[sunshine] // reddie (temporarily discontinued)

four

Richie Tozier had no clue what to do when he witnessed Mike Hanlon- the homeschool kid who lived out in the middle of no where- speed past him with none other than Eddie Kaspbrack in the front basket.

The kid was most definitely not conscious, judging by the way his tiny frame was being tossed around every time Mike hit the smallest rock. Richie, still slightly upset, kept walking. It was none of his business. He and Eddie weren't even friends. They talked once.

But Stan would go after them.

But Richie isn't Stan. Stan is an angel who deserves the world. Richie Tozier is a trashmouth who doesn't even deserve friends... Let alone someone like Stan.

So Richie kept walking. He kept walking and wishing that he had his music on him so he could drown out the thought of the boy in the basket.

It was weird to think about someone so much. Besides Stan. He thought about Stan a lot. He had sketchbooks lined with doodles of him, a wall full of Polaroids they had taken, and just about half of his wardrobe in his closet so that he didn't have to pack when he spent the night.

But you get attached when you only have one friend.

You get attached to the way their hot toffee hair looks on early mornings when they wake you up to listen to the morning chorus. You get attached to the color of their eyes in the light; copper and honey; sunlight and whiskey. Or in the dark; chestnuts on fire and telling stories by flashlight way past bedtime.

You get attached to clear skin, without any freckles, no matter how much they wish they had them. You get attached the the rain storm in their voice; both the gentle showers and the violent thunder. You get attached to the lightning in their veins that illuminates their whole being. You get attached to their finger tips, and their chewed nails, and the way they smell like pure petricor from birdwatching after a summer shower.

You get attached to the fact that they've stayed. And they keep staying. And they promise you they won't ever leave. And they keep that promise.

But now he had thoughts of a different boy. A boy who's image would fill his fingertips until he covered a spread in it. Artistically, that boy in the basket held so much potential.

Small and timourus, the lissome boy stood at Richie's chest. He is irascible- you could tell just by his apperance- and yet... Irenic. Richie felt ambivalence towards him. Stan was so simple. Eddie was so not.

Eddie Kaspbrack made him want to draw in each strand of cinnamon stick hair and then rip the drawing from his book and never touch it again. He made him want to talk, to explore the very depths of his interests with passion and ignore his existense all at once. He made him want friends and he made him feel lonely.

That's a lot of feelings to feel after just one day of knowing eachother. But then again, Richie was always a "touchy feely" kind of boy.

He kept walking, his thoughts preoccupied by vanilla malt fingertips and candy curls and freckled boys to realize that his subconscious had turned him in the direction Mike had gone. Eventually the sun began to set, casting playful shadows of amarathine against his skin.

It wasn't until he stepped foot in the hospital and was winded by the smell of sickness and sanitary products. He hated hospitals.

And yet, he walked right up to the front desk, shoulders back, mind set. He set his hands on the desk, his chest suddenly heavy with the crushing weight of  the million questions running through his head. The receptionist looked up and quirked a brow at him.

"Kaspbrack." Richie whispered. "I'm here to see Eddie Kaspbrack."