and will die for

10

“We got lucky, like many parts of the show, we got lucky with him. … He’s a very impressive young man, I love working with him, and I do feel — it’s very strange — I feel very fatherly and paternal toward him, and we have a laugh” -Andy

My favorite part of FFPS is that the pizzeria itself and all of the children are fake, which means that all of the lawsuits are also fake, which means Henry had to sit there typing up fake-ass lawsuits like “let’s see, you’re getting sued for… uh…. not giving enough of a fuck. god I need a drink“

2

“Uff 😥 hope I’m not too late for this meme!”

butcheleven  asked:

jules i had a bad anxiety day. will you write me something about when richie is manic and can't calm down and eddie has to lay down with him and help him feel better pls. also i love you

Richie’s hands couldn’t stop shaking.

It had been a long day, and he spent all of it thinking about how much he wanted to go home and curl up on the couch and binge-watch some stupid sword-making show. He wanted to lie in Eddie’s lap while his fingers twisted through Richie’s hair and listen to Eddie talk about his day, which he could only hope would be better than his. He wanted to walk into his apartment and hear that bright “Hey, Rich,” from inside.

He didn’t want to be outside, out in the world anymore — the world that didn’t stop spinning, that didn’t stop moving, that was way too loud when he wanted to quiet and silent when he needed the noise. He didn’t want to be overstimulated or stared at or spoken to. He wanted to be home. He wanted to feel safe again, a few hours of respite before they had to start anew.

He didn’t want to come home to an empty apartment.

When Richie opened the door to darkness, his first thought was to leave. He didn’t want to be in there alone — couldn’t be in there alone. His heartbeat was in his throat, and he was so exhausted he had half a mind to just fall onto the floor. Instead, he dropped his bag at the door, and fell onto the couch. His leg wouldn’t stop moving, though, and he still felt tense, so he got up, and circled the room a few times, trying to remember what his therapist had told him — something he couldn’t remember about breathing.

It wasn’t helping.

He didn’t want to remember the breathing exercises. He wanted Eddie. And Eddie wasn’t home — and that was some bullshit.

It was some bullshit, and it was making Richie panic — just a little, because Eddie always told him when he was going out. Especially when Richie was having a bad day or a bad week, Eddie always kept him updated, because he knew it made him feel better, feel more secure.

Richie hated an empty house, and Eddie knew that.

Richie hated not knowing when Eddie would be coming home.

Part of him hated how dependent he was on Eddie — it made him feel a little pathetic, but he’d feel worse if it wasn’t as reciprocated as it was. He needed Eddie, surely, but Eddie needed him right back.

He needed Eddie right then, though, and he wasn’t there, and that made him — panic. His hands were still shaking as he fired away a text — one, then two, then three, then six.

The door cracked open, just as Richie was gearing up to call him.

“Hey, babe, I thought you’d be home later —” Eddie called from the doorway, pulling off his boots. He didn’t have time to finish before Richie tackled him into a hug, burying his nose in Eddie’s hair.

“Where were you, Spaghetti-man?” Richie tried to ignore how his voice wavered, how transparent his attempt to sound upbeat was.

“You said you were having a bad day, so I went out to get dinner.” Eddie pulled back, his hand weaving into Richie’s hair to drag him down for a kiss. “I thought I’d be home before you, but there was a lineup. God, you didn’t even turn on a light — Rich, are you okay?”

His hands were still as he pulled Eddie in for another kiss, grazing the small of Eddie’s back, trying to steady himself with his presence. “Not really, Eds.”

“Oh. Oh, no.” Eddie frowned, stepping back and pulling his other boot off. “Okay, here’s what we’re going to do: I’ll get the food ready. You go hop in bed. Take your jacket off, Rich, you’re going to sweat to death in here. I’ll be there in a minute, and we’re going to eat some Thai and watch Forged in Fire. Sound good, sunflower?” Richie nodded blankly as Eddie kissed his cheek, arm hanging when he stepped away.

“Wait — we’re not allowed to eat in the bedroom. Strict rule, right?”

“I’ll make an exception. Just tonight, though, I’ll be a softie once, but this is it.”

Despite himself, Richie laughed. “Alright, Eds. I’ll be in the boudoir.”

He took off his jacket and shucked off his jeans, replacing them with sweatpants, still slightly warm from the morning’s load of laundry. Dropping into bed, he had to admit — this was much better than sitting on the couch in a stiff parka. Much more comfortable — and he was already feeling better, seeing the light in the other room, hearing plates clacking in the kitchen.

Eddie came in with his laptop and two plates, balanced precariously in his arms. “Food’s up.” He passed Richie his dish, and plopped down on the bed beside him, opening the laptop up.

After they ate and the plates were returned to the kitchen — through extreme protest from Richie, who insisted they wouldn’t get bugs after a night, and only with extreme willpower on Eddie’s behalf, who, regardless of bugs, didn’t want to leave the bed at any cost — Richie was finally settled, head in Eddie’s lap. Eddie’s fingers combed through his hair, scraping his scalp in the way Eddie knew Richie liked, and he talked about his day, a soft voice he reserved only for Richie, and only for days like this. The stupid sword show played in the background, but Richie wasn’t paying attention. It was only when the episode was over that Eddie looked down at Richie again. He was half-asleep, and his hands had stopped shaking.

“Hey Rich?” he said, that same bright quality that Richie loved, even through the softness.

“Yeah, Eds?” he replied, voice rough with sleep.

“You okay?”

“Yeah, Eds. I’m okay.”