[ 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?