Do Not Fucking Touch Me // Reddie

Forty Two

(Eddie's POV)

I remember how it felt the first time I got hurt. My mom had kept me pretty sheltered as a kid. After she left my dad, she took me and went straight to the smallest town she could find, the farthest away from him as possible. I never really knew my dad in actuality. From what my mom told me, he was a bad man. 

Some people at school said because I never had a dad growing up, I never learned how to be a man. I was scared of everything. They even attributed the fact that I was gay to him. I didn't know what I was. I didn't think gay was the label I should just stick on my chest for being in love with a boy. It wasn't like I was attracted to every boy I came across. I was attracted to the person that Richie was, and I fell in love with that person. Everything else was just coincidental. 

That same boy walked through my door. He looked horrible, but also really good. It was strange how he could do that. It was like he had a superpower. His eyes plunged back in his sockets and his bones framed his body. The indigo circles under his eyes never seemed to leave. His hair was always a mess, he didn't seem to care either. He was too busy caring about me to even fix his hygiene and appearance. Of course, I felt guilty for this. I felt guilty for all the pain I'd caused over the past week. My uncle, Richie, even random people at school all told me they were relieved to hear I'd survived, but they were saddened to hear of my internal misery. 

"Hey, Eds," he smiled, strutting on up to me. He pulled my body to rest on his chest and he kissed my forehead, exaggerating the noise.

I blushed and wrapped my arm around his side. His waist was miniscule. Each rib poked out and brushed my arm as I eventually pulled away. He used to be so warm when I hugged him. It felt cozy and safe. Things felt uneasy now. I wanted him to be free from the disease of his mind that plagued him. 

"Stan says Happy Birthday," he mentioned. He ran his fingers through his hair. He was nervous. Why was he nervous? He was the cool and collected one in the relationship. I was the nervous wreck. 

"Oh, cool," I said. I wasn't a very convincing liar. I really didn't care about Stan right now. I wanted to know what my boyfriend wasn't telling me.

I crossed my arms to alert him that I was seeing something different in him. He rolled his eyes and placed his hands on his hips. "Don't give me that look, Eddie."

I raised my eyebrows at him. He gave in. "I threw up again, but not on purpose." 

Hard to believe. "Before you say anything, I promise you I'm trying, Eds. I ate so much at lunch..."

He was choking up. I felt bad. My uncle was in his room getting ready for my birthday dinner out. "I'm sorry," I apologized. I knew he was trying. I didn't want to make him feel bad for not being good enough. Heaven knows that's how he already felt. 

"I threw up blood," he confessed. He was scared, his eyes showed it. His face was pale. 

"You threw up blood?" I asked. This was really putting a damper on my good day. My birthday. Seeing Richie in pain was the worst present I could have ever gotten. 

"It's due to your bulimia..." I explained. I remembered reading all about eating disorders. "When you throw up, acid from your stomach breaks away at your esophagus... and you threw up a lot..."

He gulped. He put a hand to his throat and his eyes watered. "What's going to happen to me?"

I rammed into him and tossed my arms around his flat stomach. "You're going to be okay, Richie. You can stop this." 

He took the sleeves of his sweatshirt that was now getting baggy around his thin wrists and dried his eyes. He even pat at the underneath of mine too, to cheer me up. I giggled. He squished my cheeks together which pursed my lips. He leaned in and kissed me gently. 

"Where are we going for dinner, doll?" he asked. He sprawled across my couch, figuring we had spent enough time staring at one another in the front room. 

"I was thinking the pizza place on Melrose," I said. It was where I'd had my birthday celebrations with friends for years.

"Of course," he smirked. 

"You don't have to eat anything," I added, in case that might make him feel better. In reality, I think I made things worse. 

"No. I baked you a cake, and I intend to eat it with you."

I smiled.