her chin in Eddie's direction, his back was turned to them from the kitchen they could see from the room they were in."Guilty by association."
"He's just my friend, I thought it was healthy for me to have other male friends, right?" Richie said, desperate. Her voice was a venomous whisper, while his was high-pitched and panicked. His mother, though he was far out of her nest, and her control over him, could make his life miserable if she thought he was having affairs he shouldn't be. If she thought he was hopeless, would she interfere when his father had pulled a knife on him like she had last time, or would she let it happen? A dead son was better than a gay one.
She 'tsked' at him. "Other normal male friends, honey. Look at him, do you see that? That man prefers the company of other men, he's living in sin, do you want him to bring his sinful lifestyle to you?" She paused, drawing closer to his ear. "Do you want him to brainwash you into thinking that being homosexual is normal? Do you... you don't want that man inside of you, Richie dear, do you?"
The question shocked Richie so much that his ears started to ring.
"Men shouldn't have other men inside of them. It's barbaric, unnatural, sinful. If you think about wanting another man inside of you, you need to repent, ask Jesus for forgiveness."
He hadn't heard the question since he was 19. "No, no, mom that's disgusting, I would never do that," he said, resolute. Back then, it had been easy to say no, I don't think about that, I don't want it when he had been asked almost every morning, because it had been true. They never asked the right questions, Richie thought of his erection buried deep inside another man, on top of him and working their hips into a shared motion. He never thought of another man being inside of him, but he sure thought about the other way around. Because his parents still had the barest amount of faith in him, in his morality, they never thought about how he could be the initiator, they were convinced that he was just corrupt.
But he was the predator, the one who, if anyone, would be the convincer, the corrupter. That single fact wore on his conscious all the time, and it came back in full force now. He glanced at Eddie, and he wanted to leave, never return Eddie's calls, never see him again. Because it wasn't Eddie his mother should be worrying about, it was him.
He thought about the way Eddie looked at him, held his hand between them when they went to sleep at night in the same bed, still called Richie every day between driving gigs. If his mother knew about any of it, she'd lose it. Richie hadn't given any of it much thought because it made his stomach churn. Eddie wasn't a homosexual, Richie didn't think so. And even if he was, he didn't like Richie that way, did he? And Richie didn't like him that way, either. He couldn't. It was barbaric, and they'd never be happy together. Nobody would let it happen, not the world, not Richie's mother, not Richie.
"I don't know, Richie. I don't think your father is going to be very happy with this situation you have here." She said.
Richie felt his heart jump to his throat. "No-no please, mom, don't tell dad. It's fine, you don't need to tell him b-because I'm not doing anything, I promise." His voice was so shaky and he hated how desperate he sounded. If she told his father that she thought he wasn't doing as well as she thought he was, he would- it was hard for Richie to think about, to remember. Whatever his father did in the past, it would be so much worse now. An adult gay son was different than a teenage gay son you could put into a program for sick, confused youth and fix.
"Fine Richie, but you need to call Chris." His mother hissed, before retreating when she saw Eddie leaving the kitchen. She sauntered back into the living room just as Eddie arrived with her glass of water. She fed him some bullshit about having to get back to her hotel room because she was nervous to drive in the dark, but Richie wasn't really listening. He knew she just wanted to be out of the house, away from Eddie, because she was positively disgusted by him.
She hugged Richie goodbye, and Richie felt like he was on autopilot when he hugged her back. Eddie offered her a hand to shake and she didn't take it. Richie didn't hear her leave, didn't hear Eddie talking to him, didn't see the concerned look he was giving him.
"Gotta- be right back," Richie said, and he all but sprinted to the bathroom to dry heave into the toilet.
Eddie had asked him what was wrong a few dozen times, but after a while, he must have realized that Richie wasn't going to say anything but "nothing," or "God, why are you so obsessed with me?" because he stopped asking altogether. Richie didn't want to hurt Eddie, so he crawled into bed beside him as usual. Eddie didn't try to hold his hand again, and he was grateful. He lay there, practically at the edge of the bed, just so he could be as far away from Eddie as possible, as much distance between their bodies as there could be. When he thought Eddie had fallen asleep, he quietly crept out from under the covers and went to lay and stare at the ceiling in his own bed.
Richie called Chris while Eddie was at work. He had an excuse for when Eddie would ask him why he'd hung up while he'd been driving, and Richie was just going to say that his phone had died.
His hands were shaking so violently as he held the phone to his ear. He listened to the phone ringing, hoping that he wouldn't get an answer, that he could say that he tried and alas, no dice. But after the third ring, a deep voice answered; "Hello?"
"Hey," Richie said, paused. "It's uh, it's Richie."
He waited, there was a beat of silence. And then; "Richie! Hey, Richie, how are you?"
"I'm good, man." He replied. The word slipped from his mouth without thought. That's how he'd convinced them the first time. Dude, man, bro. It was language that made you trustworthy to be around other men. Made you safe to be around.
"God, it's been so long! How long has it been, Rich?"
"Eight years, I think," Richie said. He didn't want Chris to get the impression that he knew exactly how long it'd been, but he did. He remembered the last time he'd spoken to Chris like it was last week.
"I believe in you, Richie." Chris was looking at him with something like adoration. He had told him that he would be the kid that he'd be the saddest to see released. He'd told him; "I have the most faith in you. You've made amazing progress. I don't think you'll be a danger, but those boys? They have a long way to go."
"This is my number, in case you feel like you're regressing, just in case. But I don't think you'll need it. You'll be a good boy, won't you, Richie?"
Richie was eighteen, and the nickname sent shivers up his spine, but he just nodded. And Christ put a brisk hand on his shoulder before moving it, letting Richie go. Six months, that was the longest Richie had ever gone without making a single joke.
"Your mother told me you'd be calling." And those were the words that made Richie's legs turn to jelly, make him almost collapse onto the floor. He knows.
"W-what'd she say?"
But Chris didn't answer him. "You're regressing. You remember what I thought you, don't you? I know it's hard, Rich, believe me, I know. I have to say no to homosexual thoughts every day. But the lord's wisdom is so much more fulfilling, he will be so proud of you, if you can fight it. I know you can."
I have to say no to homosexual thoughts every day.
"I know," Richie said, and he hated how shaky his voice was.
"But you're not going to keep following the lord's righteous path when you're surrounding yourself with people who don't care that they're going to burn in hell. They'll drag you down with them, right?"
"Right," Richie's voice was a whisper. He could feel the tears streaking down his cheeks, but at the same time, he felt nothing at all.
"Do the smart thing, Richie. The Lord sees everything that you do. Make him proud."
"I will." It was a lie. Nobody could ever be proud of him. Richie was agnostic, yet the threat of an all-knowing saviour still made him tense every muscle in his body, waiting for a smiting.
"And Rich? Call me, whenever you're not doing so hot. That's what I'm here for, isn't it?" Richie could hear the devilish smile behind his voice, and he couldn't register what he said in reply before he hit the 'end call' button with his shaky fingers.
Eddie knew immediately, the second he got home. He was like a bloodhound, could smell the misery in the air. Richie wasn't sure how he did it, but he did.
"Hey," Eddie said, taking one look at Richie's face, his tears had dried hours before, but the way Eddie rushed to him, you'd think he was still crying. "Hey, Richie, are you okay? What's wrong?"
He'd caught Richie about to head out. It would figure he'd be coming in as Richie was going out. He always came home a different time each day. Home. That was wrong, it was Eddie's house. And Richie couldn't walk around, in Eddie's house, surrounded by Eddie's stuff, smelling Eddie's scent. He would go crazy sitting here, thinking of his life that was revolved around having Eddie in it, thinking of causing his mother so much stress over having a son she never wanted, when he should've just killed himself after he hung up and saved both of them the trouble he'd caused, but especially Eddie. Eddie, who he had feelings that he shouldn't have for any man. Eddie, who looked at him so kindly, so concerned, invested in something that he'd never get an inch of satisfaction from.
Eddie, who was standing in front of him, his image was blurring, and Richie realized that he was crying again, his tears fogging up his glasses. Eddie reached up and took them off of his face. Richie said nothing as Eddie wiped them on his sweater, but then he didn't put them on. He just looked at Richie, a look that wasn't pity, was something with so much care, something Richie had seen traces of when they faced each other in the dark of Eddie's bedroom. Eddie's eyes were big and beautifully brown and saw nothing but Richie.
Eddie reached up to cradle Richie's cheek, his thumb swiping at salty tears. Richie didn't move, but he was backed up against the door, his shoulders hunched up almost up to his ears. "Eds" he whispered, maybe it was his fault, for using that nickname, for thinking that Eddie was close enough to kiss him, for wanting to kiss him. The way Eddie's thumb smoothed over his jaw so tenderly almost made Richie forget that this was wrong, so, so wrong, but he could feel his legs failing beneath him. Eddie just gazed at him, his other hand on Richie's shoulder.
And he was leaning in, and Richie held his breath, thinking no, no don't let him, you're disgusting if you do. Filthy, you're going to die. Better off dead. Dead, dead, dead. But Eddie's lips were on his, and they were gentle and soft, and Richie was pushing back, his hands found the center of Eddie's chest, and he wasn't even thinking when he shoved him away so hard that Eddie hit the wall opposite and stumbled.
And Richie turn and ran.