𝐆𝐎𝐍𝐄, 𝐆𝐎𝐍𝐄 / 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐊 𝐘𝐎𝐔

ɴᴜᴇᴠᴇ

The week starts off slow, colder than the unusually warm weekend, with most of the remaining leaves finally falling off the trees and covering the ground in a blanket of reds and oranges. Eddie sighs when he looks out the window, already planning to get the yard work done before it gets too cold to do so and before his mother starts nagging.

He throws a sweater on over his white polo before heading out for the day, and keeps the hood up over his ears through most of the morning, trying hard to keep his thoughts focused on school and not on a certain trash-talker who won't get out of his head.

He's got tests in every class this week and no extra help besides the weekly study session with the Losers, so there's just no time to think about anything else. But does his brain give a damn? No- of course not. All he can think about through first period is Richie, zoning out from the lecture to stare out the window and relive the afternoon at the quarry. He's still embarrassed, crying like a huge baby and blubbering all over Richie like a dumb, needy kid, but it's overshadowed by the nerves and anxious squirming in his stomach that starts up anew every time he recalls the feeling of wet arms wrapped around him and warm breath blowing over his lips.

In second period Stan cracks two eggs in a pan and says, "Can I ask you something without you getting mad?"

"Sure," Eddie replies, a little skeptical, as he starts to push the egg whites toward the yolk with a warped spatula; it doesn't look like the fried egg Mrs. Dawson made earlier, but there's no way to fix it now. "What's up?"

Stan leans against the counter, glancing around at the others in the class, paired off and laughing and not paying attention to them at the last stove top in the corner. "Tell me the truth."

"Okay."

Stan looks at him evenly. "Were you and Richie kissing yesterday?"

Eddie jumps and hisses when the oil pops in the pan and stings his arm. He burns his pinkie on the hot side, and swears as he sucks on the pink spot beside his knuckle. "What the fuck, Stanley? Why would you- what kind of-"

"It's a yes or no question," Stan comments, retrieving the little bottle of burn gel from the cabinet under the sink. He hands it to Eddie and takes over with the eggs, scraping the burnt bits out into the sink. "I'd feel bad if we interrupted. I mean, Richie's been wanting to make a move forever."

Eddie drops the burn gel, then Mrs. Dawson comes over to them and checks on their progress and there's no more time for talking.

Stan's words stay in his head through the rest of class, popping up in his head again at lunch when Richie sits down closer than usual and drops his head on Eddie's shoulder. Richie claims he's tired and doesn't feel well, so Eddie lets him lean on him while pointedly not looking at Stan, who he he can feel smirking at him from across the table.

By the end of the day his head throbbing and he can't wait to get home, if only so he can crawl in to bed and take a nap. He leans against Richie's car and rubs his temples, tuning out Mike and Stan's conversation about the stray dogs and the shelter they're working on.

"Got a headache?" Richie asks him, one hand on the car beside him and the other moving Eddie's hair out of the way to get to the back of his neck.

"Yeah," Eddie replies, sighing as Richie starts kneading at the stiffness bunched at the nape. "Thank you."

At home Eddie turns on the radio and attempts to fall asleep, but he starts to wonder- and worry- that Sam will show up like nothing happened. His mom will let him right in, he knows it. The tape and the note Sam left for him are still downstairs somewhere, probably back in the kitchen drawer, and he has no plans to explore either one.