#& i say most lightings because in sunlight/really bright areas my eyes dramatically get lighter

[layla-carstairs]

cc calling Alastair and Cordelia's eyes black is so :/ to me like idc that they're just a shade darker than the pupil or whatever, their eyes are still brown. you're allowed to call them brown cc, even though that's boring and dull and plain etc. Thomas standing outside in the sun like inches away from Alastair's face should be able to see that his eyes are in fact fucking brown.

[stellarbisexual]

A Memory of Love (2/?)

Summary: Richie and Eddie, who haven’t seen each other since they were kids, get cast as the lead couple in an indie film.

Canon-divergent, Reddie are in their 30s.

Previously: Chapter 1

READ ON AO3

Chapter 2: TABLE READ

When Richie arrives at Greg’s house a few short weeks later, his co-star is already sitting by the pool, just a tuft of fluffy, chestnut hair peeking out over the back of a lounge chair, one bare foot skimming the surface of the water in a hypnotic left-to-right motion.  

“Ah, there’s the love of my life!”  Richie’s booming voice disrupts the quiet, prompting Eddie to peer around the side of the chair, his mouth agape, squinting in the bright sun.

Richie’s heart lurches violently in his chest, nearly taking his breath away, to the point where he makes a mental note to pick up some Prevacid on the way home—but as Eddie unravels himself to approach, one nervous hand righting his hair and the other clutching a curled up copy of an already heavily marked-up script, Richie exes out that note.

He and Eddie didn’t connect before today.  He’d thought about it, but something held him back, maybe a desire to have this moment.

Eddie’s eyes flicker amber in the sunlight as he takes Richie in with a sweet smile.  “Hi, Richie.”

“Long time no see, Eddie Spaghetti.”  The nickname is out of his mouth before he even knows what the hell it is (like most everything else Richie ever says—and he wishes he could blame the improv background), and Eddie giggles, a high, musical thing that inspires Richie to pull him in for a tight hug.  Eddie’s still pretty tiny, his hair tickling Richie’s clavicle.

“You two know each other?”  Greg looks both perplexed and pleased.

Richie tries conjuring an image, anything, from when they were kids, but there’s that black hole again.  He holds Eddie at arm’s length, watching an elaborate cycle of emotions flit across his expressive face, feeling helpless without a key to decipher them.  “We’re both products of Shittown, USA, AKA Derry, Maine.”

“Where dreams go to die,” Eddie says without missing a beat, squinting up at Richie.

*

Richie begins the table read a little nervous and a little on his guard; despite having taken proper acting classes and doing theatre in college, this is still totally new to him, and he fully expects Eddie to make him feel out of his league, not just because Richie’s a lowly fucking comedian but because he’s never had a serious relationship with a man in his life.  He doesn’t expect Eddie to be a dick about it, but he expects him to want to take control and subtly steer him right if he goes off course, maybe even get frustrated with him from time to time.

But there’s no sign of that, at least not today.  Eddie is open and kind, complimentary, even, reassuring Richie You’re so perfect for this role when he makes his first of many self-deprecating remarks before they actually start to read.  Plus, it’s clear three pages into the script that they’re both still just seeing how the words taste in their mouths, taking the pressure off considerably.  

It never occurs to Richie that Eddie might be nervous as hell, too, but he admits just that as they drive away from Greg’s house, the sky beginning to go orange and pink.  Richie’s offered to take him back to his hotel, as Eddie’s only in town for a few days and isn’t getting a rental.

Eddie pushes a big breath out of his mouth.  “I was so fucking nervous about today.”

“You were nervous?”  Richie’s eyebrows shoot up.  “I actually puked this morning.”

“No you didn’t!”  Eddie smacks his shoulder playfully.  

“Scout’s honor,” Richie says, flashing two fingers, his smile threatening to break his face.  “Strap yourself in; the daily embarrassments of Richie Tozier have only just begun.”

Eddie stares at his profile, face naked in a way that nearly tears Richie’s eyes away from the six lanes of freeway traffic.  “I’m really excited we’re working together.” His voice is soft.

For all that Greg has expressed the director’s concern about creating enough intimacy between her two lead actors, it sure feels fucking intimate in Richie’s car right about now.

Richie resists the urge to make a joke, taking a deep breath.  “Me too.” He licks his lips, swallows. “Hey: you wanna get a drink?  I’m not ready to go home yet. Still feel buzzy, like the night after a show.”

Eddie smiles, relaxing into the passenger seat, his body still slightly angled toward Richie’s.  “Sure.”

*

Once they’re settled in at the bar, Richie takes the opportunity to look at Eddie the way he couldn’t in the car, deciding he hadn’t given his face enough credit.  Eddie’s pretty fucking gorgeous, truth be told, all big, sparkling hazel eyes and dark, elegant eyebrows. He watches Eddie’s mouth purse as he examines the drink menu, wet and pouty, and wonders hopefully if they’ll end up hooking up during filming.  

Richie has to mentally smack himself for even thinking it.   You’re here to work, you fucking idiot, so get serious for once in your life.

“I hope this is okay,” he says, gesturing vaguely at their surroundings.  He chose one of his go-to dive bars in Culver City (seems like an oxymoron with how expensive the area’s gotten) since he wanted to be able to hide.  “I know you don’t spend that much time here, so I wasn’t sure if you wanted to go to one of those chichi twenty-dollar cocktail places on Sunset just for the experience.”

“No, thanks, this is way more my speed.”

Richie orders himself a pickleback, which inspires a full-body shiver of disgust from Eddie, and Eddie orders a gimlet.  

“So,” Richie says, after shooting the whiskey, then shoots the pickle juice.  “Teach me all about method acting.”

Eddie giggles that sweet, melodic giggle again, then surprises Richie with his retort: “I thought you were going to teach me how to get on TFS.  That’s the only reason I agreed to even do this movie.”

“I still couldn’t tell you how I got on that show, so you’re out of luck there, my friend.”  Richie starts playing with the empty shot glasses, flipping them over and sliding them around on the bartop like a street performer doing a trick.  “Seriously, though. I want to know more about how you work and what you need from me, how I can help you do whatever you need to do.”

“I mean, I want this to work for the both of us, first and foremost.  And I’m not Daniel Day-Lewis; I don’t need the full enchilada. I’m not going to make you or the entire crew call me Thomas between takes or anything,” Eddie says, referring to his character in the film.  “Did Greg tell you I was this big method actor? I’m really not that crazy with it; I just take bits and pieces, whatever works for me—and I like being experimental. But I’ve worked with a lot of actors who don’t subscribe to it at all, and it’s fine.”  Eddie’s nose crinkles as he smiles at Richie’s expression. “You look disappointed. Were you hoping to try it? Because if you’re open to some of it…”

“I’m definitely open,” Richie says decisively.  “I just want to do well.” Eddie seems to perk up considerably at that, which gives Richie an odd feeling of pride.  “Let’s not talk about work anymore. How long have you been in New York?”

Eddie’s response is quick and sounds rehearsed.  “Since I was eighteen. Left my mom’s house and never looked back.”

“Shit.  Your mom.  Big lady?” Richie opens his arms wide, eyes narrowed, trying to recall her face and failing.  Eddie nods quietly. “I met her at least once, right?”

“A few times.”

Richie watches him sip generously on his gimlet.  “How much do you remember from when we were kids?  I’m getting the impression it’s way more than I do.”

Eddie studiously stares at his half-empty drink.  “Not much more than you, probably. You did tease me relentlessly; I do remember that.”

“Ugh,” Richie grimaces.  “I was such a pain in the ass then.”

“No, you meant well, I think.”  Eddie shakes his head, lifting his eyes at him in a way that threatens to give him heartburn again.  “It was cute.”

Richie inhales sharply, clearing his throat.  “You haven’t been back to Derry at all?”

“...Well.  For my mom’s funeral, back in 2010.”

“I’m so sorry.  You should’ve—.”

Eddie shrugs.  “It never changes.  Derry. It’s kind of freaky that way.  New York is changing all the time. People coming and going.”  Eddie stirs the tiny straw around his drink, though it’s down to almost just ice.  “I saw you once—in New York. You came to do stand-up.”

Richie lights up.  “What? When?”

“Uhhh.”  Eddie’s eyes drift up to the ceiling, trying in vain to read the date there.  “2008? 2009? You were at Gotham.”

Richie shudders.  “That sounds right.  The dark ages.”

“You were great,” Eddie says encouragingly, and either he’s a really good actor or he really means it.

“...Why didn’t you say hello?”

Eddie cuts his eyes at him, teasing, “Would you have remembered me, asshole?”

Richie cackles.  “Bev and I reconnected, you know, a few years back.  We hang out all the time.”

“Beverly Marsh?  Wow.”

“Yeah.  She’s in fashion and she does production design sometimes—when they pay her enough.”

“That’s really cool.”  

Eddie looks terribly fond.  Richie understands; Bev’s got a way about her.

“She remembers even less about Derry than I do.  Or so she says. But she remembers you. Was very eager to pore over your IMDb page when I told her the news.”

“My whopping five or six credits.”

“Five or six dramatic credits, at least.  My page is just TFS, a stoner movie, and a bunch of Funny or Die videos.”

“Okay, we’ve already established that we’re both feeling really insecure about this.  So here’s to being on even footing, at least.” He raises his empty glass to Richie, and Richie lifts one of his empty shot glasses from the table, not bothering to flip it upright before clinking it against Eddie’s.  Eddie motions to the bartender, then quietly asks Richie, “Do you want another?”

Richie opts for something lighter, a beer, since he’s driving, though he anticipates they’ll be here long enough that they’ll both come right back around to sober by the time they finally leave.  The conversation just has that feeling about it. He and Eddie just have that feeling about them, between them. It’s thrilling and a little scary.

Once they’re all set for drinks again, Richie leans on one of his fists.  “I’m not sure I ever had you pegged to become an actor.”

“I didn’t either; it just sort of happened.  My therapist pushed me into drama therapy when I was in college, and it was more effective than any session we’d ever had.”  Eddie rolls his shoulders, clearly trying to relax them. “I had a lot of anger to work through. Still do,” he smiles ruefully.

“So you were being method before you even knew what it was.”

Eddie’s smile turns into a sweet, generous thing.  “Yeah, you can say that. It was the best place for me to start because it wasn’t about being good; it was just about being honest.”

Richie can’t remember a time, even as a kid, when he wasn’t dead set on being good, on being funny, on being liked.

“There wasn’t really a proper audience, so the audience didn’t matter—and it still doesn’t, for me.”

Richie makes a distressed sound.  “Can’t relate, my friend. If I’m not getting a laugh, I’d rather walk into oncoming traffic.”

Eddie looks at him.  “I’ve never been funny—not intentionally, anyway—so I can’t relate to that.”

“Do you wanna—?” Richie starts impulsively, stopping to take a drink when Eddie looks at him again, all endless eyes and open mouth.

“What?”

Richie takes another drink, fortifying himself.  “I have a crazy idea. For Blue Valentine, Michelle Wiliams and Ryan Gosling lived in a house with each other for a whole month leading up to shooting, so they could be in each other’s space and learn about each other and develop a real relationship—so it would hopefully translate in their performances as this couple who’s been together for years.”  

“So I’ve heard.”  Another smile threatens the corners of Eddie’s mouth.

“...Do you have anything going on before we start rehearsals?”

“No.”

“We don’t have to do a whole month—I’m probably a nightmare to live with—”

Eddie laughs, and Richie’s heart can’t help chasing the sound, wanting more.

“But maybe a couple of weeks?  There’s plenty of room at my house.”

“Okay, easy, TFS,” Eddie teases.

Richie’s even more thrilled at this bit of playful snark.  He actually doesn’t have a comeback, or maybe he’s just too hellbent on getting Eddie’s answer.

Finally, Eddie puts him out of his misery.  “I’m just kidding. That’s a great idea.”

And that’s how it starts.  

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