sloppybitch | dumpsterfire boi.

dumpsterfire boi.

[He hit the height of his fame when he was 32 and with a fresh face and a new industry he did just about everything he could to ride the acclaim as far as it would take him. There were interviews, talk show hosts applauded his creativity, even though it wasn't his at all, to begin with. LA couldn't get enough of him, and they dressed him, toted him around, threw him on stage with a drink in his hand to do their bidding.

For the first time in a long time, Richie felt heard. Sure, they weren't his words. Not entirely, and it wasn't always his fashion but he was successful, he was appreciated and respected. His life was taking off and the shift from Maine to California was finally made worth it. The financial expenses balanced out.

Then came the partying, the cocaine, the drinking and the countless bodies around him. He stayed out all night, up with energy his body couldn't naturally supply and then bottomed out somewhere around late morning and was out for the rest of the day until the next gig, and unless he didn't show his business manager didn't even really care.

Richie was quickly making a name for himself as Hollywood's life of the party and pictures of him drinking from four different bottles of alcohol and standing on tables were soon thereafter published in whatever magazines and papers would take them. There were some in which he looked strung out, taken by the paparazzi when he was mostly sober. Of course, they exaggerated everything but in this case, it wasn't far from the truth. Pictures of him almost unconscious on club sofas, the things of media acclaim and someone watching you wherever you went. Richie was chasing a feeling of exhilaration and belonging that he didn't know he'd ever had.

The bad press played directly into the attendance of his shows and when he moved from clubs to amphitheaters his problems got worse. He moved from psychotropics to cocaine, mixed medicine, and so more photos surfaced and the slew of Trashmouth fanatics and naysayers grew and doubled with each unfortunate event.]

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I think maybe you have.

(But they wouldn't talk about that right now. He skips around on Netflix for a while, sighing loudly because Netflix was always so hard to pick anything out on. He settles for Grease just because it was easy and he liked the music.)

Please know that if you pass out on me I'm definitely not strong enough to pick you up and carry you to bed.

What do you mean?

[At his core, Richie still feels like the same guy and he doesn't think that there's so much difference between them that it's worth pointing out. Grease was an old favorite, especially the cars and he can remember singing the lyrics with Eddie in his room more than once as a kid.]

I think you're stronger than you look.

[He always was, but Richie couldn't make promises he wouldn't keep. Not to Eddie and it was a real possibility that he'd fall asleep.]

With new pistons, plugs, and shocks I can get off my rocks. Go grease lightning.

[And some things can't be helped. He still loved the songs just as much.]

Dude. The most you ever did back home was like. Smoke cigarettes and maybe score some shitty beer at some parties.

(He knew that growing up meant drinking harder things and developing different habits, but not to the extent of constantly passing out in public and other things. Most people who wound up like that usually weren't in the best mind frame.

He's blushing and looking away from Richie and towards the screen.)

You always said that. (Eddie mumbles as much.) And you're still wrong.

Yeah, and now I do everything but the kitchen sink. What's your point?

[Richie doesn't mean it to be rude, his tone is gentle, but even as a kid- he'd had friends, he'd had people he could count on and whatever feeling he was chasing, he hadn't known it'd been missing until Eddie walked through the door.

No, he didn't do heroin. Or Meth. Or anything harder than some E-tabs and Coke but that was enough and most nights passing out black was preferable to being alone all night with himself.

He's looking down, meeting the screen halfway and it's clear that while he wants to be present for the conversation he's on the road to falling asleep.]

I think you want me to be wrong, Eddie. Because you've always been so- for me you were.

[Richie joined to halves of two sentences he'd half-said in his head and sure, it made sense to him. It would. Eddie had so much power over him when he was a kid, sometimes it felt like Eddie was the one commanding the whole situation. Sometimes it was.

Riche doesn't think too hard about it, because when he tries to he gets nervous, jittery, and he doesn't want to be that. So, against his word, he does fall asleep. He's not on top of Eddie, no, but his cheek is on his shoulder. Should he decide to occupy his bed he'll find the room unreasonably clean. The bed made, and no paraphernalia insight. His bathroom is just as clean. It's clear that despite his outward appearance some things remained true of him. Inordinately neat despite the messy attitude.]

That's my point. God Richie-

(His voice climbs, but then he's stopping as soon as it does. He exhales loudly and decides that this still really wasn't the time for it. Eddie's quiet after that, and maybe even more so after Richie's comment about him not wanting to be strong. Richie wasn't wrong is the thing. Eddie was comfortable with living his willfully protected life.

Eddie lets Richie fall asleep. It's sweet, honestly, and reminds him of all the times they had done this as kids. Richie always fell asleep first, and soon, Eddie was asleep with him, his cheek resting on his head. He didn't bother getting up, and really, he wouldn't of thought to go to Richie's bedroom anyway.

Come morning though Eddie does wake before Richie and he eases out of him. He finds a new toothbrush somewhere in Richie's bathroom and uses it before wandering out to the kitchen to start making some eggs. He wasn't too sure if Richie took them the same way as he used to but he supposed he'd find out.)

[When Richie does come to it's with a churning groan and his legs are up on the couch his hands rocketing forward onto the coffee table, proportionally unaware and gravity betraying him. He'd left his glasses on too, making the headache, the spinning, and the nausea twice as bad.

It's no surprise when he falls off the sofa, but he hits his head on the table on the way down. Just a ding, and he's on his knees, finding his footing to the restroom.]

Jesus Christ.

[If you've never seen your childhood friend literally spew technicolor into a toilet, probably not the best time to come and see if they're okay. It's habit, at this point that has him forcing the rest of what he can handle into the bowl, clutching the sides of his toilet until his knuckles go white.]

Rich?

(Okay that wasn't an ideal waking up sound. He quickly sets aside the eggs and flicks off the stove and walks after the sound of Richie. When he reaches the bathroom he's not shocked by what he finds and he instantly grimaces and vanishes. He's back a second later with the glass of water he'd left by Richie's bedside and he sets it on the bathroom counter before kneeling down next to Richie.)

Jesus, dude. (Said softly, but he's rubbing a hand over Richie's back all the same. It's not like there was anything that could be done. Richie had to let it out.)

It's okay. Shh. (He can see those white knuckles and he leans over to kiss the back of Richie's head quickly. He gets back up and fetches a washcloth to run under the sink for a second. He's back down next to Richie and puts the towel against the back of his neck.)

[Get it out he did, he's not running a temp so it's not an issue of being in any real trouble just too many chemicals and not enough real people food. Richie can't remember the last time someone gave a shit and the tears that sting his eyes when he finishes the fit are less from being sick and more from something distinctly different.

When all is said and done he leans up, haplessly to flush the toilet and pushes his forehead against the seat pathetically.]

Sorry... I'm sorry. Fuck, man. I really-

[The water, his hand finds that and he sips at it with a tired grimace etched into his features. He refuses to drain it, knows better. A testament to how bad he's gotten.]

You didn't tell me you were coming down. I wish you would've said something.

[Maybe then he could have sobered up a little bit beforehand. It was unlikely but he might have been able to manage.]

(The apology is somehow worse than the vomiting. He frowns and presses his hand against the towel at the back of Richie's neck. He was definitely upset about where Richie's life had gone, but he had no interest in making him feel ashamed about anything.)

Don't apologize. It's not your fault.

(Which...It wasn't. Problems like these rarely were anyone's fault. Bad situations lead to bad habits. Eddie knew all about that himself.)

It's not...like I had your number exactly. Or. Anything.

(Number, e-mail. They hadn't been in contact in years.)

Sorry I surprised you. Here. Drink some water, okay? You'll feel better for it.

[Richie's hands shake as he takes the water back up again and sips at it some more. It really isn't something he wants to do, and it burns all the way down against his throat that had been rubbed raw from purging.]

Still...

[That's all that Richie can offer him too. It was his fault, he was in charge of his own choices, and his own shitty life. The nausea was still gripping at his stomach but he didn't have anything left to give. Nothing else in his stomach to evacuate.]

This isn't how- Look, I get it if you want to go. You can just go. It's fine, really.

[It sounds a little rehearsed because it is, but he also doesn't want Eddie to see him like this and the towel well it makes him feel a lot better and he comfortably sighs whenever Eddie applies any sort of pressure there at all.]

...Richie...I'm gonna be really honest with you here? I'm here to help you through whatever shit this is that's going on with you.

(He's careful with his words, knowing very well that Richie might not want his help at all or get mad for just offering. What right did he even have? Coming back into Richie's life like this to try and fix it.)

I recognized you on this special of your on Netflix and it came back to me. But then I started seeing your face online and in other places and at first I thought, you know, just bad publicity moments but...

(He doesn't say anymore. He doesn't think he has to. Richie's lifestyle was well-documented.)

Clearly you're not helping yourself so I'm here to do that for you, dude. I'm not going. I mean. If you want me to I will but...I don't want to.

You don't think I've fuckin' tried, dude, that's all I do. I sober up for maybe three weeks before I-

[The fucking Netflix special, of course, this would pull the other losers out of the woodwork. Why'd it have to be Eddie? Richie didn't want to be seen like this by strangers, let alone him. Looking at him now, he gets it. He feels things he hasn't felt in a really long time. Nerves, panic, and just so much love too much fucking love.

That's what has him dry heaving, the onslaught of bullshit drilling its way into his brain when he meets those familiar gray eyes.]

Not like it matters.

[For as much as he fought through sobriety to almost make it to a month, he never quite did. The only good thing he had going for him was that he wasn't particularly violent, he didn't try to hurt anyone or cause any disorder when under the influence. Otherwise, he might have already been arrested like the other celebrities that went down this path.]

I'm sure you've tried, but I'm not sure you've had support while trying and that can make a huge difference, Rich.

(It wasn't like any of those tabloids showed any consistent faces. He had to wonder if Richie had any real friends in this new life of his. No, he couldn't of. If he did there would of been someone at the party already trying to help or at the very least not just leaving Richie alone.)

Hey, wow, fuck you. It absolutely matters. You matter.

(Eddie's voice got a little higher, but he's careful not to make it too high. He knew the hell of a bad hangover and he didn't want to torment him.)

I'm not really giving you a choice here, dude. I'm gonna stick around and be up your ass twenty four seven until we get your shit together. Okay? You and me. It's always been you and me.

[The friends that Richie had made were either leeches to his limelight or friends due to circumstances. True friends, real friends - he hadn't had any of those for more than a decade and the last time he'd ever seen them, he can't remember. He can't remember saying goodbye to Eddie, he just knows that he did, and that makes him feel worse.]

Eddie, what the fuck happened to-

[Richie's trying to get up, but he's not quite steady and it takes him a minute. He has nothing left to give, and he almost collapses after he's up but manages to make it to the wall for support.]

I can't remember shit. I can't remember.

[Richie doesn't get it, and he can't really blame Eddie if he gets upset with him but his hands find the rag on the back of his neck and linger there. He looks marginally wounded like a child stricken. What he knows absolutely, is that he'd fucking put it all down for him but it's all still rattled around and disorganized in his skull.]

You and me? Eddie, I'm not gonna lie to you - I'm really past the point of playing doctor, even though you're the most qualified guy I know. I don't want you to see me like this.

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dumpsterfire boi.

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