When you wake up to pouring rain, it almost feels like your day's ended before it's even started. This is especially true to Richie, a tired twenty-something, so god damn lazy that the world is lucky he's even awake at all. It was all but ten in the morning. All but ten is truckloads better than Richie's typical habit of rising just in time to see early afternoon. Forlornly shoving the quilted comfort of his blankets from his screaming body, he kicked his bare feet off of the bed. He grabbed his phone from the charger and deleted all of the notifications he'd accumulated overnight without even so much as glancing at them. Richie is nothing without morning coffee. Long fingers curled around his clunky metal glasses and he dragged them, his phone, and himself into the kitchen. As he dared to venture outside of his bedroom in only his bare feet, he sucked in a tight breath in order to smother down his deep disdain for the fact that his tile kitchen floor was so fucking cold. Clumsily, Richie managed to throw all of the necessities together in his coffee machine to make a pot. Then, as per morning ritual, he shot Eddie a text.
'Good morning, love. How'd you sleep? Well, I hope.'
It happened to be Richie's day off — praise be — so he looked forward to spending all day doing the nothing he'd so dutifully penciled into his schedule. As he rummaged through the fridge much like a rabid raccoon, he perked to the sound of Eddie's text notification. Richie's horrid with distractions, so he wandered back over to his phone.
'Right. Well. Good morning.'
Richie blinked at the text back he'd earned. Right? Well? Good morning? Excuse me? He set his phone down to not only scrub the sleep from his eyes but also to shove his glasses onto his face. Surely, he must have made some sort of mistake. The message remained, glaring back at him. Right. Well. Good morning. Right. Well. Good morning.
"Right... well... good morning," Richie repeated aloud to himself, barely managing to force any sound out through the sleep he'd scrubbed from his eyes and down into his voice. He wasn't certain how to proceed. Clearly, Eddie was upset... but why? It's only ten. What could have possibly happened within the first two hours of his day that's already ruined it?
'Good morning,' Richie reiterated, 'are you alright, Eds?'
Richie stayed put in the chat this time. He watched Eddie's delivered turn into a read receipt and he watched Eddie type his reply.
'Don't call me Eds.'
Right in the heart. Oh, fuck, Richie thought. He hadn't heard Eddie say that once in the entire nearing two years they'd spent together. What should he say? What can he say? Something felt horribly wrong. His thumbs lingered over the keyboard, stuttering for something, anything, to say in return. Eddie started to type again.
'I want to talk, Richie.'
Richie let out a breath he wasn't aware he'd been holding.
'You're going to break up with me, aren't you?'
He wasn't lost for words anymore.
'I'd like to talk about this in person.' That was that, really. Eddie dropped a location pin. 'Meet me.' So, Richie did.
He didn't bring an umbrella. It was only sprinkling at the time he left his house, so he hadn't seen a need for one. To his dismay, and, you know, fucking naturally, it started pouring mere moments after stepping outside. He was overtly drenched by the time he'd made the walk to Eddie. The location pin led Richie to a park where he found his lover tucked away under a pavilion. Richie, looking, smelling, and feeling like a wet dog, apprehensively joined him there. Richie hiked himself up onto the picnic table.
"That isn't a seat, Richie," Eddie noted from the bench below.
"Well, I'm sitting. So," Richie replied.
"Rich," Eddie began, his words halting. Richie could tell by only the tone of his voice that he, for some reason, would be ending it. "Richie, I don't think we should be together anymore."
Less than ten words shattered Richie Tozier's entire world.
"What?" Was all the brunet could manage. What, what happened, what went wrong, what did I do, what was it?
"I'm sorry, Richie. I just feel like we aren't all that compatible anymore. You know? Like, I've been thinking about this for a while." In hindsight, Richie should have realized that Eddie closed off more and more by the hour. Right. Well. Good morning. "I just... I don't know. I'm sorry, but it isn't your decision to make."
Richie had so many questions that all got lost in translation. "What did I do?" I'm so sorry "Why do we have to break up?" I need you "Is this forever?" I'll take it all back "Will we be together again?" I don't understand. I don't understand. I don't understand. I don't understand.
"You don't have to understand. It isn't anything you did. People just fall out of love sometimes."
Richie could have thrown up. 'People' is plural. Eddie meant to say 'person'. Eddie fell out of love. Eddie thought about it for a while. Eddie doesn't feel compatible. It's Eddie's decision to make, not Richie's. Eddie, Eddie, Eddie.
Eddie, Eddie, Eddie is something that Richie knew very well. His own humble litany, his Eddie, his Eds, his baby. His Eddie playing his heartstrings like a violin until he has callouses on his fingertips. His Eddie crafting harmonies to Richie's constant melody. His Eddie snapping the cords in Richie's thighs like plucking a guitar. His Eddie tracing music staffs into Richie's spine. His Eddie as his musician, his accompanist, his producer, his Eddie writing bar after bar, line after line after line, writing, recording and selling his Richie. His Eddie, his Richie.
It's just Eddie and Richie, now. Eddie and Richie, alone. Eddie and Richie... separated. What now?
