𝒎𝒂𝒚𝒃𝒆 • 𝒓𝒆𝒅𝒅𝒊𝒆

* would you guess? *

The knock at the door came at exactly eleven fifty eight in the morning. Not that Eddie had been staring at the clock for the last hour, counting down the seconds until noon. That would be stupid. He just happened to have glanced (for the fifth time in two minutes) at the singing clock on the wall half a second before the knock rang out. And he also just happened to already have his shoes and jacket on, and be standing by the door. Totally coincidental.

He took a deep breath, took one last puff from his inhaler, and opened the door.

***

Richie would deny it if asked, but he had put way too much thought into what time to knock on the door. He didn't want to show up at exactly noon, because then it would seem like he was trying too hard. But if he was late, he might seem like he didn't care enough. But if he was early, it might look like he cared too much , and that was almost worse.

Eleven fifty eight, he had decided, was the ideal time. Not late, not exactly on time, but not so early it was weird either. It was just close enough to noon that it would seem like he was paying attention to the time, but not too much attention. Like he knew what time it was, more or less, but like he wasn't obsessively checking his clock like a fucking weirdo (which he had been. Because he was a fucking weirdo).

Now, Eddie stood in his doorway looking up at Richie. He was wearing pale denim overalls and a striped t-shirt under a blue bomber jacket. His hair was neatly combed and his clothes looked freshly washed and even ironed (seriously? Who even ironed their clothes, besides old ladies?) and Richie suddenly felt horribly inadequate in his ripped jeans and age-old psychedelic pullover.

"So," said Eddie, standing in the doorframe and looking like a goddamn movie star.

"So," said Richie, acutely aware of the smudge on his glasses. He wondered if Eddie thought his hair looked as stupid as Richie felt it was. At least he'd tried to comb it.

They stared at each other uncomfortably for what felt like a century, neither entirely sure what to say. Then -

"So should we -"

"Do you want to -"

They both stopped to let the other finish. A beat. Then, simultaneously -

"Sorry -"

"You can -"

There was another silent beat. Eddie's clock ticked faintly in the background. Finally, Richie laughed. "Do you want to go for lunch?" he tried again. "Or are we going to just stand here like idiots all afternoon?"

Eddie gave him a tiny smile, staring at his feet. "Lunch sounds good."

Neither moved. The clock ticked.

Fuck it.

Richie grabbed Eddie's hand and tugged him into the hallway, with slightly more force than he intended. Eddie, caught off guard, stumbled and nearly crashed into Richie's chest. He righted himself; looked up at Richie with a slight sulk and a faint dusting of pink across his cheeks.

"What was that for?" he asked petulantly. Richie's heart did a capriole in his chest.

"You were taking too long," he said simply, thanking every god he could think of that his voice came out steady. "Come on then. Time's a wastin'."