5555 reddie (Completed)

Part 15

"You used to draw," Richie tells Eddie, because the thought comes to him all at once. But once he thinks it he doesn't know how he forgot. When they first got on the road, Eddie's drawing pad was practically attached to his hand. Richie wonders what changed, wants to know, but at his statement, Eddie turns his face to the side, lips pursed, eyebrows furrowed, and he crosses his arms, defensive. "You don't really draw anymore."

"I don't really feel like drawing anymore," Eddie says, and it is a strange thing to hear. Richie recalls that Eddie always felt like drawing. He would draw flowers, Richie's truck, all the different motels they stayed in... he just always wanted to keep his hand moving, like it was just another tick he had.

"Why not?" Richie pushes, and he realizes he shouldn't have, because Eddie's jaw tightens and his fists clench, tugging at his secondhand purple sweater. And Richie regrets. "You don't have to say if you don't want to," he tells Eddie.

"I just don't feel like it. Okay?"

"Sorry. Okay."

Their orders are called: two iced coffees, one black and one with heavy milk. Richie grabs them both and hands Eddie his, which Eddie takes silently, not even bothering to say thank you. And he pushes past Richie, heading back to the car without another word, but Richie grabs his arm once they're outside. Eddie stares down at the sidewalk.

"Look. I'm sorry, okay?" Richie says to him, and Eddie shrugs Richie's grip off. "I don't get why you're being such a dick. I said sorry like ten times."

"Okay," Eddie says, crossing his arms. Quiet. Richie shifts on his feet and sighs heavily. Eddie sips at his coffee and puckers his face, like a child disgusted by the taste. Richie can feel a comment budding on the tip of his tongue, the question of do you even like coffee? But he holds it back due to how absolutely pissed off Eddie looks. Without saying anything else, Eddie goes over to Richie's car and climbs in the passenger seat. This leaves no other choice for Richie but to get into the driver's seat, so he does, and he puts the heat on immediately. There is no reaction from Eddie. None at all. So Richie starts up the car, and just drives.

This is when Richie first feels as though something is wrong. He doesn't put the radio on. There is an odd feeling settling across his body, enflaming his skin and eating at his insides, and he doesn't know why. But then he glances over at Eddie... Eddie staring out of the window, his face blank, his iced coffee clenched between his soft hands, the beading sweat of the cup delicately tracing down his porcelain flesh. And Richie doesn't know how he knows, or why he knows, but it is definite that there is something wrong with Eddie. He has never looked like this before. Like he's here but not really here, and Richie is left wondering if this is how he appeared to Eddie when he had a meltdown at the thrift store. Because if it is, or if it is even remotely close, he doesn't know how Eddie remained so calm, because it feels like Richie's skin is crawling and like there is a pebble lodged in his throat, the inability to ask Eddie, what's wrong? Eddie, won't you tell me? Eddie, don't you trust me?

"It was my birthday," Richie says. It feels pathetic, to admit this to Eddie now, when he is upset with him, when he is red in the face and not because of Richie's awfully dirty jokes. Now Eddie shifts slightly, his face slowly turning, his eyes wide, lips pursed, gaze stuck to Richie and only Richie. And Richie doesn't glance at him. He keeps his eyes steady on the highway, doesn't want to catch a glimpse of the look on Eddie's face and foolishly want to take the confession back. Because he knows he will. "The night I met you. It was my birthday." Something of a laugh leaves Richie's mouth, and he feels so stupid, stupid, stupid. Can't I just take it back? Can't I just say I'm kidding? "Birthdays are supposed to be special. And I always thought that was bullshit. But then... that night in the woods-meeting you, and talking to you, and... and just being with you. That was so fucking special, right? Wasn't it?" He pleads for an answer, anything out of Eddie, a rile, a ruse, a smack on the head, a sheer comment of what're you telling me all this for? Can't we just drive in silence? Can't we just sit here for once and not say anything?

"You and this truck," Richie breathes. "The only two good things I've ever gotten out of my birthday. And the same night my dad gave me this truck, the world gave me you." He knows he sounds queer, but Eddie's not there; he's mixed up somewhere in his thoughts, eyes empty as he gazes over at Richie, chest light, heart beating only out of routine. Richie's heart beats like mad. Richie wonders if it's possible to have a heart attack because of nerves.