beavertrap | open rp

[ 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)

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[ GAY THIRST PANIC ]

THE THIRSTIEST

SWEATS

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