Chapter Text
The immediate shock of the dual confession had worn off, replaced by an awkward, beautiful tenderness that draped over the hospital room like a heavy, comforting blanket. Eddie and Richie were now officially “together,” but their relationship existed entirely within the confines of the room, defined only by their shared silence, intertwined fingers, and quiet proximity.
Eddie spent his days observing Richie’s post-confession habits. The humor was still there, but less of a defense mechanism and more of a sincere attempt to elicit a smile from Eddie. Richie watched him constantly, his gaze no longer mocking or self-absorbed, but seeking Eddie’s approval, his comfort, his presence. The intense, almost devotional focus remained, but now it was a recognized and accepted part of their landscape.
A few days before his discharge, the Losers celebrated with a low-key gathering of takeout containers and plastic silverware. The room was noisy, but in a good way—a family of five adults finding their balance again after a war.
Beverly, with her keen eye, was the first to notice. As Richie gently tucked an extra pillow behind Eddie’s back, their eyes met and held for a beat too long. Beverly gave Eddie a subtle, knowing raise of her eyebrow across the room. Eddie just smiled, a small, genuine smile that he hadn’t worn in years, and shook his head almost imperceptibly, refusing to give her details. She didn’t press, just winked, a silent pledge of support hanging in the air.
It was the night before Eddie’s discharge. They were finally alone. Richie was packing Eddie’s few hospital belongings—a ratty robe, a paperback book, and extra set of clothes—fussing unnecessarily over the folding and placement. He was meticulously arranging a toothbrush and a mini-toothpaste tube, completely avoiding any conversation about what came next. They both knew they couldn’t go back to their old lives—Richie to his demanding comedy gig, Eddie to his stifling, Myra-controlled house.
Eddie stopped him. He reached out and tugged on Richie’s forearm, forcing him to sit on the edge of the bed.
“Richie,” Eddie said softly. “Stop fussing.”
Richie dropped the travel-sized comb and sat down, his shoulders tense. “Right. Sorry. Just... organizing. I’m a professional organizer now. My new bit. ‘Richie Tozier, Professional Tidy Guy!’”
“No more bits,” Eddie said, his voice gentle but firm. “Let’s talk about the future.”
They talked about Derry, about the memories, and about It. They agreed that their old lives—the avoidance, the fear, the separation—was over. They couldn’t go back to their respective corners of the country and wait another twenty-seven years.
Richie reached out, taking Eddie’s hand, his thumb stroking the back of it. “I don’t... I don’t have anywhere to go back to that matters. So... what if we didn’t go back at all? We could find a place. Small. Just a couple of rooms. Portland. Boston. Maybe even Canada if you’re feeling crazy. We could figure things out. Just the two of us. What do you say, Eds?”
Eddie didn’t hesitate. He looked at the sincere, hopeful, terrified man sitting beside him—the man who had confessed his love over his dying body—and agreed instantly.
“Yes. I say yes, Rich.”
The tension that had been building between them over twenty-seven lost years, and heightened by the near-death experience, finally broke. The air in the hospital room suddenly felt too thick, too warm.
Eddie, tired of talking, tired of waiting, reached up. He pulled his good hand on the back of Richie’s neck, pulling his face down gently but firmly.
Their first kiss was hesitant, chapped, tasting faintly of the hospital’s pervasive antiseptic. It was not Hollywood-perfect. It was a messy, tearful declaration charged with the gravity of all they had almost lost. It was the absolute, unromantic, honest rightness of two souls finally finding their way home after a lifetime of exile.
They pulled apart, both breathing heavily, a goofy, relieved smile on both their faces. Richie wiped a tear from Eddie’s cheek, his eyes shining.
“We made it, Eds,” Richie whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “We actually made it.”
Eddie just nodded, unable to speak; the relief too physical, too immense. He pulled Richie closer, resting his head against the solid warmth of Richie’s chest. The hospital bed felt huge, safe, and finally, right.
They fell asleep like that, side-by-side, intertwined, finally safe from the clown, from the fear, and from the self-imposed prison of their own denial.