Richie Tozier isn't a man of many looks.
Eddie can recount Richie’s morning routine frame by frame: starting off by snoozing all their 7am alarms with the grouchiness of a slacking cartoon dog, followed by half-awakened whines as Eddie squirms out from under his heavy limbs. When Eddie puts on his corporate drone attire after a quick shower, Richie would be selecting his slim fit t-shirt plus loose fit shirt combo of the day while shoving himself into some beige chinos that somehow covers his Sasquatch legs. If the weather’s chilly, which is rare, considering they’re in California— Eddie would nag him into adding a flight jacket, one of the two he owns.
( Why are you intimidated by my natural curves, Richie would say. And Eddie would smack him on the back of his head like it’s muscle memory.)
He’d also throw on a black blazer and straight jeans for live shows— because he’s sleek and chill — but that’s about it. Richie Tozier and his two iconic visuals.
Not that Eddie thinks about it often. He loves Richie’s big dumb face, and the way he dresses is not not endearing, but the topic does come up sometimes. According to critically acclaimed fashion designer Beverly Marsh— who’s arguable wine-drunk, but nonetheless— Richie’s sense of style is a direct crossover between Jeff Goldblum in Jurassic Park and 80s soft butch lesbians. The mental image is so powerful that Eddie, despite only remembering the gist of either concept, can’t help but nod in agreement.
“It’s the button-downs,” Bev giggles. “God. I’ve seen it too many times, something about forty-year-olds, all you guys want is to dress like Old Navy models.”
“Nah,” Richie snorts. “My boyfriend dresses like Hans Gruber,” he pauses, reaching over Eddie’s lap for the Riesling bottle. “If Hans Gruber’s trying to sell me a Toyota.”
Eddie lovingly lifts up his knee and bumps Richie in the stomach, knocking out a tiny ouch why.
“Really thought you’d say something nice following my boyfriend .”
“Oh baby, nothing nice has come after my boyfriend since we discovered Dr. Drew Pinsky.”
Eddie Turns to Bev, calling for moral support with his slow-blinking eyes. The lady only shakes her head disapprovingly and leans forward against the table, nearly pushing her jumpsuit into a bowl of pasta sauce. “Guys- guys, promise me,” she whispers, for some reason. “If you ever, EVER needs to dress up , you come to me first. I’ll hook you up with my people- pro bono, tailor and everything.”
“Hell yeah,” Richie beams. “I’ll look so good when I finally become Eddie’s trophy wife.”
The opportunity appears before Richie can snatch Eddie’s hand and write their own Santa baby, even before Eddie can remotely afford a yacht.
It’s not all that unexpected, since Richie’s been doing better both life-wise and career-wise after they blew the clown to alien hell. All his old materials are now (gratefully) abandoned. Besides frowning at Channel 6 news while doing sit-ups in underwear— which is apparently a part of his creative process, Eddie can hear him humming while writing now; he’s hired more for the writing gigs he actually likes, as well as some VA works. He seems happier.
When Eddie’s standing in flip flops and boxers, neck-deep in his weekly fridge decluttering process, a set of arms sling over his shoulder, pulling him back into a tight clinch.
“Eds, baby,” Richie whispers directly into his ear, his breath is warm and fast-paced. “I need to ask you something.”
“Jesus,” Eddie tries to wriggle away, finding himself only halfway annoyed. “We’re not doing it in the kitchen.”
“It’s not- but hold that thought,” He pauses. “Do you like little statues?”
“Where should we put the statuette,” Richie continues. “The one that looks like a bird— if I win an WGA?”
Eddie doesn’t need to call up Bev, because of course she’s already learned the news from Bill, who’s also ready to walk the red carpet in New York while Richie hoofs the one in LA. Listen , she lays it out over the speakerphone. Rich doesn’t have to dress up, and she’s not his mom, but she’s ready to give Bill a proper makeover so he can pair with Audra and Audra’s wearing a dress from Tadashi Shoji . It really doesn’t seem fair if Bill’s going full Hollywood, and Richie’s just going to rock some ill-fitted, off the rack blazers.
“Kinda unfair to the blazer industry,” Eddie observes. “They usually don’t market to giants.”
“Also unfair that Eddie’s not wearing a sexy Japanese evening gown. His shit doesn’t even show cleavage,” Richie comments. “Can we arrange that too?”
“It’s fine. I’ll just wear your skin like a bodysuit.”
“It doesn’t come in your size, bud.”
“I’ll wear it like a onesie.”
“Oof, missed that chance either way.” Richie shrugs. “I only shed my skin once a year-”
“So,” Bev laughs, rolling her eyes. “We have a date? I’ll call up my tailors.”
After a few weeks of measuring and mostly waiting, Richie goes on his final quest of makeover on the day of the ceremony. Eddie hasn’t seen any of it yet, but he puts a lot of faith in the professional eyes of Miss Marsh, since he knows what’s good and what’s Old Navy.
It’s a strange feeling: that he’s anticipating this exciting, wonderful thing, that his boyfriend— partner— Richie, now has a nom from Writers Guild; and it makes him smile to himself while typing up damage reports in the office which probably looks like American Psycho; but everything else has been more or less mundane, filled with banters and overtimes and Chinese takeouts (Richie insists on getting over their trauma by exposure but Eddie thinks he’s just a sucker for fried noodles), and with pieces and pieces of button downs wrinkled by their washing machine.
It feels unreal. Just a little.
“Hey hey, Eddie boy,” Richie’s voice rings from the hallway end when he opens the door. “Ready to meet your brand new boyfriend?”
“Sure,” Eddie drops his laptop, having trouble keeping a deadpan voice while walking inside. “Are you the pretty woman of your dream now?”
“Oh yeah. Full glamour, combining Mrs. K’s bedtime look and her sensual morning-after visage.”
“Ugh, fuck off,” Eddie snorts, allowing himself a half amused mouth twitch since no one’s here to witness it. “Thought you’d run out of that shitty bit one day, award-winning funny man.”
“What can I say? ‘s hard being the wonder boy,” Eddie can almost hear him grinning. “But seriously, they gave me this thick-ass wagon, full Kardashian style. Huge fucking jugs to feed a Wisconsin family.”
Eddie walks toward the bathroom as Richie rambles on about how he’s now a botoxed-up Miss Thing. The door is opened, and from this angle he can see Richie’s right shoulder in the mirror, his body hunched over the sink like he’s searching for something.
“Fair warning, I look super fucking fancy. You might come in your pants.”
“I’ll scrape them off for you in a ziplock bag.”
“Thanks, babe, appreciate that,” Richie singsongs. “You like my suit?”
Right. Eddie can see it now— He’s wearing suits. A black dinner jacket, to be exact, cut right below his hips. Although Eddie’s facing his back, it’s already clear that the tailor’s put in some expenditures. The suit’s neck flattens against his nape, revealing only a thin stripe of his shirt, shaded underneath his curls. Two straight, slightly tilted lines run along his shoulders like the sides of a short hill elongating across the horizon, and canting down elegantly by their edges.
Eddie can spot some Jacquard patterns as he gets closer, shining under the bathroom light all across the fabric. Is that wool? Mohair?
For some reason— well, Eddie knows, but he doesn’t want to admit it yet— his mouth runs dry. He hasn’t even seen the suit’s front side, or even Richie’s face yet. He leans against the door frame, crossing his arms, casting his eyes to the floor because he needs to calm the fuck down-
Damn his legs are long.
“Thoughts and comments?” Richie’s feet turn toward him. He’s wearing suede loafers in a shade of dark olive green, ankles peaking out in thin, charcoal grey socks.
“You look-” Hot. Stupidly hot. “-nice. Um. It fits well.”
“You’re not even looking at me,” Richie points out. “You’re just staring at my feet.”
“I don’t know what you mean.” Eddie lies.
“Well, you’re staring at my feet and ankles like a fucking British Governor, Eds.”
“No.” He tries to collect himself. “I’m not.”
“What the fuck, do you have- like a foot thing?”
“Jesus Christ, no, can you just-” He halts his breath, silently reminding himself that Richie in a suit is really just Richie not in a suit in a damn suit, and there’s absolutely no need to get suddenly all horned up about it.
Not more than the usual amount, at least. It’s fucking embarrassing.
He thinks he’s ready.
Eddie picks his head up. Richie beams. “Atta boy.”
As soon as the film starts rolling, Eddie knows that he can’t be more wrong about being remotely emotionally prepared. His eyes glide over Richie’s black suit pants to the single silk button snatching in his waistline. The lapels are jetted and shawl-like, in a different, finer material, streaming up snugly and effortlessly along his chest. He’s wearing a ivory dress shirt, with a fucking black bowtie fastened delicately around his neck like he’s a damn birthday present. He looks sharp and immaculately refined, and Eddie doesn’t even realize it when he breathes out a faint garbled noise.
He waits, half expecting some words to just whip themselves up but of course that’s not gonna happen; so he just stands there for a moment like a giant, bipedal koi fish with a silent “ah” trapped between his lips.
“Jeez, Eds,” Richie grins. “You really like my Pee Wee Herman costume.” His eyes are bright and frisky, and it takes Eddie a hot moment to realize that Richie’s not wearing glasses. “Okay, who am I kidding. I’m running for senate in this.”
“You’re twenty years too young to run for senate.” He pauses. “You have to look like- soup with shoes on.”
“ Wow , political satire, put this guy on the Today Show.” Richie does a half-hearted Owen Wilson voice. He turns back to the mirror, ruffling a hand through his hair. Eddie wants to break something. “Alright. I’m definitely the special friend, at least.”
“ The special friend .” He repeats weakly.
“Yeah, the French Canadian guy a senator pays twice a year to save his marriage.”
“That’s not a stereotype.” Eddie shuts his eyes for a second, defeated. “That’s not even a thing.”
“Yeah it is,” Richie adjusts his bow tie. “You know, flying me in first class, we have dinner, and I make passionate love to his wife- and her yacht club friends,” he spins around, leaning in toward Eddie, raising his brows promptingly.
“What the fuck-”
“- the pool boy,” Richie continues, landing a hand on Eddie’s polo collar. “And the pretty little insurance guy for their Myrtle beach home-”
He flicks open a button on Eddie’s shirt, pinching it between his fingers. “Oh he’s so keyed up. Like an angry little walnut,” Richie’s breath is on Eddie’s ear. “If only I can split that shell open-”
“Shit,” Eddie sputters. His cheeks are burning up. The citrus notes are strong in Richie’s cologne, and the back of his scalp tingles to the scent. “What are you doing?”
“Flirting? Come on, I wasn’t being subtle or anything. It’s like- a known human behavior.” The fingers pause at the crook of his neck. Richie looks down and hums. “You really eat this shit up, huh?”
Eddie stares at Richie’s face. He briefly considers working something out (e.g., he’s stunned by some unknown insect in the unmentionable, he had a highly localized reaction to their new body wash) to explain the situation in his pants; but in the end Eddie knows, considering he’s likely turning into an unnatural shade of red at the very moment, his is a losing battle.
“ Well ,” Eddie drawls under his breath, finally giving in. “It’s a good suit.”
“No shit, baby. You were so flustered, ‘twas cute as hell.” Richie runs his palm down the lapels, tracing its edge laggardly with the swell of his thumb. Eddie exhales sharply when he reaches the dainty edge where the silk fold ends and the wool begins. “Shit, you look like you’d stick your dick in if it’s sentient.”
“Jesus fuck, Richie.” Eddie huffs in a low tone.
“Yeah, that dude had some wild years,” Richie wets his lips with his tongue. “And you?”
Eddie gulps, not sure if he can handle the answer. “And I what .”
“I dunno,” the devil blinks innocently. Eddie feels a knee between his legs— the smooth fabric of Richie’s dress pants glides up the inner side of Eddie’s trousers, until his thigh is pressed against Eddie’s tenting boner. “You want a quickie?”
“Goddamn it,” Eddie gasps, bracing his hands against the wall. “Richie.”
“C’mon baby, we don’t have to take the jacket off.” Richie shifts his hips forward demonstratively, and Eddie’s crotch gladly tightens again from the friction. “I can jerk you off in this, I’ll suck your cock with my award-winning mouth. You can ride me-”
“You’re gonna- god- you’re gonna show up tonight with cum stain on your clothes,” Eddie hisses, swinging his waist almost involuntarily, feeling like it’s more for convincing himself than otherwise, “People are gonna notice.”
“I’ll tell them it’s a fashion statement. It’s fucking couture,” Richie dips his head down; Eddie breaths out hard as he starts mouthing his jaw. “Eds, just let me-”
Fuck it. Fuck it.
“Bedroom. We have carpet there.” He croaks. “And try not to ruin your career.”
“Whatever you say,” Richie agrees enthusiastically.
Richie drops to his knees and pulls down Eddie’s zipper as soon as his butt touches the bedsheets. Eddie tries not to physically pant, which he fails. His hard on is throbbing in his underwear, and he almost jumps when Richie’s slightly chilly fingers press into his waistband to pull out his cock. Richie looks up as he strokes him, the brass buttons on the roll up of his shirt hitching in and out of his sleeve as he moves, reflecting their ceiling light.
“You like it, my liege?”
“Yes, shit, I like getting my dick jerked ,” Eddie replies. The man lets out a small, wheezing laugh before sighing contentedly, upping his speed. Eddie can see him cupping his own bulge over the fabric of his made-to-measure trouser. He wonders what Richie’s wearing underneath, if the boxers are of some hollywood blacktie standard too-
His groan is raspy and high-pitched when Richie stops his motion, giving him a wide smile, before swirling his tongue around the tip of his cock.
“Oh yeah,” Richie hums. “ Finally, some good fucking food. ”
“God I hate you,” Eddie tries not to laugh. He bucks up, and the wet, reddened tip of his dick pokes into Richie’s cheek. The fear of dripping precome on his pristine shirt clenches his belly tight for a quick second, but that concern vanishes along with all the thoughts in his brain as soon as Richie takes him in between his lips, sinking him down into his hot, slick throat.
He hollows his cheek, and Eddie can swear his vision becomes completely blank for a second. The first thing he sees when he comes to is a pair of broad shoulders, Richie’s loose, puffed up hair bobs up and down with his movement. Eddie threads his fingers into it, grasping a fistful of curls. He pulls, and Richie moans happily around the girth of his cock, tilting his head to the side for even more strain. He’s pretty sure the hair is styled by some LA professional that probably costs more than a hundy, but no one’s here to stop him and he doesn’t really have the self-restraint to stop writhing his arm and guiding Richie’s head in and out, until the man’s nose brushes against his abdomen, saliva dripping on his thigh with a filthy smack.
It’s hypnotizing. Eddie’s feels like he’s seeing stars, and like he’s gonna fucking die.
“Stop, stop,” He gasps. “Get on the bed- pull your pants down.”
“So romantic,” Richie scrambles to his feet. His hands are shaky when he attempts to unbutton his trousers.
“Pull it down more,” Eddie strips himself out of his clothes as he manages to the drawers with jello-y knees. “I’m only using a little lube.”
He straddles Richie’s waist and starts working himself loose. A little lube- He’ll be careful. He’s not going to make a mess. Richie stares at him like he’s all the seven wonders combined, and Eddie can’t flick his eyes away from Richie’s flushed face, his jaw, that ridiculous fucking bowtie rumbling with the billows of his chest. He looks like James fucking Bond and Eddie is the hot busted companion ready to jump his bones and/or sell him out to some evil villain smoking a big fat cigar by the sea.
He’s so, so hard it’s almost painful. Eddie’s breaths are coarsed, his thighs are shaking, and he almost falls over when he adds a third finger in despite bearing a hand on Richie’s leg.
“Don’t move, we can’t crinkle your clothes more,” Eddie hisses, grabbing the base of Richie’s dick. “Fuck, I forgot the condom.”
“Just- you know I’m clean, Eddie, we get the damn test every other month- now is a very good time to be adventurous,” Richie helplessly grinds into Eddie’s fingers. “Please, Eds, I can finish outside.”
“Okay, okay,” Eddie lifts himself up, aiming Richie in his hole and slowly, carefully sinks down on his bare cock. A whimper escapes Richie’s throat that can only be described as broken, even though his shirt and jacket, except for the folded-up lowest parts, are still smart and perfectly sharp and in no way as disheveled as the noises he’s making or the tranced look on his face.
Eddie rides on, allowing himself to be pistoned again and again, hard and deep and slow and forceful, like each thrust is a conscious choice he’s making and the sole aim is to pound out his damn brain.
He leans down and smashes his lips over Richie’s. Richie whimpers against his tongue, but Eddie’s ears are ringing too loud for him to understand anything. He slides his thumbs underneath Richie’s lapels— only now does he realize he hadn’t actually touched the suit before— and maps them up the edges of Richie’s shoulders, running down the sleek smooth linings of his sleeves and lets their clumsy human fingers intertwine. Eddie doesn’t expect to be knocked away by a sudden burst of feelings, but it happens— the thought, the conception finally catches up on him the this is real, so incredibly real, that the wonderful insane Richie Tozier is somehow his , in mustard button downs or 10 dollar novelty t-shirts or pajamas or suits and tie. How is this happening, seriously, how is this fucking happening.
“I’m so proud of you, Rich,” Eddie breaths, dropping a kiss on his boyfriend’s forehead. “I’m so happy.”
“Wow, shit,” Richie’s voice is trembling. “You must- like me a lot.”
“I really do, jackass.”
“That’s crazy, me too- fuck- what are the odds,” Richie’s laugh hitches— his eyes are blown large and his lips are bruised rosy. Their bed rocks and creaks every time Eddie plunges down, and Richie bucks his hips to work his cock into him, looking at him like he’s a proud fucking captain.
Eddie cries out when Richie pushes up abruptly. His inside is on fire and he’s so close to climax that he could come any moment and paint Richie’s belly with his cum— which he now remembers that he should not— no, he definitely should not.
“Fuck, I have to- I’m sorry,” He tries to lift himself up, and Richie makes a noise like he’s being shot at. “Fuck.”
Richie brings his hand down, reaching for his cock that’s so dangerously, edgingly hard. But Eddie wraps his fingers around it first— It’s not a conscious choice this time, in fact Eddie has zero idea where it comes from— he tips down and takes it into his mouth. He bobs his head, and Richie curses out loud. His dick tastes like salt and precome and Eddie himself which he tries not to think about.
He sucks like his life depends on it, swallowing every inch he can. When Eddie drags his tongue along the cock so deep that his chin is almost hitting the balls, Richie comes with an unstrung yelp that makes his spine shudder.
Eddie strokes his cock vigorously as streams of seeds pour down his tongue and throat, hollowing his cheeks to make sure there isn’t a single drop left. He shudders, feeling like he’s on the edge of a cliff, sitting up and letting Richie softening dick fall out from his mouth. He tugs again, finally spilling all over his own palm.
The room is spinning.
Eddie sprint-stumbles toward the bathroom the best he can, almost trippin over considering he can’t feel his damn legs. Richie pants behind him, saying something Eddie can’t hear clearly over the loud splashing sound from the faucet. He manages to grab a cup with unsteady hand and dumps the water into his mouth, rinsing once, twice, gargling a big gulp of mouthwash until his tongue is burning in cool mint flavor and he’s pretty sure the surface layer of his teeth is straight up destroyed and gone. He spits everything down the sink.
Richie’s face appears in the mirror, so out of breaths that it looks like he was just in a bar brawl.
“Eds, that was,” he rasps, seemingly at a loss of words.
“This better be good.” Eddie lowers the flow speed, rinsing his cup. He’ll probably throw it away later.
“That was- deeply motivating.”
“I need a shower,” Eddie takes in a deep breath, washing his hands once again. “We’ll need to fix your hair.”
He wins: both the award, and life in general. He knows that for a fact because he has to keep humming that Golden Girls song silently at the back of his mind the whole night, just so that he won’t get hard again in front of the entire hall room thinking about Eddie’s fingers roaming across his chest while delivering the speech.
You look great, Mr. Hollywood. Congrats! Bev texts him. The tailor makes the man.
And Richie wouldn’t argue with that tonight. Not a single bit.