𝐆𝐎𝐍𝐄, 𝐆𝐎𝐍𝐄 / 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐊 𝐘𝐎𝐔

ᴅɪᴇᴄɪɴᴜᴇᴠᴇ

The rain is coming down hard by the time Eddie is up and ready to go, waiting on Richie as he quickly chokes down a bowl of cereal and some toast. It's almost eleven, and though it's Saturday, the roads are empty due to the storm rolling in.

They have to go to Bangor to get some boards, and so Eddie is Richie's second pair of eyes on the way, peering through the downpour as Richie slowly goes down the lonely roads. He feels much better this morning. Maybe it has something to do with waking up warm and safe, or the kisses Richie gave him while still in bed, even though Eddie tried to push him away and hide his disgusting morning breath. Richie didn't care- he just kept kissing him hard, until Eddie was breathless and stopped him.

It's so strange to be able to do this, he thinks, as he and Richie hurry through the store and buy the boards, locks, and a few extra tools. They can't be open in public, of course, but when they get back in the car Richie kisses him sweetly, and the rain washing over the windows hides them from view. He's so used to wanting Richie, that it almost feels like he's dreaming in a fog. Maybe he is asleep, and he's still in bed two nights ago, and everything that happened is only in his head.

They get to Mike's in one piece, and they run into the garage with their purchases, Bev and Mike helping with the boards and tools. It's not completely dry, some spots puddling where the roof is leaking, but there's plenty of room to start cutting up the boards. They have to guess how long the spaces are in Eddie's windows, but Stan helps estimate, using the windows in Mike's house. They come up with several pieces of varying lengths, all for him to try once he gets back home. After working for a couple hours, they start to discuss Bev's party, so they head inside to get some food. Apparently, Mike's grandfather is making clam chowder, and Eddie's stomach growls when they all step inside and the smell hits his nose.

Mike pulls him aside in the entryway, saying he wants to talk to Eddie for a minute. They let the others go on ahead into the kitchen, and once they are out of ear shot, Eddie turns to Mike to listen.

"I think you should learn how to shoot," Mike tells him, and though he's standing tall and certain, there's a worried tint to his voice. "All this stuff with Sam, you know, I don't want anything to happen to you."

Eddie's eyes dart away, and he rubs one hand up and down his arm. He's never even touched a gun. "I don't know, Mike. I just- I don't think I'd be any good at it, anyway."

"That's why I can teach you," Mike says, his eyes as serious as Eddie has ever seen them. "I taught Bev and Richie. Stan needs to learn, too. I know they can be scary, but they can save your life."

"But I don't even have one."

"That's fine, you can get one," Mike goes on, placing his hand on Eddie's shoulder and squeezing, a reassuring gesture. "If you're not comfortable with it, I understand. But I think we'd all feel better if you had some way to defend yourself. Just in case."

Eddie agrees to learn to shoot, and they decide to get started once the rain lets up, probably right after Thanksgiving. He's not completely okay with it, but he can't deny that Mike is right. He's not confident in his ability to physically over-power anyone, and if he freezes up the way he usually does whenever Sam says or does something to him, it will make it that much easier to hurt him.

He sits beside Richie, slowly starting to slurp his clam chowder as Bev chats with Mike's grandfather. Under the table he feels Richie's hand on his, his thumb sliding over the inside of his wrist. No one is paying attention, and when Richie slides their fingers together, he grips him back, hiding his smile by looking down at his bowl.

They leave Mike's sometime after five and head back to town, and the second they get back to the house Eddie starts working on the locks. Between he and Richie, it doesn't take very long for them to install a stronger dead bolt on the front door, in his bedroom, and a whole new lock on the outside of his bedroom. He doesn't like it at all. Instead of feeling safer, it makes him even more paranoid, and he knows he's going to constantly worry about each new thing in the house; did he latch this lock, wedge that board in the window- did he flip the dead bolt before heading up to bed?