5555 reddie (Completed)

Part 19

"What is it?" Richie hears Eddie ask, but his eyes are locked with this stranger's. The stranger looks disturbed, concerned, and shakes his shoulder in attempt to throw off Richie's hand. But Richie holds a tight grip, and he digs his nails into the man's shoulder, tightening his hold, unknowingly. "Let him go, Richie," Eddie says, and Richie feels the weight of Eddie's hand on his fingers, but he cannot see it. It's like Eddie's here, with Richie, speaking and guiding him, pleading, but he is not physically present.

"Get your hands off me!" The stranger finally speaks, and he stabs his nails into the back of Richie's hand. The man's cologne is overwhelming; Richie feels awfully faint. "Fucking kid." The man walks away, pissed off, and Richie is alone.

"Alone-" The word stumbles from Richie's lips without him meaning for it to. And it sticks. And suddenly he is on the ground, knees pulled to his chest, staring straight ahead at the glass elevator toward the back of the mall, and Eddie's gone. "I'm alone," Richie says, his thoughts mistakenly leaving his mouth. He knows people must be giving him odd looks, but people are always giving him odd looks as of late, so he ignores it and chews on his tongue, stifling the word.

Richie must sit there, on the mall floor, for a long time. Nobody stops to offer their sympathy, or their help, though Richie is sure he would have pushed them away. The only person he wants is Eddie. There is a lump in his throat, a desperation of I need him.

And then, just like that, Eddie's at Richie's side, his hand on Richie's knee, soothing, comforting, and saying, "You're not alone, Rich. I'm right here."

I'm right here, Richie thinks, gazing up at Eddie, and he grabs Eddie's free hand to hold it. He knows they must look strange, but he doesn't care. Richie says, "Don't ever leave me."

And Eddie frowns slightly, a tiredly sad look in his eyes. He replies, "I promise I won't."

"Nothing's wrong," Richie says even though Eddie didn't ask. Eddie looks at him peculiarly, concern written across his features, lips pressed in a tight line. "Everything's okay." But who is Richie trying to convince?

"I'm right here," Eddie repeats his statement from earlier, perhaps because he can tell something is not sitting right with Richie, with either of them. "Can you stand up? Are you okay to stand up?"

But Richie can't feel his legs. He lets Eddie drag him to his feet, and holds tightly onto Eddie as he helps steady him. It feels like Richie's entire body has melted away, shriveled up and left him with no working limbs. He wonders why he is this way, and why Eddie seems to be, too. Why they both are messed up in inexplicable ways.

"I didn't steal any money," Richie says as Eddie leads the two of them back to Richie's car. Eddie lets out a heavy sigh.

"I'll grab some," Eddie says, and Richie is too overcome with sudden exhaustion to make a joke. To comment on how Eddie is the goody two shoes and Richie is the bad boy. He sits Richie down in the passenger seat, claiming the driver's seat for himself. For a split second Richie thinks Eddie will drive them away, but he doesn't. They sit with the heat on and the windows shut, with Eddie's fingers intertwined with Richie's as Richie fights being lulled into a deserving slumber.

"I love being your friend," Richie says quietly. He watches Eddie as Eddie shifts in his seat, unsure. "You're like, my rock. Or whatever. You're the best."

"You don't know what you're saying," Eddie replies, cheeks red. "You're tired. Go to sleep."

"I don't think I would be able to live without you," confesses Richie, and he's never admitted this thought until now, sitting here with Eddie, the aftermath of whatever happened back there. It rolls off his tongue so easy, and he should be embarrassed, because Eddie takes back his hand from Richie and has this odd look on his face, like he knows Richie has certain feelings he should be ashamed of. But he's not. Richie doesn't feel bad about it. He doesn't even know what it is he feels. He just knows it's not nothing. "It's true," Richie adds, shrugging. He curls into himself, turning on his other side, facing away from Eddie. It is a long while before he hears Eddie's voice, and it wavers in insecurity, dowsed with doubt.

"You're talking nonsense," Eddie says. "You would go on just fine without me. Don't be stupid. You don't need anybody. You're Richie." And he says the last part with emphasis. Richie, he says.

"Yeah. But you're Eddie," Richie replies. "I need you." And he says this with too much assurance for it to be a lie.

"I need you, too," comes Eddie's whispered response, but he looks as though he doesn't truly believe Richie's words. Richie says nothing, but waves his hand in front of the fan that's blowing warm air to try and grasp some of it. Eddie must notice this, because he bumps the heat up a few degrees and looks at Richie smile to himself.

"Maybe I'm the sick one," Richie jokes, a dry laugh dancing out of his hoarse throat.

"What do you mean?" Eddie questions, not worried or concerned, just curious.

"You were always sick... I used to wake up in the middle of the night and you would be vomiting." Once Richie says it, he regrets it. He hates those memories. Neither boy knew why Eddie would have such a reaction to everything. It made Richie's skin crawl, the thought of Eddie being sick, the thought of Eddie-

"I remember," Eddie says. "It was just something I ate." But it wasn't. It could have been a lot of things. Like anxiety. That seems the most plausible, though Richie would never admit it to Eddie.

"Maybe I'm sick," Richie states, his eyes still wet with the tears he cannot remember crying. And then it hits him all at once-this realization. The last few months have been strange. It's as if within the long weeks something has been planted inside Richie; it's a feeling he can't shake. It's made him behave peculiarly, with haunting thoughts and blurred out memories. "Maybe I'm all messed up."

"I think we're all a little messed up," Eddie says, and Richie wants to kiss him. It suddenly occurs to Richie that he has wanted to kiss Eddie for a long time. The distance between them now has never seemed so grand, and Richie looks at Eddie with endearment he has never had for another human being, and he just trusts him. Trusts him with his truck, the clothes on his back, his whole life. And it's queer, sure. But Richie doesn't feel bad. He doesn't feel bad when he pushes a loose curl behind Eddie's ear, or when he lazes back in his seat with a lopsided grin of I like you so much and I don't think I'll ever have the courage to tell you. He only feels good.

Only good.