Each Other's Knowing [18+]

Brushville was alight with hub-bub, the likes of which Richie hadn’t seen since Greta got knocked up by that piano tutor a few years back. At least that had been something interesting to talk about. He didn’t understand the appeal of this one, didn’t get why everyone’s knickers were in such a twist over whoever Pastor Shannon’s replacement was.

Maggie did not share his disinterest. In fact, she was quite insistent on the Brooks being the first in town to welcome the new reverend and his wife to the community. Richie saw through it. After seventeen years of being her son, he knew that as much as Maggie Brooks might put on her good Christian airs; she didn’t care about welcoming anyone anywhere. What she cared about was making a good first impression. On being the first in town to the gossip.

He’d have no luck using the phone line tonight, that was for sure. She’d be non-stop ringing all the other housewives on their little cul-de-sac the second the pastor said his farewells to spread the word of how it went.

Painted nails snapped Richie out of his gormlessness in quick succession.

“Wha-?” he said over the blare of music, lifting a headphone away from his left ear.

“I said, will you quit it with those damn records and set out the table like you said you’d do an hour ago?” Maggie wrung her wedding ring. “Reverend Jones is gonna be here in twenty minutes.”

Richie puffed aloud. What a drag. However he did it, she’d just re-do the whole thing, anyway. He hadn’t realised he’d been down there for so long, caught up in the music, having slipped away to squeeze in a little R&R before company arrived.

“Don’t start with me, Mister.” It seemed Maggie’s patience was running a little thinner than usual. “Get your fanny upstairs—and, Lord, do something about that bird’s nest. Do not embarrass me.”

Once she turned away, headed back up the basement stairs, Richie swept a rebellious eye roll at her back. He released the propped headphone with a satisfying snap and starfished back out on the den’s rug.

He moved once the album ended, regrettably dragging himself up as the last few notes of drifted away.

The kitchen was thick with the scent of Maggie’s prided honey-glazed ham upon entering. There was a determined crease pressed firm between her pencilled brows as she mashed heavy cream into potatoes (she tended to do the mash last minute so it would be at its fluffiest.)

Richie sidled up beside her, running a thick finger along the edge of the bowl and into his mouth.

“Richie!”

“Smells good,” he said, reaching for the top cupboards where Maggie kept their good china.

She preened. It was easy to defuse her with compliments, and she was already onto wittering about her special recipe.

He found Maggie had already laid out a new table cloth out in the dining room. His game plan was to do a shoddy enough job so that he’d finally get to pass the responsibility. But then again, that had been the plan the last few times, too, and here he was again, so maybe it was time to go back to the drawing board.

His father rustled his paper from the sitting room, and Richie felt a pulse of indignation. He wasn’t a child or a woman; he was seventeen now, so why was he still being left with the busywork? When did he get to be left to his own devices like Wentworth did?

Plates deposited around the table, silverware and crystal glass to boot, Richie headed for the washroom to brush his hair. He knew Maggie was after him greasing it up and slicking it back, but Richie hated the smell and the feel. It always transported back, eight-years-old again, squirming under his Maggie’s rough hand as she scraped everything tight against his scalp for Sunday Service.

The best he’d do for her was a wet comb. He brushed off the wet spots that dripped here and there, smudging them into his shirt. He cleaned his glasses whilst he was at it, not that it did anything for Richie’s appeal, his bug eyes snapping back into view when he’d finished, front teeth peeking out. He made the conscious effort to press his lips together, would have rather avoided his reflection to begin with.

There was the temptation to slink off back to the basement until company arrived, but Richie knew better than to invoke Maggie’s wrath when she was so worked up, deciding to go bother Went instead.

“Remind me again why all of Brushville are tripping over themselves to kiss up to some guy we’ve never even met,” said Richie as he entered the living room, giving their house plant a poke in passing.

“You know why,” replied Went as he opened the next page.

“Yeah, but why do you care?”

“If it’s important to your mother, then it’s important to me,” said Went, “and it should be important to you, too.”

Richie groaned and plonked himself down onto the sofa. “I thought at least you’d be on my side for this one.”

“You’ll understand when you have a family of your own, son,” said Went, wrapping his lips back around his pipe.

A family of his own. Richie couldn’t think of anything worse, bouncing his leg and checking the time.

It dragged.

Nearby, Maggie rushed about between the table and her cooking, making all his predicted, last-minute adjustments. Richie sighed. His palms were getting sweaty now at the impending flurry of activity, the pressure on him to act accordingly. Richie had good intentions, sure, but that meant diddly squat once his trash mouth started running.

“They’re here!” his mother called, had the best vantage point of the street from the kitchen window.

In through the doorway, Maggie’s dress swept around her ankles with her brisk movement, Wentworth folding up his newspaper.

She made quick work of unhooking her pinny and smoothing down her blouse, tutting Richie’s way and rushing him to his feet. Without a word, she took abrupt handfuls of his shirt, which she went about at tucking further into his pants.

“Mom!” Richie complained, batting her away. “I can do that myself!”

“Obviously not,” retorted Maggie, already on to straightening her husband’s tie. “By the way, Reverend Jones told me earlier on the phone he’s bringing his son with him, about your age, so be nice.”

“What? Why didn’t you tell me this earlier?”

“Because if you haven’t noticed, I’ve been rushed off my feet all day,” said Maggie, just as a rapped knock came from the front door. “And if you’d come up from that cellar once in a while, maybe I’d have had the chance to tell you.”

Unfortunately, it was much too late for Richie to make a fuss, so begrudging and pouting, he snapped his mouth shut and toed the line.

They all filed into the hallway.

The Reverend, Frank Jones, wasn’t even over the threshold before Maggie had both hands fervently wrapped around his. She gushed over how eager the whole town was to welcome him and his family. He was short, half the size of Richie’s mother, let alone Richie, and such an incredibly spitting image of Anthony Perkins it was almost funny.

“Yes, we are very blessed to have been sent to such a warm community,” said Pastor Jones once he was able. “It’s wonderful to be able to finally put faces to the names. This must be your husband and son you were telling me about.”

“Oh, yes,” replied Mrs Brooks, plumping up the back of her perm. “My Went and my Richie.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Pastor.” Dr Brooks wore the same face he did for his patients as he gave a hearty handshake. “Welcome to Brushville.”

“The pleasure is all mine, Doctor,” said the reverend.

Richie had planned to keep silent, but his mother pushed him forward. Swallowing, he tried his best. “It’s nice to meet you, Pastor.”

With a kind, acknowledging nod, Reverend Jones returned the sentiment before he continued, “I’m afraid my wife was feeling a little under the weather, so she won’t be joining us this evening, but I still brought along our son, Edward. Eddie, come say hello to the Brooks.”

The pastor stepped aside and revealed a younger version of himself. Edward was soft around the edges, sparsely freckled across the nose and about his father’s height. His shirt’s collar was crisp, toned down by the cream jumper he’d pulled over the top, neat hair such a depth of brunette it was almost raven, paired well with the smudginess of his sad, brown eyes.

Then, he smiled handsomely and all the moisture in Richie’s mouth dried up.

“Nice to meet you, Dr Brooks, Mrs Brooks,” said Eddie, mild-mannered and sweet. “Please call me Eddie.”

Richie was officially checked out of the small talk. He was too focused on keeping every muscle in his face neutral, on standing sturdy before the freight train that had just hit him, on giving away nothing.

He was everything Richie had ever wanted for. Everything he had repressed to the pit of his stomach for those shameful early hours, by lamplight, pouring over his carefully kept clippings of underwear models and hating himself for it. Edward Jones was the embodiment of every deviant thought Richie had ever had.

And he was looking at him.

“I’m Richie,” he blurted, much too loudly, and felt the ripples of his mother’s stiffness beside him.

He swore he saw a flicker of something akin to amusement before Eddie was nodding along politely. “Nice to meet you.”

Please, God, thought Richie. Let the ground swallow me up. Take me to Hell and get it over with.

Soon enough, the dance of introductions was over and it was time to eat.

They all sat down together in the dining room, Eddie sliding into the chair opposite. Everything much neater than he had left it. Maggie had added a bread basket and a flower centrepiece in her bustling. Richie could only hope his allergies didn’t start up because of it.

Grace began and Richie had never been so grateful to have something socially acceptable to do with his hands. He squeezed them together tightly and counted the small blessing that Pastor Jones didn’t initiate any sort of physical union as he led it, as if Richie taking his son’s hand would somehow transfer all of his impure thoughts onto him.

It wasn’t worth the risk as far as Richie saw it.

He was so distracted he almost served himself first, long fingers already wrapped around a serving spoons when Maggie shot him one of the most chilling death glares Richie had ever experienced.

It even rivalled that time she had caught him discarding his grandmother’s jellied lamb tongues into one of the outdoor vases at her sixty-fifth birthday bash. To that day, Richie still couldn’t eat anything jello-based without retching. He guessed he should be thankful Maggie never inherited her mother’s enthusiasm for finger foods suspended in aspic.

“Pa- Pastor,” Richie tried to save it. “would you like some potatoes?”

He swore he saw his son, Eddie, smother another smile out of the corner of his eye. His blush burned brighter.

If the reverend had caught on to Richie’s blunder, he didn’t show it. “That’d be great, son. Thanks.”

Thankful for his mercy, Richie awkwardly spooned a generous serving onto the plate he gave him, still sweating under Maggie’s murderous gaze.

Pastor Jones said, “It really does smell wonderful, Margaret—may I call you, Margaret?—I can feel the love and care that has gone into this spread.”

“Of course you may.” Placated, Mrs Brooks pressed at the back of her perm again like she did during the romantic moments of her daytime soap operas Richie would pretend he didn’t like.

Dr Brooks cleared his throat. “A drink, Pastor?”

Richie’s lungs deflated as Pastor Jones took the heat off his back, jumping slightly when a second plate thrusted forward into his open palm. Attached to it, was the boy opposite him. His insides twisting at the open way Eddie smiled, Richie could no longer avoid the incoming interaction any further.

“Richie, right?” said Eddie, an almost tease bubbling under the current of his politeness. “Mind if I have some, too?”

“You sure can, partner,” replied Richie, lost to whatever his parents and the pastor were blabbering about.

“Partner?” repeated Eddie, lost.

“Yeah,” said Richie. “Like a cowboy. You know. The Wild West. Walker Texas and friends. Yee-haw land.”

Eddie’s head tilted.

Cheeks hot, Richie plopped mashed potato onto his plate. “Nevermind.”

Taking it back, Eddie’s lips briefly trembled before he calmly said, “Needs a little work, I think.”

Before Richie could reply, Mrs Brooks stole Eddie’s focus, no doubt to schmooze Pastor Jones by taking an interest in his son. Richie quietly learned through the small talk that Eddie had turned eighteen that November, that he preferred Brushville’s slower pace to New York City, and that, to Richie’s surprise, the weather was apparently a whole lot milder in Maine, too.

When quizzed on his placement at the local highschool, Eddie confirmed he would be starting there in a few days.

“Richie will help you get settled,” promised Maggie.

“Will I?” some of Richie’s natural playfulness spilled out of him before he could catch it, abruptly clearing his throat to derail his stupidity. “I meant, yes. Yes, I will.”

He offered Eddie a strained, fleeting smile. It was his best stab at being reassuring on his mother’s behalf, but he felt even stupider when he caught that glimmer of mirth in Eddie’s eyes again. Whether its intention was unkind was unreadable. Knowing teenagers their age, it probably was.

What Richie knew for sure was that, with or without his presence, Eddie was going to be just fine at Brushville High. In fact, he’d do better without him. Have a better shot at being popular, anyway. Although, Eddie being popular was a no-brainer. Handsome, normal kids like him always were. No way he was loser material like Richie and his friends.

“Of course, he will.” Mrs Brooks smiled. “Our Richie’s on his way to being valedictorian, you know.”

“Mom.” Richie cringed, able to feel the burn of Eddie’s eyes still on him. He was instinctively desperate not to be outed as the retainer-wearing dork he was, if not for one evening at least.

“We’re so very proud of him,” she spoke over Richie, fluffing at her hair again.

“And so you should be.” Pastor Jones was warmly indulgent of her thinly veiled boasting. He directed at Richie, “that’s quite a feat there, son.”

“Thanks, Pastor.” Richie was awkward, leg jiggling away under the table.

An exhale left him as the subject moved onto his father’s dental surgery, another one of Maggie’s favourite go-to’s at these sorts of gatherings.

When they moved onto the matter of the Church building’s renovations, Richie gathered the courage to sneak another little peek Eddie’s way, only to discover he was being openly stared at. Unnerved, and more than a little alarmed, Richie jankily looked away, Eddie’s doe-eyes burned fresh in his mind’s eye.

Plates emptied and cleared away, Mrs Brooks brought out dessert; her well-loved four layered trifle. If Richie hadn’t been so nervous he probably would have enjoyed it more, robotically spooning whipped cream and sugared strawberries into his mouth.

Sweets out the way, Mrs Brooks insisted the pastor have a coffee before he went off on his way home.

“Richie, why don’t you show Eddie the den?” suggested Went, doing everyone a favour by excusing the younger party from the table.

Ordinarily, Richie would have been thankful to be freed, but the idea of being trapped in an enclosed space with Eddie after all the discerning looks he’d been sending him all evening was anxiety-inducing.

This would be so much easier if he’d just been ugly like him. Richie would have even bargained with plain-looking. People their age were supposed to be acne-ridden and awkward—although maybe that was just transference on Richie’s part. Either way, throw him some kind of bone here. The stress of it all was gonna bring him out in hives.

“Actually, sir,” intoned Eddie respectfully. “I was wondering if maybe Richie would be allowed to show me the woodland behind your house before it gets too dark.”

“Ah, yes.” Pastor Jones was nodding along before Dr Brooks could voice a decision. He expanded to Richie’s parents, “Eddie has been anxious to explore the outdoors here after so long in the city—my wife has been hesitant to let him out alone, you see.”

“Oh, she has no reason to worry,” replied Mrs Brooks, also before her husband. “There’s nothing dangerous around these parts, Pastor. Richie, go take Eddie for a little walk around before it gets late.”

Something that would have had Richie groaning in irritation had never been so relief-inducing. A walk meant an excuse not to look at Eddie, plenty of space he could put between them, movement to soothe the fidgeting agitation of his legs. It was perfect. “Sure,” he agreed, nonchalant as he got up.

With a quick interlude of coats, hats and boots, he and Eddie left via the back porch.

The atmosphere was a little more breathable on Richie’s end now that there wasn’t the pressure of adults, but not by much. Eddie’s attractiveness remained incredibly distracting.

They walked side-by-side in silence for a while.

“So,” Richie re-broke the ice. “do you like The Rolling Stones?”

“I don’t tend to listen to records,” said Eddie.

“That’s a ‘no,’ then,” said Richie.

“I didn’t say that—”

“I mean, they are devil worshippers spreading the satanic agenda, after all.”

Eddie huffed a half-laugh. “Is that what your parents told you?”

“Nah,” answered Richie, the grass dewy underfoot. “They’re pretty liberal. Our homeroom teacher does, though. No doubt you’ll have a great rapport with her. You seem like the type.”

“And what’s my type exactly?” Eddie questioned back with a little more bite than Richie had been expecting.

“Oh, you know.” Richie tried to reign in the tease to his tone lest he make himself too obvious. “The type that doesn’t like rock n’ roll.”

“I never said I didn’t like it,” argued Eddie. “I just haven’t listened to enough of it to have formed an opinion. Besides, my mother has sensitive eardrums, and she doesn’t really like music in general, so we don’t really use our record player very often.”

“She doesn’t like music?” Richie circled out. “But music’s great! Your mom sounds boring as Hel—heck!”

Thankfully, Eddie took his slip up in good humour. “I promise I’m not gonna burst into flames if you curse in front of me.”

Richie’s face went hot at his overreaction. Although, just about anything Eddie did or said seemed to bleed his cheeks pink. “I just didn’t wanna offend. What with you dad and all.”

Eddie’s carefree expression receded slightly. “Just because my dad’s a pastor doesn’t make me any different from anyone else, you know.”

“I don’t believe it,” said Richie.

A pinch appeared between Eddie’s brows.

He continued, “You can’t tell me God doesn’t have some sort of Honour Roll up there, and if he does (which I think he does) you are absolutely on it. Preacher’s son? That’s, like, gotta be the equivalent of a 4.0 GPA.”

Eddie appeared surprised, but then he smiled, and Richie grinned back instinctively.

“If I were you, I’d be bragging to everyone about my brownie points.” Richie dragged out the gag to exhaustion before he remembered himself, looked away before Eddie saw something he shouldn’t. He tried to tell himself that it was the incline that caused the rapid beat of his heart. The sweat-slicken armpits and dry mouth, too.

“Has anyone ever told you you’re kinda weird?” commented Eddie.

“Only kinda?” Richie puffed himself up. “That’s actually rather generous of you. Thanks, Eds.”

Eddie let this laugh free, a clear melody Richie immediately wanted to hear again. “Eds? What is that? A Maine expression for Edward?”

“‘fraid not.” Richie said, smitten and trying his absolute best to get it under control. “Just came to mind.”

“You’re a real hoot,” said Eddie.

“Everything’s probably a hoot to the guy who has a man of God for a father.”

“Are you accusing me of not knowing how to have fun?”

“Now, now, Eds, don’t put words into my mouth that weren’t there.”

“Eddie,” he said, none-too-seriously. “My name is Eddie.”

They had reached the canopy of woods. The shade of the treetops was even sharper in the dying light, orange and red bleeding through the swaying leaves above. The earth was still fresh from the rainfall that morning, bringing out the smell of bark and decaying foliage. Winter was just around the corner.

Richie burrowed both hands into the cramped space of his jacket pockets, cheeks tingling from the cold. “We have arrived at your destination,” he said nasally. “Please mind your step whilst disengaging from the Brooks Express.”

Hating himself for every dumb word that came out spewing out without his consent, Richie felt like he was being graced by too many miracles that day as Eddie smiled along, yet to be deterred by his bizzarity like most were.

“I’ll give you some credit,” said Eddie. “The conductor is a lot better than the cowboy was—”

“Thank-you kindly, sir.”

“—but it’s still bad, though.”

“Hey!” complained Richie. “You know what? I take back my thanks back. What ever happened to love thy neighbour?”

Shaking his head, Eddie stretched to step over an exposed tree root. Being the man he was, Richie couldn’t help himself from getting an eyeful of his ass whilst he did so. Eddie glanced back over his shoulder and Richie’s lingering gaze snapped back up.

He was afraid Eddie had caught him before he said, “You really are weird.”

“I don’t think God would approve of this harassment,” said Richie, going to step over the root next, after him.

“I don’t think God approves of a lot of the things I do,” Eddie answered mildly.

Richie very nearly tripped over right onto his nose, probably would have done if Eddie hadn’t helped him catch his footing. His glasses tumbled to the ground. “Sorry!”

“That’s alright,” said Eddie as he steadied him. Calm. Much too calm.

Don’t touch, hissed in Richie’s ears, don’t touch, don’t touch, and he jerked his hands stiffly to his sides.

“Let me fetch your specs for you,” continued Eddie, already squatting.

A little shaken, Richie fumbled out a hand for them to be passed into that was ignored.

Everything was fuzzy, but Richie heard Eddie give them a blow and a polish, jumping as Eddie slotted them back onto his face for him. Sweeping eyelashes Richie hadn’t registered were the first to come into view at the intimate distance. The skin-on-skin of his touch seared Richie in all the wrong ways, sure that Eddie must be able to feel the heat throbbing through the ears he tenderly brushed. It was too close. Too personal. Too much.

Richie took an abrupt step back.

“Are you okay?” asked Eddie.

“You… that…” Richie gave a strained, hysterical squeal of a laugh. “You keep calling me weird but… That was weird.”

Eddie closed the distance between them with a jagged movement of his own. “You’re very obvious. Did you know that?”

“Wha- what?” Richie’s rabbit's heart thumped. He gulped and grinned fearfully, ear-to-ear. “What do you mean?”

Instead of expanding, Eddie’s brazen hand came forward, cupping Richie’s junk. At the sure contact, Richie wheezed and went rigid, hands flying backwards to support himself against a nearby tree.

“What the fuck are you doing?” he demanded.

“What does it look like I’m doing?” Eddie gave him an unaffected grin that popped out a pair of deep, gorgeous dimples.

“But we’re—we’re not—” Richie struggled. “This is wrong.”

“Maybe,” replied Eddie with ease. “But I like it.”

He squeezed, and the pressure was terrifyingly sweet, sending shocks of electricity down Richie’s thighs.

“And I like you.”

Frozen, the words affected Richie more than the ministrations did, twitching once, twice in his pants.

“You like me, too, don’t you?”

Richie shuddered.

“I could tell you did the moment you saw me.” Eddie cradled him with more forgiveness, sly fingers tracing circles. “I saw you and I knew. I knew you were just like me.”

“M’not.” Richie’s glasses slid down his nose, quickly fogged by his erratic breathing.

Eddie said, “Then tell me to stop. Tell me to stop and I will.”

If there was a single coherent thought in Richie’s brain, it was that he very much did not want any part of this to stop, despite his earlier, instinctive misgivings. Eddie’s hand remained on his crotch during their stalemate, but an impish smile spread out soon enough at Richie’s telling silence.

“That’s what I thought.”

He plucked Richie’s zipper between a thumb and index finger, the click of the metal sending another zap through Richie’s body. All he could do was support himself upright, the grit in the grooves of the bark getting under his nails.

The evening’s chill was even more intense on such a sensitive part of him body, Eddie’s cold hand making Richie’s toes curl up inside his shoes, barely biting back a moan from the bittersweet sting.

Heavy breaths swallowed up by the wind of the night, there was silence between them as friction warmed things up, Eddie’s smooth movement efficient. He’d done this before, Richie realised. He was much too well-practised at the awkward angle for any other explanation. The thought gave Richie tingles of arousal. He wanted to see it—wanted to be taught how.

“So this is what you meant when you said He doesn’t approve,” Richie blurted.

“Hm?” Eddie’s focus remained downward.

“G-God, I mean.” Richie gripped harder, the moss squishy against his damp palms. “Hey, do you think this is classed as saying the Lord’s name in vain?”

The returning laugh exploded out of Eddie full force. He flashed Richie a devious look. “I’m not sure. I’ll be sure to ask Him next prayer circle.”

Richie’s own laughter cut off as he tightened the hold he had on him. He had quickly become full mast in Eddie’s hand.

“As for your first question,” continued Eddie. “This is one of those things, yes.”

“One of them?” Richie’s legs were going numb.

“One of them,” confirmed Eddie, thumb pressing into him at just the right angle.

“Do you do this kind of thing a lot?” Richie squeaked his suspicions in response to the effortlessness.

A giddiness about him, Eddie paused his attention to spit a generous glob into the palm of his hand. He coated Richie’s swollen shaft with it. “Are you accusing me of being easy?” he teased.

“Mmm’kinda seems that way.” Eddie was stroking him again. It was less scary the longer they embraced, so Richie closed his eyes to really appreciate the sensation, knowing the brush safely hid them.

“If I’m easy, then what does that make you?” replied Eddie, speeding up.

“I don’t know,” groaned back Richie, lashes fluttering at the friction. “Desperate, I guess? Damn, you’re really good at this.”

“And you really are a chatterbox,” said Eddie, twisting his wrist with the movement.

Richie sucked in air. “My friends call me Trashmouth.”

“Yeah? It suits you.”

“Thanks.” He finally gathered the courage to admire Eddie’s handsome face again, too hopped up on adrenaline to stop himself from asking, “Hey, Eddie. Can I kiss you?”

Eddie’s mischievousness softened and Richie wasn’t sure what to make of it. Nevermind was on the tip of his tongue before Eddie was leaning in, Richie stooping down to make the job easier for him. Their lips slotted together, and it was better than Richie had ever fantasised of.

His first kiss.

Not really what he’d imagined, but Richie wasn’t gonna complain.

He wasn’t really sure what to do next, but it turned out he didn’t have to worry. Eddie nipped and licked in all the right places, and with the added attention to his cock, it wasn’t long before Richie’s head was swimming.

“Jesus, I’m gonna come,” he warned abruptly. The telltale pressure had hit him out of nowhere and his balls already drawing up tight against his body.

“Let me watch.” Eddie gave a final, little suck to Richie’s bottom lip before he was pumping along harder and faster, which his hips humped into desperately. Eddie angled himself so that nothing wouldn’t stain his pant leg and Richie wasn’t sure why that was so hot.

“All—right.” Richie was tipped over the edge, a skippy moan in the back of his throat as he did.

“Yeah, that’s it,” said Eddie quietly. He caught most of the ribbons between splayed fingers, but a couple blobs dripped off into the grass as the waves of Richie’s orgasm kept coming.

Overwhelmed, Richie shivered as he caught back his breath, clothes stuck to his damp skin.

“Holy-” Richie wetted his lips. “Well, that just happened.”

“Sure did, partner,” Eddie mimicked Richie’s amateurish voice from dinner.

Barking a guffaw, Richie played along, “It were mighty rootin’ tootin’, alrigh’.”

Eddie’s head tipped back with a delighted snort. “You’re a lunatic.”

“Coming from the fella who just…”

The rag trailed off as Eddie brought his sullied hand up to his face, running the tip of a languid tongue across his palm, swallowing what it caught. A hot flush went through Richie, his sensitive body exciting without his permission. He didn’t know what to make of it, but he knew he didn’t want to look away, locked in place and speechless.

Eddie smirked. Obviously he could read how affected he was, although that was no surprise after the course of the evening, moving on to suck each one of his fingers. It was like he was savouring the last little bits of grease from a good piece of fried chicken. Savouring Richie.

With an index finger, Richie hiked his glasses back up his nose and swallowed thickly.

“You should put your Johnson away,” said Eddie matter-of-factly, hand now clean. “You don’t want it to get frostbite, do you?”

Numbly, Richie realised he had yet to tuck himself away, still hanging loose through the gap in his fly. By the time he’d wrangled little Richard back into his trousers, however, Eddie had already walked away.

“Hey! Wait up!” Richie jogged after him. “Where are you going?”

“Back to the house,” said Eddie, pointing an explanatory finger up at the sky. “It’s getting late.”

Richie followed its directory. Huh. So it was.

The conversation on their trek back was desolate, but neither Richie nor Eddie made any attempt at rectifying it. Richie often leaned onto the side of chatter when he was nervous, but the processing of his first sexual encounter had quietened him, dazzled by the way Eddie didn’t seem to be in any hurry to explain himself like Richie was bursting at the seams to.

Being alone with these types of thoughts was often a dangerous and unpleasant affair for Richie, but he was struggling to find an angle to break out of it with. What did you say to the boy who had just given you a handy in the darkened woods behind your house?

The reality of what had just happened was coming back into view without the buffer of arousal. A man and a man together. No longer keyed up on the cushion of adrenaline, it was freaking Richie out. The unpleasantness behind Eddie’s words that had felt so good in the moment were seeping out. They left Richie with dozens of questions he didn’t know how to go about asking.

How did he know Richie would be so willing to his advances? In what way had Richie presented himself that had tipped Eddie off? Could he fix it? What was it that marked him as a homosexual?

If that’s even what Richie even was.

There was always the explanation of it just being experimentation. A phase. A point on a map that would be reached no matter who Richie got wild and hairy with. Just human biology, right?

It wasn’t Richie’s fault no girls wanted to befriend him. The only people interested in spending time with him were Bill and Stan. How was that his fault? Surely this itch was of out of his system now.

He side-eyed Eddie, and despite being harder to make out in the dying light, he was still awash with the same attraction from before. In fact, Richie burned brightly with the desire to return the favour. To feel Eddie’s complete body, to see—

No. Richie couldn’t be thinking this anymore. Not when they were so close to arrival.

Because soon they’d be back inside. And Richie would face his parents. Not to mention Eddie’s father. A reverend.

Anxiety squelched, thick like concrete in the pit of his stomach. The darker worries circled vultures; were they presentable? Would they be able to tell what they had done? How obvious was he? How did Eddie know?

His heart throbbed in his mouth.

By the time they reached the dreaded glow of the porch, the sun had completed its descent, scuffed out and replaced by street lamps and steamy window panes.

“Home, sweet, home!” Richie’s announcement came out an octave higher than he meant for it to. He coughed and used a thumb to hook open the screen door.

There was no room for composure, the pair walking inside and coming face-to-face with Richie’s mother.

“Oh, good, you’re back,” said Maggie. Then, with a huff, she snatched Richie’s sleeve and turned it over. She tutted. “Look at your hands! What were you doing out there?”

Plunged into his worst fears, Richie eyed them as she did, momentarily immobilised by terror of what she’d seen. There were stained blotchy with mucky greens and browns, from the peat of the tree he’d tethered himself to. His body laxed.

“It’s just moss, Mom,” he said, bracing normality with a smile and wriggling his fingers towards her face. “See?”

“Stop that.” She dipped out the way. “Get your fanny over to the sink and get them washed.”

Smirking, Richie dragged his long legs to where he’d been told. He felt better after Maggie had acted so casually. He embodied teenage aloofness as he strained to listen to how Eddie would interact next. He was afraid to meet his face once more.

“Sorry, Eddie.” Mrs Brooks’ tone shifted as she addressed their guest. “You dad’s just in the bathroom. He said you’d be getting going once you were back. Did you boys have a nice walk?”

As if butter wouldn’t melt, Eddie said, “Yes, we did. Nature certainly is one of God’s great gifts, isn’t it? So much of it around these parts.”

Charmed, Maggie smiled. “I guess we’ve become a little desensitised to it. ”

“Hey, Richie.” As Eddie involved him, Richie’s shoulders squared. “Would you like to go hiking together this weekend? Dad told me Maine’s trails are some of the best in the entire country.”

At his shameless audacity, Richie almost dropped the soap, gawping at the sink much like a fish.

No doubt having taken his silence as stalling for an excuse, Maggie jumped in, “Of course he’ll go with you, honey. The fresh air will do him some good. Richie, you can take your father’s car.”

Richie’s head whipped around at her. It took him hours of grovelling to get the damn car for so much as a Friday night, and Eddie unlocked her permission just like that, within three hours of meeting her. Eddie had bended so much to his whim in such a small amount of time that Richie was impressed. In admiration, even. Wanted that power, too.

“Shall we go after the youth group?” said Eddie.

Richie swallowed. “Youth… group?”

“Yeah,” said Eddie, sweet smile yet to leave his lips. “The Youth Ministry. You should attend, too.”

More Church? No, thank-you. Richie already got enough of that as it—

“He’ll be there.” Maggie betrayed him, positively beaming.

Arranged and confirmed by Pastor Jones once he was back from the restroom, Eddie gave his goodbyes much like he’d given his hellos, placid and neat alongside his father.

Seconds after they left, Wentworth was already back in his armchair, stuffing his pipe and clicking on the television set. Maggie, meanwhile, bustled back into the kitchen to get started on the dishes, no doubt eager to get them out the way so that she could get on the landline to the neighbours. Richie followed her without thought.

“You know what,” said Maggie, slipping on her pink rubber gloves. “I think that Eddie is going to be a really good influence on you.”

“Uh-huh.” Richie, upon realising he didn’t want to talk, turned on his heel to leave again.

“Don’t spend the whole night down there!” she called, knowing him well enough to know he was heading back for the basement. “You have school tomorrow!”

He didn’t grant a second reply.

The wooden stairwell creaked all-the-way down, and Richie returned to his records, to the clamp of his heavy headphones. He flipped through his collection, sliding the new Jefferson Airplane record out from its sleeve. Everything was exactly the same as he had left it mere hours ago, yet it felt different. Different but the same. Hard to put into words.

He got comfy in his favourite spot, rewinding time as he thought about supple hands. That pirate smile. A kitten tongue lapping up parts of Richie he’d never thought would be desirable to anyone, let alone to someone like Eddie.

Tell me to stop and I will. A grin broke through on Richie’s face, a sun behind the storm clouds, glowing at the beams of the ceiling. What a little flirt. Sunday could not come fast enough.