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In every relationship Richie has ever had, he has been the wall to lean on. He is the protector, the caregiver, the one who is needed- and it's so damn draining- exhausting- to be the one who shoulders all the problems, to stay up at night and think of whatever was dumped on him that day. From problems as insignificant as forgotten homework or a shrunken sweater, to things as shaking as childhood trauma and addiction- he's heard it all, has sat and listened as these things are set on his chest, and he never complains. Never tells anyone to stop telling him things.
But it's why he's never allowed himself to be truly vulnerable with anyone. It's like everyone forgets that he's more than just an ear to listen, a shoulder to weep into. He's more than just "that one great friend everyone needs"- he's his own person, with his own thoughts and wants, and dreams, and opinions, and nobody ever cares to listen to them. Nobody takes the time to listen to him- like when his mom was sick, and he needed to talk about it- his best friend at the time shrugged it off, and kept going on and on about whatever the issue of the day was. Or when Richie was diagnosed with anxiety, and he was so confused while on his medication, and another best friend couldn't care less, couldn't be bothered to listen when Richie sobbed uncontrollably, and tried to confide that he felt like he was losing his mind. Each friend, each acquaintance- they just keep rambling on and on, never stopping to check if he needs something. And they have all been like that. Every last one.
But things are different with Eddie.
It was the fall semester of Richie's second year of college when they met, late night in the library while searching for books in the same section. The area was empty except for the two of them, so it was difficult to tear his attention away from Eddie, who was swearing under his breath as he moved quickly up and down the row. His jeans were cuffed up over his chucks, with no signs of fading or excessive wear, and he was drowning in a white, hooded sweater that contrasted beautifully with his tan skin. And Richie was immediately drawn to his wide, expressive eyes, his soft-looking hair, and the little wrinkle between his brows that appeared when Richie offered to help and found the book he was searching for easily.
It's like he was waiting for him his entire life. At first, Richie repeated the pattern he was familiar with; he listened to Eddie talk about his mom, held him when he sobbed after a terrible argument with her, shoved his own problems and worries aside to be there each and every single time Eddie needed him. But, while he was stuck in his own loop of behavior, he was too damn blind to see that he was slowly opening up, answering Eddie's simple questions thoroughly, letting slip about his mother's aloof nature and how much it hurt at times that she didn't seem interested in what he was up to. And it was probably better that things happened so gradually, so easily, because by the time he realized he was in love with his best friend, he was no longer that person who couldn't open up.
Richie knew what it was to be loved when he kissed Eddie the first time. It was soft and full of need, Eddie's hands cupping his face as their mouths moved together under the glow of the moonlight. His whole world lit up with the taste of Eddie's lips, with the scent of his skin and the feeling of his body pressed so closely to his own. It was the beginning of his confidence and self-love, the end of Eddie's fear of his mother and his own desires, and he will never forget the freedom he felt shake him to his core that night.
