#riptozier 002*

richie talked too much. he always had.

at fourteen he was far less willing to admit it, but even then, eddie thought it was endearing. he liked hearing richie talk. he liked what the kid had to say. he was funny -- not that eddie ever told him that. not that eddie could even put words to what he felt when richie kept going and going on one of his soliloquies, his brain working so fast it made eddie feel fluttery and weak in the knees. not that he knew. what came out as 'shut up, richie,' again and again and again, was no more than a desperate plea, because -- dear god, every word made his chest feel all weird and tight.

at forty, eddie still didn't have the right words to express himself. he still didn't have the words to explain what richie made him feel when he went off like that, talking in circles, with that pretty mouth of his curving around vowels and splitting over consonants, showing off his equally pretty teeth (-- thanks, went) as he did. but it still made his chest feel all weird and tight, and it made his heart squeeze into his throat, and his mind go utterly blank.

he stared and tried to focus -- tried to process, tried to breathe -- but richie was five minutes in to his latest ramble, and eddie (fully grown eddie, with a fully functioning, forty year old brain) could no longer even manage a fucking 'shut up.' not even a singular 'beep.'

richie was a words man. eddie was all action.

so that's what happened. eddie took action.

he reached out his hands and grabbed on to richie's stubbly face, forcing it forward so his mouth was right where eddie could get it. he pulled the man down a few inches and mid-fucking-sentence pressed his own mouth to richie's, his words turning to mumbles -- then, thank fucking god, turning to nothing more than a happy little hum. happy. fucking. happy.

that's when his brain turned back on. that's when eddie realized what he'd done, what had happened. he'd pictured it so many times before, crafted fantasies with such intricate detail that, for a split second, he was convinced this was no more than a good dream -- but it was real. it was real, and he'd --

he was kissing richie. in real life. and richie was kissing him back. and it was good. it was good, and warm, and eddie could feel his heart hammering against his ribs, thumping pathetically hard against the hand richie spread over his back. he could taste richie's tongue, feel as the press of his lips grew more eager. eddie's fingers found hair and curled into it, slipping up over richie's scalp until he could get a good handful and keep the other tangled up in his hands. their bodies got close, the heat eddie felt now doubled.

and yeah -- yeah, it worked. yeah, richie stopped talking. but once they parted, once richie pulled back and eddie could see the dumbfounded expression on his face, all he wanted was for the man to talk again, for him to tell eddie that he hadn't just massively fucked up.

but for once, richie took his time. eddie's grip softened, hands slipping down the other's neck, then to his shoulders. he breathed heavy and hard, face flushed, lungs never getting enough to calm him. every second felt like an eternity, like his entire life was hanging in the balance, like maybe he aught to turn and run away, until -- thank fuck -- that stupid fucking dipshit finally opened his trashmouth and spoke.