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It all started on May 1993.
It was just coughing, an ugly raspy cough which made Eddie push and prod Richie away in disgust. And it started off as a normal cold, which was odd considering it was dead middle of spring but like Eddie was ever to question the nature of Richie's life choices that led him here.
By next week the coughing turned into choking, to the point Eddie actually got concerned he should be carrying a spare inhaler just for Rich. He decided to stay on the sidelines at that point, no matter how much he missed the contact.
At the end of the month, Richie disappeared from classes and Eddie was already in the habit of getting him spare notes just in case. On the odd day he did come in, his face was pale and his jokes were twice as annoying and Eddie circled back to screaming at him to keep his fucking germs away from him because Richie just laughed harder at his complaints each time.
By June he was bedridden and Eddie didn't remember the last time he saw the trashmouth.
Each time the losers met up the conversation always seemed to circle back to him because no matter how they didn't say it, they were all really fucking concerned.
Sometimes it seemed that Eddie devoted his whole life to pills and investigating every illness just so he wouldn't contract any of them. But periodically worse cough-choking with no bed rest that gave a cure didn't fit anything on his list. He was so preoccupied with staying away from Richie and all his infection-spreading air, he never had the chance to ask what was actually wrong with him. And if the losers knew, none of them ever mentioned.
At least not till the very middle of June when they all sat in the clubhouse in utter scolding and humid silence, waiting for someone to say anything so they could distract themselves from how Richie wasn't there with them.
Mike was opposite him on the swing as he often was, periodically lifting his legs and counting how long he held them up for. Stan was on the floor —apparently the only twine that mattered to him was his hair because his clothes must be covered from dirt and dust by now— and throwing a ball up and down in one hand, the other resting under his shower-capped head. Bill was twirling his thumbs, as was Ben who sat next to Bev who tapped her foot at the floor under all of them.
“I just don't get it,” Eddie started, kicking the pole attaching the hammock he laid on with no regard to the club house's structural integrity, because all he noticed was how empty the hammock felt without Richie to kick in it.
“Get what?” Ben looked at him, squinting as if his eyes got too accustomed to the darkness of the floorboards where he'd been staring.
“Why doesn't he just go to a fucking hospital? I know his mom thinks fucking herbal remedies can fix everything, but I mean she— she can't be a complete idiot. Richie just needs to go to the hospital if it's getting this fucking bad”
It seemed so obvious to Eddie, but Bill picked his head up to look at him all sympathetic and Bev trained her expression across the room to Stan, whose tennis ball now rolled across the ground.
“I don't think doctors can help him with his disease,” Ben said after a moment.
“Why not?” If Richie was terminally ill he would know, the losers wouldn't keep that from him. Sure he knew it was bad but it must have been treatable, right? “What could Richie have contracted that's so bad a hospital can't fix?”
Again, the silent fucking conversations fled the room with only eye contact that he couldn't seem to catch. Even Mike stopped swinging in his spot.
“Eddie,” Bev started, looking at him too tenderly for his liking, “Do you know what Richie has?
His legs untucked from each other inside the hammock but his arms stayed crossed, “I don't know, I thought it was like a cold or something” Because obviously he would get one in the middle of summer out of all things.
“In the summer?”
“I wouldn't put it past him” Stan butted in while getting up from the floor to instead sit cross legged.
Bill looked at him from the stool he sat on, “M—me neither. B—but it's n—not what he h—h—has”
“What? What's wrong with him then?”
Richie was notorious for smoking, never properly cleaning any wounds he mysteriously got, and Eddie even caught him eating something from the ground one time. In a fucking public park. Richie's lifestyle was the equivalent of giving a child beer to boost their immune system, so it never necessarily surprised him that Richie got ill, he was just surprised how his white blood cells could falter so much so quickly.
Bill, with utmost regard for a dramatic pause, mustered out, “H—hanahaki”
Just like the situation, Eddie's arms unravelled over his chest. He tried to sit up in the hammock despite it swaying out of his control, just to get a better look at all the others, and hopefully, whatever the fuck was going on, “The thing where you cough flowers from your throat?”
His hand grabbed back for anything to stabilise his movements while his eyes went to Mike, now prodding at the strings of the swing, “Yeah. My uncle used to have it years ago. He said it felt worse than choking on your own blood,” he looked at all of them with sorrow, “I mean, you can feel the roots grow and everything”
“Shit…” Bev looked at him with all the sympathy only she could ever convey through one word.
Mike never mentioned his uncle having hanahaki disease before, but he did definitely mention how he was alive and well.
“What the fuck, wait,” he said once the hammock stilled again, “Isn't the whole cure to just… tell the person who you like?”
“Y—yeah,” Bill bowed his head in something that must be distress, “B—but he w—w—won't tell any of us w—who it is”
“You've all spoken to him about this and I haven't?” Eddie squawked, knowing full well how he knew the others spoke to Richie while he cowered away under his mother's guide of pills and staying far away from the infected, whatever that meant. But, well, Bill just admitted to how they all spoke to Rich not with ‘get better soon!’ cards, but with ‘just tell me who you're knees deep in love with!’ and he would probably reply with something like ‘more like balls deep in love with, big Bill’ and refuse to tell any of them because he's annoying like that.
“Well you don't like germs, we didn't think you'd want to,” Ben piped up, seeing his face which must be shock stricken with unwavering betrayal.
“Y—you’re k—kinda squeamish,” Bill added.
“I'm not squeamish! I can still talk to him”
But Richie isn't even sick, not in the infectious type of way that Eddie feared. Sure there might be some blood and saliva here and there but Eddie could sacrifice a few gross things to see his best friend.
“Good,” Stan nodded at him, asserting his voice in that type of way that always makes Richie shut up, “Maybe he'll tell you more than he told us”
Bev looked at him again, the same sadness that overlooked them all still present in her expression. “He hasn't told any of us anything. I'm just worried about him”
“I—I have my s—s—suspicions”
“Me too” Mike's voice came.
“Me three” Then Stans.
What the fuck? Rich hasn't told them shit, sure, but Eddie best of all of them (maybe except Stan) knew Richie can't hold a secret for the life of him, so obviously there must be something at least one of the losers could have latched onto to suspect who the girl was.
But three? Do they want Richie to die?
“And you didn't decide to, oh, I don't know, mention this earlier?” Eddie fumed at them, still firmly held in his half-right up position on the hammock, which couldn't look very threatening.
He expected someone to say something snippy and argue that they at least tried, or how shit like that is personal, just anything he could actually hear instead of those looks again.
“I think you should go talk to him, Eddie,” Bev finally spoke up.
And normally he would ask, ask about the looks and the suspicions and the disease itself but the only thing preoccupying his mind was I need to go see that dickhead right now.
He needs to see Rich.
“You better hope this isn't contractable,” he said before running out of the club house, knowing full well it's not contractable.
It took him a mere 7 minutes to storm into Richie's house —after of course respectfully speaking to his mother because Maggie always cared about her son and he didn't want to bother her any more— and up to his room just to swing it open without regard. The words already spewing out before he could stop them, “You're a fucking idiot Rich, why can't you just—”
Then the putrid smell of blood hit him and he looked at the buckets of red soaked flowers surrounding Richie who sat pale as a ghost on his bed, leaning over another bucket like he was about to throw up his guts— or more like lungs.
“Holy fuck” He let out.
“Wassup Eds,” he rasped, too cheerfully for his state. Eddie closed the door behind himself but didn't come any closer, deathly afraid of the bloody buckets staring back at him. “Didn't think you'd want to see me. You should have warned me, then I'd get all prettied up for—” he let out a horrendous gag, ducking his head into the bucket and presumingly spitting out another set of petals.
Eddie scrunched his face in disgust, “Are you ok?” That's a stupid question, obviously Richie wasn't okay. His lungs were actively being scraped by rose nettles for fuck sake. “I mean you're clearly not but this— is bad. I mean, you're on your deathbed right now, Rich”
Eddie didn't know a lot about hanahaki, knowing it's so easily avoidable he never bothered to read too much into it. But from what he did know, it would develop over weeks to years, and right before someone died from it they'd start to cough up full flowers, buckets of blood, barely be able to breathe at all and look exactly like Richie did— about to keel over from suffocation.
“Just peachy, Eds” he somehow smiled while looking at Eddie again. Eddie would usually scoff at the nickname, but considering how Richie had blood on his crusted lips and was heaving with no sign of catching his breath, Eddie just gripped himself harder and cut to the chase.
“Rich, you're like 5 seconds away from dying. And you can fix this shit, so just fucking tell the person you're into”
“Well she's not here right now”
“Well who is she? You know I can go get her” And the other losers couldn't do this? Guess Eddie's just better.
Rich laughed, or at least tried to, and wheeze out, “Your mom—”
Then promptly choked into the bucket under him, heaving blood and flowers and— oh god could he even breathe? Could he feel the roots growing over his bronchi? Could he feel the petals sticking to the inside of his throat? Or how the metallic taste of blood seeped into his lungs from the roses digging through his organs?
Eddie gagged too, turning to scrunch his nose into his hand away from Rich, trying not to let it show, knowing full well how shitty it would make him feel. This was about him and his unrequited feelings.
Richie choked on his own blood for a couple good minutes, Eddie didn't quite know how long because he only stood there in horror and disgust and panic and— should he call his parents yet or no? Knowing full well there's absolutely nothing he could do but negotiate once Richie was able to talk again.
“Funny. Real funny,” he replied after a moment.
He coughed again, shivering lightly and probably trying to rip out the flowers blocking his airways. Eddie felt utterly useless.
“Richie, Jesus, can you even breathe?!”
Rich kept his head down, leaning against his arm which rested on the edge of the bucket. “For a matter of fact, no”
He didn't seem this bad from before Eddie came in. He was coughing up what seemed to be more full flowers now, orchids, roses, dandelions and a ton others Eddie didn't have the fortune of naming. Either way, they were all slathered in so much blood and saliva that the buckets eventually just looked like mounds of throw up. Disgusting, painful, burning throw up.
Eddie looked to the ceiling trying to avoid another gag at the thought, “Jeez Rich, just tell her already,” no telling a girl you like her could be worse than death. What's the worst she's gonna do? Kill him herself? “It's either that or you fucking die… I don't want to see you die Richie” better yet, he can't see Richie die. Not without knowing he didn't at least try. And definitely not with knowing how he died from the stupidest disease ever, because he had the cure literally on the tip of his tongue every day.
“I wo—” Another flower interrupted him, “Won't die, Eds”
“This has killed millions, idiot” It only ever recorded a couple thousand deaths, and that was often years ago when travel wasn't accessible and people fell in love with others who moved far away. But Richie didn't need to know that.
“But they're—” another spit of pettles, “a—all just losers”
“We literally are called the losers club. That's our whole name”
Richie didn't respond, instead probably more focused on trying to breathe, which was the smartest thing he's ever done in Eddie's presence.
Eddie continued, stepping a little closer, “What could be so bad about her that you're not telling anyone? Not even Stan. You've known each other from pretty much inside the womb”
“It's— just. It's bad,” his voice was raspy. Defeated. Eddie never quite knew what to do seeing Richie like that, normally used to his obnoxious personality.
But it pissed him off, because just like for the past couple months, none of this made any fucking sense. He wasn't one for pushing but he also wasn't one for seeing his friends die.
“What girl could be so bad confessing to her would be worse than fucking dying!? I know you might think this is funny but I don't want to lose you because you couldn't say three stupid fucking words to— to a girl”
“Because it's not a fucking girl—” a ray of flora cut him off again, tugging at his breath and mixing with tears in the bucket and suffocating his skin into an inflamed red, desperately grasping for anything that would help him.
All in all, Eddie could now sympathise with the lack of air because he might have forgotten how to breathe.
He doesn't know how long Rich coughed for but it must have been longer than usual, because somehow he actually had time to recompose himself and walk right up to Richie, “Holy shit, Rich—”
“I'm sorry, Eddie,” he murmured into the bucket, blurred eyes not meeting his.
“No, shit— I don't— I don't care” he softly sat down opposite Rich on the sheets (hoping and trusting to god that Mrs Tozier cleaned them recently)
Richie's grip on the duvet under him loosened, but his voice came small, “You don't?”
He now picked up his head to look back at Eddie and wiped at his face with an arm that only left slightly stained with blood. He didn't have his glasses on —which Eddie obviously noticed the second he came in because they were fucking huge— but sitting right next to him, Eddie realised how horribly pretty his eyes were. Deep and suffocating, almost like he wanted to drag Eddie in closer.
Eddie shook his head, unable to look away, before quickly adding on, “No, course not, dumbass” He tried to roll his eyes but it somehow turned into an involuntary smile.
“Oh, well I guess dying will be a little more bearable now I know my best friend doesn't hate me,” he smiled back.
“No,” Eddie's face dropped. There is no fucking way he's allowing Rich to die now. Plus, he's gotten closer than any of the other losers probably did. Suck on that. “You're not dying on my fucking watch. What guy is it?”
“I can't tell y—”
“Yes you fucking can. Not like it's Henry fucking Bowers, right?”
Rich hissed out another couple petals (dismally) onto his hand then shook his head with a sour expression.
“Right! And I know Derry is full of shit eating assholes but even if you fell for some semi-reasonable guy, maybe it would keep you from dying and… everyone finding out”
Considering how Richie was slowly suffocating from the inside out for months now, he was probably more tired than anything. But Eddie swore his voice became dreamy when looking back at him, “He's a lot more than semi-reasonable”
“There, see, so it's fine”
Richie hesitated, “What if it doesn't go away?”
“How would it not go away?”
“Like sometimes it doesn't go aw—” he tried to clear his throat, “away unless the feelings are required, and I know they aren't—” tears rose in his eyes again but it might just be because he leaned over again to scrape his body of flowers.
“Okay okay,“ Eddie said once Richie's breaths became more stable, “I mean, you can always try right?”
“My whole image is on the line here, Eds,” he barked out.
“Your whole image is being an annoying bitch”
“People love me, just ask your mom”
“Stop trying to divert the conversation, asshole! Who are you in love with?”
He noticed how Richie's hand clawed at the bed again, his face fell into a grimace and his head suddenly fell down, not into the bucket, just away from Eddie. A small murmur left his lips, which he could only tell due to how Richie's chest heaved to get the supposed words out. The voice was weak, throat probably contorting against all will at each word he spoke. And Eddie sympathised with him but for the love of god he couldn't hear a word.
“What?” Eddie leaned in, finding the movement came too naturally for him.
He glanced up, “Do I have to— god, I can't—” he heaved a full orchid out under him, which slumped down in loss despite its strong petals, “I can't say it”
And it's not that Eddie wanted to make him feel bad, of course not, but there are liters of Richie blood and spit surrounding him, which combined has about a billion germs.
So he looked Richie square in the eyes and started, “I swear to fuck if I came all the way here and sat around your bloody vomit with all the pollen and germs and on top of that I locked myself in your room to inhale the toxic fumes of your blood, and I don't get my best friend out of this I will bring you back to life and kill you myself—”
“It's you”
Wait, what?
“Wait, what?”
“It's you," he repeated, louder this time, “God you're so cute when you're pissed it pisses me off, then we're both pissed off and then we argue about it and it's literally the best part of my life. Even better than when Henry finally got locked up and we didn't need to run away from his stabby habits anymore”
So it wasn't some girl that took all of Richie's attention away from Eddie. He was, in some fucked up way, the cause of his own misery.
“I kind of— didn't expect that,” he said, not moving a muscle.
Unlike Richie, who coughed up more than an orchid this time. It sort of replicated the word vomit, and Eddie never minded flowers before, but knowing how they bloomed only in service of hurting Richie, he'd rather hear the word vomit over this any day.
Richie's hand again grabbed at the bed beside him, and biting his lip hard enough to draw his own blood, Eddie reached out to hold it. Rich held on for dear life but Eddie didn't care about the pain.
“But shit, Rich. I mean. I don't hate the idea?” It came out as more of a question. Don't blame him, because sure, wanting to date Richie didn't exactly cross his mind before. But staying with him forever and having their own apartment and adopting a dog together— that did cross his mind. And in some worlds those are mutually exclusive, but in this one they aren't.
“And you're just saying that—” he coughed into his hand which left small speckles of blood that reminded Eddie of his freckles, “because I'm dying over here?”
“No seriously, I don't hate it,” Richie will tease him about what he's going to say next for the next forever years, he knows it, but he doesn't care anymore as long as that forever years is spent with him, “I've been arguing with the idea that I'm in love with you since we were like 11 years old”
“Full of surprises, please care to elaborate good sir?” Rich smirked, still teary eyed but Eddie had a feeling it was something to do with the flowers —which have thankfully stopped coming— more than anything else.
The words somehow came easier than he expected, “I just mean— I mean I always want your attention on me and I can't stand it when you choose to hang out with someone else or talk with someone else, and I like spending time with you like a lot— probably too much for how much you annoy me. But no matter how annoying you are, somehow I want you to annoy me forever. I missed you so fucking much over the past couple months I thought my brain was going to fucking explode of boredom,” he took a breath, probably the first one since he started talking, “The others are great and all, but they're not you”
“Ooh romantic, Eds,” he wagged his eyebrows. Yeah, the flowers definitely stopped.
He scoffed, “And I'd kiss you if you didn't just spend the last couple months with a fever and fucked up lungs”
“You know you'd love it” God he was so annoying. Eddie loved him.
Feeling nice, he decided to save his lecture about how undeniably irresponsible that would be —call it a small makeshift celebration for Richie not being dead, “Gross. If you get a shower we can talk about what all this is properly,” he hesitated, "If— you want?”
“Of course I want, Eds!” His voice rose with a harsh rasp before he quickly coughed to sooth it, “I've been waiting a lifetime and a half for this”
Eddie might have too, even if he hadn't realised it.
“I'm glad you're alive, Rich”
“Glad I'm alive too. Always glad to be alive when I'm with you,” his voice turned all dreamy again, Eddie just grimaced at him.
“I know you ment that as a compliment but it just sounds like you're an active suicide risk or something”
“Please Eds, I'm just a charmer like that. It's called flirting” Eddie suddenly remembered how he had his hand still interwoven with Richie's in the sheets when he felt a weak squeeze.
“Don't fucking call me Eds” Eddie snipped before squeezing back.
“You know you love it”
Worst part is, he did, and he wanted Richie to call him that for the rest of his life.