richie has a playlist titled “songs for the art of beating the meat” which eddie has always refused to open because oh my god, gross, rich, what the fuck (bill, because he is, at heart, a chaotic, was skimming through the playlist one day, eyebrows steadily raising (and if eddie was paying attention to richie, he’d have noticed richie’s blush, but he was determinedly Not Looking At The Siuation) at richie, before casually saying “so is stacy’s mom on here bc of mrs k?” and then mike had to find the spare inhaler to stop eddie from having an actual asthma attack from sputtering so hard), but one day he opens it, and just. what the fuck
“sleep on the floor” “i wanna dance with somebody” all of bruce springsteen’s born in the usa album (“i’m on fire” and “dancing in the dark” are on there twice) and a ton of sappy shit. and. at the start and end, like bookends. “eddie my love”
richie walks in on eddie lying on the floor of the dorm he shares with stanley and mike three hours later, still listening to the playlist, staring at the ceiling with his hands splayed in exasperation.
“uh. hi. you okay? thought we were going to the movies,” richie says, swallowing hard, and eddie just, like, glares up at him. he takes out one of his earbuds and hands it to richie, who eyes it warily, but accepts, flopping down and scooting close to eddie before putting it in. and then immediately freezing as the sound of “eddie my love” hits his fucking ears.
“um.” richie’s trying to think. but it’s hard. eddie’s like, right in front of him, staring at him with those blazing eyes and there’s something indecipherable about it but he doesn’t look. like. he doesn’t look like he hates richie. so there’s that
“did you seriously make a playlist about me and call it ‘the art of beating the meat’?” eddie finally asks, and. well. yes. not bc he jacks off to eddie, though! well, actually, yeah, he does that, but it’s mostly bc he never thought eddie would look at it
“uh. maybe? but like. i didn’t think you’d see it,” richie says. he’s not sure if that’s... actually any better. but there you go.
“god, you’re so fucking—” eddie cuts himself off with a huff, then stares richie in the eyes, like he’s trying to determine something, like he doesn’t already have everything about richie pegged six ways to sunday, like he doesn’t know richie to his bones, to the point where richie thinks he sometimes sees more of richie than richie himself. and richie like. wants to fidget. but he can’t move. he’s pinned by the force of eddie’s gaze
“there better not be any stacy’s mom on here,” eddie says, and he’s leaning forward, and richie, like, can’t function.
“uh, definitively not,” richie says, and it’s the last thing he gets out of his mouth before eddie closes it with his own
