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Youre so patient (sick of waiting)

by: hanscom
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✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

Looking back, it's such a cliche.

All the sneaking around. The stolen kisses. Scaling the side of the tiny red-brick Kaspbrak house, concealed by the midnight-dark and the laugh tracks of Mrs. K's various late-night shows.

Someone should have caught them by now. Richie's been doing this three times a week for years, like clockwork, and he knows for a fact there's more than one nosy neighbor on Eddie's street. But no one ever mentions it. No one ever shows up outside to shine a flashlight on Richie's lanky ascent to the window kept perpetually unlocked for him. Mrs. K never bursts unannounced into the room while he and Eddie are occupied with lazy kisses. She never even seems to suspect. Sure, she hates Richie on principle because he's mouthy and dirty and a self-proclaimed bad influence, but she doesn't flat-out ban Eddie from seeing him the way Richie is sure she would if she knew what they got up to after dark.

So maybe that's what makes him careless. Richie isn't stupid enough to believe they can't get caught, but it hasn't happened yet, and yeah, maybe he's starting to slip. Maybe his gaze has started to linger, and maybe so has his touch.

But no one has mentioned it.

Except Eddie, of course. For every bit that Richie stops worrying, Eddie worries more.

They're lying in Eddie's bed together, innocent despite the hand Richie has wriggled underneath Eddie's sleep shirt. Eddie's skin is warm, and so is his breath where it stirs Richie's hair. Once upon a time, they both fit on this very mattress with room to spare, but that was years ago, back when they were just kids. They're too big for it now, but it's not like they mind being pressed together. No one can see them. They don't have to maintain their usual distance.

Eddie's saying something, but Richie's only half-listening. He's kind of drowsy, lulled by the sound of Eddie's quiet voice and the way Eddie's thumb drags a slow rhythm across his knuckles, back and forth. They're holding hands. It's something they don't do much outside of the privacy of these four walls. It's nice.

Eddie's hand tightens around his suddenly, hard enough to jerk him awake. "Are you even listening to me?" Eddie demands, but he sounds half-amused. His voice is still soft, and so are his eyes. His hair is, too, and his skin. Everything about Eddie Kaspbrak is soft except for his personality and God, Richie adores him.

"Sure was," Richie lies. "You know I think better with my eyes closed."

Eddie does not look convinced. "You were starting to snore," he points out.

"It's because you're being boring," Richie says. "We've already had this conversation a thousand times. I'm your dirty little secret. I get it."

It's one of Eddie's favorite topics, or at least his most well-worn — their illicit relationship, emphasis on illicit. Eddie likes to spend these precious private moments together reviewing the past week, examining every detail to determine if they're on the verge of getting caught. Richie wants to remind him — like always — that they've been doing this for almost eight months and nobody's figured it out yet, but Eddie likes to be prepared. So Richie lets him talk. But it's getting sort of stale.

A tiny wrinkle slices through the smooth skin between Eddie's eyebrows. "You agreed," he points out. Eddie gets like this sometimes, gets worked up over stupid stuff. He's right. Richie agreed to keeping things secret. He's not bitter about the decision. He gets it — a secret is only a secret in Derry if it's kept from everyone. Otherwise, Mrs. K will find out. And if Mrs. K finds out, that's it. That's the end. Eddie will be locked away in his tower until he's eighteen, which is only a year away, but would feel more like a decade if they were forced apart. Richie can keep things quiet for another year. He's done it this far.