[ 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.
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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. ]