Work Header

and i could get on my knees

Work Text:

Richie’s phone buzzes while he's on set, and he glances down at it in passing before he realizes it’s a picture message from Eddie and grins. He motions to the intern who was running through his cue cards with him that he’s gonna take a break, and the girl waves him off, sitting down in one of the front row audience seats facing the set of Richie’s late night talk show.

He ambles off the set, in no particular rush as he swipes open the picture Eddie has sent him, but he nearly chokes when he sees the picture itself: a mirror selfie of Eddie in their bedroom, dripping sweat. He’s probably just finished his workout for the day. His white shirt is plastered to his skin and nearly see-through, and he’s got on soft little shorts and high white socks and Richie wants to die.

looking good, Richie replies, much more casually than he feels. He’s had a headache all day — a lingering problem, after the Deadlights — but hearing from Eddie makes it start to recede. It’s probably just a wishful-thinking placebo effect, but Richie likes to think Eddie makes it all better just by sheer force of will. The Turtle’s probably involved regardless.

just a reminder, comes Eddie’s response. Richie snorts.

a reminder of what?

what’s waiting at home, Eddie sends back. Richie looks back up at the set, then down at his phone again. His brow furrows, his hands getting sweaty like he’s some fucking virgin. He exhales, then returns to their messages.

i get home at the same time every day, Richie texts.

then don’t dawdle.

who says dawdle anymore

Richie’s phone buzzes with a phone call from Eddie, and he swipes it on, bringing the phone up to his ear, confused. “Eds?”

“Can you not nitpick my fucking sexting, please?” Eddie spits down the line from the other side of the call. Richie laughs so hard he cries, and Eddie hangs up on him while he’s still trying to calm down. By the time Richie’s chilled out, he’s told he’s got five more minutes before he’s got to sit down and go through their last rehearsal before they start tonight’s recording, so he legs it for his dressing room and locks the door behind himself.

He goes into his bathroom, then looks himself over. He’s already buttoned into his suit, plus his microphone and tech packs are all taped down already, so he just tries to make himself look as tall and angular as possible in the selfie he takes in the mirror on the back of the door. He takes a bunch before deciding on one to send back to Eddie. It’s only a minute before Eddie responds.

jesus, his reply says, and there’s another picture of Eddie, still sweaty, in their bathroom, this time leaning over the sink. He’s naked, now, except for the fucking towel he’s got around his waist, and Richie groans out loud.

three hours, Richie sends back. He then sends, three hours, kaspbrk. wait 4 me

text like a person, Eddie replies, and Richie pockets his phone before heading back out for rehearsal.

Here’s the thing: Eddie is the worst. Richie’s known that forever, but Eddie’s the absolute worst. Richie, foolishly, keeps his phone on his lap in case Eddie messages again, despite the fact that he's been told not to so many times that sometimes they check his pockets once he hits the set. He still manages it, though, and he has a sneaking suspicion Eddie knows he's still doing this, because his phone periodically lights up with messages he can't reply to, all from Eddie.

you looked good in your picture.

immensely climbable.

too bad you're not here instead.

[picture file]

oops. I forgot it was time for rehearsal.


luckily you won't see these until after. so it doesn't matter if I tell you what I'm thinking about.

if I'm thinking about you in the shower. right, Rich?

Richie slips his phone into his pocket the second he receives that last message, disguising it as recrossing his legs, which is usually a gangling production regardless. He can't look at the messages anymore, almost painfully hard as he is. He can feel his face starting to flush, so he forces himself to focus instead.

Then again, if Richie could successfully force himself to focus, he probably wouldn't be a comedian. His mind keeps wandering back to Eddie, back to all the texts he saw, lingering on the ones he didn't. Wondering what else Eddie has sent. Wondering what that fucking picture he sent was.

As soon as rehearsal ends, Richie's rocketing out of his seat and speed-walking to his dressing room. Whatever expression is on his face, it's intense enough that nobody stops him, and he locks the door behind himself once he's safely inside. He unlocks his phone to a sea of unread messages from Eddie. He opens their conversation and starts at the first picture file he missed; once it loads, his mouth goes dry, and he taps the picture so it expands to the full screen. Another selfie, this time without the towel, and Eddie's ripped fucking arms are killing him. He scrolls back down to the last message he saw and keeps reading.

because I am going to think about you in the shower.

I'm thinking about you already and I'm not even in there yet.

you know what I'm thinking about?

Richie wheezes, then goes into the bathroom off his dressing room again, locking that door, too, before he sits down on the tiled floor and keeps reading.

I'm thinking about when we got dinner with Bev and Ben last week. do you remember?

Does Richie fucking remember. They had been at a genuinely nice restaurant for a double date on Bev's insistence. Richie had even pulled out a nice shirt. Eddie had been the one who ironed it after taking one look at him and loudly groaning, but still. The thought was there.

Eddie had then proceeded to spend the entire night staring heatedly at Richie, arguing with Richie, running his fucking hand up Richie's thigh and shocking him so much he choked on his wine. Eddie had stood up and announced he was going to the restroom without preamble, and Richie gave it two minutes before he got up and did the same. Good thing he did, too, because Eddie mauled him the second he was in the restroom, dragging him over to the last stall and shoving Richie into it.

"Took you fucking long enough," Eddie had snapped at him as he'd started unbuttoning Richie's shirt. Richie had laughed, his hands on Eddie's hips, already half-hard from the way Eddie had been acting the entire night.

"What, was I supposed to offer to help you and follow immediately?" Richie had asked, before Eddie had growled in frustration and ripped Richie's shirt off and—

Richie blinks, dragging himself back into present moment with a ragged exhale. Yes, fucking obviously he remembered dinner last week.

I'm thinking about how good you sounded in there.

and how obvious you were when we got back.

Richie's face flushes as he frowns. It's really not his fault Eddie fucked up his hair so bad. It's long, curly hair. If Eddie wanted to be less obvious about what they'd been doing, he should've just left Richie's hair alone.

but regardless. thinking of you.

[picture file]

Richie opens the picture without hesitation. It's not a selfie this time; it's a picture Eddie took downwards of his own dick in his hands. Richie has to shut his eyes for a second before he peeks back down and groans. Someone bangs on the dressing room door, surprising him into yelping and banging his head on the underside of the bathroom doorknob.

"Are you okay?" a voice calls out. Another intern.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm good," Richie answers loudly. There's a beat of silence where Richie desperately prays to the Turtle that the intern doesn't push any further.

"Ten minutes to places," the intern tells him, and Richie sighs. He looks back down at his phone and the still-open image, at Eddie's fingers curled around his length, at how hard he already is. Richie closes the image and finishes reading.

well, guess you're busy. hopping in the shower.

see you soon.

Richie frowns, then taps the text bar and starts typing rapidly, sending each sentence as he typed it rather than just sending one larger messages.

jesus christ eds 

ur tryin 2 get me fuckin fired? its workin

god you look amazing

2 more hours eddie

Eddie doesn't view any of the messages. Richie gives it a full minute, then taps the text bar again.

you cant bring up dinner last wk then disappear, babe, cmon

Still nothing. Richie hesitates, then glances at the time. He still has seven minutes before places. He hurriedly undoes the button and zipper on his pants and shoves them down to pull his cock out. The moment his hand brushes his skin, he has to bite back a moan, but he just grabs his phone with his other hand and takes a picture to send back to Eddie. He puts his phone away, then pauses. He gives himself one stroke, then two, then says, out loud, "Alright, bud, you're at work, knock it off."

Hearing his own voice almost makes him laugh, so he tucks himself back away and does his pants back up while he's having a moment of lucidity. He picks his phone back up and sends the picture to Eddie. Still no response. His thumb hovers over the call button in the upper corner of their conversation. He has four minutes. He hits the button.

It rings five times before Eddie answers with a short, sharp, "What?"

"Hey, whoa, you stopped replying, what gives?" Richie asks.

"I assumed you wouldn't respond until you were about to come home," Eddie tells him. "I'm in the shower, dumbass. I didn't have my phone with me. Where are you?"

"My dressing room, sending nudes to my stupid boyfriend," Richie tells him.

"Stupid fiancé," Eddie corrects absentmindedly. Richie's pulse jumps. "Are you? I'll look, hold on." There's a rustling noise, then Richie hears Eddie exhale sharply, all the breath punching out. He grins, satisfied, a little smug. "You are."

"I am," Richie replies, proud.

"Too bad you're not here," Eddie says, his voice dropping. Richie realizes in that moment— far too late— that calling Eddie before places was a mistake. "I'd do something about that."

Richie's heart is pounding. It feels like his heart is inside of his lungs somehow. "Yeah?"

"Obviously you'd do something about me first," Eddie amends.

"You only want me for my dick."

"Hey, you're more than a dick to me," Eddie argues. "You're also a hole."

"Two holes," Richie reminds him.

"Oh, yes, how could I forget about your fucking mouth," Eddie says. Richie's not sure if he means that in a sexy way or an annoyed way. With Eddie, it's probably both.

"Then you only like me because I'm a service top, then," Richie says instead.

"You're also a witch or something," Eddie says. "You have your uses."

"What's my use today?" Richie asks. Eddie hums a little, and Richie's hands start sweating again. He unlocks the bathroom door with a fumbling hand and goes to the dressing room mirror to smooth his hair back into place where it had been pressed against the bathroom wall.

"Haven't decided yet," Eddie says. Richie exhales softly, trying to catch his breath. "What are you doing right now?"

"I have to be back out there in a minute," Richie says. "I'm trying to pull myself together."

"Show me," Eddie says, so Richie turns on the video function of their call. He turns the camera to himself in the mirror just as Eddie's own camera pops up on his own screen. He's aimed downwards at his cock again, but now it's a live feed of Eddie's hand moving on his dick and the shower pouring water over him and—

"Time for places!" the intern shouts through the door, banging on it with the side of her fist, and Richie shrieks in what's probably the highest register he's capable of hitting. Eddie snorts on the camera and starts laughing. Richie's face goes red in his reflection.

"Coming!" Richie calls, tapping his phone so it switches to the front-facing camera.

"You will be soon," Eddie comments through the sound of the shower. Richie bites back a soft sound when Eddie flips his camera, too, and he sees him drenched in water, wet hair pushed back from his eyes, face flushed red with heat and exertion.

"You're not helping," Richie hisses at him. "I have to go do my job now."

"Well, hurry up so you can come do your other job," Eddie tells him. Richie shuts his eyes for a brief moment before glancing back down at Eddie on the camera.

"What's gotten into you lately, you horndog?" Richie asks. Eddie's brow furrows, and Richie wonders if it was the wrong thing to ask. "Not that I'm complaining. Far from it, actually, just making sure you're good."

"No, yeah, I'm good, I just—" Eddie looks contemplative for a moment, there in the shower. Richie figures only they could go from dirty talk to vulnerable conversation in ten seconds flat. "I'm not sure. Something… I want to make up for lost time. We lost so much time, Rich. Getting Stan back and realizing what our lives were supposed to be like and what we should've had, I just— I don't know. This sounds—"

"I feel the same way," Richie says. Eddie falls quiet. "I can't get enough of you, Eds. Some of it's losing the time I should've had with you, yeah, but mostly, babe, it's just you. I just love you so much I can hardly—" He exhales sharply. "Jesus, I have to go do my job, you've got me hard as fuck and near tears."

"That can't be all that out of the ordinary for you," Eddie jabs before adding, "I love you, too, Rich. Hurry home."

"Can do, hot stuff," Richie says, wiping at his eyes. Eddie snorts at him again. Richie loves him in such an overwhelming wave that it spills out of his mouth, "I love you so much."

"I love you, too," Eddie repeats. "Come home."

"Soon," Richie promises. Eddie tips his head back into the water on Richie's screen, and Richie's working back towards hard again after almost crying.

"Don't actually hurry home, though, drive safely, you dipshit," Eddie tells him. The intern bangs on the door again, making Richie jump.

"Places, Rich!" she calls through the door, sounding exasperated, which is fair. Richie looks up at the door.

"Yes— Yeah, I'm coming! I'm sorry, I'm on my way, hold on." Richie glances back down at his phone and whispers, "Love you."

Eddie smiles at him, then taps his phone to turn his camera around again. He gives Richie one single shot of his hand wrapped around his own hard length before he ends the call, and Richie has to stop himself from groaning in frustration. He leaves his phone behind in the dressing room before heading out, following the harried intern back to set and apologizing profusely the entire way, trying to get her to laugh to make up for it. She smiles once as they reach the set, so Richie counts it as a win.

It's a smart move to leave his phone behind, because Richie is distracted enough without it, thinking about the pictures Eddie had sent, the things he'd said, their video call, dinner last week, the way Eddie looks when he's—

Richie is monumentally distracted and obnoxiously hard throughout the entire recording. He does a fine job, because he's good at what he does, but it's certainly not his best work and all he wants to do is go home.

He spends the entire show thinking about Eddie so, when they're finished, he's standing up and removing microphone pieces before anyone even gets to him. He hands over the equipment and gives a salute to the crew before jogging back to his dressing room to change back into his normal clothes. He grabs his phone once he gets in there and scrolls through the messages he's missed while recording.

There's actually a text from Bill, asking if he wants to grab dinner tonight. He shoots off a quick that'll be a negatory, bro, im gonna be busy gettin busy. Bill replies with four frowny faces. He has a text from Stan, too, asking how he's doing. He also has a second text from Stan asking how he's really doing. Stan's like that. Richie replies, doing great, eds is sexting me like a porn star so im gonna go home and gt laid. Stan sends back go fuck yourself, tozier. never say that to me again, even though Richie has said similar things countless times in his lifetime to Stan, and will continue to do so until they die. Well, die again.

i lov u stan, he texts back. Stan views the message, but doesn't reply. Richie figured as much.

Then, he opens Eddie's messages.

thought about you through the whole shower, Rich.

miss you.

miss seeing you.

I loved that picture you sent.

I hope you're seeing these messages right now.

actually, I hope you're not. your poker face is pretty terrible. I don't want you to get fired.

but what a way to go.

[picture file]

Richie opens the picture. It's a selfie of Eddie in bed. He sighs, then keeps scrolling through the rest of the messages, already so painfully hard that it barely matters anymore. He's looking forward to telling Eddie he made him plateau in horniness. Eddie will hate him for saying something so dumb. Richie grins just thinking about it.

come home.

That's the last one. It feels like static electricity is running through his veins. He all but throws his phone on his sofa as he yanks his clothes off, nearly braining himself on the vanity counter when he gets stuck in his pants and trips. He manages to get his street clothes on in record time, and tries to smooth down his shirt in the mirror. The shirt, like Richie himself, is pretty rumpled and looking a bit worse for wear. He runs his fingers through his hair; there's still enough product in it that it stays where he wants it. He runs to his bathroom to scrub the makeup off his face before he grabs his phone, keys, and wallet, and takes off for the stairwell.

He briefly considers taking the subway, but just ends up hailing a cab instead, because he can't stand being away from home any longer. He keeps going back to his and Eddie's conversation on his phone, legs bouncing in the backseat of the cab as he scrolls through the messages again.

too bad you're not here instead.

I'm thinking about when we got dinner with Bev and Ben last week. do you remember?

miss you.

come home.

Richie stares at the pictures, flipping through them over and over while they get stuck in traffic from an accident. He starts getting frustrated and has to stop looking at the pictures, instead hitting the text box again.

stuck in traffic, he texts.

why are you in traffic?

accident ahead

I mean, why are you, Richie, in traffic, when you take the train?

thought itd be faster

obviously not.

im rly sorry

am I supposed to wait for you?

I'm not sure how much longer I can wait, Richie.

[picture file]

Richie exhales, looking out the windshield. He accidentally makes eye contact with the cab driver in the rearview mirror, and he doesn't know what expression is on his own face, but the cab driver looks away pretty quickly. Richie looks back down at his phone, forgetting he had opened the picture file, and he's looking at a new picture of Eddie's dick in his hand. He's still in bed. Richie leans out the open window of the cab to see how much traffic was left. He can't even see where the accident itself is, and he groans.

"Fuck it," he says. "Fuck this." He hands the driver two twenties from his wallet and climbs out of the car, legging it for the nearest subway station. He gets on the train, makes it two minutes down the track, and the train stops. Richie seriously considers screaming, but there's a couple of people across from him who have already recognized him, and he's not ready to deal with the fallout from that. Instead, he pulls out his phone and texts Eddie.

stuck on the train now

why in the name of God are you on a train now?

got out of the cab, thought itd be faster

you're fucking insane.

get home right now, Richie.

I'm not asking.

Richie locks his phone and shuts his eyes, trying to focus on literally anything else except Eddie. His phone buzzes again, and he, foolishly, looks down at it, ever the glutton for punishment.

the second you get here, come straight to our bedroom. don't waste any time.

I'm going to ride—

Richie locks his phone again halfway through reading the message, his heart pounding. He's torn between the desire to finish reading the message and the knowledge he'll definitely do something obvious and embarrassing if he reads it. Luckily, he's saved by the train coming back to life and moving along its merry way. It doesn't have another snag, and Richie bolts off at his station and power walks the rest of the way to their apartment so he doesn't look like a basket case. He runs right past the doorman once he's inside, though, and forgoes the elevator for the stairwell, taking the stairs two or three at a time until he's on their floor.

He has to stop in the stairwell entrance and double over, catching his breath, but, once he does, he's off again, fumbling with his keys to their apartment. He manages to get the door open on the third try, and he chucks his keys in the bowl as he's slamming and locking the door shut. He strips off his jacket and leaves it there on the floor, and does the same with his sneakers, pulling them off on his way towards the hall. He drops them along the route and zips down the hall.

He throws open their bedroom door to find Eddie, still naked, hand still around his dick. Richie doesn't even remember to shut their bedroom door before he's climbing onto their bed from the foot of it and up, up towards the headboard, dragging himself over Eddie until he can connect their mouths. He kisses Eddie with everything he has, feeling like his skin is on fire while he does, grabbing Eddie's hips and pinning him down as he deepens the kiss, turning his head to better their angle. It's everything he's been starving for, everything he's been thinking about since Eddie first messaged, and Richie is just so fucking touch-starved after all this time alone that he just shakes apart under Eddie's hands.

Eddie reaches up blindly and tugs Richie's glasses off, setting them aside on the nightstand before he forcibly shoves Richie off of him and starts hurriedly unbuttoning his shirt.

"Jesus Christ, I thought you'd never get here," Eddie gasps as Richie's fingers dig into his waist. He gives up, his frantic hands instead grabbing the hem and dragging Richie's half-unbuttoned shirt off over his head. "Take your pants off."

"Sir, yes, sir," Richie says, standing up on the bed to scramble out of his pants. Eddie laughs at him until he gets the jeans off and drops back down to cover Eddie's body with his own. "Where's the lube?"

"Nightstand," Eddie tells him. It's on top of the nightstand, already open, and Richie frowns, looking Eddie over. "Take your fucking socks off, Richie, you look like a jackass."

Richie does as he's asked, tugging his socks off, then his boxer briefs, until he's just as naked as Eddie. He grabs the lube and leans up over Eddie, running his hand up his thigh.

"Just go, go, I'm ready already," Eddie breathes. Richie's brow furrows and he reaches up and, sure enough, Eddie's already wet and stretched. Goosebumps raise along Richie's skin.

"Jesus Christ," he mutters, tugging Eddie down the bed and flipping him, making them swap places.

"Did you read my last messages? I sent you another picture," Eddie says as he scrambles to right himself in Richie's lap. Everywhere their skin touches is sweat-slick and electric.

"I couldn't," Richie tells him, slicking his cock with lube. It's so cold against his heated skin, he breaks out in goosebumps all over again. "I was too turned on. You made me horniness-plateau—"

"God, I don't want to know what that means—"

"And I couldn't focus on anything except not touching myself like an animal in the backseat of a cab, so, no, I didn't see your pictures of your own ass."

Eddie's entire face flushes and the redness starts spreading down his chest as he hisses, "Richie."

Richie's response is to nudge at Eddie's legs until his thighs are spread apart, knees on either side of Richie. He takes the second to look up at him, to really look, for the first time since he got home and tackled him to the bed. The fire is still licking through his veins as he looks him over, the entire scrubbed-pink length of him, the scar on his face, the jagged scar on his chest. He runs one hand up through Eddie's hair; Eddie reaches down and grabs a fistful of Richie's hair himself, tugging his head to the side.

"Let's go, Richie," Eddie reminds him. Richie goes, guiding himself into Eddie slowly. Eddie makes a frustrated noise in the back of his throat before he shoves Richie's hands away and does it himself, moving down in one fast, fluid motion, drawing long moans out of both of them. Richie shudders into a gasp at the end, and Eddie's head falls forward, his hands clapping down onto Richie's chest, nails digging into his flesh. Richie pulls him closer, desperate to feel his heartbeat, his warm skin; Eddie drops his forehead to Richie's shoulder and starts rolling his hips in earnest.

"Just a couple of holes, here just for you," Richie teases, almost breathless as Eddie pushes himself back up to ride him properly, back straight, hands on Richie's waist.

"Shut up, service top," Eddie says. Richie grins. "You made me wait for-fucking-ever, Richie. You fucking blow."

"You wish," Richie bites back, and Eddie dives down, scooping Richie's face up in his hands and kissing him with teeth, snapping his hips forward as he does. Richie gasps into his mouth; Eddie just kisses him through it, hands tangled in Richie's hair, Richie's mouth on his, Richie's cock inside of him. Eddie shifts, and then groans, and Richie grabs him by the hips to find the same spot again, and again, until Eddie's thrown his head back and slammed his eyes shut, gasping.

"Jesus, Eddie, fuck, you have no idea what you do to me," Richie tells him, rolling his hips up to meet Eddie when he rolled down. He falls into rhythm with him, and Eddie's head falls forward, his chest heaving. "I couldn't get out of there fast enough, just wanted to be home—"


"Yeah?" Richie pushes up again, and Eddie honest-to-God whimpers, and that sound sends a spark of energy right through to the heat pooling at his core. Eddie's fingers tangle in Richie's hair again, pulling his head to the side so he can bite down on the juncture of Richie's neck and shoulder, and Richie's hips snap up hard, totally involuntarily. On purpose or not, the movement makes Eddie dig his nails into Richie's scalp with one hand and his chest with the other, spine curved and head bent over Richie's as he comes untouched between them, hitting them both in the face. Richie laughs, even as Eddie scowls at him, still red-faced and riding through his orgasm, unable to be too upset. Richie cleans off Eddie's face with his hand and licks his palm.

"You're disgusting," Eddie tells him, voice thin.

"I am literally inside of you right now," Richie reminds him, punctuating his statement with a roll of his hips, drawing a punched-out sound from deep in Eddie's chest.

"Finish, then," Eddie tells him. Richie's brow furrows.

"But you already—"

"Fine, then I'll do it," Eddie interrupts, rolling his hips and full-body shuddering at whatever feeling that gives him. The way he looks and sounds makes Richie shake, Eddie hot and tight around him, his own skin almost painful to the touch as Eddie trembles above him. He does that each time, too, overstimulated and twitching and red-hot above Richie, and it doesn't take long to drag Richie to the edge and over it, a throbbing heat flooding his limbs as Eddie slows his pace, gently moving him through until he's done and Eddie can slide off. Eddie falls onto the bed next to him, chest heaving, legs still tangled up with Richie's, his right shoulder half on top of Richie's chest. Richie kisses him hard on the temple, right at his sweaty hairline.

"Fuck, I love you," Richie says. Eddie huffs a laugh.

"Can't be quiet for two minutes," Eddie comments, but there's no heat to it. Richie smiles into Eddie's hair. "I love you, too."

Richie's headache has all but receded to the back of his brain, just a dull throbbing under everything else. Eddie drags himself out of bed and returns with several washcloths, insisting on scrubbing Richie down where he is if he's not going to get up. Richie motions vastly at the room, and Eddie rolls his eyes before dropping one wet washcloth on Richie's chest with a wet smack.

"Please don't watch tonight's episode of the show," Richie says, as Eddie is washing the washcloths in the bathroom sink. Eddie sticks his head through the doorway while the water keeps running; he's frowning, face all creased. He's such a fucking worrywart. "Your face is gonna freeze like that."

"Shut up, Richie," Eddie says, like he says every time Richie tells him that. "Why not?"

"Because I probably look like a mess," Richie tells him. Eddie raises an eyebrow at him. "Because of you, dipshit."

Eddie's eyebrows lift, then he vanishes back into the bathroom. "Aha. Well, I already set the machine to record it, dumbass. Obviously."

"You are the one who started sexting me at my job," Richie reminds him.

"Well, why the fuck is your job on television, you idiot?" Eddie snaps, and Richie busts out laughing.

"Wh— Like— Like I should've thought about people knowing on sight when I'm horny when I decided to get into comedy?" Richie wheezes. "Motherfucking— You are a freak, Eddie Kaspbrak."

"Says the necromancer," Eddie shoots back, and fairly so. Richie reaches out, and Eddie goes to him, shutting off the water and flicking off lights on the way. He climbs into bed with him, shoving his head under Richie's arm so Richie has to shift to accommodate him in the exact space and position he wants.

"This necromancer would like a little credit for being the reason we can have this conversation at all," Richie says, grinning. Eddie elbows him in the chest; Richie's not sure if it was on purpose or not. "Settle down, God."

"I'm tired, I want to be comfortable," Eddie grumbles at him. He wraps up around Richie, pushing Richie onto his side so he can curl around his back. He doesn't quite reach all the way around Richie (who can? Eddie always says he's gotta be at least nine feet tall), but he's broader and stronger; he feels safest like this, warm and content and grounded. Eddie knows that, that bastard.

"It's not even eight o'clock yet," Richie points out.

"So sue me, I was dead, my body isn't what it used to be."

"Nah, that's just old age."

"Go fuck yourself, Richie—"

"I would, but I'm fresh out," Richie says. Eddie snorts a laugh, which Richie tends to take as a win. He turns his head back to see the edge of Eddie's profile. "You know. The harvest."

"Don't call sex 'the harvest,'" Eddie snaps at him. He presses his face into Richie's back; Richie can feel his eyelashes against his skin when he shuts his eyes.

"Then how can I reap my friends with benefits?"

"You disgust me," Eddie says simply. "You're disgusting. I hope you know that."

"I can't wait for you to spend the rest of our lives telling me I'm disgusting," Richie says fondly, with a theatrical swoon in his voice. Eddie pinches his side, starting a laugh out of Richie. "Seriously! Seriously, I'm so excited to hear that fucking stuck-up voice of yours on my deathbed telling me that I better not shit myself when I die or I'll ruin the mattress."

"Well, then, don't shit yourself when you die or you'll ruin the mattress," Eddie murmurs. Richie can tell he's starting to doze off, so he decides to just let him fall asleep and he'll wake him up in an hour or so. Just a short interlude.

"Go to sleep," Richie says softly. Eddie wraps his arms around Richie — one under his head, hand curling up towards Richie's face, fingers relaxed, and the other arm over Richie's waist, hand brushing against Richie's skin there. He squeezes Richie, a tight hug, and Richie shuts his eyes, his hands coming up to cover Eddie's on his waist. He curls his legs up, and Eddie fits his own legs in behind them, slotting them together perfectly. Eddie's breath swirls hot across the bare skin of his back.

"Love you," Eddie murmurs again. "Couldn't stop thinking about you today. Everything made me think of you."

"Welcome to my entire life, where everything and everyone I see that isn't you low-key pisses me off a little just because I like you so much," Richie says. He can feel Eddie's lips turn up into a smile on his back. "Good work, Eds. You have effectively ruined me for all others."

"Good," Eddie says. He tightens his hold on Richie again, pulling them as close together as he can get them without them getting sewn together, which, eugh, Richie tries to forget the thought as soon as it comes, but it sticks in his head.

"If we got sewn together, would you wanna join a freak show with me or something?" Richie asks.

"Why don't we just remove the stitches?" Eddie suggests.

"I guess," Richie says. "It kind of feels like cheating."

"It kind of feels like medical care," Eddie argues. "Who is stitching us together, anyways?"

"A villain," Richie says.


"Because I'm secretly a superhero."

Eddie laughs, and Richie squeezes his hand. Eddie nips at his skin with his teeth; Richie can feel the jagged raise skin of Eddie's scar where his back meets Eddie's chest. He starts to fall asleep, too.

"Your secret is safe with me," Eddie tells him softly. Richie hums in acknowledgment of his promise.

He barely remembers that he said he'd only let Eddie sleep for an hour, and, when he wakes up, it's to a pitch-black bedroom. He groans, shifting to turn in Eddie's arms—

Except, when he turns, Eddie's gigantic fucking doe eyes are already looking at him in the darkness, and Richie yelps, heart pounding.

"Sorry, sorry," Eddie whispers.

"Why the fuck are you staring at me?" Richie gasps. "Jesus, you're such a fucking weirdo, what's wrong with you?"

"Well, fucking excuse me for wanting to look at my fiance's face, I guess I'm a fucking criminal," Eddie snaps at him. Richie kisses him soundly, effectively silencing him to the point that Eddie's tongue got involved. After a moment, he pulled back.

"Wanna do a lot more to my face than look at it?" Richie asks, which is how Eddie ends up straddling Richie's face at two in the morning, when Richie's phone rang and Bill's name and face popped up on the screen. Eddie climbs off of Richie and grabs the phone, swiping to answer while Richie tries to figure out what the fuck is going on.

"Bill, what's wrong?" Eddie demands. Richie's still bewildered as to where the fuck Eddie went and why he's there. Eddie listens to Bill on the other end, and then he turns to look at Richie, his whole face baffled, big eyes open in shock. "You're fucking kidding me."

"What?" Richie asks. He's still hard as hell, but he's also incredibly confused. Eddie listens to Bill on the other end again. "Jesus, Eddie, what?"

"Bill wants to talk to you," Eddie says, face flushed in the darkness. Richie's heart pounds as he takes the phone from Eddie's outstretched hand.