(Eddie has been blessed and given the rites of the gods. This was easily one of the cutest and purest things Eddie has ever experienced in his entire twelve years of being alive. He gives a fantastic little squeak of shock when he is personally honored with the dog's head in his lap. At once, Eddie is petting the head with both of his hands, grinning so wide it nearly hurts.
Wait til Richie saw this guy!!)
He's so good! (Eddie gasps, and looks up at Hawke.
Maybe not so allergic after all?
Emotion scratches raw at the back of his throat, and Hawke probably didn't even think about it. Why would she? She didn't know Eddie's complicated history with his mother. But he's been combating this mental-sick thing for a while now, a whole month of struggling back and forth with it. Trying to remind himself daily his mom wasn't there, he wasn't sick, he could do things like pet dogs and let them drool all over him. He did not need to be afraid.
His eyes sting with tears, and he quickly looks down, the back of his neck flushing pink in embarrassment. He sniffs and bends down, pressing his face right against the top of the dog's head and breathes in.
It was one of the most exhilarating things in his life. It was as freeing as running and forgetting that his lungs didn't hurt. Only this time? It was better. Because he wasn't forgetting. He was fully holding onto this idea in a tight, iron grip: HE. WAS. NOT. SICK.
He wasn't sick and he wasn't allergic to dogs. He pulls his head back up and laughs, bright and noisy, and clear. So clear, because he wasn't allergic, there were no hives, no closing throat.)
Not allergic at all. (He finally says this, breathing in a huge mouthful of air, and God....
It was probably one of two, maybe three, times in Eddie Kaspbrak's life that he felt powerful. He smiles up at Hawke, looking viciously proud, the tears gone.)
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Wait til Richie saw this guy!!)
He's so good! (Eddie gasps, and looks up at Hawke.
Maybe not so allergic after all?
Emotion scratches raw at the back of his throat, and Hawke probably didn't even think about it. Why would she? She didn't know Eddie's complicated history with his mother. But he's been combating this mental-sick thing for a while now, a whole month of struggling back and forth with it. Trying to remind himself daily his mom wasn't there, he wasn't sick, he could do things like pet dogs and let them drool all over him. He did not need to be afraid.
His eyes sting with tears, and he quickly looks down, the back of his neck flushing pink in embarrassment. He sniffs and bends down, pressing his face right against the top of the dog's head and breathes in.
It was one of the most exhilarating things in his life. It was as freeing as running and forgetting that his lungs didn't hurt. Only this time? It was better. Because he wasn't forgetting. He was fully holding onto this idea in a tight, iron grip: HE. WAS. NOT. SICK.
He wasn't sick and he wasn't allergic to dogs. He pulls his head back up and laughs, bright and noisy, and clear. So clear, because he wasn't allergic, there were no hives, no closing throat.)
Not allergic at all. (He finally says this, breathing in a huge mouthful of air, and God....
It was probably one of two, maybe three, times in Eddie Kaspbrak's life that he felt powerful. He smiles up at Hawke, looking viciously proud, the tears gone.)
I'm not sick at all.