Reddie Oneshots

-62- Lost in Vegas (2/?)

The drinking got easier, and with it so did living. When my mind was fogged by whatever drink we were stealing that day, I wasn't thinking of my mother, or New York, or my fucking father and his whore girlfriend. Richie began to sleep at my house, and me at his, almost indiscriminately: no plans, no sleep, no parents.

In his crowded room full of video game shit we never actually paid attention to, we drank his house dry then moved on to the corner store by his place. It was easy to steal, if you had the right jacket. And bottles of Bacardi and packs of cigarettes were so inconspicuous, you could take them in threes. We lived out our days in a bit of a haze. Remembering what happened the night before was always a bit of a trick, a struggle that I wasn't so good at overcoming.

But there were some things that stayed in my mind.

Nights when I woke up in my cold sweats, hair clinging tightly to my forehead and my eyes flashing with images of the explosion and the dreams that always seemed too real, there was a familiar warmth beside me and all around me. My legs tangled with another pair, my ragged breath mingling with the soft breathing of the boy beside me, half asleep and pulling me back to my pillow, lulling me back to sleep.

When he first rolled over to drape his arm over me, I was paralyzed. Confused, nervous. I could feel that I was blushing, and I pretended to roll over and shift away. Richie, barely conscious, had just hugged me closer and hushed me.

"Just me, Eds. 'S just me," he'd mumbled drowsily, and I'd settled into his arms instinctively.

He was magical, always knew exactly what to do even if I hated him for it. He made me laugh even when his eye was blacked out behind his wide rimmed glasses after one of his dad's bad drinking nights, and he could get me out of the worst parts of my mind, with drugs and without.

When Xandra compared us to a pair of lost brothers, something shifted in my stomach, like gears turning. That wasn't it. Not nearly.

I hadn't thought to define our relationship before this, but the thought was now ever-present in my mind. I didn't know how yet, but I could be sure of one thing: we were not like brothers.

As we strolled through the corner store, a bottle of cheap gin under my jacket and a pack of rolling paper in the little pocket in my sleeve, I glanced up at him. His collected demeanour hiding his darting eyes as he slipped a couple of chocolate bars up the sleeve of the only sweater I'd brought from New York. Behind his glasses, he looked over at me and held eye contact for a fleeting second before I had to look away. He laughed softly, bodychecking me as we headed up the frozen meals aisle.

The weed he'd gotten from the girl in the back of the English classroom—Katya, I'd learned—was ground up not long after we got home. Girl Scout cookies, Richie called it.

"Strong stuff. The best strain, honestly. It's a bit expensive, but worth it," he explained, rolling the paper around it and twisting it shut. "Not too flavourful, but so fucking good."

I just watched as he lifted it to his mouth and lit it, breathing in a long breath and blowing the smoke in my face.

"Fuck you," I grinned, waving it away. He handed the joint to me and I took it habitually, taking a deep drag and blowing it out slowly. I could feel the coughs start to bubble up inside my chest and took a swig of the gin and tonic (mostly gin) to chase it down. Carbonated drinks were the superior drinks to chase with, since the bubbles massaged the back of your throat and the alcohol numbed it; the perfect blend.

I passed it back to Richie. In front of the TV, with the sports channel on mute as my dad often sat when he drank, we passed the joint back and forth along with the cup of gin and tonic we refilled and refilled. When the joint was done, burned down to our fingertips, and neither of us could stomach anymore gin, and we laughed at the stupid, stupid shit neither of us really realized we were doing, we headed up to my room.

My head fogged over by the drugs and my eyes feeling like they were going to pop out of my skull, I lay down in my bed and stared up at the ceiling. The bed dipped beside me as Richie flopped down as well, to stare at the same off-white plaster I was staring at.

"Fuck," Richie mumbled, heaving a deep breath.

"Me too," I breathed.

Richie shifted. "What?"

"I'm fucked," I murmured.

Richie snorted. "Yeah, that makes two've us."

We lay there in silence for a couple minutes longer, before a weird tingle shook through me. I giggled dopily, turning my head to the side to look at him.

"Richie."

"Yeah?"

"Kiss me."

He turned to look at me, eyes red and hooded from the joint. A grin tugged at his lips, and he glanced down at my own.

"F'real?"

I nodded, no idea what had come over me. But I was glad it had. Anything and everything would have been worth it for that moment of release, our shirts discarded by my bedside, when my eyes squeezed shut and everything went white; the way Richie's features twisted unfamiliarly; the weight of his body on mine and the deep, comfortable sleep that came in the aftermath. I was sure that when I woke up I wouldn't remember it.

But I did.

_________

👀

Edit: wtf there's no way I wrote this .
No way 😶