#the reddie muses won't let me rest

[octoberobserver]

(I’ve Got You) Under My Skin - (Eddie Can Sing)

“I’ve got you under my skin. I’ve got you deep in the heart of me. So deep in my heart, that you’re really a part of me. I’ve got you under my skin…”

“Yo, Frankie, what time is it?”

Eddie Kaspbrak broke out of his reverie of half-singing-half-mumbling while he typed, halting immediately at the familiar, yet hoarse voice calling from across the room. His eyes leapt up towards the hallway and was met with the sight of a very rumpled Richie Tozier, clad in oversized sweatpants and an old, stained AC/DC T-shirt, staring at him through bleary eyes, his hair sticking up in every direction imaginable and sans his signature specs.

“Whoa, Rich, you look like crap.”

“Wow, thanks Eds. You say that to all the girls or am I just special?”

Eddie stared at Richie, really letting himself look, drinking in everything from the blood-shot eyes, to the ghostly-pale skin, to the shaky hands and everything in between.

Something was…wrong.

“What’s up with you? You sick?”

Richie blinked before giving a half-shrug, almost like he couldn’t be bothered to attempt a full one.

“I’m fine.”

And yeah, if Eddie wasn’t sure of something being amiss before, he was 100% certain now. Short answers were never Trashmouth Tozier’s thing and that had not changed in the last thirty years, Eddie re-learned fast since moving in with him five months ago.

He watched as his roommate shuffled across the room, his whole body slumped, as if he were a lackluster marionette with strings too long and a puppetmaster too apathetic. There was a weight to him, like he wore a boulder as a backpack, pushing down on the expanse of his shoulders.

Eddie shook his head before he could dwell on Richie’s shoulders. Now was not the time.

“You uh…you want some tea? The kettle just—”

“We got any coffee left?” Richie cut across him, his tone sharper than Eddie was used to hearing outside the hysteria of dealing with a killer clown.

“Uh, yeah, think so. A bit. You want me to—”

“No, I got it.”  

Eddie bit his bottom lip, a pang of something flaring painfully in his chest.

He’s not Myra. Don’t compare him to—he’s not her. He’s just having a bad day. Don’t be so fucking sensit—

A loud crash interrupted his spiralling thoughts.

“FUCK!”

Eddie threw his laptop onto the cushion and leapt up and around the couch, heart in his throat as he skidded into the kitchen.

“What the hell was—”

The words died in his throat as he was met with the sight of Richie, kneeling on the kitchen floor, surrounded by broken glass and coffee-grounds, his head in his hands and hung so low that Eddie couldn’t see his face.

“…Richie?”    

He tensed, his whole body as still as a statue, almost as if he thought if he didn’t move a muscle, Eddie somehow wouldn’t see him.

Richie Tozier, a man of constant movement, energy flowing from him in waves, had never been so stagnant.

It looked… wrong.

Eddie was padding over to him and kneeling down before he could think.

“Whoa, fuck, Eds!” Richie exclaimed, hands flying from his face as he tried to shoo him away, “Watch the glass! You could hurt—”

“It’s fine, Richie. I’m fine. But… you’re not ,” he murmured, aching to reach out and touch him, but holding himself back.

Richie didn’t even try to argue with him, staying silent, refusing to meet his eye, which spoke volumes, really.

“I’ll…get the dustpan. Don’t move. There could be tiny shards—just, don’t move a fucking muscle until I say so, okay?”

“Yessir!”

His mock-salute was half-hearted and his tone lacked its usual ‘charming’ sarcasm, muttered instead to the floor.

Eddie’s stomach lurched with worry.

But he powered through, making quick work of sweeping up the coffee granules and whatever glass he could see. When he was done, he halted in front of Richie, who was still kneeling, having done what he was told and not moved an inch.

“Come on,” he murmured, gesturing with his hands, “let’s get you up.”

Richie tilted his head ever so slightly, not quite meeting his eye.

“You know how bad I wanna make a boner joke, right?”

Eddie rolled his eyes, just about stopping himself from pointing out that he wasn’t the one kneeling crotch-level in front of another man.

Not the fucking time, Kaspbrak.

“I know. But you can make it from the couch. Come on,” he urged, holding out his hand, “careful. I know you can’t see shit right now, and there might be some pieces I missed.”

Richie stared at Eddie’s hand like his fingers had morphed into live snakes.

He tried (and failed) to shove down his offense at that.

“Take my fuckin’ hand, dude. Don’t make me challenge you to arm-wrestling again.”

Richie snorted, sounding a little more like himself (even if he didn’t rise to the obvious bait) as his hand enveloped Eddie’s.

Eddie swallowed, his heart skipping a beat as he was reminded, yet again, just how fucking giant Richie’s hands were.

Gently, he tugged his friend up to a standing position, eyes scanning the floor for any wayward glass. When he didn’t find any, he began walking backwards, leading them out of the room, towards the couch.

He could have dropped Richie’s hand as soon as his feet touched the hardwood floor of their living room. But he didn’t. Instead, he held on, probably tighter than necessary as he navigated around the couch and took a seat, pulling Richie down to sit beside him.

Their hands stayed clasped, Richie squeezing back ever so slightly.

“Rich,” Eddie mumbled after a beat of silence, leaning forward to catch his eye, “what’s…what’s going on, man? You’ve been in your room all day. Is it…are you upset about your date the other night? ‘Cause it’s like I said, dude, fuck that guy. There’s plenty of people who would—”

“I couldn’t give less of a fuck about Dylan Lemass and his hard on for Instagram likes, Eds,” Richie interjected with a sigh, wiping his free palm down his face, rubbing his eyes.

Eddie waited, worry gnawing at his insides as dozens of possibilities flashed through his brain at what could be the matter.

Is he dying? Sick? Looking for a way to tell me he wants me to move out so he can have his bachelor pad bac—

“I just…I haven’t been sleeping well and it’s…fucking with me, I guess.”

It sounded like a different confession altogether.

Something like, “I’m kept awake by haunting deadlights I can’t escape,” or “every time I’m alone in the dark, I hear that fucking clown taunting me,” or “I’m afraid if I close my eyes, I’ll see you die all over again.”

Maybe it was all three. And more. Eddie knew he had felt similarly the first few months after…everything.

And they were coming up to the one year mark now. It made sense if Richie was finding it difficult to get any sleep.

Eddie swept his thumb over the back of Richie’s hand before he could second-guess himself.

“It’ll be a year next week…have you thought any more about going to therapy? It’s helped me.”

Was what he wanted to say.

What he probably should have said.

Would definitely say another day.

Now though, as he thought back to the last time he saw Richie sleep peacefully, he just squeezed his hand and murmured, “Come with me.”

Richie blinked, a line forming in between his eyebrows as Eddie began tugging him again, up from the couch, across the living room and down the hallway.

He faltered only minutely outside Richie’s bedroom before squaring his shoulders and pushing the door open wide.

“Eds, what…” words seemed to fail Richie, his hand that was still clasped in Eddie’s, tensing.

“Lie down, Tozier,” Eddie ordered, finally letting his hand drop as he moved to close the drapes, blocking out the vestiges of late evening light, the room engulfed in a semi-darkness.

He could just about make out the bewildered form of his best friend as he fought down the myriad off Kill Bill sirens whirring in his head, too taken with his lightbulb idea to really heed any potential warnings from his over-anxious brain.

“Buy a girl dinner first, Edward. I’m not that kinda lady.”

It was a stalling tactic, it didn’t take a genius to see that.

Eddie reached out and laid his hand lightly on Richie’s shoulder.

“Just…trust me, Rich. Lie down.”

He paused.

“I promise I’ll be gentle.”

That got a surprised laugh to bubble from Richie’s throat.

Eddie practically preened, forcing himself to step away lest he be caught out.

“And Eddie gets off a good one!” Richie exclaimed as he shuffled over to the left side of the bed, sounding so much like his thirteen-year-old-self that it made Eddie’s heart ache.

He bit his lip as he watched him, his heart racing at the sight of Richie standing at the bed, lowering himself down to sit back against the headboard, hands folded in his lap, head tilted at Eddie, as if awaiting instruction.

And fuck, didn’t that do things to his insides.

Not. The. Time. Kaspbrak.

Taking a deep breath, Eddie tried to work up his nerve for his dumbass plan.

Richie blinked.

“So, uh, what’s—”

“I’ve got you under my skin,” Eddie began to sing lowly, eyes focussing on a spot over Richie’s head as he tried not to dwell on the truth of the words falling from his lips, “I’ve got you deep in the heart of me. So deep in my heart that you’re really a part of me. I’ve got you under my skin…”

Eddie paused, blushing furiously under the dark, widened gaze of his best friend. Even without his glasses, it still felt that as if he was a human X-ray machine seeing right through Eddie, right into, well, the heart of him.

Could you be anymore obvious, dipshit?

“You uh…you slept pretty good the other night when we were watching that Chris Hansen exposé,“ he tried to explain his flawed logic, rubbing the back of his neck. "I thought…I thought maybe, some soft sounds might uh…might like lull you to sleep, or whatever.”

So fucking stupid. He has a fucking TV in here, genius. Why would he need a live performance from a mediocre—

A small smile spread across Richie’s face, his eyes almost unbearably soft.

“You’re saying I get a private Eddie Kaspbrak concert?” He asked as he pulled the covers up over himself, shifting further down to lie in the bed, “Sign me up, dude. Know any lullabies?”

“I’m not singing you a lullaby, Richie.”

“Aw, but Eds! Rock-A-Bye Baby is a class—”

“I’m leaving,” Eddie rolled his eyes, face burning at the fact he actually implemented his idiotic idea as he turned in his heel, “this was such a dumb—”

“No, wait, Eddie!” Richie half-yelled, sounding more animated than he had the entire evening, “I’m sorry, I’ll be good. Sing whatever you want man, I…I like your voice.”

Eddie turned slowly, frantic heartbeat pulsing in his ears, wishing he could see Richie’s face, but not able to now that he was lying down.

“Fine. One song. Two, tops. Then I start charging and I’m not cheap.”

“So many jokes, so little time,” Richie replied, smile audible in his tone as he spoke to the ceiling, “deal. But uh…could you like, sit down or something? I’m not super psyched about trying to sleep when someone’s standing at the foot of my bed like a psycho killer peeping on sexy coEds in a slasher flick.”

Eddie rolled his eyes again before scanning the room.

“Sit where, Rich? You don’t have any—“

“The uh…the bed’s fine. You know if you…shove a pillow behind your head?”

Eddie’s heart leapt into his throat as he eyed the space on the right side, perfectly Eddie Kaspbrak-sized.

Richie must have heard his hesitancy.

“C'mon Eddie, you know the drill. We did it all the time as kids.”

“We were like eleven, Richie.”

“And we’re 41 now. Age is just a number, man. If it wasn’t, you wouldn’t have offered to sing me a lullaby like two minutes ago.”

Eddie rolled his eyes, forcing his feet to move, his heart hammering a crescendo in his chest.

“I specifically said I’m not singing you a lullaby, asshole.”  

He watched as Richie shifted in the bed, turning ever so slightly to blink up at him.

Eddie’s stomach did a somersault as he stood at the side of the bed, their eyes locking.

“Okay, Eds,” Richie breathed, voice barely above a whisper as he slowly reached out and pulled back the covers, his large hand ashen and still a little shaky.

“Singer’s choice.”

Eddie’s eyes flickered from his face, to his hand and back again before gently easing himself down into the bed, his back coming to rest against a large, fluffy pillow as Richie pulled the blanket up over his thighs and letting it drop at his waist.  

He could hardly breathe, let alone sing.

Suddenly, he was eleven years old again. Complete with sweaty palms and racing heartbeat. Not much had changed in the last thirty years.  

Sharing a bed with Richie Tozier still felt salacious. Forbidden. Exhilarating. And everything he has ever wanted.

A silence fell over them, but it wasn’t awkward. It was…reflective. As if all those sleepovers were suddenly being recalled all at once. The knobbly knees knocking together under covers, the sugar-induced giggles stifled into pillows, the flashlight under sheets as they shared the latest issue of X-Men.

Secrets whispered into the dark, their noses inches apart.

Each memory silently passed between them as they stared at one another, Richie’s head propped up next to Eddie’s hip, his eyes heavy-lidded but alert.

Along with his brain melting out his ears, Eddie was also hyper aware that Richie’s hand had fallen barely an inch from his, resting on top of the blanket. He couldn’t stop looking at it, the broad arch of his knuckles, the length and width of his fingers, the dusting of light hair that travelled up his wrist.

He should’ve drank a glass of water before attempting this.

Or a bourbon. Or three.

Feeling Richie’s eyes burning a hole into the side of his face, Eddie kept his eyes locked on that hand as he opened his mouth and sang quietly into the room.

“I’d sacrifice anything, come what might, for the sake of having you near.  In spite of a warning voice that comes in the night, and repeats, repeats in my ear, don’t you know little fool, you never can win? Use your mentality, wake up to reality. But each time that I do, just the thought of you makes me stop before I begin. ‘Cause I’ve got you, under…”

~*~

Here’s a teaser for the next instalment. It’ll probably be the last, and will be in Richie’s POV:

“Wouldn’t it be nice if we were older, then we wouldn’t have to wait so long? And wouldn’t it be nice to live together, in the kind of world where we belon—”

“Eds,” Richie cut across him suddenly.

Eddie glanced over from the driver’s seat, lowering down the radio from the steering wheel.

“What?”

Their eyes met.

“…We’re older.”

(Read the entire series here)