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I Got Stiffness in My Bones

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Eddie can't have hot chocolate with the little marshmallows. Mrs Kaspbrak says so. Richie stops actively listening about half a minute into Eddie recounting the reasons. He believes he catches the words allergic to cocoa at one point, but zones back out in disgust, attention now fully on Ben's living room television set and The Real World slowly blowing his mind. To Richie's Derry sensibilities, it looks like another galaxy, a place and a bunch of people well outside anything Derry's ever seen.

It's only a mild and temporary distraction. Richie can clearly see their reflection in the TV. Sitting on Ben's couch right behind him, Eddie has his left leg folded underneath him and his body is partially turned to the side, gesticulating wildly in Mike's general direction, but his other leg rests against Richie's right shoulder, almost but not quite straddling it where Richie's sitting on the floor leaning against the bottom of the couch. Eddie's foot doesn't touch the ground.

It still boggles Richie's mind how tiny he is. It's debatable whether he breaks five and a half feet, and that's after his most recent growth spurt at the start of the summer. His legs are snug in their knee-length runner's socks, a fresh pair he's probably put on right before hopping on his bike to Ben's house. The flowery scent of fabric softener fills Richie's nose, and he gulps down a mouthful of saliva he wasn't aware has been filling up his mouth.

Later, he's going to bike himself home and climb upstairs to his room, ignoring his mom's yelling about dinner getting cold or his rumbling stomach. With all his windows flung open and his bedroom dark, he's going to jerk himself off until his dick is a chaffed mess, nose buried in his freshly-laundered pillowcase, searching out a familiar floral scent, thankful his mom and Mrs Kaspbrak both use the same type of fabric softener.

He only startles mildly out of his thoughts when Eddie's heel suddenly kicks at the crook of his right elbow. Turning to his left to hide his sharp intake of breath, Richie watches Mike giggling, eyes fond where he's staring at Eddie. Behind him, Bev and Ben are grinning widely, while Bill and Stan are shaking their heads and rolling their eyes good-naturedly. It's difficult to be mad about missing the joke, especially when it's Eddie's, because he gets to be here, with them, Losers that they all are.

He clues in they've moved on from the subject of hot chocolate and Eddie's mom, and Richie should let it go, has no reason to bring it up again.

Instead, he snarks, "Hot chocolate is the best. We won't tell if you don't, Eds. Just don't kiss Sonia goodnight before bed and she'll never know."

He gets another heel kick for his troubles, this time intentional, but the movement must have been enough to finally shift Eddie's leg up Richie's arm and onto his shoulder. He almost misses Bev's beep beep, Richie, suddenly too breathless to focus on anything other than how the thin patch of skin covering the crook of Eddie's knee makes contact with the spot on his shoulder left uncovered by his tee in all the jostling.

It's not sweater weather yet, but it's not like they're having an unusually hot August either, therefore Richie's brain scrambles for an excuse for his mouth feeling strangely parched. He licks his lips and considers getting up and finding some sweet tea in the Hanscom kitchen fridge, or even some ice in the freezer he could chew on.

Before he can make a move, Eddie says, "I wanna read through those two older issues of Shazam! I gave you last week before curfew. God knows it'll take you half an hour just to find them in that war zone you call a bedroom."

He keeps his favourite comics at Richie's house these days, in case Sonia gets it into her head to mount another purge of Eddie's room and of Eddie's things she deems unnecessary and whatever else. Richie nods dumbly, meaning they have to leave early, before the others, which means he has to stay put just a little while longer if he wants to be, like, not completely fucking obvious. He folds his palms across his lap to hide his half-hard cock before it tents the crotch of his jeans, dimly aware of Eddie's leg sliding lower down Richie's front, the inside of his thigh making prolonged contact with Richie's exposed shoulder now. He shivers and his stomach knots up, not entirely unpleasantly.

He pretends to watch MTV for an indeterminate amount of time, willing his cock to go down. The next thing he knows, Eddie is pushing him aside to get off the couch and they're saying their goodbyes. Richie's dick is still a little hard, but it's easier to hide by this point, although it's not exactly comfortable biking himself home.

When they get to his house they're greeted by his dad waving from the garden, and his mom instantly bombards them with food once they step inside. Richie refuses dinner for the both of them, but he does ask for hot chocolate just to be a dick, willing to make it himself.

He's a little disappointed to be told they're out, and his mom leaves them in the kitchen to fend for themselves once convinced they can't be persuaded to eat real food. He snatches them some chilled homemade lemonade, the kind made with honey and which Eddie has a hard time saying no to, and glasses to pour it in, and, on a whim, a half-eaten bag of marshmallows. Eddie frowns at the pairing, but Richie grins widely and leads them upstairs.

Once inside his bedroom, both their shoes kicked off haphazardly, Eddie goes looking for his comics where he knows Richie tends to keep them for him in his bedside drawer. His mom has been inside tidying up and folding laundry and changing his sheets, so it's neater than what Eddie is used to and Richie doesn't get teased about the state of his room after all. He leaves the lemonade and the two glasses on his desk, but plops himself down at the edge of his bed with the open bag of marshmallows.

He finds they're actually nauseatingly sweet, a bit disgusting really when they're not dunked in hot chocolate or roasting on a fire, but Richie sticks two in one go into his mouth anyway, and chews obnoxiously sloppily, mouth growing needy for something other than sugar once Eddie turns around from the nightstand, comics held loosely in his hand, and stops to watch him chew.

"Jealous?" Richie mumbles.

Eddie rolls his eyes and cocks his hip and folds his arms across his chest, clearly disapproving. "That's icky. It's, like, pure sugar, you know."

"Liar," Richie manages. Obviously a lie. Like, Eddie looks hungry, as if he'd like nothing more than what he's being offered.

Richie can't help feeling smug and showing it. Pure sugar his ass. Eddie only scoffs, but places his find by Richie's bedside lamp.

He has that look now, the one that seems to say, yeah, show me what you've got. And it's not fighting fair if he expects Richie to back down, because that look is always going to get him into trouble.

Might be why he shoots back, "Want me to feed one to you, Eddie-kins? Like a baby bird?" He starts off joking, obviously out to get Eddie to make his most hilariously disgusted face, but it quickly stops sounding funny to Richie's own ears, his stomach so suddenly in knots about it he gets the urge to throw up for a swift instant.

Eddie only stares for several moments, before rounding the foot of the bed and sitting himself down by Richie's legs, who all of a sudden feels like being up the bed. No reason. Needs the space to sprawl, although he brings his feet up off the floor only to keep his legs pressed against each other. He swallows the stickiness inside his mouth, eyeing the lemonade across the room but unwilling to get up for a glass just yet, what with Eddie staring him down from two feet away.

"What's it like?" Richie has no fucking idea what he's asking.

He has to say something, though. Says, "Coats your mouth all over with sugar. Just like you said." He swallows. "Pure sugar," he adds lamely. From this close, he notices Eddie's pupils are blown dark.

Richie wants to hold him down and grind their hips together through their pants. He settles for popping another marshmallow into his mouth and holding it between his teeth at about the midpoint. Wiggles his eyebrows, more for effect than actual invitation.

He tries to say, "It won't kill you, Eds," around it, but thinks he fails at making much sense. Eddie stares him down, licks his lips consideringly and knee-walks closer to the middle of the bed before straddling Richie's hips.

Richie sweats through his shirt and waits. But Eddie doesn't make a move to bite down on the exposed bit of marshmallow, and Richie's half ends up melting in his mouth. He eats the whole thing himself. Eddie is still hovering. Then he leans down to finally taste. Richie's fingers drop the bag, and it slides off his mattress, landing somewhere on the carpet next to his bed.

The marshmallow is already making its way down Richie's throat into his stomach. Must be Eddie meant to get Richie's lips after all then. Richie isn't sure he knows anything anymore. Can't feel anything other than Eddie's mouth on his. Then he feels him pull away, and Richie is left blinking his eyes open behind his glasses, unclear about when he closed them.

Eddie's noise wrinkles adorably. In the three inches of space between their mouths he says, "You taste like your teeth are gonna rot by thirty," and Richie laughs in helpless wonder and unbridled affection at the boy in his lap, and makes a kissy face around, "You say the sweetest things," but it doesn't escape him that it only takes Eddie a couple of seconds to dive back down for another, and his heart feels like it's about to beat out of his chest.

Eddie kisses wetly, opens his mouth too widely. Richie has to calm him down, as much as he lives for the sloppy sounds their mouths are making against each other. It occurs to him it's entirely possible no one has taught him or shown him how yet. That Richie's the first ever to— The noise he makes then at that thought, at even the vague possibility, is truly embarrassing. With a new-found desperation, he palms the side of Eddie's face and beneath his jaw to tip his head to the right and lick and bite his way inside. His tongue licks at the backs of Eddie teeth, and his moan is high and vaguely distressed, even muffled as it is by Richie's mouth, as if he never expected it to feel this good.

Richie wants to take it easy, but finds that he can't. His head is full of fuzzy cotton. He presses the tip of his tongue to the soft insides of Eddie's cheeks, then touches it lightly to Eddie's own. He gets a deep-chested mewl in response and Eddie gripping at his shoulders. Between them, the frames of his glasses dig awkwardly into both their cheeks, but Richie barely spares them half a thought.

It's too hot in his bedroom. He never got around to opening even a single window. He mutters, "Lift up," and Eddie does with a confused moue. It clears up once he realises Richie's just taking his jeans off, and he visibly rushes to do the same to his own pair of shorts. Surprisingly enough, he manages to keep his place in Richie's lap throughout.

Underneath his summer shorts, Eddie is wearing tighty-whities, but so is Richie. It should be funny regardless, but all Richie can focus on is the head of Eddie's dick stretching out the fabric against an increasingly larger wet patch. He gulps helplessly and grips at the backs of his thighs to grind him down forcefully. He lays his back completely flat on his mattress for better leverage, Eddie's hands shifting from his shoulders to find purchase beneath his collarbone. He feels his legs opening wider around Richie's, muscles clenching and unclenching beneath his palms. From the corner of his eye, he gets glimpses of Eddie's toes curling in his white knee-high socks alongside Richie's calves.

On his next roll in Richie's lap helped by Richie's hands on his hips he must overbalance because he falls forwards, catching himself on his elbows either side of Richie's head. His face burrows into the side of his neck to make Richie's ears ring with the little ah ah ah noises coming out of his throat. He groans and slides his palms from Eddie's hip bones to the meat of his ass, shifting closer to his crack with each thrust of his hips, until finally his fingers edge their way either side of Eddie's hole through his underwear.

The reaction is instantaneous. The fabric of their briefs is too thin to hold in Eddie's spunk seeping through and onto Richie, the motion of Eddie's stuttering hips helping it along. He shudders in Richie's arms for several long moments after he stops grinding in his lap. Richie waits, scared shitless, eyes on his motionless ceiling fan.

Then he sees Eddie shift his right hand from beside Richie's face and feels it travelling down his torso and belly into Richie's briefs to grip at the root of his cock with thinner fingers than what Richie's used to. His own spasm in the crack of Eddie's ass, and he gets gifted with a rugged moan for his troubles. Then Eddie Kaspbrak gives him a sloppy handjob in his childhood bedroom, school projects lining his walls, his parents cheerfully going about their day downstairs.

Richie's cock is wet enough from his own pre-come that he slides smoothly through Eddie's small palm. Eddie tightens his grip right beneath the swollen cockhead on every upstroke, and Richie wants to die with how hot it makes him, more turned on and out of his mind than he's ever been in his life. Eddie's breath is now a wet huff on the side of Richie's neck, doing nothing to cool him down. Vaguely, Richie feels him hardening again against his hip and wants to scream.

He comes with a deep groan, way too loud given they're not alone in the house, but Richie could give a shit. He clings to whichever parts of Eddie he can reach, eyes closed tightly, lungs burning with how hard he's breathing in.

A part of his brain expects Eddie to jump from the bed and make his way to the bathroom and clean up. Instead, his muscles untense all at once beneath Richie's palms and he seems to fall into Richie's body almost. His weight on top of Richie is oddly comforting. His palm continues cradling the sticky mess of him even as Richie's cock goes down, sensitive where Eddie's fingers still touch him.

Richie doesn't want to ruin it. But he has to ask. "Beep beep?" Holds his breath, uncertain.

His breath refuses to come back for the few seconds it takes Eddie to sigh and answer, "Nah," and Richie finally feels his own muscle untense where they were holding themselves stiff.