November 14th, 1988

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a/n (tyler) : you guys are all sobbing and panicking so im double updating because i feel bad for making you cry ok ok

this is in Eddie's point of view, written the night that Richie first snuck in through Eddie's window. sometime around chapter 14 i believe. alright that's all ill stop bothering you guys im gonna go play pokemon
***

Richie,
I'm sitting on my bedroom floor, writing this as quietly as I can. You're still asleep in my bed, it's only around 4:30 am so I don't think you'll be awake for a couple more hours.

Last night you had said that you wanted me to start writing a journal, which I thought was ridiculous. Who would want to listen to me ramble? But then... you asked about my nightmares, and I realized; you do. You want to listen to me ramble. So, I'm taking you up on the journal idea, but I don't think I'll ever let you read it. I don't know. Maybe. We'll see.

I think I'm just going to recount my days as they come and go, just so that I don't miss out on any of my best memories. Tonight was a good one, though, so I hope the rest of these pages get filled up with other memories similar to the ones we created tonight.

I was waiting for you to come; I was watching the clock so anxiously and I was completely convinced that you weren't going to show up. I don't know why I was so scared of that possibility, but all I know is that I felt a tidal wave of relief wash over me the second I heard your feeble knock on the window.

There's an old saying; the eyes are the windows to the soul. I don't think that's true. As I stood up and checked my hair in the mirror, I thought the exact opposite. The windows are the eyes to the soul. I opened my window, and there you were. A perfect soul. A little damaged, rough around the edges, but still peach ripe and honey sweet.

Then we sat and talked, and you laughed, and it filled my room with a coating that had never been felt there before. I don't have friends over often- scratch that, Ben will sometimes stay the night because he's the only friend my mother trusts. Other than him, I don't... I don't have people over often, and this room often feels like a shell. This house is far too cold, and it feels more like an imprisonment camp than a home. You changed that, though. You made the room feel warm and bright, and when you started humming those darling songs, it felt... safe. I felt safe. I know I barely know you, but it's just peculiar how comfortable you are.

I know this may be a long shot, but something about you feels like I've heard it before. I don't know what your beliefs are, because again, we just met, but I feel like I've met you before. Maybe in a past life?

Maybe I was some business man named Marshall and you were my next door neighbor, Ivan. Maybe we had potluck dinners, maybe we exchanged jokes while watering our lawns, maybe I took your daughters to soccer practice if you had to work overtime, maybe we would have family game nights in the basement of your house and while the kids argued about who cheated, we would go out to the garage to sneak a beer by your Mustang. Maybe when we had those quiet moments alone, no wives, no jobs, no kids, no responsibilities, maybe we would... share a look. And we would kiss. And you would taste the beer on my lips and maybe I would pull away too quickly. Maybe when we came back inside my wife would note how I smell like your aftershave. Maybe when we were all crowded around the dinner table eating a casserole, I would see your hand on your lap, and I would let my fingers overlap yours. Maybe. Just maybe.

Hold on, I think you're waking up. No, just rolling over. I can see your face now, your bruises are healing up. If you do happen to read this, I should probably remind you of events that happen in case you forget too. You fought Henry Bowers to defend me, and then went out exploring with Mike. You've got a lot of cuts, Richie, but I must admit that I enjoy getting to take care of you. It's nice being so close, and seeing you drop your tough guy guard while I clean you up. Especially when you take your glasses off. You have the most beautiful eyes, it really is such a shame that you hide them. I can see them now, although they are closed. Your glasses are sitting next to my leg, you had taken them off to sleep earlier and I made sure not to step on them when I untangled myself to start this journal.

I couldn't sleep. Not because of nightmares, but because I was entirely overwhelmed with the idea of Richie Tozier being in my bed and holding me. I didn't really want to sleep and possibly miss out on this rare experience, I wanted to appreciate the moment for as long as I could.

And in case future Eddie forgets how it felt, this is a reminder;

Warm. So very warm. Seriously, does this guy just radiate heat? The moon spends its whole life chasing the sun, always coming up a bit too late, always just out of reach, but you've found it. Not only did you find it, but he pulled you in real close and held you for a majority of the night. So very god damn warm, producing more heat than the human body is capable of making. You checked his forehead to see if he had a fever, but in his sleepy state of mind he simply grabbed your hand and held it. He was asleep, you were not, and you just could not even attempt to sleep with his hand in yours. You stroked each individual knuckle, bruised and healing over, and let your breath fan over the skin as if breathing life onto the damaged kid. Even though you were the one to originally ask him to stay, he still held on so very tightly. Butterfly grips, but needing and desperate. I don't think he gets any attention, not even from Bev. Something about the way Richie Tozier acts... as if he is used to being the only person on earth... it's heartbreaking. Even now, writing these words, I feel the need to close this journal and never leave his side again. He deserves to be loved and he deserves to know how it feels, and I just want him to taste that sickeningly sweet rose bloom on his tongue when he finally gets the privilege of swallowing the reality of someone loving him unconditionally.

So, older Eddie, if you're reading back on this and you can't remember how his hands felt on your waist, remember this; it felt safe, and it felt warm, and it felt like hot sand on the quarry you used to swim in when you were younger and coming in from winter mornings to see cocoa steaming on the table. It felt like an overwhelming urge to be closer, to open him up and crawl inside and live between his lungs. To never let go, to just grab on and not ever back away, to let the rollercoaster tick and tick up to the top with the knowledge that the drop will be painful and scary, and to feel okay with it. It's okay. The drop is worth it, because he is a little chunk of sunshine that you have managed to wrangle in your bed. It feels like a smile on your face knowing that in the morning the sheets will still smell like him; cigarettes and books, and you hope that the scent lingers for as long as it can. Or, alternatively, you hope that he keeps returning before the scent has the chance to fade. It feels like wanting him to come back over and over again, to crawl in the window, and to hum those songs in your ear until you get goosebumps. It feels like bird feathers and supernova touches running up your thighs, and water faucets that have been running for so long that steam billows up and envelops you in a hug of redamancy.

He has fingertips that are stained with wanderlust, and you could feel it every time he ran his hand up your bare back. An adventurer, a tiny planet explorer, and yet he chose to be here. With you. He may be the sun, but you are his earth. And I hope to god that you stayed that way, future Eddie.

The sky is starting to paint itself a hazy blue, so I think I'm going to stop writing now and get back in bed with Richie so I can enjoy the few hours of morning before we have to wake up for school. God, school. I forgot all about it. It's hard to think about anything other than Richie Richie Richie. Okay, now I'm really starting to miss being tucked up beside him. I'm going to go, the sun will shine soon enough and I want to be close enough to see how it will make his freckles glow.

Richie was right. Writing is kind of fun. And if Richie ever does read this; ignore everything I just said.

Eddie Kaspbrak.

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