Archive of Our Own ^beta

December, 1990

I was following the pack, all swallowed in their coats
With scarves of red tied 'round their throats
To keep their little heads from falling in the snow
And I turned 'round and there you go

“Eddie!”

Eddie turns around at the sound of his name, eyebrows pinched up even as he knows exactly who is behind him. As if he wouldn’t recognize that voice anywhere.

Sure enough, he quickly catches sight of Richie bounding toward him, cheeks tinged pink, breath coming out in foggy gusts from the cold. He’s running with no real concern for where he’s planting his feet, an especially foolhardy undertaking given the state of the ice-slicked sidewalks.

“Richie, watch your-” Eddie tries to say, but Richie’s already got one foot sliding out from under him, slipping on an innocuous patch of black ice. He manages to save himself with an abrupt shift of body weight and pinwheeling arms, a move that’s altogether a more embarrassing spectacle than the act of actually falling would have been, but he grins at Eddie with all his teeth when he manages to stay upright, braces glinting in the glare of the snow.

Richie rights himself and picks his way over to where Eddie is waiting for him, trying his best to look not at all concerned for Richie’s wellbeing. He’s optimistic that one day he’ll get better at it.

Richie is careful now though, watching where the soles of his Chucks land. Eddie cringes as he trudges through a particularly wet looking puddle of slush, biting back on the diatribe cautioning against the perils of wet feet that’s wrestling its way up his throat.

When Richie finally makes it over to him, he huffs out a deep breath and says, “Eddie,” with a sunny smile.

“Richie,” Eddie returns, mouth twisting in a stubborn sort of grin.

“You weren’t at your locker.”

“I was at the library,” Eddie answers apologetically, hands gripping tight at the straps of his backpack. 

“Nerd alert,” Richie says, hoisting his own bag up on one shoulder. “Last day before break and you’re in the library? You’ve been spending too much time with Ben, dude.”

Eddie scowls at him. “I had to return my books, dipshit. It’s not like I’ll get a chance to later.”

Richie blinks at him from behind his magnified lenses, mouth pressed into a tight line. Eddie can almost see the gears turning in his head, mulling over all the things he’d like to say but ultimately won’t. 

Bev leaving town was something they all hated, but understood the circumstances necessitating her departure. Bill following the next summer was a harder blow for the surprise of it. Ben’s mother began talking about job opportunities out west right around the time Eddie’s mother started hinting that it may do them some good to be closer to family. When Eddie had first told Richie that his mother was moving them away, down to New York to be closer to her sisters, Richie had cursed, and sneered, and finally, bafflingly, cried in the middle of Eddie’s bedroom. It wasn’t until Eddie hesitantly rose a shaking hand toward Richie’s face that Richie seemed to realize that he was, in fact, crying, and he rolled his eyes, shoved Eddie’s hand away, and asked, voice thick, “When are you leaving?” The answer, “Before Christmas,” was a blow that left them both wincing at the hasty timeline and also, for Eddie more specifically, at the mortifying prospect of joining a new school in the middle of term.

They hadn’t discussed it much beyond oblique references since then.

“Right,” is what Richie decides on, then, changing the subject, “Wanna come over?”

Eddie bites the inside of his cheek. “I should probably get home, Rich. My mom’s been on my ass about packing all week.” It would likely help if Eddie made any serious effort at the endeavor at all, but he was still quietly furious at his mother for taking him away from his friends. For her part, she seemed mostly content to let him stew in his anger, knowing she’d already played her trump card. The house had been calmer in the last few weeks than it had since two summers prior, his mother only offering overly polite reminders to pack his room while Eddie largely gave her the silent treatment.

“And what an ass it is,” Richie says wistfully, dodging him when Eddie makes to hit him. “Come on, Eds, just for a bit? I’ve got something to- I want to show you something.”

There’s something in Richie’s eyes that makes Eddie take pause, something he doesn’t see that often. Sincerity, he realizes. Not that Richie can’t be genuine—he’s the type to vacillate between extremes, sincerity on Richie reads achingly earnest. But those moments, couched as they so often are in jokes and profanity, are easily glossed over. What comes next out of Richie’s mouth isn’t a gag or a joke at Eddie’s expense. He says, “Please,” eyes wide and pleading, and something cracks open inside Eddie’s chest.

Eddie is nodding before the words make it out of his mouth. “Yeah. Yeah, fuck it, I’ll come. I’ll just call her from yours. What’s she gonna do, send me away?” 

The joke falls flat under the weight of their unspoken agreement to not talk about it, but Richie Tozier has never met an awkward silence he couldn’t shatter by virtue of barreling through it, bull-in-china-shop-style, so he just says, “That’s the ticket!” in a British accent that has, annoyingly, actually gotten better in the last year. Stan thinks he’s been practicing when he’s alone, but they haven’t been able to catch him at it. 

Richie claps Eddie on the shoulder and walks in the direction of his house, leaving Eddie to follow after him as he chatters inanely about some B-movie he’d half-seen on Mystery Science Theater (as if he hadn’t been the one calling Eddie a nerd moments before).

Richie’s house is further from the school than Eddie’s is, and he’s sure that he would be more entertained by the low rate sci-fi flick that Richie is (badly) describing if it weren’t for the distress rising steadily inside of him at the state of Richie’s winter clothes. There’s the high tops, for one, that are surely getting more and more saturated with slush with each step. The military jacket is large at least and may actually be waterproof, but Eddie can’t imagine it does much in the way of keeping Richie warm. He’s not wearing gloves, but he keeps his hands tucked in his pockets, gesturing enthusiastically with the flaps of his jacket when he gets particularly spirited in the retelling of his story—which is to say, the entire time. He’s not wearing a hat either though, and his ears are a bright strawberry red where they’re poking out from underneath his messy curls.

Without thinking too much about it, Eddie unwinds the scarf from around his own neck and steps in front of Richie, effectively stopping him in his tracks.

“Eds, what-”

“Don’t call me that,” Eddie says, more habit than anything else. He hooks the scarf around Richie’s head and starts wrapping it around his neck. “Your ears are so red they look like they’re about to fall off, dipshit. I know your sense of self-preservation is, like, negligible in all areas of your life, but maybe think about all the people that have to deal with your whiny ass when you inevitably get sick.” He knows he’s babbling, but he’s a teenage boy and his emotional aptitude has not yet developed far enough to allow him to mother his friends without embarrassment. Eddie couches his sincerity in his neuroses the same way Richie uses jokes to mask his, and it’s mostly effective, if annoying. “I mean, we live in Maine for fuck’s sake,” he says, glaring up at Richie.

Richie sighs dreamily and begins to say again, “But what an ass it is-” before Eddie cuts him off by wrapping the tail of the scarf around his mouth.

Eddie puts both hands on his shoulders and sighs in satisfaction at a job well done, “That’s better.”

“It feels like you’re trying to tell me something,” Richie says, muffled against the wool of the scarf. Eddie snickers under his breath and reaches up to tug the fabric down a bit, freeing his mouth.

Richie’s lips are pink and chapped and are far too close within reach.

Eddie steps away, cheeks coloring in a way that he'd like to blame on the weather.

The rest of the walk is largely uneventful, even despite the snowball fight that Richie tries to incite and Eddie vetoes quickly when they’re halfway home (“Don’t even think about it, Tozier”). They stomp the snow off their shoes on the welcome mat and push into the house, shrugging off their bags and piling their outerwear on hooks inside the front door.

“Hey, mom,” Richie calls out as he passes the kitchen, then doubles back to poke his head in. Maggie smiles at them from where she sits at the breakfast table, phone held up to her ear.

“Can we use the phone?” Richie stage whispers, louder than his speaking voice. “Eddie has to call his mom.”

Maggie hums and says, “Yeah, hey, Nat? Can I call you back? Richie’s home.” She walks over as she says her goodbyes and hangs up. She runs her hand through Richie’s hair when she reaches him, which he scoffs at but clearly enjoys, and smiles down at Eddie.

“Hey, Eddie,” she says, and hands him the wireless. 

“Thanks, Mrs. T.”

“Good day at school, boys?” she asks lightly. 

“Better now it’s over,” Richie chirps.

And that’s the extent of the interaction. Maggie excuses herself to the living room and Richie steals into the kitchen, rummaging through the cabinets for snacks. The Tozier household has always been something of an enigma to Eddie. The house’s occupants’ casual indifference toward each other is the exact opposite of the cloying attention Eddie feels from all sides in his own home. The Toziers’ passing interest in their son is something that has always left Eddie feeling both a little sad and intensely jealous.

Eddie calls his mother and does his best to keep the conversation brief, making his excuses. Richie holds up snack options for consideration while Eddie talks to his mom, nodding or shaking his head in answer—no to zebra cakes, yes to oatmeal creme pies. He gets her off the phone fairly painlessly, thanks in part to the fact that he tells her that he’s at Stan’s house.

“Mrs. K still thinks I’m a bad influence, huh?” Richie asks around a mouthful of Little Debbies after Eddie hangs up.

“That’s probably the one thing she’s not wrong about,” Eddie tells him. “Would it kill you to chew with your mouth closed?”

Richie proceeds to chew so obnoxiously that Eddie thinks he may actually be in danger of unhinging his jaw, so Eddie steals the box of cookies and darts past Richie, running up the stairs and into his bedroom. Richie skids to a stop in the hallway outside his door, sliding in his socks on the hardwood.

“So, what’d you wanna show me?” Eddie asks, fishing out a cookie from the box and making himself comfortable on Richie’s bed.

Richie takes pause at that, freezing for half a second before pulling out his desk chair and falling gracelessly into it.

“Um, that was-” Richie adjusts his glasses, looking nervous. “I have a present for you, actually.”

Eddie looks up from the cookie he’s unwrapping, blinking at Richie.

“We’re doing gifts with everyone on Sunday.”

Richie crosses his arms, shoulders inching up toward his ears. “Yeah, I know. I just- I wanted to give this to you… separately.”

He spins quickly in his chair and opens his desk drawer, retrieving a wrapped box from the back. He thrusts it at Eddie without meeting his eyes.

Eddie takes it from him, eyeing him curiously. It’s a small box, wrapped carefully but plainly in red wrapping paper. Richie’s doodled on the paper with black marker, little drawings of aliens and dinosaurs, the same kind of drawings he’d give to Eddie when they were kids.

“What is it?” Eddie asks, looking back up at Richie.

Richie rolls his eyes, “You have to open it, dipshit.”

Eddie huffs and turns the box over in his hands, ripping at the paper. He’d be more careful, would save the wrapping with Richie’s drawings if he wasn’t so sure that Richie would tease him mercilessly for it. The plain brown box inside gives nothing away. Eddie peels off the tape and pries open the box to reveal a walkman and headphones. Richie’s walkman, more specifically.

Eddie laughs and looks up at him, “Richie, this is yours.”

Richie looks uncharacteristically serious. “It’s yours,” he says lightly, trying for casual. “I know your mom won’t buy you one, and you won’t have mine to steal anymore, so. It’s yours.”

Richie shrugs and bites his lip. His isn’t making a joke, and that fact is important, though if asked Eddie wouldn’t be able to articulate why.

Richie clears his throat. “Besides,” he says, straightening up in his seat. “I told my parents mine broke. I’ll probably get a new one for Christmas.”

Eddie presses his lips together and looks back down. He picks up the walkman, feeling something warm unfurl in his chest. He turns it over in his hands and notices the cassette inside.

“You left a tape in here,” he says, glancing back up at Richie. Eddie watches with fascination as a blush colors Richie’s cheeks.

“Uh,” he says. “Yeah. That’s for you, too.”

Eddie opens the walkman to inspect the tape loaded into the deck. It’s a plain white tape, with “Eds” written across it in Richie’s messy handwriting. He feels heat rise to his own face.

“You made me a mixtape?” he asks, voice soft.

He looks up again and finds Richie looking like a tomato. His cheeks burn bright red and his eyes are wide and slightly panicked looking. He adjusts his glasses again, then folds his arms over his chest, shoulders hunching up so he’s almost curled inward on himself.

“Yeah, I made you a mixtape,” Richie says on a gust of breath. He stands abruptly and shuffles over to his bookshelf and his own stack of tapes, his back to Eddie. He rifles through them while talking, “Your taste is shit, dude. Someone had to help you out. Don’t wanna give the assholes at your new school another reason to pick on the new kid.” He finds what he’s looking for and walks over to the bed, holding an empty tape case out to Eddie, “Here.”

Eddie takes it and ignores Richie’s digs, instead asks, “Can we listen to it?”

Richie blanches and says quickly, “No. Um, no, you should listen to it… later. Alone.”

Eddie smiles down at his lap. Richie has always been good at giving gifts. He’s observant, is the thing, more than the Losers give him credit for. He’s loud and grating and brash, but he’s also attentive and quietly kind, and he loves his friends fiercely. Eddie feels a little bad that the present he’s giving Richie on Sunday is just Back to the Future 2 on VHS.

He can’t say any of this to Richie though, obviously, so what he says instead, seemingly apropos of nothing, is, “You wanna know what the worst thing about moving is?” 

It’s a game they’ve been playing for the last couple of weeks. Eddie will come up with increasingly mundane shit to complain about—finding a new doctor, the devastating loss of Tom’s Tastee Freeze, leaving behind the sweet deal with Rob at the video store who’d they’d endeared themselves to enough that he’d rent them R-rated videos with only a little heckling. Richie humors him because none of it is the truth, which is inevitably, obviously, Leaving you.

Richie’s mouth quirks, recognizing the olive branch for what it is, and says, “What?”

Eddie thinks on it for a second, then says, “Your dumbshit voices doing Lord of the Rings.”

Richie’s lips part minutely in surprise. It’s as close to the truth as Eddie’s gotten.

In the weeks following that summer two years ago, Eddie had been plagued almost nightly with nightmares characterized by dizzying images of missing posters, rotting skin, and yellow eyes. He had mostly suffered these in silence until one weekend, sleeping over at Richie’s, he’d woken up screaming. When he opened his eyes, it was to Richie hovering nervously above him, blinking wide-eyed behind his glasses, hair mussed from sleep. Eddie, mortified to find his eyes wet, had tried to apologize, but Richie just said, “Eddie- Eds. It’s okay. I get them too.”

Richie had looked at him after that, nervous and pointed, and tripped and stammered over the question, “Are you- I mean, can I- Is there something I can do?” When Eddie finally answered, it was mostly just to get him to stop looking at him like that.

“Can you just talk? Like, about anything, just- just distract me so I can- so I can fall asleep again.”

Richie kept on looking at him, expression indiscernible in the low light. Then he reached over to his bedside table, flicked on the lamp, and picked up the book sitting beside it. It was The Two Towers, and Richie picked up where he’d left off, somewhere in the middle. Eddie had never read it before and in truth had no fucking idea what was going on, but Richie’s voice filled all the dark corners of the room. It was the first dream-free night Eddie had had all week.

They worked out a system after that. Eddie would sneak the upstairs cordless into his room, call Richie’s house just after 9, and Richie would pick up on the first ring. Richie was always cagey about how he’d explained this to his parents, and it wasn’t until weeks later that Eddie found out that Richie disconnected the other phones in the house every night and reconnected them every morning.

Richie had started over with The Fellowship of the Ring, and his tinny voice over the phone did just as much to chase away the nightmares as he’d done in person that first night. Richie swore he only kept it up because it served as a means to practice his voices on a willing audience, but the truth that neither of them admitted was that the low and steady thrum of Richie’s voice comforted Eddie like nothing else, and Richie wanted nothing more than to be a comfort to Eddie. These were things that neither of them could reliably express, bound as they were by those rules which govern teenage boys, so they went unspoken.

The phone calls ended sometime later that fall, but Eddie bought himself his own set of the trilogy, and they still made him feel better when his dreams soured.

Richie looks at him now, almost surprised, like he hadn’t thought Eddie remembered it. Then he takes a breath, grins a little, and says, “I knew you liked my voices, Eds.”

“Your Strider sounds like Batman,” Eddie tells him.

“He’s my dark knight,” Richie says solemnly.

“He’s literally a king, but whatever.”

They grin stupidly at each other until one of them cracks and then they’re both laughing happily, shyly. Eddie ducks his head down and thumbs over the corner of the tape before flicking the deck closed. He looks up at Richie and says, “Thanks, Rich.”

Richie smiles at him, hands stuffed into the pockets of his jeans.

“Merry Christmas, Eds.”

--

December, 2016

For I've grown a little leaner
Grown a little colder
Grown a little sadder
Grown a little older
And I need a little angel, sitting on my shoulder
We need a little Christmas now

“Eddie!”

Eddie turns around at the sound of his name, eyebrows pinched up even as he knows exactly who is behind him. As if he wouldn’t recognize that voice anywhere.

Richie is at his side moments later, just barely managing to save the contents of the cups he’s holding from sloshing over the side of the rim. He hands a cup of hot chocolate to Eddie, raises his own in cheers and says, “Bottoms up,” before taking a far too enthusiastic gulp and immediately wincing at the temperature.

Eddie snickers at him under his breath, takes a tentative sip from his own cup, and is surprised at the pleasant burn at the back of his throat that has nothing to do with the temperature.

“What’s in this?” he asks, taking a much more interested sip.

Richie pulls an empty nip of Baileys from his pocket and twirls it between his fingers. “Spiked it myself, don’t tell the chaperones,” he says, wiggling his eyebrows.

“I’m no narc,” Eddie says unbothered, taking another drink.

“Shall we?” Richie asks, kicking his leg out jauntily and offering Eddie his elbow.

Eddie rolls his eyes, ignores him, and begins to make his way through the winding aisles of Christmas trees.

They’d had to drive an hour outside the city to find a tree farm that seemed semi-decent, which meant Eddie had spent an hour pretending that he didn’t find Richie’s enthusiastic take on Wham! stupidly charming. He’d had to cut the singalong short when White Christmas came on and Richie dipped into an exaggerated baritone that somehow managed to leave Eddie hot around the collar.

The decision to move to LA had come about naturally, even if it never felt easy. On the heels of their respective divorces, Beverly had invited Eddie to stay with her in her new loft on the Upper West Side while he ostensibly looked for an apartment of his own. Ben was in town more often than not and it was nice, comfortable, coming home to people that actually seemed to like you, even as Eddie fretted over the imposition.

He’d been having coffee with Bev one morning, complaining about the weather in New York as rain pounded against the windows for the sixth time in as many days, when Bev said, too casually, “I hear LA’s beautiful this time of year.”

She took a loud sip of her coffee.

Eddie glared at her, said, “LA’s beautiful every time of year. It’s Southern California.”

Beverly hummed, tucked her hair behind her ear and said, “Your words, Kaspbrak.”

Eddie fumed over this conversation for a good, round seven days before picking up his phone in the dim light of his bedroom a week later, typing out testily, Coming to visit. Please wash sheets in guest room.

Richie’s response came so quickly that Eddie jumped when the phone buzzed in his hands. The first message was just a long string of exclamation points, followed quickly by, yes sir. will you be needing a valet as well? a footman?

Eddie sent him the middle finger emoji and fell asleep grinning.

He’d intended to stay for a week, not too keen on usurping Mike’s role as resident couch surfer, but a week came and went and Eddie just… didn’t want to leave. For the first time in his life, Eddie felt content—happy, even—to do what he wanted. So he’d found a realtor in LA, had Bev and Ben ship the last of his things, and told his VP that they could transfer him to the Burbank office or accept his resignation because he would not be coming back to New York.

When he’d shown Richie the modest bungalow for sale two streets over from Richie’s house, Richie had stared at the listing for a few long minutes, long enough for Eddie’s hands to grow clammy where they twisted in his lap. Finally, Richie had turned to him, eyes suspiciously misty, and said, “Well, you have to get it.”

And that was it. Eddie closed on the house a month to the day later and moved in over the course of one long weekend, plying both Richie and Bill (who was finally back in town) with the promise of beers and take-out to do most of the heavy lifting.

Life since the move (The Move, Eddie has taken to calling it in his head) has been uncomplicated and happy. Eddie is trying not to overthink it.

“Eds! Eds.”

Eddie turns to find Richie gesturing to a pathetic looking tree, if you could even call it that. More a decrepit sort of shrub. 

“It’s perfect,” Richie breathes, eyes wide.

Eddie squints at him. 

“I’m not actually sure that thing’s even for sale.”

“Don’t be like that, Eds,” Richie whines. “It’s a Charlie Brown tree.”

“Well, it definitely is brown,” Eddie says, eyeing the dead pines ringed around the top like a very sad crown. “Rich, our friends are coming together for the holidays for the first time in three decades. This is not your Christmas tree.”

“You’re no fun,” Richie tells him, but falls into step beside him all the same. 

Eddie steers them toward the back of the lot where the largest trees stand. He loses Richie somewhere among the blue spruce, but it’s easier to browse without the all-encompassing distraction that is Richie Tozier anyway.

Eddie is inspecting the needles of a healthy looking Douglas fir when Richie sidles up beside him, taking his empty cup from his lax fingers and tossing it into a nearby garbage can. Eddie steps back and stands shoulder to shoulder with Richie, staring up at the tree.

“This is your Christmas tree,” Eddie tells him.

“This is a monstrosity,” Richie says, craning his neck to get the scope of the thing.

“Richie, you have thirteen-foot ceilings,” Eddie says, turning to look at him. “What is the point if not to take advantage with this stupidly large Christmas tree?”

“I think they’re fourteen feet, actually,” Richie says distractedly, rubbing his jaw. “Your Napoleon complex is really coming out to play today, huh?”

Eddie hits him in the stomach and Richie lets out a dramatic “oof! ” but he’s grinning all the same.

Eddie manages to haggle down the price of the tree, even as Richie tries to tell him that “they definitely don’t do that here, dude.” They bicker good naturedly while some teenager helps load the tree onto the car and generally ignores them.

“I’m still pissed you wouldn’t let me rent a car. If there are scratches in the paint, you’re paying to have it detailed.”

“You drive a fucking Escalade, Eddie. I refuse to let you be one of those assholes that doesn’t use his big car for anything other than making himself feel tall.”

“Yeah, because the little red Mustang is real fucking subtle, asshole.”

“Do you, like, need a step ladder to climb into your car, or is it more of a running jump?”

“Fuck you, dude. God, there’s gonna be sap everywhere. It’ll take an hour to clean.”

“Don’t complain, Eds, I know washing your car gets you hot.”

This continues until they’re back on the highway again and Richie gets the radio turned up to tell Eddie exactly how it’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas, everywhere you go.

They end up getting the Charlie Brown tree too, and it mocks Eddie from the back seat every time he looks in the rear view mirror.

--

With three Losers in residence, LA is the obvious choice for the seven of them to get together for the first time since the summer. By virtue of having the largest house with the most bedrooms, Richie is awarded the honor of hosting their reunion, even despite Eddie’s polite (loud) objections. 

Richie has embraced the task wholeheartedly though. Decorating alone was a full day affair that required all hands on deck (those hands belonging to Eddie, Bill, and Audra, respectively). Richie had taken to prancing around the house singing increasingly enthusiastic renditions of “God rest ye merry Spa-ghet-ti” loudly in Eddie’s general direction while hanging tinsel from every available surface. Eddie doesn’t get the impression that Richie had much cause to celebrate the holidays in years prior—every decoration they unpack is new with tags—but he certainly seems to revel in it now. Eddie thinks it’s more the prospect of a full house than anything else that’s got Richie feeling festive. 

The whole thing culminates in an evening watching old Christmas movies and getting spectacularly blitzed on a mulled wine of Audra’s own invention. Eddie wakes up the next morning in a tangle of limbs on the couch, Richie snuffling softly into his hair. Eddie would have let himself enjoy it more if he hadn’t caught Bill’s eye across the room, smirking at him over a steaming cup of coffee.

It’s a week later now and Stan and Patty are arriving that evening, with Bev, Ben, and Mike following behind the next morning (Mike had to experience Christmas in New York before they headed west, at Bev’s behest). Eddie leaves Richie to untangle himself from the web of outdoor lights he’d managed to get knotted in to make the grocery run. He’s a little wary of leaving Richie alone with 200 feet of string lights and the ladder he’d borrowed from Bill, but he’s trying to work on relaxing a bit. The stiffness in his jaw has not caught on to this ambition, but it’s a work in progress, and he’s trying to be less hard on himself, too.

Eddie is in his element in the grocery store, wielding two carts and an attitude that’s begging someone to dare mess with him. It’s still a week before Christmas and it’s early enough in the day that the store isn’t too crazy yet, but Eddie thinks the attitude helps all the same. He’s contemplating the merits of a blackberry jam versus an orange marmalade for the baked brie when his phone lights up with Richie’s name.

“Hey,” Eddie says, squinting at the label on the marmalade before shrugging to himself and throwing both jars into the cart. “When Audra said she wasn’t doing gluten, do you think that was a hard and fast rule or more of a suggestion?”

“Are you doing gluten?”

“Two weeks now and my stomach hasn’t imploded yet.” 

Eddie has been quietly reintroducing foods into his diet since getting back from Derry, since the divorce, since the move; all in an effort to figure out, at the age of forty, what he actually likes. It’s like an elimination diet twenty-seven years in the making, and altogether too heavy-handed a metaphor for his taste. Still, the food thing feels less daunting an undertaking than all the other compulsions that crawl under his skin, so he figures it’s as good a place as any to start picking away.

“Mazel tov.”

“I’ll get cornstarch just in case,” Eddie decides, and tosses that in too. 

He eyes his two carts, trying to decide how best to maneuver them while he’s holding his phone. He’s bent sideways with a hand pushing one cart and an elbow pulling the other when he makes eye contact with a six-year-old across the aisle who is almost certainly judging him. He huffs into the phone and says, “Was there something you wanted, Rich?”

“Oh, yeah. I’ve conquered the Christmas lights—well, kind of. They are technically attached to the house now, and that’s what matters. But anyway, I was gonna make a celebratory booze run—did you want anything specific?”

“I’ve got it covered here, man. You don’t need to get anything.”

“Eds, you can’t get the food and the drinks. I know your car is big, but you’re just one man. One very compact man.” Richie pauses, Eddie glares. “Fun sized.”

“That’s what the second cart is for, asshole.”

There’s another pause from Richie’s end that Eddie doesn’t like the sound of at all.

“Oh, my God, can you get someone to take a picture?”

“Fuck off, Richie,” Eddie says, a little too loudly. The six-year-old and her mother are both openly ogling him now.

“Okay, well. Hurry home, dear, I’ll be waiting.”

“Good bye, Richie.”

“Good bye, Eddie my l-” Eddie hangs up on him, pockets his phone, and steers both carts around the corner of the canned foods aisle.

--

Having the seven of them together again, with the welcome addition of Audra and Patty, is all the giddy joy of their reunion at the Jade multiplied tenfold. Sans threat of evil clown looming over their head, the energy is positively cheery, made all the more so by the festive feeling of the holidays. There was a time when the candor of such unbridled glee would leave Eddie feeling self-conscious, but surrounded as he is by the people he loves most in the world, he finds it hard to care.

Dinner is a typically rowdy affair. True to his word, Eddie had stocked up on enough wine to satisfy a small army, or at the very least a modestly sized battalion. Their decibel level is in direct correlation to the growing number of empty bottles, which is to say: they are very loud. They manage to settle down enough to exchange gifts after dinner, and soon Richie’s living room is littered with discarded scraps of brightly colored wrapping paper.

Eddie is distressed to find that Richie is still annoyingly good at gift-giving, even all these years later. He sits close to Eddie, knees knocking together, and watches Eddie open his gift, revealing a stack of comics that somehow span the breadth of all his old favorites. They’re all the same ones that his mother had accidentally, conveniently sold without his knowing in a church sale when he was 12. Eddie’s hand smooths across the covers reverently and when he looks up to meet Richie’s eyes he feels his smile go wobbly.

Eddie’s own gifts are, on the whole, decidedly less sentimental. Even so, he’s still smugly proud of his gift to Ben—a paddle-ball, “You know, cause Stanley broke your old one.” Stan gives him a smile and the middle finger, but Eddie gets a tight hug from Ben and all eight of his abs, so he calls it a win.

Mike upstages them all in the end. He hands the six of them identically wrapped presents, six thin square packages wrapped in festive green paper with big red bows. He makes them wait to open them all together, and when they do they each reveal a large photo album with The Losers Club penned across the cover in careful lettering. While Mike spent all those long years keeping the lighthouse in Derry, he’d evidently done a good job of keeping mementos as well. 

There’s a few photos of Bill and Eddie and Richie and Stan from before they’d met the rest of them—Eddie doesn’t know how Mike managed to get his hands on them. Then there’s Ben standing proudly in front of the ladder in the club house. Stan and Richie grinning toothily, sprawled out on the grass in Stan’s backyard. Mike and Bill waving from a tractor on the Hanlons’ farm. Bev carefully painting Eddie’s nails on his bedroom floor. The seven of them in the Barrens, arms slung around each other’s shoulders with bright grins. Eddie remembers that day. They’d propped Stan’s camera up on a large rock and a stack of old textbooks and spent five minutes arguing over how to set the timer. Eddie’s pretty sure that there had been a number of failed photos where Stan hadn’t gotten back into frame in time, or Richie pulled a dumb face, or Bev doubled over in laughter at someone’s joke. But Mike had managed to save the best one, and Eddie feels tears prickle at the backs of his eyes.

He’s not the only one. Bill, Richie, and Bev are all, inevitably, crying in earnest, and Mike is swiftly and mercilessly tackled from all sides in a seven-way hug.

After he’s dried his tears, perhaps in spite of them, Richie descends upon them all with a truly mammoth pitcher of eggnog. Eddie forgoes the eggnog in favor of more wine, and the night takes on a warm, hazy glow from there.

Sometime between Eddie reluctantly leaving the previous night to sleep at his own home and their remaining guests arriving the following morning, Richie had planted mistletoe booby-traps around the whole house—an effort that was aided and abetted by a combination of Stan’s sense of self-preservation and keen penchant for mischief. Evidently, Stan had allowed the mistletoe plot so long as Richie swore to keep him out of it. The rest of them are left to suffer an evening warily scanning Richie’s stupidly high ceilings as they move from room to room. So far, Richie had managed to catch Mike, Ben, Bill, and Patty under the mistletoe, the latter whom apparently was not covered in Stan’s careful armistice. Eddie, who has made a lifelong habit of nervous eyes darting around any room he happens to be in, has yet to be caught unawares.

Probably for the best, really. When he’d arrived earlier that day, he’d expected to be confronted by Richie decked out in some garish approximation of a holiday sweater, maybe with lights or jingle bells. True to form, Richie had answered the door wearing a Christmas-themed Hawaiian shirt, complete with palm trees strung up with twinkle lights and surfer girls in Santa hats. Which would have been fine if not for the literal run-in with Ben and a glass of red wine halfway through the evening. Richie had ditched the stained shirt, leaving him in a fitted forest green long sleeve that stretched across his chest just right. The whole thing left Eddie’s mouth feeling dry. 

Now, warmed by the happy company of friends and not a little bit of wine, Eddie can’t help how his gaze seems to wander ever over to Richie. Bathed as he is in the soft glow of the Christmas tree, the effect is quite handsome even despite the novelty reindeer antlers that Richie has been wearing all evening. The combination of all the wine, Richie’s appealingly broad shoulders, and the looming threat of mistletoe has some distant corner of Eddie’s mind screaming a muted warning, Danger, Will Robinson!

Eddie ignores it and gets another drink.

Somehow, this is how Eddie finds himself drunkenly attempting to explain the finer points of the plot of Elf to Bill, who has never seen it and, incidentally, has since fallen asleep drooling on the couch. It’s not Eddie’s fault though, as he’s been waylaid by impertinent questions from the rest of the Losers who, for some reason, all seem to be keen to chime in.

Eddie holds court in the middle of the living room, one hand on his hip, wine glass sloshing dangerously in the other, and tries to explain, “His dad isn’t Santa, that doesn’t make any sense.”

“Who’s his dad then, Eds?” Richie asks, grinning up at him from his spot on the floor.

“Mr. Elf!” Bev supplies happily, leaning heavily into Ben’s side where he dozes on the loveseat.

“His last name isn’t Elf. He's Buddy the Elf, it’s a title.”

“So who’s his dad?” Audra asks politely over her own glass.

Eddie blinks at her. “The guy! The guy in New York, that’s the whole point of the whole movie!”

“Wait,” Stan starts seriously, “So you’re saying he’s not next in line for Santa?”

Eddie glares at him, then, “No! The movie’s called Elf, it’s not called Santa- What are you guys talking about-”

Eddie cuts off abruptly when he swings his arm a little too emphatically and the wine makes a bid for freedom over the rim of his glass. Richie is up and next to him in an instant, gently wresting the glass from his grip. “Woah, hey there, alright. Maybe it’s time for bed, Eds.”

“Tha’s not my name, Rich,” Eddie reminds him, a little dizzy from the quick transition of Richie on the floor to Richie looking down at him with his very pretty eyes.

Richie knocks the rest of the glass back and says, “Sorry, Eds. Bed?” 

He steers Eddie up the stairs amidst laughter and whistles from the remaining conscious Losers in the living room. Eddie tries to turn around and give them a very pointed finger, but Richie grabs his hand and urges him along, says, “Didn’t know you had it in you, man. You must be, like, 70% cab sav at this point.”

“Whatever,” Eddie says, stumbling a little on the stair. “Bill fell asleep, like, an hour ago. Mike already went to bed! I am not the lightest weight here.”

“Yeah, no, that honor does go to Bill and all two and a half glasses he managed to finish before he passed out.” Richie’s hand hovers over the small of Eddie’s back as they make their way up to the second floor, and Eddie is so focused on this fact that they’re at the top of the stairs before he realizes that they’re heading in the wrong direction.

“Hey, hey,” he says, and grabs Richie’s arm. He’s distracted momentarily by the firm muscle of his forearm, fingers flexing there for a second, before shaking himself out of it. He drags his eyes away to look up at Richie’s face and finds him eyeing him warily. “My house is the other way.”

Richie laughs at him.

“Do you really want to walk all the way home right now, Eds?”

He really, really doesn’t. Eddie knows, in some more sensible, sober corner of his brain, that he lives so close, but the prospect of walking to his own home right now is too herculean an effort to seriously consider, especially given his proximity to the guest bedroom he still thinks of as his own in his head.

“No,” he says, pouting a little.

“Come on,” Richie smiles down at him, tilts his head. “You can bunk with me.”

“You’re the host! Richie, that’s rude,” Eddie says, scandalized. “I’ll jus’ sleep in my room.”

Richie’s still smiling at him, amused quirk to his lips. “Mikey’s in your room, Eds.”

“Then I’ll jus’ sleep with Mikey,” Eddie decides and determinedly makes his way in that direction.

“Can’t say I blame you,” Richie sighs, following behind him. “All our friends grew up so hot, you’ve got to jump on these chances when you get them.”

The comment leaves a bad taste in Eddie’s mouth, as if Richie doesn’t know how stupidly handsome Eddie finds him with his stupidly bright eyes and his stupidly broad shoulders. He turns around to tell him so, to tell him a bit more than he means to, probably, but Richie is apparently closer behind him than he thought, because Richie only just barely saves himself from running right into him. Eddie stumbles backward in front of the open door of his old room and grabs Richie’s forearms to stabilize himself.

“Woah,” Eddie says, staring up at Richie, blinking away the dizziness. Richie is smiling down fondly at him again and it warms him in a way the wine hadn’t. The picture is almost perfect, except-

“Your antlers are dumb, Richie,” Eddie tells him. He reaches up and pulls them off, only poking Richie in the face a little bit, and as he does, something catches his eye.

“Ow, okay, thanks a lot, Eds. What- what are you laughing at?”

He’s still smiling, but when Eddie answers him dreamily, “Mistletoe,” Richie’s face falls comically fast.

His eyes go wide, head snapping up to look at the offending plant lying in wait above them. He looks back down at Eddie, face flushed, and Richie looks… Richie looks scared. And it’s not that he hasn’t seen that look on Richie’s face before, because it’s the same look he wore when calling out Eddie’s name at the Jade and at Neibolt and in the sewers. Except it’s more than that now, because he doesn’t look scared for Eddie, he looks scared of Eddie. And Eddie- well, Eddie doesn’t like that at all.

He resolves to do something about it.

Face pinched up with determination, Eddie leans in close. Inches away from his mouth, Richie says, “Eds,” so soft and hesitant that Eddie only just barely feels it whispered across his lips.

Eddie pushes up on his tiptoes and kisses him. 

It’s a nice kiss, Eddie thinks. Richie takes in a short gasp right before their mouths meet, almost like he’s holding his breath, but his hands are warm where they’re still loosely gripping Eddie’s arms, and he leans into the kiss, just a little, like he can’t help himself anyway.

Eddie falls back on his heels and blinks his eyes open slowly. Richie doesn’t say anything, but his chest is heaving, and he looks down at Eddie like the world is ending.

It worries Eddie a little, back in that sensible corner of his brain again, but still Richie has always been dramatic, and, more relevantly, Richie has always been quick—eager, even—to follow Eddie’s lead. So Eddie smiles at him happily, because he is and he doesn’t see why Richie shouldn’t be too, and says, softly, “Merry Christmas, Rich.” 

He disentangles himself from Richie’s loose grip and retreats to his bedroom, closing the door gently on Richie’s still-stunned expression. Eddie leans against the door as it closes and sighs softly, and only then catches sight of Mike standing in the doorway of the ensuite bathroom, staring at him with his toothbrush hanging from his mouth. 

Eddie feels his face flush, saturation in direct correlation to the length of Mike’s widening grin. He points at Mike sternly—and a little wobbly—and tells him, “Shut up.” And then he tramps over to the bed and face-plants into the pillows while Mike’s cackling laugh echoes around the bathroom.

--

When Eddie wakes the next morning, it’s to the pleasant scent of bacon wafting up from downstairs and the far less pleasant feeling of a throbbing headache. He trudges downstairs in his jeans from yesterday and one of Mike’s college t-shirts and makes a beeline for the espresso machine Richie had bought three years ago and learned how to use three months ago.

Half the house is awake by now and they’re gathered around Richie’s absurdly large kitchen island. Ben is taking requests for omelettes while Richie steadily adds to the mountain of bacon that’s piled up on the plate next to the stovetop. Eddie settles at a stool beside Patty and steals a piece of toast when the toaster pops a minute later. Richie swans by with his platter of bacon and offers it to Eddie, leaning on his elbows over the counter.

“Morning, Eds. Where does bacon rank in the Eddie Kaspbrak Dietary Liberation Tour?”

Eddie hums and leans forward too, “No time like the present.” He swipes a piece of bacon and moans around a bite, “Fuck, that’s good.”

Richie grins at him, looking smugly pleased. He seems to catch sight of something then, and his eyes track up and down Eddie’s body, and Eddie knows better than to interpret it in any meaningful sort of way, but it really is unfair of Richie to do that while still looking like the cat that got the cream. Eddie feels the back of his neck go hot.

“Nice shirt,” Richie says, leering.

Eddie blinks at him, then blinks down at his borrowed t-shirt.

“Go bears.”

Mike whoops from where he’s fiddling with the coffee maker.

Richie is distracted then by a rumpled looking Beverly descending the stairs. She greets Ben with a kiss and when Richie crowds in and puckers up for one as well, she pushes him away laughing with a hand to his face.

“Didn’t you get enough last night, Rich? I notice the mistletoe is gone today.”

Eddie’s face colors at the mention of the mistletoe, but he’s the only one, apparently, because Richie only says, “As per usual, you have Stan to thank for ruining all the fun.”

“It was a one-night deal,” Stan says. “Like Cinderella. And you’re welcome,” he tells the group at large.

“How’s that for nice,” Richie pouts. “I open my home and heart to you people and this is the thanks I get. One lonely Cinder-fella playing ninth-wheel. Even Mike got Eds in his bed last night.”

“Better luck next year, man,” Mike says, patting Richie on the back.

“Yeah, yeah, merry Christmas, asshole,” Richie says good-naturedly.

Mike waits until Richie turns away, then looks straight at Eddie and says, “Merry Christmas, Rich,” in a voice that’s mortifyingly breathy. Eddie’s face transitions through three different shades of red while he glares daggers at Mike behind Richie’s back. 

Richie doesn’t seem to catch wise to anything out of the ordinary, distracted as he is by the rest of their friends, for which Eddie is extremely grateful, but he still makes sure to bump Mike’s shoulder on his way out of the kitchen, sloshing Mike’s coffee onto the floor. Mike huffs as Eddie levels him a look of wide-eyed innocence. “Sorry, Mikey.”

-- 

Christmas Eve, 2016

Oh, my love, we've had our share of tears
Oh, my friends, we've had our hopes and fears
Oh, my friends, it's been a long hard year
But now it's Christmas, yes, it's Christmas
Thank God it's Christmas

The thing about the kiss is that Eddie’s not really sure what to make of it even now. 

It’s a week later and the rest of the Losers had left LA for their own holiday plans as quickly as they’d descended upon it. Stan and Patty are spending Hanukkah with her family in Atlanta, Ben and Bev are enjoying their first Christmas as a couple in New York, and Bill and Audra are whisking Mike away to Germany in the first of a series of trips that make up the Christmas-cum-Sorry You Spent Decades Languishing in Derry gift from all of the Losers. Which is very sweet, and long-overdue, and it leaves Eddie and Richie alone in Los Angeles on Christmas.

Which was fine when they’d made the plan to spend the weekend together—is fine, even. Except that Eddie had kissed Richie a week ago and has been left with the wholly underwhelming feeling of now what. Hindsight may be twenty-twenty, but Eddie’s always had a bit of a blindspot when it comes to Richie. And the thing is, Eddie doesn’t think he’s misremembering the look of perfect devastation on Richie’s face post-kiss. It’s just that he’s helpless to decipher what it actually means for them moving forward.

Eddie is presently contemplating this while not-listening to Richie wax philosophic about how all Hugh Grant movies are Christmas movies, actually—“He’s just got that vibe, Eds, you know?” Eddie doesn’t. They’d opted to spend Christmas at Richie’s house because he’s already got the tree and Eddie’s already got a room there. Eddie is trying very hard not to think of it as the scene of the crime, but unfortunately it turns out that it’s all he can think about so long as Richie is apparently so dead set on completely ignoring it. So Richie rambles, and Eddie stews, and both of them manage to talk a lot without really saying anything at all.

Eddie stares into his second glass of wine and feels a little like he’s tempting fate. The lights in the living room are low, all the better to bask in the warm glow of the tree, and there’s a pleasant hum of odd covers of Christmas songs playing low in the background. Richie’s even got a fire going, despite the weather outside making its way no lower than a balmy 55 degrees. It’s so heavy-handed a setup that it manages to make its way all the way back around to completely innocent. Eddie is so sure of Richie’s lack of motive, in fact, that he feels almost no hesitation at all about abandoning his half empty glass on the coffee table and rearranging himself on the couch, turning to face Richie more fully and swinging his legs up to wiggle his toes under Richie’s thigh.

Eddie’s head falls lazily against the cushion and he watches Richie turn too, bringing one leg up to rest alongside Eddie’s on the couch. He leans more heavily on the couch cushion behind him and cups one hand loosely around Eddie’s calf. 

Tangled as they are, Eddie can’t help but ask, “Remember the hammock in the old clubhouse?”

Richie laughs brightly, eyeing Eddie like he’d been thinking the same thing and had wondered if Eddie would be brave enough to mention it. 

“Yeah, I remember the hammock,” he says. “God, that thing was horrible. There was a period of time that I was very seriously concerned I had a foot fetish.” Richie’s hand slides down Eddie’s leg to loop loosely around his ankle. “It was weeks before I realized that I was just fucking gay.”

Eddie’s eyebrows shoot up of their own accord while a surprised laugh escapes his mouth. Richie smiles at him as Eddie feels the heat of a blush rise to his cheeks.

“Sorry, too much?”

“No,” Eddie says honestly, still grinning. “No, it’s just- God, if you had told me that at fourteen, I would have fucking flipped.”

“Yeah, well, there was a reason I didn’t say anything,” Richie says and finishes the last of his drink. He leans over to put the empty bottle on the coffee table (“There’s a coaster-” “I see the fucking coaster, Eddie.”) and keeps his grip on Eddie’s leg, hand curling more tightly around his ankle when he settles back into the couch.

Eddie looks at him, and Richie looks back, and he must see something on Eddie’s face, something like stubborn courage maybe, because Richie is tilting his head and warily saying, “Eds-” when Eddie cuts him off.

“I kissed you.”

Richie stares at him and lets out a long, heavy breath. “Yeah,” he says. “You did. And I kissed Mike, and Patty, and I’m pretty sure Bill twice, and-”

“Richie,” Eddie says, pleading, “I kissed you.”

Richie winces and withdraws his hand, bringing it up to his face to adjust his glasses in a nervous tick Eddie hasn’t seen much of since they were kids. 

“Eddie, you can’t-” Richie starts, looking pained. “You know why it’s different with you. God, you have to know.”

So much of how they’d communicated as kids had been down to touch. A playful shove against the shoulder, arms pressed up against each other at the arcade, knees knocking under Bill’s mother’s kitchen table. Eddie had known Richie better than almost anyone back then, and still he’d never really known how to talk to him, not about the big stuff. He’s not sure that all that much has changed now.

Eddie puts his hand firmly, pointedly on Richie’s shin beside him and squeezes tightly.

“Do you really think so little of yourself that you can’t believe that the guy who kissed you a week ago might actually like you?” 

Richie squints at him. “Is that a trick question?” 

“Oh, my God.”

Eddie huffs and stares helplessly at Richie. For his part, Richie does actually seem genuine in his complete lack of self-confidence. Eddie might have even felt bad for him if it weren’t at the moment so completely maddening.

“Richie,” Eddie says.

“Eddie,” Richie answers.

They just sit there trading incredulous faces at each other, making Eddie feel completely fucking crazy, until he rolls his eyes, grits his teeth, and says to himself, “Fuck it.”

He leverages his grip on Richie’s leg to sit up fully, twisting onto his knees to move up and over Richie. Richie sinks back into the couch and stares up at Eddie with wide eyes. 

Eddie’s heart is hammering in his chest, and it’s so much harder than it was with the wine and the mistletoe a week ago, but Richie is looking at him like Eddie is holding his whole heart in his hands, and God, Eddie realizes, maybe he is. 

Eddie brings a hand up to Richie’s cheek and Richie’s breath hitches a quiet gasp.

“Is this okay?” Eddie asks, because Richie looks terrified.

“I don’t- Yeah?” Richie says unconvincingly.

“Richie,” Eddie says again around a laugh. His eyes track over Richie’s face, lingering on his mouth for a second, then back up again.

“Yeah,” Richie says, staring up at Eddie with something like wonder. “Yes.”

Eddie smiles at him, quick, because he can’t help it. Then his gaze falls down to Richie’s lips again and things start to feel very serious. He rubs his thumb absentmindedly across the corner of Richie's mouth and leans in, eyes falling closed. Their lips just barely brush and Eddie holds back for just a second, gives Richie a moment to push back or pull away, but Richie doesn’t move at all. So Eddie leans forward and kisses him. 

It’s a fair approximation of the kiss they’d shared a week ago, gentle and sweet. Eddie pulls away after a few seconds, but keeps close, willing Richie to do or say something. He doesn’t have to wait long. Moments later, Richie surges forward and recaptures Eddie’s lips. 

Richie comes alive beneath him. His hands come up to wrap around Eddie’s waist and pull him in closer. Eddie whimpers at that, and Richie uses the opportunity to deepen the kiss. Their tongues slide together and Eddie feels it like a spark lighting up inside him. He slides his fingers back into Richie’s hair and grips tight, swallowing down the ragged moan that tumbles out of Richie mouth. 

It’s a dizzying, thrilling feeling, and Eddie needs to take a second to breathe. 

When he pulls back, Richie follows him. He sits up with him, keeping a tight grip on Eddie’s waist. Eddie’s hand comes down to rest on Richie’s chest and his fingers flex around the fabric of his t-shirt. Eddie’s eyes find Richie’s and he’s still looking at him like he’s something precious.

“Richie, I love you, but God, you’re dumb.” 

Richie just stares. 

“You love me?” 

Eddie huffs out a laugh. “I- Yes. Yes, I am, like, fully... head over heels, move across the country to be near you in love with you.” He searches Richie’s face. “How is- I mean, is that really a surprise?” 

“Eddie, I’ve been in love with you my whole life,” Richie says like a punch to the gut. “I’ve kind of gotten used to it just being a- a me thing.” 

Eddie doesn’t know whether to laugh or to cry. He softens and presses in closer. “It’s not just a you thing,” he says, shaking his head, and then he kisses Richie again because there’s no good reason not to.

It becomes very clear very quickly that for all the money Richie definitely spent on what is actually a very nice couch, it doesn’t quite fit the bill for two over-eager, overwrought 40-year-old men and a moment that’s been three decades in the making. They stumble through the living room and up the stairs, pawing at each other like teenagers all the way. Richie flicks on the overhead light in his bedroom, then reels back, “Oh, God, no,” and turns it off, opting for the dim lamplight on his bedside table instead.

They push and pull their way to the bed, all grasping hands and biting mouths. Richie falls back easily onto the mattress and Eddie is quick to follow, climbing over him to straddle his thighs. He ducks down to kiss Richie again, because now that he’s started, he kind of feels like he’ll die if he stops. He finds the hem of Richie’s t-shirt and rucks it up as much as he can while Richie’s lying flat, his fingers eagerly mapping out the new plain of warm skin.

Eddie leans back reluctantly, missing Richie’s lips almost immediately, and fumbles for the hem of his own shirt, but Richie’s hands come up and still his own.

Richie’s gaze is dark and heavy, but his voice is quiet when he says, “Eddie, are you sure? Like, are you really sure? Because I’ve been in love with you forever, and if- if you change your mind, I don’t know if I-” 

“Richie,” Eddie interrupts him, flipping his hands and tangling their fingers together. “I’m really, really sure.”

He holds Richie’s gaze to make sure he knows he means it, and then it’s Richie’s hands taking hold of Eddie’s shirt and pulling it up over his head. Richie’s shirt follows quickly after that, and then Eddie’s hands are free to explore all they want, fingers skimming lightly over the downy hair on Richie’s chest, gliding down to trace the soft curve of his abdomen, then up again, fingers finding the spaces in between his ribs. His lips find Richie’s again without really thinking about it, and when Richie’s hands move down his sides to grip his hips, pulling them impossibly closer together, Eddie keens into his mouth.

Richie makes quick work of Eddie’s belt, and the tug of the zipper on his jeans sounds obscenely loud through the quiet of the room.

Eddie rolls off of Richie to shimmy out of his jeans and underwear, and he catches Richie’s eye as he’s pulling off his socks, grinning dumbly at him.

When Eddie rolls back over and kisses Richie, he’s smiling, and when he slots their legs together and grinds down into Richie’s hip, their gasps mingle together in the space between them.

Richie wraps his fingers around both of their dicks, and Eddie goes a little dumb marveling at how big and sure Richie’s hands are. He pants hotly against Richie’s neck, whimpering at the feeling of their dicks moving together under Richie’s hand. The slide is so good and the feeling of Richie against him is so hot that Eddie becomes very seriously concerned that this whole thing will be over much too soon. He gently pulls out of Richie’s grasp, gives him a kiss against the curve of his jaw to relieve any hurt feelings, and wraps his own hand around Richie’s dick, hot and leaking beneath him.

Richie’s breathing turns into hitching, breathy gasps that fascinate Eddie to no end, and he’s just kind of staring down at him in a daze when Richie says, “Eddie, Eds. Can you…” And then he’s taking Eddie’s hand, moving it back, lower still, and Eddie quite abruptly feels dizzy.

“Fuck,” he says, head spinning. “Fuck, Richie. Do you have lube?”

Richie twists away to reach for his bedside table drawer, and Eddie finds that the attractive stretch of Richie’s back and shoulders is a fine distraction from the haze clouding his head. Richie hands off the lube and settles back into the pillows, and Eddie’s head is echoing with the call to get it together! while he coats his fingers.

He trails a finger down, circles lazily around Richie’s hole, and Richie arches into the touch, legs falling open. The sight makes Eddie’s breathing stutter. He presses one finger in slowly. He’s never done this to anyone but himself before, and the angle is different, takes some getting used to, but the sight of Richie panting beneath him is one that he thinks will be burned into the backs of his eyelids for days to come.

Eddie pulls his hand back, teases a second finger, pulling a whimper from Richie, and presses that one in too. Richie sighs and brings a leg up, propped against the bed to give him more leverage. Eddie presses a kiss against his knee and lazily works Richie over, pressing in deeper until he curls his fingers and Richie gasps out an, “oh, fuck,” eyelashes fluttering.

Feeling not a little strung out himself and realizing his new ambition of getting Richie off on his fingers, Eddie wraps his other hand around Richie’s dick. Richie lets out a choked sounding moan and gasps around Eddie’s name. Eddie twists his wrist on each upstroke the way he’s always liked it, while his other hand pumps slowly back and forth, making Richie whine every time he curls his fingers.

Richie looks just about as worked up as Eddie feels. He’s flushed red all the way down his chest, hands twisting in the sheets beside him while his hips rock in tandem with the rhythm Eddie has on his dick. Something warm and possessive floods through Eddie while he watches Richie come apart beneath him. He looks up to Richie’s face and finds Richie’s eyes already on him, dark and hazy.

“Say it,” Richie asks him in a voice Eddie’s never heard before. He’s begging, “Eddie, say it, please.”

Eddie curls his fingers again, pressing hard, and watches this time as Richie’s face crumbles. Then he pulls back and tells him, “I love you. Baby, I love you so much.”

Richie sobs with it. His head falls back like he can’t bear to look at Eddie anymore and his hips stutter in and out of rhythm. He’s close, fingers spasm in the sheets, the muscles of his stomach clenching tight. Eddie doesn’t know what comes over him, but at the last second, right when it looks like Richie is on the verge of tumbling over the edge, he grips the base of Richie’s dick, tight and unforgiving, and presses his fingers in deep to grind hard against his prostate. 

The effect is gorgeous. Richie’s eyes fly open, tears shining in tracks down his cheeks. His back bows up from the bed, a loud, keening moan wrenching its way from his throat. Everything stills for a moment, Richie wound tight and taut like a bowstring. It’s so hot, so much that Eddie almost feels his vision goes white. Then it’s like he slams back into the moment, releasing a heavy breath. He loosens his grip and begins pumping Richie’s dick again in earnest and a second later, Richie comes over his own stomach.

Eddie aches with how badly he wants to touch him, to hold him, but he gives it a second, one hand easing out of him slowly while the other works him through it. He surges up before Richie’s done and presses sloppy kisses against his open mouth while he comes down. 

Eddie is shaking by the time Richie opens his eyes, wound tight as he is. He lets go of Richie’s dick and quickly grabs his own, sobbing a little at the relief. He’s harder than he’s ever been, precum dripping messily down to his balls. His rhythm is shaky at best, but Richie’s staring up at him with glazed over eyes, babbling in a breathless stream of what seems to just be Eddie’s name, and Eddie has never, ever felt this good.

“Rich- Richie,” he pants out. “Can I come on your chest?” 

Richie huffs with a tired grin, more breath than laugh. His hands come up to grip Eddie’s hips, and he says, sounding winded, “You fucking better.”

Eddie groans and pushes himself up, bracing himself on one arm so that his eyes can dart between Richie’s face and his chest and his own hand working over his dick. When he comes, Richie’s hands slide down from his hips, over his thighs to squeeze tight at the clenching muscle there.

Eddie sits back against Richie’s thighs when it’s over, wincing at the ache in his knees. He looks down at the mess on Richie’s chest and stomach and feels that same twinge of possessive pride as before. Feeling dazed, he runs a finger from Richie’s sternum down toward his naval. When he looks up, Richie’s looking at him with blown out eyes.

“Fuck, you’re hot.”

“Me? ” Eddie smiles lazily. Then a giddy laugh bubbles up from his throat, unbidden. “Holy shit,” he breathes, feeling a little awed. Richie stares up at him with a wet smile. 

Eddie sits up and swings his leg back to shuffle off of Richie. There’s a smudge of come on Richie’s chin that Eddie wipes off with his thumb, then he leans down to press a hard kiss to Richie’s mouth, then pulls away fully, retreating to the bathroom. He runs a washcloth under the tap and avoids looking at the mirror, feeling, somehow, like the person in the reflection won’t be someone he recognizes. 

Richie’s eyes track him when he gets back to the bedroom. Eddie kneels on the bed and begins to mop up the mess. Richie hisses when the damp cloth touches his skin and Eddie shushes him, then huffs when Richie sits up anyway, pressing into Eddie’s space. Richie grabs his face in both hands and kisses him deeply and Eddie’s hand goes limp between them. It takes Eddie a few moments to open his eyes when Richie pulls away, and when he does, Richie is grinning smugly at him.

“Oh, fuck off,” Eddie says, shoving Richie back so he can resume cleaning up.

“Eds, you always know just what to say,” Richie crows, still smiling. Eddie can’t help the grin that pulls at his lips as he folds the washcloth and tosses it onto the floor.

He flicks off the light and comes back to bed and they slot together easily, legs intertwined, Richie’s arm wrapping around Eddie’s shoulder, Eddie’s face pressing into the crook of his neck, fingers splayed against Richie’s chest.

“I love you,” Eddie whispers it into his skin like a secret, the best kind.

He can feel it when Richie’s breath hitches, just slightly.

“I love you, too.”

--

Eddie wakes up on Christmas with an optimistic touch of morning wood and an empty bed. Though these two things are not necessarily mutually exclusive, given the events of the previous evening Eddie would much prefer the company, so he pretty quickly makes up his mind to relieve the former by remedying the latter. 

He groggily shimmies his way over to the edge of the bed and reaches down to where his clothes had been haphazardly discarded the night before. The strain to reach his pants turns into an actual full-body stretch when he realizes how good it feels to do so, and the whole thing leaves him shivering happily to remember the reason why he’s feeling so loose-limbed and sated this morning. He fumbles his phone from his pants pocket to check the time, only to be confronted with a flurry of texts from the Losers’ group chat.

He scrolls up to a text from Richie earlier that morning with an attached picture that makes his eyes bug out a bit.

Richie Tozier (7:56 AM)
he said he loves me 💕💕

The accompanying photo is a compromising one of Eddie from that morning. He’s asleep on his stomach, face turned away from the camera, but for the angle it’s easy to tell that it’s him. His hair is mussed from sleep and he’s shirtless, morning sun glancing off his back in a way he’d admit was sort of pleasing if it was anyone but himself. Richie’s face is blurry and out of focus in the bottom corner of the photo. Even still, it’s easy to tell that his dopey smile takes up his whole face.

Eddie saves the picture.

The ensuing flood of messages are a variety of happy exclamations and congratulations from their friends, including an enthusiastic “MERRY CHRISTMAS, RICH” from Mike that leaves Eddie scowling at his phone. He types out his reply carefully.

Eddie Kaspbrak (10:16 AM)
I also said he was dumb.

Beverly’s reply comes while he’s brushing his teeth in the ensuite.

Bev Marsh (10:21 AM)
The two aren’t mutually exclusive, babe

Eddie Kaspbrak (10:21 AM)
No, they’re not.
Thanks, guys.

When Eddie eventually pads downstairs, he finds Richie dripping pancake batter onto the kitchen countertop.

“Spaghetti!” Richie greets enthusiastically when he hears Eddie come in, pulling a tub of blueberries from the fridge.

“Richard,” Eddie returns, leaning on one hip next to Richie against the counter.

“Ugh, anything but that,” Richie says, pulling a face, miraculously managing to catch a drip of batter before it escapes over the edge of the bowl. Eddie catches his wrist before he brings the batter to his mouth, the warning against the dangers of salmonella going unspoken between them as he shoves Richie’s hand in the direction of the sink.

“That’s my line,” Eddie tells him. “What would you prefer—Dick?”

“Please, Eds, that was my father. How about…” He pretends to think about it while running his hand under the tap. “Boyfriend?”

Eddie snorts at that even as his stomach does a happy little flip. 

“Boyfriend. What are we, fourteen? Should I be planning my outfit for the winter formal too?”

“I would have died if I got to call you my boyfriend at fourteen, Eds.” 

Richie says it like it’s a joke, but it’s plain on his face how much he really means it. Seemingly realizing this too, and perhaps because of all the soul-bearing that went on the night before, Richie pivots quickly. 

“How about ‘lover’ then?” Eddie makes a face at him. “No? Too on the nose? Well, I don’t know, Eds, I think labels are on their way out anyway. They’re the purview of a different time. We don’t have to be anything, we can just be. I think I saw that on Twitter. You know- I can call you Eddie, and Eddie when you call me, you can call me... pal…”

He finishes this nervous tirade with a passable Paul Simon impression sung into a spoon dripping with pancake batter, and his attempt to diffuse the situation is both unbearably cute and wholly unnecessary, so Eddie doesn’t really feel bad about swooping in to shut him up. He crowds in close, grabs Richie’s face, and brings it down to meet his own in a kiss. Richie answers the kiss eagerly, even if he doesn’t seem all that sure what to do with his hands. They kind of flutter around Eddie’s back a bit before finally settling on Eddie’s waist, by which point Eddie is already gently pulling away.

“I was gonna go take a shower real quick,” Eddie says, distracted at the way Richie’s tongue darts out to wet his lips.

“Okay,” Richie says, looking a little dazed.

“That was an invitation, Rich,” Eddie says pointedly, getting back on track with his earlier directive for the morning.

“I’m making pancakes,” Richie says dumbly. Eddie makes a face at him and it must be a good one because then Richie is shaking his head, clearing some of the fog, and says, “I don’t know why I said that. The pancakes will keep. Let’s get naked.”

Eddie grins at him, presses another quick kiss into the corner of his mouth, then drags him upstairs.

After their detour to the bathroom—where Eddie is persuaded into letting Richie suck him off in the shower, followed by a less coordinated but equally eager handjob from Eddie in return—the morning resumes its lazy pace. They do get around to making those pancakes, Richie insisting that Eddie let him do all the work. Eddie humors him because he knows that really Richie just likes to revel in the attention. His attempts to flip the pancakes in the pan with increasingly complicated maneuvers results in only a few casualties, which Eddie allows with minor griping because it’s Christmas and he’s feeling charitable. And in any case, the pancakes are so good that all of Eddie’s worries take a back seat in favor of the task at hand, which is shoveling as many into his mouth as possible. 

They eat side by side at the kitchen island, arms pressed up against each other from elbow to shoulder. Richie has to eat with his left hand to manage it, but he seems happy to do so, even though his fork-to-mouth coordination suffers for it. He doesn’t seem all that concerned with eating anyway. Eddie keeps catching Richie watching him with a soft, open smile and a sort of lovesick look on his face, so he really can’t help leaning over to kiss him when they’re done, mouths sweet with syrup.

After the dishes are done—by hand, because Eddie doesn’t trust any commercial dishwasher but his own, meticulously researched and worth every penny—they retreat to the living room where Christmas music is filtering through from Richie’s expensive stereo system. Richie’s got the Christmas lights on again and there’s a single present sitting under the tree.

“Oh, you fucker,” Eddie rounds on Richie. “We did presents last week.”

“Sorry, Eds,” Richie says, looking anything but. “Just doesn’t feel like Christmas without presents, you know?”

“I do know, which is why I was going to surprise you with a gift,” Eddie says, walking over to the credenza that Richie utilizes for nothing, not even storage. When you have a house as big as Richie’s, Eddie supposes it’s less a question of functional furniture than it is things to fill all the negative space. He retrieves the bag he’d stashed there the night before and from the bag retrieves the present he’d wrapped with Richie’s name on it.

Richie grins at him. “What foresight. How incredibly thoughtful of you, Eds.”

“Shut up,” Eddie tells him, grabbing the gift from under the tree and settling on the couch. Richie sits on the other side, one arm draped along the back of the couch. Eddie takes a moment to be annoyed at the size of the couch—practical, maybe, but too long for him to lean into Richie’s arm the way he wants to—and surreptitiously scoots toward him.

“You first,” Richie says, angling his chin up at him, giving Eddie a nice view of his jaw line. Luckily Richie doesn’t notice him staring, preoccupied as he is by nervously watching Eddie handle the gift.

Eddie tears away the paper, this time regrettably not covered in charming two-dimensional doodles. Eddie wonders vaguely if Richie would have kept any of them, and then wonders if he’d let Eddie have some. It’s terribly corny, sure, but he’d told Richie he loved him yesterday and Richie had cried over it, so though he’d almost certainly make fun of him for asking, he doesn’t actually think Richie would judge him for it. Despite what Richie would like to believe, his teasing is not quite so devastating as he seems to think it is, so Eddie thinks it may be worth it. And then he decides it’d definitely be worth it when he sees what Richie’s given him.

The wrapping paper falls away to reveal The Lord of the Rings Dramatization on Thirteen Compact Discs, wrapped new in shiny plastic. A delighted sort of laugh bubbles up from Eddie’s chest as he runs a thumb over the title. When he looks up, Richie is smiling at him.

“You said this was the worst part of moving, so I figured, you know. It’s a little overdue maybe, but- think of it as a belated housewarming.” 

“I said a lot of things were the worst,” Eddie says, narrowing his eyes.

“Well, I assumed this one was the most important because it was about me.”

Eddie huffs a laugh, rolls his eyes. He’s right, obviously, but Eddie’s not going to admit it. “Rich, this is so stupid,” he says, eyes bright. 

“Yeah,” Richie grins. “Do you love it?” 

“Yes, obviously.” Then, “I don’t even have a CD player.” 

Richie laughs. “You can listen to them in the car,” he says, looking at Eddie like he’s equal parts ridiculous and wonderful. Eddie scowls at him because otherwise he knows he’d have the same stupid look on his face.

“My car doesn’t have a CD player either.” 

“What kind of fucking car doesn’t have a CD player?” 

“It’s new! I don’t know.” 

“I will get you a CD player so that you can listen to your dorky Lord of the Rings audiotapes, okay?” 

“Don’t say it like that- How are you trying to make fun of me right now? This was your gift, asshole.”

“Fine. Hand over my present then so I can make fun of your gift instead,” Richie says, making grabby hands at Eddie.

Eddie hesitates. “Okay, but- I’m just now realizing that before yesterday this gift was, like, schmaltzy at best, but now given, you know, personal developments, ” he raises his eyebrows pointedly, “well, it’s downright sappy, so just- Just don’t be all… Richie about it, okay?”

Richie blinks at him.

“Eds. Well, now I have to see it.”

He opens and closes his hand impatiently where it’s still stretched out and Eddie reluctantly hands the present over. Richie immediately gets all Richie about it. 

“Personal developments, God, Eds. Bring some of that language to the bedroom, I’m hot all over just thinking about it.”

“Dick.” Eddie says it without much conviction, bringing one leg up onto the couch so that he can sink more fully into the cushions.

Richie peels off the last of the paper and turns the mixtape over in his hands, revealing where Eddie had scribbled Rich across the cover. Eddie eyes him warily.

“Eds,” Richie says, misty-eyed. “This is really gay.”

“Shut up,” Eddie laughs, kicking a leg out to hit his thigh. Richie grabs his ankle and holds it, thumb brushing over the dip of the inside of his foot. “You made me one first, fuckface.”

“Yeah, I was fifteen and pining and completely in love with you, what’s your excuse?”

Eddie’s face floods with color. He doesn’t know if Richie is needling for something or is actually just this fucking dense, but either way Eddie doesn’t have a good answer for him, so he just blusters for a second, then says, “Yeah, well.”

A shy kind of smile blooms across Richie’s face. It’s not one Eddie has seen before and it’s so thoroughly charming on him that Eddie feels his heart constrict in his chest.

“I can’t believe you made me a cassette tape, dude. And you had the gall to rag on me about a fucking CD player.”

“I didn’t rag on you, I was stating facts. And in either case, it’d be warranted because I actually thought about it.” Eddie reaches for his bag over the side of the couch and pulls out Richie’s walkman. Turns out spending years just sitting in a temperature-controlled storage unit is good as anything for preserving precious relics from the 90’s. “I thought about wrapping it, but- well, re-gifting is tacky.”

Richie snorts. He reaches over to take the tape player and bounces it in his hand like he’s testing the weight. He looks at Eddie like he’s a marvel.

“You are something fucking else, Kaspbrak.”

Eddie, inept as always at accepting compliments, just presses his lips together, feeling privately pleased.

“What’d you think of that tape anyway?” Richie watches him. “I never got to ask.”

“I listened to it every day,” Eddie answers honestly. “Even when I forgot you, I still… I loved it, Rich.”

Richie smiles at him, and Eddie smiles back, and they go on doing that until the cloying weight of their own mawkishness becomes completely unbearable.

They spend the rest of the day lazing around the house. The group text lights up with news of the other Losers’ holiday celebrations and they coo over the photos that circulate there in a way that’s actually only a little sarcastic. They find new and exciting corners of the house to make out in, and manage to watch the entirety of A Christmas Story all in the wrong order as they catch it at odd moments on TBS throughout the day. They’ve already done the big dinner, so when evening rolls around they order in Chinese food and send selfies to Stan and Patty. When Eddie goes to bed that night, it’s in Richie’s bed with Richie’s arm wrapped snug around his waist.

--

New Year’s Eve, 2016

Oh, but in case I stand one little chance
Here comes the jackpot question in advance
What are you doing New Year's, New Year's Eve?

They don’t strictly mean to spend New Year’s together, but Bev thinks New York during New Year’s is a nightmare, and it’s really not so much trouble for Mike and Bill and Audra to cut their Eurotrip short, and anyway, none of them save Bev have actually seen Ben’s house in person yet, and he designed it himself after all, and they’re all just codependent enough to actually pull the trigger, so before they really know it, the Losers are descending on Ben’s house in Nebraska for New Year’s.

Eddie spends the entire drive from the airport to the house white-knuckling it against the steering wheel. The snow is frankly horrendous, but it’s not so much the driving conditions that have him on edge. He’s not nervous, not really. He knows his friends love them, are happy for them. It’s just- it’s weird, is all. He and Richie had spent the last week living on top of each other—both figuratively and literally—in a beatific bubble of their own making. It’s so new, is the thing. Eddie had spent years (decades) trying desperately to tamp down the part of himself that loved Richie Tozier, no matter how futilely. He doesn’t know how to do so so openly now.

The man in question is babbling blithely while unloading the car, unaware of or else just ignoring exactly how keyed up Eddie is beside him. Eddie wonders what it says about him that he wears tense so naturally, and tries to relax his jaw.

They make their way to the front door and Richie slings a casual arm over Eddie’s shoulder while he jabs at the doorbell. Eddie wills himself to sap up the easy comfort of it and tries not to overthink it. And then Ben is answering the door, all crinkled eyes and strong hugs for the both of them while Bev shouts from the kitchen and skids out moments later with flour on her nose, and Eddie relaxes by degrees.

The night is as raucous as all their reunions seem to be. They’d popped champagne early because Bev had stocked the place with an absurd amount of it and there seemed no good reason to delay a good time. Once the last of them arrived, they’d coerced Ben into giving them a tour of the house, which quickly turned into Ben bringing them from room to room while Richie spouted increasingly ridiculous made-up facts in his best David Attenborough impression, which—as is the case with most of his impressions, Eddie has found—has actually gotten quite good. Eddie heckles him anyway, as is his wont, and does his best to hide his smile in his glass.

Richie carefully initiates casual intimacies all night, which Eddie does his best to return. It’s just that he’s so pointlessly aware of himself. Richie’s hand at his lower back was always something that would leave him mildly flustered, would drive him stupid wondering at what it meant. Except now he knows what it means and can’t distract himself with wondering, so the whole thing just leaves him feeling splayed open and exposed. He knows Richie has been waiting for this just as long as he has, wants so badly to give it to him. He just doesn’t know how to do so without the incessant nervous babbling coursing through his head. As is the case with the excess of neuroses he’s been slowly whittling away at in the last few months, Eddie knows that the only way out is through. So he doggedly leans into Richie’s touch, lets their fingers brush when they’re close enough to, and they both do their best to ignore the way his hands shake.

It starts to get hot in the house, or maybe it’s just the frayed edges of his nerves itching at the back of his neck, but either way, Eddie takes a moment to slip outside onto the sprawling deck. There’s a dual fireplace that serves both the interior and exterior of the house, and Stan is posted up beside it under a blanket on a loveseat. He nods at Eddie when he sees him and Eddie shudders at the cold as he makes his way over to him.

“Budge up,” he says and makes himself comfortable at Stan’s side, accepting the blanket that Stan magnanimously offers to share with him.

“Fuck, it’s cold here. I can’t believe Ben got a taste of winters in Maine and thought ‘more please.’ New York wasn’t exactly tropical, but it’s better than this shit.”

“I’ve lived in Atlanta for two decades. This is a novelty.”

“Buy a snow globe, dude. Save yourself the frostbitten toes.”

Stan snorts. “Why are you out here risking hypothermia then?”

Eddie feels his stomach swoop. “I don’t know. It was just, um, feeling crowded in there. I needed a- a break,” he says awkwardly. “Why are you out here?”

Stan hums, “Just… thinking. They don’t tell you that introspection is a side-effect of dying, but in retrospect I probably should have seen it coming.”

Eddie presses his lips together, not quite as adept at talking so indifferently about their respective jaunts to the other side and back. 

“I don’t know how to tell you this, Stan, but I think maybe you’re just like that.”

Stan looks at him, laughs, shakes his head and says, “Yeah, maybe.”

Eddie watches Stan out of the corner of his eye and for the millionth time since the summer feels acutely grateful that he’s here with them. Which is maybe why his heart doesn’t quite make it to double-time when Stan asks, “How are things with Rich?”

Eddie rolls his shoulders to temper the climbing stiffness in his spine.

“Good,” he says lightly. “This past week has been… it’s been really good. It’s all kind of felt like a dream, to be honest,” he says, scrubbing a hand down his face. “It’s just been so… easy. I guess that’s the benefit of-” he stumbles over the words, “of being with someone who- who’s known you so long. I’m not, uh. I’m not really used to that.”

His awkward phrasing communicates effectively enough that it’s not feeling quite so easy right this second, even if he hadn’t meant to tell Stan that. That’s all Eddie though, and it’s for Richie’s sake, not in spite of it, that he wants so badly to skip ahead to the part where everything feels okay. It's just that he’s spent so much of his life feeling decidedly not okay that he’s not sure how to function outside of it now.

Stan looks at him for a long time, which does nothing to soothe the tension that’s curling across Eddie’s shoulders. He finally turns away to gaze out into the dark mess of trees beyond the snowy edge of the deck, and when he speaks again, it’s seemingly apropos of nothing and leaves Eddie eyeing him warily.

“You know, back before everything, before- before this summer, I think it’s always felt like- like there was a part of myself that was somewhere else. I’m pretty sure Pat’s seen it too. When we were younger, I don’t think she knew what to make of it. She was… she was wary. Which, you know, makes sense.” He smiles ruefully, charmingly. “But it was never something that effected how I felt about her. It was just… just there. A noticeable absence. And then over time, it just… settled. Something apart from how I loved Patty. And you know, it’s always been easy to love her. I don’t know if it’s always been easy to love me, but she’s done it anyway. And then this summer, ever since- ever since coming back, it’s like- I don’t feel anything missing anymore. That piece of my heart has always belonged to you guys. There was something I’d missed even when I didn’t remember it, and when I came back, I brought it back with me. I was more. That’s what loving someone is meant to be like, I think. You’re no less for it. It should fill you up.”

Eddie stares at him.

“Fuck, Stan. And we're sure Bill’s the writer?”

Stan rolls his eyes, laughs, “Yeah, I don’t know. I’ve done a lot of thinking since I got back. I just feel like… I’ve got this second chance.” He nudges his shoulder against Eddie’s, “We’ve got to make it what we want.”

Eddie releases a shaky breath and gives him a small smile.

“Maybe dying did make you more profound. I don’t know what it did for me except maybe soothe some of that low-level, vague kind of anxiety that just sat in my gut all the time. Now all my anxiety is just... painfully specific.” Eddie thinks that’s probably more down to getting the Losers back, and maybe more specifically getting Richie back, but he doesn’t mention it.

Stan raises an eyebrow, “This is you less anxious?”

Eddie grins at him, “Bleak, right?”

“Yeah, well,” Stan adjusts the blanket, burrowing further into the seat. “You just spent a week with Richie, I think your standards for profundity are probably pretty low right now.”

“His standards for men, however, are at an all-time high.”

Eddie’s eyes snap around to watch Richie shuffle out onto the deck, hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket. He’s wearing those stupid New Year’s glasses that stopped making sense after the 2000’s and all its zeroes. They’re shoved up on his head above his actual glasses, tangled in his hair so that it sticks up, impossibly, everywhere.

He looks stupid. Eddie loves him.

He comes to a stop in front of the loveseat and Stan and Eddie peer up at him with glares in varying degrees of vigor. Richie grins.

“I swear I’ve had this dream before.”

Eddie gears up to tell him—inelegantly maybe—to fuck off, when Stan cuts in coolly, “This is a meeting of the Dead Losers Society, you’re not invited.”

“Oh, so all of a sudden spending two decades feeling dead inside just doesn’t count?”

Eddie scowls. “Beep beep, asshole.”

“Fine, I can take a hint. Don’t stay out here too long, you know gossip is an ugly habit.”

“Actually, I’ll leave,” Stan says. “You know, for the sake of my toes.” He nudges Eddie’s foot as he gets up. 

Richie claims his empty seat in a matter of seconds, letting a cold gust of chilly air under the blanket. Eddie huffs, and complains, and presses his cold fingers up under Richie’s shirt, to which Richie responds with a yelp and another tug on the blanket. In the ensuing scuffle, neither notice Stan roll his eyes with a small grin and slip back into the house.

They eventually settle in the seat. Richie gets an arm around Eddie’s shoulder and Eddie leans back into his chest, bringing his feet up to shelter under the warmth of the blanket. Richie presses a kiss into his hair and says, “How you doing, Eds?”

“Fine,” Eddie answers. “Cold,” knowing that’s not what Richie means.

“Well, coming back from the dead will do that to a person.”

Eddie raises an eyebrow at him. “So we’re joking about it now?”

Richie grins, looking a little sick and sounding a little wobbly when he says, “You guys were doing it.” Then, “Nope, not ready to joke about it.”

Eddie hums and leans a little closer while Richie blinks against the glossy sheen that has clouded his eyes.

“I’m okay,” Eddie says, answering his earlier question. “It’s just… taking some getting used to. I spent so long wanting to kiss you all the time, thinking I shouldn’t, or couldn't. And now I can, and I still want to, but probably shouldn’t, not all the time at least, but sometimes, and-” Eddie cuts off, picking at a loose thread at the edge of the blanket. “I don’t know,” he summarizes lamely. “I’m just… overthinking it. Again. Sorry.”

Richie’s brow pinches and he gives a short little shake of his head, protesting Eddie’s self-conscious apology. Against character, he doesn’t say anything for a minute, thinks about it while staring at Eddie, and after a point it gets pretty unnerving to be honest, and Eddie is about to break the silence for sheer virtue of getting Richie to stop whatever it is he’s doing, when Richie finally speaks up.

“You could kiss me now.”

Eddie blinks at him. He thinks it over, finds he’s right, and so he does. He twists a bit so that he can face Richie more fully, brings a finger up to his chin to tilt his face down, and kisses him full on the mouth. Richie’s arm squeezes in tighter where it’s still around his shoulder, and his other hand comes to rest on Eddie’s thigh. Eddie feels it hot like a brand, and he bites at Richie’s bottom lip gently, swallowing down the whine that Richie doesn’t mean to let out.

When they pull away, Richie’s eyes dart down and back again from Eddie’s eyes to his lips. “You’re, like, really good at that,” he says, sounding a little put out. “You could totally be kissing me all the time, Eds. I really wouldn’t mind.”

Eddie hides his grin against Richie’s shoulder and says, muffled by the fabric of his jacket, “How are you doing?”

Richie laughs, answers quickly, earnest in a way he only ever really manages to be when it’s on accident, “I’m just really fucking stoked we’re here Eds.” Here, in Nebraska. Here, after living 27 years as a shadow of themselves. Here, together. Whatever.

Eddie rolls his head on Richie’s shoulder to look up at him, and objectively it’s not a great angle, but it’s Richie, so Eddie can’t find any fault.

“Yeah,” he says softly. “Me too.”

He presses a kiss against the underside of Richie’s jaw.

And then Beverly is hanging out of the doorway, refusing to step onto the porch in bare feet, grousing at them to get inside because the countdown is starting. Eddie gets up, takes Richie’s hand and lets himself to be led away into the warmth and comfort of all their friends. Richie’s got his arm slung around Eddie’s neck, and Mike’s pressing champagne flutes into their hands, and Eddie thinks that there’s no where else he’d rather be.

They count down from ten, out of step and laughing all the way through it, and when the clock strikes midnight and Richie beams at him, then kisses him, it’s nice. And it’s new. And it’ll take some getting used to. But Eddie finds that he’s the happiest he’s ever been.