❪ even the smallest of gestures, like tugging at the thread, feels as if it's zapping all of his energy. despite that, eddie wants to do anything but sleep right now. he doesn't think he can sleep, not until he sees rich and others and knows that they're okay after the fight.
he's so caught up in his thoughts that he doesn't actually realize just where the thread is leading until he hears noise and his whole body jolts. immediately a hand goes to his chest, hissing in pain but he immediately forgets it (or rather tries) in favor of looking at richie when he appears.
his heart monitor picks up, betraying whatever he might try and hide as he looks half-propped up on pillows. the last he really remembers is rich in the deadlights and then... then him covered in blood, his blood. shit. he has to swallow, wonder what he could actually say to make any of this right. if there was any way of making almost dying right. ❫
Richie... ❪ he finally says, weakly. tiredly. his voice barely getting out as he cracks something close to a smile. ❫ You look like shit, Richie.
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he's so caught up in his thoughts that he doesn't actually realize just where the thread is leading until he hears noise and his whole body jolts. immediately a hand goes to his chest, hissing in pain but he immediately forgets it (or rather tries) in favor of looking at richie when he appears.
his heart monitor picks up, betraying whatever he might try and hide as he looks half-propped up on pillows. the last he really remembers is rich in the deadlights and then... then him covered in blood, his blood. shit. he has to swallow, wonder what he could actually say to make any of this right. if there was any way of making almost dying right. ❫
Richie... ❪ he finally says, weakly. tiredly. his voice barely getting out as he cracks something close to a smile. ❫ You look like shit, Richie.