𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐫𝐮𝐬𝐡.

𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 | 𝐞 & 𝐫

Eddie removed his hand from Richie's, the wave of warmth gone with the stone following it. Eddie cradled the smooth stone, rubbing his thumb alongside it gently. It made a soft noise, a noise that someone might have to listen very intently to pick up on. It was soothing, almost like a gentle ambience that calmed the stringed orchestra wildly playing upon Eddie's heartstrings. With every stroke against the stone, he suppressed every word he wanted so badly to say but was mentally incapable of conjuring in a way that would make sense. He never knew he could miss someone so terribly that he hadn't thought of in years in the matter of a few hours.
    Richie took off his grassy shoes, setting them propped up next to the bench. He dipped his feet in the water, the tips of his toes being submerged.
    Turns out Eddie was right - it wasn't too cold.
    He wished he knew what was going on in Eddie's mind, but as usual, he couldn't quite figure it out. The worst part was that he couldn't even pinpoint if Eddie's state of being was because of Stanley or because of their fight. Richie knew it was selfish to be thinking of their relationship while someone that they had been close to (more so Eddie) had passed away, but he couldn't help but wonder how Eddie felt about Stan currently. So many questions flooded Richie's mind. He wondered why Eddie constantly lied to him about his sexuality when he'd known that Eddie formerly confessed to having feelings for Stan. Did he not remember? Was it just a joke to him?
    Richie's stomach painfully ached, feeling guilt for his thoughts. Sometimes he felt as if Eddie could read his thoughts, or that his thoughts weren't thoughts at all, but rather words accidentally escaping his mouth. He tried to think of something different, and bit his lip to make sure he wasn't accidentally speaking without knowing.
    He reached for his pockets, as a comfort habit, feeling around for a cigarette, or anything that could take his mind off of everything. He felt himself going mad. His skin was crawling, and he felt like microscopic bugs were crawling over every inch of his body, not leaving any area unviolated. His brain felt like it was overheating. Detox was not an option. He needed something. He couldn't be here without something.
      And Eddie wasn't enough to be that 'something'. Not right now.
      Eddie looked over to Richie, seeing how shifty he gradually became. Seeing him uncomfortable once joyed Eddie, and sometimes it still did, but now when it came to his substance issues.
     Eddie noticed Richie's mannerisms. How he'd frequently reach into his pocket every time anything went slightly off kilter. How uncomfortable he'd been realizing he was sober. Almost as if he couldn't function. Sometimes Eddie was convinced he couldn't.
     It hurt. It really hurt Eddie. It was a deep pain, one like he hadn't had in a while. Seeing someone suffer so much, yet not being able to do anything about it at the same time. Words weren't enough, they never were.
     Not with Stan, either.
     Eddie grabbed Richie's wrist, desperate to ease his pain. He knew he couldn't, not with as much pain as Eddie himself had on his own.
      Richie flinched at the touch, clearly on edge.
     "Can I just say that I'm sorry?" Eddie began, with careful pacing. His voice wasn't as strong as he wanted it to be - it faltered. It was quivering, and slightly strained from suppressed sobbing.
Richie wanted to ask 'for what', but it just seemed like a trap. He didn't have anything to say yet.
      "I went too far. Just because I feel like shit doesn't give me the right to make you feel like shit." Eddie moved Richie's wrist into his own lap, still staring forward.
    "You don't deserve to feel that way." Richie said after a while.
     Eddie felt sick. He felt like a kid again - getting into trouble, making mistakes, losing games, failing tests, tripping over things, getting scared of bugs and various things, fighting. Lots of fighting. With others and himself. It was in the worst way, but the bad things were still somehow comforting. Richie was his medicine. His cherry flavored cough syrup. His inhaler.
     "You don't either. None of it." Eddie said. At that moment, he had an odd kind of realization.
     He never hated Richie.
     He was just waiting to stop denying that even on Richie's worst day, Eddie was still worse.