(Eddie doesn't mean to laugh. Thankfully, it's a very quiet one, a soft, breathy kind of giggle that he's quick to bite down on. He keeps his teeth in his lip, looking a little goofy as children were wont to do from time to time. Adults who could admit how dumb they were were often his favorite kind of adults.
When David takes his hand, it's Eddie's first time truly seeing a grown man's hands engulf his own. He's lost in it for a second, marveling over how much bigger, how much more worn David's hands both looked and felt. Eddie gets a soft, distant look on his face.
Had his father ever held his hands like this? Maybe when he had first learned to walk and Frank Kaspbrak was helping him ease him across the floor.
Eddie feels an ache he often leaves far at the back of his mind. His father is not something he thinks about too much. The way he had looked as he died, sunken into the hospital bed, the cancer having taken almost all of him away. Eddie doesn't know what he looked like before that. At least not without pictures- but that wasn't the same.
He can feel his eyes burning suddenly, and he feels a warring of shame against desperation. His teeth grind together once, twice, and then he's breaking apart their hands in exchange for a rather abrupt motion. He steps inward and wraps his arms around David's waist, and presses his face into David's chest. He pinches his eyes shut and breathes.
One. Two. Breathe. Then all at once, he's yanking away, the shame winning out, and he scrambles for his device, but can't quite bother with it. So instead, he shoves it away, curls a fist against his chest and rotates it. The sign for sorry. And then Eddie's turning away and running out. Like nothing. Embarrassment was hot on his heels and his head felt a little too heavy and foggy. Like when the doctor gave him too much morphine. Why were adults so...Overwhelming.)
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When David takes his hand, it's Eddie's first time truly seeing a grown man's hands engulf his own. He's lost in it for a second, marveling over how much bigger, how much more worn David's hands both looked and felt. Eddie gets a soft, distant look on his face.
Had his father ever held his hands like this? Maybe when he had first learned to walk and Frank Kaspbrak was helping him ease him across the floor.
Eddie feels an ache he often leaves far at the back of his mind. His father is not something he thinks about too much. The way he had looked as he died, sunken into the hospital bed, the cancer having taken almost all of him away. Eddie doesn't know what he looked like before that. At least not without pictures- but that wasn't the same.
He can feel his eyes burning suddenly, and he feels a warring of shame against desperation. His teeth grind together once, twice, and then he's breaking apart their hands in exchange for a rather abrupt motion. He steps inward and wraps his arms around David's waist, and presses his face into David's chest. He pinches his eyes shut and breathes.
One. Two. Breathe. Then all at once, he's yanking away, the shame winning out, and he scrambles for his device, but can't quite bother with it. So instead, he shoves it away, curls a fist against his chest and rotates it. The sign for sorry. And then Eddie's turning away and running out. Like nothing. Embarrassment was hot on his heels and his head felt a little too heavy and foggy. Like when the doctor gave him too much morphine. Why were adults so...Overwhelming.)