beavertrap | open rp

[ Eddie shrugs, still looking rougher than he’d like, with his wrinkled polo and unstyled hair. ]

Some guy from, like, two floors down or something. Andy? [ Not unsure of the name, but of whether Richie knows him. A beat, as Eddie debates mentioning that “Andy from downstairs” thinks Richie is funny and decides against it. No need to encourage his trashmouthing. ]

I would’ve warned you, but — [ scrunching his nose. ] — my hands were already full when he offered to help carry everything that I bought to restock your desolate kitchen, dude.

[ He’s not over the lack of emergency cereal. ]

[ Richie frowns at that, ]

You let a stranger into our apartment? Dude.

[ No, he did not know this Andy guy. He barely knew any of his neighbors with the weird hours he kept. But he doesn't really say any more about it than that. At least Eddie managed to talk to someone else in L.A. already. That's not a bad thing.

He walks into the kitchen and starts digging through the bag, ]

Did you get any poptarts?

[ Oh, shit, was that — overstepping? Stupid? For all that Eddie worries about his health and safety, he doesn’t extend the same anxiety to other people. Even after all these years, he’s the same guy who let someone write LOSER on his cast.

The our apartment of it all takes the edge off. Does Richie really think of it that way, when Eddie has just elbowed his way into the other’s life? ]

He seemed — [ Nice? Not murdery? ] I didn’t think about it. Sorry.

[ a quiet admission, offered as he follows Richie into the kitchen. When Richie asks about the poptarts, his mouth quirks. ]

Try the 4th bag from the sink.

[ Eddie puts the coffee on before he starts on bag one, unearthing all manner of standard ingredients (Dairy-free milk! Eggs! Vegetables!) and attempting to institute order in the kitchen. ]

Just watch out for anyone sketchy, man. Stalkers and shit. It's L.A. Can never rule them out.

[ He's been in this city long enough to know it isn't just something "dramatic" they make up for the movies. While he's had luck with not being followed like others, he has had his share of less than savory run-ins when he was finally starting to get some attention. And with Eddie here, now, he doesn't want anything else to happen to him after they almost died in the fucking Derry sewers.

He goes about locating the box of poptarts and opens them up. He moves out of the way for Eddie to start putting the food up, watching as he opens one of the packets up and starts eating. ]

Looks like you bought out a whole section.

[ A little nod of acknowledgment, at the first part. People hadn’t even bothered being friendly in New York, so it’s a steep learning curve.

Eddie focuses on arranging dried and canned foods with the labels facing out. Tidy as hell. ]

Fuck off. [ but he doesn’t sound bothered. ] You didn’t have anything, and there’s two of us now, so we’ll eat more than you think.

[ Cooking for two with Eddie and Myra is likely different from the average, of course, but he also bought a lot to say thank you and do his part. ]

And I can cook tonight, if you want. [ a beat. ] Add in non-poptart food groups.

[ He leans up on his toes to reach the topmost shelf in Richie’s outsized home. ]

Whatever you say, shortstack.

[ Munch munch on the poptart, not even bothered. There was a reason he kept so many menus around. He usually ate out and couldn't really cook that well. He could do basic shit like eggs, hot dogs, sticking something in the microwave. But an actual meal from scratch? Count him out.

Speaking of: ]

When did you learn how to cook?

I'm a statistically average height.

[ He shoots Rich a dirty look, but otherwise remains focused on the task at hand. At the question, he only shrugs. ]

Ages ago, dude, we're fuckin' forty. [ soften, then. ] Ma couldn't really manage it herself — at the end, y'know, so I guess around then.

[ After he graduated and moved back in with her. ]

[ He repeats the word "statistically" in his best Dan Rather impression before he's rolling his eyes at that first bit but waits for Eddie to finish before asserting he's not that bad off. ]

Yeah, well, I can do basic shit. I'm not that lazy. It's just easier to order out.

[ Especially when he was waiting tables and he could get a lot of leftovers that way. ]

[ Richie's assertion that he's not that lazy earns a scoff, though Eddie eases up by the end of it, brow creased in thought. ]

Yeah, yeah. You probably work nights a lot, right? [ he grabs his mug of coffee, leaning back against the counter. ] Or, like, weekends?

[ and will have to go back to work, after fucking off to Derry, presumably. ]

What's a normal week for you, anyway?

[ Richie shrugs, balling the wrapping up, no empty and tossing it into the trash. He then moves over to get some coffee for himself. ]

Depends on how much is booked. Usually, nights but I've worked days and then nights. Sometimes six days straight and then get a few days off. What about you? I bet you were a workaholic.

[ Six-day week, huh. Jesus. He lets out a low whistle before taking a sip. ]

Hey, I work hard.

[ He pauses. ]

Sometimes that means late, but s'not like I've been rushing to get home to — to Myra.

[ which sort of implies things might be different here, doesn't it? It's strange for him to admit as much, but Richie already knows. And it's true, besides. ]

[ His work schedule was even worse when he was younger. He gets exhausted just thinking back on it now. He sips at his own coffee before asking something else that's been on his mind. ]

Did you start working out... because of that? Or was that just something else?

[ He knows his mom hadn't let him be as active as he wanted to be so Rich could easily believe it carrying over from that. ]

[ That's actually... pretty perceptive. Eddie fidgets a bit, not uncomfortable, just unused to being noticed. ]

I guess that was part of it. Supposed to be good for, uh, anxiety. And you know how Sonia was about me. [ he stops, intending to say "about me being active" but settling on "about me in general." Richie is one of few who understand it well, without the burden of Eddie having to explain himself. ] I kinda did it just because I could — I even joined track in college, so I wouldn't chicken out. Only fell out of it again when I moved back in with Ma. [ Then she died, and he was alone until Myra. ] I was pretty stubborn about keeping at it with Myra, though. It drives — drove her nuts.

[ And without having spent a week with Richie, he wouldn't go on, voice turning high-pitched. ]

"30 people die on treadmills a year, Eddie. A year."

[ That's the thing with Richie: he always notices Eddie. Has ever since they met in middle school. And ever since then, he's always noticed and wanted to be noticed in return. (That almost three-decade gap notwithstanding.)

There's amusement at Eddie saying he joined track but it's coupled with a big dose of pride because he always knew Eddie had wanted to do more when they were younger. The fact he finally got the chance to only confirmed what Richie had always known. Though his brows go up at him doing Martha's voice. ]

Jesus. I'd be very concerned about her Google search history if that's the kind of shit she comes back with.

[ Not that Eddie has to worry about her anymore, thank god. ]

But man, I can't believe you finally joined track. Where you any good at it? Did you get to wear the booty shorts?

[ Warmth suffuses his chest, and a smile blooms on his face. Because Richie remembers, Richie notices, Richie still looks at him long enough that Eddie can feel it.

It’s only that Eddie doesn’t know what to do with that information (oh, he has a few ideas now, but they’re not appropriate to test on the person kindly welcoming you into their home). ]

I was okay. Qualified for state most years. Almost made it to the top once.

[ See, every time he went home, he’d slow down and get sicker (weaker), but there had been a long stretch in junior year when he’d stayed and stayed, and ran so fast he could’ve beat the devil.

At the mention of “booty shorts,” Eddie chokes on a sip of coffee. ]

They’re not — They’re running shorts, asshole. [ pink in the cheeks. ] You wear — I still wear them while running.

[ He even has a red pair... just like old times...]

Edited 2019-11-17 07:48 (UTC)

Bullshit. The only reason they aren't called "daisy dukes" is because they aren't made out of denim. You got all this leg exposed--

[ He even lefts his long-ass leg, long enough to prop it up on the edge of the adjacent countertop, and gestures up his thigh, ]

--all the thigh and then ass. Booty shorts. Very nearly boxer briefs but looser.

[ He lowers his leg back down and takes another sip, ]

It's why I can't watch that shit on tv. I stare at everyone's ass.

[ That is far too much leg in the context of this conversation. Eddie can feel his brain overheating, threatening to short circuit with thoughts of Richie staring at his ass in his stupid, little shorts (Richie has sort of drunkenly said he was sexy last night, hadn’t he) or maybe wearing them, if Eddie could convince him to join. Oh. A lot of leg, a lot of thigh, a lot of Richie that he hasn’t been able to look at before now.

You’re staring, you fuckin’ perv. At Richie’s leg on the counter, at his long fingers hooked in the handle of the coffee mug, following the line of his exposed arms like it’s a saucy sliver of ankle in a Jane Austen novel. He’s too hungover for this — hungover and touch-starved after his marriage-long dry spell.

Eddie grips his mug tightly with both hands, clinging on for support. He’s joking, right, doing a bit ‘cause he knows it will embarrass Eddie. Don’t fall for it, Eds. ]

Okay, Jesus, I get it, you goddamn horndog. [ Visibly flustered, fuck off. ] Legs, arms, ass, whatever.

[ Not arms, you horny, repressed disaster, not arms.

He sets down his mug to stop himself from, like, hulk-smashing it in his hands and tries to busy himself with gathering the ingredients for his own breakfast, avoiding Richie’s gaze. ]

[ trying very hard to be casual, ] That gonna be your excuse for not wingmanning when I try the local gyms?

[ He raises a brow at Eddie's reaction, thinking he's just embarrassed. That has to be it... right? Richie needs to keep it casual, too. Or joke about it since that's his go-to. Joke and deflect. ]

Wait, you're gonna wear those to a gym? Eddie, you slut.

[ But he cracks up laughing at the last bit, not able to land the delivery at all. ]

Why would you want me at a gym anyway?

[ Eddie pulls a face, throwing his hands up before he returns to his search for a halfway-decent frying pan and mixing bowl. ]

What else am I gonna wear?

[ Cleaning out the already-clean cooking utensils, yep. Sorry he doesn't trust ya, babe. ]

Want is a strong word, okay. It's just — an open invitation. [ shrugging, even though his words are too rapid-fire to be Chill. ] You're hosting me, dickwad, so I'm keeping you in the loop. [ and hoping he wears shorts... a tank top... Eddie begins the most precise chopping of vegetables for an omelette that the west coast has ever seen. Finally, with his blush subsiding, he looks askance at Richie. ] And Andy gave me the recommendations, so if I get serial-murdered for investigating solo, [ an accusatory point ] that's on you.

[ Richie watches all this in silence, listens to how fast the other's words are coming out, hiding his smirk behind his coffee mug because once again it's too similar to when they were kids.

He's also fairly impressed with the way Eddie cuts his veg. Damn. ]

So... "want" is the correct word. You want me there because you don't want to get murdered.

[ A pause for dramatic effect: ]

In your booty shorts.

[ It's actually very generous of Richie to be annoying right now, when Eddie would like very much to be bothered by him and not attracted to him. ]

Most people don't want to get murdered. [ huffs ] I for one, have always wanted to not be murdered, like, actively. I kinda forgot how much I like not being murdered, when we kept almost getting murdered in Derry, but I'm really fucking into it, Rich.

[ The diced veg goes into different, tiny bowls. Maybe more bowls than Richie thought he owned. ]

And if you also want that, think about me holding this knife before you call my activewear booty shorts again.

[ That's actually what Richie is thinking as he watches Eds continue to work his "magic" with the knife. Where the fuck did all those bowls come from? But he ultimately rolls his eyes at the "threat" (as if it could be one).

He moves in, using two long fingers to push the knife back down to the cutting board he also didn't remember he had, his tone dry, ]

Yeah, I was in Derry, too. After all that shit, I ain't scared of you with a knife. Try wearing some sweats or yoga pants like everyone else.

[ He backs away and takes a longer swallow of his coffee before setting it on the counter and walking out of the kitchen. ]

I'm taking a shower and going to bed. Try not to set the smoke alarm off.

[ Eddie's almost over it (the cuddling, the booty shorts, Richie's terrible arms), when Richie slides into his space. His wide eyes fixate on Richie's fingers, barely registering his words. Instead, he thinks about how they encircled his wrist beneath Derry and threaded together with his own in the motel. You're spiralling, Eds. Yeah, that's what this is.

Only he finds himself suddenly bereft, as Richie moves away, unlikely to return for the rest of the day. They're not kids anymore, Eddie reminds himself, so he can't just follow — or jump into his bed like it's that fucking hammock in the Losers' clubhouse. ]

Fuck off, man. [ He's a great cook!! A beat. Then, he calls over his shoulder just before the door shuts — ] There'll be leftovers in the fridge later, if you're not up.

[ When he makes lunch or dinner or whatever. ]

[ He calls back, ]

Thanks, Whole Foods.

[ And then takes the shower he has needed for a few hours. Hangovers always make him feel like shit all over, no matter how lazy he wanted to act. And while he knows he can handle his booze better than most, he also knows he's getting too old to drink so much every other night. He has his memories back, he has his family back. There's no reason to keep looking for the bottom of a bottle.

It's an easy "vow" to make to himself as he crawls into bed, nothing but sweatpants on. He doesn't really care what else Eddie does in the apartment. He can clean and organize it however he wants. As long as it helps him to stay, Richie doesn't care. ]

Edited 2019-11-17 21:39 (UTC)

[ It takes three weeks for Eddie to find his LA rhythm, slower-paced than his life in New York but all the better for it. Traffic’s just as bad, maybe worse, but he doesn’t mind. He’ll have his own car eventually, too, once the paperwork for he and Myra’s miraculously uncontested divorce goes through the courts (that cost him everything except the car, but he didn’t want much else). At first, Eddie restricts his anal organisation to the kitchen, which had been something of a blank canvas. Like he said he would, he cooks for two, with leftovers whether or not Richie’s working that evening. Day 8 is when his tidying hits the living room, untangling the cords for Richie’s entertainment system so it’s not a goddamn fire hazard.

Whenever they watch TV together, Eddie keeps to himself. Well, himself and Richie’s lap, which is where his feet end up despite his promise to keep all his limbs contained. If anything, his interest in watching Richie has only grown, like a — like a fucking infectious disease. Patient zero over there could be walking around at 2PM in sweatpants, and Eddie would still perk up when he hears the door to his room open. Watching Richie — and watching Richie watch him, in particular — is more riveting than any of his best friend’s murder shows. And, you know what, maybe he encourages it. Maybe he’s finding ways to make Richie look at him longer, like when he asks for his (frankly irrelevant) opinions on what tie to wear or touches Richie on purpose (!), taking his glasses off his big head to clean them properly, for fuck’s sake — I can’t even see your eyes anymore, man — and then sliding them back on, fingers brushing his cheek.

He’s just testing the boundaries here, okay. Assessing the risks.

Week three is a busy one for Richie, as it happens, so they barely cross paths until Saturday, when Eddie returns flushed and breathless from his run, mouthing a “morning” to Richie, headphones still going, kitted out in his activewear — including the red shorts, uh-huh — and filling up his water bottle by the sink, foot still tapping to his music. It’s only when he turns around, taking a generous swig of his water, that he notices Richie looking or not looking over his coffee. Either tell is enough to recall one of their first conversations in this house. ]

It’s hot — [ Oh god he yelled that because of his headphones. Fuck, he should stick his arm in the garbage disposal and pray the blood-loss ends it quick. Eddie tugs out his running headphones and continues at a normal volume. ] Shit, sorry. [ another gulp. ] It’s fucking hot out there, huh.

[ Listen, he never really had to flirt before this. He just always accidentally had a girlfriend, so — it’s a work in progress. Send help. ]

Edited (Typossss) 2019-11-17 23:36 (UTC)

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[ GAY THIRST PANIC ]

THE THIRSTIEST

SWEATS

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winky face.