[ This time, he doesn’t sleep well, the potent mix of alcohol and anxiety pulling his dreams to Derry, underground, blood on Richie’s glasses and dirt on his skin — but each time he wakes, Richie’s still there, arm still around him. Between his pounding head and heart, he stays. It’s only after his last stretch of uninterrupted sleep that he pushes himself upright, palm flat against Richie’s chest. The panic of the first time has been dulled by familiarity of waking up beside Richie in motels and cars in their travels, so he takes his time extricating himself.
Finally, he sits up with a groan, one hand gripped on Richie’s thigh for balance and the other pressing against his temple in search of relief. ]
We cannot fucking do that, man. [ hoarse with sleep and dehydration. He pats Richie’s leg to ensure he’s awake. No point in whining without an audience. ] Shove my sad ass on the ground next time. Everything hurts.
[ His back, his stomach, his head. He feels frightfully old and, fortunately, too shitty to unpack any part of last beyond the obvious. ]
no subject
Finally, he sits up with a groan, one hand gripped on Richie’s thigh for balance and the other pressing against his temple in search of relief. ]
We cannot fucking do that, man. [ hoarse with sleep and dehydration. He pats Richie’s leg to ensure he’s awake. No point in whining without an audience. ] Shove my sad ass on the ground next time. Everything hurts.
[ His back, his stomach, his head. He feels frightfully old and, fortunately, too shitty to unpack any part of last beyond the obvious. ]