5555 reddie (Completed)

Part 17

"Hands off!" Eddie says. "I don't wanna take it off. The water's too cold." Though Richie knows there is more to it. Eddie has this stubborn look on his face, the look of Richie if you bother me about it one more time I'm going to ignore you for the rest of the day. And Richie doesn't want that, so he shrugs it off and splashes water at Eddie's face. Eddie swats Richie on the shoulder.

"Ow!" Richie howls, but it doesn't actually hurt that bad.

"What're you always pestering me for?" Eddie asks, and Richie knows it is rhetorical but answers anyway.

"It's my favorite extracurricular activity," Richie replies, the ridiculous words flowing off his tongue as easy as the rain from the sky. "Pestering you and hanging out with you are my top two, in case you wanted to know."

"I didn't," Eddie says.

At a loss of what else to say, Richie tells Eddie, "Won't you have to sit around in that wet sweater now? Because your other one is wet, too."

Eddie shrugs. "It's okay."

"What're you hiding under there?" Richie asks in a joke tone, a gentle laugh escaping from between his lips. But Eddie doesn't think it's too funny; his brows immediately furrow and he swims closer to the edge of the river as if he's going to get out. "It's a joke, Eddie. Please don't get out," Richie says, and he thinks about how often he has to tell Eddie he's kidding, as if Eddie isn't yet used to his sputter of joking bullshit. It's been months of them together. There shouldn't need to be any clarification, but when Eddie looks upset with Richie, Richie just doesn't want him to be mad. So he apologizes, even though he doesn't think most jokes need apologies. Perhaps he's just worried Eddie might return to that weird... state he seemed to be stuck in a few weeks ago, when Richie was talking to him, but he knew Eddie couldn't really hear, that he wasn't really there. Perhaps that's why Richie's the way he is, oversensitive and anxious even though he's gotten good at keeping it inside.

"I'm not gonna get out," Eddie says, and he splashes water at Richie. "You're just dumb."

"You're dumber," Richie shoots back.

"Am not," Eddie says.

"Are too."

"Am not."

"Are too."

"Am-okay, what are we? Five years old?" Eddie asks, and he's smiling. Richie can't help but think about how he's gone too long without seeing Eddie's smile. Every time Eddie smiles a meadow of flowers blossom within Richie's chest. He doesn't know why. Or maybe he does.

He tries not to think about why.

"I'm sixteen," Richie states, as if Eddie has forgotten. And judging by the reaction Eddie has, he has not.

"Yeah... me too," Eddie replies slowly, hesitant. Richie tries not to think about Eddie's birthday, how neither he or Eddie knows the date. Then comes a long silence. Eddie breaks it maybe five, or ten minutes afterwards, by saying, "My fingers are pruning up."

And Richie replies, "Wanna get out, then?"

"Yeah." As Eddie slips out of the water, his sweater sags with the clinging weight of the water. Richie gets out, too, and he shivers against the cool autumn air. He knows he must look foolish, but Eddie's eyes trace him up and down, glued to his pale, boney skin. "For once I'm freezing," Richie says.

"We don't have any towels?" Eddie asks, but it sounds more like a statement. Shrugging a shoulder, Richie looks back at his truck and begins to make his way toward it.

"There's one in the backseat, maybe. We can cuddle underneath it," Richie suggests.

"You wish." Eddie snorts, walking over to the car where Richie tugs the backdoor open and pulls out a small hand towel. "What the fuck. Did you steal that from a hotel or something?"

"Must have," Richie replies, and he holds it out to Eddie. Eddie gives him a blank stare. "You use it first so you don't freak out over my germs." Eddie takes it without hesitating and rubs it across his soaking sweater arms, then dabs it across his face. There is a sliver of exposed skin where Eddie's boxers meet his hips, and Richie looks there, only for a second, to see the same scars he saw before. Except he has a better view now, and the scars are prominent, rising above the skin, curling into a painful pattern of dark lines. But Richie doesn't say anything, and instead, smiles at Eddie when he hands over the hand towel.

Drying himself off, Richie doesn't know what else to say, too wrapped up in the definite scars that stain Eddie's upper body. Are there more? Or do they only spread across his back and stomach like a bad infection? His legs seem okay. Eddie has never had any trouble showing his legs. There can't be more... can there?

Once he's done, Richie slings the towel over his shoulder and runs a hand through his wet hair. "Wish we were rich," he says, emphasis on the we. Them. Him and Eddie. They've always been a we. Never separate. Always together. "Then we could buy tons of clothes and cologne and live in a big house. Could you imagine us as roommates?" There is something of a laugh that escapes Richie's mouth, and Eddie mirrors his content look.