Chapter Text
The last three days have, for Richie, been really fucking weird. At least insofar as Eddie is concerned. They’re dating now. It’s not just hooking up when there’s a red circle around the calendar. They’re boyfriends.
And, while Richie isn’t exactly in the practice of being anybody’s boyfriend, the thing he’s liked best about the past few days, is the way he can just pop in on Eds, kiss his forehead, or nose, or lips. It doesn’t necessarily mean foreplay -- it’s not a prelude. He can do it just because he wants to.
And, dear lord, he wants to.
Which, often, prompts Eddie to say something like, “For someone who hated the idea of relationships for years, you’re a fuckin’ sap.”
Richie always has some oh-so-clever come back, like, “Don’t know about that, but feel free to climb me like I’m a maple tree.”
And depending on Eddie’s mood that either gets a laugh or a scoff or a goddamn lecture. Which, really, makes it seem like it’s not so different than it’s always been. Except for the whole “boyfriend” thing. As far as he can tell, he’s got it fucking made.
But he knows if he say that out loud, Eddie’s just gonna call him a sap again. Then Richie will say something hilarious and clever and Eddie will roll his eyes and then they’ll just be trading barbs ad-nauseam. Or at least until something forces them to call it quits.
Nine times out of ten, that something is Mr. Chips, dancing around the door, whining and begging to be let out. Seven times out of ten, it’s Richie who goes out with him. Not because Eddie’s entirely averse to the fucking freezing weather (though, he is), but because Richie’s usually aching for another cigarette by that point so it just works out.
At least the snow’s let up in the few days since Christmas, Richie notices the still gray air and -- walking around, sucking on a Newport, freezing his balls off, waiting for Mr. Chips to decide what place is worthy of his excrement -- he can’t help but think it’s actually sort of gorgeous. Gray and still and unimpressive, cheap houses with panels splintering off the sides. But gorgeous nonetheless.
He hums a little tune as he walks, creating a beat with his pace. Or, well. He’s trying. It doesn’t help with four, much shorter, legs right by his side. Not to mention those legs want to constantly roam over to snow banks to sniff and at least ponder the possibility of peeing.
And Richie lets Mr. Chips take his damn time. What’s the worst that could happen? Frostbite?
Or maybe it’s how Mr. Chips is turning and staring at this weird car that’s slowing down beside them. It’s shiny and new and has tinted windows. Richie’s never seen it in the neighborhood before.
“C’mon,” He hisses to Mr. Chips, stepping away, increasing his pace. “Let’s go.”
He’s not nervous. It’s just generally agreed upon when strange cars slow down around you to, y’know, keep moving.
He can hear the crunch of tires against snow behind him and it looks like these motherfuckers in the car are still there, but he’s not about to turn around. At least not until the crunch stops, he hears the door slam from behind (he’s increased his pace at this point, and Mr. Chips is bounding around his legs), and, “Hey! Mind if I bum one?”
Recognizing the voice, Richie almost trips over his legs and the leash as he pivots, flailing a little in the hands so he could grab his cigarette before it fell from his teeth. Wide grin, he laughs. “Beverly fuckin’ Marsh! Give me a heart-attack, why don’t ya?”
And he’s over beside the car, spinning her around in the biggest big ass bear-hug he can manage. They were probably tangled up in the leash at one point, but Mr. Chips’ antics already has them untangled. And tangled again. And untangled. It’s impossible to keep track.
Richie leans down to peer inside the window. It’s rolled down now, and Ben’s snickering, one hand on the steering wheel and the other over his mouth.
“Hey, Haystack. Was this your idea or were you an innocent bystander?”
“What do you think?”
“Innocent as ever!” Richie declares and Bev swats at his shoulder.
“Hey! He drove.”
“When you told me to!” Ben calls, a little sing-songy, from inside the car.
“Yeah, yeah,” Bev waves an arm. “Anyway. We saw you walking and we just couldn’t resist. Can we give you a lift back to the house or are you not done here?”
Mr. Chips barks. And Richie laughs. “I guess we’re done.”
They pile in. Bev in the honorary shotgun seat, with Richie and Mr. Chips in the back. He thought, for a moment, to ask if they were allowed to have dogs in the car that’s so obviously a rental from the airport, but figures they wouldn’t have invited them in if they were too worried about shedding or slobber of whatever other reason people refuse to let animals into their vehicles.
“Anyone else at the house?” Ben asks, as they pull a U-turn in the road and putter down in the direction of the old broken house they all used to share.
Honestly, they considered getting in a good one on Eds. Richie and Bev had made this plan to act like Richie had gotten in the car with some strangers and really ruffle his feathers. But Eddie had to go and ruin it by looking out the window right when they pulled up and seeing all four of them pile out of the car.
So. That was out. But it didn’t take away from the way Eds just lights right the fuck up as Bev and Ben lumber in behind Richie. He has to reach up to give both Ben and Beverly their hugs and - because he’s trying so hard to be classy - asks to take their coats.
To that, Richie has to laugh. Not his fault - he just has to. “Geez, Eds. It’s not like they forgot where the hooks are.”
“It’s called being a good host, dumbass.” Eddie tosses back, holding Ben’s parka in one hand and trying to wrestle Beverly out of hers, shakingly, with the other.
“Is it hosting if it’s their home away from home?”
“Yes.” Eddie snaps and, though Richie wants to push it, he doesn’t have time before Ben cuts in.
“Our old room is Mike’s now, isn’t it? So, where are we staying? Out here? Should we hide our suitcase somewhere?”
“Oh, nah. You guys can have my room. I’m not using it--”
“ Goddammit, Richie.”
Richie doesn’t even realize what the hell is the big deal before he sees Bev’s mouth fall open. She’s gaping and gesturing between them.
“Wait,” she says, mouth twisting up into this shit-eating grin. “Why aren’t you using your room, Richie ?”
Before now, Richie would’ve put money on his poker face. He would’ve said it was like a steel trap. Nothing’s getting through. But now, he twists his head to get a better look at Eddie, and Eddie’s ears are scarlet and Beverly laughs and now Richie knows his poker face is fucking transparent.
“Oh, my god.” Beverly says, extending a flat palm up towards Ben. “ Again?”
Richie doesn’t know whether or not to be appalled when Ben reaches into his pocket, pulls out his wallet, and slips Beverly a twenty dollar bill.
“ Again?!” Eddie can articulate it quicker though, and his voice is higher than it’s been in years. “What the fuck, guys? You were betting ? And what the hell do you mean ‘again?!’”
“These walls are super thin.” Bev says, smirking between Eddie and Richie. We’ve all heard some things.”
“Jesus,” Eddie mutters, halfway to a whimper and holds his face into his hands.
“Wow,” Richie returns, elbowing Eddie’s shoulder. “Glad to know dating me is sooo embarrassing.”
It’s mostly a joke. Mostly.
“Wait.” Ben says, his own grin widening. “ Dating? You’re not just hooking up again?”
“Au contraire.” Richie says, holding one hand over his heart and trying to take Eddie’s head to his chest. Eds wiggles a bit and tries to pull away, though without any actual effort. Richie throws a hand up over his forehead. “We go on long romantic walks down the alleyway to wait for Mr. Chips to shit. It took our dear Eds a long ass time, but he finally wore me down and won me over! Why--”
“Oh, beep-beep, Richie.” Eddie finally puts in the effort and squirms away. “No. If you need to know. We started hooking up--”
“Again,” Bev puts in.
“Yeah, yeah. Since you already know.” Eddie waves his hand over his face. Richie can’t help but smile at his flusteredness. “Again. But, anyway. We’re trying out the relationship thing. Though I’m starting to reconsider.” He finishes with a very pointed look at Richie.
For his part, Richie just winks and says, before he can stop it, “Oh, you love me, Eds.”
Eddie bites his lip and Richie will not take the time to consider if that means anything. He just won’t.
But thankfully, he doesn’t have enough time to. Ben turns over to Beverly, cheeks still red from the cold, and says, “Hear that, Bev? They’re dating .”
“Yes. I heard.” Beverly says, tight, and the twenty dollar bill changes hands again.
Mike returns home, with his girlfriend, the next morning. Richie, Eddie, Bev, and Ben are all sitting around the kitchen island, doctoring their pancakes to their heart’s content, when the door swings open.
“We’re home!” Mike says, before the door can even open all the way. Mr. Chips is up from the couch immediately - jumping up on Mike’s knees and howling with excitement. His little butt is in a frenzy, shaking so fast you can barely see it, as Mike stoops to his knees to give his dog some much-needed love and attention. “Hey there, man. Did the guys take care of you, huh?” He asks, scratching him behind the ears before turning back to his friends.
Richie is the first on his feet to greet them, even if it’s at the expense of some maple syrup getting on his sleeve. And, then, onto Mike and Ashley when he does to hug them. “It’s the snowbirds! Long time no see!”
Sticky, syrupy hugs are exchanged -- possibly all because of Richie -- and laughter echoes through the kitchen, punctuated by barks and excited hums and laughs as they all sit down, crammed against the kitchen island.
Mike and Ashley help themselves to a plate, since they hadn’t eaten on the plane, and try to shuffle around the stools. Ashley, because she’s nearly as short as Eddie (though a little taller), hops up on the counter to enjoy her breakfast.
“How was Colorado?” Ben asks, once they’re all seated.
And, Richie swears, he rarely ever sees Mike smile so big, unless he’s talking about a really good book. Mike says, over a spoonful of peanut butter smeared pancakes, “Oh, it was great! The mountains were so big and just gorgeous. We’d spend the day skiing and then come back to this huge fire and giant Christmas tree. The resort even had holiday dinners.”
Ashley nods. “And it was the cutest place, guys. You all would’ve loved it.”
“Well, I do always opt for cute.” Richie says, earning a sharp elbow in the side from Eddie.
If anyone notices, nobody says anything. Mike’s gone back to talking about the skiing - the long days, the way the snow would glitter off the sides of the mountains. The heights and cold air over the ski lifts. The adventures of getting lost trying to go into town and catching a movie.
They certainly had an adventure, and while Richie’s inclined to always look for what’s exciting, he can’t help but feel like he had the best one. Not that he’s comparing or anything. Because he’s definitely not. But if he was. He’d win. That’s all.
“--- And there’s so much stuff to do,” Mike goes on. “Sleigh rides and parades and there was this party, too.”
“Mike forgot to pack a nice suit, though. So we had to improvise with a winter vest,” Ashley says, laughing as Beverly covers her face in her hands.
Richie couldn’t tell why though. Must be some fashion thing he doesn’t get.
But, fashion or no, it’s still nice to hear everybody together, in the recognizable acoustics of his kitchen, back together -- crammed in the island, elbowing each other.
“I think it’s time we invest in an actual table,” Mike says, once he’s done sharing stories of his Colorado Adventures, chuckling in how crowded they are. “We’re short two people and it’s already too full.”
“I’ve been saying that for years,” Eddie grumbles, but smiles over his fork, dusted white with the powdered sugar he blankets his pancakes in. A decent amount ends up on the corner of his mouth. “But y’know. Whatever.”
“You got something on your face,” Richie cuts in, and before he knows what he’s doing, reaches out and swipes his thumb over the sugar. Eddie quite visibly shivers and Richie, feeling proud of himself, sticks his thumb in his mouth, taking up the sweetness.
Mike and Ashley notice. Of course they do. But they don’t say anything and -- thankfully -- no money is exchanged this time.
At least none that Richie notices.
It’s not till New Years Eve, although it’s early in the morning, that everyone’s reunited. Richie wakes up to the sound of a motor in the driveway. It’s probably, like, six or something, and he rolls over, knocking noses with Eddie as he does so, and reaches over his shoulder to pull the curtain away.
Eddie shivers, because of fucking course he does, and mumbles, “Ge’awf, Richie. Lemme fuckin’ sleep.”
Richie doesn’t have enough time to weigh what might be more or less annoying, too busy watching the figures on the street below, pull the suitcases - overstuffed and heavy-looking - from the back of the cab. Bill’s looking like he’s straining from the weight, and Stan’s trying to stack all the carry-ons and, what looks like an extra packing box, all in his arms. “Bill and Stan are back,” He says, peeling the duvet from his body, icy air hitting his skin.
“Great,” Eddie mumbles, pulling more blankets in for himself. “Think they’ll still be here at a normal fucking time?”
It’s amazing how, in that moment, everything is so fucking normal and so ridiculously special. Eddie’s so fucking cute, cocooned in to the blanket, swearing and grumbling his way back into the land of nod. His face is red and lined with a pillow scar, eyes droopy in the split second they opened before settling - quite happily - shut tight.
And, Richie can’t help it, he leans over and kisses his temple.
Eddie swats at him. “G’ awf, Richie. Fuckin’ hell shit fuck . Lemme sleep.”
“Anything you say, Eds.” Richie snickers and ruffles his hair once more, but this time catches the hand when it swings out, and kisses his palm, before turning around and running the fuck out of the room.
Their room.
He smiles as he jumps down the rickety stairs, house starting to shake under his feet. He’s there when the door creaks open, slowly and cautiously, and flings himself between Stan and Bill, greeting them with arms around their shoulders. “Well, well, well. The prodigal sons return!”
For a second, when Richie stops to take his coat off in the entryway, everything looks perfect. His glasses are foggy, but even though he can’t make out shapes and details through the haze; it’s still perfect. He and Bev came back in from a smoke break on the porch, and everyone’s sitting around, whichever New Years show they’re playing on the TV, sipping their mixed drinks, and laughing at something Richie and Bev missed.
Richie knows better than to ask. He’ll just get a lecture from Stan and Eddie about how he’d be able to be a part of things if he didn’t have to step out every couple hours.
But it’s okay. It’s almost worth it, coming back to this and seeing, after everything; they’re home. They’re together, and it’s like nothing changed.
Well. Sure. Things have changed. Bev and Ben have all these stories about Chicago. Mike spends less time than ever at home. Stan and Bill have married things to worry about. And, hell, even Richie has something new to worry about.
So yes. Things have changed. But - nothing important has changed. It’s still them. They still come together, to bring in this new year, and be together. And that’s what matters, far as Richie’s concerned.
He kicks off his boots and rubs his freezing hands together, before collapsing on the floor, leaning back between Eddie’s knees. Hands slide onto his head, picking out the snowflakes. It’s mesmerizing, soothing, fucking nice . He blinks through the haze, fog fading as he heats back up to room temperature, gazing in the image: all of his friends, gathered together, home again. Mike and Ben are slumped over the coffee table on one side, Stan and Ashley on the other, cards in hand and a rousing game of bridge building between them.
Apparently, Richie thinks, all his friends are ninety-five. But it’s still perfect. With a sigh, he leans back again against Eddie’s knees and lets Eddie’s conversation with Bill and Bev fade into white noise. He’s left to drink it all in. The house creaks and wails around them, and Richie allows himself to hear it. It can’t hurt him. It can’t even bother him. He’s with all his friends, right now, in this house they used to share, Eddie’s hands have moved down to his shoulders and they rest there. And, right now, Richie could let it last forever -- there’s something about it. They’re all home. They’re all together.
Richie takes a highball glass and pours himself a jack and coke. There’s way more Coke than Jack, but he’d prefer sugar over the burn of alcohol. And, either way, he’s gonna be feeling it by midnight. They’ve already set out all sort of alcohol, mixers, and a few gallons of water, just to be safe. They’ve got a wild assortment: Jack and Smirnoff and some brand Richie doesn’t know of tequila. Cokes and tonic waters and margarita mix to make it tolerable.
Ben surprises everyone by pulling out a bottle of actual champagne and setting it on ice.
“Holy shit Haystack,” Richie comments. “Look who’s an actual adult.”
Ben blushes and shrugs. “It’s New Years. We’re all back home. We need something fizzy to celebrate.”
And, really, Richie can’t agree more.
Around ten, they pile around the living room, a little loosey goosey, a little off kilter even as they sit, to talk about the New Year and the old one and all that sentimental shit. Ashley suggested it a couple years ago, and it’s become something of a tradition.
He might give it a hard time, but Richie kinda likes it.
Because she started it, Ashley goes first. She talks about her winter vacation with Mike and her acceptance into nursing school as the highlights of her year. She says she’s looking forward to all the new opportunities with school when the semester starts up.
Mike’s next. His highlight is seeing his granddad’s improvement after his stroke. It’s almost revoltingly kind of him. He’s had a good year. He finished his master’s in library science. He’s getting a promotion and a pay raise from it when he comes back in January. And, still, his highlight is his grandad. His hope for next year, too, is to talk to him more on the phone.
Ben’s thankful for everything. Because of course he is. He says it was a tough year, but a good one, and he’s thankful he’s getting acclimated to Chicago. But - of course - his big highlight was getting that engagement ring on Bev’s finger. Nobody’s surprised. His hope, then, is adding the wedding ring on.
Everybody gags and makes a show of it, but nobody actually means it. It’s adorable. It’s nice.
It’s working out. Friends are being with friends and it’s lasting. And that’s suck a fucking relief.
Stan says he’s thankful that nobody got hurt or sick during the year. He’s hoping to spend a little more time pursuing things that’ll make him happy -- interests and hobbies and that shit. He’s short about it and tight lipped and Richie resolves to make him laugh about something dumb later.
Bev’s highlight was how her internship gave way to a full time position. It’s the first anyone’s heard of this and, even though there’s a pang deep in Richie’s gut - feeling the permanency of Chicago for Bev and Ben - it’d be stupid not to be happy for her. And he’s trying, so hard, not to be stupid. For her hopes for the New Year, she winks at Ben, and says she shares his hope for the new year.
It’s almost disgustingly cute. But they don’t have much time for that - because it’s Bill’s turn. And Bill, bless his fucking heart, talks about the entire fucking year. How it’s been a roller coaster of craziness, how he’s thankful for all the shit he’s learned and - even though no one thing stands out to him, he thinks it’s come together nicely. And his hope?
Apparently, he and Stan are going to look for their own place. He wants to find one by next December.
Richie feels his gut wrench, but smiles anyway and claps Bill on the knee and pretends he’s not afraid of everyone leaving him behind. Bill and Stan are leaving. Bev and Ben already left. Mike practically lives at Ashley’s nowadays.
It’s Eddie’s turn and, much to Richie’s dismay, his highlight of the past year is not that he’s finally been able to give Richie a good dicking on the regular. It’s that he’s finally met his savings goal (and he thanks Stan for the accounting tips) and, when he can’t think of anything more creative, says, “I mean, it’s been a kinda shitty year.”
And Bill raises a brow and gestures between Eddie and Richie. “Wh-what about…?”
Eddie’s turning crimson. “Well. Yeah. But I’m not about to do all that sappy shit right now.”
From Bill, a chortle. “Bu-but you’ve wanted to ffffor years.”
“Shut up!”
To this, Richie jumps to his feet.
“For years? Why, my little Eddie Spaghetti!” Everyone groans and Richie just smiles. “That’ll be mine then! The best part of my year as finally -- after all these long, lonely years -- getting to do the horizontal tango with my dear Eds.”
“No,” Bev shakes her head. “You guys have been hooking up for years. That can’t count.”
Both Eddie and Richie’s head snap to her. Eddie’s even redder than before, if that’s possible. “What? How…?”
Stan answers. “The walls are really thin.”
“So thin,” Mike adds.
“New one,” Ben urges, pouring himself a vodka tonic.
“But this is new!” Richie claims, holding his hand over his heart. “It’s on the regular now. It’s, like, a dating type situation.”
Eddie pinches the bridge of his nose. “That can’t possibly be the highlight of your year.”
Taking both his shoulders, Richie corrals him into his arms, smiling when he hears the small oof escape Eddie’s throat, and kissing the top of his head. “Shows what you know.”
“Okay, fine,” Mike says, with a chortle. He’s got one arm around Ashley and the other absently pets at a slumbering Mr. Chips in his lap. “So what are you hoping for in the New Year, Richie?”
“I’m gonna quit my job.”
It comes barreling out before Richie can stop it. And he realizes. Yes. That’s what he wants. That’s the next step. Quit his stupid fucking job. Get something that’s less of a rat race. Something that’ll make him feel less small.
It’s sudden. But. Yeah. Everyone else is moving on and moving out. Why shouldn’t he?
“What?” comes from pretty much everyone, echoing through the space. Mr. Chips wakes up with a jolt and Richie’s smiling.
“Yeah. I’m gonna quit my job.”
“And do what ?” Eddie asks, pulling away from Richie’s chest in order to look him in the eye.
He hasn’t thought it through that far, so he shrugs. “Always wanted to work in radio when I was a kid. Maybe that. I dunno.”
“Good for you, Rich.” Bev says, lifting her whiskey and everyone joins her.
Richie doesn’t want to feel smug. But he can feel his heart grow, just a little bit, in that moment.
The rest of the night passes quickly. Richie looks back and sees it in snapshots. One second they’re playing cards. And then they’re watching the ball drop. The clock strikes twelve and Eddie kisses him.
It’s an amazing kiss -- out there, in front of all the other kissing couples -- and lasts a few good seconds. Like a promise. It might be old hat for them - being together on a holiday. But, it’s gonna stick. They’ll be together on Valentine’s and St. Patrick’s and Halloween, but also on January 11th and April 17th and November 2nd. And maybe Richie will get a new job, and maybe Stan and Bill will move out, and Mike’ll permanently move himself and Mr. Chips to Ashley’s.
Things are changing, but - Richie doesn’t know why - right now, toasting champagne with all his friends, kissing the top of Eddie’s head - he can’t help but feel like it’ll work out. They’ll stay in contact, he won’t neglect when his friends need him, and even though he still hates the idea of being in this old rickety house along, he doesn’t need to be.
It’ll work out. He knows it. It’s something in the air. Maybe it’s just something about New Years.