8. “You’re seriously like a man-child.”
19. “You’re Satan.”
47. “Dogs don’t wear clothes!”
They got a dog—after everything, they got a dog. A big, furry thing who drooled all over herself most of the time, and she slept in bed with them despite Eddie’s initial insistence that no, Richie, she can’t sleep on the bed, there’ll be dog hair everywhere and drool all over, no, she sleeps on her own dog bed. For dogs.
But, after everything, Eddie also found he was a weak, weak man. And Richie knew all of his weak spots, new ones and old ones from their days at the Quarry and before the demonic clown. So, the dog slept in bed with them every night, curled up between he and Richie but sometimes at their feet or to one side of the bed.
Eddie doesn’t regret any of it. Not the clown, the nights spent laid up in some hospital bed (and, after, on Richie’s couch in Los Angeles because he’d always wanted to visit the west coast, and Hell if he was going back to Myra, now), none of it. In fact, he had never been happier in his life, but he would never get used to living Richie’s life. The tabloids and interviews and walking down the street and hiding from paparazzi and having people Tweet at him—seriously, technology was cool, but before he moved out here with Richie, he’d barely been active on Facebook. But, the weirdest part is, maybe, the sheer amount of mail they get shoved into the mail slot of their tiny, little apartment.
“What do we got today, Eds?” Richie asked as Eddie dug through the stack of envelopes. Richie stood over the stove, spatula in hand and shirt unbuttoned entirely. Their dog, Lola, teetered around by his feet. Her tongue hung out from the side of her mouth.
Eddie hummed. “Richie Tozier, Richie Tozier, Mr. Tozier—oh, that makes you sound almost respectable—Richie Tozier, bills, Richie Tozier, ‘To One Mr. R. Tozier.’”
“Last one sounds fancy, open it.” Richie moved for the cabinet to the left of the stove and gathered two ceramic plates from its depths. Eddie tore into the envelope and opened the letter inside.
“It’s an invite,” Eddie said after skimming the letter’s contents. “Some small award thing.”
“Plus one?” Richie asked. He dished eggs onto both plates as Eddie nodded. “Can we bring L-O-L-A Lola?” Richie ran a hand over Lola’s back, and her tail thumped against the cabinet. He cooed.
“Nope, Rich, invite says it’s a formal event. No shoes, no shirt, no service kind of deal. Sorry.” Eddie leaned over the counter and patted her on the hip. She didn’t seem to care.
“We could get her shoes and shirt. Pants, maybe, too, huh Lola? You’d look sick as Hell in a pantsuit, wouldn’t she, Eds?”
“Dogs don’t wear clothes, Richie.” Eddie rolled his eyes. “You’re seriously like a man-child sometimes.” He threw the invite in with the pile of mail laid out in front of him.
“And you’re Satan if you think our little Lola wouldn’t kick ass in a pantsuit.” Richie set the plate on the counter in front of him and slid the other to the next seat.
“We’ll see, Richie.” But they both knew what that meant—no clothes for the dog.
(They took her to the ceremony anyway because Eddie was a weak, weak man.)
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