𝐆𝐎𝐍𝐄, 𝐆𝐎𝐍𝐄 / 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐊 𝐘𝐎𝐔

ᴏɴᴄᴇ

The drive to Bev's house is anthing but quiet.

Stan starts things off with, "Holy shit- you could've killed him." He's staring at Richie with wide-eyed surprise, exchanging an apprehensive look with Mike.

Mike is next, his voice at a higher pitch than usual. "I think you broke his face."

"Guys, he's bleeding," Bev says, glancing back at Richie. "Stan, can you look at that?"

"Oh my god," Stan exclaims, sitting up straight and reaching over to take Richie's hand. "It's broken, it's- it's turning purple."

Mike rolls his eyes. "It's not broken."

"Look at it!"

"It's gonna be bruised, but..." Mike does the same, trying to take a closer look at Richie's cut-up knuckles. "It'll be fine, just gotta clean it up."

Eddie watches from the front seat, turned around with his mouth hanging open slightly and his fingers clutching the seatbelt across his lap. Richie's knee is bouncing up and down, his jaw is clenched tight, and his lips are pressed together in a thin line. He looks so angry, and it's all Eddie's fault. If he could handle his own shit, then nobody would have to step in for him, and nobody would get hurt because of him.

Stan is trying to get Richie to let him look at his cuts, but Richie snatches his hand away, keeping it close to his chest as he says, shakily, "I'm gonna kill him."

Eddie turns back around, staring out the windshield as he thinks of things he should have done differently- maybe even since the beginning of this shit with Sam. Stan is murmuring something that makes Richie scoff and snap, "I don't fucking care!" Eddie doesn't catch what Stan says, but Richie stays quietly agitated, huffing and fidgeting all the way to Bev's house.

Bev leads them inside and her aunt doesn't ask any questions; she points Richie in the direction of the bathroom toward the back of the house, and Eddie follows him with his head down, avoiding eye contact with the rest of the Losers. Richie sits on the toilet seat and Eddie shuts the door, not bothering with the lock. There are first aid supplies under the sink and Eddie crowds the counter top with everything he can find, then silently reaches out and takes Richie's hand.

He's expecting Richie to pull away, but he doesn't. Eddie gets to work, dabbing a cotton ball soaked in peroxide over the bloody cuts and wincing in sympathy when Richie hisses. The light overhead is bright, giving the blood a striking hue against Richie's pale skin; it's bright and deep in color, and, looking closer, Eddie spots little bits of shattered glass littered in the dried parts. Eddie wants to apologize, but how is he supposed to say it? Richie has put up with so much of his crap- crap he really doesn't have to deal with at all. And now he's hurt and bleeding and it's entirely Eddie's fault

The silence is broken by Richie. "Eddie, I'm... I'm sorry."

Eddie is taken aback. "Why? You didn't do anything."

"I acted like a fucking Neanderthal."

Eddie wipes the last of the blood away, then unscrews the cap off a small tube of antibiotic cream and squeezes a small amount on his finger. He starts to apply the cream to the worst cut over Richie's center knuckle as he says, "He deserved it. I would have hit him for myself, but," Eddie shrugs one shoulder and chokes back the sudden emotion fighting it's way up his throat. "I uh, I don't like fights and, you know, confrontations, but this is different."

"So you're not pissed at me?"

Eddie shakes his head, then dips down when he spots a dark, red stain on Richie's jeans, over his shin. "I think you have something here- does this hurt?" Richie rolls the hem of his jeans up close to his knee; there's a short gash, and Eddie sighs as he gets a few cotton balls and sits on his heels, then starts to wipe away the blood and dirt.