Nothing More // Reddie

7

Eddie's P.O.V.

It was around 2 in the morning and I was sitting up in bed writing in my notebook. Richie had fallen asleep beside me a couple of hours ago and was sleeping peacefully.

I, on the other hand, was wide awake. 

I couldn't sleep and had scrolled through Instagram for a while before taking to my notebook. Writing had always seemed to help me sleep.

English had always been my best subject in school, and I found I had always been especially good at poetry. Of course, I didn't really believe I was all that good. It's just what people told me. But they had to say good things. They couldn't be trusted. 

I had lost my train of thought and was in the middle of doodling a kitten over one of my short stories when Richie started to stir.

At first I didn't pay it much mind, but then his movements began more violent. Soon he was thrashing around, whimpering and saying things under his breath. The blanket was tangled around him like a straight jacket and he was soaked with sweat.

I closed my notebook. What was I supposed to do? Wake him? No, that's dangerous. Or was that sleepwalkers?

Just then Richie's flailing body knocked into me, sending me tumbling off the bed. I managed to catch myself before completely hitting the ground and was now standing at the side of the bed, watching in terror as Richie continued to violently jerk around, now shouting incoherent sentences. 

"Richie!" I shouted, trying to grab onto him. "Richie! What the fuck! Wake the fuck up, man! Richie!"

The thrashing came to a stop and Richie's eyes shot open. 

"Richie, wha-"

But before I could even finish my sentence he had leaned over the side of the bed and puked loudly into the wastebasket. 

"Oh, fuck!" I shouted. "Jesus Christ! Richie!" 

He hastily untangled himself from the bedspread standing up. "Where is he?!"

"Who?"

"He's gonna fucking kill me!"

"What the fuck are you even talking about?!" I jumped back as Richie retched again, falling to his knees. "He's gonna hurt us both, Eds."

"Richie! There is literally NOBODY here! It was just a dream!" I screeched.

He sat there, panting for a moment. "A dream?"

"Yes, you psycho!"

"Shit."

"Shit is right! What the fuck are you acting like such a nutter for anyway?!"

"It felt so real." He muttered. 

I wanted to continue yelling at him, but he looked exhausted, and I figured the dream had been a far worse experience for him.

"Richie?"

"Yeah?"

"I am not cleaning out that fucking wastebasket."

The ghost of a smirk hinted at his lips. "Well I assumed."

"You wash that out, and I'll go get some Motrin from the medicine cabinet. You're obviously sick. I'll bring the thermometer, too. And don't just use soap an water either, you need bleach, and really you should use all the disinfectants you can find. That thing must be teeming with germs and-"

"Eds?"

"Yeah?"

"If you don't shut up right now I will literally fucking vomit on you."

-

The next morning we sat at the table, Richie eating a piece of toast and me sipping a mug of hot coffee. I gazed at him thoughtfully. "So, what were you dreaming about last night, anyway?"

He stared at the wood of the table as if it was the most interesting thing he had ever seen. "Nothing."

"Didn't seem like nothing."

"What are you, my psychologist?" 

"Just wondering. Sounded pretty intense." His jaw twitched.

"Just a nightmare."

"Ok. Well, how you feeling?"

"Fine, actually not sick at all."

"Perfect. That means you can help me reassemble my room. They finished their construction but left the place a mess."

"Damn. I walked right into that one."

So as soon as we finished breakfast, we set to work to fix the damage. Music was playing and we were getting along pretty well, dancing around and jokingly singing along to the songs.

When I found a box of my old belongings, we got very easily sidetracked. I became absorbed in my nostalgia, and Richie was on a quest to find out the story behind each object he pulled out of  the box.

I was flicking through my old CD's when I heard Richie pipe up. "Jackpot! Definitely gotta be some pictures of your awkward phase in here."

I looked up to see Richie holding a tattered old baby blue photo album. My eyes widened upon realizing what it was. "Don't you fucking touch that!" I shrieked, tackling Richie and wrestling the album out of his grip.

Somehow we ended up in a position where I was underneath him. Richie was balancing on his elbows above me, my arm outstretched so that the photo album was just out of his reach.

"You really don't want me to see this, do you?" He questioned, his face inches from mine.

I shook my head softly.

He looked as if he was pondering this for a moment before speaking again. 

"Too bad you've only peaked my interest."

Before I could comprehend what was happening, Richie had lunged forward, snatching the album from my grasp.

"NO!" I shouted, but it was too late. He had already opened it, confusion washing over his features. 

He had already seen the dozens of pictures of Peter. Peter at the park, Peter in my room, Peter at the movies, Peter shirtless.

I tore the book away from him, slamming it shut and holding it tightly to my chest. I was blinking away tears. Did this man have no sense of boundaries?  How dare he? If only he hadn't opened the photo album... but he had. And now it was too late. He had seen.

"Eds. What the fuck is that?" He said softly. I refused to look at him, still working hard to keep the tears at bay.

"What are you a stalker or something?" He chuckled, but it was empty, panicked almost.

"I told you not to look." I said quietly, still avoiding his gaze.

"Yeah, well, I did. So what is that? Cuz it's kind of creeping me out."

"I'm not a stalker." I said, barely above a whisper. "He said I could take them."

"But why are there so many? And it's just the same guy over and over again."

It was harder than ever to keep the tears back. Still, I didn't look at Richie. 

"I-I-"

"You what, Eddie?" The tears were falling freely now.

"I'm gay."