[ Thanks to his sporty spice reflexes, he catches the box even with an armful of clothes. God, he should’ve known letting Richie pick the movie would fucking backfire. ]
There is something, like, fundamentally wrong with your brain. [ The smile as he says it, head ducked in a failed attempt to hide away his true feelings on the matter, indicates otherwise. He sets the box on the nearest surface in the room before wandering out. Doesn’t even mind that there’s a veritable laundry mountain in the nook by the time he collects everything (but he does squawk at the state of the filter: You could’ve burned the whole fucking building down, man!). It only really hits him that he’s here, at the end of the bumpiest stretch of road, when he’s alone in the shower.
You’re getting divorced, you moved to LA, you live with your childhood friend turned famous comedian. And that friend has gone out of his way to welcome and care for you since you both almost died together inside the hellmouth. It makes his stomach flip and his heart beat fast. How the fuck is he ever gonna repay Richie for this? How can he even communicate what it means to him to be here?
The sound of the doorbell jolts him out of his not-quite-crisis, and he quickly towels off, dressing in the same sort of sleep clothes he always does and bounding into the living room, hair damp and skin still suffused with warmth. At the sight of their feast being laid out on the coffee table, his mouth curves helplessly. ]
I fucking love you, holy shit.
[ Out of his mouth before he has time to think about it — and it shouldn’t matter, anyway. They all love each other. It’s just — true, fuck off. Blame his pink cheeks on the shower.
With an entire couch’s worth of real estate and chairs to spare, Eddie budges up right next to Richie, cracking chopsticks to lean across him and snatch some gyoza. ]
I’m leaving you a 4 star review, no question: [ munching happily, with a bump of their shoulders. ] “Cluttered as shit, near-deadly health and safety violations, but the man knows his takeout.”
no subject
There is something, like, fundamentally wrong with your brain. [ The smile as he says it, head ducked in a failed attempt to hide away his true feelings on the matter, indicates otherwise. He sets the box on the nearest surface in the room before wandering out. Doesn’t even mind that there’s a veritable laundry mountain in the nook by the time he collects everything (but he does squawk at the state of the filter: You could’ve burned the whole fucking building down, man!). It only really hits him that he’s here, at the end of the bumpiest stretch of road, when he’s alone in the shower.
You’re getting divorced, you moved to LA, you live with your childhood friend turned famous comedian. And that friend has gone out of his way to welcome and care for you since you both almost died together inside the hellmouth. It makes his stomach flip and his heart beat fast. How the fuck is he ever gonna repay Richie for this? How can he even communicate what it means to him to be here?
The sound of the doorbell jolts him out of his not-quite-crisis, and he quickly towels off, dressing in the same sort of sleep clothes he always does and bounding into the living room, hair damp and skin still suffused with warmth. At the sight of their feast being laid out on the coffee table, his mouth curves helplessly. ]
I fucking love you, holy shit.
[ Out of his mouth before he has time to think about it — and it shouldn’t matter, anyway. They all love each other. It’s just — true, fuck off. Blame his pink cheeks on the shower.
With an entire couch’s worth of real estate and chairs to spare, Eddie budges up right next to Richie, cracking chopsticks to lean across him and snatch some gyoza. ]
I’m leaving you a 4 star review, no question: [ munching happily, with a bump of their shoulders. ] “Cluttered as shit, near-deadly health and safety violations, but the man knows his takeout.”