𝒎𝒂𝒚𝒃𝒆 • 𝒓𝒆𝒅𝒅𝒊𝒆

* pompeii *

Warmth. An arm across his chest and a leg over his waist. Slow breathing against the crook of his neck. A heavy blanket over him, one he was sure hadn't been there when he'd fallen asleep. It didn't matter. It was there now.

And so was he.

***

Watery sunlight. A ticking clock. The muted sound of snoring. There was hair in his face - not his own. It was soft. It smelled of bergamot and old cigarettes. He blinked, and his eyes stayed closed.

***

Groggy voices. Thick and scratchy.

"You awake?"

"No."

"Me neither."

***

Eddie's eyes were sandy when he finally opened them good and proper. He blinked a couple of times, rubbed them, made a tiny involuntary squeak as he stretched. Sunlight filtered through the sheer curtains, casting a warm glow on the entirety of the room. Eddie wondered dimly what time it was.

Richie's bedroom looked different in the sunlight. Eddie hadn't thought much of it last night, having been too absorbed in his thoughts and in the movie to notice anything else, but now he could get a proper look around. The room screamed "Richie". Posters stared down at him from every angle, barely a square inch of grey paint visible under the faces of Captain Kirk, Kurt Cobain, John Lennon, Princess Leia, and countless others, most of which Eddie had never seen before. Even the ceiling bore prints of men with guitars or light sabers. He could see Richie's second record player on the desk in the corner, next to four or five records - they must have been his favourites - and several notebooks thrown haphazardly on top of one another. Pens and pencils were scattered on the desk and there was a pile of crumpled paper in and around the wastebasket.

It was much messier in here than the rest of the apartment - much more like Eddie had pictured. Clothes and towels were strewn about the floor. A single shoe sat forlornly at the foot of the bed, laces a tangled heap on the side, and a boater hat hung crookedly off the bedpost. It seemed Richie exhausted all of his cleaning energy in keeping the rest of the place spotless. Here, he didn't bother to do so much as tidy up.

A warm weight shifted beside him and he turned his head to look. Richie was fast asleep, laying on his stomach with his face turned toward Eddie. His curly hair, in absolute disarray, looked like black ink spilt over the pillow. He had taken his glasses off at some point during the night, and Eddie marvelled at how much smaller his eyes looked without them. He could clearly see the distinct scar on his eyebrow, and his eyes were drawn down to Richie's crooked nose.

"Broke my nose and my glasses. I still have the scar, look."

It seemed like so long ago they had sat in that cafe, bearing their hearts and laughing as the sun rose. It was hard to believe it had been only months since then. To think, three short months ago Eddie had never heard Richie's name - and now Richie had become one of his favourite people in the world. He felt like he'd known him forever. He felt at ease with him, more so than he did with anybody else - maybe even Bill, though that thought made Eddie's stomach twist with guilt. But there was just something about Richie, something that made Eddie feel like he was floating. Like everything was okay. Like he had finally found somewhere he really, truly belonged.