beavertrap | open rp

❪ nightmares have become so commonplace that they're almost familiar at this point. eddie expects them, falls asleep still dreading them though. it's always the same thing— they're in that cavern below the sewers fighting It. they're scattered, richie gets caught in the deadlights and he spears the bastard through his stupid fucking mouth.

everything should be great now, dandy but it isn't. He's sitting over richie, smiling and laughing and then suddenly there's blood all over richie. his blood. sometimes the nightmares play out as they did in real life: he's thrown down deeper into the cavern, he's bleeding out but sometimes it's different. sometimes the monster rips him in two, sometimes it stabs richie instead, sometimes it stabs both of them. sometimes they all die down there instead of just him.

but he didn't die, did he? no— he's alive, breathing and presently kicking as another dream shocks him awake with a wheezed gasp. He's hyperventilating, literally been scared awake and he's having to fumble in the dark to get the nightstand open and his inhaler out. a few needy breaths in and he dissolves into a fit of coughs which wouldn't be an issue aside from the still healing hole in his chest.

god— he was a fucking mess. ❫

Edited 2019-09-21 06:02 (UTC)

What the fuck, man. Why is this here??

[ It hadn't been until after they returned to the inn, racing to get cleaned up in their respective rooms after the fight with Pennywise, all of them miraculously alive, that Richie starts to feel... something. His head getting foggy, his heart racing. He's feeling flushed as he forces himself to get dressed quickly. He manages to get some pants on before he's fumbling for his phone. He only keeps track of a few things and his ruts are among them.

Fuck, he hisses to himself. It's waaaay too soon.

Why is this happening now?

He's gotta get the fuck away from here. He doesn't know where he'll go but he can't stay here around the others like this. ]

[ Richie had been out of Derry for years by this point. Twenty-one and he could barely remember his childhood there. Not that he had a lot of time to dwell on it. He had declined going to college and instead was working his way through... well, life. He wanted to do stand-up and tried at open mic nights in the city (if he could "make it" in New York, that meant he'd have no problems in L.A., right?) but he had to pay the bills while working his way up whatever ladder there was in the profession.

Most of the advice he got was to just keep trying. He was going to get unresponsive crowds, he was going to get hecklers, and he needed to just keep trying if he really wanted to be successful at it. And work better with his impressions because they all sounded the same.

So he was taking the advice to heart and doing what he had to do. This wasn't the first server job he had but he also had to grit his teeth through a lot of rude ass college kids coming in and acting like they were better than him. Like he was some grunt. He needed the paycheck, though, so he came in even when it wasn't his shift and put on his black apron, pad and pencil in the front pockets.

He walks out from the back, already clocked in and knowing the routine by this point. The music in the speakers is at least playing one of his favorite songs so that helps his mood. He can manage a polite enough smile and greet to the first table, ]

Hey, there. Are you ready to order? Or would you like to see our dinner menu?

[ It wasn't dark outside yet but it would be soon enough.

He had no idea he was looking down at his childhood best friend, Eddie Kaspbrak. There was a faint sense of deja vu but nothing strong enough to trigger that he actually knew this other person. ]

Edited 2019-10-31 09:08 (UTC)

[ from here. ]

[ In Eddie's defence, it's a cold morning, and he hardly slept in Derry.

Well, it's also that surreal thing, isn't it — falling asleep somewhere new and waking up groggy, blearily trying to take in the world around you. At first, he presses himself more firmly against Richie, tightening the arm thrown across his chest in the night and resisting the pull to wake. Moments later, however, his thoughts start whirring faintly. He and Myra don't really cuddle these days, and if they do, it's her head on his shoulder, their fingers trapped hand-in-hand, so he registers the warm weight around his shoulders with some surprise. Brows knitting together, he forces his eyes open, tracing the line of his arm with mild interest.

Not home, no, either in Derry or with Myra, but somewhere in-between, with Richie. The reality of yesterday comes back to him in fragments (the stand-off with the clerk, the almost-admission of something). His heartbeat quickens again, zipping ahead of his brain, as his eyes zero in on the line of Richie's neck like a goddamn vampire and skim up to his sleep-soft hair. You did this, you needy motherfucker. Flattening his palm against Richie's chest, he tips his head back, trying to untangle himself gently, which is manageable from the waist up — it's the legs that are the problem. How the fuck does Richie have that much leg, like, it's far too much leg. An amount of leg that should be illegal in most states or at least kept at a safe distance away from normal-sized legs to prevent situations such as this, with Eddie's own crooked between them. Better to do this like ripping off a band-aid, huh. On the mental count of three, he just pulls right out — ]

Shi — fuck!

[ — and falls onto the fucking floor. ]

I'm fine! [ Squawked as he quickly pushes himself up and rushes to the bathroom, grabbing his bag on the way. ] Morning!

[ Nice save, my guy. ]

[ It takes three weeks for Eddie to find his LA rhythm, slower-paced than his life in New York but all the better for it. Traffic’s just as bad, maybe worse, but he doesn’t mind. He’ll have his own car eventually, too, once the paperwork for he and Myra’s miraculously uncontested divorce goes through the courts (that cost him everything except the car, but he didn’t want much else). At first, Eddie restricts his anal organisation to the kitchen, which had been something of a blank canvas. Like he said he would, he cooks for two, with leftovers whether or not Richie’s working that evening. Day 8 is when his tidying hits the living room, untangling the cords for Richie’s entertainment system so it’s not a goddamn fire hazard.

Whenever they watch TV together, Eddie keeps to himself. Well, himself and Richie’s lap, which is where his feet end up despite his promise to keep all his limbs contained. If anything, his interest in watching Richie has only grown, like a — like a fucking infectious disease. Patient zero over there could be walking around at 2PM in sweatpants, and Eddie would still perk up when he hears the door to his room open. Watching Richie — and watching Richie watch him, in particular — is more riveting than any of his best friend’s murder shows. And, you know what, maybe he encourages it. Maybe he’s finding ways to make Richie look at him longer, like when he asks for his (frankly irrelevant) opinions on what tie to wear or touches Richie on purpose (!), taking his glasses off his big head to clean them properly, for fuck’s sake — I can’t even see your eyes anymore, man — and then sliding them back on, fingers brushing his cheek.

He’s just testing the boundaries here, okay. Assessing the risks.

Week three is a busy one for Richie, as it happens, so they barely cross paths until Saturday, when Eddie returns flushed and breathless from his run, mouthing a “morning” to Richie, headphones still going, kitted out in his activewear — including the red shorts, uh-huh — and filling up his water bottle by the sink, foot still tapping to his music. It’s only when he turns around, taking a generous swig of his water, that he notices Richie looking or not looking over his coffee. Either tell is enough to recall one of their first conversations in this house. ]

It’s hot — [ Oh god he yelled that because of his headphones. Fuck, he should stick his arm in the garbage disposal and pray the blood-loss ends it quick. Eddie tugs out his running headphones and continues at a normal volume. ] Shit, sorry. [ another gulp. ] It’s fucking hot out there, huh.

[ Listen, he never really had to flirt before this. He just always accidentally had a girlfriend, so — it’s a work in progress. Send help. ]

Edited (Typossss) 2019-11-17 23:36 (UTC)

[ The night of the party, Richie Tozier is a Mess. He usually is anyway but more so when he's genuinely nervous for something like this. It's only Eddie being there and taking charge like he does that gets Rich out the door composed and slightly more calm.

Slightly.

Eddie ends up driving while Richie has another freak-out moment of needing to look up his cast members' names on his phone. None of them would ever know, however, by the time he walks into the restaurant that had been reserved for the party. Richie smiles and gives a wave when people spot him, the director calling over the room he's glad he "showed up". The guy he was going to be doing most of his scenes with - being his "cop partner" in the film - comes over with a wide grin and arms open wide. He gives Richie a big hug and then moves to do the same to Eddie. He smells like pot.

Which he happily informs them both: he has plenty left over if either of them wants some. Rich politely gives him a "maybe later", only to shake his head to Eds when the guy turns away, drawn into some other conversation. ]

Man, I need a drink.

[ This didn't feel real. None of it did.

They finally killed that fucking clown for real, and they had barely made it out alive. Eddie had been on death's door by the time they managed to rush him to the hospital, Richie barely able to see through the muck and blood on his cracked glasses. Or the tears in his eyes. The whole time he begged Eddie to stay with him, with them. He couldn't leave after being such a big damn hero.

They had lost Stan without any chance to help him or say goodbye, they couldn't lose another fucking Loser.

Richie thought he knew what pain was. Rejection and loneliness, the pain of hiding who he really was. Playing the "trashmouth" he was always so good at being. Getting what attention he could. It was all various levels of pain, some handled better than others with age. Derry, of course, brought all of these memories and then some back to the surface. There wasn't nearly enough alcohol to deal with any of it.

And then Richie discovered a pain that he has never known was possible. The boy he had fallen in love with, now a man he still loved, stabbed in front of him, tasting Eddie's blood after it sprayed onto his face. Pain that rain through his own blood, into his limbs and bones once the shock wore off.

Eddie couldn't just die like that. This couldn't be the end for them.

He couldn't just leave him like this after they finally saw each other again.

He barely remembers how they got Eddie out of the house. He barely remembers arriving at the hospital. Just that his legs gave out and unable to get off of the floor as Bill and Mike tried to explain what happened. Bev and Ben kept trying to keep him from passing out right there. All he could do was silently pray to whatever deity would help make this miracle a real thing, hands splayed flat against the hard floor, the coolness of it a vaguely calming sensation while he felt like he was dying.

Eddie had been rushed into surgery, the rest of them there in the emergency room covered in shit, blood, and God knows what else. All of them stayed in the emergency room like that, huddled together, until they heard Eddie was out of surgery. Though Richie hadn't been awake to hear the initial announcement.

He doesn't remember being given the sedative. Just that when he woke up, the fear had returned in full force until he was told Eddie was alive. He was in ICU, but it was possible he would make a recovery. Richie had wept openly at the news, letting the other Losers hold him, so he wouldn't go onto the floor again.

Weeks passed, and Eds was finally in a room of his own, Richie spending more time there than Eddie's wife. No one had called her. She came on her own and sounded too much like Eddie's mom, threatening them with lawsuits. Richie clenched his jaw shut and refused to look at her. For once in his life, he kept his mouth shut.

All that mattered was Eds waking up again. If he could just be given that, he'd... let the other shit go. It was a familiar ache that he had to swallow down, once again willing to let that love go if it was easier for the other man. He couldn't just come back and wreck his whole life because they suddenly remembered they were friends. And Richie had a secret he had never told anyone else. No matter how badly he wanted it this time...

The other Losers were out getting lunch to bring back, Bev outside getting a smoke and Eddie's wife - he didn't even bother remembering her name, as petty as it was (and he knew it was) - was back at some hotel. He was sitting on the toilet lid in the bathroom, hands rubbing up and down his face, the exhaustion of so many nights of sleeping in a chair catching up with him more and more. He needed to keep taking these private moments for himself, trying not to break down crying again.

Coming back out of said bathroom, Richie didn't expect to be greeted with seeing those big brown eyes open again. ]

Edited 2021-08-26 09:28 (UTC)

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Pardon the supreme lack of iconssssss I will fix it later

that one a/b/o au

that time fate had other plans

continued.

winky face.