ʀɪᴄʜɪᴇ (beepbeep) wrote in evaluation, @ 2019-12-24 08:24:00 |
|
|||
It wasn’t a day to be outside at all, really. Nope, it was a day to be indoors, to roast marshmallows while wearing comfy socks or bake cookies that you inevitably ate too much of. On the way to the factory and on the way back, Richie wondered how he didn’t become as icy as the landscape - but he just kept moving, because to do anything else would mean fucking failure, and he wasn’t about to give into that. Frozen puddles cracked under his boots, bitter cold seeping through his gloves and making his fingers feel stiff - at least he had been able to get two loaves of gingerbread, so he clung to those on the way back as well. Any street lamps looked misty, and the milky moon resembled an ornament hanging in the sky - it may have been nice under other circumstances, but he really didn’t notice right now. He’d spent all day at the factory avoiding the blocks to be sanded because he knew he’d just lose track thanks to his worry about John - so he forced himself to do something that required focus, which was stuffing plushies with the actual stuffing and, okay, maybe it didn’t require that much focus. But it made the time pass quickly. Ava found the right medicine, Richie hoped, so he kept that in his coat pocket and headed back to the apartment building half-expecting John to have to be scraped off the bathroom floor with a spatula. Freezing rain didn’t feel great either - it felt like someone throwing pellets of uncooked rice at your face, which kind of hurt when he got back. With cheeks tinged red, he set down the gingerbread loaves and took off his glasses to give them a good clean. “Angelface? You alive?” he asked as he slipped out of his coat, gloves, and shoes, and grabbed the bag of medicine, heading for the bathroom. Alive felt like it might be some kind of overstatement at this point. In basic, biological terms, yep. John was alive; heart still beating, blood still pumping, all that good stuff that bodies did without too much conscious effort. In terms of how he felt? That sort of swung to the other end of the spectrum, which was absolutely why John hadn’t budged out of the bathroom for a solid eight hours or so. For one, the floor was nice and cool. He could roll his head on the tiles and feel the chill soak through his cheeks, and if the spot he rested on got too warm, he’d shift a little and start over again. Sure, it left him curled awkwardly in a pile of wiry limbs, and he might regret the weird maneuvering later- John wasn’t getting any younger and sleeping funny on a bed could leave him with back and neck pain, never mind what he was doing to himself by drowsing on the floor. For another, the toilet was right here, which was coming in handy given that nothing he’d eaten for the last day wanted to stay down. Point of fact, choking up half a bowl of borscht looked alarmingly like vomiting blood. At least he’d avoided making that mess in the bed, which meant he hadn’t disturbed Richie’s sleep the night before. Gold star to him. Richie hadn’t seemed impressed, but the morning was kind of a vague blur. All John could recall was asking for a pillow and being aware Richie had gone to do his civic duty at the toy factory, and then the hours blended into a miserable smear of stomach cramps and sinus pain. He was a little surprised to hear Richie’s voice now when it seemed like maybe he’d only been gone for… a minute? Ten? Whatever. Time was a man-made construct and all that. One dark eye flickered open, searching, and closed again with a vague grunt that might’ve been a greeting. It was weird because the medicine worked before (for a day?), and the medicine John had gotten for Richie also worked, but then now it seemed John had picked up some kind of superbug - the medicine this time consisted of little pill packets, Russian scrawl all over the backs of them, and after he got Rose to translate he learned that the pills were also a mild sedative. Which, alright, fine - better than sticking mustard plasters on the back, which seemed way old-fashioned. John could sleep it off and sweat it out. This was clearly the drowsy formula. Richie unfortunately knew that modern-day antibiotics weren’t necessarily going to be a thing here. They had to make do, in whatever year it was. Jesus fucking Christ on a pogo stick. Oh yeah, he had words for how much he hated this particular ‘room,’ but he probably wasn’t alone there. “Baby,” he hummed, stooping to slide his arms around John. “I’m gonna bring you to bed, okay? Come on, you need to get in bed.” He’d include something resembling a barf bucket to keep nearby, though he wasn’t sure if John had anything left in him to upchuck anyway. Oh. He had to move? That sounded like a terrible plan, and John made vague sounds that hopefully communicated his doubts about this. He still went with it, mostly because it was Richie doing the asking, and John couldn’t really help but respond to his voice at this point. They hadn’t known each other for more than a few weeks, but trauma bonding was a funny thing. If Richie barked at him to get up, John would try his best. Whatever Richie wanted. He could make it happen. So he fumbled to get bare feet under him, toes curled and digging into chilled tiles, and somehow found himself upright. The change in position made it feel like all the blood in his brain-pounding away to the rhythm of his heartbeat- abruptly drained to his feet and John immediately swayed, lashes fluttering. Richie caught him, solid and sturdy (since he hadn’t managed to pick up sickness at the same time as John yet, one silver lining), hands sliding down his sides - they hadn’t been there that long, but he swore he could count the ribs, could see them flex when John breathed. He’d been pretty thin before but no doubt lost a few pounds, living off a diet of sugary scraps and whatever else they could cobble together that wouldn’t rot their teeth. Yeah, now he was extra glad he had Ava run for medicine - she claimed there was a truce among everyone when it came to turning people in, but he didn’t trust that for a hot second. So no way was he risking getting caught again, and leaving John like this. “Come on, just a few steps. I’ve got you,” he assured, practically dragging John to the bedroom - which he felt bad about, but there was no other way to get him there. No other option but to set him down on the mattress, pulling the blankets up. Richie ducked, pressing his lips to this sick warlock’s forehead - so he seemed to be at that stage where the fever surged like lava, heaving innards, and chunky projectile vomiting. Did he mention that he hated this place? “I got you some medicine, it’s - you need to take a pill, okay? I’m gonna get you some water.” John being dehydrated was not an additional fun challenge he wanted to take on, so there had to be something going down. How fortunate that Richie was tall and sturdy enough to withstand the way John’s balance shifted and swayed, his inner ear fucked by… something. Probably several somethings. He couldn’t list them all right now, couldn’t scrape words together, and instead threw all of his scattershot focus into staying upright and moving to the bedroom. John wasn’t sold on this plan, but if it was what Richie wanted, okay. He’d roll with it. Hopefully they were done with the vomiting portion of the day and the bed would survive his return. Blankets were shoved aside, not with any particular coordination but with a grumpy, feverish insistence that no he didn’t want them. Everything was hot, he already felt suffocated by his own lungs, he didn’t want to add layers that would intensify those feelings. He also didn’t want to put anything else on his stomach for fear it’d make a swift reappearance, but all right. For Richie. He even shifted the pillows enough to stay upright, ready for water and pills and whatever else Richie thought might help. Okay, okay - no blankets. Fevers usually made a person run hot and cold, so, John tossing the covers aside like a toddler flinging cheerios off a highchair tray told Richie that he was definitely not feeling a chill. “Be right back,” he promised - there was a permanent worry line between his brows; Richie could feel it pinch there, and it was obvious this whole room was going to give him wrinkles or cause his hair to go grey - out of all of the Losers, Bill was the one with the distinguished salt n’pepper at the temples. He was a writer, it worked for him. Richie would just look like his grandpa, probably. In the kitchen he filled up a glass of water and also made compresses soaked with cold vinegar - it had been a tip from Rose, to draw out the fever. They didn’t have much to work with, but he would go out in the ice and snow and freeze more rags if it meant relieving the heat. He knew how uncomfortable that was. Like your body was cooking itself in its own organ juices. “You’ll smell like a salad but that’s okay, right?” he asked rhetorically when he came back in, draping one of those compresses over John’s forehead, one on the back of his neck. The whole bed would smell like a salad, correction. But Richie didn’t care. He also placed the biggest bowl they had on the bedside table - makeshift barf bucket, you’re welcome. Though goddamn, he was praying that water stayed down - they didn’t have any other means to give him fluids. Not like there was a hospital in this shithole. Settling beside John, he ripped open the first pill packet. “Can you take this with the water, and drink it? Please?” he asked, taking John’s hand, fingers gliding up and down the belly of his wrist. The pill ended up in his palm, Richie folding those fingers over. Pungent, John thought, humourlessly. The pale curve of his lips twitched, ticking up at one corner, but he didn’t shove off the compresses the way he’d gotten rid of the blankets. At least they were cool, which was really all he wanted right now. If he didn’t think he might’ve slipped, fallen, and cracked his skull open earlier, he would’ve gotten a cold shower or two by now. “Try,” he agreed in an airless croak. Fingers rolled the pill carefully, dragging it from palm to fingertips, and John got it into his mouth without incident. It was definitely sticking to the desert-dry surface of his tongue, but he reached for the water and managed two swallows before his stomach did that warning flip that said it wasn’t thrilled with his life choices and was preparing to eject everything- pill and liquid- by force. He tensed and shoved the water back in Richie’s direction, sloshing some into the rumpled covers. No. Nope. It was staying down. It was staying down if he had to literally clamp his hands over his mouth to prevent it from escaping, so he did that, fingers digging into his cheeks with the force of his grip. A few sharp breaths through his nose and John slowly lowered his hands again, testing and wary. “All right. M’all right.” He wasn’t sure which of them he was trying to convince. “You’re alright,” Richie agreed, glass set down and fingers passing over the uncontrolled mess that was John’s hair. Sitting beside someone while you played that ‘will they projectile vomit or won’t they?’ game was definitely not a part of his relationships in the past. Even the ones with women, even if they’d lasted a couple weeks or a couple months. In order to sit by someone and be prepared to rub their back while they barfed, you had to actually care about them. A lot. Funny how that worked. His hand slipped south, giving John’s shoulder a squeeze. “We’ll try for more water in a little bit.” He’d gotten the pill down, so that was something. Richie would have advocated for a shot of Rumple Minze whatever, since peppermint soothed the stomach, but it was basically syrup and wouldn’t do much good at all. Wiggling on the mattress, he slid his arm across John’s chest carefully, nuzzling at him. “Want me to take my clothes off and cuddle you back to health?” he asked with a smirk. Less layers, less heat. “Or - if you want the space I can sleep on the couch.” Sometimes when you were sick all you felt like doing was rolling around in your own misery, which made sharing a bed a challenge. Okay, so far… no vomit. That was promising. Maybe the pill would stay down and have a chance at doing something, though at the rate they were going, it would poison him and he’d expire right here on this mattress. Bloody Soviets and their… everything. If John never saw snow, toys, gingerbread, or canned meat again, he could die happy. Well, no. He was too contrary to die happy. But he’d die less angry, which meant he stood a reasonable chance of not haunting this miserable place. A clammy hand wandered down, searching for one of Richie’s fingers to curl around. “Don’t go,” he murmured, something a little too vulnerable lurking under the words. Maybe he’d suffered a paranoid moment or two earlier in the day, when he’d thought about Richie getting locked up again, and he wouldn’t know a goddamned thing about it until he didn’t come back. “I won’t,” Richie promised. He sort of leaned back against the headboard, attempting to shift John closer and into his arms - he really would cuddle this asshole back to health, determination in spades. “I’ll stay right here with you. Until you literally kick me out of bed.” His muscles felt like they’d been taken out and replaced with elastic bands somehow, still all stretchy and sore from the tree chopping. Yeah, he was tired from that but it was also worry, fear, concern about John being sick looping around and around in his head until there was no room for anything else. God, they needed to get out of here. He didn’t know how it would happen, but he wasn’t interested in storming a prison as a potential solution - there were other things to worry about, things closer to home. Or at least, home for him. “Not gonna,” John assured, because like hell. It was selfish, probably. Richie had been sick and could end up that way again, and if he was smart he’d avoid getting his germs this close to the other man’s face. He’d shove Richie off and grumble about washing his hands and encourage him to sleep on the couch. He hadn’t done the nurse gig. Richie ended up in the yulelag before John could do so much as shove some meds in his direction, and yeah, that didn’t feel great either. This was all unbalanced and John hated that feeling, hated feeling like he was some kind of burden, hated feeling like he i>needed</i> anyone. Shivering, internal temperature swinging abruptly toward chills, he closed his eyes and curled both hands into Richie’s shirt. “Fuck,” he sighed, breathing through clenched teeth. “Sorry, lamb. ‘Bout all this.” John might be a shitty toy maker, but he’d prefer sanding an additional ton of blocks to this. He’d do it until he’d managed to remove his own fingerprints if it meant a real meal and not feeling like his brain might be slowly melting in his skull. His hands were freezing, but Richie didn’t care - now was the time for the discarded covers, then. Those were pulled up, and he swapped the compress so the colder side was on John’s sizzling hot forehead instead. In a minute he’d take it off and change them out, keep that going until the fever broke. “It’s not your fault,” he insisted, sounding surprised about the apology. “I’m not - it’s not like I mind. I want to - I mean, for you. You’re - “ Yeah, what was he? John was important to Richie, but it felt like more than that too. What it felt like was that he’d been mummified, living in darkness ever since he saw Eddie die, shackled down by grief. But that was relieved - even if John was sick now, overall, everything with him was relief, and amazingly simple and complicated all at once. Richie wanted to be with him - he just did. “I need you,” he whined softly, aware that sounded pathetic. “I need you with me.” Fingers curled and flexed, tugging blankets in closer before fastening on Richie again- holding him steady and near, a familiar, comforting warmth. If he angled his head right, he could hear the rhythm of a heartbeat, the push-pull of Richie’s lungs as he breathed slow and easy. It was soothing. All the people John had tumbled into bed, he didn’t sleep with too many of them after. Now he couldn’t sleep well without Richie in the bed. It was a bad habit already sunk in deep. “Yeah, know that feeling,” John agreed, softer now, drowsy as that pill started to kick in on an empty stomach. He opened his eyes, trying to regain some kind of focus. “Need you, too. Maybe too much.” The rules about this sort of thing, whatever they were - Richie didn’t know them. At the very least, he didn’t think there was a required time period where you were allowed to feel things - circumstances dictated a lot of it, and you couldn’t help what you felt anyway. Attempt to turn it off, that wouldn’t work either. He might have tried, however. Mostly because he was afraid, or because he felt guilty - he’d been pining for Eddie for like, thirty years. How was he supposed to just let go of that? Richie had no concrete answers but when it came to the here and now, he stopped fighting it and didn’t want to expel energy at some half-assed attempt at putting a wall up around his heart, as ridiculous as that sounded. “I love you,” he mumbled, eyes feeling tight and like tears were building behind the dam. He didn’t lie though. Didn’t claim it was a perfect love either, or tender, or slow. It felt like an unstoppable force of nature, and messy. But that was okay - if love was anything but messy, people wouldn’t write stories or poems about it. It’d just be like some mundane chore, nothing special. “...you’re already asleep, right?” he asked, petting John’s hair. “Please be asleep.” Did that magical sedative kick in before Richie dropped the Hiroshima of feels and potentially embarrassed himself? If there was truly a God, then yes. “Not asleep.” Barely more than a whisper, that little admission. John could’ve kept his mouth shut. He could’ve closed his eyes and kept breathing, slow enough to mimic sleep, and let that particular bomb keep ticking between them- undetonated, unacknowledged. But John usually swaggered right in where angels feared to tread, and being sick as a dog wouldn’t stop him from his usual tricks. Lifting a head that felt like it weighed a few hundred pounds, John squirmed around so he could actually see Richie. This seemed like one of those things that ought to be talked about with eye contact, and okay, John’s eyes were a little glassy and blown dark with whatever was in that pill he’d swallowed, but. He was awake and he’d just heard those three words, and he could do this. Probably. Jury was out. Maybe he’d fake a seizure and fall out of the bed. Chilled fingers brushed Richie’s jaw, tracing rough bristles. He’d know that jaw with his eyes closed. He’d touched it with fingers and lips and tongue, knew the smell of Richie’s skin even when it wasn’t scented like mint and snow. Only a few weeks, and he knew plenty more than that, even if he didn’t want to think too hard about it. Maybe it was easier when he was half out of his skull. Maybe that was just a good excuse to lean on. “Want me to pretend I was?” “Yeah,” Richie chuckled hoarsely, nuzzling into John’s hand. His own eyes were glazed, blue marbles, maybe about to shed a fresh, uncut tear or two. He was just tired, okay, and he’d never said those words to anyone before besides Stan, as a ghost, and he meant it in a way he obviously didn’t mean it now; he was hoping that they would be able to leave the current room in time but what if they couldn’t and John just - wasted away? Maybe it was better that he said something. Kind of a ‘just in case you die’ type of thing but he really didn’t need to die, Richie was tired of that too. “I might dose you with that candy cane booze too. Knock you unconscious.” “Oi,” John warned, his other hand drifting up to rub under each of Richie’s eyes, wiping away tears that had yet to fall. Hopefully they wouldn’t. “This isn’t a deathbed confession, is it? ‘Cos I’m not done for yet, lamb. Not by a long shot.” He wasn’t. Did he feel like hell? Sure, and John was kind of an authority on what that felt like. But he’d bounce back. He always did. He had at least a tenuous understanding that Richie had missed out on the big, grand childhood love. He hadn’t gotten to say those words to his other bloke, hadn’t gotten to resolve the mess back home, and maybe was feeling pressured by shitty circumstances to say things now. Or John was just making excuses for why he wasn’t exactly loveable, panicky over how the people he loved tended to die screaming, often directly as a result of some stupid thing he’d done. That was nothing Richie deserved. He really ought to stick it out for that childhood love, ought to wait for the big bells and whistles and happily ever after the way the Hallmark channel promised. John wasn’t that. He couldn’t be that. Richie let out a chuff of air, exhaling through his nose. “No, it’s not - I didn’t...nevermind,” he sighed, head falling back, making contact with the wall behind him. He didn’t want happily ever after - he wasn’t any prince, he was basically a non-superpowered idiot (Deadlights virus notwithstanding) stumbling through...whatever this was. He just knew that John was everything, feeling and sensation, visceral desire and animal instinct, and trust and all of that which came with it. The deeper aspects too, the ones that were so fucking frightening yet brought so much light in through the cracks of his stupid, creaky heart. None of it screamed ‘fairytale,’ but it didn’t need to. Eddie hadn’t been that - he hadn’t gotten a chance to be. He was perfect, untouchable, but that love was something kept behind a glass case because Richie couldn’t tell anyone. Couldn’t even tell Eddie himself. “Go to sleep,” he huffed, since he assumed that sedative was starting to show its magical side. “Maybe try for some more water, if you think it’ll stay down.” That pill was definitely doing something. John felt it dragging at him, siphoning off the meager energy he’d been able to scrape together to be upright and verbal right now, when every bone in his body ached and his skin felt too sensitive. He wanted to close his eyes and sink into this mattress for the next week, but nope. Stubbornness won out, so his eyes stayed open even if they were fogging over and no longer focusing quite right. Whatever. He didn’t have to make a pretty speech. He just had to get Richie to stop looking like someone had kicked a box of puppies right in front of him. Probably easier said than done, but again. Stubborn, John could do. “Don’t,” John murmured, struggling further upright, the better to clumsily settle in Richie’s lap- knees bracketing hips, fingers curled over shoulders. “S’not… bad.” Words were hard. John exhaled a crackly, unhappy noise and let his head drop down, sinking until he was mumbling into Richie’s collarbones. “You scare me, lamb. Scares me to need you much as I do. Shouldn’t feel like this and I can’t stop it.” He exhaled again, rough and wet, and dragged his eyes open again. When had they closed? Not that his view was much except for the column of Richie’s throat, but if he squinted, he could see his pulse fluttering under pale, windburned skin. “Means I love you, too.” “It’s okay,” Richie wrapped his arms around John, hands up his shirt and gliding down his back. The tips of his fingers pressed in, rubbing at knots of tension. “Don’t try to stop it.” He sounded hushed, desperate, hands all over John because Richie wanted him closer - in his lap apparently wasn’t close enough. That ass even got a pointed grab, with Richie slotting him in even more perfectly. He tugged on John’s hair, gently, pulling his head up so his throat could be attacked with a series of kisses, crooked teeth scraping his Adam’s apple. Richie kissed his forehead too - definitely salad, but a little cooler at least. Mmm, vinegar. “I’m not going anywhere. I’m in this with you until the end - and even after that, I’m still with you.” He didn’t have details on how, but he would be there - as uncertain of he was of the future, even when he could see it, he knew that much. They should both try to stop it, or they would if they were smart. This wasn’t the ideal time to get tied up in someone else, not with so much already unknown and complicated and sometimes fucking awful, like this brutal combination of cold and privation. Feelings getting tangled up in the mix promised trouble, the big, messy sort that could wreck a person. But John’s life was already messy trouble, most of it by his own choice and design, and he couldn’t regret this. Not right now, anyway. Maybe later. Maybe the first time something went really wrong, jostling that sense of panic, don’t want, shove it all away and ignore it and hope that makes it better. That was something to worry about tomorrow, or the day after, or whenever John’s brain unscrambled long enough to let him think. He couldn’t right now. He just sank into Richie and tried to breathe through a tightness in his chest that might be sickness or might be emotion, but either way left him a little breathless. “Don’t leave,” he mumbled, “Want you with me. Stupid. Shouldn’t. Prob’ly hurt you, lamb. Love y’anyway.” The vague, disjointed mumbling drifted, slurred, and finally went quiet as that sedative, frustrated with being held at bay, really seized hold and pulled John into feverish sleep. Richie hummed in the affirmative. “I won’t leave,” he promised, and in his view it was unbreakable. His arms remained locked around John, hands stroking up and down his back, again and again. It was an attempt to be soothing, and ease him into that sleep he sorely needed - better in bed than on the bathroom floor. “Still want this,” he murmured, smokey, the burning slide of a feel good elixir, gulped from a glass. “Still want you.” He wasn’t sure how long John would sleep for, but Richie was rapidly descending into the abyss too - it had been a long day at the factory and his worry also seemed to add ten years to his life. He’d just stay here, maybe wake up hours later with a crick in his neck and tingly pins and needles, but oh well. This literal hot body slumped against him in his arms was worth the discomfort and then some. |