Work Text:
The sun is starting to set, casting a bunch of filthy Losers in soft orange light as they drag their aching bodies back to the Townhouse. Richie’s glasses are cracked and caked in sewer goo and clown blood; he can't see a goddamn thing, but he knows Eddie is walking beside him and that's all he really needs.
Eddie, who isn't split in half and bleeding out in a hole under the ground. Eddie who's alive, whose shoulder bumps Richie’s every once in a while. Who’s quiet, and tense, wound up so tight Richie’s afraid he’ll snap at any moment.
But they're all quiet, and they're all tense. No one came away from that battle unscathed, and right now the wounds are festering. They need showers and sleep and time. Maybe tomorrow they’ll celebrate, or just get in their cars and drive as far away from this place as they can get. Richie will bully them all into coming to California and spending some time in the desert.
They're not going to talk about this day and what it means. He knows that without having to ask. The clown is gone, for good this time, and its rotten memory will remain under the rubble of 29 Neibolt Street forevermore.
Once at the motel, they murmur goodnights to each other and head for their rooms with all the energy of grimy zombies.
Richie’s heart is heavy with the images his mind keeps replaying. Eddie skewered in a shit-stinking sewer, Richie sobbing over his broken body. He knows he whispered words into Eddie’s ear, confessionary words ripped straight from his soul, but he can't remember if they were real or only in his head.
He trips on the stairs, landing heavily on his knee, but before he can curse at the pain of it, there's a hand under his arm hauling him up.
“Careful, Rich,” Eddie says, and he doesn't let go. “Let's get to your room.”
“Let's?” Richie asks, too tired and fucked up to think of a fitting joke.
“My room is trashed,” Eddie reminds him. “You couldn't fucking pay me to go back in there.”
Richie nods, and it only takes a little bit of bravery to say, “Don't wanna be without you tonight anyway.”
Everything feels cloaked in a thick layer of surreality. Richie watched Eddie die tonight. And then he saved his life.
“You won't be,” Eddie says, squeezing Richie’s bicep. “Not tonight, or ever.”
Richie doesn't know what that means.
-
Eddie takes his shirt off as soon as they get to Richie’s room, just pulls it over his head and drops it to the floor in a dirty crumpled heap. The skin under his clothing is just as dirty, but that doesn't stop Richie from staring.
“Guess you're showering first?” Richie asks.
“I just need these off,” Eddie says, unbuttoning his jeans and shoving them unceremoniously down his thighs. “The amount of fucking bacteria and…” He trails off, clearly too spent to work himself up the way he normally would about staph infections and e. coli and whatever the fuck else the poor little asshole worries about on a day to day basis.
“You can have the shower,” Richie says, rooted to the spot, staring at Eddie’s thighs. “I can wait.”
Eddie peels his socks off. Richie can't tell if they were white once or if they've always been black. The thought makes him feel vaguely nauseated.
“You could join me,” Eddie says.
Richie stares at him blankly. “What.”
“You look dead on your feet, Rich. I don't want you slipping and cracking your head open or something.”
“Oh.”
“Plus we can, you know… help each other out.”
Richie’s had dreams about this, he remembers. Teenage dreams of touching hot wet naked Eddie, but he can't say that in any iterations of this particular fantasy they both smelled like a fucking Coachella port-a-potty.
“You wash my back, I wash yours,” Eddie adds.
“Oh. Right, yeah.” Richie takes his glasses off and tosses them onto the mattress, then scrubs a hand down over his face. He's stubbled and greasy and haggard and it's really not the way he would have ever wanted to look the first time Eddie saw him naked.
He actually laughs out loud at the thought. The first time. As if there will, in any conceivable universe, be a second.
“What are you laughing at, asshole?” Eddie asks huffily.
And Richie laughs again. And again. He squints so he can see Eddie’s face all pissy and pinched up in annoyance and it makes him laugh like air leaking from a broken balloon. The tension eases and Richie’s stomach hurts and this is real. They fucking did it, they killed the clown and Eddie is alive alive alive.
“Nothing, Spagheds,” Richie says, wiping the tears from his cheeks. “I just love you, that's all.”
“I love you too,” Eddie says, his tone not wavering at all from one of annoyance, which just makes Richie smile even harder. “Now get naked already, you smell like a diseased dick hole.”
“Ooh, dirty talk,” Richie coos, peeling his shirt off.
Eddie rolls his eyes. “I'm going to start the water.”
Richie follows him, hopping out of his pants and into the bathroom. He's not sure he's ever going to be able to let Edward Kaspbrak out of his sight ever again.
In the harsh light of the bathroom, Richie can see Eddie’s body with a lot more clarity, which is very good and very bad, depending on what exactly Eddie has in mind for how this shower is going to go.
Eddie bends over to start the shower running. It's obscene, frankly.
“Eds, what the fuck.”
Eddie turns his head around to frown at Richie. “What?”
“Since when are you, like… built.”
“We haven't seen each other in twenty seven years, Richie.”
“Oh yeah.”
Eddie slips his thumbs inside his boxer briefs and slides them off like it's nothing. Richie is all too aware that he doesn't handle it as a dude who has zero interest in his friend’s dick would.
“Your turn,” Eddie says, and the intensity on his face is something that even Richie, in all his forty years of well honed repression, can't possibly deny.
So he pushes his boxers down and lets them puddle around his ankles. He watches Eddie’s eye scan downward and linger before travelling back up to Richie’s face.
“Come on,” Eddie says softly, reaching a hand out.
Richie takes it and lets Eddie pull him into the shower.
The water is blissfully hot. They stand there awkwardly for a beat before Richie takes Eddie by the shoulders and maneuvers him carefully under the spray. “You go first, Eds,” he says, letting his fingers trail down the back of Eddie’s arm. “You should wash your cheek.”
“Oh fuck,” Eddie mutters, as if there's any chance in hell he forgot that he's got a fresh stab wound that's been soaking in toilet juice for hours.
Eddie is a small man. His shoulders aren't broad, and Richie figures he's probably got a good five inches on the poor bastard, at least. He's compact and strong, and the shifting of the muscles in his back as he soaps up his face has Richie mesmerized.
“Give me that,” Richie murmurs, reaching around him to take the bar of cheap-smelling soap. “I'll get your back.”
Richie rubs the bar between his palms until he's worked up a thick lather, and then he lays them flat against Eddie’s shoulder blades. Water runs down his body in swirls of brown and it's intensely satisfying to watch the physical reminder of their ordeal slipping down the drain.
Eddie's back is a mess of knots and coiled tension everywhere Richie touches. He longs to dig in with his fingers and work them out, but he's not sure he’s allowed to turn this into a massage. This should be enough, running his hands all over Eddie’s back, feeling the firmness of the muscle, watching the grime wash away. He's not going to get so greedy that Eddie has grounds to call him a—
He hears voices in his head, Pennywise and Bowers, taunts and slurs, and shame burns hot up into his throat. He drops his hands and takes a step back. “Sorry. Sorry.”
Eddie turns around. There's soap in his chest hair and on his cock, and no amount of shame can keep Richie from noticing that.
“Richie.”
He looks at Eddie’s dark eyes.
“It's okay now, man. It's over.”
Richie hides his face in his hands for a minute. “Yeah. Yeah.”
“Here,” Eddie says, taking Richie by the shoulders and moving him under the shower head. “Your turn.”
Richie just nods, tilting his face up into the water.
Eddie’s touch is firm and sure, and he doesn't hesitate to dig his thumbs into the tense, meaty parts of Richie’s shoulders.
“Christ, Eds,” Richie mutters. “That hurts like a bitch.”
“Feels good though, right?”
Richie nods. “Hell yeah, dude. Keep going.”
He makes a fist and drags his knuckles up Richie’s spine. “Can I tell you something?” he asks.
Richie just hums.
“I told Myra I want a divorce.”
Richie’s whole body goes tight. “What?”
“Yeah.”
“When did you have time to—”
“I sent it in an email. From my phone. At the hospital when I was getting my stitches. Being there reminded me of her and that’s just… that's fucked up, Rich. You know? The only time I thought about her since coming back here was when I had a needle in my face and my mouth tasted like blood. And I was pretty sure I was gonna die in Derry and I didn't want to die married to someone I’m not in love with.”
“Jesus fuck, Eds.”
“I know. I'm sorry.”
“You're sorry? Why the fuck would you be sorry?” Richie's still standing with his back to Eddie. His face is on fire, every nerve ending in his body frayed and sparking.
“I don't know, Rich. A few days ago I didn't even remember you. And now…”
“And now?” Richie prompts.
Eddie exhales shakily and rests his forehead in between Richie’s shoulder blades. He's pressed against the back of Richie’s body in a way that Richie can feel.
“Now I can't fucking stand the thought of losing you again,” Eddie says quietly. “The second I saw your stupid goddamn face at the Jade I felt like I was home.”
Richie reaches back blindly, grabbing for whatever of Eddie he can reach, which turns out to be his hair. He grips it firmly, but not enough to hurt. Eddie grunts quietly in the back of his throat and slides a slippery hand down to touch Richie’s hip.
Eddie says, “I don't know if I’m more lost than ever or if I’m finally finding myself.”
“If this is being lost,” Richie says. “I wanna be lost forever, Spaghetti Man. Burn all the maps.”
“You're such an idiot. And your standup is embarrassing.”
“I know.” Richie tips his head back onto Eddie’s shoulder. “It's not me. It's all persona.”
“You've always been at least half persona, haven't you, Rich?” He slides his hand around to press against Richie’s stomach.
“Haven't we all?”
“I'm so sick of it I could scream.”
“Me too.” Richie closes his eyes and tries not to think of all the years they lost, the empty hotel rooms and meaningless hookups. The fog he’s been living in for the last twenty seven years has finally lifted and the idea of losing one more minute is suddenly unbearable. “Fuck, Eds, I—”
“Did you mean what you said?”
Richie’s mouth snaps shut. It was real, then. It wasn't the clown. It was all him.
Eddie’s hand has moved down, not a lot, but enough to notice. Enough to make Richie brave. “Yeah, man. Always.”
“When we were kids?”
“Always.”
He feels the faint press of lips on his back and then Eddie says, “I'm gonna wash you, okay?”
“Yeah,” Richie says.
Eddie’s soapy hands touch him everywhere; his chest, his stomach, the backs of his calves. His ass. His breath gets stuck in his throat when Eddie splays his fingers over Richie’s cheeks and squeezes. He's never had much there for anyone to get excited about, but Eddie mouths at Richie’s back again, a hint of teeth scraping the skin. He doesn't seem to have any complaints, and complaining about Richie is something Eddie has always been exceptionally good at.
Richie is hard and wanting by the time Eddie wraps his fingers around his cock.
“Eddie, you don't have to.”
“I know, asshole. I want to.” He pushes his hips forward and Richie can feel that he's telling the truth.
Richie can't think of a joke. He can't think of a single word to say to mitigate how much this means to him. He looks down to watch Eddie stroking over him slowly, the head of Richie’s cock slipping in and out of Eddie’s fist. The movement is lubricated by soap and hot water, and Eddie is touching him like he knows what he's doing.
If Richie was still a teenager, he'd have probably already come. But he's not. He's forty fucking years old, and he drinks too much and eats like shit and doesn't work out. He's a middle aged schlub who makes bad jokes for a living and hasn't been sincere a day in his life, but he thinks he's earned this. The universe fucking owes him.
And he'd like to be sincere right now. If this is his chance, he's going to take it. He turns around to face Eddie, only lamenting the loss of the warm hand on his dick for a fraction of a second. Then he's looking at Eddie. Edward fucking Kaspbrak. Brave little hypochondriac spitfire and unrequited love of Richie’s goddamn life.
“I want to kiss you,” Richie says.
“Yeah, great, Rich. What do you want, my permission? Just do it already.”
Richie grins, looping an arm around Eddie’s lower back and pulling him in with all the confidence and eagerness of a man who cheated death and wants to make good on a lifelong fantasy. He kisses Eddie hard, probably too hard considering half the guy’s face is being held together by a literal thread, but he can't feel too bad about it when Eddie groans a little and licks into Richie’s mouth.
Richie’s cock is digging into Eddie’s stomach. He probably wouldn't need to do more than hump him for a few minutes to get off, but he's not going to do anything to make this experience end any quicker than it needs to. He could happily stay here forever swapping spit with Edie, groping his ass (which is, just, holy fuck, spectacular, the man definitely squats on the regular), listening to the noises Eddie’s making in the back of his throat. His lips are stubble burnt already and the water is starting to get cold but he doesn't care. This is far and away the best moment of his life.
Then Eddie pulls away. “Well holy shit,” he breathes, swiping the pad of his thumb across Richie's bottom lip.
“Eds,” is Richie’s equally eloquent reply.
“Can we get out?” Eddie asks, not waiting for a reply before reaching around Richie’s body to shut the water off. “Come on.” He slides the curtain out of the way and steps out of the tub and onto the mat. Then he holds a hand out.
Richie takes it, too hopeful to be disappointed by their interruption. Eddie’s skin is pink from the heat of the shower, but the flush creeping down his throat and spilling out across his chest is darker, more splotchy. It's the prettiest thing Richie’s ever seen. Apart from Eddie’s arms. And ass. And cock. And chest hair. And all the rest of his body hair. And his face, so different from the last time Richie saw him, but in all the ways that matter it's exactly the same. It's all the same, the way Eddie makes him want to be funny, the way he feels alive when Eddie looks at him. The way Richie wants to hack anything that hurts Eddie to pieces.
“Rich.”
“Huh?” He reaches up and pushes his wet hair out of his face. “What?”
“As much as I love standing here dripping all over the floor and freezing my ass off while you eye fuck me, we've got shit to do.”
“We do?”
Eddie just rolls his eyes and gives Richie’s arm a sharp tug. “Come on.” He's a man on a mission, apparently, pushing Richie onto the bed as soon as they get close to it.
Richie’s stomach flips in a way it hasn't since he was a teenager. “Jesus, Spaghetti.”
“Don't call me that.”
Richie smirks. “Why not?”
“Because…” He climbs onto the bed— and onto Richie. He sits on top of Richie’s thighs, only slightly hesitant. He doesn't finish his sentence because he's looking down to what's between them, where they're both hard. Then he shuffles up a little higher on Richie’s thighs, high enough that when he sits back down their cocks are touching.
Eddie actually shudders. Richie’s props himself up on his elbows for a better view and instantly has to lie down again. He throws his arm over his eyes.
“Because why, Eds?”
“I don't know,” Eddie says. “Shut up.”
“Whatever you say, Edward.” Richie reaches down to run his hands up Eddie’s thighs. He has hair where once he didn't, and muscle and a tan. He flexes under Richie’s fingers.
“I wish you'd told me,” he says quietly. “Back when we were kids. I could've figured some shit out a long time ago.”
“I did, though. In my own dumb Trashmouth ways. Eddie my love and cute cute cute.” He smiles, pushing his hands all the way up Eddie’s thighs to his hips. “You remember what an idiot that guy was. I did my best.”
“Rich.”
“What?”
Eddie takes one of Richie's hands and puts it on his dick. “Help me figure some shit out.”
Richie has him squirming within a couple minutes. He knows he's not historically the greatest lay, but what he's lacked previously in effort and enthusiasm, he's making up in spades tonight. Never has a handjob been more eagerly given. Never has Richie cared so little about the ache in his forearm.
He twists his fist around the head of Eddie’s cock and Eddie hisses.
“Bad?” Richie asks.
Eddie shakes his head. “Good. Too good. It's too—” He sucks a quick sharp breath in through his nose when Richie does it again. “I can't fucking come yet. This is humiliating.”
“Would it help if I came fast too?”
“I'm not even touching you.”
Richie eases up his grip on Eddie and slips his own cock into the tunnel of his fist and jerks them both together.
Eddie tilts his head back. His precome is sticky on Richie’s fingers.
“Won't be a problem,” Richie says. “I've been halfway there since you took off your shirt.”
“Shut up.” Eddie is slightly breathless. He's started rocking his hips up into Richie's hand, rubbing the tip of his cock up against the underside of Richie's. “Fucking— Jesus. Does it always feel like this?”
Richie's stomach swoops. He squeezes them together a little tighter and says, “I don't know, Eds. It never has for me.”
Eddie tips forward, laying his chest flat against Richie’s. Their cocks are trapped between their bellies now, and Eddie starts rocking harder, fucking himself against Richie’s cock.
“Don't say that if you don't mean it,” Eddie growls, then kisses Richie’s mouth before Richie can respond.
They're sweating on each other, and the sheets are damp from soaking up the shower water that still clung to them when they laid down. It's hot and it already smells more human than Richie would expect Eddie to be comfortable with, but Eddie seems to have a singular focus. He's biting Richie's lip, getting himself off against Richie’s body with the energy of a man who actually takes care of himself on a regular basis.
“Just tell me when,” Richie pants. “Tell me—”
Eddie groans in Richie’s mouth, his hips stuttering as slick warmth seeps between their cocks and Richie's fingers.
Richie expects Eddie to roll away and immediately start freaking out about the mess, but what actually happens is that Eddie sits up and bats Richie’s hand out of the way and uses his own come as lubrication to jerk Richie off ruthlessly.
It feels cliché to say it's the best orgasm of his life, but it's also the truth. It's so good that his stomach muscles ache afterwards. Eddie still has a grip on both of them, even though the come has gone sticky and they've both gone soft.
“Eds,” Richie says softly. “You alright, buddy?”
“I don't want to fuck around.”
“Okay.”
“I've wasted enough time being unhappy.”
“Yeah. Me too.”
“I'm not gonna spend the second half of my life pretending I don't want what I want.”
“Me neither.”
“So we're on the same page.”
“Yeah.” Richie smiles. “Yeah we are.”
“You're not gonna make a joke?” Eddie asks incredulously. “Make fun of me for being too intense or like… fucking dick-whipped or something?”
Richie snorts. “Jesus, Eds. Dick-whipped?”
“I don't know gay lingo.” He rolls off of Richie onto his back.
Richie immediately rolls onto his side so they can stay pressed together. “You can say you like me,” he says, teasing, but only gently. “You can say you want me to be your boyfriend.”
“Well.” Long pause. “I do.”
“Come to California,” Richie says, running his hand up Eddie’s arm. “Live with me. Teach me yoga. I’ll take you to all the trendiest gluten free vegan restaurants. You can come to my gigs and watch me tell bad jokes that I don't pay someone else to write. We can be happy.”
“Don't say this shit if you don't mean it, Richie,” Eddie says, frowning, intense.
“I watched you die today,” Richie blurts. “I almost lost you.” He swallows over the lump in his throat. “I'm done fucking around.”
They get up. They have another shower. There's still lots of touching, but they're forty year old men who need time to recover. They can go again tomorrow.
And the day after that. They have time.