ʀɪᴄʜɪᴇ (beepbeep) wrote in evaluation, @ 2019-11-07 12:37:00 |
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Entry tags: | !rooms: one: day six, it: au: eddie kaspbrak, it: chapter two: richie tozier |
Who: Richie & Eddie
What: Checking on a feverish Eds, who decides now is a good time to ask how he died
When: Day 6
Where: Room 10
Rating: Mostly low - except the emotion is pretty heavy and they both leak from their eyes a little
Status: Complete
So yeah, he didn’t know about carrying multiple weapons - the fire poker would have to do - but Richie managed to get to Eddie’s room in short order and with hot soup and plenty of water stuffed in coat pockets to keep him moist, which was a terrible word (he knew exactly where the cans of soup even were, thanks to his mad organizational whiplash while the defrag command ran - thanks, Dave). He knew Eddie wasn’t bullshitting him when he said he was feeling sick - maybe he was a little bit of a hypochondriac, but Richie could read him well enough to suss out the differences between ‘genuine illness’ and ‘I think I have Asian bird flu.’ So yeah, he was more than a trifle concerned about his best friend. “Eddie?” He knocked on the door with his foot - and luckily today he didn’t need as many layers to keep out the chill that permeated the whole house, and he didn’t need a blanket to wander around looking like a fucking medieval times wizard (hey Dalamar). It felt somewhat normal today, and besides the fucking clown doll (which was still at the bottom of the steps, face-up, grinning at the world) the day was - Oh, who was he kidding. No day in this house every started normally. Eddie was, in fact, ‘a little bit of a hypochondriac’ still—there was no way to fully let go of his mother's abusive rhetoric, try as he might. The sneezes he'd complained about when the cold first started to settle into the house were symptomatic of that. But this ... this was something different. He'd woken up that morning feeling legitimately feverish, and it only seemed to be getting worse. This made Eddie profoundly irritable (more so than usual, at least), which is mostly why he snapped at Richie on the network. That hadn't been fair. He really needed to get his shit together. It took an enormous amount of effort to drag himself from bed so he could open the door, but when he did, Eddie only reached through the partial opening to accept the soup. "You can't come in. I'm probably contagious," he said, and really, it looked like he was: a blanket was wrapped around him like a shawl, his face was flushed, and just the smell of the soup made him vaguely queasy. "Thanks," Eddie added, glancing over Richie to make sure he was in one piece. God, he’d been so worried. He was still worried. But he didn't have the strength to keep standing, and he wasn't about to make Richie sick, too. Thus: "I'm sorry for being a jerk before," whereupon he promptly attempted to close the door again. Yeah, alright, no. Richie would kool-aid man into this room if he had to. “Nice try,” he smirked, and didn’t just stick his foot in the doorway to prevent it being closed - he used his whole torso, like this was a football field and pushed his way in while carrying provisions. If nothing else, Eddie needed to stay hydrated to combat whatever illness had invaded. “Ghost flu doesn’t scare me.” Now that he was in the room and had hands free, he arranged Eddie’s blankets in a cozy nest so he’d come lie down. “The clown’s at the bottom of the stairs - you wanted to see me about that?” Since he was the one who demanded Richie come by. Maybe just to check that he was still alive, but yep, all good. Eddie would have yelped when Richie bullied his way through the door, but he was too goddamn tired to summon anything more than a hissed, "Christ you're a giant," before he just allowed it to happen. Oh, well. He'd tried. And now it seemed like his best friend was intent on ... arranging his blankets? Eddie stared, uncomprehending with his brain a bit foggy, and wavered a little on his feet until the weird ritual was done and he could climb back in again with his back to the headboard. Three blankets and soup on his lap. He really felt like garbage. "Are you alright?" His voice cracked a little when he asked it, worried gaze roving over Richie's face. This was about more than just The Clown Incident (and it was capitalized in his head, too). It was about the discussion they'd skirted around earlier, but hadn't gotten a chance to really hash out. Eddie was sick, and miserable, but he was still radiating worry. The brush with a clown doll from hell only heightened that. Knowing he'd just get hassled if he didn't, Eddie pushed himself to try some of the soup and grimaced. It was literally just canned chicken noodle, so there was nothing that Richie could have done to fuck it up. But he knew how difficult it was to think about eating when you were that sick - still, it was important to try to keep something down. Maybe he’d have better luck with Yuri’s infamous ramen later. Also worried, he settled on the edge of the bed and pressed his hand to Eddie’s forehead, frowning when he could tell that the guy was feverish. It wasn’t very high, yet that wouldn’t stop him from being concerned. “I’m okay,” he said. “It kind of freaked me the fuck out and the balloon was filled with glitter - “ As Eddie could probably tell. Richie still had some of it on him, shining iridescence, and it was stuck so he wouldn’t need to worry about staining other people’s property. “But I’m fine.” Eddie smacked Richie's hand away automatically, although his reaction time was much slower than usual. Then he turned his head away to sneeze. "Ugh. Fuck." Of course the murder funhouse would infect him with something. Why not kill him a third time? He'd apparently died twice already—once in his own timeline, once in Richie's, and now here, with God only knew what in his body. Eddie's skin crawled, and he shuddered. Thinking about it would only make it worse, and his anxiety over illnesses just might be the end of him before anything else. He blinked, slowly, realizing that Richie was shining because of the glitter and not because Eddie had fever brain. That was slightly comforting. "You weren't alone, were you?" He shifted a bit so he could nudge Richie with his foot under the covers. Eddie would have reached over to knock his glasses off, but that seemed like an enormous amount of effort. Besides, his friend could probably dodge his attempts in this state. "Just ... make sure you have somebody with you all the time. Okay?" He rubbed his eyes and tried the soup again. "I'm so fucking tired of being afraid." It was more to himself than anything else, and maybe it was the fever loosening his defenses, but Eddie meant it. He was afraid for Richie, for the friends he'd made in this place, for their friends back home, for Stan. Never-ending fear. If he could mitigate some of that by knowing his best friend had support, he'd feel slightly better. “No, I wasn’t alone,” he promised - and, well, whatever he could do to help. He scooted closer, wrapping an arm around Eddie - come here, snugglebear. It sucked to not have a cuddle buddy when you were sick. “I’ve made some friends.” Or, uh, he knew how Ava took her coffee now - that was a step up, from her shoving him away (literally). He pushed back Eddie’s dark hair from his sweaty forehead - and his hands were a little cold, at least, so maybe it felt decently against skin you could fry an egg on. “It’s okay to be afraid,” he reminded. “There’s a lot to deal with here. And being afraid sometimes doesn’t make you a coward - we both know that some fear never stopped you from doing what you felt was right anyway.” That was how Eddie lived, how he died - and Richie swallowed the lump in his throat when he considered that. "Goddammit, Rich," Eddie grumbled, but he didn't resist being pulled into a hug. Well, he did, but only briefly so he could set the bowl of soup on the nearby side table first. Then he allowed himself to scoot closer, wrapping his arms around Richie's middle. It was ... not quite the same as before when his best friend was younger and shorter, all knobby knees and gangly limbs, but it helped. A lot. He even reached out of his blanket cocoon to press Richie's cold hand against his forehead again. Better, he thought. Eddie listened while Richie spoke, although he had to fight the instinct to doze off. It was hard not to let go and rest with his friend around, one of the few people he trusted completely. But he didn't want to sleep. "You said I was brave at the end," he murmured, hesitant to start talking about this only because he worried it would make Richie feel worse. "What happened?" If he didn't want to go there, Eddie would drop it immediately. But a part of him felt like maybe this would help. He hoped, anyway, and he tightened his arms around Richie a little, a silent show of support. It was going to be difficult to talk about, sure, and already Richie felt his heart cracking like glass, the pieces spreading throughout his whole body and scraping. But Eddie wanted to know, and so he deserved to know - it wasn’t right to keep it from him, especially if he thought that the information could bolster him up a little here, if he was feeling down. He didn’t see how it would but whatever. Richie worried that he wouldn’t remember, being that a fever ran rampant through him now, but he’d explain it again if he had to. His fingers swished over Eddie’s forehead, tapping gently, little raindrops. And still, the glitter stayed stuck to Richie’s skin. Fuck you, craft herpes. “We were down in the caverns,” he started, voice a rough, smoke-scalded murmur. He’d been rationing but emotion just seemed to bring it out. “Pennywise gave us all a bunch of...fear tests, I guess. You know how he does that - because he thinks it’ll salt the meat, whatever. We tried to do the ritual Mike was talking about but it didn’t work, and it didn’t in the past either because the people who tried didn’t believe it would, so they were fucked and we were too. Mike was willing to die to make up for deceiving us or some shit, but I just - I got so mad at that point, I started taunting Pennywise so he’d leave Mike alone. Then I got caught in the Deadlights.” It was so overwhelming. Blinded by this otherworldly glow that sank in everywhere and froze his limbs, dry ice replacing his bone marrow. It was debilitating, a toothache right in his brain - and he saw...everything. Images he would never want to comprehend, playing out in slow motion while he remained unaware of how much time passed in the real world. “You took the fence post Bev gave you, she told you it killed monsters - “ His voice caught, his grip on Eddie tightening a little. Just in case. Frantically, he also glanced around the room to see if there was a trash can nearby to use for a puke bucket. Just in case, again. “You lobbed it at Pennywise, caught him in the very center. I don’t really remember what happened but I know he definitely dropped me and I heard your voice - your voice brought me out of the Deadlights.” Reaching up with his free hand, he wiped at the tears that had gathered, dotting his lashes like he expected they would. “You were so brave and so...proud and then there was this...claw...right through your chest - “ Another quiet sob, “...and I knew it was over.” The information didn't bolster Eddie at all. It broke his heart, mostly because Richie sounded so devastated. He wished he could take this pain from him, or shoulder it somehow, but he knew nothing he did would change what happened. He'd done this to him, after all—or some other version of his best friend, however the hell all this alternate universe shit worked. But Eddie knew, deep down, that he'd do it again if it came to it. He'd save Richie's life in a heartbeat, over and over, in every version if that's what it took to make sure his best friend survived. That all of them did. Poor Stan never even got the chance to be saved. It surprised him, then, when he blinked away his own tears despite the conviction in his heart. Eddie almost hadn't noticed because his cheeks were so flushed, but he was crying too, if silently. "I think ... I think that was supposed to happen," he said eventually, trying to sort through his muddled thoughts and tangled, complicated feelings about his own death. "I always sort of knew it'd be me, you know? Even that—that fucking clown thought so." He sniffled. "I never told you, but back when we first saw him, he said I like. Lived there. In that fucking house." Eddie shuddered, trying to dislodge those words from his brain. That lilting, Where ya goin', Eds?, as if he'd been running in the wrong direction. "I'm just—glad I got to help. Don't let that go to waste, alright? You have to try healing from all this shit or I'll haunt your ass." It was a pitiful attempt at humor, but then, Eddie didn't move away. He kept holding on to Richie, offering the only thing he had left: his company, and his support as long as they were still trapped here. With any luck, his words would stick. Or Eddie’s heart would continue to shatter into a million tiny pieces at the sound of his best friend crying. “Of course that stupid fucking clown would - “ Richie took a breath, exhaling slowly. Yeah, Pennywise knew all along. Because he was this creature that was otherworldly, omnipotent; his power had cycled through time on a little paper boat. “It was - I guess it came true. We had to leave you there. The house was caving in, after we crushed ITs heart.” He broke down, not intending to have to deal with this today - his head still hurt from trying to solve multiple puzzles that made little to no sense, and John was stuck in the basement and nothing seemed to add up to be able to get him out. Not like anyone cared much either, because every single clue just led to more familial bullshit piling up and he was so tired of it. He’d been tired of it when Ava disappeared too. It wasn’t always about the asshats who brought them here, sometimes it should be about the people who got caught up in this fuckery and didn’t deserve to be afterthoughts. Then everything with Eddie, and you know what, a cathartic cry might do him some good. “I’m sorry, we had to leave you there - I wanted to go back. I wanted to go back...” Everything just cracked open. Ceramic pottery hitting the floor, crash. Well. He hadn't been expecting to hear that. But it made sense, didn't it? Eddie had wondered why Pennywise never killed him despite having the opportunity so many times; first outside his decrepit house, smiling at him like his arrival was a warm homecoming, then again in the kitchen when he'd crawled out of the fridge and sauntered over to Eddie without any urgency, crowding him into the wall and drooling all over him, scenting him. He'd been waiting. Like Eddie was some kind of fine wine, preserved until Pennywise decided he was good enough to taste. Even what happened to Stan the first time made sense—and IT had bitten him. He'd known. He'd always known. Eddie felt cold all over, and he couldn't be sure if it was the fever or the fact that he was shutting down. "It's okay," he croaked. It wasn't. It would never be. But for Richie, he would pretend it was. "Listen to me: that wasn't your fucking fault, Rich. You didn't have a choice. Do you think I'd want you to throw your life away after I just saved it?" All of those things were true, and there was more conviction in Eddie's voice because of it. He held onto Richie fiercely while his best friend cried, squeezing as tight as he could in that moment. "Don't you dare let this fuck you up. I'm glad you got out. I'm glad, Rich." If he said anything else after that, it was just to murmur soft reassurances. Later, he'd let himself feel whatever his brain had decided to firmly shelve somewhere. Eddie was grateful for that. He was grateful for a lot of things—Richie being here, alive, was chief among them. And he'd fight to make sure he stayed that way. Even if it meant fighting Richie's guilt himself. He'd do it as many times as he needed to. No, it wasn’t okay, and Richie knew that too. He was grateful to Eddie for letting him get it all out though. At least, he didn’t have to walk on eggshells around this version of his best friend - he knew the truth, all of it. “Like I told you, I won’t ever get over it,” he said, wiping his lashes up beneath his glasses. Goddamn, his eyeballs felt like they were stuck with needles - this headache was rapidly turning into a migraine. “But - I’ll find a way to...accept everything. I promise.” Because Eddie, the one he knew, was gone and he wasn’t coming back. Saying a proper goodbye to him would help, just like this helped. “It’ll just hurt a little less each day, as time goes on - maybe for the both of us, I don’t know. Maybe you’ll accept it happened too. Accept that it was your choice, and that’s something I need to fully get also.” It would take time, no matter what. But he wasn’t going anywhere (probably), so in between bullshit with all their new friends, they’d have each other. A bond that was iron-clad. He felt a hundred different emotions in that moment. There was no way Eddie could really process any of it considering how sick he felt, although he could pinpoint the horror easily enough, and the fear on its heels. Some dread followed—not helped by the queasiness—and a sadness that set deep into his bones, like a cold winter's day before the sun had risen over the horizon. You have to layer, dammit. Eddie could hear himself at fourteen say the words, could feel the bite of January mornings in small town Maine when the world was quiet and still, the Losers all gathered in front of Bill's garage. Everyone waited patiently while Eddie tugged knitted hats over their heads and fitted them with gloves. It felt so long ago now. It felt like he didn't have any time left. "Good," he said, because if there was anything good that came out of all this, it was sitting next to him right now, healing. "Take all the time you need. There's no rush." He reached for Richie's hand and squeezed. It sounded like his best friend was working toward letting go. Maybe, eventually, those January mornings would feel distant but warm, and not sharp and cold. Eddie closed closed eyes. "I already accepted it," he said. It was mostly true. He'd spoken to two people who lost loved ones, one of which was in the horror funhouse with them, and he'd managed to ask a few questions of the ghosts, too. If they were all sent back tomorrow and he died in a couple hours, that would be ... well. It would be what it was. Maybe he'd get to see Stan. "Can't get sick in the afterlife," Eddie muttered, smirking at his terrible attempt at humor. But come on, the flu sucked. Also he was feverish. Sue him. Richie smiled sadly, fingers of his other hand pressed to Eddie’s forehead. “I love you,” he said gruffly, and he didn’t mean that like he wanted to jump his bones. There were so many different types of love, but the one shared between all of the Losers was special in its own right - they were soulmates. If Stan were here, Richie would have said the same thing. And it was about time he said it when it carried the weight of any meaning - because that too, Eddie deserved to hear. Richie’s emotional constipation had really been a giant pain in the ass back in Derry, but he guessed he couldn’t be blamed for that - he spent too long repressing everything, from the trauma he could still feel if not remember, to the whispers telling him that, yeah, he was gay. Nothing would change that either, he couldn’t choose to be attracted to women - he hadn’t wanted to accept the way things were for awhile. “I’d say I miss you, but you’re right here. So that’s what I’m gonna focus on.” Eddie inhaled sharply at the words, stiffening slightly in Richie's embrace. It wasn't that he didn't believe him—he did, of course he did, because all the Losers loved each other and they knew that. But it was hard to hear. The only time anyone had said that to him was his mother, and it was always barbed, always hostile, always a threat. Don't you love me, Eddie? He pushed it out of his mind, but the sour taste in his mouth lingered. "I know," Eddie managed, a little wavering, like he was trying not to cry. Later, he would. He'd let himself be selfish for all of an hour and cry about the future he'd never have. The things he'd never get to do. But right now, he exhaled heavily and said, "I love you, too." Not the kind of love he'd been raised to believe was real. It wasn't conditional, and it was the same for all their friends—wherever they were now. Eddie was deeply grateful for them. He didn't know what he'd be like if they never met. Horrible, probably. A lost cause. But maybe they'd all been lost. This was a lot of philosophizing for someone with a fever. "I think I need to sleep," he said, emotionally and physically worn out. "Check in later, okay? I want to make sure you don't get your ass glitter-bombed again." Eddie huffed a weak laugh. "You look like you got in a fight with kindergartners." “Sleep,” Richie agreed, easing himself out of that snugglefest on the bed. “And try to drink some water.” He left the bottles he’d stuffed into his pockets on the nearest surface by Eddie’s bed. Maybe he wasn’t good for solving word puzzles (fuck no, this wasn’t high school English class either so the literary references could go screw themselves) but he could at least help his best friend feel a little better. He headed for the door, after rearranging the blankets so Eddie was all nice and cozy. “I’ll check in with you later - promise.” And he really hoped he didn’t get glitter bombed again either. Better than blood, but not by much. |