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About three things Richie was absolutely positive. First, he had a new neighbor. Second, there was a part of Richie - and a big part, too – that was into him. And third, he was unconditionally and irrevocably certain that vampires don’t exist.
🎃
So what if he’s never seen the man leave the house during the day? Their schedules probably just don’t line up. And it’s not weird that he keeps the curtains drawn all day long – maybe he’s one of those paranoid types who worry about their neighbors spying on them. Case in point, Richie often finds himself peering out of the living room window at any chance he gets, or from the upstairs window, right across from his bedroom – so it’s not like his neighbor doesn’t have a point, there.
Richie’s just curious, but it’s not his fault! A mysterious stranger shows up in the dead of the night to claim the old, gothic style house right next to his own that has been sitting empty for at least half a century, no moving truck in tow, and he’s supposed to just mind his own business? No, of course not.
His mother taught him better than that: he’s going to be a good neighbor and bake that weird hot man a pie, so he can be invited in to snoop around properly.
Everyone likes pie, especially pumpkin pie. Even with canned pulp and the pre-mixed pumpkin spice, Richie knows he can make a mean dessert. Maybe he’d crack a joke or two about whipped cream.
This neighborly spirit is what brings Richie in front of the door next door. It’s already dark despite only being six pm, the dark clouds hanging overhead not letting any sunlight pass through them, like particularly fluffy bouncers. Richie didn’t bring an umbrella, living so close, but as he rings the doorbell he really hopes it won’t start raining.
Is it rude to show up at such an hour? Maybe Mysterious Stranger is having dinner already. But then again, Richie has no way to know when, or even if he’s home, aside from the lights being on in his living room! A homemade pie will surely make up for any interruption. Who knows, maybe the man will invite Richie in to share a slice… drink some wine… one thing will lead to another, and then…
The door swings open, rotating slowly on its hinges with a perfectly cinematographic creak. Richie instinctively looks up, kind of expecting to see a Lurch sort of manservant, but he’s met with nothing but a high vaulted ceiling and the huge chandelier hanging from it. "Whoa," he says, eyes wide behind his glasses. Someone clears their throat, and that's when Richie looks down - though not that far down. "Oh! Hi! I made you a pie!" Richie says in a hurry, face turning red already. Maybe this isn't a well thought plan after all.
Mysterious Stranger is shorter than Richie, which hadn't seemed to be the case when spying him from the window. He’s wearing a black turtleneck with matching pants and a red pinstripe waistcoat that makes him look compact and sharp, like a gift-wrapped knife. His eyes are huge, and darker than any other Richie’s ever seen. They’re a deep, warm brown that Richie might describe as mahogany if he didn’t think the low light’s playing tricks on him - because no one has eyes like that. No one’s eyes are just red.
“Hm. So you have,” the Stranger says, and Richie’s stomach does a flip. “Come on in.”
He steps to the side, and Richie gets a good look at the inside of the house. It looks like a Victorian ghost decorated it, which Richie only realizes he’s said out loud when he looks down and is met with a frown.
“Oh! I don’t mean that as a bad thing,” he says quickly. Then, “Hi, I’m Richie.”
The Stranger’s smile is sharp when he repeats, “Richie.”
Richie thinks he must blush or something, because he feels a head rush as the door closes behind him.
He wakes up with a boulder for a head and feeling sick to his stomach. Richie looks around frantically, trying to make sense of his surroundings and failing - until he notices the alarm clock’s blaring red numbers, informing him to be 4AM.
Fucking hell. They must’ve drank. The last thing he remembers is going over, and Mysterious Stranger letting him in, and…
Wait, didn’t I ask his name?
He looks at himself, still clothed and on top of the bedsheets, and frowns. His throat feels like the desert, epiglottis clicking in a way that gives him the heebie-jeebies every time he swallows to try and wet it. He stands, then immediately falls back on the bed, head spinning.
Definitely been drinking.
He shambles to the bathroom, dragging a hand down his face to shield his eyes from the too bright lights above his mirror. He fills the glass he keeps on the sink with water and drains it, two, three times. When he finally feels human enough to open his eyes, he only realizes he’s still wearing his glasses because he can clearly make out the lurid red mark on his neck.
Richie blushes as he touches the - is it a hickey? What the hell happened? He shakes himself and returns to his room on wobbly legs, collapsing face down on the mattress.
“Ow!” His chin collides with something hard. His phone, as it turns out. He picks it up and sees there’s a notification from a little after midnight.
That was nice. We should do it again. Soon.
The contact info just reads “Eddie”.
Richie turns his head but the curtains are drawn and he can’t see if the lights are still on in the neighboring house. He can only assume this Eddie is the guy next door.
way to sound ominous, dude :P
Humor works. Humor’s safe. Right?
His phone chimes with a reply almost immediately.
Come for dinner. Tomorrow.
You buying? ;)
Richie texts back, heart racing. He’s feeling a way, but he isn’t sure why. It’s not like it’s a date.
Yes.
Well. The guy definitely sounds like a serial killer, but if Richie’s still kicking rather than dead in a ditch or tied up in his basement, he supposes maybe it’s just… lack of texting etiquette. Either that, or the man is overly formal – after all, he was wearing a waistcoat in his own house.
So, Richie goes.
They enter a sort of routine. A few times a week, Eddie invites Richie over for dinner. They have a nice steak and some wine – or, at least Richie does: Eddie barely seems to eat – before moving the night to Eddie’s couch, where Richie drinks some more, and then— well, then everything turns fuzzy.
Every single time.
Richie never has clear memories of what he can only assume is their canoodling, and always wakes up the following morning in his own bed, looking like he’s been mauled. He’ll find marks on his neck, his forearms, and a couple of times on his inner thighs, close enough to other areas to make him blush at the mere thought of how he must’ve gotten them. But the worst, most infuriating thing, is that he doesn’t remember a single thing. He would like to retain memories of what he’s pretty certain must be amazing sex with a handsome man, damn it!
So, Richie does the next best thing and stops accepting the wine Eddie offers him. Who knows, maybe he’s the kind of freak who’s into the nebulous consent.
Richie doesn’t remember talking about stuff like this with Eddie, but at the same time he wouldn’t turn it down, if that’s what Eddie wanted. It had to be a kink, right? Fuck, Richie had been worried he’d be too obviously gagging for it, in the beginning! There’s no way Eddie’s doing—whatever it is he’s doing out of worry that Richie wouldn’t let Eddie fuck him.
But after another couple of dinners, it became obvious that the wine wasn’t the problem.
They also texted, although not often (well, only to set up their dinners, really). Richie tries to get to know Eddie better through that, but a lot of the time Eddie either doesn’t reply or doesn’t seem interested in carrying a conversation. So, after a while Richie just assumes they’re in a friends-with-benefit sort of relationship.
Arrangement.
Thing.
And still, he’s forgetting stuff.
It’s almost as if entering that house just wipes his mind of any thoughts, but he knows it can’t be that. Not just because it’s impossible, but also because he remembers being given a tour of the place. He remembers the rooms, he remembers going to the toilet there, he remembers sitting on the kitchen counter while Eddie cooks for him. Richie considered the steaks could be the problem, but he once bought and brought them over himself, watching Eddie’s every step as he cooked them to make sure he wasn’t adding anything weird to them.
That was another strange thing. The way Eddie would cook only meat based dishes. Always, even if it wasn’t steak.
After three whole months, Richie starts finding it weird.
Hey, I was thinking, why don’t we go out? I mean, out of the house. For a coffee or something.
The reply comes quickly.
No.
Well, that doesn’t hurt or anything.
Listen, I don’t mind keeping this, like… strictly business. I know what this is, alright?
Not trying to make it more than that. Just think it’d be nice and all.
Maybe that’s showing his hand a bit, but he can’t bring himself to care.
It’s not that.
I just don’t do well in public.
Sounds fake, but okay. Richie thinks, sighs.
But, who knows, maybe Eddie isn’t lying. Maybe he’s just closeted. God knows Richie’s been there.
At least come over for dinner on Wednesday. For a change.
Let me cook and everything.
Why?
Was it really that hard to imagine?
So I can feel less like a kept boy!
Definitely showing his hand.
It takes a long time for a reply to arrive:
Fine. Wednesday.
It’s such a small thing, Richie almost feels ridiculous for feeling like a victory.
Wednesday rolls around and Eddie is standing at his threshold at six on the dot. He’s wearing a long white coat, and Richie wants to peel it off him like wrapper off a candy.
“Hey, stranger,” Richie greets him, meeting Eddie’s gaze even behind the dark round sunglasses he’s wearing.
“Richie,” Eddie nods, and Richie immediately feels a familiar swooping sensation in the pit of his stomach.
Eddie looks at him for a long moment. Richie blinks, realizing he’s waiting for an invitation.
“Come on in, no sense in catching a cold!” Richie steps aside, and Eddie enters the house. He walks stiffly, like he’s leading a marching band into his home.
The coat comes off to reveal tight fitting white slacks and a matching thick white turtleneck sweater tucked in the waistband, a black leather belt the only pop of color together with his black shoes.
Eddie hangs the coat on the hanger by the door, and tucks his sunglasses in one of the pockets. When he turns, Richie finds himself just as captivated as always by his eyes. He doesn’t even realize he’s moving closer as he tries to tell what color they are until he’s a step away from him.
He had wanted to wait until after dinner, but, well… Eddie looks too good. He can’t keep his hands to himself. He reaches forward, cups Eddie’s face and leans in, pressing their mouths together.
A hot shiver runs down his spine, only to be replaced by sheer ice when Eddie recoils back.
“What are you doing?” he asks, and Richie feels his face turn red with shame.
“Oh, what, so I’m not even good enough to kiss?”
“Kiss?” Eddie looks him up and down, like the thought had never occurred to him before now. Richie feels dumb. Well, dumb-er. Dumber than ever before.
“Yeah. Like. I don’t know what we’ve been doing, man, if you’ve been—spiking my drinks or some shit, whatever. Guess that floats your boat. But you never had to do that! You only ever had to ask,” Richie says, crossing his arms over his chest. He doesn’t miss the way Eddie’s wide reddy eyes flick down to follow the movement.
Well. I’ll be damned.
“Spiking…? No, that would alter the taste,” Eddie says simply, taking a step closer. His eyes meet Richie’s again, and he can’t help the way he blushes.
“You know there’s flavorless drugs, right?” Eddie hums, sounding almost like that’s not quite what he meant. He’s close enough that Richie feels that hum like it’s vibrating in his own chest. “I don’t even know why I’m saying that, considering you—you really could do anything to me and I’d probably only thank you.”
Something flashes in Eddie’s eyes, and his lips part to uncover pearly white teeth. They glint in the light of the foyer.
“Could?” he inquires, and Richie shivers.
I mean, haven’t you? He thinks, but nods instead.
“Can,” he amends.
Eddie’s on him in a second.
Richie isn’t being kissed, now: he’s being ravished, pushed up against the nearest wall. Eddie’s mouth presses against Richie’s own with bruising force, his teeth grazing against Richie’s lips sharply. His arms loop around Eddie’s narrow shoulders, fingers digging in the softness of his sweater, pulling him closer, closer, so he won’t leave – so Richie won’t forget, this time.
Maybe.
If he’s lucky.
“Richie,” Eddie’s voice cuts through the air, and Richie immediately feels dizzy. He feels his own name like a living thing, burrowing its way inside his brain, and his first instinct is to shake his head like a wet dog, to push it out, out.
“W-what the fuck,” he whimpers, trying to fight the feeling off.
“Hush, hush,” Eddie coos. Richie isn’t sure if that’s an attempt at soothing him, but the words only succeed in making him feel even more out of sorts.
“How-how did you…?” he starts, intending to ask about—whatever it is Eddie seems to have somehow dosed him with. “Did you inject me?”
“I didn’t do anything, Richie. You’re the one who gave me his name, so freely and willingly, upon our first meeting… and, now, you’re offering yourself to me.”
Wait. What?
“Wait, what?”
There it is again, Eddie’s razor sharp smile, wider than before as his body shakes with a chuckle. Richie can see, now, very clearly, where his teeth look more pointed than they should be.
Richie’s first thought, as he blinks at Eddie, is so ridiculous that he can only reject it.
Vampires aren’t real. Vampires aren’t real. Vampires aren’t real.
“You let me in, Richie,” Eddie says, and this time the mention of his name doesn’t make Richie feel like the whole world’s spinning on the wrong axis. “You’re giving yourself to me. Letting me do everything I want. To you.”
Vampires aren’t real, but Eddie certainly is. He’s so solid under Richie, and as he tilts his head down to mouth at Richie’s neck, his tongue cold where it licks along the line of a tendon.
“And what—what are you going to do to me?” Richie asks, his voice shaking.
“What I’ve always been doing. And… maybe something more.”
Richie feels pain blooming in his neck, and then warmth spreading from that spot. His knees turn weak and his head starts spinning, but when he hears a distinct slurping sound, his stomach drops.
Vampires aren’t real. Vampires aren’t real.
“O-oh, shit,” he whimpers, trying to break free from Eddie’s grip on him, but there’s a hand in his hair and an arm around his waist, and they both feel like a vice. “This can’t be happening. You’re not—this is real life.”
His struggling seems to bother Eddie, because he pulls away with a gasp and a wet noise. Richie turns his head to look at him.
Eddie is a spectacle, his mouth stained crimson red as Richie’s blood drips down his chin. He tries to catch it with his tongue, but it still trickles down, to his chest, painting his white sweater red, right over his heart. It might look like a flower in his lapel, from a distance, but this close Richie can see the way his blood soaks into the rich wool.
“Why not?” Eddie asks in amusement, and his eyes are absolutely, without a doubt blood red now.
“B-because you’re… you can’t be,” Richie argues weakly against reality. He refuses to say something so ridiculous out loud.
Vampires aren’t real!
“If you say so. Would’ve been nice to get the memo a long time ago,” Eddie laughs, before lapping up at Richie’s neck. “I must say, I’ve never tasted anyone quite like you.”
“That a compliment?” Richie asks, voice feeble. His heart is racing in his chest, and when Eddie covers the wound in his neck with his mouth again, it’s like he can feel every beat feeding blood into his eager mouth.
He gives a hard suck, and Riche would be ashamed of the fact he can’t even tell if he’s terrified or aroused anymore – that is, if the almost certainty that he might die right now weren’t a somewhat more pressing matter.
“Maybe,” he rasps when he pulls back again, briefly, before latching on again. Richie can hear him swallowing, and he moans.
“Are you going to kill me?”
Eddie takes another slow, luxurious suck, and Richie realizes Eddie’s grip is the only reason he’s still standing upright.
“Haven’t decided yet,” Eddie says as he pulls back again, licking his lips like he’s savoring him. “But we could come to an arrangement. It would be a waste, after all.”
“W-what kind of arrangement?”
Eddie meets his eye, looking serious.
“I’m going to keep you.”
“Like a pet to feed from?” With how scared he is, Richie has no business feeling as outraged as he does.
“Of course not! It will be like you said—you’ll be my kept boy.”
Oh.
Oh, shit. Is Eddie asking Richie to be his sugar baby?
Richie could be persuaded.
“Would I still forget things?” he asks as Eddie pushes hair out of his face, almost gently.
“Not unless you want to. No more glamor, or charms. It would be unnecessary, now, wouldn’t it? Now that I know you’re not a little rabbit that will run away in fright.” He smacks his lips together.
“Would I feel pain?” Richie asked, swallowing. His neck feels like it’s on fire, pins and needles like it’s fallen asleep.
Eddie must notice, because he leans down and laps at him again; the sensation subsides immediately, and Richie’s body loses all its tension.
“Are you in pain now?” Eddie purrs, his mouth close enough to Richie’s ear to make him shiver.
“N-no,” he answers, still gripping at Eddie’s sweater, much more weakly now. He turns his head, presses his face against the marble cold skin of Eddie’s neck. “Did we really never…?” He lets the sentence trail off, and hears Eddie huff through his nose, as if in surprise or embarrassment – or both.
“Never!” There’s a pause, and then, carefully, “Not yet, at any rate.”
Well.
Richie can definitely come around to this arrangement.
Another pause, then Eddie resumes, “I mean, I wouldn’t just—like, feeding is a thing, but other stuff—”
“But,” Richie interrupts, licking his lips. His mouth feels papery, and he realizes the sensation must’ve been dehydration all along. “It’s not ‘cause you don’t want to, right?”
Eddie pulls back, just enough that Richie can see the thunderous slope of his eyebrows.
“You think I’m the kind of person who would—?”
“Dude, I had hickeys on my thighs—”
“The femoral artery is right there—”
“—what was I supposed to think!”
“—I wouldn’t just take something you didn’t want to give—aside from blood, of course—”
“Oh, of course! So much for consent—”
“Would you just have said yes if I’d asked?” Eddie hisses, fangs bared, and Richie blinks.
“For blood?” Eddie nods. “No offense, but I think I would’ve laughed in your face,” he says, words slurring together.
Eddie snaps his teeth at him, like a turtle, and Richie finds himself giggling again.
“And if I’d asked for sex?” he asks after a beat, and Richie takes a sharp breath through his nose.
“Dude. Have you seen yourself lately? Have you seen me? You’re hot and I’m not—of course I would’ve said yes!”
“No,” Eddie says with a frown. When Richie raises an eyebrow, Eddie explains, “No, I have not ‘seen myself lately’.” A pause, and Eddie sighs like Richie is profoundly stupid. “I’m a vampire. I don’t reflect in mirrors?”
“Oh my god.” Richie dissolves into a fit of giggles, and he thinks that if this is how Eddie looks without being able to see his own reflection then, well. “Okay, so. Clearly I need to eat and feel less—drunk. No pun intended,” he adds when Eddie snorts.
He’s loopy, and he thinks he should be lucid for the conversation that they should have, about… this. Stupid sexy vampire asshole couldn’t just ask for things from the beginning, could he?
Eddie’s grip on him eases up and Eddie takes a step back, staring intently at him. Richie’s legs don’t give out, but it’s a near thing.
He brings a hand to his neck, touching the spot where he expects a wound to be, but he finds it’s already closed. Well. That's handy. He wouldn’t even know it had happened if Eddie weren’t such a messy eater.
Oh my god. Is that why he was leaving marks at all? He can’t help but wonder, and he drags a hand over his face, dislodging his glasses, to let out another incredulous giggle.
He hears a shuffling of feet, and he reaches out with his other hand to grab at nothing.
“Don’t leave. Don’t leave?”
Eddie takes Richie’s hand, presses a bloody kiss to the back of it.
“I won’t,” he vows. And then, he pulls Richie away from the wall and off to bed, to recuperate, as the world fades to black at the edge of his vision.
If all his curtains being shut tight when he wakes up in the morning bring a smile to his lips, well. Maybe he has been charmed, after all.
“Eds? I’m home!” Richie calls, the heavy front door closing behind him with a thud.
Spending most of his days with a vampire isn’t much different, Richie thinks, to living with a wild beast. Whenever Richie sees a video from one of the many animal rescuers he follows on social media, he feels like he understands them.
After all, being a vampire’s… Walking blood bag? Buffet meal? Igor?, isn’t that different from living with a lion that could rip your throat out during playtime, or a wolf that might also rip your throat out if they smell another wolf on you. Or a bear that could rip your throat out with one swipe of its claws—yeah, okay, lots of throat ripping, but Richie feels he’s justified.
Especially because, as expected, his words elicit one specific response.
“Don’t call me Eds.”
The voice comes from the top of the stairs, but in a matter of seconds Eddie is on him. Richie is used to this, now: it’s actually a welcomed part of his routine.
He would come home, Eddie would press him up against the door and bring his nose, often crinkled in distaste, to Richie’s neck, or his chest, or – in one memorable occasion – to his armpit; then he would either deem Richie fit to enter or growl at him to go take a shower.
Today is no different, and Eddie huffs his cold breath against the crook of Richie’s neck, before allowing him access to his lair.
“You know I hate that.”
Richie knows, but at the same time he has a feeling it’s no entirely true: for all of his bluster, Eddie could easily make Richie stop calling him Eds, just like he could make him do anything else he wants. But, aside from the fact Eddie has vowed never to glamor Richie again, and from it being a clause in Richie’s contract (his ‘terms and conditions of use’, as he likes to call it) that Eddie can’t mind control him if he wants to keep his service – which Eddie had agreed on solely because, according to him, hypnotized blood made him feel unpleasantly tipsy – aside from all that, Richie has a feeling that living in such close proximity to Eddie is making him immune to his glamor in the first place.
He hasn’t had a chance to prove this theory, of course, and hopefully will never need to, but it would be a nice side effect if it were true.
“Am I clear to come in, then, doc?” Richie says, even though the way Eddie huffs and moves back is already an affirmative. He wanders back from whence he came, like a lazy cat checking on potential intruders. “Have I bumped in that werewolf you seem to hate again?”
Eddie’s eyes flash red, and he hisses, both feral and feline.
“Luckily for her, no, you haven’t.”
“Phew!” Richie makes a show of wiping his brow and flicking the sweat away with a sharp movement of his wrist.
It isn’t very hot for May yet, with many rainy, windy days that make going out a real pain in the ass. Luckily, the only reason Richie has to go out nowadays is to cross the lawn to get to his own house.
It’s another thing he had insisted on, in his contract - he could keep his own place and have his spaces, as long as he didn’t leave for more than a few days in a row, because then Eddie would have to find someone else to replenish his energies, and then he would come find Richie to drag him back.
Which, Richie supposes, is fair. He’s Eddie’s meal ticket, after all, and the man makes sure he won’t ever need for anything.
Being fed on isn’t even that much of a hassle, really. There are some downsides, of course – like the fatigue and the dizziness and, one time, the fainting spells (but that one’s totally on him for thinking he could eat after Eddie was done with him, instead of before) – but mostly, now that he can remember about it… it’s not so bad.
Even the pain is manageable. Years of evolution had, apparently, made vampire’s saliva into quite the anesthetic. It feels like the sharp jab of a bee sting, hot and quick, before it subsides into some localized numbness, and then the teeth marks heal themselves. If anything, that’s what becomes a problem sometimes, because repeated bites in the same area eventually start itching like a poison ivy rash.
The other, most important part of his contract was the one Richie was never, ever going to breach. When Eddie had brought it up, his eyes serious and darkened by his frowning eyebrows, he had made it clear that it was a deal breaker.
“You can never, ever tell anyone about me. Ever. Not what I am, not where I live, not what we do. Can you keep that a secret?” He had asked, his voice shaking.
They had been sitting at Eddie’s dining room table, going over the dos and don’ts, and Richie had been stunned into silence.
“I wasn’t going to—” he had started, but Eddie had reached to take his hand across the table, never breaking eye contact.
“You can never tell anyone that I’m feeding from you. It’s crucial that no one finds out.”
Richie had nodded, thoughtfully chewing on a cuticle. He had a big mouth, but it wasn’t like he couldn’t keep his trap shut when it came to important things like that. It was just…
“What about our relationship?”
Eddie had blinked.
“What about it?”
“I mean, are we going to just be… working together?” Richie had asked, making air quotes with his fingers. “Because I’d love it if we could try and be more. Even if we can’t go on dates, I’d like for you to be my boyfriend.”
Eddie had paused for a long time, his frown deepening in a way that had made Riche’s heart sink in his chest, but then he had said,
“I have a couple of centuries on you, I doubt I could classify as your boy-anything. But…” He had linked his fingers with Richie’s, and looked away in the way he did when he was feeling shy, even if he could never blush. “I would like to try this. Boyfriend thing, as you say.”
“Yeah?” Richie had felt his face cramp up with the way he was suddenly beaming.
“Why not? I’ve been alive all this time and I’ve never had that,” Eddie had smiled back.
“What? Why not? Don’t vampires date?”
“Not humans,” Eddie had shaken his head. “The lifespan thing. Unless the human wants to be turned. And other vampires… well. Yes, and no. It depends on the rules of the coven, and my coven was pretty unconventional.”
Richie had settled in his chair, chin on a closed fist as he put on his most interested face. Eddie had rolled his eyes.
“Unconventional how? Come on, man, I know nothing about you!”
“Well, usually a coven has a few people in it. A dozen or two, depending on some factors. They’re like big families, in a way, except instead of a patriarch or matriarch there’s a sire, who usually is either the one who turned everyone else, or who turned someone, who then turned someone else, and so on.”
“Like a fucked up game of tag,” Richie had nodded sagely. Eddie hadn’t laughed. “What’s so weird about your coven, then?” he had asked again.
“Well.” Eddie had swallowed, pulling his hand back in his lap. “It was just me and Mother.”
There had been something very heavy in the way Eddie had said that, so obviously Richie had to say something dumb in return.
“Ah, well. Not many dating prospects, then, unless you wanted to marry your mom I guess.” Eddie had made a face, and Richie had whispered, “Sorry.”
“Yes, well. She was quite… protective of me, and she might still be looking for me, so.” Eddie had shrugged, but Richie had beamed in delight.
“Eddie Kaspbrak!” He had said, slapping his hand on the tabletop dramatically. “Did you run away from home like a rebellious teenager?”
Eddie had done that thing where he had looked like he would’ve blushed if he could have, and rolled his eyes again.
“Shut up,” he had said through his fangs, and Richie had giggled until Eddie had picked up his hand to kiss the back of it.
That’s something Eddie often does, gentlemanly like only someone born in the ‘90s of the ‘700s could be, and it never fails to make Riche’s insides melt a bit – even after Eddie had kissed a lot more than just his hand over the months.
“Are you feeling peckish Eddie, my love? Shall I sit naked in front of the lit fireplace to warm your dinner up?” Richie says as he shrugs his jacket off and puts it on the old-fashioned coat hanger by the door.
“I’m not hungry,” Eddie replies, turning to face him. He gives Richie a slow once over that makes his toes curl in his shoes, licks his lips, and then says, “but you could do that anyways.”
As Richie whoops and all but kicks his shoes off so he can race to the living room, neither man notices the shadow that darkens their threshold but for a moment, before slipping back into the night.