Richie sat up in bed and headbutted Eddie in the sternum.
"Ow," said Eddie, clutching at his chest, and that had been his actual reaction to getting impaled once, so Richie had to resist the urge to lie back down and wait for the landslide.
There were shouts from the other Losers, followed by a few new voices, but the entirety of Richie's not-inconsiderable focus was fixed on Eddie, who looked like a deer in Deadlights.
"Beep, beep, Richie."
Apparently headbutting his object of interest was too subtle for Richie, who threw himself forward in what would have been a full-body tackle, if Eddie weren't so fucking buff.
Eddie caught him, arms thrown around Richie's waist, heedless of the hospital gown and its inability to cover anything important. In the vagaries of his subconscious, Richie registered latex gloves trying to pry him off of Eddie, but eventually they gave up. Eddie's hands kept moving across Richie's back, touching the base of his neck, before turning around like a Roomba to skim down his sides. Richie even got one of those manly shoulder-pats.
"Stop crying," thought Eddie, pretty fucking hypocritically, "You're getting my sweatshirt all wet."
"Those aren't tears. I'm… spitting up. You shouldn't have patted my back so hard."
For once, Eddie didn't try to hide his laughter, and it made Richie feel more alive than the heart monitor someone had turned back on.
"Mr. Tozier, we need to—"
"Wait," said Richie, in a voice that sounded like Donald Duck having a Vietnam flashback (and it wasn't even an impression this time). "I have something to— It's important."
Eddie pulled back, and wow, Richie really had been crying.
"The Shine," thought Eddie, and Richie guessed it might have merit, since he could hear Eddie's fucking thoughts, but that wasn't the important part.
"Stan wasn't weak," he said, and he had always known that, even when he was projecting anger over his own suicidal ideation onto his dead friend, but now he knew-knew. "The letters were wrong, but Stan was wrong too. Pennywise got in his head, even over so much space, because Stan was Shinier than the rest of us." After a moment, he added, "Except maybe me. I may be a Jedi now."
Bill took a shaky step forward to hug him, Eddie and all. Then Richie was at the bottom of a veritable fumble pile, at which point the doctors finally stopped arguing over who got credit in the medical journals long enough to begin a battery of completely useless tests. At least Eddie talked them down from a biopsy.
The Losers crowded into the control room, along with Dr. Andretta, a phalanx of consulting physicians, half a dozen med students, and a couple of lawyers. The lawyers were the reason the Losers were allowed. At that point, Richie probably could have asked for a Mai Tai, and they would have brought him one in a little hospital-issued sippy cup.
He was good as new.
Shiny.
Richie laughed, and it was pretty fucking hysterical, but Dr. Andretta didn't order another test. The Losers took turns wheeling Richie back to Room 237, where Eddie joined him in bed, like they were kids again.
"I feel like a kid again," said Richie, because he was on a lot of drugs.
"I was a kid when I gave up on love, and somehow, that was all I remembered. I may not be a kid anymore but I'm still afraid of getting hurt, and you could hurt me worse than anyone. I don't care. I trust you. I love you," thought Richie, because he was on a lot of drugs.
"I love you too," thought Eddie, but then he thought, "No."
Richie's heart monitor started playing "Fell in Love with a Girl," which was both embarrassing and inaccurate.
"Shut up," said Eddie. "I love you. I was just tired of not saying it."
"Oh," said Richie, and it sounded like a Slinky going through the garbage disposal, but Eddie smiled like it was the best thing he had ever heard, the weirdo. "I love you too."
"Uh," said Bill. "What?"