Chapter Text
The dog days of summer have been unbearable for as long as Eddie can remember.
Endless days stretched into restless nights, the burning sun a looming threat overhead. He hates how easily he overheats, damp air curling his hair at his ears, skin sticky and grimy no matter how often he showers. It’s insufferable and his temper simmers close to the surface, even more so than normal.
This year it seems even worse than usual; oppressive heat boiling hotter and hotter as the week drags on, and the air conditioning at Eddie’s office has been broken for nearly the entire time. With each passing day, the temperature has been steadily increasing. There is a shimmering cloud of steam that seems to rise from the pavement itself, humidity so thick that it’s nearly tangible. Before Eddie even sits down at his desk in the morning he’s already shifting unhappily in his suit, sweat beading at his brow, chest tight from the muggy air.
The city is aching for a good rain, the kind that seems to wash everything clean and fresh. Weather reporters have been predicting a summer storm for days now, but instead the sun continues to beat down, relentless, and Eddie can’t fucking breathe. He’s jittery, on edge, trying to focus on the work in front of him but only succeeding in staring at a blank document. As the afternoon comes to a close, he just can’t take it anymore and makes his way down the hall to the washroom to splash some cold water on his face. On his way back he overhears Sharon on the phone at the front desk, catching enough of the broken conversation to suss out that there won’t be anyone available to come in to fix the a/c until Monday.
It’s currently Wednesday.
Eddie doesn’t know if the heat really is getting to him and frying his brain cells, but something is building in him with every degree that the thermometer ticks up. A seething, smoldering sensation, setting his teeth on edge; he yanks at his tie in frustration. There’s an itch he can’t scratch, right under the surface - a niggling at the back of his brain. An infuriating little voice that tells him that he’s missing something. That there is something important just beyond his reach, and Eddie’s not sure if the misery of late summer is to blame or perhaps something else entirely, but he just feels -
Reckless.
Reckless enough that when Myra calls him to confirm their date for that night, he pauses. The words leave his mouth without conscious thought, calmly telling her that he’s feeling a bit sick and would they be able to reschedule? He can’t even bring himself to feel ashamed that it’s only their third outing and he’s already making up excuses; a sigh of relief escapes when she wishes him a speedy recovery and hangs up. It’s not fair to her to lie, but Eddie truly can’t stomach the thought of sitting across from her, making polite conversation for an entire evening. He runs his fingers through his hair in a nervous tic, annoyed with himself only moments later when he realizes that he’s messed up the carefully gelled back style.
It’s so fucking warm.
Since he’s wasted nearly the entire day on the cusp of a breakdown, he’s determined to finish a proposal before leaving for the night; there is no reason to rush home anymore, and Eddie has squandered nearly the entire day consumed by his own distraction. He’s attempting to swallow down the pathetic excuse for a salad he bought for supper when a knock on his door startles him.
His boss, Andrew, pokes his head in. “Still here, champ?”
Champ. God, what a moron.
“Yeah,” Eddie attempts to paste a smile on his face but it’s bland and half-hearted at best. “Just finishing up.”
“Don’t work too hard. Edward! You’ll make the rest of us look bad!” He throws his head back with a grating laugh and a throbbing headache blooms right between Eddie’s temples.
The remainder of his coworkers file out slowly as the clock ticks on. By the time he’s finished with the proposal, nearly starting a fistfight with the copier in the process, it’s well into the evening; city lights growing brighter outside his window.
It isn’t until he steps onto the sidewalk outside that he realizes he still doesn’t want to go home just yet. The sky is tinted gray and dark clouds brew in the distance. It seems that the predicted storm is finally on the horizon, the smell of rain heavy in his nose when he inhales. The hair on the back of his neck nearly stands on end at an ominous rumble from above. Wind whips at his cheeks, still warm, without the impending chill. Eddie takes a shuddering breath in, the heat still weighing solid on his shoulders. Agitated, he strips off his blazer, carelessly slinging it over his arm. The tie follows, yanking it off with such force that he gets an odd look from a passing lady who appears old enough to be his grandmother.
Anxious energy still rattles through him, knocking incessantly behind his ribs, so he starts walking in an effort to burn it out of his system. He walks and walks until the neighborhood becomes less familiar around him, searching for something but he doesn’t know what; doesn’t know why it feels impossible for him to turn around. It’s as though there is something out there calling for him tonight, a siren in the distance, whirling enticingly just beyond his reach. The heat still hasn’t broken even as low thunder rolls again, and Eddie hastily shoves up his sleeves to the elbow, that shaky tension returning tenfold. Storms always reminded him of childhood, though he couldn’t say why.
Doesn’t fucking remember anyway.
His shirt is nearly plastered to him and he hates the sensation. God fuck, it’s hot and he can feel that energy is close to breaking (though he can’t quite tell if it’s from the coming storm or the troubling thoughts inside him). There’s apprehension wound tight in the air, lightning ready to strike at any minute, static current crackling above. He’s out of control, knows it, even as he continues down the street. He just wants something, is waiting for something; for the other shoe to drop, for anything. He just can’t fucking breathe in the suffocating heat, can’t get the oxygen deep enough into his lungs. At this point he would give nearly anything for the cool rain on his skin, to experience some crumb of relief, but the sky has yet to open up and Eddie is spiraling into a panic attack; the setting sun pings off a sign directly into his eye. He stops abruptly in the middle of the sidewalk.
There is a bar in front of him, run-down but inviting.
He shouldn’t.
Eddie really wants a fucking drink though.
It doesn’t look like much inside, the door thudding heavily behind him. Eddie starts when it swings shut. Cool air hits him in a rush, overwhelming in its reprieve. He stands in the entrance for a moment, frozen while he inhales deep before slowly making his way further in. The lighting is dim, giving an almost otherworldly ambiance to the place. It’s clearly not a new establishment, decor not modern by any means, but Eddie likes it. Something about it rings of sincerity and it seems clean enough for his standards, inspecting the area intently before sitting down at the far corner of the bar. There's a beat when he goes to order that the words get caught in his throat. It’s been so long since he’s been out just on his own, not suckered into sipping a glass of red wine while enduring painful conversations with his coworkers or over a stilted dinner date. He doesn’t remember what he used to drink in college, despite only being graduated for a handful of years, the memories hazy and faint.
Most of college is a blur actually, the years passing as if they belonged to someone else.
He settles on a rum and coke, the sudden burn staggering. Eddie decides he likes that too, savouring the sting, and once he’s halfway done with the glass he finds the racing thoughts of what this could be doing to his liver fizzle out (the nagging voice at the back of his head that sounds an awful lot like his late mother, may she rest in fucking peace). The room isn’t full, unsurprising considering it’s a weekday; most of the booths are occupied by clusters of two to three people quietly talking amongst themselves. There’s a handful of single patrons seated along the bar, but no one glances Eddie’s way, even the bartender focused elsewhere. Music plays overhead, barely legible; it’s strangely comforting to be alone with so many other people.
He can’t say what draws his gaze, but when the front door thuds shut he turns with the noise. The sky is still steadily darkening outside, wind picking up from the looks of it, but that’s not what has Eddie staring. A man is framed in the doorway, silhouette highlighted by the shitty lighting, and Eddie’s stomach drops so hard that he has to grip the edge of the counter to ground himself. Broad shoulders stretched wide under the most revolting button-up he’s ever seen, legs a mile long. He’s far enough away that Eddie can’t see the details of his face, but his eyes catch on a sharp jaw, dark curls just long enough to brush the back of his collar. His whole body lights up immediately just from a glance, and a shivery breath slides out of his mouth.
Eddie’s throat is dry from the sight of him.
He hastily tears his gaze away, hoping he wasn’t looking for too long. Jesus. He swallows a large mouthful of his drink, coughing slightly when it scorches his throat on the way down.
He’s ordering another round before he’s quite finished with the first.
Eddie refuses to look up again, staring hard down into his glass, cheeks burning for absolutely no reason at all. There's a steady thrum under his skin now, and Eddie doesn’t know if it’s from the alcohol or something else entirely. Shifting in his seat, trying hard not to think of anything, keeping everything blank. Just wants his mind fucking quiet for once.
His focus is so intent on not thinking that he doesn’t notice the presence beside him until there is a brush of fabric at his elbow. Eddie glances over sharply; a stranger is seated one stool over from him, leaning across the counter to speak to the bartender. It’s the same man from before, and Eddie attempts to appear unaffected, but he can’t keep his goddamn eyes away, drawn in like a moth to a flame. The fabric of his shirt is even more of an affront to his vision up close.
He tries and fails not to notice their proximity, caught by the stretch of those (big, so fucking big) shoulders, close enough to touch. Eddie crosses his ankles, searing all over with the need to reach out before he mercilessly tamps down on the desire.
The stranger turns to him then, drink in hand, and the light bounces off his glasses. Eddie is thrown for a long moment, sudden memories of echoing laughter, pedals under his feet, summer light filtered through trees, gone as quickly as they fill his head.
“Hey,” he leans in a bit. “Don’t I know you?”
Eddie blinks.
“No.” Tone sharp, matter-of-fact. He almost winces at the sound of it. I’d remember you, he doesn’t say. God, would I remember you.
The man doesn’t falter at Eddie’s clear dismissal, lips lifting with a smirk at the curt reply. “You sure? You seem familiar.” His body slides further into Eddie's space, who tries his best not to do anything ridiculous like flinch back (or even worse, meet him halfway). The stranger squints. “You weren’t the guy that offered me a room to rent and then stole my favorite ashtray, right?
“What the fuck? No! What is wrong with you?” It comes out in a rush, Eddie flustered and riled up immediately.
“So much!” He replies cheerfully before extending a hand. “Richie Tozier.”
Eddie eyes the proffered hand with disdain, that same odd prickle at the very back of his brain. He looks back up at Richie’s glasses and must exit his body momentarily, because he reaches out to grasp his hand. “Eddie.”
Richie’s palm is wide and a little damp from the condensation of his glass. A spark runs from the very top of his skull right down to Eddie’s toes, and they stare at each other for just a moment too long.
“No last name? That’s fine, I’ll just have to make one up for you.”
“I’m not giving a stranger my last name, are you fucking kidding me? How do I know you aren’t a stalker? I’m not getting murdered by some freak in a hideous shirt, go fuck yourself.” His response is a stream of consciousness, in the way he usually avoids speaking at work, or with Myra, or around anyone actually, but he just can’t help himself.
Richie just throws his head back and laughs, and Eddie can’t stop gawking at the curve of his throat. “Okay Eddie Spaghetti, have it your way.” He gestures to the empty booth in the corner. “Drink with me, and then we won't be strangers anymore.” He wiggles his eyebrows as he talks, incredibly pleased with himself, which is immensely frustrating to Eddie (made even more so because he should not fucking care).
He is going to say no any minute now, truly, but Richie had said it like a dare; instead, what comes out of his mouth is “You’re buying.” Eddie takes a step closer once he hops off the barstool, dizzy with a lightheaded rush when he looks up to meet those blue eyes. Fuck, they’re so blue, so fucking blue it almost makes him angry, bright enough to stand out even in the dim light.
“And don’t fucking call me a pasta dish .”
~~
What Richie ends up ordering for them is two rounds of shots. Eddie hasn’t taken a shot in years (and judging from the leer on Richie’s face, he at least suspects this), but Eddie will be damned before he lets this infuriating (tall, attractive ) dickhead upstage him.
His eyes water when he holds back the cough as he swallows, stomach twisting at the bright smile Richie levels his way. It could be the alcohol, but it’s almost too easy to talk to this man, this Richie Tozier. They fall into easy banter like it’s nothing like they’ve known each other for years, and that goes to his right to his head faster than any of the previous drinks.
“What brings you to this shithole tonight, Eddie?” Richie says, voice still edged with a teasing lilt.
Eddie shakes his head, mellowed and unusually forthcoming. “I don’t know. I was supposed to have a date.”
Richie hmms, exaggerated, and another frisson of annoyance rockets through him. “Aww. She stood you up?”
“ No,” Eddie snaps, rolling his eyes. “I canceled.”
Across from him Richie shifts, stretching his legs out under the table. He’s so tall that he nearly reaches where Eddie sits, the toes of their shoes just barely tapping together.
Richie doesn’t pry, but Eddie the silence only compels him to explain himself. He twists his fingers together. “It’s just been-," he tries, eyeing the worn tabletop. Although it’s cooler inside, Eddie’s hair still curls against his forehead, and he lets out a frustrated breath. Fuck it. “Everything has been shit this week and I just - I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t pretend to be that person tonight.” He desperately looks up and meets Richie’s eyes. “You know?”
Eddie is almost ashamed of himself, sitting here and bursting out with that, begging for someone he just met to understand him. Richie doesn’t hesitate for a moment though, nodding along, expression open.
“Yeah,” he replies, soft. “I get it.” They’re quiet for a measure before Richie breaks the silence. “At least you choose an excellent establishment to drown your sorrows in, Eds.”
Eddie wrinkles his nose. “Don’t fucking call me that.” He grumbles, something about the nickname hitting sharp in his gut. The light in their corner is dim, but from the way Richie is glancing at him from under his lashes, Eddie wonders if he feels it too, the impossible tug that stretches between them.
“Also, I have to say,” Richie leans toward him again, shoulders pulling the material of his shirt tight. Eddie catches his breath. “Out of the two of us,” he shares in a low voice, conspiratorial, as though they’re discussing something they shouldn’t be. “You definitely sound like more of a serial killer, dude, pretending to be someone else?” He shakes his head sadly like Eddie is a lost cause. “This could very well be it for me Eds, you know my last name and everything.”
He’s so ridiculous, and Eddie wants to be mad at how he’s shifted the whole conversation, but instead of being pissed off he just feels relieved, a burden lifted off his shoulders. It’s not even funny, such a stupid attempt at lightening the mood, but Eddie can’t hold back his laughter, the sound of it nearly bursting out of him. It’s sudden, surprising even himself. “You’re such an idiot,” he manages to get out through his chuckles.
“Yeah,” Richie says again, but he sounds off. When Eddie recovers, Richie’s just watching him in silence, the most still he’s been all night. His face is unreadable but his mouth is set, and Eddie goes hot all over.
“What?” he asks.
Richie just gazes fixedly for a few more moments, before shaking his head, ruefully turning up the corners of his mouth.
“Alright. Once more, my good sir,” Richie drawls, in a nasal British accent, pushing him a shot, and Eddie can’t help but smile again. He’s so oddly fond of this man, so warm and lit up under his attention.
(Eddie would do anything to keep his attention, and that’s too much, too much all at once.)
He kicks Richie's ankle from under the table and laughs when he jumps in surprise, knees knocking at the wood and nearly spilling liquor everywhere.
“Jesus Christ, you shit, are you twelve?” Richie exclaims, hands flailing and narrowly avoiding knocking over the mostly full shots, but when Eddie’s laughter fades once more, he realizes he doesn’t look angry. Richie is looking at him with an indulgent little smile and his heart stutters in his chest.
Eddie wants.
It should be alarming, but Eddie is slowly coming to terms with the fact that nothing makes sense about his reactions to Richie. Deep down, he wonders if this is what he was meant to find tonight, in this forgotten bar in their own private corner of the world.
So he lifts his glass. Meets Richie’s amused eyes and spits out, “Fuck you.”
Richie crows back, gleeful, “Fuck you!”
He throws back his shot, Eddie hungry to watch the bob of his Adam's apple. He doesn’t know how long they stay talking, but as they sit wrapped up in each other, more people trickle in and out the front door. Richie tells him that he’s a comedian and seemingly finds Eddie's dubious expression hilarious. “Don’t give me that face, I never said I was a good one.”
“Obviously,” Eddie rolls his eyes hard, trying to cover how he can’t seem to take his eyes off the man in front of him. The sound of his laughter is making something brush at the back of Eddie's mind but he can’t quite pin it down, thoughts spinning with a rush of alcohol and a slow beat of Richie Richie Richie.
He clutches playfully at his heart. “Ouch Eds, you hit where it hurts.”
“It’s Eddie.” He glares but Richie only grins wider.
Jesus.
His eyes keep catching at Richie’s bare forearms, covered in dark hair; the stretch of his hands as he gestures wide. There’s just so much of him, all at once, and Eddie wants to be covered. His brain keeps reminding him that Richie’s fingers are so much thicker than his own, face heating when Eddie pictures the stretch. It’s beginning to take a substantial amount of effort to focus on their conversation, and he can’t even bring himself to feel guilty for it.
Richie mentions offhand that he’s heading out to California soon, in pursuit of his comedy career. He winces as he says it, sounding unimpressed with his motivations, but Eddie understands. He knows what it’s like to try to follow your dreams only to be left hollow by what you find.
It’s foolish to feel so disappointed to lose him though. Eddie ducks his head. “When do you go?”
“End of the week.”
He splutters. “And you’re out drinking? What the fuck? Do you even have anything set up in L.A.?”
“Are you worried about little old me?” Richie coos, resting his head on his palm. “Don’t worry sweetheart, I’m an expert at disappearing. A regular Houdini.”
That doesn’t even make sense, but Eddie’s pulse throbs in his wrists at the endearment. “Oh really? Are you going to show me a trick?” he goads, head spinning. He’s a little drunk and a lot wound up for this man.
Richie's smile takes on a wicked edge, letting Eddie in on a private joke and he unthinkingly leans closer. “Yeah, just let me grab my magic wand.” This is followed by a lecherous wink.
It’s so fucking stupid. Eddie knows he’s flushing, and honestly, fuck Richie for winding him up like that.
“Do you ever talk anything but shit?” Eddie breathes.
Richie waves a hand carelessly. “Blame my fuckin’ mouth, it runs away from me sometimes.”
“It has to be good for something,” he blurts out, which is not what he meant to say at all. Eddie knows they’ve been flirting, he’s not so oblivious that he doesn’t pick up on that inflection of their conversation, but Richie has kept it superficial. Light enough to be brushed off, shielded as a joke. When Eddie yanks his eyes up off the mouth in question, Richie blinks.
He speaks slowly. “You trying to find out, Eds?”
Eddie looks away jerkily, crossing his arms. “Don’t fucking call me that.”
Richie just gives a thoughtful little hum in response.
He has to swallow against the sudden rush of lust. Eddie wants to say yes, yes he’s trying to fucking find out. Wants to know all of what Richie’s tempting mouth can do, his tongue; wants to stumble out ‘whatever you want please Richie, touch me,’ and ‘ I know you could make it so good, you’d be so good. ’
Christ. He’s sweating.
What the fuck is happening? Eddie doesn’t know. He really doesn’t do things like this, hasn’t done any of this with a man in years; his fumbling college experiences are a far cry from how Richie makes his entire body blaze to life.
(He just wants. Thinks Richie might too.)
“So we’re celebrating then,” Eddie nods firmly, drumming his fingertips on the table’s surface, nervous energy rising in his throat, flowing down his arms.
“Planning to give me a good send off, Eddie Spaghetti? Something to remember you by? I’ll write to you, just give me an address,” Richie bats his eyelashes at him, voice sliding into a simper. He’s deflecting again, exaggerating for the sake of distraction.
“Shut the fuck up,” Eddie starts to scoff, but then Richie taps at the toe of his shoe with his own under the table and keeps it there.
“I bet it would be some parting gift,” he murmurs low, and Eddie can’t take much more.
He sounds so earnest, is the thing. It should be a line, and some part of Eddie wants to believe it is, the part that’s screaming for him to leave this place and not look back but-
But -
Richie’s horrible Hawaiian shirt is unbuttoned down to his collarbone and Eddie can see the curls of dark chest hair against his skin, a slight sheen of sweat pooling in the hollow of his throat. A fierce desire to bite burns hot and devastating in Eddie's stomach. The rough 5 o'clock shadow, the red curve of his mouth. It makes Eddie’s blood drop, makes him want to lick up that sweat with his tongue, which –
Fuck.
Eddie exhales slowly.
“I need a smoke,” Richie tells him, palm rubbing at his neck. Eddie wrinkles up his nose but stands. He isn’t sure if that was an invitation, but when Richie slips out of the side door, Eddie follows him anyway.
~~
It’s a bad idea to go with him.
Eddie knows that, objectively. He acknowledges it even as he does it, nearly stumbling with the head rush; understands it as he sticks a few steps behind, falling into place. It’s a bad idea because being alone with Richie is dangerous. So fucking dangerous because he aches to touch, desperate to get him alone and get his hands all over him.
He’s so greedy.
Eddie is edging at the line of drunkenness, warm from the alcohol and Richie’s attention. Flushed and jittery from too blue eyes under dark lashes and-
He’s tired of making up reasons to pretend he doesn’t want this.
The music from the bar muffles as they step outside. Richie has led him to a small smoking area off a narrow alley, Eddie glancing around furtively and shuddering when he looks at the trash bin for a little too long. Richie settles against the wall, chuckling when he catches the look on Eddie’s face. It’s still not raining yet, but the wind has picked up. A gust of air whips at his cheeks and he shudders in on himself a little, the distant streetlights giving an almost otherworldly glow beyond where he and Richie are blanketed together in the dark. That strange tension is still in the air, dark sky still rumbling with intent, louder now and it seems like the world is holding its breath, waiting for the lightning strike.
Eddie wonders if the tension will break before he does.
They’re quiet in the night, the darkness weighing heavily, hidden away from any passers-by. Richie bends his head to light the cigarette he holds loosely between his lips, the flame casting his cheekbones in sharp relief; that same rush from earlier fills Eddie, so strong that he nearly shivers. His veins are lit up, desire and anticipation tumbling low in his gut. He bounces on the balls of his feet, trying to ground himself.
(It doesn’t work.)
He watches Richie take a drag, ravenous. His hands flex when that mouth opens on an exhale, smoke streaming from his lips, and normally that wouldn’t get Eddie going, mind filling with statistics and warnings but-
Eddie’s half hard just from this.
“You’re gonna make me think certain things if you keep looking like that, Eddie Spaghetti.” a harsh smile curls at Richie’s mouth as he speaks, but Eddie knows that he’s probing. There’s a careful distance between the two of them, almost like he’s asking a question with his body, unable to find the words. It’s odd how Eddie seems to be able to read someone that he’s only known for a few hours at most; Richie shifts against the wall, rubbing a hand over his thigh in a nervous gesture.
Eddie’s stomach flips.
He doesn’t notice that he’s been silently staring at Richie’s mouth for who knows how long, caught on how his tongue darts out to swipe at his lower lip. Guiltily, he drags his eyes up from where they had been fixated, wondering if he’s imagining the faint dusting of pink suffused along the bridge of Richie’s nose, barely visible in the night.
Fuck, Eddie wants him.
Thunder rumbles across the sky. All the hair on the back of Eddie’s neck stands up, and he shakes his arms loose at his sides.
Static electricity must be in the air, Eddie thinks faintly, with Richie’s eyes on him, as he takes another deep inhale. It's like a physical touch, and he's nearly vibrating out of his skin. Has he ever craved someone so much? Eddie doesn’t think so and it’s terrifying. Richie fiddles with his cigarette, and distantly Eddie knows that he should say something, that they’ve been staring at each other in silence for too long now.
The cherry burns at Richie’s side, forgotten in his fingertips. “Eddie,” he starts, voice low and Eddie can just make out the glint in his eyes.
He doesn’t wait for him to finish.
Eddie steps closer, until their shoes brush and he can feel Richie’s breath on his mouth. Heart pounding so loud in his ears that it drowns out the street noise. He finally does what he’s been wanting to do all night, gets his hands on the collar of Richie’s terrible shirt and goes up onto his toes to kiss him.
Richie starts at the touch, slightly off balance; it’s been so fucking long since Eddie has kissed anyone with purpose, much less kissed a man, but Richie hastily stubs out his cigarette on the brick behind him, carelessly dropping the butt at his feet before setting a hand at his waist and licking at Eddie’s lip and then it’s-
Oh.
Eddie mffs against his mouth, pleasure so sharp it’s almost painful shooting up his spine. He opens for him immediately, hungry for a taste. There is smoke and the faint sting of the drinks from earlier on his tongue, and Eddie should rear back in disgust but instead his cock twitches in his pants. He’s delirious with it right away, attempting to cut off a pathetic moan before it leaves his throat. Richie wastes no time in being cautious, sliding his slick tongue along Eddie’s own as soon as he opens his mouth, and this time Eddie can’t help but let out a quiet groan. It shimmers under his skin, boiling, rolling like fire into his bloodstream and pulling him closer.
Eddie gasps into his mouth, breaking away to breathe when Richie grips his hips in both palms, thumbs stroking at the skin where his shirt has ridden up, the touch on his bare skin electric. He’s flushed, mouth looking wrecked and Eddie can’t help but be filled with a wicked flare of pride at the sight.
He’s certain he doesn’t look much better.
Richie’s heavily lidded, eyes blown dark, and Eddie wants to tease him for it but he can’t, doesn’t seem to be capable of making his mouth form anything but embarrassing muffled whimpers into the decreasing space between them. He jerks forward on an unintentional shiver, one hand darting up to find purchase in the dark curls at the nape of Richie's neck. He lets out a hiss at the movement, and Eddie only wants to tug harder, so he does. He is competitive even in this, consuming. He wants to destroy him.
(And maybe, maybe, he wants to be destroyed too. Maybe he’s going to let Richie take him apart.)
Riche slides his fingers down when they separate next, moving from Eddie’s hip to loosely grasp at his belt buckle, metal clinking as he bends a knee to rest right between Eddie’s thighs. There’s a little smirk curving at Richie’s mouth, gripping at his belt firmly until Eddie grinds forward, breath leaving his lungs all at once in a gasp.
“You sound so good.” Richie is breathless when he speaks, lips fucking red and wet. Eddie wants to shut him up but also very much does not. His scalp prickles, pressing even closer, tugging at Richie’s hair until he’s hissing through his teeth.
(Eddie is screaming for more. He hopes Richie feels the same.)
He lets out a noise that is meant to sound annoyed, but it morphs into a groan before it even leaves his throat. Fuck, fuck, he is so hard, wonders what noises Richie would make while he fucks into Eddie, so turned on that he’s pissed off-
“Shithead .” Eddie hisses, mouth just inches away, “Do you ever fucking shut-“
Richie kisses him again.
It’s good, is the thing. It’s so fucking good that Eddie loses it a little, licks into Richie’s mouth like a slut, flattening him against the wall with the force of it. Grasping his shoulders with his free hand and just fucking pulls until he’s close to riding Richie’s though, pushed all the way up onto his toes in an attempt to press against as much of him as possible.
He shudders again when he feels Richie hard against his hip, making a muffled noise of protest when Richie tries to angle his hips away. They both moan, settling into a slow, maddening grind that has Eddie’s brain turning into soup inside his skull.
Richie is pinned tightly against him, surrounding him, legs tangled together. He’s a total mess, and fuck Richie for making him like this he thinks wildly, fuck him if he thinks that Eddie isn’t going to give it right back. He’s impatient and has been waiting for Richie’s big hands on him all night, so he yanks at his arm, separating their lips only long enough to mumble, “Fucking touch me,” until Richie is squeezing around a palmful of his ass.
Richie’s groan is so rough that it sounds like it hurts, pulling away on a gasp before Eddie bites down on his lower lip hard, mind a mess of vindictive pleasure. “Shit .” Richie grits out. “Eds.”
It’s obscene, the way they’re nearly dry humping each other against the wall, Eddie moaning into his mouth, Richie’s hand gripping him so hard that Eddie thinks he might be leaving bruises.
A sharp crack of thunder echoes above them, and they jump apart, lightning finally streaking across the sky.
They both seem to realize their outrageous position at once, the world around them creeping in once more; street noise filters into the space between them, Eddie's heart pounding in his chest. They’re panting but frozen, observing each other warily.
Eddie is still a little drunk, but not drunk enough that he doesn’t recognize the importance of this moment. They’re still pressed up tight together, Richie’s body warm where they touch.
He licks his lips and watches Richie watch him.
(Tries not to think of how Richie’s saliva is in his goddamn mouth, and rather than being disgusted, he very vividly feels a drop of precome blurt from the head of his dick right into his boxers.)
Eddie carefully releases him from where his fingers are clenched in the thick hair at the back of Richie’s neck and moves away, sliding down his thigh until he’s flat on the ground once more. Richie seems to belatedly realize that he still has a hand hooked around Eddie’s belt and hastily snatches it back.
They’re in public for fucks sake, he’s so fucking stupid.
Richie’s expression shutters as Eddie attempts to smooth out his clothing, and Eddie feels a flare of annoyance again; he selfishly wants to know all the thoughts that fly through Richie’s absurd brain. They both straighten themselves out in silence, his lips buzzing and tender. He’s not sure why he instinctively knows that Richie would drop this if he asked, would brush everything off and they could walk back inside, go their separate ways. Eddie could wake up tomorrow shaken but with everything in his life exactly the same as he left it.
Eddie's going to burn it all down.
“Do you want that send off or not, dickhead.” Eddie scrapes up his courage to demand, not phrasing it as a question, surprised at how rough his voice sounds to his own ears.
Richie’s head jerks up from where he had been fumbling his hands down his shirt, despite the wrinkles being a lost cause. He stares at him for a long moment before lighting up with a grin.
Thunder shudders hard enough to rattle through the alley, but the thud of Eddie’s heartbeat is loud enough to drown it out.