Brushstrokes (Reddie AU)

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Because of the injuries and everything else that had occurred, Eddie and I take Monday off school. And it's really enjoyable. For the most part, we pig out on pizza and make jokes about Henry Bowers and his hair. My head starts to feel more normal after a while, but I still can't listen to music loudly. And Eddie is healing pretty good too. His cuts and bruises are very slowly fading. He has me help him with everything, because his arm is too broken for him to clean up after himself. That's fine. He's just lucky I love him. Everything is going perfectly for me and my little stupidhead, until Monday night. He looks at me in horror as we sit on the couch watching stand up routines. I'm taking notes. It's fascinating.

"I can't paint!" He calls out in fear and stands. "I broke my right arm, I can't paint, I'm going to fail the project and then I'll be killed! Do you want me to be killed?"

"Depends on the day," I smirk a little.

"This is not a laughing matter Richie! I can't fail, it's the only class that means something to me. I want to be an artist. I know it's practically impossible, but I know I can. It will happen, I know it will happen..." he shakes his head. "But not now, due to your driving."

I frown. "Hey! The accident was your fault!"

"You were driving!" He shoots back.

He has a point, but it was his fault. He was looking so pretty in the passenger seat that I wasn't paying attention. That's not my fault. "Eds, you can do it with your left hand." I smile.

"You're so fucking stupid! If I try to do it with my left hand, it'll look like shit! It'll look worse than if you painted it!" He stands there for a moment before his eyes widen in shock. "Holy shit! That's a perfect idea! You do it for me!"

I just watch him. Holy shit, he's insane. "Holy shit, you're insane."

He frowns a little and runs off, fetching what he has started of the painting. It's a nice canvas, not too small and not too big. It's a field of sunflowers, but it's far from finished. Even from this unfinished version I can tell it's amazing. God, my boyfriend is incredibly talented. I love him so much!

"You're staring and not saying anything," he mumbles and it drags me out of my zoned out state. I flicker my eyes up to his and smile.

"I was just thinking about how talented you are," I smirk. "And your ass is fine from this angle."

He blushes.

It's fucking adorable.

After a while, he leads me to the kitchen and sits me down with the canvas in front of me. He plants a paintbrush with a little bit of yellow in my hand. "Go very lightly over those three petals," he instructs.

"Shouldn't I go over all the petals?" I ask in a snarky tone, I'll admit it.

"No you dumbass, not all the petals are going to be the same shade." After a moment, I do what he says. Very carefully I go over the petals in the yellow. But something in his face tells me I'm not doing very well. "This isn't hard, Richie. How are you struggling?"

"I'm not a painter."

"You're a comedian," he huffs. "How much talent does it require?"

I know he's teasing, so of course I'm not hurt.

"More than you've got."

"Wanna bet?" He shoots back. "You finish the painting, and I write the comedy set. You turn in the set as your own, same with me and my painting. And whichever gets the higher grade...will show us what we want to know."

It's a fun idea because I know he's not funny at all. And I can paint. Or is that in itself a joke?

So because we would be turning them in pretty soon, I decide to continue painting for a while. It's relaxing. I'm not good, but he is going to be much worse trying to write an acceptable piece of comedy. When I'm done with painting and covered in eight shades of yellow and fourteen shades of green, I step out into the living room. He's doing research. Taking notes. "Sometimes the most beautiful piece of comedy is the spontaneity," I tease.

He looks up and sticks his tongue out at his loving and perfect boyfriend. I wonder what the fuck it was that I did wrong. I mean, I'm perfect. Who wouldn't love me? Anyways...he sticks his tongue out and I try to tackle him. It's a moment for the scrapbook I can guarantee it. The best part is that even when I'm tackling him and he's a giggling mess, he's still the most beautiful boy I've ever known.

I'm proud.

Holy shit, never thought I'd be proud. But I get it now. I overcame some shit, some buried trauma, and now I have an idiot trying to write comedy and failing beautifully. I don't know if there's anything better than that.

"Richie, you know what I want?" He asks with wide eyes. I look to him sweetly.

"What do you want stinky?"

He rolls his eyes. "I want, like, three years down the road to have my mom to approach me. It'll have been so long and she'll have missed me for so long. And she'll beg for forgiveness, she'll say she's learned her lesson, and I'll slam the door on her face and go back to playing UNO with you, and eating disgusting pizza, and kissing your beautiful face!" He laughs and continues with life like what he said didn't just make my heart grow three sizes like the Grinch. It is absolutely, entirely, the sweetest moment. God, fuck it, I love him.