Eddie Kaspbrak had made it one entire week without having a breakdown, and he was pretty damn proud of himself.

If he was honest he thought it would have been maybe three days tops before he came to his senses and made Richie take him back home, but it had been a week. Seven whole days of driving in that god awful hunk of metal, showering at truck stops, and eating gas station junk food. Richie had a duffel bag of clothes stuffed behind the back seat that they cycled through, all of Richie's clothes were a couple sizes too big on Eddie and very unlike his usual attire, all graphic t-shirts and denim jeans, but he found himself liking how he looked in them. (The underwear situation was… interesting, to say the least). Or maybe it was just how Richie looked at him when he put them on, he couldn't tell. Eddie would always fall asleep with the seat reclined to the static chords of the radio and Richie's voice and he would wake up to a bright sunrise and a hot cup of coffee (with milk and sugar, this time). He never saw Richie sleep, but he didn't think to ever question him about it. He didn't think to question him about a lot of things, like why he was living off a slowly depleting wad of cash in a plastic bag hidden in the glovebox, or if he actually knew where the hell they were at any point in time. He didn't think to ask about anything, because it had been the best week of his life.

Never in the seventeen years and ten months he had been alive had he felt so, well, alive. And maybe that was due to the adrenaline he got from doing something this rebellious, maybe it was the fact that his mother wasn't lecturing him about everything for once in his goddamn life, maybe his brain was going into overdrive from the nearly all-sugar diet he had been forced to switch to, and maybe it was simply the fresh country air in his lungs when the windows were rolled down, but god, he felt amazing. And Richie, wow, Richie.

Spending an entire week with someone you haven't known for very long, completely alone together, essentially trapped in a confined space, can really only go one of two ways. You will either start to despise them with every inch of your being, and the sound of their voice will irritate you to no end, and after it's over you won't be able to tolerate them ever again. Or, if it goes the other way, you'll start to fall in love with them.

And for Eddie, it was most definitely, unrelentingly, embarrassingly, the latter.

He kept catching himself staring, all starry-eyed and dreamy, at his dark-haired driver, butterflies fluttering around in his stomach, taking in the boys features both sharp and subtle, entranced by the imperfections in his skin and the cracks in his lips and the curls in his hair (he felt strange when he concentrated on his hair too long, as if it was linked to a hazy drunken memory that he couldn't quite remember no matter how hard he tried), and everything he saw he became infatuated with. Richie's free hand would often end up resting on Eddie's thigh or intertwined with his own over the centre console, and he would melt under the contact every time. And they talked about everything, both understanding there wasn't many boundaries at this point, as far as conversation went. Eddie learnt that Richie had been in an amateur rock band in high school where he played guitar and sang, fittingly called Trashmouth, that he always got at least a minor role in the school plays, and that got mostly straight A's, though his ADHD and incessant need to run his mouth gave his teachers a run for their money, and that his parents were the absolute worst and didn't much care for him at all, so he up and ran away in the middle of the night leaving nothing more than a note on the fridge. In return, Eddie told Richie about his mother and her tendency to be extremely overbearing, though to be fair it had died down significantly in the last couple of years due to her discovery of the wonders sleeping pills can do, and how he used to play baseball with Bill, and his mild obsession- er, crush on Christian Slater, and how a girl in a pharmacy had once told him that his asthma medication was not exactly real.

"She was the pharmacist's daughter, and she said that it was all fake. A gazebo, I think she said."

"Wait, what did she say?"

"I know, right! All fake. I didn't know whether to believe her or not because she was kind of a bitch, but-"

"Gazebo."

"…That's what I said, yes."

"Do you by any chance mean placebo, babe?"

"I- what?"

"Placebo, like fake medication that tricks your brain into thinking it's real. A gazebo's like a tent- podium kinda thing… Eds?"

"I've been lied to."

And when they weren't talking, Richie was singing, and Eddie appreciated this very much. A particular song would come on and Richie would stop dead in the middle of a sentence to turn up the volume and belt out the lyrics. Sometimes Eddie would sing along, if he happened to know it, but most of the time he would just put his feet up on the dashboard and close his eyes, listening contently. His voice suited him well, a little raspy and rough but still smooth and steady, it sounded like heaven to Eddie. But then again, everything about Richie Tozier seemed like heaven to Eddie.

Richie Tozier had made it one week without having a breakdown, but he felt he wasn't going to last much longer.

It took everything in him to keep it together. The last thing he wanted to do was crack in front of Eddie, because geez, Eddie was something special, and he didn't want to mess this up.

He was so anxious that he had barely slept at all, only pulling over way past midnight when his eyelids felt like they were about to collapse, and then it would only be an hour or so before he woke up and started driving again, always before sunrise, always while Eddie was still asleep. He didn't want Eddie to know how little he was sleeping, worried it would cause him to panic and feel unsafe that he was being driven by someone so sleep-deprived, so he put an extra shot of espresso in his coffee and powered through. And when he felt like he was too on edge he sang to calm himself down, or he got Eddie talking and he listened to stories and anecdotes that he would recite about his friends during the years he had been gone. This helped to distract him temporarily from his intrusive thoughts but it didn't stop them, they were still there, mocking and so loud that sometime's he wanted to scream.

But he couldn't break down. Not while he wasn't alone.

Beverly's voice was a regular visitor amongst those thoughts, repeating her last words to him over and over again like a broken record, don't do anything stupid, no fucking excuses, don't fuck this up, i'll never forgive you for it.

The words, the pressure they put him under that left him feeling nauseous and dizzy, it was driving him crazy. Because he knew he was about to do something fucking stupid.

Eddie woke up in the early hours of the morning, the eight morning since he had left home, and instantly knew something was up.

They first thing he noticed were the streetlights, as he blinked his eyes open and allowed his vision to adjust. There hadn't been streetlights on the highway. He turned his head slightly, only seeing the rooftops from his half-laying position. He sat up slowly, stretching his arms out in front of him. Now he could see the houses under the roofs, most of them looking pretty run down and old fashioned, a paint chipping off wooden tilings and torn-up chain link fences kind of deal.

He adjusted his seat forward as he looked out the window, nose crinkled in confusion.

"Rich, why are we off the highway?" he yawned, finally looking over at the boy, who he noticed looked especially rough today though he didn't mention it.

"Well good morning to you too, babe," Richie jeered, "and we're just making a short pit stop, then we'll get back to it."

"Pit stop?" Eddie repeated, raising an eyebrow.

"Mhm. Just up here, actually."

The truck slowed to a stop in front of a particularly run down house. Eddie could see beer bottles scattered across the lawn that was more weeds than grass and a torn up fly-screen door. Richie pulled on the handbrake and switched off the ignition.

"Richie, where are we?" Eddie asked cautiously, pretty sure he already knew the answer. Richie took a sharp intake of air and undid his seatbelt, avoiding Eddie's question as he reached for the door handle. Eddie grabbed his shirt sleeve.

"Rich, don't ignore me." His voice was low and stern, and Richie slumped back against the seat, turning to face him.

"We're at my- we're at my parents house. I'm just- I gotta go get a few things," Richie tried to make it sound casual but his his voice was unsteady and he could feel his hands start to shake. "Important things. Ten minutes, in and out. That's all."

Eddie didn't release his grip from Richie's shoulder. Richie swallowed hard.

"I don't know if you should," Eddie's eyes darted between Richie and the house, "It doesn't feel safe. What if your parents-"

"C'mon Eds," Richie took Eddie's hand off his shoulder to hold in his own, "they're probably passed out, they might not even be home. Anyways, I'm used to sneaking around in there," he laughed at the last part but he could see Eddie wince. He moved his free hand to Eddie's cheek and rubbed a circle with his thumb. "Just stay here. I'll be quick, okay?"

He opened the door and jumped out before Eddie could stop him and started down the driveway of the house.

"Fuck," Eddie muttered, fumbling to get his seatbelt unclipped. He clambered out onto the pavement just as Richie stepped into the threshold.

The inside of the house was arguably in worse shape than the outside. The faded floral wallpaper was peeling in several places and chipped in many others. Every surface was disorganised and dusty, more empty bottles making up most of the clutter. The carpet was matted and covered in various sizes and colours of stains.

The television was on in the living room, emitting a dull, slightly static drone, and setting flickering shadows on the walls. Richie stepped towards the archway ever so slowly, his breathing so heavy he had to clasp a hand over his mouth. He poked his head around the wall, to see a figure sat up in the recliner, their head rolled back against the top of the chair, letting out a choked snore. He exhaled in relief and started to walk down the hallway when he felt a tap on his shoulder and nearly jumped out of his skin.
"Richie, this is dumb, let's go," Eddie hissed under his breath, and Richie spun around, hands clutched to his chest.
"Jesus fucking Christ, Eds, you gave me a heart attack," he closed his eyes and tried to even out his breathing for a moment. "I told you to stay in the truck."

Eddie's eyes flicked over to the armchair and his breath hitched in his throat. Richie watched the colour fade from his face and grabbed his shoulders.

"We shouldn't be doing this Rich," he squeaked, instinctively grasping for his inhaler- which was still in the truck, "we really shouldn't be doing this."

"He's asleep, he's asleep, he's not gonna wake up," Richie's voice was hushed and pleading, moving one hand to Eddie's chin and forcing him to look at him, "Eddie, go back to the truck. Please."

Eddie shook his head, feeling Richie's hand tremble against his skin. Richie exhaled sharply out of his nose and lead Eddie down the hallway.

The room was different to the rest of the house, in the sense that it actually felt inhabited. The walls were covered in band posters and movie posters of all sorts. The bed was pushed against the far wall, covers askew on the mattress. The wooden headboard had been carved into, presumably with a pocket knife, different names and initials and whatnot. There wasn't really much in the way of material possessions, spare an obviously well-loved acoustic guitar sat on a stand in a corner and a few photo frames and aerosol deodorant cans on the dresser. It was small and comfortable and it smelled like Richie, and Eddie found himself calming down.

Richie knelt down next to the bed and pulled out a small suitcase, sliding it towards Eddie and gesturing towards the dresser.

"Just chuck as much as you can fit in there," he said, and Eddie did as he was told, unzipping the suitcase and pulling open the top drawer, fighting an urge to fold the clothes as he threw them in. Richie laid down on his stomach and tried reaching for something under the bed, stretching one arm out with a muffled groan. He retracted his arm in a huff when he couldn't reach whatever he was looking for and proceeded to manoeuvre the top half of his body under the bed frame. Eddie had nearly cleared the top drawer and had an arrangement of clothing in and around the suitcase (Richie obviously did not care for sorting his clothes and everything was just thrown in together), when his eyes caught something much more vibrant than what Eddie had expected. He held the shirt up in front of him by the collar, stifling a laugh. It was bright orange and patterned with yellow silhouetted palm trees. He spun around, holding the shirt against his chest. Richie emerged from under the bed with an 'aha!', clutching a shoebox. His hair was all dishevelled and the smile fell from his face when he saw Eddie.

"That's not mine," he sputtered as Eddie bit back a smile.

"Sure it's not," he teased, "should I pack it anyway? Are you planning on attending a luau in the near future?"

"Shut up," Richie stood up from the floor and ripped the shirt from his hands, rubbing the fabric between his fingers for a moment before dropping it onto the pile of clothes that had accumulated on the floor. Eddie stepped over and picked up the shoebox that Richie had pulled out.

"I'll save you the shock, it's all weed."

Eddie nearly snapped his neck when his head shot up, and Richie smirked as his face went white.

"Drugs," he choked out, leaving his mouth hanging open.

"No babe, weeds from the garden. Yes it's drugs," he walked over and took the box off Eddie, who snapped his mouth shut and pressed his lips into a line, "and cigarettes. And cash. Important shit."

Eddie went back to the suitcase, shoving everything in and zipping it shut, but not without a struggle, and Richie grabbed his guitar by the neck and they both headed to leave. They quietly snuck back towards the front door, tiptoeing past the living room where the television was still humming away. They threw everything in the back seat and climbed into the front. Richie smacked his forehead with the palm of his hand.

"Shit, forgot something," he mumbled, and hopped back out before Eddie could protest, "i'll be two seconds." He disappeared back into the house, and Eddie sat nervously, fingertips fidgeting in his lap.

Richie crept back to his room and across to his dresser. There were three photo frames, two were of him, Bev, Bill, and Stan back when they were kids, and one of just him and Bev. He smiled to himself, fingers tracing over their faces, before he picked them up in a stack.

"You got a lot of nerve in you, boy."

Richie felt his throat closed up instantly as he turned around. His father stood in the doorway, half-leaning against the wall, eyes glazed over and drunkenly heavy, his stare burning into Richie's skin. He was wearing jeans and a shirt that may have once been white but definitely wasn't anymore, and he was all skin and bones under his clothes. His face was hollow and sunken and creased, planted with a permanent sneer displaying crooked yellowing teeth, and his hair was dark and thin, what was still there, that is.

"Hiya Pops," Richie forced a sickly grin, his voice course and uneven, "thought I'd drop back in to see ya."

Wentworth Tozier took an unsteady step forward, raising one accusatory bony finger towards his son. Richie automatically shifted into a fighting stance, his hands hovering in front of him, prepared to make a move if he had to, and he could smell the rotten beer coming from the man's mouth even from across the room.

"I told you, if you leave, then you don't come back," he slurred, his voice low and gravelly, and Richie thought he would prefer if he was shouting. Shouting was always just shouting. It was when his voice was lowered that led to-

"And now you come back, and you steal from me," Richie felt himself shrinking with every word, despite being taller than his father, he felt like he was about to be crushed, "and you think I won't notice."

He took another unbalanced step forward and Richie's eyes went to the doorway, mentally planning out his route so he could make a run for it. The stench intensified as the source drew closer, and he felt that he might start gagging.

"You know I'd love to stay, dad, but I should probably get going now," he tried to joke but his mouth was uncomfortably dry and it came out as a ragged whisper.

"Don't be a fucking smartass, Rich," he raised a calloused hand above his head and Richie flinched, lifting his arms up to cover his face, still clutching the photo frames so hard that they were making indents in his palms. Wentworth grinned and snickered. "Fucking coward. Always have been."

Richie took the opportunity to escape, using all the strength he could to shove past, and bolted to the front door. He practically leapt off the porch, struggling to keep his footing, and stumbled hurriedly to the truck, not looking back until he had his hand on the driver side door handle. He expected his father to appear in the threshold, fuming and shooting daggers with his eyes.

But he didn't.

The house remained completely void of movement, and he stood, nearly panting, the lenses of his glasses fogging up due to tears he wasn't aware he was crying.

Eddie watched from the passenger seat, not knowing what to do, not knowing what to say, or if he should say anything at all. He chose to stay quiet.

Richie stared into the house, waiting, just waiting for something. He stood there, trembling but otherwise frozen, for what felt like hours.

Richie Tozier had made it one week without having a breakdown.

"FUCK YOU," he shouted, his voice cracked and dry and strained and terrified, "FUCK. YOU."

He collapsed on the pavement, his legs simply too weak to hold him up any longer. He dropped the frames on the ground and flung his glasses off his face, sobbing and wailing into his hands, pulling his hair as he did, hard enough to shoot pain all over his scalp. Eddie got out and rushed over to the sidewalk, and Richie grabbed onto his shirt as soon as he knelt down close enough, pulling him forward and burying his face in Eddie's chest. Eddie wrapped his arms tight around his shoulders, stroking Richie's hair, feeling the sobs wracking through his body, keeping his eyes glued on the doorway.

"I'm so fucking sorry," Richie whimpered through a shuddered breath, "I shouldn't have brought you here, I shouldn't have- FUCK-I-

"Shh, you're okay, babe, it's okay," tears were brimming in his own eyes and he felt utterly useless.

"I'm a fuckup," Eddie can feel Richie's tears soaking through his shirt and onto his skin, "I'm so stupid, fuck. I'm so fucking sorry."

Eddie didn't say anything, just pressed his face into the top of Richie's head and pulled him tighter.

Richie eventually released his death grip on Eddie's shirt collar, and picked himself up. Eddie went to get his glasses, which had landed about three feet away, and the photo frames, while Richie achingly dragged himself up into the drivers seat.

"Do you want me to drive for a while?" Eddie asked before he could close the door.

"You can drive?" Richie wiped his nose with his sleeve, eyes still red and puffy, "You've just been using me as a taxi service all this time, huh? Not cool babe," he jokes, and flashes a crooked smile.
"Do you want me to or not?" Eddie laughs, and Richie nods before hopping out and moving to the passenger side.

Eddie had to readjust the seat and mirrors and it took a few tries before the engine started but soon they were on the road again.