The Exorcist still scares them. Richie, at least. And, okay, maybe "scared" isn't the right word for it. He spends a lot of the movie making fun of Linda Blair and positing that maybe behavior like moving furniture with your mind and stabbing yourself with a crucifix is just pubescent awkwardness. He insists that the hot priest the mom goes to for help looks just like Eddie, with the same cheekbones and mommy issues.

Eddie knows that's why he falls silent at the end, when the priest throws himself down the stairs and his friend tearfully comforts him, holding his bloodied hand until it goes limp.

Richie won't say anything about it afterwards, but Eddie stays with him that night without being asked, and Richie doesn't argue. Eddie just settles into the empty side of the bed and they sleep facing each other. At one point he hears Richie sniffle, so he fumbles in the dark for his hand and squeezes it. He holds on, intermittently stroking Richie's fingers with his thumb, until Richie falls asleep.

Eddie checks out of his room the next morning and they share Richie's until he's recovered enough for travel.

By the time Richie and Eddie get to Richie's house in L.A., they're so sick of Derry and that goddamn townhouse that they don't even register the jet lag at first. They're just relieved to be out of hospitals and shitty hotels and planes and airports and finally home.

Shit. Home.

This is what that means to Eddie now. The thought just popped into his head and it took him a second to realize his mind no longer goes to New York when he thinks of home. It feels a little strange when he thinks about it, but he likes where he is now. For the most part.

"I know it's not super clean right now," says Richie as they set down their bags in the front hall. "But it's got all the major conveniences. And you know the best part?"

His inflection doesn't change, but Eddie can absolutely tell he's about to say something annoying. He takes the bait anyway.

"What?"

Richie leans in to whisper in his ear. "We've got lube."

Eddie sighs and rubs his temples as Richie starts cackling.

They start getting ready for bed around nine, but only because their internal clocks are at midnight. They didn't bother discussing sleeping arrangements, Eddie just put his bags in Richie's room and they'll divvy up dresser and closet space when they unpack tomorrow.

Once Richie's washed his face and moisturized with that cream Eddie made him buy a couple weeks ago because it's basic hygiene and your skin is so dry I think it might fall off your face, he sneaks up behind Eddie while he's combing his hair and kisses his neck, making him stumble backward with a flustered laugh.

When Eddie gets his footing again and sets his comb on top of the dresser, Richie kisses his lips, which he readily returns. Without breaking, Richie falls back on the bed holding Eddie's face and licks into his mouth. Eddie reciprocates, and before he knows what's happening Richie is reaching down to take off Eddie's shirt, and he instinctively throws his hands down to stop him.

They haven't gone any further than making out yet, though not for lack of wanting. Up to now, they were able to explain it away as neither of them being comfortable buying lube in Derry. Now Eddie realizes he doesn't have much else of an excuse.

They pull away and stare at each other a moment before Eddie blinks and says, "Sorry, I…"

"No, it's fine," Richie says, shaking his head. "If you don't want to -"

"It's not that."

He gets off of Richie and they sit up.

"Have you never…?"

"Not with a - that's not the problem."

"Alright, so what is?"

"I don't…" He stares at Richie and can tell that he legitimately doesn't see what it is. Eddie huffs. "I don't want you to see me with my shirt off."

Richie scoffs. "Eds, I'm reasonably certain neither of us got as ripped as Ben did over the last twenty-odd years."

"Rich, can you really not think of any other reason I might not want you to see my chest?"

Richie's face falls. "What, because of the -" he gestures at Eddie's chest. "Whatever they're called?"

"Skin grafts."

"The skin grafts? You think I'm gonna be grossed out or something?"

"I don't know - look, it's not you."

Richie casts his eyes down. "Kind of is," he mutters.

Eddie sighs. "Sorry to disappoint."

"Jesus, Eddie." He rests his face on one hand, propping up his arm on his knee. "I don't care about that. I can live without ever seeing your dick, I'm more concerned about your reasoning."

"I think it's pretty normal to feel weird about giant scars you got from a murder attempt less than a month ago."

"It probably is, but you know, it's also normal to trust your boyfriend."

Eddie's eyes widen. "What the fuck makes you think I don't trust you?"

Richie stands up and paces back and forth next to the bed. "I don't know, maybe because back in Derry you said, 'Hey man, I have feelings for you' and I said, 'Oh dude, same' and you thought I was fucking with you? And now you think I'm gonna judge you for having surgical scars that I'm basically responsible for?" His voice cracks and he stops to face Eddie, pointing at himself and only now becoming aware of the tears welling up in his eyes.

He drops his hand and softens his face as Eddie stares at him, gaping.

"How are you -"

"I saw it happen," says Richie. "In the deadlights. I knew It was gonna get you and I didn't do shit. So yeah, maybe you do have a reason not to -"

"Don't fucking say it," Eddie says gravely. He stops for a moment before saying more calmly, "You probably just weren't processing."

Richie looks up and shakes his head. "That's not an excuse. I couldn't get off my ass to stop you from getting killed because I wasn't processing."

"That just about makes us even."

"Pretty sure what made us even was you snapping me out of it by stabbing the fucking thing. Me letting you almost die kinda reset it."

"The way I see it, it was more like me paying you back for almost letting you die by putting my life on the line."

"You didn't know you were risking your life."

"I should have."

Richie crouches down to meet his eye level. "Will you stop saying that?"

Eddie raises an eyebrow at him, and Richie sighs.

"Alright," he says as he sits back down next to him. "I see your point."

"As for... the other thing," Eddie says, slumping his shoulders slightly. "I was in my own head. You know, it took until I was forty to admit that I'm gay, and the only thing that scared me more once the fucking clown was out of the picture was -"

"Getting rejected for it," Richie says, his chest falling.

"I mean - by you, specifically."

"Yeah." He nods in a way that says The feeling's mutual.

They're silent for a moment, Richie wiping the tears that managed to escape, Eddie staring straight ahead, then at Richie's face. He pulls off his shirt and drops it on the floor. He looks down at his chest and starts to chuckle.

"That's not really anything, is it," he says, and looks back up at Richie, who's been squinting at the scars.

"Can I be honest?"

"Yeah?"

A smile breaks across Richie's face as he meets Eddie's gaze. "They're kinda hot."

Eddie snorts.

"Seriously," says Richie. "It's like you've got a past."

"Yeah, I've got a past full of putting up with your shit," Eddie says, and points to a scar in the middle of his abdomen. "This is from the time you ripped some of the siding off my house sneaking out the window in tenth grade and I had to tell my mom it was a raccoon."

Richie laughs, and Eddie reaches over to help him get his shirt off before pushing him back down onto the mattress and pressing their lips together.

"Baby," Richie says when Eddie pulls away to take off his pants. "You know you don't have to do this just to -"

Eddie kisses him hard, then says, "Call me that again."

Richie smirks. "Baby."

Eddie moves his lips against the nape of Richie's neck as he wriggles off his own pants and kicks them off the bed.

"I fucking love you," Richie whispers.

Eddie's in the middle of moving down to take off Richie's boxers and looks up at him.

"I know."