Work Text:
“This is officially the dumbest fucking idea you’ve ever had, and that’s fucking saying something, Richie.”
Eyes screwed shut for at least three different reasons, Richie takes a deep, deep breath in through his nose, holds it in his lungs for a few beats, and slowly trills it back out through pursed lips. He opens his eyes, squinting up at Eddie from where he’s sitting in the grass, chilled by the evening air and cold as hell where the blades poke at his thighs under the hem of his basketball shorts. His left eye twitches. His right ankle throbs.
Eddie is towering over him, which is a first, arms crossed over his chest and face all pinchy in that way Richie would tell him is soooo cute if he wasn’t distracted by the pain and the fading haze of a decent high cut short.
Richie goes to remind Eddie, for the third time, that, actually, this whole thing had been Eddie’s idea, but he clenches his jaw to keep the words in. Eddie probably won’t get pissy and leave him to fend to himself, but Richie’s just stoned enough for the paranoia to creep in alongside the pain and freak him out a little. He sighs again, shifting just a skosh and getting a zinging pain through the top of his foot for his trouble. That, embarrassing as it is, makes his eyes flood with tears, and he can’t stifle them before two fat drops are rolling down his cheeks and getting lost somewhere in his stubble.
“Fuck,” is all Richie manages to say, feeling weirdly small and frightened as he sits prone and, like, sort of helpless in a way that’s wicked uncomfortable.
It had been such a pleasant evening, too. In fact, Richie might even go as far as saying it was great, but recent events have significantly dampened his enjoyment, so, maybe he wouldn’t. They ordered pizza for dinner, which only took, like, ten minutes of Richie wheedling before Eddie gave in and that’s a new record for sure, and watched a weird ass episode of Beyond Belief: Fact or Fiction? and got high by passing Richie’s vape pen back and forth while they bickered on the sofa.
It took less than an hour of this for Eddie to get the fuckin’ zoomies, which is also a new record, and he was so fidgety in his corner of the couch that started driving Richie so nuts he insisted Eddie do something other than wiggling around and cracking his knuckles over and over. Then, somehow, they wound up going on a walk, leaving the house in Crocs and comfy clothes sometime after ten PM. Richie doesn’t remember the particulars, but he does remember that it had been Eddie’s stupid fucking idea and he, actually, is a victim here.
He also, naturally, let Eddie lead him at least a mile away from the house and then, naturally, his stupid foot got into a little fight with a gaping sidewalk crack. His ankle rolled, and he went down like a ton of bricks, and he isn’t sure what hurts the most–his foot, his tailbone, or what precious little is left of his pride.
And now they’re at an impasse of sorts. Eddie’s too high to go get the car, and Richie probably wouldn’t let him, anyway, since, yeah, he’s a big, strong dude or whatever, but he’s spooked and hurt. Richie doesn’t super think he can walk without a lot of fucking hobbling, and Eddie’s idea of calling an Uber to pick their sorry, old asses up is actually so humiliating Richie would rather just sit here and keep fumbling for options that don’t exist, so. An impasse.
Eddie, helpfully, is now pacing in front of where Richie sits. His arms are still crossed and even the way he takes steps is annoyed.
"I told you to watch where you were walking," he snaps, though his voice wavers with worry more than anything else, “it’s fucking dark as dicks out here and you don’t even have the back strap of your Croc on your fucking foot, Richie! God!”
Richie watches him, still squinting. He’s trying to find some words, any fucking words that will diffuse the situation, which he’s typically pretty good at, but the mix of thumping pain in his foot and hazy, stoned lack of focus makes it hard.
With a resigned sigh, he reaches out a hand, grabbing the pant leg of Eddie’s joggers to stop him mid-step. He doesn’t pull enough to knock Eddie off-kilter, but Eddie grunts and wobbles on his feet anyway.
"Hey, Eds," he says softly, "just… sit with me for a minute, okay?”
Eddie visibly hesitates, sort of buffering where he stands. His expression is fraught, caught somewhere between concerned and frustrated, and he looks like he’s mulling over the request for a good ten seconds before he acquiesces and settles down next to Richie in the cool grass.
They’re pressed together at shoulder and elbow and hip bone, and Eddie is solid and real beside Richie, and that helps to soothe Richie in ways he doesn’t trust himself to express.
“We aren’t as young as we once were, huh?” Richie jokes instead of trying, attempting a laugh. It’s a little tight and strained, but when Eddie rolls his eyes in that affectionate way of his, Richie manages to smile for real.
“Speak for yourself, grandpa,” Eddie retorts, but now there's a hint of a smile tugging at his lips, too. He shoves his shoulder into Richie’s a little harder, and he sighs as more of the tension bleeds out of the both of them.
There are a few moments of silence, which is less freaky now that they’ve both calmed down a little, and Richie recalls fuzzy memories of a situation much like this one that took place almost three decades ago.
They were maybe sixteen, and they’d gotten drunk with Mike and Ben off some bottom-shelf, plastic-bottle vodka at the Hanlon barn. Mike and Ben wound up conking out at a reasonable time, leaving their two wiggliest companions to entertain themselves, which they did by stumbling around the expansive Hanlon property in the dead of night. Eddie had twisted his ankle on a tree root, and Richie, drunk enough not to feel shame about pulling unnecessary, hero bullshit, had given him a piggyback ride all the way back to the barn. Eddie had bitched the entire way, calling Richie an idiot for making him walk so far in the first place–which, to be clear, had been Eddie’s idea, just like this time, damn it–but he thanked Richie in a quiet, serious, soft voice when he was finally settled back on his sleeping bag, a bag of ice on his swollen foot.
Richie, for his part, had shrugged it off at the time, ignoring the dumb fluttering of his heart and insisting that Eddie owed him big time.
"Remember that time at Mikey's?" Richie says suddenly, the memory bringing a small smile to his face. "You twisted your ankle, and I carried you, like, a million miles! All the way back to the barn."
Eddie rolls his eyes again, but it’s still affectionate, especially paired with the grin he offers.
"Yeah, I remember,” he says, leaning into Richie even more, “You wouldn't shut the fuck up about how heavy I was."
"You were fucking heavy, especially for how shrimpy you were," Richie teases, eyebrows wiggling. "Is this a good time to remind you that you owe me one?”
Eddie barks out a laugh and shakes his head. He rests it against Richie’s shoulder and sighs, still chuckling.
“You want me to throw my back out carrying your dumbass home?” Eddie asks, rolling his head to the side enough for him to meet Richie’s eyes, “Besides, man, I paid that fuckin’ life debt by actually saving your ass, remember? We’re even.”
Richie hums, his eyes locked on Eddie’s, and they just kind of stare at each other for a moment. Richie recalls that article he once read about the “kiss or kill” phenomenon, and he doesn’t know if that’s actually real, but he does know that he feels more compelled to press his lips to Eddie’s with every passing nanosecond, and he’s gotta disengage before he does something he’ll regret.
“So,” Richie says, louder than he means to, and he scrunches up his nose at the way Eddie jolts beside him and pulls away a little. “What’s the plan, Dr. K? You’re the brains, I’m just the pretty one.”
Eddie offers a long-suffering sigh and once again rests his head on Richie’s shoulder. Richie tosses an arm around his shoulders, squishing them even further together, and they mutter about their limited options as the hum of the dim streetlight overhead keeps them company.