Or so the legend goes, anyway. Though 'fury' wasn't exactly the word Eddie would use to describe his feelings right then. It was a messy, confusing situation. He didn't quite understand what had happened even when it happened. Mostly because he had been in his room with the door open. Hearing Richie scream had given him half of a heart attack- but then the disquiet after was worse.
It swallowed him whole because it was in that moment Eddie remembered one loud, glaring piece of evidence: the garage was not sound proofed.
He scarcely remembers getting into the garage. His shaky look around. Eddie doesn't even remember when he finds Richie's glasses- only that he does. He curls his hands around them, staring down at them for God knows how long- until he realized he was crying. He rubs his face and rushes out of the garage and outside. He grabs his bike, grateful as all hell to have it back, and plows off down the sand trail. Awful hope was climbing into his throat. The reset room.
It had to be.
It had to be.
The moment Eddie's there, he clumsily sets his bike down outside and gets inside. One breath. Two. Inhale. Exhale. You can breathe just fine, Eddie. He has to remember- though the pressure was crackling all around him. Then he sees him. Sitting up against the wall like a small shell of the person who always seemed so much bigger in his eyes and a small something in Eddie crumbles up. He strides over to Richie, emotions slamming together like rams at a mountain top, and he can't figure out which he feels most keenly. The fear, the anguish, or the rage. He hadn't even noticed Georgie's jacket. Just....the absence of Richie.
Eddie comes to a short stop in front of Richie, his hands balled up on his hips. At some point he had hooked one of the arms of Richie's glasses into the collar of his own shirt, and they hung there like a piece of decoration. Eddie's breathing is wheezing and stilted, the kind that normally would have him pulling out his inhaler. He doesn't now. There are definitely tear streaks down his face, and his eyes are a little red, but he isn't breaking down. He takes in a sniffing, shaking breath. Opens his mouth. Shuts it. Opens it back up.)
How fucking dare-(His breath shudders to a stop and he covers his face with a hand, then drops it.)
no subject
Or so the legend goes, anyway. Though 'fury' wasn't exactly the word Eddie would use to describe his feelings right then. It was a messy, confusing situation. He didn't quite understand what had happened even when it happened. Mostly because he had been in his room with the door open. Hearing Richie scream had given him half of a heart attack- but then the disquiet after was worse.
It swallowed him whole because it was in that moment Eddie remembered one loud, glaring piece of evidence: the garage was not sound proofed.
He scarcely remembers getting into the garage. His shaky look around. Eddie doesn't even remember when he finds Richie's glasses- only that he does. He curls his hands around them, staring down at them for God knows how long- until he realized he was crying. He rubs his face and rushes out of the garage and outside. He grabs his bike, grateful as all hell to have it back, and plows off down the sand trail. Awful hope was climbing into his throat. The reset room.
It had to be.
It had to be.
The moment Eddie's there, he clumsily sets his bike down outside and gets inside. One breath. Two. Inhale. Exhale. You can breathe just fine, Eddie. He has to remember- though the pressure was crackling all around him. Then he sees him. Sitting up against the wall like a small shell of the person who always seemed so much bigger in his eyes and a small something in Eddie crumbles up. He strides over to Richie, emotions slamming together like rams at a mountain top, and he can't figure out which he feels most keenly. The fear, the anguish, or the rage. He hadn't even noticed Georgie's jacket. Just....the absence of Richie.
Eddie comes to a short stop in front of Richie, his hands balled up on his hips. At some point he had hooked one of the arms of Richie's glasses into the collar of his own shirt, and they hung there like a piece of decoration. Eddie's breathing is wheezing and stilted, the kind that normally would have him pulling out his inhaler. He doesn't now. There are definitely tear streaks down his face, and his eyes are a little red, but he isn't breaking down. He takes in a sniffing, shaking breath. Opens his mouth. Shuts it. Opens it back up.)
How fucking dare-(His breath shudders to a stop and he covers his face with a hand, then drops it.)
You're not- you're not supposed to- to fucking-.