Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

11:42 p.m.

Richie's dirty, beat up shoes have a committed relationship with windowsills. Every night for the past year, Richie has been propping himself up in the window frame, glancing back at his bedroom door, and jumping the ten foot drop down to the garden residing around his house. The windowsills creak and groan under his weight, but still, their relationship with his old Chucks does not falter. Even when Richie's shoes intimately dig into the soil seconds after he jumps.

Once he's stabilized on the ground, he reaches around to pull his rusty bike from the rose bushes he uses to hide his evidence. The handles tremble and shake as Richie mounts, yet they continue to steer and persist underneath the boy's iron-fist grip.

Tonight has been bad, but it will be okay soon. It's always okay. She makes it better.

The streets are empty around this time of night, as if the world has been put away from the outside and every traffic light has gone to rest. Richie feels it creep up on him, with each kick that his legs make against the ground to gain momentum, he feels the loneliness of night time. It slithers in like the cold, and he knows it's irrational, but the boy can't help but wonder if the world is hiding from him. Sometimes, that's how it feels.

"Tozier, you're late!" He hears her shout from down the block. The cold is instantly diminished, being replaced with the warmth that only comes from the sparks and embers that reside within Beverly Marsh's hair.

"Got a bit caught up fuckin' your mom, Bev," Richie calls back. He pedals into view, the fluorescent street light opening up the world around him. Then, Bev is there, illuminated just like the angel that she is. She laughs at Richie's crude comment, and for a second, he mistakes it as heaven's choir.

"Your watch stop working? I do believe 11:30 is our usual rendezvous time," she tells him.

Richie dumps his bike against the curb, staring down at the girl who he has assigned as his own personal savior. He won't ever admit it, but he would surely be dead had he not met Beverly.

"My watch works perfectly fine, yours is just too early," he shakes his head. Bev smiles at him, a trusting smile, one that ignites something in Richie that he never feels with anyone else. She believes in him. Not many people can say the same.

"Alright, then, come on," she grabs him by the wrist and starts dragging the lanky boy across the street.

It started a little over a year ago, when the temperature was just on the cusp of cool whispers. The leaves had yet to decay and turn brown, but chilly air had nipped at their young cheeks all night. Beverly Marsh had phoned the Tozier house and kindly requested to speak to Richie, who didn't get many callers. She said to meet her across the street from the QwikStar gas station once his parents were asleep, and the boy had not asked why. He simply agreed, and watched the clock for the rest of the evening, silently urging his parents to succumb to their drunken slumbers as they did every night.

Upon arrival, Beverly had smiled up at Richie, and said "Shall we eat?" Her hair was still long at the time, and Richie will never forget the way she pulled her ponytail over her shoulder to protect her neck from the cold.

Beverly had figured that Richie did not consume the correct amount of food for a growing 15, 14 at the time, year old boy. She was right, in fact, spot on. Beverly had picked up on the vague hints her friend would drop when it came to his parents' behavior, so it was only her first instinct to begin feeding the boy and picking up where his parents slacked off.

Every night, they meet at 11:30 p.m., run to the QwikStar gas station and get as much junk food as they can, and then splurge in the 24/7 laundromat next door. Nobody does their laundry at night, and certainly nobody would expect to find two kids there either.

Tonight, Beverly has a crisp $20 bill clenched in her small hand. When Richie asks where she got it from, Bev just shrugs and mentions some favors she did for her boyfriend's friends.

Richie hates that. He hates it more than he will ever admit, only because he knows it's unfair to Beverly for the thought to even cross his mind. He is happy for her, he is, but he still can't stand the idea that Beverly has a million other people that she could easily replace him with. Richie doesn't have anybody; no friends, no family, just Bev. Bev... Bev has everybody. A boyfriend, friends, her boyfriend's friends. It drives him mad knowing that she could easily start feeding someone new if Richie were to disappear without a trace.

"Earth to Richie, earth to Richie! Ground control, Houston, we may have a problem!" Bev giggles, knocking on Richie's head as if she expects the echo of an empty chamber.

Richie blinks a few times, his surroundings coming back into focus as he regains his composure. It's not uncommon that Richie will drift into his own thoughts, but Beverly never seems to mind. She puts up with a lot, and Richie is eternally grateful for her presence.

As if on cue, he defensively says "Sorry, I was thinking about what's bigger; my wang or your fat head?"

Bev just laughs her lovely laugh and pushes Richie's shoulder. She's used to these snarky remarks, but she's also used to the reason he makes them. Not as a way to be funny or mean, but as a coping mechanism.

"I don't know, Rich, that's a tough one," she picks up a packet of peanuts, offers it to him, then places it back down when he shakes his head. "If that's the case, my head must be pretty minuscule."

"You wish, Beaver-ly," he puts emphasis on beaver. "My dick is so colossal that-"

"Beep beep, Richie," she snickers again.

Fuck up, he thinks to himself. Fucking annoying, again.

Beverly is going to grow tired of saying beep beep one day, and he knows it. Richie is terrified of the day that he is left completely, entirely alone, but for now, he needs to just appreciate what he has while he has it.

Richie grabs a packet of Skittles, hands them to Bev, and then grabs another per her request.

"What favors were you doing?" Richie grows curious.

"Oh, you know..." she trails off with that delicate air to her pixie-floating words. "Favors."

"You weren't letting them nail you, were you?" Richie scoffs. His loudmouth earns the attention of the store clerk, who looks more than tired with the children's routinely presence.

"Richie," Beverly says harshly. "Shut up!"

Richie recoils in on himself, wincing at the words and mentally degrading himself for what he's said. How could he be so stupid? So insensitive?

Bev's tone seems to soften up a bit. "No, I wasn't. None of those boys have ever seen a boob in their life, I doubt they would survive 'nailing' someone. I was helping them with their dungeons and dragons campaign."

"Dungeons and dragons?" Richie scoffs, laughing to himself easily. "What are they, fucking nerds? For fucks sake, Bee. You really let Ben drag you into that?"

"Ben didn't drag me into anything," she shakes her head, short curls bouncing against the nape of her neck. "I love being around them, they're just as much my friends as they are his. If they want me to help their campaign, then I help their campaign."

"Fucking geek shit," he shakes his head again, hands trembling at his sides. Richie can't recall a time Bev has ever said she loves being around him. "At least you got twenty bucks from it."

Bev doesn't say anything else, just silently takes their snacks to the counter and pays while Richie fumbles through the stack of magazines near the door. Beverly watches him fondly, feeling nothing but love for the friend she's had since she was thirteen.

Richie has changed over the years; certainly grown a whopping nine inches, let his hair grow past his jawline, unruly and curly, and his jawline has sharpened as puberty takes its toll on his body. Despite all these changes, he's still the bug-eyed, lanky, talkative wreck he has always been. A few disorders and traumatic experiences, sure, but he's still the same deep down.

"Hurry up, Bev. I could be banging your mom right now," he groans from the door. Bev ignores him, smiling at the clerk and taking their bags of junk food, before turning to him and leaving the gas station they've become regulars at.

"Oh, don't worry, you wouldn't need much time. We all know how premature you are, Rich," she chuckles, leading him down the sidewalk to the laundromat entrance.

"Nice guys finish first," Richie shrugs, stepping ahead so that he can open the door for her.

"Not quite sure that's how it goes," she shakes her head, but laughs regardless.

The two sit at their usual table in the far back, dumping bags of junk food down onto the initials B+R etched into the surface. Richie grabs the first thing he sees, desperate to get something in his stomach.

After a few bites of the sickeningly sweet Twinkie, Richie brings his eyes up to Beverly, his sweet best friend, and he feels guilt run through his body.

"They were fighting," he says quietly, in a muted tone. He doesn't want anybody to hear him, and it's very rare moments that Richie actually lets his volume stray this far from its usual projection. "They were fighting again. I couldn't leave because I needed to be there if he... if he started hitting her. That's why I was late."

Bev is silent, absorbing the vulnerable side that she doesn't get to see very often. She knows Richie has it rough at home, but he doesn't like to talk about it. She thinks he's embarrassed by it, but she doesn't know why he would be.

"It's okay," she says quietly, reaching out to brush her honeydove hand against his. "It's okay. He... He kissed me today. A... a deeper kiss. I couldn't move."

Richie feels disgusted with himself, shaking his head and pulling his hand away from Beverly's. How dare he complain about his problems when he knows she has it so much worse? Richie feels sick from his own ignorance, so, he shakes his head and changes the subject.

"So, you excited for your birthday?"

Chapter Text

The selection that resides within girl's products is one that will always baffle Richie. Why are there so many different brands? Who needs fake eyelashes? What's wrong with their real ones?

Richie has no idea what the difference between eyeshadow and eyeliner is, besides, Beverly never wears makeup anyway, why bother?

Instead, the nervous boy carries himself further down the drugstore aisle, finding himself lost in a sea of colors brighter than need be. He carefully reads the sign above their display, acknowledging that this is nail polish, and deciding that would be his safest bet.

Beverly's birthday is this Saturday. Technically, her birthday is on Thursday, but the party that Richie was formally invited to is set for Saturday afternoon. A sleepover, he was told. At Ben's house.

Richie has met Ben a handful of times, but none of them ever stuck to his memory. Ben is chubby and short, but then again, everyone is short in comparison to Richie. All he knows is that Ben has a group of friends that Beverly adores, and Richie has started mentally preparing himself for the isolation and discomfort he will experience the entire party. He desperately wants to skip it, but he can't do that to Bev. It would be unfair.

Richie's fingers dance along the glassy bottles of nail polish, every color he could possibly imagine all lined up for his personal choosing. What color does Bev like? He feels as if he should know. She's mentioned it before, hasn't she? Maybe Rich is just a terrible friend.

He spends ten minutes deciding between two shades of blue, eventually giving in and falling victim to the color that resembled the sky. As Richie turns on his heel, ready to sneak away with the varnish for his beloved friend, he bumps his shoulder right into another person's face.

"Ouch, ouch, my nose!" A soft, high pitched voice carries up to Richie's ears. The words have poise in them, as well as a hotheaded temper that makes Richie's chest constrict nervously.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," Richie looks down at the person he's bumped into, being met with the widest Bambi brown eyes he has ever seen. The kid has smooth, tanned skin, with clusters of freckles eating through the cookie dough of his cheeks and nose. His feathery hair is neatly combed to the side, giving Richie a clear view of every long eyelash decorating the boy's hot whiskey eyes.

"It's fine," the boys says, his face twisting up as he takes a step away from Richie.

Richie stares for a moment more, just out of curiosity of the boy's actions, and then shakes his head. "Your nose is bleeding, kid. Must've bumped my shoulder pretty hard."

"What!" The boy instantly panics, bringing his dainty hands up to his face so very frantically. When he pulls his polished fingers away, the ruby gems of blood trickle down his knuckles. His chest expands with each breath he takes, and Richie swears the boy's eyes are going to pop out of his head. Distressed, the kid side steps Richie and starts rushing down the aisle, his tiny legs spilling out of very short gym shorts. While staring after him, Richie shakes his head and looks back down to the nail polish in his hand. He's sure Bev will like this, but if not, he has a bigger present that he is positive will excite her.

Upon returning home, cautiously stepping through his front door instead of his bedroom window, he approaches his parents at the dining room table.

"Hey," he announces his arrival, only to receive nothing in response. His father reads the paper, puffing a cigar so carelessly, while his mother pours another glass of scotch. "Beverly's birthday party is on Saturday. Is it alright if I go?"

As if he hasn't been heard at all, his mother continues pouring until the amber liquid climbs the glass and threatens to spill over the brim. Richie takes a deep breath in, his heart thudding roughly in his chest, and he tries again.

"Can I go to a sleepover this weekend?"

His father lifts his eyes from the paper just long enough to acknowledge Richie standing there. The man waves Richie off, mumbling "Fine, whatever."

Richie feels the words pierce through his chest, so, in a dejected fashion, he retreats down the hall and to his room. As he goes, he can hear his mother's voice slurring words that are loud enough to make his blood boil.

"He's staying with that Marsh girl? I've heard about her. No good with boys, that one."

Even worse, his father's reply. "Who cares if she wants to tramp around with the kid?"

Richie shuts himself in his room and digs through the pile of shit on his desk until he finds his Walkman and headphones. He hates being called the kid. Why can't they ever admit that he's their son? Why can't they call him by the name they chose? Why won't they admit that he is their child?

Richie feels all of these thoughts swirl around in the dangerous pools of his brain, flickering like lighter flames and sewer drains all at once. He turns the volume up on his tape deck as loud as he can, letting his favorite mixtape of all time fill his head until he can no longer think.

He needs the music sometimes. He can't function without it. Richie isn't drawn to the melodies, but moreso, the words and what they say. He finds it hard to speak up most times, and when he does, he usually gets a quick "beep beep." Music fills in for that, explains what he's feeling without him ever having to open his mouth.

When the familiar words of Freddie Mercury singing "I'm just a poor boy, nobody loves me," reach his ears, he squeezes his eyes shut and let's the words fill him up inside. Carefully, as to not damage his precious tape deck, he raises the volume to deafening levels. Richie can't think badly of himself if all that his surroundings will allow him to feel are the sweet melodies of his favorite songs compiled onto mixtapes he crafts with precision for each mood that he has. They mean the most to him, and he fears what would become of him if anything were to ever happen to his darling songs.

Richie lifts himself out of bed, digging around in his pockets for the nail polish he shoplifted, setting it on top of the box that's already been wrapped and is ready to be delivered. Inside, a pack of cigarettes and a brand new butterfly switchblade knife, a combination of items that couldn't be more Beverly if he tried. He feels the need to one-up her, especially since she was the one who gave him this Walkman on his fifteenth birthday.

But still. Richie fears the sleepover, knowing very well that he is going to be the outsider. He doesn't want to even bother going, but after everything that Beverly has done for him over the years, he would really be a shitty excuse for a human being if he were to skip out on her special day.

For a brief second, he gets a flash of red, and he wonders if everything turned out okay with that little kid he bumped into today. Looking at it in retrospect, he probably should have followed the kid to make sure he was alright, but in the end, Richie was frozen by his fear of annoying someone once again.

Even then, Richie still can't help but think about how that kid had eyes like a mid-July sunset and a voice like a mixtape.

Chapter Text

Richie isn't one to pay attention in school, everyone knows that. Usually too busy running his mouth to focus on the lesson, and yet, he still somehow manages to get good grades. His peers are baffled by this, but it makes sense to Richie. If he gets good grades, he will be something worth being proud of. He's had this mentality since the day he picked up his first book and started studying religiously.

Richie doesn't need to study much anymore, it's all already been drilled into his mind enough for him to grasp simple concepts as soon as they're given to him. However, that doesn't stop him from hanging out in the library most days. Beverly has a different lunch schedule than Richie, so instead of subjecting himself to sitting alone in the cafeteria, Richie finds solace in the quiet airs of the library. Not many kids come here, who would? Everyone has their friends to visit during lunch hours, not many people are introverts like Richie.

Except Ben Hanscom.

Richie sees him everyday, always in the same chair, but he doesn't bother going up to the kid dating his best friend. Instead, Richie keeps his head down and beelines to the very back table that is hidden by bookshelves. There's no particular reason that he avoids Ben, he just doesn't want to overstep boundaries and assume they are friends because of a certain redhead they have in common.

Today, Richie steps in and glances at the kid sitting in his usual place. He's pouring himself over a book thicker than Bev's dumb head, so Richie quickly ducks down and starts making his way to his usual table.

"Hey, Richie! Rich!" Ben calls out.

Richie stops, the hair on his neck standing up and goosebumps rising beneath his skin. He slowly turns, lifting his hand to adjust his glasses. He doesn't reply, but he does look at Ben to acknowledge he heard the other's calls.

"You're coming to Beverly's party this Saturday, right?" Ben asks.

"Yeah," Richie looks to the floor, then out the window. "Is that cool?"

"You hadn't RSVP'd, I wasn't sure," Ben says.

Richie looks at him so that the other boy can feel the guilt when he says "I didn't get an invitation. Bev asked me."

"Oh," Ben's round cheeks begin to flush red. "Do you think that she likes chocolate or vanilla cake?"

"Shouldn't you know? You're her boyfriend, for fucks sake," Richie looks away once more.

"But you're her best friend," Ben seems unaffected by Richie's cold attitude. "I trust your judgement better than my own."

Richie's jaw tightens as he grinds his teeth together, and through a clenched mouth, he mumbles "She likes red velvet."

"Thanks, you're a lifesaver," Ben writes something down on the back of his hand with a purple pen. "And ice cream?"

"Cookie dough," Richie sighs, his hands loosening on the straps of his backpack. Not everyone is out to get you, dumbass he tells himself.

"Wow, that's a contrast," Ben raises his eyebrows, and then says "She's a wild one, isn't she?"

"Yeah," Richie's entire defense falls, a small smile forming on his face as he thinks of the wild child that is Beverly Marsh. A lit firecracker of a girl. She's like dynamite. "Yeah, she is."

"Do you think that you could show up around six instead of seven? Me and the others are planning to surprise her."

"The others?" Richie tilts his head, his rough exterior hardening once again. He's reminded that this party will be absolute hell, he only knows one person there and he probably hates the rest.

"The Losers' Club," Ben says as if it's obvious. He makes another note on his hand, and then says "Actually, scratch that. Could you keep Bev busy until seven so that she doesn't show up early and ruin the surprise?"

"Okay," Richie says.

"No, I should have Mike do it. Less suspicious," Ben scribbles something out, flipping his hand over to write on his palm.

"Okay," Richie says again.

"Unless you want to wait with Beverly?"

"Okay."

"No, you should help set up. You know her best."

"Okay."

Richie glances at his lonely table, and then back at the seat across from Ben. Taking a deep breath in, Richie walks forward to take the seat across from the kid. Ben watches with wide eyes, while Richie digs in his bag to pull out a notebook.

"Here, you'll wash those plans right off your hand," Richie says, followed by "Or rub them off on your dick. Either way, write it down, Chubs."

Ben's eyes widen at Richie's comments, but he doesn't disobey. He quickly transcribes all of their plans, including which ice cream flavor their favorite ginger prefers. The two sit and make plans, including things like what board games to play in order to keep everybody from getting tired and which records to play on Ben's dad's record player.

When the bell rings and Richie grabs his bag off the floor, Ben says "You're not as bad as everyone says, Richie Tozier."

Richie stops, his hands freezing and growing heavy with anxiety. Not as bad? What are people saying?

"What do they say?" He asks curiously.

"N-Nothing..." Ben shakes his head, quickly gathering up his things and scurrying out of the library before Richie can press him for details. Richie stand cautiously, dazed and confused, but quickly shakes his head or else he will be lost in his thoughts all day.

Later that night, when Richie makes his free fall descent into the rose bushes below his window, and he meets Bev under that streetlight he's grown to love, she smiles and kisses his cheek.

"What was that for?" He asks, touching his jaw where her lips once were. "You finally got the hots for me, Beverly Marsh? Craving my magnum dong?"

She smiles at him, and under the faux lights, he can see her eyes twinkle so beautifully. The stars don't compare to Bev, nothing does.

"Ben told me about today," she says, holding her arm out and wrapping it around Richie's bicep. "Thank you for being nice to him."

Richie shrugs, embarrassed that word got back to Beverly, but not surprised. "Whatever. The nerd threatened to kill me with his samurai sword if I didn't help him."

"Help him? With what?" She tilts her head in confusion. It strikes Richie that Beverly doesn't know what they were talking about, nor will she know. Not until Saturday, at least.

"Math," Richie replies, guilt pawing at him as the two cross the street. The chilly November air pushes Beverly closer to Richie, the girl trying to find some kind of warmth within Richie's side. "Equations or some bullshit, I don't know."

"You don't know what you were talking about?" Beverly laughs.

"No," Richie shakes his head, opening the door for her. "I don't."

"Regardless, thank you for being nice to him. It really means a lot," she sighs so heavenly, the sweet air ghosting against Richie's neck. "I hope you guys can be friends. The Losers too. I think you would really like Bill."

"Stuttering Bill?" Richie shakes his head, following Bev down the chip aisle of the gas station. The girl piles junk food into her arms with no reply, and so Richie says "What kind of nerds call themselves losers?"

"Better to beat others to the punch. If they call themselves losers, it takes the fun out of it for others," she explains as if that logic makes any sort of sense.

"Weirdos," he scoffs, but then gives an apologetic look when Beverly punches him in the gut.

"My weirdos," she says defensively.

Richie nods, his throat going dry as soon as the words leave her mouth. Her weirdos. Her friends. Ben said that Richie is Beverly's best friend, but the insecurity that resides within Richie tells him otherwise. Bev doesn't need him. She doesn't even want him. She tolerates Richie, only because she feels bad for him. That must be it. She must pity him.

As Beverly leans down against the cookie rack, Richie opens his mouth to cancel his invitation to the sleepover. He's not going to subject himself to such suffering, he already knows he will be miserable all night.

But then, just then, as he's about to utter those words, Beverly looks up at him with her excited blue eyes and says "Don't act like you're not one of my weirdos either, ToTo. You happen to be my favorite one."

Richie's heart flutters at the nickname, one she hasn't let past her lips since they were thirteen. She could never remember how to pronounce Tozier, and so ToTo seemed like the only logical solution.

"Mhm," Richie looks over the aisle with ease, out the gas station windows, and over at their bikes collapsed beneath the street light.

Bev is silent for a moment, and then she says "Bill lost his brother, you know. He... He doesn't like being at home either."

Richie snaps his gaze back down to her, trying to figure out what exactly this girl is implying.

"What, you mean he can't just go to the store and get a new brother? Doesn't he know he can pick one up for the low price of $19.99 plus shipping?" Richie jokes, earning another punch from Bev.

"You ass! Don't say that shit around him, Richie!" She warns the boy, then says "I don't know. It would just be nice if we could invite him out with us. You and I both know how hard it is to be at home when home is no longer safe."

Richie's vision blurs, so he uses the excuse of cleaning his big glasses so that he can wipe at his eyes. He will never let Beverly see him cry, but tonight, he can't seem to help it.

She's already replacing him.

Chapter Text

Richie stares down at the address on his hand, then up at the house his bike is stopped in front of. It must be the right place, there's a pile of bikes in the front lawn, as well as a collection of balloons tied to the porch railing.

Taking a deep sigh in, Richie prepares for everything that he's gotten himself into. Fuck You, Beverly Marsh he thinks. Fuck you for making me love you so much.

Richie discards his bike against the tree, leaving it out of the tangled mess of other bikes in fear of it accidentally getting stolen. He pulls his backpack tighter against his spine, then ascends the stairs to knock on the front door.

Ben's mother answers, happily guiding Richie into the basement, telling him that if he needs anything she would be more than happy to help. Richie smiles, shrugs her hand off his shoulder, and then cautiously descends the staircase to the basement he hears chatter bubbling from.

As soon as Richie turns the corner and interrupts the group's excited conversation, he feels the pressure of eyes piercing into him. Richie stands in the doorway, his hands tight on his bag straps, and considers turning back around to escape this mess he's gotten himself into.

"You invited trashmouth?" He hears a harsh whisper.

"Shut up, Stan. He's Beverly's best friend," Ben replies, slapping a tall kid upside the head.

"Richie T-T-Tozier has fuh-friends?" Stuttering Bill struggles to get out.

Richie dips his head down, flinching for a few brief seconds, before looking to Ben and asking "Do you have the decorations?"

Ben seems to snap out of it, nodding quickly and waving Richie over to a massive department store bag filled with streamers and packages of balloons.

"Here, why don't you and Stan set the streamers up since you're the tallest," Ben hands the rolls of decorations to Richie, then waves a reluctant Stanley over. The two share a look before Richie begins unraveling the streamers.

"Eddie, how about you blow the balloons up?" Ben holds up a bag of red balloons, his face hopeful and excited about making this party perfect for the girl he loves.

"You want to make an asthmatic kid blow up balloons? Wow, you should get an award for smartest ideas, Ben. You're practically fucking Einstein," Richie hears over his shoulder, which makes him smirk. He doesn't look, but the voice sounds flowery and sharp all at once. The definition of float like a butterfly, sting like a bee truly takes form in those quick-witted replies. Richie smiles, and continues decorating.

After finishing up the streamers, Stan immediately retreats to Stuttering Bill's side. Richie watches the two, then moves to inhabit a vacant chair in the far corner. He holds his bag close, very close, and watches as the four kids move about the basement comfortably. It's obvious he's the outsider, and he really just wants this night to be over, yet Bev hasn't even arrived yet.

Richie pulls out his Walkman, placing the headphones over his ears and pressing play on his most anxiety-reducing mixtape. He finds comfort in the song, letting Hotel California by The Eagles serenade his busy mind.

Richie lets his tape play through three times before Beverly and Mike finally arrive. She yelps in surprise when everyone jumps out, and Richie can't help but let his eyes soften upon seeing her excited expression.

Richie doesn't join their circle, instead just moves his chair closer and watches the way that Beverly fits right in. He keeps his headphones on, but slides one side off of his ear so that he can listen in on the conversation. Nothing important, just complaints about Bowers and school courses.

Then, suddenly, with no warning at all, a small figure presses into Richie's side and causes the taller boy to jump up.

"I was trying to figure out where I've seen you before," the boy says, and when Richie looks over, he sees a button nose and rose tinted cheeks facing the other kids in the room.

Richie is rendered speechless, completely in shock at the mere proximity of this tiny human beside him. The smell of vapo-rub and cough syrup fills his senses, and just as he's about to move away, the boys looks up at him with familiar rusty copper eyes.

"You gave me a nosebleed on Tuesday," he says, his voice soft and quiet. It's as if he doesn't want anybody else to hear the two of them talking, like these words are for Richie's ears only.

"Was that you?" Richie pretends as if he doesn't recognize those freckles.

"Yeah," the boy rubs the very nose that is in question. "I thought you gave me a blood clot in my brain."

"That's... ridiculous," Richie squints his eyes.

The boy smiles up at him, gentle and inviting, and says "My name is Eddie."

Eddie. A perfect name, a very perfect name.

Richie nods, leaning a bit away and says "Richie Tozier. I'm here for Bev."

"I figured," Eddie says, elbowing Richie's side. "Why else would you be hiding away in the corner with some cheap cassette player?"

Richie shoots him a glare, and then sighs in defeat. He doesn't have it in him to be tough, not tonight. "It's not cheap. It was a gift."

"Got any Elton John on that thing?" Eddie asks, nodding down at the tape deck in Richie's hands.

Richie feels his eyes widen, and then he quickly nods. "Yeah. Yeah, I do, hold on."

Richie leans down to unzip his backpack, shuffling through the various mixtapes he carries with him at all times. He finds one with the label LOVER in red marker, and he quickly exchanges it with the tape currently in the Walkman. Eddie watches him curiously, so Richie feels the need to preform more quickly. He holds the headphones up to his ear, fast forwarding through the tape of love songs until he finds the singer that has been requested.

Upon stopping the tape, Richie reaches over and slides the headphones over Eddie's ears. Eddie smiles, covers the headphones with his hands, and then looks up at Richie with excited eyes.

The world slows.

In that moment, where two boys are crammed into a worn out recliner, and their friends sit on the floor only a couple feet away, Richie experiences what it feels like to have his breath taken away. The world shrinks down to this chair, this ugly chair, and Richie can hear every single song on that LOVER tape overlay and play throughout his mind. The scent of cough syrup becomes overwhelming, soon replaced by the sickeningly sweet aroma of flowers and honey. Eddie blinks slowly, his unsweetened tea eyes dripping down his freckled cheeks, and Richie watches his nose scrunch up as he lets out a quiet giggle.

Richie's heart races, heat coursing through his veins, bones aching when firecrackers ignite between his ribs. He looks over to see if anybody else is seeing what he's seeing, but he's only met with meadows of wildflowers that blow with the wind.

Eddie reaches up to remove the headphones, holding them idly for a moment before he says "Listen. This is a good song."

Richie knows it's a good song, that's why he put it on a mixtape. But still, when Eddie slides the headphones onto Richie's ears, Rich feels as if he has never heard the notes before in his life. The words are brand new, and shock his brain with the sheer amount of meaning that they now have.

"But the sun's been quite kind while I wrote this song, it's for people like you that keep it turned on."

Richie hears the words. He does. He hears them for the first time, with Eddie's hands clasped tightly against Richie's ears in an attempt to amplify the music, and my god does Richie hear the words.

"Eddie! Stop terrorizing trashmouth!" Stanley scoffs.

With an impact that hurts as if he's just returned to Earth, Richie's head snaps over to the group of kids all staring at the two boys.

Eddie laughs and stands to his feet, stepping over Richie's bag to settle in between Bill and Mike. Richie feels embarrassed, his cheeks flushed and chest tight and wound like a toy. He catches Beverly's eyes, and the girl smirks at him as if she knows exactly what's going on in Richie's mind.

The problem is; Richie doesn't even know what's going on. He has been swept up in a whirlwind of confusion, his brain deleting all common sense and logic that it once possessed.

"Richie, why don't you start us off with presents?" Ben interrupts Richie's confusing train of thoughts.

"Uh," Richie flushes even harder, his chest pounding. "O-O-Okay."

"Look, Bill, he sounds like you!" Eddie laughs. Richie's brain feels as if someone has poured pop rocks and cola right into his skull, fizzling and vibrating around in excitement and terror.

Richie stands up, picking up his bag as well, and joining the group the best that he can without disrupting their natural circle. He sits next to Beverly, pulling presents out of his bag and setting them on the carpet next to Bev's leg.

While everyone else gets up to retrieve their gifts, Beverly begins unwrapping what Richie nudges towards her. She opens the cigarettes first, laughs, and says "You know I only smoke Marlboro, Rich!"

Richie smirks, then says "Damn, what a shame! More for me," and attempts to take them back. Beverly holds them close to her chest.

She opens the knife next, squealing with excitement and unfolding it like she's done it for years. While watching her flip the blade around so carelessly, Bill manages to stutter out "Holy s-s-shit."

"You better treat her right, Ben, or she'll slice your balls off," Richie interjects with some of his usual humor. Mike and Eddie giggle, which catches Richie's attention.

My god, Richie has never loved a sound more than that one.

"I don't know, Tozier. Keep it up and you'll be the one with no balls," Beverly points the knife in Richie's direction, but clearly has no malicious intentions.

"You're just jealous mine are bigger than yours," Richie scoffs, nudging the final gift towards her.

As Bev unwraps it using her new knife, Bill leans over and whispers just loud enough for Richie to hear "D-Do girls really huh-have b-b-balls?"

"What? No, you idiot," Stanley replies. "Are you serious?"

Bill shrinks in on himself, looking down at his fidgeting hands, and suddenly Richie remembers what Bev said about him losing his brother.

"Haven't you heard? Bev isn't a girl. She's practically Bigfoot," Richie replies to Bill's question.

Eddie must hear this, because this time, he lets out a loud burst of laughter. The noise takes Richie by surprise, and when he stares across the circle to where the petite boy is, he becomes enamored with the way Eddie tilts his head back and covers his face.

"Nail polish..." Beverly gently says, bringing Richie's attention back to her. "It's beautiful, Rich."

"It matches your eyes," Richie says, then, to cover up his embarrassment, he says "Or whatever. I only know what color they are because you're always staring at my hot piece of ass."

She shoves the boy, and then pulls him in for a kiss on the cheek. "Thank you, Richie. I love you," she whispers in his ear, and then gets pulled away by Ben, who is begging her to open his gift next.

Richie fumbles around with his pockets until he finds a lighter and his cigarettes, quietly stepping away from the other kids to head out the basement door. He cups his hand around the flame, bringing the flame up to his mouth, and then takes deep puffs as if he's the asthmatic one.

"T-T-Trashmouth," a voice calls over his shoulder. Richie looks over, fully expecting Bill, and not being disappointed. "S-Sorry. Richie."

Richie waves him off, cigarette balanced between his fingers. "Don't worry about it, Bill."

Bill takes a few steps forward, rubbing the sides of his arms, shaky breaths floating through the air in clouds of fog. If Richie didn't know any better, he would think Bill was smoking too.

"B-Bev talks about-t you a l-l-lot," he looks towards the sky. Richie's eyes linger on a scar etched through Bill's eyebrow, and he wonders how it got there.

"Can you blame her? I'm irresistible," Richie shrugs.

Bill laughs, then says "S-S-She thinks w-we should be fuh-friends."

"She also thinks that Batman is cooler than Superman."

"B-Batman is cooler than S-S-Superman," Bill frowns.

"You're crazy," Richie shakes his head. He looks over at Bill once more, watching the way his body trembles in the cold. Without even thinking of it, Richie shrugs one of his jackets off and drapes it over Bill's shoulders. The shorter boy seems grateful, but he doesn't comment on it.

"I'm sorry about your brother," Richie says, then feels embarrassed by his big mouth. He curses under his breath, then quickly says "I'm sorry. That was uncalled for."

"N-No, it's okay. T-T-Thank you," Bill exhales like a weight has been lifted off his shoulders. "Everyone p-pretends like it d-d-didn't happen. It's n-nice to hear someone not afraid of h-hurting me."

"Yeah, well," Richie shrugs. "You'll get tired of it soon, I promise. I never know when to shut my mouth."

Bill watches Richie toss the cigarette, gently stubbing it with the toe of his boot, then go back inside.

For the rest of the night, Richie sits at the end of the couch, headphones on, and mixtape after mixtape playing to distract him from what's going on. Beverly doesn't bother him, she is aware of how hard it is for Richie to deal with being left out. She thinks it's unfair that they're all friends except for him, but she appreciates him coming anyway.

This behavior lasts well into the night, after Richie tucks himself deep into a cocoon of blankets next to Beverly's sleeping bag. He turns the volume down despite the headphones, and rewinds the parts of the songs he feels needs to be heard more than once.

Richie's watch reads half past one in the morning when another body stirs in the basement. Richie watches a silhouette sit up, and when he slides his headphones off, he's met with the heavy breathing of an asthmatic kid.

Richie rolls over, touching Beverly's freckled shoulder. "Bev," he shakes her, voice whispering as to not wake the others. "Bev. Wheezy is having a heart attack, wake up."

"Mhhmb," Beverly mumbles, shoving Richie's hand off of her shoulder. "He has nightmares. Leave him be."

"Shouldn't you do something?" Richie asks, confused about why she's not waking up to help her friend. As he asks, he can hear the panicked breaths turn into shallow cries.

"He... falls back asleep... he's fine..." Beverly rolls over, shoving her face into her pillow.

Richie lies back down, facing the ceiling, and listening to Eddie sob so quietly that it's obvious he's trying not to be loud. There's a kind of choking noise that comes with trying to be invisible, and it's one that Richie is far too familiar with.

Richie sits up, unable to listen to Eddie's crying any longer. After moving his blankets around, he lets out a deep breath and tries to figure out if he will regret this or not. How bad can it be? What's the worst that could possibly happen?

"Alright, come on, Shortstack," Richie whispers into the dark air of Ben's basement. Eddie's crying temporarily stops, but it resumes all too quickly, now with the hint of embarrassment. Richie tries again. "Come on, come lay down. You're having a bad dream? Come sleep over here."

The silence that follows is so long that Richie comes to the conclusion that Eddie has fallen back asleep like Beverly suggested that he would. But, before Richie can lay back down, he begins to hear the crinkle of a sleeping bag and the shrill of a zipper.

The small boy crawls across the carpet on his hands and knees, slowly making his way up to where Richie's voice was heard from. Richie holds the blanket out invitingly, making sure to move his leg after Eddie accidentally put his hand on a spare knee.

"Okay, come on, there there," Richie whispers, wrapping the warmest blanket around Eddie and letting the boy settle down beside him. Nobody else seems to wake, so they must be moving quietly enough. Eddie's no longer crying, just sniffles.

Richie reaches down for his tape deck, headphones attached, and then slowly puts them over Eddie's head like before. Eddie's breathing stops altogether, and then resumes at a much more steady rate.

In the darkness, Richie watches as the boy stops shaking, his shoulders slumping down, and then eventually fills the air with the deeper kind of breathing that only comes when someone is asleep.

Richie stares at him for a moment, the moonlight illuminating the side of Eddie's face and haunting the edges of his angelic features.

Fucks sake, he's pretty.

Richie sighs, laying flat on his back, and rewinding the tape each time that it finishes. Eddie sleeps peacefully for the rest of the night, while Richie stares at the ceiling and picks apart everything he has done wrong to end up here at this point in his life.

Chapter Text

As it turns out, Richie has quite a number of classes with little Eddie Kaspbrak.

He never took notice of the kid, mainly because Richie has a tendency to daydream and stare longingly out windows during lectures, so he never quite takes notice of his classmates unless one were to talk to him.

This Monday, however, when the autumn sun is cascading in through the windows and creating slotted designs on the desks, Richie takes notice of the short boy standing up two rows over from Richie's assigned seat.

Eddie is wiping his desk down with a disinfectant wipe, carefully holding his bag up so that it doesn't touch the surface, and Richie wonders what was spilled there before Eddie arrived.

He straightens his posture, adjusts the glasses on his nose, and opens his mouth to call out to the asthmatic. Before the words can leave his mouth, he hears a group of girls taunting the boy.

"Hey, Kaspbrak. Got any new birth control pills?"

As if hearing their cue, a bottle of pills rattles in Eddie's fannypack while he turns to face the teasing group. His face falls, his eyes sullen, but it doesn't last long. He takes a deep breath in, furrows his brows, and quickly defends himself.

"Yeah, I'm saving them for your mom," he growls.

Richie smirks, turning his head back to the window but still listening in for another sign of the boy's voice.

"Yeesh, you on your period, too? Got any tampons to spare him, Greta?"

"I'm sure he has the whole pharmacy in his second fanny pack, don't you?"

Richie waits for Eddie's quick witted response, but instead, silence falls over his ears. Curiously, he looks over to see what's come over Eddie, only to be met with a despondent face. Richie's chest tightens, and he feels the need to spit the word 'whore' out of his mouth just to put Greta in her place, but then he remembers Beverly.

Her voice is as clear as a crystal, chiming through his mind in her stern and bossy tone. "Don't call girls bitches, or sluts, or whores. They are not worth any less because of who they sleep with, Richie Tozier!"

With one last glance at Eddie, who is now slumping into his seat and trying to appear as small as possible, Richie gives up and focuses his attention towards the lecture that's beginning on the board.

The guilt pools through his body like a gallon of grease soaking through paper bags. The entire class period, he tries so hard to focus on taking notes, but his eyes stray. And they keep straying. And they stray to the same spot, same person, every time. Richie will catch himself staring, look away, and then feel a magnetic pull back towards Eddie's tiny figure. How come he didn't talk back to those girls? Why did he just accept defeat? Richie has never been one to give up so easily, comebacks and insults live in this throat and scratch to get out.

When the bell rings, Richie is the first one out of his seat. He doesn't bolt towards the door like the rest of his classmates, instead, he climbs over the two rows of desks that it takes to reach Eddie Kaspbrak.

Eddie, who is carefully packing everything into his backpack, stops his actions when he sees two pairs of dirty converse standing in front of him.

He looks up, his eyes wide and full of wonder and amazement. There's forests in his eyes, Richie can see each individual leaf and log and branch and fauna.

"Oh, sorry, am I in your way?" Eddie stands up quickly, stepping aside to offer the seat to Richie.

"Got any tampons?" Richie asks, narrowing his magnified eyes.

Eddie flinches away, avoiding Richie's eyes. Without another word, he pushes past Richie and starts to leave the classroom.

"No, really, Eds! I'm sure you've got some vagasil in the cute little purse of yours," Richie follows the kid, entering the hall and walking close so that he doesn't lose the short boy within the crowd.

"Knock it off, trashmouth," Eddie bites, and then shakes his head and keeps walking.

"That's not what your mom was saying last night," Richie presses on, trying desperately to get Eddie to snap. "Or were we not loud enough? I'll come over again tonight to make sure you really hear us this time."

Eddie is silent, ducking his head down and turning down the hall. Richie reaches out and grabs the backpack strap, pulling Eddie in before the boy can escape. Eddie's eyes widen, and when he looks from Richie's tight grip up to his face, Eddie looks more terrified than what Richie would ever like to see.

"Why don't you defend yourself?" Richie asks, his voice much more softer now. "You shouldn't let people talk to you like that."

The hotheaded boy frowns, scrunching his face up and saying "What, and get my ass beat? Great idea, genius."

"Who the fuck is beating your ass?" Richie is in disbelief that anybody would ever see a face like Eddie's and still feel the compulsion to hurt such an innocent being.

"Who do you think?" Eddie tries to wiggle free from Richie's grip, but Rich only tightens his fingers around the strap and pulls Eddie closer. "Henry Bowers. Always Henry Bowers."

Richie's head closes in on itself at the mention of the old name, but he doesn't let it show on his face.

"Fuck Bowers," Richie huffs. Eddie's eyes widen in fear, and as he slaps his petite hands over Richie's loud mouth, he looks around to see if anybody heard Richie's proclamation. The taller boy tilts his head up, freeing his mouth of Eddie's silencer, and says much more loudly "Fuck Bowers!"

"What the fuck is wrong with you? Are you trying to get yourself killed?!" Eddie takes cheap shots at Richie's torso, but Richie doesn't flinch at all under the tiny fists.

"Why do the girls tease you?" He asks instead. "Gretta and the other bitc- ...girls."

Eddie's cheeks flush a pink color that Richie could learn to love it he sees it enough. The boy shakes his head quickly, and then quietly mumbles "They call me... girly boy. It's stupid."

"Are you?" Richie asks. His hand slides from Eddie's backpack down to his wrist, where he softly takes Eddie's petite hand and uncurls each finger. Clean, cut nails, all polished so carefully, except for one. His pinky finger is painted the exact shade of blue that Richie bought for Beverley.

Eddie pulls his hand back, and then lets out a frustrated breath when the bell rings and the halls clear out around them. "Great. Now I'm late."

"So skip," Richie shrugs.

Eddie's eyes nearly pop out of his head. "S-Skip? Are you insane? Do you know what my mother would do if she found out I wasn't where I was supposed to be?! She would put out a search warrant for me!"

Something about the words search warrant and the correlation that they have with missing posters makes Richie's palms itch with fear. He shakes the thoughts aside, and doesn't reach out to grab Eddie when he starts walking away.

"Fuck your mom," Richie says, leaning against the locker next to him. His eyes drop down to Eddie's shorts, and then the knees that buckle when Eddie notices he's being examined. Richie smirks, raising his eyes agonizingly slow, and then says in his favorite sarcastic tone, "Oh wait, I already am."

Eddie lets out an exasperated huff, shaking his head and quickly rushing down the hallway. Richie is about to turn away and start heading to his next class, when he sees Eddie's head lift over his shoulder, and then the words flow out and carry down the hall to reach Richie. "You're incorrigible, Richard Tozier."

His full name sounds foreign to him, but coming from Eddie Kaspbrak's mouth, he smiles.

"I don't know the meaning of the word," Richie jokingly calls out after him.

Eddie looks back and smiles, saying "I'm sure you don't."

Richie smiles, watching Eddie until the boy disappears down another hall, and then allowing himself to lean back on the locker and let out a happy sigh.

He barely knows Eddie Kaspbrak, and yet the kid can somehow make him smile more in one day than Richie has in the past five years.

Chapter Text

"What do you know about Eddie Kaspbrak?" Richie asks, looking over at his only friend. The two sit on the curb outside the gas station, sharing the slushee they could barely afford.

The laundromat is closed down for renovation, so Richie and Beverly continue their usual nightly routine while perched under a street lamp.

"Eddie? He's a sweetheart, I love him," Bev says, hogging the slushee to herself. Richie doesn't mind, he dislikes blue raspberry anyway.

"Yeah, but, like," Richie vaguely gestures for her to go on, but she doesn't pick up the subtle hints he's trying to put down. "What's he like?"

Beverly stops, her blue eyes coming over to interrogate Richie. "Tozier, are you trying to make friends?"

Friends, boyfriends, same thing, right?

"Yeah, sure, lets go with that," Richie tries to play it off as if it's no big deal. The truth is, Eddie Kaspbrak has been on his mind every night for the past four days. Richie is lucky that he excels so well in school, otherwise he would be lost from always staring at Eddie during their lessons.

"He's a hypochondriac," she says. "If you sneeze near him, he suddenly swears he has the Black Plague."

Richie's mind wanders back to disinfectant wipes, pieces of the puzzle starting to fit together nicely. "And?"

"And what?" She raises an eyebrow.

"...What does he like? Books? Movies? Video games? Does he like Streetfighter?" His voice is full of hope, images dancing across his mind of taking Eddie to the arcade and showing him Richie's high score. "What kind of music does he like? Does he like Queen?"

Richie's main stipulation when he meets someone new is simple; they have to listen to Queen.

Bev knows this too, she was grilled about her favorite Queen songs the day that her and Richie met in middle school gym class. That was the year that Richie went through his growth spurt. His gym uniform had been a size small when he ordered it in August, but when December snow had fallen over Derry, Richie shot up to 5'10 with legs so long that his shorts had barely covered his rear.

"How tall is he?" Richie then asks, his own thoughts interrupting Bev from answering any questions. "5'5? 5'6?"

"5'3?" Beverly responds. "Maybe 5'4. He's been growing."

Richie's heart grows to the size of the moon, and he dramatically puts a hand on his chest, whispering "Oh dear god, his cock must be just as small."

"Ew! Don't talk about his dick, Richie! That's my best friend," Beverly slaps Richie's head, the boy's glasses falling far off of his nose and nearly slipping out from behind his ears.

Richie winces, pushing the glasses up and trying not to think of his own mother's rough hands. "Whatever."

Bev softens up, remembering that Richie isn't as tough as he presents himself to be. She gently rests her cheek against his shoulder, rubbing her slushee-stained fingers across his knee in an attempt to comfort him.

"He does like Queen, but only what he hears on the radio. He's not much into Zeppelin, but he does like that Elton singer. What was it? Elton..."

"Elton John," Richie's heart flutters with the memory of listening to Your Song with Eddie's leather colored eyes staring up at him. Even from the moment they met, things with Eddie were... different. Special. Like someone put a hazy pink filter over the world around him.

"Yeah, that's the one! Elton John, and Michael Jackson, Prince, of course, and that one song that's always playing on MTV. Take On Me?" Bev doesn't know much about music despite playing the piano. She knows sheet music, but not musicians. Richie loves her anyway.

"Take On Me," he confirms. "A-ha."

"Aha what?" She asks.

"That's the name of the band, Bee," he chuckles.

"Oh," she slurps what's left of the drink, then says "He likes comic books, Richie. He loves comic books. He might like Streetfighter, but he's more of a Space Invaders kind of guy. Be nice on him, ToTo. No jokes about his mom. He's got it rough."

"What's wrong with his mother?" Richie stiffens up defensively, his blood hardening at the idea of things not being rainbows and sunshine for such a heaven-sent boy.

"Not my place to say," she says quietly.

Richie remembers the way that Eddie's head fell down when Richie had made that joke about sleeping with Eddie's mom. It makes sense, of course it does. He's a hypochondriac with mommy issues.

"Is he..." Richie trails off, his eyes floating upwards to play with the stars. He doesn't know how to ask this question, especially since it's one he's never thought to ask about someone before. Richie doesn't care about sexualities, nor does he make assumptions about boys that wear nail polish. "Is he a nancy boy?"

"A nancy boy?" Bev lifts her head, looking at Richie in surprise. Richie has never shown prejudice towards people of that orientation, why would he ask now? "No, Eddie's got a crush on Greta Bowie."

"Greta?!" Richie chokes, feeling his world expand and collapse around him. "Are you serious? She's a cunt! She fucking bullies him!"

"The heart wants what it wants," Bev shrugs her shoulders. She's just accepting it? She doesn't think it's fucked up that Eddie is pining after someone that Richie watched verbally abuse the boy?

"You're fucked, Marsh," Richie stands to his feet, his face hot with anger and embarrassment all at once. He feels the familiar sting against his eyelashes, so he quickly pushes his glasses up to press his palms into his eyes as if that will stop the faucet from leaking. "You're a shitty friend."

"Richie?" Bev gasps, shocked and upset that Richie would ever mutter those words. "Excuse me?"

"If he's having nightmares, you fucking comfort him. If he's getting picked on, you fucking stand up for him. And if Bill loses his brother, you fucking acknowledge it," Richie climbs onto his bike, nudging the kickstand to the side. He stares down at Beverly, already regretting what he is saying, but he knows that he's telling the truth. "And if I tell you that my parents have been fighting, don't try to one-up me to see who has it worse."

Richie's hands shake on the bike handles the entire time that he rides home, the silent neighborhoods only locking him in with his own thoughts. Should he turn around and apologize? Would she accept his apology?

Richie pulls up his driveway, taking notice of the light shining through the kitchen window. Carefully, as to not make too much noise, Richie drops his bike behind the bushes and quietly starts climbing the rose trellis. Richie is careful to where he steps, doing his best to avoid trampling any of the roses that have spiraled up and curled around the picket fence. His window is still open from when he jumped, and as quickly as he can, he pulls himself up using only his upper arm strength.

Richie's head spins with all of the mistakes he's made, tonight's choice of words seeming to be the biggest of them all. How dare he speak to Beverly like that? She tolerates so much of Richie's behavior, suffers through so many insufferable traits, and this is how he repays her? By daring to call her a shitty friend?

He feels the familiar pressure in his chest, so before he can spiral into another fit of anxiety, he puts his headphones on and flips through his stacks of tapes to find the one he listened to with Eddie. Beautiful Eddie. Eddie, who likes Elton John and Space Invaders.

To distract himself from all the bad thoughts that he is letting run naked and free through his mind, he pulls a notebook out and digs through his desk drawers until he finds the exact pen he's looking for. Purple, with green ink. His favorite for making mixtapes, the only pen that he allows himself to use. Richie has little quirks, tiny little black holes in his mind that make him act funny sometimes. But it's okay. Beverly always accepted them.

She might not anymore.

Richie shakes his head, turning the volume up even higher than it already is, and uncapping his pen so that he may begin listing all of the most lovely songs he can think of.

TO EDDIE KASPBRAK; he titles the page, making sure that his words are neat and eligible. FOR WHEN YOUR NIGHTMARES ARE TOO LOUD TO SLEEP, TURN THE MUSIC UP EVEN LOUDER.

Chapter Text

Mornings are lovely. Despite their common reputation, Richie is generally a morning person. He likes being awake, especially when it's just reaching the cusp of dawn and the world has yet to catch up with the singing birds.

However, after a night of restless dreams and repressed memories ricocheting around his brain, Richie feels nothing but animosity stir in his blood when he is being woken up by a timid knock on his door.

He lifts his head, glaring at the door in question, and shouts "Fuck off, cockgobbler!"

"It-It's B-B-Buh-Bill," a shaking voice penetrates the wooden door, barely registering in Richie's sleep-clouded mind.

"Stuttering Bill?" Richie sits up in confusion. "Why the fuck are you in my house?"

"Your mmm-m-mother let me in," he's clearly nervous, he's stuttering much more than how he was when he was comfortably speaking with Stanley Uris at Beverly's birthday party.

Richie stands up, pushing his hair aside and stepping over piles of dirty clothes to fling open his bedroom door. He squints, his eyes appearing much smaller without his glasses to amplify them. "Your mom was letting me in last night too."

"T-That's disgusting," Bill shakes his head. "Can I c-c-come in?"

Richie glares at him more harshly before finally stepping aside and making room for Bill Denbrough to come in. It's rare, he'll admit, but Richie can't say that he's surprised.

"What are you here for, Big Bill?" Richie glances out his bedroom door before quietly closing it behind him. He kicks aside some the mess on his floor, embarrassed that he didn't prepare for company, but it's not as if Bill particularly warned Richie he would be coming over.

"B-B-Beverly," he says as if it's obvious. Bill looks at Richie, and then starts taking in his surroundings.

Richie's bedroom walls are covered in scraps of papers and napkin debris with fractured poems penned into them, the occasional Queen magazine page ripped out and taped to the wallpaper. Next to his bed, there's a stack of playboys that comes up to Bill's knees, and beside that, a holy bible. Richie's desk is cluttered with pens and tapes, some empty, some not. Next to that is a bookshelf that has a large vacancy of literature and instead holds a collection of vinyl that would make most kids jealous.

"And?" Richie moves papers aside on his desk until he finds his discarded glasses, pushing them up his face until Bill's blurry outline finally comes into focus.

"S-She wuh-wants us to b-buh-he-bhe-be fff-f-ffriends," Bill looks far more embarrassed than Richie is, the kid's eyes looking everywhere except for Richie's stained boxer shorts.

"She mentioned that, yeah," Richie rolls his eyes. Upon noticing Bill's discomfort, Richie searches for a pair of shorts on the ground, pulling on the first pair that he can find and wiping at the crusted mustard on the waistband. "So? Is that what you're here to do? Befriend the trashmouth?"

"Y-Yes. She s-s-said... she s-s-said you nnnnn-nn-needed space away from her, but I n-need to tay-tay-take care of you," Bill repeats the words that were spoken to him over the phone this very morning.

To be exact, she had said "I'm afraid I can't come with today, Bill. But you know who would love to go with? Richie. You guys should invite him. He'd love to meet Eddie."

"Richie? Richie the t-t-trashmouth?" Bill asked her, surprised she would miss out on Saturday afternoon swimming.

"The one and only," she giggled, happy and sweet. "He doesn't need me right now, Bill. He's had enough of me, but he needs you guys."

Bill didn't quite know what she meant, but he still wrote down the address and headed out to go to Richie's house. Now, here he sits, avoiding eye contact with the very person he was sent to befriend.

"Great, so now I have a fucking baby sitter? For fucks sake, Marsh, you tryna kill me?" Richie curses out of his window like the word will somehow travel to Beverly's home. "Just how pathetic does she think I am?"

"N-Not pathetic," Bill whispers. "Just luh-lonely."

Richie hates that word, he really does. But he's not one to deny any friendship given to him, so, biting back his usual insults, he says "What do you plan on doing to sweep me off my feet, Stuttering Bill?"

"The q-quarry," Bill looks at Richie, then back down to his lap. "With the other Losers."

"What, you wanna swim in it? That's fucking disgusting," Richie scoffs, earning a bit of a nervous jump from Bill.

"Eddie... Eddie likes it..." Bill mumbles.

Richie falls silent, his central nervous system coming to a complete halt at the mention of Eddie Kaspbrak. With the sudden information that he'll be seeing Eddie, Richie jumps over a pile of dirty clothes to ravage what is left in his closet. He doesn't want to look like trash, not in front of the asthmatic boy with a vocabulary wider than Richie can comprehend.

"S-So you'll come?" Bill asks.

"What does it look like I'm doing, dumbass?" Richie snaps, but then quickly softens up and says "Yeah, I'll come. It's just you guys, right?"

"Yeah," Bill promises. "Me, Ben, Mike, Stan... Eddie, too."

"I heard you the first time," Richie says, changing his shirt to a clean Hawaiian print button up. Instead of having his usual graphic tee underneath, Richie does every button, and then tucks them into a clean pair of shorts. He doesn't seem to mind changing in front of Bill, but then again, Richie doesn't really care what anybody thinks as long as it's about him. Attention is attention, and Richie will take what he can get. "Eddie is going. I get it."

"Bev said-"

"Yeah, Bev probably said I'm in love with the fuckin' kid," Richie shakes his head, gathering up his bag and shoving his Walkman inside. "Tell me, Big Bill, do you always do whatever she says?"

"Um... y-yes," Bill replies matter-of-factly.

"Why?"

"B-Because she's... she's always t-t-there for me," Bill mutters, tripping over his words quite nervously. "S-S-She's a good fuh-friend. My b-best friend."

"Yeah," Richie grumbles, his stomach in knots as he glares at the photo of him and Bev taped to his wall that was taken in the yearbook. Richie didn't buy a yearbook, of course, but he stole one and cut the page out before returning it to its owner. Bev looked so happy there, smiling at Richie like he put the sun in her sky. Her hair was down to her waist, then. Richie wasn't as tall. As much as he wants to be angry with Beverly, he can't be. Bill is right. "Yeah, you're right. Come on, dude."

Richie has been to the quarry plenty of times before, but never to swim. Not because he disagrees with swimming, but because he prefers the arcade to the outdoors. Nature is gross and sticky, arcades are fun and wonderful.

Richie and Bill ride in silence. Not that Richie minds, he has his headphones on, but Bill will occasionally look over to see what exactly it is that makes Richie so much better than the rest of the Losers' Club. Why does Beverly love him more than anybody else in her life? More than Bill? More than Ben? What makes Richie Tozier so much more special?

"Oh, great, we're going to get an STD from swimming with the walking AID's epidemic," Stanley comments as soon as he sees Richie Tozier riding alongside Bill.

"The only STD's he has are from your mom," Eddie punches Stanley's shoulder.

Rolling his eyes, Stan says "That's your best comeback? 'Your mom'? Geez, Eddie, you sound as dim-witted as trashmouth."

"S-Shhh-Shut it, S-S-Stan," Bill whispers, glancing over at Richie setting his bike against a tree. He still has his headphones on, so he's oblivious to their conversation, but Bill remains quiet anyways. "D-Don't say anything to him t-t-today. Bev said he's having a b-bad day."

"Yeah, probably from-" Stan starts to say, but is quickly shut down by a swift punch to the jaw by Eddie Kaspbrak. Stan covers the bruised area with a delicate hand, exclaiming "Ouch! How the hell did you even reach me, you gremlin?"

"Beverly isn't coming?" Ben asks, looking over Bill's shoulder as if the redhead will strut out from behind the trees with her warm gaze and daring smirk.

"N-No. We-We're supposed to be sss-spending time with Ruh-Ruh-Richie," Bill explains, motioning towards the tallest boy standing by a tree and gazing upwards with a lost look on his face.

"God, just kill me now," Eddie complains.

"He's such a-" Stan starts to insult Richie once more, but is punched in the jaw by Eddie for a second time. While Stan complains, Mike grows tired of their bickering and charges towards Stan, throwing the boy over his shoulder before backflipping off of the steep ledge. Stan's screams can be heard all the way down to the bottom, where a cocoon of splashes echoes throughout Derry.

Ben laughs, taking this as his chance to follow. He cannonballs in beside the two, followed by Eddie dramatically pirouetting of the cliff ledge like a ballerina. Richie takes notice of this, the graceful bow of Eddie's arms catching his attention, so he removes his headphones and looks to Bill for guidance.

"J-J-Just jump off," Bill explains, fumbling with the button of his pants as he gets undressed. Richie watches for a moment, and then decides to follow along, reaching for the top button of his shirt and cautiously undoing them.

Once he's stripped down to the very boxers that Bill saw earlier this morning, Richie turns and safely puts his Walkman inside his bag, hiding it under a fallen branch next to his bike. Once he's finished, he steps up to the edge with Bill, the two staring down at the deep abyss waiting for them.

Richie takes a deep breath, glancing over at Bill, who seems to have done this a million times before.

"Are you s-s-scared?" Bill asks Richie. The tone doesn't sound mocking, not in a way to tease Richie for being a baby, but more... concerned. Richie is unfamiliar with the feeling.

"No," Richie lies.

"The fuh-fuuurr-first time is always s-s-scary," Bill comforts him anyway. Bill reaches over and let's his fingers slide against Richie's palms, filling the spaces between Richie's knuckles.

Alarmed by the affection, Richie immediately goes to retract his hand, but Bill holds on. Richie seems confused about what's happening and why it's happening, but he can't deny how... nice it feels. He doesn't... he doesn't know how warm and safe affection can be, and so therefore, this new experience washing over him is one that is terrifying and enticing. His fingers grip hard and tight onto Bill's hand, and the fear of having to let go suddenly seems more scary than the jump below.

"You r-r-ready, trashmouth?" Bill asks.

Richie tightens his fingers once more, letting his thumb graze against Bill's knuckles in an attempt to explore foreign territory. "Okay, lets do it. Let's jump."

Bill looks forward, his bare feet stepping closer and closer to the edge. Richie follows him, unsure of what to do, but desperate to feel more human contact than just what is sparking from his hand.

And they jump.

Chapter Text

After what feels like hours, the Losers all drag themselves back up to the peak where they had left their bikes and belongings. Thankfully, nobody like Henry Bowers came along and stole their clothes, but that's the least of Richie's problems.

While everyone else gets dressed, he frantically scrambles with foliage to find the bag he's hidden. Dripping wet and soaked to the bone, Richie couldn't care less about dressing himself. He needs to find his backpack. He needs to find his music.

His heart rests at ease when he finds it tucked under a nonconspicuous branch. Checking to make sure everything is fine, he pulls out his Walkman and headphones, inspecting every surface for scratches or damage.

"Got any new songs?" Eddie Kaspbrak asks.

Richie lifts his head up, looking over his shoulder at the now completely dressed boy. He feels embarrassed and exposed at his lack of clothes, but Eddie pays no attention. Instead, he comes and kneels beside Richie, peering into the bag curiously.

"Y-Yeah..." Richie breathes out, offering the headphones over to Eddie. The small boy takes them in his dainty hands, sliding them over his head while Richie scrambles to get dressed. He's glad he picked out these clean shirts, he would look like a fool if he had stayed in the spaghetti-stained PacMan shirt he was originally wearing when Bill came over this morning.

Richie watches the others with anxious eyes, all of them joking around with one another and having fun. His attention comes back to Eddie, who is smiling up at the trees and focusing on the music. Richie watches the way that spotted kaleidoscopes of sunshine stream in through breaks in the leaves, kissing sunlight freckles all over Eddie's polka dot nose. Halos of light glow within his irises, and Richie has to physically pull himself away from staring too long.

"Richie, Eddie! We're going to bike down to the parlor!" Ben calls out, making Richie jump in alarm.

Hearing this over the music, Eddie slides the headphones off of one ear and says "Go on ahead! We'll meet you there!"

Stan gives Richie a curious look, but definitely one that isn't as hostile as his usual glares. Maybe he's warming up to me, Richie thinks. He quickly shakes his head, shutting the idea down before it can even take shape in his brain. Don't get too comfortable, dumbass. They're only tolerating you because Bev pities you.

Interrupting his thoughts, Eddie throws a towel over that smacks Richie right in the face. "Dry off!"

"You want me using your towel?" Richie holds the material in his hands, noting the distinct smell of bleach and disinfectant spray radiating from it.

"Yeah," Eddie nods, holding the tape deck in his careful hands. "Dry your hair. I don't want you catching pneumonia and giving it to me."

Richie falls silent, rubbing his messy hair with the towel as he watches the other boys start pedaling away. Richie feels a slight discomfort now that he's alone with Eddie, but he doesn't think Eddie is bothered at all.

"How come you stayed behind?" Richie asks, insecurity evident in his voice. He curses himself for sounding so stupid, reaching down and pinching the skin on his thigh as a form of punishment.

"What, and leave you all alone?" Eddie shakes his head. "What if a crackhead came and, like, murdered you?"

Eddie stands up, still far shorter than Richie, and clips the Walkman to his belt loop. Richie watches him with attentive eyes, still holding the towel up to his hair. Eddie smiles at the curls plastered against Richie's forehead, and with slow movements, he moves the headphones from his ears over to Richie's head.

"This is a good song," Richie comments, his head nuzzling into Eddie's palm as the boy pulls his hands away, just in the slightest way as an attempt to keep the human contact lingering for a second more.

"I've never heard it before, but I think I love it," Eddie grins, unzipping his fanny pack and pulling out hand sanitizer. Richie stares at him in confusion, watching as he undoes the lid and then hold it out patiently.

Richie's brain catches up, and he holds his hands out, palm side up. Eddie squeezes a bit of hand sanitizer onto each palm, and then places the bottle back into his fanny pack. Richie moves to rub his hands together, only to have Eddie take them between his own and start rubbing the gel all over Richie's hands.

Holy fucking shit. What the hell. Oh my god.

"You gotta get all the cracks," Eddie explains, his tiny hands working so gently against Richie's busted up knuckles. Richie's heart pounds in his chest, following time with the song that's playing on the tape. Play The Game, Queen. Eddie doesn't seem to notice the fact that Richie's fingers tremble, or that his cheeks blush redder than the polo shirt adorning Eddie's petite frame. "That's where all the bacterial diseases like to hide."

"O-Oh," Richie stutters, then feels like a fool for being so flustered. He can't pinch himself while Eddie is holding his hands, so he lets his left shoe collide harshly against his right ankle. It'll leave a bruise for certain.

"Okay, there we go," Eddie nods, releasing Richie's hands and reaching down for the volume. As he turns it up, Eddie says "Watch out."

Richie pulls the headphones down before they can deafen him, the music pounding so loudly that it can be heard clearly from the two miniature speakers. Richie wonders what exactly it is that Eddie is trying to get at, but he doesn't question the boy's methods at all.

"Your friends are probably waiting," Richie says. His words don't have their usual bite, but then again, he tends to speak much softer whenever it's with Eddie Kaspbrak.

"Let them," Eddie shrugs, taking Richie's hands once more. Richie inhales sharply, a soft rattle rumbling between his lungs that only reminds him to quit smoking. Eddie smiles up at him fondly with wide, curious eyes, ones that resemble every forest creature that Richie has ever seen. As if Eddie were a deer, Richie moves slowly. Don't scare him off. "Do you know how to dance?"

"Dance?" Richie repeats.

Eddie holds their hands up, two entwined messes where Richie's fingers appear ginormous compared to the fragility of Eddie's. Where Richie's knuckles have split open and bled from all the times he's punched brick walls, Eddie's delicate fingertips overlap the wounds and begin to heal what Richie assumed to be permanent damage.

"Dance," Eddie nods confidently.

Richie doesn't question it, just begins to move forward and backwards in time with the music. He's actually quite good, but the only living soul who knows is Beverly Marsh. Richie loves to dance, his hips can sync up with just about any song to play on MTV.

Eddie, however, is not as graceful. He trips and stumbles over Richie's shoes, his legs getting tangled when Richie takes broad steps, and he has to drop Richie's hands to tightly hold on to the tall beanpole's waist. He laughs and giggles, sounds that project much more clearly than the music spilling out of the headphones, and Richie can't help but admire the smiling boy with the most enamored gaze that Richie's face is capable of producing.

"Have you ever heard something so beautiful?" Eddie giggles, his hand sliding up Richie's chest to tap the headphones dangling around the taller boy's neck.

Richie stares, breathless and in shock. Eddie's giggle is more comforting than any song that Richie has on any of his mixtapes. This sound alone can fill up the cracks and crevices inside Richie's mind, this singular giggle can make him complete again.

"No," Richie exhales, an airy sigh that is full of all the flowers and bumble bees that the world has to offer. "No, I haven't."

Richie holds his arm up, spinning Eddie in the beams of sunlight that dance alongside the two boys. The cord of the headphones wrap around Eddie's waist, pulling and tugging Richie in until the two boys are chest to chest.

To anybody who happened to be passing by the forest trail that the two were waltzing in, it would be easy to confuse the two as childhood sweethearts.

At that moment, with Eddie's hands bunched up and squeezed against Richie's chest, a smile brighter than the sun itself beaming up at Rich, and eyes squeezed shut so tightly that the bridge of his nose crinkles, Richie understands exactly how Rick Astley felt when he wrote Never Gonna Give You Up.

"Eds," Richie lets out, too breathless to finish the rest of his name. He feels as if he is a balloon, inflating with a feeling he has never experienced before, his organs threatening to burst if this continues much longer.

Eddie cracks open one eye, his smile dropping and instead being replaced by a frown. "Do not call me that."

Richie feels embarrassed, quickly untangling himself from Eddie's embrace and reaching out to reclaim his tape deck. Berated with his own stupidity, Richie turns, packing his bag up far too quickly.

Eddie notices the swift change in moods, but he doesn't comment on it. Beverly had mentioned before that Richie is very temperamental. "Are you coming to the parlor with us?"

"No," Richie shakes his head, mounting his bike as if he can't leave fast enough. Richie can't bring himself to look at Eddie, feeling nothing but embarrassment and rejection burning in his bones. "Why would I? You're just a bunch of losers."

Eddie seems unfazed, after all, he's been hearing those words for years "Welcome to the Losers Club."

Richie stops, his hands nervously gripping the bike handles, and he says "Do you want me to come?"

"Wouldn't have invited you if I didn't want you to come, dipshit," Eddie remarks, propping his own bike up and hopping on, literally. Eddie's legs prove to be too short for the bike he's riding, but he still insists on riding it like the stubborn boy that he is.

"Fine, fuck, fine," Richie shakes his head. "Only because you're scared of crackheads killing you."

"It's a reasonable fear! Do you know what the rate of illness is within the stereotypical drug addict?" Eddie kicks off the ground, beginning to pedal through the clearing.

Richie follows him like a magnet being pulled to Eddie. "Who the fuck is doing studies on crackheads? Where the hell are you getting your information, Eds?"

"I said not to call me that!" Eddie huffs in frustration, picking up his speed as Richie begins doing circles around the kid.

"What else should I call you? Eddie Spaghetti? Spaghetti head?" Richie continues to tease him.

"If you call me that, I swear to god, I will snap your fucking glasses in half, Tozier," Eddie frowns. His little legs kick and pedal faster in order to keep up with Richie's, and as a result, his lungs burn with lack of oxygen.

"Ah, you love it, Eds!" Richie laughs. For a moment, he forgets about his embarrassment and just allows himself to experience this feeling. He thinks it might be happiness, but he's not too sure. He has the undeniable urge to smile, all Eddie's doing. This must be what happiness feels like. Happiness, belonging.

Eddie opens his mouth to spit out some quick response, but instead, he allows a smile to take over his features as he watches Richie ride his bike in zig zag motions all across the street.

When the two arrive at the familiar pizza/ice cream duo parlor, Richie stacks his bike against the rest of the clutter in front of the shop. He lingers by the door, waiting for Eddie to catch up, while the small boy carefully puffs off of his aspirator. Richie looks away, feeling a bit intrusive. Eddie might feel self conscious about Richie watching, so the tall boy focuses hard on the store's open hours taped inside the door.

"What are you waiting around for? Go in," Eddie's hand presses against Richie's spine, shoving the boy forwards just slightly. Richie smiles, following orders and holding the door open for Eddie to enter.

"What took you guys so long?" Mike asks the second that the two enter together.

"Got lost," Eddie says quickly, shoving into the booth next to Ben. "This idiot made me take a left down Knottingham street instead of a right."

Richie frowns, sliding in to the empty seat next to Stanley Uris. Why was Eddie lying? Was there something wrong with what they were actually doing? Does Eddie not want his friends to know about the way that the two of them danced in the warm sunlight?

It's not anything to be ashamed of.

Richie looks over at Eddie, who is now ordering an ice cream sundae with more sprinkles than humanly healthy. The boy's rosy cheeks seem to be in a perpetual state of flushed, and his tight fitting polo shirt hugs around the baby fat that he has yet to lose. Richie's chest burns with yearning, his ribs feeling as if they're harvesting a winter sunset, the orange and red hues bursting at the seams to spill out of Richie like a paintball explosion.

Is it?

Chapter Text

For the first time in over a year, Richie does not crawl out of his window to meet up with Beverly Marsh. He wonders if she's waiting, looking at her watch impatiently, and he wonders if she's going to give up easily or persevere through the night.

Instead, Bill Denbrough sits in the middle of Richie's (now clean) bed. He's playing with the Rubix cube that Richie forgot he owned, while Stan and Rich sort through the box of tapes that Stanley brought with him.

"Hey, uh, thanks for this," Richie mumbles, adjusting the glasses on his face.

"You're welcome," Bill smiles, the simple sounds of the Rubix Cube shifting around. Plastic on plastic.

"Needed a way to get rid of these tapes," Stanley shakes his head. "What's better than a trashcan? Richie Tozier seemed like the next best thing."

"Oh, sure, trash the trashmouth," Richie scoffs. He stands up from the floor, heading over to his desk and opening the top drawer. Once pulling out his pack of cigarettes, he saunters over to the window and takes a seat in the frame. Neither of the two say anything, so Richie hangs out the window and smokes patiently.

"Have you heard from Eddie?" Stan asks.

Richie lifts his head, looking over his shoulder and raising an eyebrow at the skinny boy.

Richie had called the Denbrough house immediately after school, his shaking voice asking if Bill wanted to spend the night. Currently, Richie's parents are out of town, and Rich hates being in this house all alone. Bill said yes, and then called back ten minutes later. Stan wanted to come with, and Richie couldn't say no. The two were on Richie's doorsteps only a mere fifteen minutes later, holding sleeping bags and a box of cassette tapes as a welcoming gift.

Richie did everything he could to make the two comfortable, making microwave popcorn and bringing cans of soda up whenever they slurped the last of their previous cola. Richie had never had guests over, not even Beverly. He wanted Bill and Stan to have fun, but more predominantly, Richie wanted them to like him.

"N-No," Bill's voice answers, so Richie's heart relaxes. He has a paralyzing, irrational fear of Eddie's friends discovering the thoughts that circle around Richie's mind when he thinks of polkadot noses. "He hasn't g-gotten permission from his mmmm-m-mother yet."

"She'll never give him permission," Stanley whines. "She'll have a stroke the second he asks her."

"Asks her what?" Richie turns around in the window frame. He holds his arm far out, careful to not let any of the smoke billow into his bedroom with the wind. Just because his parents aren't home doesn't mean the smell of nicotine doesn't linger.

"We were all planning to go camping. Do you want to come with?" Stanley informs him.

Richie scoffs, looking over at his desk, feeling the hurt impact him roughly. Still, his exterior hardens, and he spits out "What, a pity invite?"

"No?" Stan responds. "It hadn't come up until now. Do you want to come or not?"

Richie feels his cheeks burn, finally meeting someone who doesn't put up with his bullshit the way that Beverly does. Bev. A pang of guilt eats at him when he imagines her shaking in the cold, waiting for the boy that will never show up.

"Um... I've never gone camping before," Richie timidly admits. Nobody has ever invited him.

"It-It-It's fun," Bill chimes in, letting out an excited chirp when he completes one side of the Rubix Cube. "No adult s-supervision... get t-t-to stay up as long as w-w-we want..."

"We're doing that now, genius," Richie comments, taking one last drag from his cigarette before stubbing it out on the side of the rose trellis and letting it drop to the ground below.

"I know," Bill says. "B-B-But it's more fun in the woods."

Richie sighs, telling himself to ease up and stop acting so defensive. He's trying to befriend these two, not give them an ass beating.

"Okay," Richie says. "Sounds cool, I guess. When?"

"N-Next weekend. Not this weekend, buh-but next," Bill tells him.

Richie nods, clambering back into his bedroom and reclaiming his spot on the floor next to Stan. He takes some of the tapes in his hands, flipping through the labels with a mild sense of satisfaction on his face. For an OCD loser, Stanley has an impressive taste in music.

"I'll be there. You sure?" Richie asks, then punches his leg for being so insecure and pathetic. Neither of the two see it, and if they do, they don't mention it.

"Wouldn't invite you if we didn't want you to come," Stanley says, mumbling the same words that Eddie told him just last weekend.

Richie laughs, actually laughs, and leans over to hit Stanley's shoulder. The noodle boy rubs his arm, but otherwise continues sorting tapes.

"H-Hey Richie?" Bill asks, his hands coming to a halt on the Rubix Cube. Richie looks up at him curiously, tilting his head to the side and urging the nervous boy to go on. "H-H-How do you dress s-so c-c-cool?"

Richie looks down at his clothes; a Guns 'n' Roses shirt hidden beneath a baggy flannel. He's never thought of himself as a particularly nice dresser, he just wears what he thinks he's comfortable, or whatever will fit his long figure.

"Don't you know? Richie digs in Macy's dumpsters," Stan giggles, causing Richie to roll his big eyes.

"Whatever, at least I don't shop at the Gap," Richie quips. "Honestly, Bill, if you wanna raid my closet, go ahead."

"R-Really?" Bill's eyes widen in surprise, caught off guard by Richie Tozier's unusual giving personality. From all the rumors he heard around school, he never would have assumed that Richie would be so... kind.

"Sure, go for it. Have a fashion show. You too, Stan," Richie waves the two off, completely unbothered by the idea of giving two strangers his wardrobe.

So, thus commences the ridiculous runway of Bill and Stan trying on every article of clothing hanging up in Richie's closet. Most of the outfits are awful, gag-worthy, hot messes, but every once in awhile Stan will find a pair of jeans that look better on him than they do Rich, or Bill will pair a windbreaker with a shirt that Richie forgot he owned.

Richie sits on his bed, which has been renamed the judges table, and laughs when Stanley pulls an awful neon shirt on over his head.

"Stanley Uris, negative three hundred points!" Richie declares. When Bill walks out wearing Richie's tightest black pants and a jean jacket, Richie whistles. "Now that's a man! I reward you with the three hundred points that Stan just lost."

"That's not fair! Anything looks cool with a jean jacket," Stan complains.

Richie shakes his head, reaching over to flip the tape that is playing in his boombox. The song makes him think of Eddie, but then again, everything does. Richie saw a butterfly hair clip on the floor of the arcade and thought about the way that Eddie's eyelashes flutter against his cheeks every time he blinks up at the chalkboard in class.

"D-D-Do you think Beverly w-would think so?" Bill asks, then quickly shoots an alarmed look at Richie as if he remembers who he is standing in front of. "I mean, uh, n-n-never mind."

"Do you have a crush on Beaver-ly?" Richie laughs tauntingly. "You seriously got a crush on that nerd?"

"S-Shut up," Bill says but he still smiles. "S-She's pretty."

"She's a complete dork," Richie remarks, lying down on his bed and staring at his ceiling. She's a dork, yeah, but Richie loves her with everything that he is.

"She's not pretty, she's beautiful," Stan corrects Bill, causing Richie to look over at the two in disbelief.

"Both of you?!" He asks.

"No, I don't see her like that," Stan sits in Richie's desk chair, his posture straight and proper. "I can recognize beauty without being attracted to it."

"Is that so?" Richie leans on his side, propping his head up with his hand.

"Mhm," Stan says matter-of-factly.

"Hm," Richie's attention drifts away, images of crooked smiles and cough syrup floating across his eyes.

"S-She's pretty, but I would n-n-never do that to Ben. He l-luh-loves her," Bill says, sitting down on the pile of blankets that Richie has pulled from every cupboard in his house.

"We're only fifteen," Stan says.

"D-Doesn't mean we can't fall in l-love."

Richie smiles again, but then quickly wipes it off his face. "What about Eds? Heard he's got a crush on Greta Bowie."

"Ugh, don't say her name," Stan shakes his head.

"What does he even see in her?" Richie asks defensively.

"T-Two C-C-C cups," Bill snickers.

"Gross, Bill!" Stan kicks at the air in Bill's direction. The stuttering boy grins harder at Stan, just to spite the other one.

"That's it? Wow," Richie scoffs, lying flat on his back and resuming his ceiling-staring. "Eddie Kaspbrak is shallow."

"He's not," Stan then says, his tone softer. "He's... hm. How do I put this? Bill, could you help me out?"

"H-He's attracted to the p-p-people who treat him p-poorly. He... he d-doesn't think he deserves any buh-better."

Richie's heart breaks. Is that why he's so nice to Richie? Because Richie is a fucking ass?

"That sucks," Richie says quietly.

"Maybe one day he'll get a good girlfriend," Stan says.

"N-Nobody... nobody is g-good enough for Eddie," Bill says honestly. "Eddie is rare. No g-g-girl could compare."

"You talk awfully highly of him," Richie mentions.

The chair that Stan is sitting on squeaks as he swivels towards the direction of Richie's bed. He says, with certainty in his voice "Its only the truth. Don't you think so too?"

"No, no, yeah, Eddie's great," Richie agrees, a small smile spreading across his face. "Eddie is... he's great."

"Yeah, really g-great," Bill confirms.

There's a silence over the room as everyone sits and contemplates just how great Eddie Kaspbrak is, one boy thinking more fondly than the rest. Bill reaches over and picks the Rubix Cube back up, resuming his puzzle, while Richie remains lost in his thoughts.

It's that very second that Richie is hit with the realization that he is making friends. No, he has friends. Plural. More than one, more than just Bev. This is how normal teenagers typically spend their nights, surrounded with people who make them laugh. This epiphany makes Richie smile so hard that he has to hide his face behind a pillow as Bill and Stan continue their conversation.

"Richie!" Stan gets the dreamer's attention.

"Sorry, what?" Richie pulls the pillow away from his face.

"W-We wanted to know if you wanted to eat lunch with us and t-the other losers on M-Mon-Monday," Bill repeats his question.

The feeling of having friends only spreads, leaving Richie with a soft, limp mush inside of him.

"I'd love that, yeah. Are you sure?" He asks, and then holds a finger up when he sees Bill open his mouth. "You wouldn't have invited me if you didn't want me to come, I get it."

The three boys crack up laughing and spend the rest of their night making jokes and talking about their school classes. At one point, Stan talks Richie into doing some accents and impressions, which Bill finds absolutely hilarious. Richie isn't very good at it, he still sounds exactly like himself, but it makes the two boys in his room laugh so hard that for a split second the house doesn't feel as empty. Almost as if it's a home, a real one.

Bill and Stan fall asleep by the foot of Richie's bed despite the fact that he insisted one of them sleep on the mattress. They both declined, and then unrolled their sleeping bags gleefully. It seems normal to them, comfortable, even, and Richie wonders how many times the two sleep over at one another's house. And then, with the pressure of feeling accepted, he wonders how many more times they will stay over at his.

The thought of it makes him smile.

Chapter Text

Richie is anxious to follow Bill to the lunch table, mainly because he's scared of having to see Beverly after ignoring the girl for so long. He loves her, he does, and he craves to feel her presence again, but he just cannot deal with her indifferent attitude when it comes to other's problems.

On top of that, there's a mixtape in his back pocket that burns a hole through his leg.

Bill talks easily about the bar mitzvah that he attended for Stanley, and how he watched Stan become a man. Usually, Richie would make some snarky comment about how they probably sliced the tip of Stan's dick off, but his nerves seem to get the best of him.

You're okay, Richie Tozier he tells himself. Everything is okay.

And Richie quickly finds out, yeah, it is okay. The lunch table that Richie was so worked up about only has one other occupant sitting at it when Bill sets his books down and tells Richie he'll be back in a second. Realizing he was nervous about nothing, Richie takes a seat next to Stan and turns to make conversation.

"Where's Bev?" Richie asks.

Between bites of his unidentifiable home lunch, Stan responds "She has third lunch."

"And Mike?"

"He's homeschooled."

"And Ben?" Richie already knows the answer to this, but he asks anyway.

"Studies in the library instead."

The words finally leave his mouth, and it's obvious that he's trying to sound as casual as possible as he says "And Eddie?"

"Right here," the small boy announces his arrival, plopping a lunch box down on the table, causing Richie to jump at its clatter. "Sorry. Bowers was giving me shit, so I had to walk the long way here."

Richie opens his mouth to reply, but Stan interrupts him and asks Eddie something completely irrelevant. Richie looks over the contents of Eddie's lunchbox, a completely balanced meal for a boy of his height and weight. The off putting part of it, however, is the ziploc baggie of brightly colored pills that takes up a third of the lunch box.

At first, Richie assumed they're gummy snacks. But as Bill returns and joins their conversation, Richie watches the way that Eddie swallows one tablet at a time, a swish of his drink to make the ride down more smooth.

"Why do you have so many pills?" Richie asks the second that there's a break in conversation. Stan and Bill seem caught up in a heated discussion about birds, so Richie takes this time to steal Eddie away.

"They're vitamins," Eddie explains. "Most of them. Some of them help me take dumps more easily, but some of them make sure that the dump isn't too intense."

What a charming mouth he's got.

"You know, I've never touched a vitamin before in my life and I'm pretty healthy," Richie says pointedly.

"Perhaps," Eddie shrugs, swallowing his next pill. "But you're at high risk for lung cancer with the way that you suck cigarettes down."

"Maybe all those pills stunted your growth, Eds," Richie ruffles Eddie's hair, getting lost in the soft feathers and wanting nothing more than to let his fingers tangle in the webs. That would be unfair, however, because he would knock Eddie's halo askew if that were to occur.

"Don't call me that," Eddie responds habitually. "Where's your lunch?"

"Don't have any lunch money," Richie shrugs, trying very hard to think about anything else other than the fact that his parents up and left for the week with no note or money to survive. Richie will make do with what's in the house, but carefully, so that he does not dip into some of his mom's favorite coconut Girl Scout cookies.

"No wonder you're so skinny, here," Eddie tears his peanut butter jelly sandwich down the middle, handing the larger portion over to Richie.

"I can't," Richie shakes his head.

"Why not?" Eddie blinks at him, waiting for a good answer.

Richie, who doesn't have one, takes the sandwich and gives Eddie a guilty smile. "Thanks, Eds."

Eddie looks like he wants to object, but instead shakes his head and bites down on his sandwich. Richie watches the way that strawberry jelly tucks itself away in the corner of Eddie's mouth, and he thinks he would be overstepping all boundaries if he were to reach out and wipe it away.

A thought crosses his mind that instantly diminishes his good feelings, one that connects the dots between Beverly and Eddie. Is he so pathetic that he can't even feed himself? Other people have to do it for him?

"It's nice to see you here," Eddie then looks at him, catching Richie staring. "Ben says you usually hide in the library."

"Not hiding," Richie looks away. "Just... um. Listening."

"To music?" Eddie asks. When he notices that Richie isn't eating, he nudges the taller boy's lanky arm and then pushes a cup of apple slices in his direction.

Richie smiles, "Am I that predictable?"

"There's nothing wrong with liking things," Eddie says, "It's... It's nice that you have something to be passionate about. I think people with hobbies are cute."

"You think I'm cute?" Richie looks at Eddie out of the corner of his eye, admiring the blush that creeps up beneath the boy's freckles.

"Mike really likes history," Eddie ignores the question, "And Ben is obsessed with NKOTB."

"Oh, trash," Richie shakes his head. "Trash music."

"I don't know, it's nice." Eddie shrugs. He takes a long drink from his water bottle, and then makes a very big step out of his comfort zone by offering the bottle to Richie. Thankfully, Richie declines. Eddie feels as if he's just dodged a bullet; do you know how many illnesses he could contract just by sharing a water bottle? "Just 'cause you don't like the music doesn't mean it's trash. If he likes it, then that's enough, you know? Music is music. It helps people, and that should be enough."

Richie, who stares at him in shock, is rendered speechless. Did he just get severely burned by Eddie Kaspbrak?

"You know, music doesn't have to live up to your standards, Rich," Stan interjects.

Richie looks over, unaware that the other two were listening in on their conversation. Eddie blushes, ducking his head down and silently eating his lunch.

"Boybands are dorky," Richie shakes his head.

"All your favorite bands are boy bands," Stan says. "Bands consisting of men are all boy bands."

"But-" Richie says, then gives up. He quietly starts eating the food that Eddie has graciously shared with him, deciding he can't open his loud mouth if he stuffs it.

You fucking idiot. They all hate you. Your first day sitting at their table and you've blown it by being a pretentious, elitist asshole.

Gentle, hazy, showersteam soft fingertips plant on Richie's elbow like flower seeds, and when Richie looks over, Eddie is still going about his lunch with no attention directed towards Richie at all. Richie smiles, his nerves relaxing with the touch of Eddie's rose bud hand. It fills him with firecrackers of happiness to think that Eddie is trying to comfort him, his heart soaring with a sense of trust that he's never felt with Beverly.

"Um, Eds," Richie blurts out, feeling more confident with the proximity between them.

"Eddie," the small boy corrects him, but then stares up at Richie through his spiderweb eyelashes. "Go on."

"At... At Bev's party..." Richie begins to lose the courage he had, floundering with anxiousness. Eddie lets his fingertips ghost up Richie's arm, then slide back down to his pointy elbow. He repeats the action, and when Richie fully realizes what's happening, an entirely new sense of bravery washes over him. So, with Eddie gently rubbing Richie's arm, Rich says "When you had that nightmare, did the music help?"

Eddie seems a little flustered at the mention of his bad dream, but still nods. "Yeah. I slept through the whole night."

"I, um," Richie stumbles over his words, reaching into his back pocket and curling his fingers around the cold case of the tape. "I've been thinking about that night. I mean, the music, not you. No, I do think about you, but I don't think think about you-"

"Richie," Eddie interrupts his nervous rambling. Richie is grateful, otherwise he would have kept fumbling around cluelessly and making a fool of himself.

So, with a glance over at Bill and Stan to make sure they're not listening, Richie pulls the mixtape out of his pocket and presents it to Eddie awkwardly.

"I made a list of songs that, uh, might help you sleep," Richie says. Richie wrote the track listing inside the case with precision, as well as the title that matches the one on the paper he first started formulating these songs on.

TO EDDIE KASPBRAK; FOR WHEN YOUR NIGHTMARES ARE TOO LOUD TO SLEEP, TURN THE MUSIC UP EVEN LOUDER.

Eddie breaks into a bashful smile, accepting it and letting his eyes scan over the list of songs. He doesn't recognize any of them, but then again, Eddie can't tell you the name of songs even if his life depended on it. He knows how they sound, not their names or who they're by.

"Thank you, Richie," Eddie smiles up at him, his cheeks swelling the bigger that he smiles. "This really means a lot. You're... you're so thoughtful."

Richie shrugs, trying to pass it off as nonchalantly as he possibly can. In reality, he feels as if he's baring a naked part of his soul to a boy he barely knows. "Just want something for you to listen to at night while I'm banging your mom in the next room over."

Eddie grins, not because of the joke, but because of the way that Richie's cheeks bloom like scarlet flowers underneath his thick glasses frames. He reaches out and squeezes Richie's hand, then carefully tucks the tape away into his fanny pack.

He glances at Richie's hand again, and just for safe measure, squeezes a drop of hand sanitizer into his palm to clean away any bacteria that might have been transferred from Tozier's touch.

The rest of the lunch, Richie argues with Stanley about whether or not Family Fued is a funny show. Eddie finds himself explaining the algebra homework to Bill, and for a moment while Stanley is ranting, Richie is overcome with the same feeling he felt the night the taller two stayed at his house.

He belongs. He feels as if he's finally found a home to call his own.

When the bell rings, Bill jumps up and stutters about how he has to get to history or Mr. Irwin will kill him. Stan departs quickly as well, leaving Richie lingering by the table as Eddie packs his millions of things into his lunch box.

"See you around, Eddie spaghetti," Richie says his farewell, only to earn a scared look from the smaller boy.

"Richie?" He asks, and without hesitation, Richie is there, by his side, asking what's wrong. "Could you... Could you walk me to class?"

Richie blinks at him.

"It's just, uh, Henry Bowers has been giving me a hard time all day, and, um, you're... tall," Eddie looks down at his shoes, playing with the straps on his bag as a distraction.

"Yeah," Richie says, moving closer to Eddie. "Of course. Come on, where you going?"

"Third floor," Eddie sighs in relief, pressing himself in close to Richie's side as they leave the cafeteria together. Richie's next class is on the opposite end of the school, but he doesn't care. He thinks he'd cross the ends of the earth if Eddie were to ask him with those scared puppy eyes.

While walking through the halls, Richie can hear people snickering around the two of them. Eddie keeps his head down, but it's clear that he can hear it too.

"Look at the girly boy! His shorts!"

Richie looks at Eddie's shorts, maybe a bit revealing, but still just standard shorts. Why are people talking about him? Is this how they always treat Eddie? Is... Is Eddie getting bullied everyday?

"Have his balls even dropped yet?"
"Haven't you heard? He doesn't have any."

Richie's muscles tense with anger upon hearing these whispers, and he wants to grab every single person snickering at their lockers and punch them until their teeth are loose inside of their gums. Instead, he wraps an arm around Eddie's shoulders and protectively pulls the boy in closer. Eddie doesn't object, in fact, his anxious hands work their way into Richie's shirt and hold on for dear life.

They nearly get to Eddie's class successfully when a tall figure bumps into them. Eddie bounces back, colliding with Richie's chest, and Richie's arms wrap around his shoulders to pull Eddie in close.

"Is this your boyfriend, Kassprick?" A stocky, built man sneers, poking at Eddie's chest. Richie recognizes him, but the mutual friend they have in common is one that doesn't cross Richie's mind at all anymore. "Did little queer finally get himself a faggot boyfriend?"

Richie's hands slide down to protect Eddie's chest, his blood boiling and spewing up his throat in the form of insults.

"Hey, Belch, fuck off," Richie spits, trying to guide Eddie around the bully to get him to his class.

"What, too pussy to speak, girly boy?" Belch laughs, "That's all you are, Kassprick; a pussy."

"You are what you eat," Richie responds, earning a stifled laugh from Eddie. That one simple sound gives him all the courage that he needs. "Explains why you're such a fucking dick."

It seems that Belch is too unintelligent to come back with a response, growing so frustrated that he storms off down the hall with a grumble. "I'll get you, Tozier. You're fucking dead. You and your prissy boyfriend too."

Richie rolls his eyes and continues walking, while Eddie seems stricken with fear.

"N-Now they're going to be after you," Eddie looks up at Richie, leaning back into his torso and sliding his fingers up Richie's hands still planted on Eddie's chest.

"Whatever," Richie shrugs. "Who cares? I can handle a few punches. What's important is that you're okay."

Eddie grins, watching Richie's indifferent face, and he thinks this boy is so brave. Eddie has been holding out for a hero for as long as he can remember, and now here he is, 5'10 with glasses bigger than Jupiter. His own personal savior, Richie Tozier.

Eddie stops in the doorway of his classroom, quickly looking around to see if anybody is watching, but most of the students have scurried to class before the last warning bell.

Quickly, Eddie turns and pulls Richie down by the front of his shirt and stands up on his tiptoes, pressing his lips to the curve of Richie's protrudent cheekbone.

"Thank you, Richie Tozier," Eddie drops back down to his feet, moving backwards. "For the tape."

"Of course," Richie responds, his eyes wide and whole face flushing. "Yeah, of course. Any time, Eds."

"Eddie," the small boy corrects him, grinning so excitedly before finally dipping into the classroom.

As the bell rings, the teacher comes and shuts the door that Richie is frozen in front of. He doesn't know what snaps him out of his trance, but when he finally does, his trembling fingers touch the spot that Eddie had kissed.

Heavenly choruses and angelic choirs rise up around Richie, filling the hallway with harmonies that would make even the man in the sky jealous. Richie smiles, turning on his heel and starting down the now empty hallway, his organs melting within his body as he replays the moment over and over again.

It isn't until halfway through the class period that Richie finally realizes that neither of them denied being the other's boyfriend.

Chapter Text

"Tozier!"

Richie doesn't lift his head, but continues walking across the field with his eyes cast downwards. His bag weighs heavily on his shoulders, the weight of the day weighs heavily on his mind, and all he wants to do is go home and listen to his records.

"It's rude to ignore people, Tozier," the voice is closer, more demanding. Richie lifts his head, annoyed with the interruption, and slides his headphones off of his ears.

"What is it, Hen?" Richie sighs. He glances at the familiar hazel eyes, bright and demanding like a sandstorm, but unfamiliar all at the same time.

"Henry," Henry Bowers spits, but it doesn't appeal as cutely as it does when Eddie corrects him.

"Mhm," Richie nods, then turns and keeps on walking.

His "don't give a fuck" attitude seems to piss something off within Henry, and even though he's shorter than Richie, he's got muscle where Richie just has bone. He throws a hand on Richie's shoulder and pulls the boy backwards, his fist tightening by his side.

"Little birdy told me that you've got yourself a boyfriend," Bowers growls.

"You should know I'm not gay, but whatever," Richie shrugs. "Which bird told you this?"

"I did, dumbass," a more familiar tone interjects, announcing the arrival of the other three terrorists that love to pick on anybody they deem weak enough.

"Ah, Belch, how kind of you to live up to your promise," Richie reaches up to slide Henry's hand off of his shoulder. Skin memories sends gentle molecules into flurries of carbonation. It's familiar, but neither will admit it. "Is this where you kill me? That is what you said, isn't it? I'm a dead man?"

"Look at that," Patrick sneers. "Didn't know queers could think about anything other than dick!"

"You're one to talk," Richie raises his eyebrows. Richie drags his eyes back to Henry and says "Does Patrick know about New Years Eve? The one in fifth grade?"

This seems to be the last straw, which he quickly finds out from a swift punch to the jaw. Richie stumbles backwards, gaining his composure, but quickly retaliating by throwing all of his might into his fist.

Richie's a good fighter, he always has been. Despite his bony structure, he has the deeply rooted unresolved issues that give him more muscle than all of Bowers' men combined. He's quick as well, and when you combine that with his long arm span, you get a boy who can certainly hold his ground in a fight.

And he does. He does well. Henry looks much more worse than Richie does when the other three finally step in, pinning Richie to the ground while simultaneously kicking his ribs in. If he were to go one on one, this would have been an easy fight. But it's not. And now here he is, bloodied, losing consciousness, and defeated.

"Stop it! Stop it! Get off of him! Get the fuck off of him!" Eddie Kaspbrak's voice is as clear as a church bell. Richie lifts his head up to identity the sounds, seeing the way that Eddie punches his tiny fists against Patrick's back, and the way that the rest of the losers are standing about a block away on their bikes. Eddie's is discarded nearby, telling a story all on its own. Eddie turned the corner, saw the fight unfolding on the school field, and dropped it the second he ran up.

"Fucking queer," Belch turns, shoving Eddie to the ground. "Come to protect your boyfriend?"

Eddie springs back to his feet like a resilient little bastard, trying to push Henry Bowers aside but merely angering the boys more.

"Leave him the fuck alone!" Eddie screams, then, without any warning at all, kicks his leg so high up that it somehow manages to hit Victor directly in the jaw.

"Ow, fucking faggot kicked me! He fucking kicked me!"

Richie watches as all the attention is turned to Eddie just then, the small boy's courage quickly diminishing as he becomes the primary target. Without even thinking about it, Richie's body kicks into overprotective mode. He has to do everything that he possibly can to make sure that Eddie is not touched.

"Hey, pissface," Richie sits up, pain flourishing throughout his body like forest fires. He shakily stands to his feet, pulls a fist back, and punches the closest person to him. His vision is blurring so he's not sure who it is, but he knows he's pissed them off. Richie spits directly in the attacker's face, and then smirks at Eddie Kaspbrak. "I'll see you around, Eds."

Eddie doesn't run, of course he doesn't. Upon realizing this, Richie takes it into his own hands and decides to be the one to take off.

He leads the four abusers off of school property, taking large strides and thanking the god above for gifting Richie with such long legs. Occasionally he will look over his shoulder and see them struggling to keep up, but persisting through.

Richie loses them somewhere in town, ducking into shops and hiding behind display shelves. Employees gasp at the sight of him, a boy beaten and spitting blood, but he doesn't have time to assess the damage. He just needs to shake them from his trail.

After walking around downtown Derry for half an hour with no sight of them, Richie finally gets the hint to go home. He doesn't want to, he knows it will be empty, but he has no other choice.

Richie keeps his head down the whole time, approaching his front lawn and not noticing the bike collapsed in the yard until he hears a squeak from the porch followed by clumsy footsteps. He looks up, watching the way that Eddie Kaspbrak clambers down the stairs to meet Richie on the sidewalk. Eddie stands on his tiptoes, pulling Richie's face down to inspect it, his wide eyes full of concern.

"Look at you! Look what those assholes did to you!" Eddie exclaims, dropping away and reaching into his fannypack.

"H-Hey Eds..." Richie mumbles, rubbing the back of his neck nervously. "Is there a reason you're stalking me?"

Eddie ignores the comment, instead he says "Are you serious? I needed to check up on you after they... they... they'll fucking pay for this, I swear!"

"What are you gonna do, challenge them to a game of Dungeons and Dragons?" Richie rolls his eyes. He steps around Eddie to start heading inside, but at last second, he lets his hand fall on the kid's shoulder to pull him along.

"You think that would work?" Eddie's naive nature gets the best of him.

"No, dipshit," Richie laughs.

Eddie jogs ahead, jumping up on the porch and swooping up the bag crumpled on the steps. He holds it in his arms, little legs shifting restlessly beneath him.

"I came by to drop off your bag but... you weren't home. I didn't know what happened to you, I got... I got scared you were," Eddie looks away in embarrassment. "Lying face down in a ditch somewhere."

"I'm still kickin', sorry to disappoint," Richie reaches him, taking the bookbag that he hadn't realized that he dropped and looks inside nervously. His Walkman seems fine, along with the countless amounts of tapes that he has hidden away in pockets and pouches.

Eddie stands on the front porch, watching as Richie unlocks the front door with bleeding fingers. Eddie had been wondering how Richie's knuckles got to be so wounded, but he guesses he knows now.

Richie slips inside, kicking his shoes off and throwing his coat over the couch. He stands, stretching the muscles in his arms that are bound to be sore tomorrow, when he glances back and notices the empty space where Eddie Kaspbrak should be standing.

Eddie startles when Richie pokes his head back out the front door, the tall boy leaning against the doorframe expectantly. "You comin' in or what, kid?"

Eddie seems to be woken back up, grabbing his second fannypack from the porch and quickly following Richie inside.

"You know, I am the exact same age as you, Richie," Eddie frowns, following Richie into the living room. "You can't call me 'kid' like I'm the little boy you babysit."

"Nah," Richie shakes his head. "You've got the body of a ten year old girl and the personality of a 70 year old grandpa."

"What, and you look like a normal fifteen year old? You're basically nine feet tall!"

"Five foot ten inches," Richie corrects him.

"Whatever," Eddie shakes his head, looking around the living room to inspect the decor. Richie lives in a completely normal home, which takes Eddie as surprising. Eddie was expecting broken family photos and run-down furniture, not the posh, upper class interior that they're walking through. One thing he does notice, however, is that there isn't a single photo of Richie in their family photos.

Richie walks through the kitchen and into the guest bathroom, flicking the light on and finally taking a look at the aftermath of fighting four people. It's not pretty, but then again, Richie doesn't think his face was very good to begin with. Behind cracked glasses, his left eye is nearly swollen shut, the other flourishing with blues and purples. (Richie bruises too easily, which might be the only reason that his parents don't throw him around anymore. Too much evidence.) His lip is cut in three different places, most likely from knocking into his own teeth. His nose isn't broken, thank god, but it is running fresh blood over the stuff that just can't seem to dry fast enough. There are various cuts up and down his cheeks, along with a gnarly gash running up his jaw that must be the proof of a particularly rough uppercut.

"Fucking Bowers," Richie sighs, "Damn asshole wears a ring the size of a moonrock. At least mine aren't so fucking monstrous."

Richie looks down at his hands, each finger holding a silver band except for the ring finger of his left hand. His eyes linger on the gold plastic ring slipped over his thumb, and he tries not to think about how Henry has a matching one. Henry doesn't wear it anymore, and Richie wonders if the boy had decided to keep it or not. After all, they won it at the arcade together when it had first opened up in Derry.

Eddie watches him wiggle each ring off, setting them in a cup by the toothbrushes, and then turn the faucet on. Richie stares at the water for a moment, his hands gripping the sides of sink while blood drips from his nose into the running water. He breathes heavily, the events catching up to him all at once. Too many punches. Too many boots. Too many kicks.

"Where's your first aid kit?" Eddie asks, leaning over to come into the mirror's frame. Richie looks at their reflection for a moment, the way that Eddie's chin just barely clears his shoulder.

"Uh," Richie pauses, looking down at the water now billowing with hot steam. "Not sure. Don't think we have one, to be honest."

Eddie watches the way that Richie dips his hands into the water, gently rubbing the blood off of each knuckle. The water must be scolding, the boy's hands turn pink almost the second they come into contact with the harsh flow. Eddie reaches out to touch the scalding hot faucet handle, flinching backwards but persisting through and turning the sink off to avoid Richie getting third degree burns. Then, without a word, Eddie puts his hands against Richie and guides the tall boy down to sit on the toilet lid. Richie opens his mouth to object, but Eddie merely closes Richie's jaw with his finger.

"You'll give yourself an infection if you don't clean yourself up properly," Eddie lectures the boy, unzipping his first fannypack and pulling out a travel size first aid kit. In Eddie's handwriting, Richie reads the words written on the side of it. 'for emergency use only!!!!! EMERGENCIES!!!'

"How much shit do you carry around, Eds?" Richie asks, his hands draping between his legs helplessly. He feels awkward, wanting to pull away from Eddie, but he shouldn't deny someone trying to help him.

"Only necessities," Eddie shakes his head, pressing a peroxide-coated cotton ball to the skin torn open on Richie's jaw. "That's why I carry two fannypacks."

"Shouldn't even be carrying one," Richie scoffs, his eyes lingering on the two belt-purses looped around Eddie's tiny waist.

Eddie smacks the side of Richie's head, and then, to apologize, he rubs his hand against the curly hair as softly as he can. Eddie moves about Richie's face with delicate ballerina fingertips, cleaning up each cut and applying a Hello Kitty bandaid to each wound. Richie doesn't comment on how feminine it is, only smiles at the fact Eddie has that particular brand in the first place. Maybe 'girly boy' isn't that far off from the truth.

"May I?" Eddie asks, his fingers latching on to the sides of Richie's glasses. Richie reaches up and pushes them back for him, holding his long messy hair back and out of his face by propping his spectacles on top of his head.

Eddie freezes, watching the way that Richie's eyes open up and show a whole new side to the boy that people don't usually see. Richie looks a lot different when his hair is pushed back, or when he's not hiding behind huge frames. He looks... older, but more vulnerable. Eddie stares at Richie's eyelashes, and then moves on to admire the brown sugar and cherry red pools that mix and swirl together in Richie's irises.

"I didn't know you have freckles," Eddie breathes out, his thumb grazing along the sharp cheekbone.

Richie looks away, recoiling from embarrassment. He wants to push Eddie back just so that the boy can't notice anymore flaws about him, but Richie doesn't have the heart to lift his arms. "Is that a bad thing? You do too."

"No, no! It's... um..." Eddie trails off, making Richie shy away even more. He can't even think of a lie? Geez, how fucked is his face? He didn't think it was so bad. Eddie rests his hands on the sides of Richie's face, forcing the bashful boy to look up in embarrassment. With a certainty that Eddie has never felt before, he says "You're pretty, Richie Tozier."

"Pretty?" Richie asks, subconsciously nuzzling into Eddie's hands, desperate for human contact. Eddie sees this, and instantly identifies the craving of affection is one that comes to attention deficient people that have been deprived and neglected all their life. Richie's eyes hold a kind of naked, pure, rawness that Eddie has never seen before. He doesn't think anybody has ever gotten to see Richie Tozier like this.

"Beautiful, even," Eddie says quietly as if he's tip toeing around all these vulnerable things that he's picked up on. He strokes the apple of Richie's cheek with his thumb, and then he says "Breathtakingly handsome."

If it were anybody else, Richie would shove them away and spit on their face, maybe get a good punch in, but because it's Eddie Kaspbrak... Richie just smiles and allows himself to accept the compliments. That doesn't happen often, only because not many people actually give Rich compliments to begin with, but those who do are usually shut out of Richie's thick walls.

As if the words hadn't left his mouth, Eddie returns to cleaning Richie up very silently. He's focused as he works, his eyes fixated on small portions of Richie's face instead of the whole thing. Sometimes, smaller details and brushstrokes are just as lovely to examine instead of the bigger picture.

"You'd make a good doctor," Richie speaks up. He lifts his hands, looking at the dried blood, but he hopes that Eddie cleans that up too so they have an excuse to touch. Not knowing where to put his hands, he boldly reaches out and let's them settle on Eddie's narrow waist.

Eddie takes a step back in alarm, glancing down at the way Richie holds onto him. Then, muscles relaxing a bit more comfortably, he steps forward once more and continues sliding a bandaid across Richie's forehead.

Richie takes this as permission to keep touching him, so he idly rubs his thumbs back and forth over Eddie's shirt, his tiny protruding hips poking into Richie's hands like little thorns. Eddie shifts around on his legs a bit, and feeling brave, Richie pulls him in closer. Eddie stands between Richie's long legs, trying to ignore the persistent hands on his hips.

"How'd you know where I live?" Richie asks, his eyes fluttering close as Eddie cleans a notch in his eyebrow.

"Bill told me," Eddie says, followed by "He said to look for the house with the rose bushes. You had a sleepover with Stan and Bill and you didn't invite me?"

"I didn't think you would want to come," Richie feels embarrassed, his fingers clenching the fabric of Eddie's shirt. "I'm sorry. Do you want to stay tonight?"

"Are you kidding? It's a school night, my mother would have a stroke," Eddie exhales, followed by "Richie, where are your parents?"

Richie opens his eyes, staring at Eddie with a void, vacant expression. The warm, fuzzy feelings diminish from his chest, and so he pushes Eddie back and stands up from the toilet.

"Does it matter?" Richie asks, looking at himself in the mirror and picking at the bandaids plastered on his skin.

Eddie feels guilt nip away at him, but he still smacks Richie's arm. "Stop it! Leave them be."

Richie glares at him, leaving the bathroom and climbing the stairs up to his bedroom. Eddie, of course, follows.

"You know, you could say thank you," Richie says over his shoulder.

"For?" Eddie responds.

"Getting my face caved in for you," Richie spits, pushing his door open and throwing his bag on the bed.

"Hey, I didn't ask you to fight them! Don't blame me for this, fucker," Eddie huffs, "I only asked you to walk me to class. You could have easily said no!"

"I wouldn't have to do that if you just-" Richie rubs his eyes in frustration, dropping his glasses down on his face. He turns to Eddie, his eyes conflicted and confused. He wants to push this boy away, to not let him in close, but then again, he's tired of being tough. He's tired of being strong. He doesn't want to be stoic Richie anymore, he wants to trust someone to not hurt him. Softly, his voice drifting like a feather in the wind, he says "If you just spoke up for yourself, Eds. I know you've got it in you, I've seen it... there's a fire inside that little body of yours, shouldn't you just let it burn?"

Eddie falls back, staring at Richie, crossing his arms over his chest. "I can't. I'm... I'm weak."

"Says who?" Richie scoffs, "Your mom? Fuck that. You threw yourself right into a fight of four people to defend me. That takes a lot of bravery, Eds. You don't need me to protect you, you are more than strong enough."

Eddie sits down on Richie's bed, crumpling over in defeat and shame. Richie sits next to him, unsure of what to do, when he remembers Bev. Beverly is great at comforting people, and when Richie is in a bad mood and doesn't want to speak, she always touches him to remind Richie that she is there.

Richie reaches over and lets his fingers delicately brush across Eddie's arm, as if he's scared of being burned. After coaxing himself to continue, Richie lets his fingers slip around Eddie's wrist while his thumb rubs the delicate skin.

"I didn't mean to yell," Richie apologizes.

"You didn't," Eddie says quickly. "You didn't do anything wrong."

Richie leans forward to get a look at Eddie, only to be met with an angry stare.

"Are you okay, Eds?" He asks.

"Yeah. I am. I really am. You know what? Fuck my mom," Eddie throws his head back, a burst of confidence igniting in his eyes.

"Already did that," Richie slips out, then smiles and gives Eddie an apologetic look. "Sorry. It's a habit."

Eddie shakes his head, continuing "No, seriously. Fuck my mom! Fuck her. I'm not her precious baby boy! I'm fifteen! Fuck her."

"Yeah," Richie nods, holding a fist up encouragingly. "Fuck her!"

"She can't keep sheltering me! I'm not fucking sick, and I don't... I don't need these bullshit pills!" Eddie shouts. "I'm perfectly capable of standing up for myself."

"Of course you are," Richie moves his hand down to Eddie's palm, going to hold the tiny boy's hand, but thinks better of it. Richie's hand retreats to just rubbing Eddie's back. "You're brave, and you're strong."

"And I'm staying over at Richie Tozier's house on a school night," Eddie adds to the list, and then his face falters. He looks over to Richie, his courageous attitude quickly being replaced by sheepishness. "If that's okay?"

"Y-Yeah!" Richie blurts out, fumbling around and nearly punching himself in the face while trying to adjust his glasses. "That's- That's more than okay. That's perfect. Do you need anything? Do we need to stop by your house and pick things up?"

"No, she'd never let me leave if I went home," Eddie says through clenched teeth. "Let's just stay here. Can you show me some of your favorite music?"

Richie smiles, not hesitating for a moment at all, simply standing up and turning on his boombox. Richie doesn't have a favorite tape, they're all so important and special to him, but he still pretends like he's looking for one in particular.

"Do you like The Cure?" Richie asks.

"The who?" Eddie asks.

"No, The Cure," Richie says, sliding a tape in and pressing play. "The Who is a good band too, though. I love Baba O'Reiley."

Eddie smiles, watching Richie babble on about the difference in tapes and records, feeling himself enamored with how passionate that Richie becomes. Eddie doesn't see Richie get excited about anything, any time he sees the taller boy sulking around school he always looks so sullen and forlorn. But now, he's pacing his room and talking with animated hands, letting himself giggle each time that he makes a reference that Eddie doesn't understand. It's a side of Richie that is hidden deep beneath the hard exterior, and it's a side that Eddie wouldn't mind seeing more of.

Richie points out guitar solos and will rewind the tape so Eddie can hear certain vocals again, but it's not like Eddie minds. Richie is rambling on and on as if he's been dying to let these words out since the day he was born. It's clear that Richie doesn't talk much, but Eddie is starting to think that nobody around is really willing to listen. The empty photo frames in the living room paired with a vacant house only proves that Richie's parents neglect the boy as if he doesn't even exist. So Eddie listens. He listens to every single word that leaves Richie's lips, and he replies, and he nods, and he says "Oh yeah?" to show Richie that he's not just listening, but paying attention as well.

Richie doesn't know the last time that Beverly listened to him talk without interjecting about some trauma of her own. She doesn't even ask about the simple things, like what Richie's favorite song is. Eddie does, and as the two clumsily stumble down to the kitchen in excited manners after hours of talking, Richie explains that it's either Soft Cell's Tainted Love or Heartbreaker by Zeppelin.

"But honestly? Anything by Queen. Freddie Mercury is... he's a god, you know? The man is a fucking legend. I'd kill to see him and Bowie live," Richie explains, pulling out pots and pans to start making dinner. Richie is actually quite good at cooking since he had to start doing it for himself at such a young age. Tonight, he has extra motivation to make something better than his usual mac 'n' cheese.

"Doesn't Freddie Mercury have AID's?" Eddie asks, looking over Richie's shoulder as the boy digs through the fridge.

"He better not," Richie shakes his head. "If he dies, I will kill myself."

"That's not funny, Richie," Eddie frowns.

"Just a joke, my love." Richie stands up, nearly bumping into Eddie as he sets his ingredients down on the counter. Before he does anything else, Richie leans over and turns on the kitchen stereo, changing it from the news station his dad enjoys to the rock station Richie has memorized by heart. "God, I love Joy Division. This one's called Love Will Tear Us Apart. Have you ever heard a song this raw?"

Eddie doesn't hear anything but vocals and instrumentals, but Richie still pauses and nods his head like he can feel the music in his brain. Eddie thinks that's so unique, Richie has a personality that he's never seen before. Music has always just been music to him, but for Richie, he hears so much more. Whether it's the soul, or the energy, or the passion, he hears it with a supersonic frequency sense of sound that is rare within the Derry genetic pool. Richie then resumes his movement, going over to wash his hands in a manner that Eddie wouldn't deem clean, but he won't make comments.

When Richie turns around, his chest bumps into Eddie's face, and Eddie nearly falls over from the collision. Richie laughs, patting him on top of the head to comfort the kid, and then says "Okay, little guy. You're going to get in my way all night if you keep standing around. So, what we're going to do is put you riiiight up here like a cute little doll."

Richie picks Eddie up by the waist, turning and sliding the boy onto the unused counter space. Eddie yelps, but then relaxes a little, his hands settling over Richie's chest as the boy sets him down. Before Richie can pull away, Eddie grips the front of his shirt and pulls him back in. His bruised knees bump against the sides of Richie's torso, and when he realizes that he's holding on, he quickly releases Richie in embarrassment.

Richie smiles, doesn't say anything, and goes about cooking while listening to the radio. Richie asks Eddie about the classes he's taking, just to hear Eddie's thoughts after rambling on about music for so long. Eddie talks easily, not uncomfortable or awkward, and it's almost as if the two have been friends for years. During cooking, Richie will grab a clean spoon and have Eddie taste the marinara sauce, asking if it's too salty or too sweet. It tastes better each time that he shoves the spoon into Eddie's mouth, but Richie doesn't accept that it's good enough and keeps adding a dash of this or a pinch of that.

"It's good, it's really good," Eddie tells him when the two finally sit down to eat. Richie's eyes avoid the liquor cabinet that his mother loves more than her own son. "I would never have taken you as a chef, Tozier."

"What can I say?" Richie shrugs jokingly, then says "This is my second favorite type of spaghetti."

"Second?" Eddie asks, "What's your first?"

"You, of course," Richie says, leaning back in satisfaction. "Eddie spaghetti."

Eddie rolls his eyes, but does not make a remark like he usually would.

When Richie finishes washing the dishes, he meets Eddie up in his room. Eddie is sitting at the desk, his fingers trailing over the polaroids of Richie and Beverly taped to the wall.

"She's beautiful," Eddie claims, glancing at Richie in the doorway. His fingers graze against a picture of Richie, two cigarettes shoves in his nostrils while he's crosseyed behind his glasses. Eddie traces the outline of Richie's jaw in the photo and says "She's... so beautiful."

"Y-Yeah," Richie stutters, trying to figure out what to do so that Eddie doesn't grow bored and want to go home. What did he do to keep Bill and Stan entertained?

"Do you love her?" Eddie asks.

The question catches Richie off guard, the boy nearly tripping over his own feet as he tries to get to his bed.

"What?" Richie asks. "Do I what?"

"Love her," Eddie repeats himself, pulling the photo of Richie off the wall and turning around in the swivel chair to face the boy in the photograph. "Ben and Bill are her best friends and they're both head over heels for her. Do you love her too? You're, like, her best best friend."

"No," Richie scoffs. "I mean, I love her, yeah, but only as my bitchy older sister. I don't... I'm not in love with her. There's a difference, I think."

"Oh, cool," Eddie nods. Then, he looks up from the picture in his hands and asks "Do you have a crush on anybody at school?"

"No," Richie responds. "They're all cunts."

"Not all of them," Eddie mumbles, kicking his feet out a little stubbornly.

"Oh, and Greta Bowie isn't a massive fucking cunt?" Richie scoffs, lying back down on his bed and tossing his lighter up in the air before catching it.

"H-How'd you find out about that?" Eddie asks, moving over to sit on the edge of Richie's bed.

"Bill mentioned it," Richie says, followed by "Don't tell him I ratted him out, though."

"I don't like Greta," Eddie says.

Richie sits up, looking at Eddie skeptically. Eddie looks confident, however, his eyes not daring anywhere else except for Richie's face.

"Is that so?" Richie asks, catching his lighter and digging around in his other pocket to find his cigarettes. Richie gets up, pushing open his window, and lights up his last cigarette. Fuck. Bev usually gets him a new pack.

"She's a bitch," Eddie says, moving up the bed to sit closer to the window Richie is hanging out of. "I only told my friends that I like her so that they wouldn't think... that I'm a fruit."

"Well, are you?" Richie asks, raising an eyebrow as he takes a long drag. His lungs crumple like burning paper, yet it ceases the nerves that have been coursing through him the second that Eddie asked where his parents are.

"What? No! Don't be fucking sick," Eddie protests. "Everyone says that I am, I just don't want them to believe the rumors."

"You know, if they're really your friends, they wouldn't give a shit about rumors," Richie says. "How much shit do you hear floating around about me? And do you believe any of it?"

"Well, no, but-"

"But what?" Richie asks, turning his whole body towards Eddie.

"But those aren't true. I know those aren't true," Eddie shakes his head. Richie looks at the kid's body language, reading the tight posture and clenched fists.

"...Eds, are you... gay?" Richie whispers. The thought never even seriously crossed his mind, but now that Eddie is alluding to it, Richie can't deny the fact that it... adds up.

"No! No I'm not! I'm not fucking gay, I'm not," Eddie shakes his head, aggressively denying all allegations.

Richie looks at the cigarette in his hand, his last one, and thinks fuck it. He holds it between his lips and reenters his room, coming over to sit beside Eddie and skipping over all boundaries that are set with new friends. He pulls the small kid into a one armed hug, squeezing Eddie into his side, careful to not let any cigarette ash flick into the boy's hair.

"You don't have to answer to that," Richie says. "And... and if you are, it's okay, you know? Like... it's okay. Your friends will still like you."

"And you?" Eddie asks anxiously, his voice shaking.

"Well, you're still sitting here, aren't you?" Richie asks.

Eddie looks up at him, and from this angle, Richie can count every perfect freckle dusting across his skin. "Are you...?"

Eddie trails off, but it isn't hard to figure out what he's implying. Richie shakes his head, taking the cigarette from his mouth and saying "No, I'm not. Too many ladies to please for me to play for the other team, it would be a damn shame. Who else is supposed to keep your mom well satisfied?"

Eddie laughs, one that sounds fake, and Richie watches the way that the boy curls in on himself uncomfortably. "I'm not gay."

"Okay," Richie nods, "I believe you."

"I don't want to give them the satisfaction of being right," Eddie shakes his head, then says "But I'm not gay, so it doesn't matter."

"Okay," Richie says again. "Do you wanna play a board game?"

Eddie shifts around uncomfortably, but then gives in and says "Yeah. Not Twister."

"Nah, that game's reserved for your sister only," Richie chuckles, standing up and opening his closet door. He doesn't play with them often, only because he doesn't have anybody to play them with. After careful consideration of all the board games, Richie looks back and asks "Do you know how to play chess?"

"Oh, I'll beat your fucking ass, Tozier," Eddie's bright smile is back in an instant.

The two play chess until Eddie can barely keep his head up. It's no surprise that he goes to sleep earlier than Richie, but it is a surprise that he's tapping out at nine o'clock sharp. Richie heads down to retrieve the blankets from the dryer that Stan used, and when he brings them back up to his room, he's met with a sight so adorable that his heart could burst.

Eddie, passed out on his bed, clutching onto the pillow in place of a person, sleeping soundly. Richie covers him up, propping a pillow beneath his head and brushing his hair back, before sitting down in his desk chair.

Something's missing.

He can feel it the second he sits down, and as he scans the messy papers tossed carelessly all over, he realizes what it is. A photo. A photo of him is missing from the wall of memories he's created, and his mind traces back to Eddie holding onto it tightly. Wherever he put it, it's somewhere that Richie can't immediately see.

"Help," Richie hears, a needle bursting through the silence of the air. He turns, seeing Eddie twisting around in the bed, and sighs when he realizes there's no immediate danger.

Eddie shifts about some more, his face contorted in pain, and Richie can recognize the hurt and can't help but compare it to the crushed roses that he comes home to from constantly crawling down the trellis they grow on. Beauty; smashed, oppressed, hurt.

Richie stands up, digging through his backpack to find the Walkman that he hasn't touched since school this morning. The day seems fuzzy and far away, even the fight doesn't seem real, but Richie guesses that Eddie just has that effect. Time slows for him. The natural laws of reality don't apply to Eddie Kaspbrak.

When he finds it, he slides the headphones on the boy, pressing play on the tape and lowering the volume to a soft level. Eddie's chest expands and collapses quickly, and as Richie strokes the boy's soft hair, it slowly steadies out. Richie sits there, the bed dipping beneath his weight, and watches as Eddie's pain slowly eases up. The crumpled roses beneath his window no longer compare, because Eddie relaxes, his petals unfold and bloom into their natural beautiful state.

When Richie is certain that the boy is comfortably asleep, he turns the light off and lays flat on the ground. He doesn't want to intrude on the germaphobe's space, nor does he want to come off strongly and scare the poor kid. Richie lies there in the darkness, counting mistakes in his head, his hands aching from the pressure they were subjected to today. Richie knows he shouldn't fight, but fucking Bowers and his god damn new friends.

Just as Richie starts to uncover suppressed memories, a clumsy arm falls over the side of the bed and the soft knuckles hit Richie right in the chest. He looks down, smiling at the reminder of who is here with him, and slowly places the arm back onto the mattress. When the arm falls down a second time, tiny fingers grip Richie's shirt stubbornly, and so Richie leaves it.

As he's falling in and out of a deep sleep, he quickly realizes that he's subconsciously holding onto Eddie's hand. He didn't mean to, and yet... he doesn't want to let go.

So he doesn't.

Not even when Eddie is nudging him awake in the middle of the night, holding the headphones up to Richie's ear and asking "What song is this?"

Not even when he leans up, listens, and then sleepily responds with "More Than A Feeling by Boston."

Not even when his back cramps up and he has to roll over to stop the hardwood floor from dooming his muscles.

Not even when Eddie rolls over in his sleep, pulling his arm up with him, and taking Richie's hand with him in turn.

The two don't let go of each other, not for a single second, not until the sun comes up like a fairy returning to a swampland. The glimmering pixies kiss the edges of Eddie's skin, and watching the boy slowly wake up and come to life, the forest nymph dust covering his features, it suddenly all makes sense to Richie how someone can be so beautiful. An epiphany washes over him. Fairies kiss him every morning, and maybe, just maybe, Richie wants to be one of those fairies.

Chapter Text

Beverly Marsh is the one person in the entire world that will not take any of Richie's Tozier's bullshit. Richie thought that she was the only one, and for the longest time he had assumed she was the only person with the patience to handle him, but he is proven wrong by a boy shorter than most girls their age.

That doesn't stop Bev from being the first to slap Richie upside the head anytime that he does something stupid.

Richie is brushing his teeth when he hears her voice, calling to him like an angry mob, loud footsteps stomping up the stairs as if she's wearing the combat boots she will one day kick his ass in. He's peeled all of the bandaids off because he refuses to go to school plastered in teddy bears and flowers, much to Eddie's displeasure.

Richie feels his blood run cold, and then immediately panics when he realizes the scene that Beverly is about to walk in on.

"Rich? I know you're fucking home, stop ignoring me!" Her voice comes from down the hall. Judging by the distance, she must have checked his room first and found it empty. Richie listens for a moment, but then hears her boots walking down the hall towards the bathroom him and Eddie are in.

"Fuck," Richie whispers, spitting toothpaste out and reaching for the doorknob. Before he can lock it, Beverly is barging in and nearly colliding with Richie's chin.

"There you are," she frowns, pulling him in for a brief hug. It doesn't last long, she quickly pushes back and slaps Richie upside the head. "What is your problem? Getting into fights again? Are you serious?"

Richie looks down in shame as if he's been scolded by his mother. He doesn't know what to say, but then again, he doesn't think anything could be said to justify his actions. Bev hates when he fights, he knows better than to start them. He should have just walked away.

"Is..." Bev trails off, her tone quiet and curious. "Is... someone... in here?"

Richie looks over his shoulder, praying to god that Eddie can stay quiet until Beverly is gone. "No, I just got out, guess I forgot to turn the water off."

"Your hair is dry," Bev narrows her eyes.

"Did I say get out? I meant I was about to hop in," Richie shakes his head, putting both hands on her shoulders and trying to push the teenage girl back.

As if he has only just heard the voices for the first time, Eddie pokes his head out from behind the curtain, his hair flattened and a bit of soap foaming up on his cheek. "Richie? Who is it? Is someone there?"

"N-Nobody!" Richie calls back, giving Beverly one last shove before shutting the door behind them.

Richie looks at Bev, internally cringing at her agape mouth and amused eyes.

"Eddie?" She asks, her voice holding more than a hint of humor. "Eddie Kaspbrak is showering? Did he spend the night? Were you... were you going to join him?"

"What? No! Don't be fucking sick," Richie scoffs, pushing her back with no real force. "The kid crashed here last night and then insisted on taking a shower, whatever. It's not a big deal."

In reality, Eddie had shuffled in very quietly while Richie was combing his hair, and with his puppy dog eyes, he asked if he could shower. Richie figured it was a germaphobe thing, so he agreed, but he told Eddie that he still needed to get ready for school in the bathroom. Eddie nodded, and Richie did everything he could to avoid watching the boy's reflection in the bathroom mirror as he stripped the clothes from his body. Richie and Eddie both know that there is a fully functioning bathroom downstairs, but neither of the two mentioned it.

"Why are you here anyway?" Richie asks, desperate to change the subject.

Bev reaches out and touches Richie's cheek, her fingers brushing against the black eye that seems to be improving. "Bill told me that you got into a fight and your parents weren't home. I wanted to stop by before school to make sure you were doing okay."

Richie forgets why he's mad at her or what it was about in the first place. All he knows in this moment is that he absolutely loves Beverly Marsh and her beautiful sun kissed skin, but he doesn't necessarily have time to be appreciating her at this time.

Richie leads her away from the bathroom, returning to his room and going to his closet to get dressed. Bev doesn't bat an eye when Richie discards his shirt, it's as if Richie is a sexless alien that has absolutely no appealing factors in her eyes.

"I'm- I'm fine, as you can see," Richie pulls a clean shirt over his head. "Got patched up and everything."

"Eddie?" She repeats in disbelief, still completely stunned that Eddie Kaspbrak is taking a morning shower at Richie's. She watches the late night television, she knows what that means. It implies that shenanigans ensued the night before, and her mind whirls with the idea of Eddie and Richie getting into those shenanigans together.

"Eddie," Richie shrugs. The word itself doesn't mean anything to him, but the name attached to a smiling face makes his heart beat twice as fast. "Since you weren't around to be so overbearing, Eds filled in quite nicely."

"Eds?" Beverly smiles. "You know, Bill told me that you're starting to hang out with them."

"Mhm," Richie buckles his belt, then kicks his leg up to roll the cuffs of his jeans. "I mean, I wouldn't call it hanging out. They offer something, I would be rude to turn it down. Doesn't mean we're all buddy buddy."

"Bill said you guys had a sleepover," Beverly grins in triumph. Richie knows he won't win this argument, not against Bev. The firecracker girl is practically a forest fire when it comes to being stubborn.

Fucking Bill. You'd think for a kid who stutters he would learn to keep his mouth shut.

"Needed some help with math homework so him and Stan came over, not a big deal," Richie pushes everything in his closet aside to find the clothes he wore when he was 12. These will fit Eddie, won't they?

"You're taking AP geometry, Rich. Bill can barely add 2+2," Bev laughs so fondly that Richie can't help but wonder what's so funny. Is that how fond she is of her friends? Does she find the joy in life in everything that she does? Richie can't imagine what it would be like to wake up and just feel a natural relaxed state of happiness.

Richie shrugs, then says "Is it a crime to have friends now, Bev?"

"No, not at all," she shakes her head, sitting down in the chair and pawing through the stacks of tapes that Stan handed down to Richie. "I've just been trying to get you to hang out with them for so long, you know, it's weird that you're suddenly best friends with them."

"It's not strange at all-" Richie says, and then stops in his tracks when he hears a voice calling down the hall.

"Richie? Can you, um, come here?" Eddie calls for him like a lighthouse attracting ships late at night. Bev stares at him, her eyes resembling the rocky waves that S.S. TOZIER sails on, but still, the lighthouse persists.

So Richie grabs the clothes he's set aside, excuses himself from an amused Bev, and moves down the hall to where his heart is pulling him to.

Eddie's little head pokes out from the door, wide brown eyes hidden behind damp hair, water droplets dripping down his caramel skin like tears from angels. He smiles bashfully at Richie, the question he was going to initially ask dying down when he sees the folded clothes Richie is holding.

"Will they fit?" Eddie asks.

"We can try," Richie shrugs. "Listen, uh, kid. Bev is... Bev is here, so, um-"

"I got it, Richie," Eddie smiles. He looks so perfect in that moment; freshly renewed and so understanding that Richie doesn't even need to speak a word. Eddie gets him, reads his mind, connects on a wavelength that Richie didn't know existed. "Don't say a word to her about last night, right?"

Richie smiles, reaching out to move some of the hair out of Eddie's eyes. A bit of water clings to his hand, and Richie takes it as a part of Eddie lingering on his skin. "Yeah, something like that."

Eddie smiles sweetly, taking the clothes from Richie through the small opening and then closing the door behind him. It's not as if they did anything wrong, they didn't, it's just... it's an intimacy that Richie doesn't want Beverly to hear about. Nobody deserves to know of Richie and Eddie's late night hand holding except for the two boys involved.

When Richie renters his room, Bev is on her feet and digging through Richie's pile of cigarette boxes.

"All out, Marsh," Richie tells her, tucking his Walkman into his backpack after Eddie spent the night using it. "Don't you have somewhere to be?"

"Ben can survive me being a few minutes late," she says, but still heads towards the door. Ben and Beverly always meet up outside the candy shop every morning to eat a quick breakfast before walking to school hand-in-hand. It's a ritual that Richie understands, one that is sacred and he will never break. "Is there anything you want to tell me, Rich?"

Richie feels guilty but he doesn't know why. There's nothing to be guilty about, why does he feel so terrible?

"You hopin' for a love confession? Sorry, Marsh, I can't do that to Big Ben. Love the kid too much to steal his girl," Richie shakes his head, sliding his jean jacket on and searching around for his converse.

"Who said I would leave Ben for you?" She laughs brighter than the sun.

"Are you kidding? Nobody can resist Richard's richard," Richie scoffs. He watches the door, waiting patiently for little brown eyes to make their arrival.

"Clearly not even Eddie Kaspbrak," Bev sneers, not mocking, but more of a friendly fire tone. "Although, maybe you're the one who can't resist."

"Get on your way, Beverly," Richie rolls his eyes in annoyance as he ties his shoes. "Ben will be waiting."

She smiles at Richie, one where her eyes sparkle keenly in ways that he hates. That's the smile she always does whenever she sees through Richie's facade. Her snake-like expression reminds Richie that he will always be the prey and she will hunt him like a wolf. Without another word, Beverly slips out of the door and Richie returns to stuffing his bag full.

"Hi, Eddie. Sleep well? Cute shirt," Beverly's voice carries down the hall, entering Richie's room as if she spoke into a megaphone.

"T-Thanks Bev. See you around," Eddie's nervous voice replies, and then the bedroom door quickly opens up and Richie is met with flushed cheeks. He raises his eyebrows, but Eddie merely shakes his head and says "Man, that girl is intimidating. Why'd you get her a knife for her birthday? Now she's twice as scary!"

Richie laughs, but he doesn't tell Eddie that Beverly needs it for self defense. Instead, he lets his eyes fall down to the shirt adorning Eddie's body, filled with a pair of shorts that are much bigger than his usual attire. Even though Richie hasn't been able to fit into that particular shirt since he was twelve, it still manages to hang off of Eddie's collarbones and showcase such pretty freckles that most people never see.

"You're afraid of Beverly?" Richie asks.

"Rich, I'm the size of a pigeon, I'm scared of anybody that is taller than me," Eddie responds, putting his shoes on and trying to ignore the way Richie is staring at him.

"You shouldn't be, kid," Richie says, throwing his bag over his shoulder and standing in the doorway. "You're the toughest guy I know."

Eddie rolls his eyes and assumes that Richie is joking (he's not), heading over to the door after he declares himself officially ready for school. Richie hums, leading the smaller boy downstairs and out the front door.

"You don't eat breakfast?" Eddie asks.

"Nope," Richie responds, down the sidewalk.

"Why not? It's the most important meal of the day!" Eddie leans down and props his bike up, running with it to catch up with Richie. "You don't ride your bike to school?"

"Because I'm not hungry when I wake up, Eds," Richie lies. "And no. Too many people try to steal it, it's easier to walk."

Eddie wants to push more on the subject of breakfast, but Richie clearly doesn't want to talk about it. Instead of mounting his bike, Eddie keeps rolling it alongside them so that he can stay at the same pace as Richie.

"Hey, Richie? About last night," Eddie breathes out.

"Thought we agreed not to talk about it?" Richie's hands tighten into fists.

"But there's nobody around us!" Eddie argues, then says "So you've never had a crush on a girl? Ever?"

"No. Does it matter?" Richie scoffs, his voice sounding so much lower in the morning. Eddie notices this, but he also notices the way that the early sun laces it's way into Richie's pale complexion, the way the flowers bloom when they walk by, and the way that the hummingbirds sing their mornings songs.

"Don't you at least want a girlfriend? You listen to all these love songs and you've never once craved for what they have?" Eddie asks with desperation in his voice.

Richie looks at the boy next to him in confusion, trying to figure out exactly which angle is being worked at and what Eddie wants from him. Not everybody is trying to humiliate you, dumbass.

"I don't know, I've never thought about it much," Richie shrugs. "Is that what you want? A girlfriend?"

"Something like that," Eddie's face falls, but he keeps speaking anyway. "I want to... I want to be in love. I do. I think it's amazing, no, beautiful. How great must the human race be? We are designed to reproduce, and yet we came up with this silly concept of dating and marriage just to explain our feelings? We love so much and that's just... I want to experience that. Just once. Even if it doesn't end in marriage, I will be happy knowing that I was even lucky enough to feel it. I mean; there's a reason why people write songs about it, right?"

Richie is astonished by the clever honesty that pours out of the boy next to him. This is what Eddie Kaspbrak thinks about? Little Eddie Kaspbrak, an asthmatic hypochondriac, daydreams about having a lover? Richie didn't think the kid had it in him.

"That's... I like that, yeah," Richie nods. "I think you're onto something there, Eds."

"Don't call me that," Eddie responds habitually. Then, as if the words didn't leave his mouth at all, he continues with his previous subject. "I just think it's hard to imagine myself with any of the girls at our school. Maybe it's because we're all still too young... or maybe they're not matured yet... but I have all this love in my heart and I just know I don't want to give it to any of the girls at our school."

"Yeah, I gotta agree," Richie says, "That's why I've been giving my love to your mom every night."

"God, Richie," Eddie scoffs, pulling away in disgust. Richie watches as Eddie moves around his bike so that there's a barrier between them, and he feels rejection hit him like a tidal wave. "I was trying to have a nice conversation. Can't you go a second without making some stupid fucking joke? Jeez. Are you really that shallow? Is shitty jokes the only thing there is to you?"

Richie recoils harshly from the words as if they've burned his skin like boiling chemicals. He begins the parade of self loathing and internal disgust, his mind running loops around insults.

"Sorry," Richie says quietly, and the two remain silent for the rest of the walk to school.

Chapter Text

"Mr. Tozier, you must realize that this is your third strike for fighting on school property, yes?" The principal, Mr. Vaughn, stares down his nose as if Richie is a piece of dirt contaminating his immaculate office.

"Mhm," Richie stares out the window next to him, slumped down in the chair, defeat running his body ragged.

"And Mr. Bowers, you said that he was the one who started it?"

Henry Bowers, sitting in the chair next to Richie, pathetically cries out "Yes! You can ask my friends, too, they all saw it! He just started attacking me for no reason, sir. I think he's mental."

Richie's fist tightens around the arm of the chair, but he remains staring out of the window with a fixated gaze that can't be intercepted by anything else on earth.

"While I do believe you, it is still our school policy to issue a detention to anybody who engages in physical fights, whether or not it's self defense, so I regret to inform you that you'll be serving detention this Friday with Mr. Tozier."

"I understand, sir," Bowers says in his faux voice. Richie knows his manipulation tactics all too well, but there's no point in even trying to argue his side of the story. The adults in this town never listen anyhow.

"Now, Richie, because it is your third strike, I have no other choice but to send a letter home to your parents. They will need to come in and have a session with me and a counselor to get to the bottom of your anger issues," Vaughn says. Richie's heart hardens at the mention of his parents, but he doesn't have time to decline the meeting. "As for your relationship with Mr. Bowers here, I would like both of you to write a letter to each other apologizing for what you've done and the pain you have inflicted. I will be reading over it, and I advise that you don't turn anything in unless it's more than three pages. Is that understood?"

"Yes sir," they both say in unison, although Richie's is less enthusiastic as Henry's ass-kissing tone.

"Then you are to be dismissed. Get a pass from the secretary and return to class immediately. No dilly-dallying in the halls, boys."

Richie and Henry stand up, and as Richie gathers his bag from the chair, he watches the way that Henry shakes the principal's hand. Fucker.

Neither of the two grab a pass, just exit through the left door and quickly leave the office as fast as possible.

"Did you fucking snitch, Tozier? Did you fucking rat me out?" Henry growls, approaching Richie closely.

"Right, because that's a genius move," Richie rolls his eyes. "Seriously, Hen. Use your fucking brain. Why the fuck would I snitch on myself?"

Henry backs down for a second, but his anger doesn't subside. It never really does, but Richie has learned to ignore it.

"Do you think they'll come?" Henry asks. Richie's pace slows down in the hall, and for the first time since he was called into the office, he finally looks at Henry. Sure Richie's face is bad, but Henry's got bruises that make him feel proud of his right hook.

"No," Richie says honestly. He hates that Henry even asked, but he hates the fact that Henry knows how Richie's parents are in the first place. "When have they ever given a shit about me enough to discuss my anger?"

Henry laughs, just slightly, and for a moment, it feels real again. It doesn't feel like high school, and it doesn't feel like Richie is taller than Henry, and it doesn't feel like November. Just for that brief second, as the two stand in the hall after getting their asses chewed out, it is fourth grade again when Richie and Henry saw each other everyday. Back then, the two used to fight for fun. Roughhousing. It's what boys did.

But then fifth grade came, and Henry no longer wanted to just roughhouse.

Richie shakes his head, bringing himself back to reality, which is, they aren't friends and this isn't anything but high school.

"Sorry about your glasses," Henry laughs again, but it's not as genuine this time. He must be thinking about it too.

"It's fine," Richie shrugs, shoving his hands into his pockets. He looks up at Henry through the massive crack in the lenses, and he says "Don't care. They'll get fixed eventually. Sorry 'bout your eye."

Henry grins. "Don't care. It'll heal eventually."

It all feels far too friendly for Richie, so, before the two can relapse into their old ways, Richie asks "You got a cigarette to spare?"

Henry gives him the pack, which would normally not happen if he weren't feeling so nostalgic. Richie has that effect on him. Nobody else does.

"Cheers, mate," Richie does his terrible British accent, the one that always made Henry laugh. This time, he doesn't laugh. He doesn't even smile. The fond filter that lingers from memories must have worn off, the coldness of reality creeping back into their hearts. "Listen, Bowers. You and your gang can continue on doing whatever it is you do, but you leave Eddie Kaspbrak and his friends alone."

"Aw, don't want your little boyfriend to get hurt?" Henry sneers.

"You of all people should know that I don't swing that way," Richie defends himself. Henry stiffens up, drawing his fist back, but Richie waves him off tiredly. He doesn't have time to fight, not now. "Just give the kids a break, for fucks sake."

Henry pauses, considering the options and Richie's proposition. After reaching a conclusion, he says "I'll let Bill slide. I heard about his brother."

"And...?" Richie trails off, waiting for Henry to finish the sentence.

"And that's it, you fucking waste. Not going to stop having fun because you decided to make friends with the geeks and queers," Henry steps closer to Richie, trying to look as intimidating as he can despite the fact that Richie is much taller.

"Alright, fine. Bill," Richie nods, lifting his head up as the bell rings and class doors begin to open. Henry looks as if he's been caught, desperate to get away so he won't be seen with Richie Tozier of all people. Before he can slip off, however, Richie reaches out to grab Henry by the front of his shirt. He lowers his head, making sure that his mouth is so close to Henry's ear that he won't be misheard, and he threatens. "And Eddie Kaspbrak. Leave those two alone, Bowers, or I will fucking bring your dead body to your father's doorstep and explain what kind of person his son has become."

Henry backs away in fear, his eyes wide and chin quivering. Richie and Henry have known each other for their entire life, and not once has Richie ever been so threatening. Why the fuck does he care about Eddie Kaspbrak so much? The two aren't even friends.

"Whatever, Tozier. I'll tell the others not to hit your faggot fucking boyfriend," Henry tries to act tough but is failing miserably.

"Aw, how kind of you," Richie smiles sickly. "Off you go, then."

Henry scurries away quickly, getting lost in the sea of people. As Richie takes a step back, he bumps into someone and turns to apologize.

"Sor- Eds?"

Eddie is standing behind Richie, his eyes wide with fear. "What were you doing talking to Henry Bowers? Is he going to kill you? Are you in danger, Richie?"

The genuine concern written on the boy's face makes Richie's heart warm with affection. He forgets all about the insults that Eddie spit at him this morning, his mind focusing solely on the sheer fear Eddie is feeling for Richie's safety.

Richie throws an arm around Eddie, and the two start walking down the hall. "No, Eds, he's not going to kill me. And he's not going to bother you anymore, alright? You're safe now."

"The fuck did you say to him?" Eddie looks up at Richie's swollen face.

"Just a few words," Richie shrugs. The two abruptly stop, and as he watches Eddie start twisting a lock, he leans against the locker next to the smaller boy. "Nothing major. If he - or any of his gang - give you shit from now on, I want you to tell me."

"...Alright, Rich," Eddie says apprehensively. "You're kinda scaring me, dude."

"Nah," Richie shakes his head.

Eddie opens his locker, and Richie's eyes automatically fall onto the pharmacy the boy has stashed inside. Prescription bottles and vitamins gummies take up the entire top shelf, leaving no space for notebooks or supplies. Eddie kneels down to retrieve an algebra book, and when he does so, he reveals the singular picture taped to the inside of Eddie's locker.

Richie, two cigarettes on his nostrils, goofy smile on his face. The same photo that went missing from his wall last night. Eddie kept it? And nonetheless, taped it inside of his locker when he got to school this morning? Richie could die right this second and he would die completely euphoric and happy.

Eddie stands up, and with these butterfly wings sticking to the inside of his chest, Richie finds the courage to ask "Do you want to skip? We could... we could go down to the movies, or walk by the quarry. Anything you wanna do, y'know. Let's just... let's go. Just us."

Eddie looks at him like he's crazy. "Are you serious? It's the middle of the school day. I can't just leave. Do you know how much trouble I would get in?"

"I-I know," Richie's smile falters, and the butterflies quickly turn to moths. "I just thought it could be fun."

"All you ever do is think about fun," Eddie scoffs, "I can't just leave school and still get perfect grades like you, Richie. My mom would have a heart attack if they called home. Not all of us have parents that don't care whether or not we're at school."

These words hit Richie harder than Eddie intended them. Richie takes a step back, his arms coming up to cross over his chest as if protecting himself from Eddie's painful little daggers. The dread that rushes through him makes his limbs feel heavy, like his bones were soaked in concrete. He feels nauseous, and as he shakes his head, he can't seem to stop thinking you fucking waste. Even your parents don't care. Fucking garbage.

"Richie, hey, I didn't mean it-" Eddie reaches out to touch Richie, but the tall boy quickly pulls away and lets out a sound of frustration.

"God, no, it's fine! It's fine, fuck," the side of Richie's fist hits the locker next to them, creating an echo of shivering noises. "It's fucking fine, Eddie. Whatever. Go, go to class."

"Richie, wait," Eddie pulls on his sleeve, but Richie shakes his arm free and starts moving down the hall. He expects Eddie to chase after him, but he's glad that he doesn't. Richie doesn't want to deal with him right now, not with all his confusion and mixed signals. One second, they're holding hands and Eddie is telling Richie all about how he wants to fall in love, but the next moment, Eddie is only reminding Richie of how shitty his life is. Richie doesn't want to deal with it, no pretty boy is worth this much.

"Trashmouth!"

Richie's blood stiffens, and he turns on his heel as if he's ready to pummel Eddie's face for following him anyway. Instead, Stan's curly hair bounces through the crowd as he fights to get through, his skinny arms pushing people aside until he finally reaches Richie, out of breath.

"Hey, I was looking for you," Stan says.

Richie's fists loosen up, his ears perking up. Someone was looking for him? Why him? What for? "You were?"

"Yeah," Stan nods, "I was just going to wait until lunch, but I didn't know if you were going to sit with us again. What are you doing this weekend?"

"Uh... nothing," Richie replies.

"Do you like birds?"

"Birds?" Richie asks, his face twisting up in confusion.

"Yeah, birds," Stan nods eagerly. "Like, local birds? And non-native birds? Migration patterns?"

"You lost me, Stan."

"Well, Bill and I were going to have a picnic down in Derry square and then hike the trail so we could go bird-watching. Do you want to come?" Stan asks.

Richie's heart cannot take this back and forth with his emotions. He wants to feel happy, to let his chest swell with the idea of being wanted, but Eddie's words are wrapped around his lungs and won't allow him to feel the excitement.

"Sure, Stan," Richie nods. "I would really like that. Are you sure?"

"Wouldn't have invited you if I didn't want you to come," Stan laughs.

Richie cracks a smile, some of his bad feelings falling away. "Hey, do you wanna skip? I want to skip. What class do you have next?"

"I've got a massive test in history today," Stan says apologetically, "Aren't you worried about missing it?"

"I can make it up," Richie shrugs. "You sure you don't wanna ditch?"

"I would if I could, Richie," Stan promises him. Something in his expression screams honesty, so Richie believes him. Unlike Eddie, Stan rejected Richie in a civil, humane way. No harsh words, no mean comments. "Oh, but you know who would love to?"

"Bill? Ben? Beverly?" Richie asks.

"No, no, Mike," Stan says. The bell rings, and instead of rushing off like the rest of the population, Stan remains still. "He's homeschooled, he works out on the farm just out of town. He's always looking for ways to get out of work. Do you want to call him?"

"Sure," Richie says, desperate to be with anybody. He hates being alone, especially since this day has already turned as sour as spoiled milk.

Stan pulls a pad of sticky notes from his breast pocket and a pen from his khakis, then uses his leg to write down a neat order of numbers. He peels the sticky note off, pasting it onto Richie's forehead, and then giving the taller boy a farewell smile.

"See you 'round, trashmouth!" Stanley calls out as he's halfway down the hall.

Richie reaches up, smiling like an idiot as he reads the numbers printed down. He lifts his head, replying "Stan the man, you're a lifesaver!"

Nobody stops Richie from walking right on out of the school. No teachers call after him, no students tattle, no adults who live nearby report him, nobody cares. Richie tries to ignore this fact, just walking down to the nearest payphone and punching in the digits that Stanley has recorded.

It rings four times, and halfway through the fifth, a voice interrupts. "Hanlon's farm, who is this?"

Richie can hear the authority in the voice, so he quickly comes up with a fake posh voice and says "Mmmyes, hello, good afternoon Mr. Hanlon, I represent a small group of entrepreneurs in city hall and we are taking a survey of all adolescent kids in Derry. Is there a Michael Hanlon home?"

There's a pause so long that Richie is convinced he didn't pull it off. Then, just as he's about to hang up, he hears "Mike! Some city hall person wants to talk to you! Get your ass down here, boy!"

Moments later, Mike's comforting voice is on the phone. Richie noticed how smooth he talked when they first met, but he didn't realize how homely it was until he says "Hello, sir. This is Michael Hanlon speaking."

"Mike! It's me, Richie," Richie grins. He instantly feels better, just from getting attention that he usually lacks. "Do you wanna hang out?"

"Hang out? It's eleven in the morning, Richie, don't you have school?" Mike asks.

This does not discourage Richie in the slightest. "Hell yeah I do. You wanna go to the Aladdin and sneak in?"

Mike is quiet for a second, and then he says "Meet me outside the Derry library."

"Oh, fuck yeah," Richie laughs, hanging up the receiver and feeling weight float off of him. He's gotten invited to bird watching and successfully managed to hang out with someone in one day, so he must not be as annoying as he originally thought. Eddie Kaspbrak is just a fleeting thought.

Richie walks across town to the library, taking a seat on top of the steps so he has a better view to watch out for Mike. He doesn't wait long, just twenty minutes, before the familiar friend is riding up on his bike and skidding to a halt in front of the staircase. Richie smiles, bounding down the steps and greeting the virtual stranger with a hug. He feels so attached to Mike in this moment, the one person who would hang out with a kid he barely knows. He thinks that says a lot about Mike; how he's kind hearted and sees the good in everybody. He doesn't care who you are or what reputation you've got, he still will take a chance to become your friend. Richie is grateful for that.

"Where to?" Richie asks excitedly, "Movies? We can sneak in through the back door. The arcade? The arcade sounds fun."

Mike smiles, a twinkle in his eyes, and says "I know a place. Hop on."

Richie looks at him in confusion, but when Mike gestures towards the heavy duty basket attached to the front of the bike, he doesn't hesitate to climb in. His awkward, lanky legs dangle out the side, but Mike just chuckles and begins pedaling down the street as if he's not carrying Richie's weight as well. To Michael, this is nothing. He makes deliveries heavier than Richie, he's used to having a little weight in his basket.

Mike takes Richie around Derry and shows him places that Richie didn't know a thing about. He shows Richie statues and explains who they are and why they're built there, and landmarks with such significance that Richie would have never guessed. They ride alongside the river, turning around and looping back before they can enter the Barrens, and Richie doesn't think he's ever felt as wild and free than he does when he is riding down rocky hills with Mike Hanlon.

The two hit a pebble in the road, causing the bike to sputter to a stop and flip forward. For a second, when they're airborne and the world seems to slow down, Richie catches Mike's eyes and he bursts into a laugh that does not sync up properly with the sluggish speed they've been reduced too.

Richie's jeans rip at the knees, and he tumbles and rolls farther than Mike does. The stronger one of the two immediately sits up and comes to Richie's side, asking "Are you okay?"

Richie looks up at Mike, a smug grin on his face, scratches and cuts littering his face. Mike looks concerned, and in that second, Richie could kiss him. The boy doesn't realize how starved for attention he is until he's finally shown an ounce of a spotlight. He craves more, but for now, all he can do is nod and accept Mike's hand as they stand to their feet.

Mike drives Richie home, the lanky boy sitting in the basket and tilting his head back to watch the sky. His eyes travel from his torn jeans and bleeding knees, over to Mike's arms and each protruding muscle, up to his face and how the sun creates a halo behind his head. The light blinds Richie, and he can't notice much about Mike's features except for his strong jawline and full lips.

"Hey, Mike?" Richie asks.

In the quiet neighborhood that they're pedaling through, his voice sounds like a thunderstorm rolling in from the east.

"Yeah?"

"Do you think we're friends?" Richie asks. Insecure.

"Of course we are, Richie. We just had a grand day, didn't we?" Mike responds, looking down at Richie's magnified owl eyes.

"Yeah," Richie mumbles, his head rolling to the side to watch the street. The perfect suburban lawns and their white picket fences all pass by in a blur. "Thank you for it, by the way. I really needed it."

"Me too," Mike says, and for a second, he lets go to push some of the hair out of Richie's face. "You need a haircut, chap."

"Oi oi, who d'ya think ya are, tellin' me's to get a haircut, mate?" Richie's accent gets worse with each word that he speaks.

Mike laughs anyway, and he says "I didn't know you could do that, Rich."

They turn down Richie's street, and knowing that he's only returning to an empty home, he sets his head back on the brim of the basket and returns to staring at the sky. The clouds move without care, and Richie wonders what it would be like to be floating up there with them. God, what he wouldn't give to just... float.

"Oh, look! Eddie is here!" Mike exclaims happily, clearly excited to see his friend. "I wonder if he wants to hang out too?"

Richie sits up, nearly toppling out of the basket and sending Mike into an imbalance. Richie squints his eyes, and sure enough, little Eddie Kaspbrak is waiting on the front porch again. Is this going to be their routine?

"God," Richie sighs, feeling the bump as Mike moves his bike over the curb to get to the sidewalk.

"Richie!" Eddie calls out, and just the voice gives Richie goosebumps.

When Mike comes to a complete stop, Richie slowly lifts himself out of the basket and retrieves his bag from where it was hanging off of one of the handlebars. In his peripheral vision, he can see Eddie running down the sidewalk towards them, but Richie chooses to turn towards Mike instead.

"Here, I wrote my phone number down in case you ever want to do that again," Richie hands over the same stickynote that Stan gave him, now with Mike's number scribbled out and replaced with the Tozier landline. "I had a lot of fun today. Do you think you can take me out to the farm next time?"

"Yeah! That sounds great, Rich. I can show you my favorite donkey," Mike smiles so bright that it makes the sun look pale in comparison.

"Hey, man, your favorite jackass is standing right here. Don't need to see no donkey," Richie jokes. Eddie has reached them now, his persistent tiny hands clenching onto Richie's jacket with no regards to Mike. Richie pretends like he doesn't notice, only says "Well, I'll see you around, Mike Hanlon."

"I await more calls from the city hall!" Mike laughs, mounting his bike and waving one last time before turning down the street and pedaling away.

Richie turns on his heel, walking down the sidewalk to get to his house, still not taking notice of the boy begging his name.

"Are you seriously ignoring me? Dude, come on, look at me," Eddie says.

Richie glances over just to shut him up. When he does so, Eddie's face changes from annoyed to curiosity.

"For fuck's sake, Rich, what the hell were you doing?" Eddie clasps onto the sides of Richie's face, pulling him down to Eddie's height so that the emergency first-aid kit wielder can inspect the scrapes from flipping over the bike.

"Fell off the bike," Richie mumbles, his cheeks squished together under Eddie's hands.

"You've gotta be careful!" Eddie scolds him, taking hold of Richie by the wrist and dragging them back to the Tozier residence. "Are you sure? Was it Henry Bowers? Did he do this to you?"

"Henry Bowers is a coward," Richie mumbles. Eddie stops and looks back at him, but otherwise continues leading Richie right up to the front door. As Richie unlocks it, he catches sight of the watch on his wrist and realize that it's still school hours. "Eds, you know you're supposed to be in class."

"I know. I left in the middle of fourth hour because I couldn't stop thinking about you sitting at home alone. Guess I was wrong, I've been waiting out here for two hours, you know," Eddie frowns, shoving Richie by the shoulder. "And don't call me that."

"You didn't have to do that, Eds," Richie smiles. "Mikey boy was more than enough company."

Eddie shrinks down on himself, pausing when Richie finally unlocks the door. "Should I go home, then?"

Richie gives him a look that says he's talking nonsense, reaching out to pull on Eddie's hand. "Never said that, dweeb."

Eddie smiles and pushes Richie into the bathroom, saying "Are we making a routine of this, Richie Tozier?"

"Looks like," Richie digs out the cigarettes that he got from Bowers, putting one between his cut up lips and lighting it without any regards to the smell lingering in the house. He doesn't know when his parents will be home, but he has a feeling it won't be soon.

"That's gross, you know. Your lungs are going to shrivel and turn black, Richie. Black!" Eddie says, watching as Richie persistently smokes anyway. "I hate the smell of anything but Camels. Cigarette smoke smells so much worse when it's not... when it's not the smoke you grew up smelling, you know?"

"Your mom smokes?" Richie asks, a chuckle escaping his lips.

Eddie plasters another bandaid across Richie's face, his brows knitting together. "No. My dad did."

"Where's daddy-o now, eh?" Richie does his best Canadian accent.

"He passed when I was just a kid," Eddie's voice softens down to a honeysuckle whisper. He doesn't look sad, no, just more forlorn than anything. This is a pain that he's used to, one that he's thought over, and it's clear that he has adjusted to just how bad it hurts.

"I'm... I'm sorry, Eds," Richie reaches out and lets his hand brush against the side of Eddie's smooth skin. "Sorry, I meant Eddie."

Eddie smiles but doesn't say anything, just continues wiping at Richie's exposed skin. When he takes a step back, Richie assumes that he's finished, but Eddie only drops down to his knees and kneels in front of Richie.

"Woah, kid, what are you doing?" Richie moves backwards on the toilet seat lid.

"Your knees are scraped, aren't they?" Eddie says, letting his tiny fingers slip between the rips on Richie's jeans. "Yeah, look at them. Come on, take em off."

"Just roll my pants up, you fucking weirdo," Richie shakes his head.

"Are you kidding? In your stupid slim cut jeans? They wouldn't get past your calf, come on, take them off," Eddie insists in his beautifully stubborn manner.

Richie reluctantly stands up, Eddie still kneeling in front of him, and he maintains eye contact as he slowly undoes his belt. Eddie's eyes widen and he looks away, his face turning a color brighter than the blood dripping from Richie's knees.

"It would be hard to explain this if someone were to walk in right now," Richie chuckles, sliding his belt out of the loops and works on unbuttoning them next. Eddie fidgets with his hands, shifting around with nervous twitches.

"What, like Bev did this morning?" Eddie asks.

"That was different. That wasn't as suggestive as this," Richie says, sliding his jeans down his legs, exposing boxers and painfully pale thighs.

"I don't know, Tozier. You hiding in the bathroom while I'm naked on the other side of the curtain seems pretty suggestive to me," Eddie sits him back down and starts cleaning the scraped with peroxide. They sting, and when Richie takes a sharp breath in, Eddie softens up his cotton ball dabs.

"Yet you didn't tell me to go downstairs," Richie remarks. Eddie blushes even deeper, his face full of excitement and flustered.

Eddie doesn't explain himself, just puts bandaids on each knee (two on the left, one on the right) and stands up. Richie pulls his pants back up quickly, leaving his belt undone and shirt untucked.

"Okay, well, I guess I better get home," Eddie says. He starts reaching towards the door, but Richie puts a hand on the frame and blocks the small boy from leaving.

"You're going home? You just got here," Richie says, alarm in his voice.

"I didn't go home last night, Richie. My mom will be worried sick," Eddie shakes his head. "I left class because I was worried you were... I don't know. I wanted to make sure you were okay. Now that I know you are, I have to get going."

"I'll make dinner again," Richie suggests, his back flattening against the door to prevent Eddie from taking off.

"Richie," Eddie smiles, his tiny hands settling on Richie's chest. "I have to go. You've gotten me into enough trouble as it is. I'm gonna be grounded, you know."

Richie knows when to give in, so he steps aside and lets Eddie pass through the door. However, he still walks Eddie to the door and feels anxious the closer they get.

"Was it worth it?" Richie asks in one last desperate attempt to get Eddie to stay. "Was it worth getting grounded for?"

Eddie looks at him and smiles as he slips through the front door, holding the screen open as Richie leans against the doorway.

"Of course it was, Richie Tozier," Eddie says, leaning up and saying "You know, you've gotta work on your separation anxiety. Learn to love being alone with yourself."

Richie opens his mouth to respond, but he's cut off by Eddie yanking him down and pressing a kiss to Richie's cheek. It burns just the same as it did before, if not worse. Now Richie is the blushing idiot, and Eddie is bouncing back down on his feet as if he didn't just drop an atomic bomb on Richie's heart.

"I live on Ashburn street," Eddie says, running down the porch and mounting his bike. Richie looks at him with a confused expression, trying to figure out what the other boy means. Eddie clarifies with, "You know, just in case you wanted to come say goodnight to me after my mom falls asleep. Around nine or so?"

Richie breaks into his ridiculously contagious smile, shaking his head and sheepishly looking towards the floor as if he is in constant amazement about Eddie Kaspbrak. "You always find a new way to surprise me, Eds."

Eddie grins, closing his eyes and saying in a voice that sounds euphoric to Richie, "Last house on the street, red mailbox."

"I'll see if I can stop by," Richie says, even though they both know he will be there.

"Looking forward to it, Tozier," Eddie calls out, riding his bike down the street and disappearing from sight. Only when Richie is certain that the boy won't come backpedaling with a changed mind does he allow himself to go inside.

He finds his way to the phone, picking it up from the receiver and dialing the number that he has memorized more than his own. The Marsh residence, one that forces Richie to practice his more effeminate voices.

"Hi Mr. Marsh! It's, like, totally Tiffany again," he giggles, his voice straining to hit high notes that most boys his age can only achieve through voice cracks. "Is Beverly home? I, like, so totally have a question about our math homework."

Beverly's dad grunts and calls for his daughter, which makes Richie relax. He hates talking to her dad, especially when he knows what would happen to Bev if her father ever found out that Tiffany was actually a skyscraper boy named Richard.

"Hey, Tiff," Bev laughs easily. "What's up? Something wrong?"

"I've got plans tonight," Richie strips the girlish voice to talk normally, losing the tone as fast as it is for him to take a coat off. "I know we haven't been hanging out lately, but I just thought I'd tell you that I can't make it to the gas station tonight."

"Eddie?" Beverly knows before Richie even has a chance to pedal some excuse.

Richie, who doesn't know why he should lie in the first place, says "Yeah, Eds. Is that a problem?"

"No, not at all," Beverly smiles into the phone, "Be nice to him, Tozier. I'll kill you if you break his heart."

"Whatever," Richie smiles, subconsciously twirling the phone cord around his finger. God, Tiffany must be lingering. "I'll see you tomorrow, okay?"

The two say their farewells, and Richie just cannot, for the life of him, stop smiling. This day started so shitty; being punished for a fight he didn't start, being berated by the boy that is now his reason for feeling so giddy. On top of that, Richie wreaked havoc all over Derry with a kid who he would have never met up with if it weren't for Stanley inviting him out and writing down a phone number.

Richie weighs the outcomes from today and decides that the good things outnumber the bad, so as he carries himself up to his room on a pixie dust high of delightful pleasure, he lets himself fill up with the fumes of euphoria. It's not often that he finds himself feeling happy, but today seems to be the best day he's had, quite possibly, ever.

Chapter Text

9:01 pm.

Richie props his bike against the last house on the street with a red mailbox, circling around the yard to see the first floor window with a light on. He buzzes in excitement, reaching out and gently tapping on the glass.

Eddie's face appears in the curtains a moment later, the boy pushing the window upwards with his quaint arms. He leans in the window sill, grinning at Richie, and hums in amusement as his eyes travel up and down the tall boy's frame.

"Come to say goodnight?" Eddie asks, checking his watch. "You're a minute late."

"Got a bit caught up," Richie says, taking a step forward. "You know, it's hard to go anywhere without women chasing me."

Eddie rolls his eyes but still laughs, stepping backwards and saying "Come on then, come inside."

Richie hoists himself up into the window, colliding with Eddie's floor when he loses balance. Eddie watches the clumsy tumble with fond eyes, sitting on his bed and waiting for Richie to recover.

Richie looks around, noticing the flower wallpaper and shag carpet. Eddie doesn't have posters or photos hanging up like Richie does, however, there is a picture of all the losers sitting in a frame on his bedside table. Eddie's room is as neat and orderly that Richie would have expected, but that does not take the soul out of it. There's still Mad magazines stacked by the closet door, comic books lining the bookshelf that holds very few novels, and a small television set in the corner of the room.

"You have your own TV?" Richie gasps, admiring all of the Star Wars stickers that Eddie has put in lines around the thick box frame.

"Mhm. Do you want to watch MTV?" Eddie stands, but Richie quickly shakes his head.

"Usually I would say yes, but... tonight is for you, not the music."

"You didn't bring your Walkman?" Eddie asks, sounding genuinely shocked.

Richie stands up, approaching the fish tank in the corner of the room and watching the colorful aqua life swim around frantically. Eddie loves the shades of blue that glow upon Richie's skin, but he doesn't comment on it.

"No, actually. Just thought we could talk instead," Richie says, distracted by the fish. Apparently something else catches his attention, because he quickly crosses the room and starts flipping through the stacks of baseball cards that Eddie collects. "I use that thing as a crutch, I guess I'm trying to learn to walk on my own. Some asshole told me I need to learn how to be alone with my thoughts."

Eddie laughs and says "Whatever. I'm glad you're growing, but it's still okay to have a crutch. Whether it's pills, or music, I think it's all okay. Music is good, music is nice."

"Hm," Richie chuckles to himself, his fingers dancing along the line of pill bottles. At the very end, Eddie's aspirator sits, and Richie thinks about all the times that it's touched Eddie's soft lips. He feels jealous.

Eddie yawns, which reminds Richie of why he's initially here. He crawled in Eddie's window to say goodnight, yet the words haven't even left his mouth.

"Goodnight, Eds," Richie smiles, moving back towards the bedroom window.

Eddie gets up and approaches Richie. The tall boy thinks, just for a second, that he is going to be kissed for the third time. Though, what Eddie actually does instead is just as exciting.

He shuts the window.

"You want me to stay?" Richie's tone is hopeful.

"No, dipshit, I just closed the window so that you could smash through it and hospitalize yourself," Eddie scoffs, returning to his bed. He sits with his legs underneath him, and Richie can't help but notice how cute Eddie's pajamas shorts are. Especially when they're paired with the shirt of Richie's that Eddie is still wearing.

"Watch that mouth, Eds," Richie sits on the floor, staring up at Eddie like a follower worshipping his god. "If you don't knock it off, I'm afraid I might have to shut it for you."

"Oh?" Eddie smirks, leaning down on his bed and propping his head up with his hand. If Richie didn't know any better, he would think that Eddie is inviting him to join. "And how would you go about that?"

"I don't know, ask your mom," Richie responds.

Eddie shakes his head, sighing out "Again with the bad jokes. They're unoriginal, Richie! With that giant head of yours, you'd think you would be able to think of a better comeback, but I guess not."

"Ah, you love it, Eds!" Richie chuckles. The air is thick with sleepy yellows, the smell of old comic books, wet rocks, and the familiar trace of bubble gum Amoxicillin. It's a combination of things that are entirely true to Eddie's nature, and Richie wouldn't mind the smell lingering on his clothes. On an impulse, he asks "What do I smell like, Eddie? Jokes aside. Do I have a certain smell?"

Eddie lays back down, staring up at the ceiling with his hands folded over his chest. Richie admires the profile, his eyes outlining the edges of Eddie's features, and he feels the moon whisper to him; telling him to love this boy because nobody else has.

"Honestly?" Eddie asks, but doesn't wait for Richie to respond. "Cigarettes is pretty dominant, yeah. Cigarettes, but the shitty kind. Unfiltered. I didn't think there was a difference; tobacco is tobacco, but you smell... you smell different. It's a kind that I could learn to love, just like my dad's."

"That's really-" Richie begins to say, but then he's cut off by Eddie continuing to ramble his perfectly posed ballerina words.

"But that's not all. Once you get past that; it's like a concoction of smells that are easy to pick apart if you know what you're looking for. I don't think I would have guessed most of them if I didn't spend the night with you, but when I was taking a shower and I spotted your shampoo, I understood why the smell of coconuts often flowed from you. And when I saw the wrappers on top of your desk, I understood why your breath smells of polo mints. And when I saw the photo taped to your wall, showing Beverly wrapped up in your arms, I understood why you smelled like Marlboros and water lilies; her perfume. There are some things I haven't been able to pin down quite yet, like the aroma of dusty pages despite a single book not being in your room, or the leather smell that persists even though all of your furniture is suede. I don't know the source of these scents yet, but I'm waiting for the day that I do."

By the time that he's done, Richie is resting his head on the mattress and batting long eyelashes up at Eddie. He feels the air escape the room, and if Richie didn't know any better, he would assume that he's the one with asthma.

"You... you pay attention to all of those things?" Richie asks, the air inflated in his words surprising him with its twitterpated inflections.

"I do," Eddie rolls over, his eyes meeting Richie's on the tiny twin size mattress. "I... I don't know why. Is it bad?"

"No," Richie breathes out, his voice shaking. "Nobody has before, that's all. I didn't know there was so much to notice."

Eddie smiles, his eyes dropping down to the lower half of Richie's face and then dragging back up to the cracked coke-bottle glasses.

"Have you ever considered being a writer?" Richie asks Eddie, high on a euphoria that he hopes lasts forever. "You'd be great."

"You think? I don't know. Bill was always the one so good with words," Eddie sighs, batting his pretty brown eyes at Richie so innocently.

"Bill?" Richie scoffs. "Stuttering Bill?"

"Yeah," Eddie shrugs, then says "Everyone calls you Richie the Mouth, yet you've been sweet talking me all night. Reputation isn't everything, you know."

"Not true," Richie denies, but the smile on his face gives him away. He loops back around to their original subject, saying "I'm serious, Eds. You... You describe things beautifully. And the way you talked about falling in love this morning? It felt... It felt real. At least start a journal, or just write about your day, do something. Don't let those adjectives go to waste."

"It takes more than adjectives to be a good writer, Richie," Eddie says.

"You would know," Richie responds.

Eddie shakes his head again, and then another yawn slips from his mouth. When Richie sees this, he backs up and removes himself from leaning on the bed, resuming his position on the floor comfortably. Eddie looks at him, very curiously, as if he's trying to figure out what to say.

When he finds the right words, he asks "Richie? Can I ask a big favor?"

"Of course, kid," Richie nods, pushing his glasses off of his face while Eddie stands up to turn the light off.

"Since you didn't bring any music with you," the light flickers off. "Could you hum your favorite songs? I have a hard time falling asleep."

This isn't true, in fact, it is as far from the truth as it could get. Eddie takes sleep aid vitamins before bed in order to help lull him into a slumber, and they work just fine. Even now, as he fumbles back in between his bedsheets, he can feel his eyes growing heavy with each blink. Falling asleep is easy, however, staying asleep is a different story. Night terrors wait for him on the other side, calling Eddie's name in their seductive whispers. Eddie doesn't give in.

"Yeah," Richie nods, moving closer to the bed and lying on his side to get more comfortable. He hums quietly, the vibrations traveling through his chest and echoing between his ribs. He starts with an Elvis song, one that his father used to sing to his mother before they started drinking every night. Can't Help Falling In Love.

When Richie reaches the verse 'take my hand, take my whole life too' he realizes that Eddie must have been following the words in his head because the boy's hand falls from the bed. Again, without hesitation, Richie lets his hand engulf the tiny one and settle it onto his chest. He continues humming, and he hopes that Eddie can feel the vibrations in his hand against Richie's chest.

Soft. So soft. Richie feels as if all of the blood in his body has been replaced by honeysuckle sugar water. The two fall asleep quickly, Richie's dreams focused around peach colored cheeks and apple-rot stained eyes. Even in his dreams, the sun shines warm, and everything smells like firewood.

"Help," Richie hears, instantly pulling him from his dreams and throwing him into a hurricane of panic. The strained voice cries again, saying "H-Help. Stop... stop!"

He sits up, squinting in the darkness to see Eddie restlessly thrashing in his bed. Richie panics, reaching out and putting his hands on Eddie's chest. His lungs move like they're going to collapse, his body trembling underneath Richie's hands.

"Hey, hey, Eds, come on," Richie shakes the boy, nudging him awake and trying to fight the nightmare off. "Eddie. Eddie!"

Eddie's eyes fly open and he automatically swings at Richie. Richie, who has reflexes developed from the countless shots his mother would take at him, catches Eddie's hand by the wrist before it can come into contact with Richie's bruised face.

"Richie," Eddie realizes who it is, remembering where he is as reality begins to replace the state of dreaming that his nightmares hold him captive in. "I'm sorry-" deep inhale, "I'm so s-sorry."

"Hey, it's okay," Richie guides Eddie's arm back down. "Can you breathe? Hey, hold on."

Richie stands up, heading over to the desk and knocking pill bottles over as he blindly grabs for the aspirator he saw sitting over here. As he grasps at anything cylindrical, Eddie's breath becomes shorter and tighter, turning into frantic gasps. Richie moves faster.

When he feels the familiar shape, he trips over his feet trying to get back to Eddie. Eddie grabs at it, his hands wrapping around the tight fist Richie is holding the inhaler in, and the two guide the mouthpiece up to Eddie's gaping mouth.

Eddie breathes evenly, his fingers tightening on Richie's hand, and releasing the trigger as clumsily as he can. Relief comes within seconds, and when he finally feels as if his throat isn't on fire, he collapses backwards on the bed.

"Are you okay, Eds?" Richie asks with a voice full of concern. He leans over Eddie's body, hovering above the boy as if he can be some form of shelter.

"'M fine," Eddie whispers, his voice weak. "Just a nightmare, that's all."

"Are you sure?"

"Positive, Richie," Eddie says, his voice lacking any kind of confidence. "I get them all the time, this isn't anything new."

Richie stares at the boy, reluctantly saying "Okay," and sliding off the mattress. Before he can move very far, Eddie reaches out and clasps his hand around Richie's wrist.

"Don't," Eddie blurts out, fear still lingering in his words. "D-Don't... make me... sleep alone."

Richie stares at Eddie, the blue lights of the fish tank illuminating the boy's features. He looks terrified, he does, but not of the dream. He stares up at Richie with these kind of wide-set eyes that tell a story all on their own, and that is; he's afraid of what Richie will say. He's afraid of Richie rejecting him. He's afraid of Richie leaving.

Richie realizes in that very moment, when the suspense hangs in the air like paper lanterns, that it was never about the music that kept Eddie asleep. It was the fact that Richie was sleeping next to him.

So Richie crawls into the tiny bed, tucking his lanky limbs underneath the blanket and trying not to bump into Eddie. The small boy, however, takes this as permission to cross all boundaries. He nuzzles in close to Richie's side, picking up the boy's long arm and making himself right at home in the space between Richie's bicep and ribs. Richie doesn't mind, in fact, he thinks of how this is Eddie granting him the green light to hold back. So Richie does. He holds on, arms sliding around Eddie's waist, one hand slipping up his shirt to feel all the goosebumps that rise over the creamy skin coating his spine.

Richie's mind imagines the song that he was humming before, the one about falling in love. He thinks he's starting to understand the lyrics, but that in itself is a terrifying thought. Why does he think of Elvis songs when Eddie Kaspbrak pushes just a little bit closer? Why Eddie Kaspbrak? Why a boy?

"Your hands are freezing," Eddie murmurs, his voice shy and exclusive.

"Sorry," Richie moves his hands down Eddie's back, then lets them linger. "Can you tell me about your dream? Maybe it'll help to talk about."

Eddie sounds like he wants to object, but after a moment, he releases a sigh that hugs the curve of Richie's jaw.

"It's always the same. I don't know why, or where it came from, but it's been the same since I was a kid. I'm... I'm lost in the sewers... it's so dark, and disgusting, and nasty! It's nasty! I'm stepping around in the shit and piss of Derry, and then... the spider. Bigger than you could imagine, you know, bigger than a car. It rips my arm off and I have to... bleed out and die in the sewers. All alone. It's cold, and it hurts, and I can feel it. The loneliness, not the arm. I think that hurts worse."

Richie listens quietly, then says "There's no such thing as giant spiders, I think you'll be safe."

"That doesn't make it any less scary," Eddie sighs, reaching up and rubbing his own arm to remind himself that it's still there. Then, his hands settle on Richie's chest, and he plays with a loose thread straying from the rest of Richie's shirt. "I'm always scared that... if I die in my dream, I'll die in real life. I don't want to die alone in those sewers, Richie."

"Well," the boy whispers, nuzzling his face into Eddie's soft hair. "You won't die alone. At least, not tonight."

"I won't?" Eddie asks.

The world is a planet suspended in air, but Richie's world has the diameter of this bedroom. Nothing else matters in this moment except for Eddie Kaspbrak and his loud, gurgling fish tank, and his battery acid inhaler.

"No. If you die, you'll die in my arms. You aren't alone anymore, Eddie Spaghetti."

Chapter Text

If Richie Tozier were asked if he had a second home, the boy would first respond with; yeah, I spend a lot of time in detention. Then, moments after the question was asked, he would want to change his answer. He would consider saying it for a few minutes, analyzing the words and trying to decide if they're worth leaving his mouth. Then, upon coming to his conclusion, he would say with a vindictive tone; Beverly Marsh is my second home.

She hasn't said a word to Richie about his week of silence, and maybe that's why he loves her so much. She doesn't talk about feelings ("What are we, a couple of girls?") and therefore Richie never has to explain why he acts this way. He thinks it would be hard to explain that... he just does.

"Okay, you got your pencil?" Beverly asks, holding up one finger.

Richie nods, pointing to the wooden utensil tucked behind his ear.

"Paper?" She holds up a second finger.

Richie pats his coat pocket, the material crinkling with the three sheets of folded up notebook paper that he stole from Bill Denbrough at lunch.

"Charm?" The third and final finger raises in the air.

"Never leave home without it," Richie smirks, giving Beverly the look down.

She giggles, pushes Richie's shoulders, and says "Good thing you won't need it, then. I'm not sure you've got much to begin with."

"I'll see you on the other side, Beverly," Richie ignores her comment and instead pulls on the door handle to the isolated classroom located across the hall from the main office. The corridors have cleared out for the most part, everyone eager to begin their weekends. Richie wishes he could join them, but instead, he is saying farewell to his freedom for the next hour and a half.

"Detention ends at 4:30, so I'll meet you at the library at five o'clock, okay?" She says. Richie lingers in the doorway, watching the way that she sends him off like a lover saying farewell to a soldier leaving for war.

"Alright, Beaverly. Better get goin', Big Ben will be waiting for you," he says.

"Godspeed, Richie Tozier. May you find the strength to survive," she says much too seriously, adding a dorky little salute that makes Richie wonder exactly why he's friends with her.

Deciding not to drag it out any longer, Richie heads in and takes his usual desk closest to the window. On the wooden surface, his initials are scratched in. His property.

"You're late, Tozier," Mautz drones.

"Oh, do forgive me, sir," Richie rolls his eyes, using his sweetest kiss-ass voice. It sounds eerily similar to the one Henry Bowers will use any time he gets caught terrorizing a helpless kid. "I had to stop by my locker and gather supplies. You wouldn't want me coming unprepared, would you?"

Two desks over, Henry scoffs in annoyance and returns to writing on his paper. Richie is mildly surprised that Henry is even doing the letter in the first place, especially when it's in the boy's nature to pay someone else when it comes to tasks like this. Either way, he's writing with a sort of passion that makes Richie wonder how many times someone can write synonyms for the word "faggot" before running out of steam.

Either way, he takes the three sheets (bare minimum, as he recalls) from his pocket and slides the pencil out from behind his ear. He stares at the blank paper, the mocking lines, and he tries to figure out how to stretch an apology he shouldn't be giving into three pages.

bowers.

hey. sorry i fucked your face up (sorry mr. principal but im not going 2 watch my language. i don't care.) but im not sorry that we fought.

it was a damn good fight, i'll give you that. not like when we were kids and would play cops and robbers and we would always end up turning into sumowrestlers that beat each other up until one of our parents said something. your dad was... he was different back then, but i guess mine was too. whatever.

im sorry that you got dragged into it in the first place. it was originally a stupid spat with one of your idiotic lackeys, i never meant for you to be the one i ended up spitting on. whatever. what's done is done, i guess. sorry that you have to be friends with them, but i suppose you made that fucking choice. i told you that we could ignore it, but you said no. you punched me until i bled that night, and i remember it only took three punches for me to realize you weren't playing cops and robbers. you were angry. god, how old were we? i must have been 9, maybe 10. fuck.

now you're stuck with such fucking idiots. i think that's the worst part of it all, considering how smart you are. does it get boring when you're constantly pretending to be stupid? let me know. either way, sorry you got stuck with them. dickheads.

sorry i chose bev, too. she's badass and fearless and she isn't afraid to hit me when i fuck up. confident, daring, brave. shes so brave, and that's what makes her the exact opposite of you. im a lot happier now than i think i ever was being your friend, but we did have our moments. i don't know. maybe i idolized you too much as a kid and realized you're actually a piece of fucking shit once i grew up to have my own conscious thoughts and opinions.

im sorry that you hate yourself so much that you feel the need to take it out on everybody that looks at you wrongly just to prove that you're a piece of shit before they can come to the conclusion themselves. maybe you're trying to hide the fact that you're weak, because you are. you're fucking weak. can't you just accept it? aren't you tired of causing pain? don't you feel bad enough as it is?

im sorry that i don't like you anymore- actually, no im not. i just licked my lip and felt blood, so fuck you. you're an asshole, and im glad that i don't associate with you anymore. you've turned into a real fucking dick, you know? i heard what you did to ben hanscom. a knife, hen? a fucking knife? you could have killed the kid. what the fuck is wrong with you?

im sorry that you have to wake up every morning and deal with the person that you've become. if you had just... if you listened to me when i said we should stop picking on people, maybe you wouldn't be in detention right now. maybe we would still be friends. maybe i would like you. it's hard to tell. either way, you're a cock and you're psychotic, so im sorry that you have to look in the mirror and carry the knowledge that you are the reason kids are afraid to come to school (a safe place) or hate the way they look. ben hanscom once told me that he's afraid to wear anything but sweaters now because you'll make fun of his tits. god. what is wrong with you? where did you go wrong?

lastly, im sorry that your dad makes you feel the way that you do. it must suck having an old man that thinks you're a pussy, but you know, you don't have to stab fat kids just to compensate for your lack of masculinity. sometimes, i think you would be a lot different if you grew up with a mother. maybe you'd be a little nicer. either way, im sorry you hate yourself so much that you think you need to become what your old man expects of you. must suck. good luck with it, hen. just stop being a piece of shit for fucks sake.

apologies,
rich.

PS: i shouldn't add this, but i feel like it needs to be said anyway.

sorry for not kissing you back.

Richie sets his pencil down and stares at the words on the page, feeling conflicted about whether or not he wants to admit such honesty to Henry Bowers. He has to, however; he reminds himself that he will only dig his grave even deeper if he were to blow off the assignment given by the principal.

Richie sighs, folding the three sheets as if he's preparing to fit them into an envelope, but sets them in the corner of his desk. With a quick glance at the clock, he sees he still has thirty five minutes left. Henry Bowers continues scribbling with passion.

At 4:25, the principal comes in and reads over each of the letters that the boys wrote. Richie watches his disapproving face, the face of a man who accidentally stumbled upon information he shouldn't be reading, and then Richie notices the way that Henry tries to hide his face in his hands out of embarrassment. Richie has never seen such an emotion on Henry, not even after Richie rejected him on New Years. Henry responded to the rejection with a fist to Richie's face. The flustered expression looks good on Henry, makes him look more naive and innocent than he is. Not as despicable.

The only comment that the principal makes on either of the letters is "Nice job on your honesty, gentlemen. Though, I am not pleased about your language. You may want to work on that. You're both free to go."

He hands the opposite letter to each boy, so as Richie tucks Henry's letter into the inside of his coat, he watches how Henry folds up Richie's papers and stick them inside his pocket. He handled them with delicate care, making Richie feel guilty with the knowledge that the words written down are unkind.

Either way, neither say a word as they leave. They both part and go separate ways, but Richie can't help but wonder if that only happened because Henry couldn't stand to be around Richie any longer.

The walk to the library is short, but chilly. Richie notices that he may need to begin layering his clothes, trying to remember if Bill actually made off with his favorite flannel or not. Doesn't matter. Richie can always get a new flannel, but to see Bill smile is a bit more rare.

Ben and Beverly are waiting on the steps of the library, but with a quick glance to his watch, he sees that he's not late, they're just early. Ben stands up when he sees Richie coming down the street, and Beverly follows suit soon after.

"Hey, Richie!" Ben welcomes him brightly, smiling through the chubby cheeks.

Richie finds himself returning the fond look, even without hesitation. Ben has that effect on people, which only makes Richie question even more how Henry could be so sociopathic that he would take a knife to this poor boy.

"Hey, buddy," Richie pulls him in to ruffle his hair, trapping Ben in a headlock. "How you been?"

Beverly watches with the biggest, fondest eyes that he's ever seen pass her features. He feels good, no, better, than he did before. He doesn't care about the detention or punishment or the black eyes, he gets to be in the presence of two of Derry's brightest souls. For a flash of a second, Richie pities Henry Bowers for never getting to experience this the way that he does.

Beverly and Ben fill him in on how their plans changed, and now they're going down to the Barrens to meet Mike. Eddie was going to come as well, but when he heard that their destination was the sewers, he quickly backed out. Richie feels a little disappointed, but he doesn't say a word. Just walks behind the two silently, following them through Derry and listening to their fond conversations. Ben's hand never leaves Beverly's, not even for a moment. Not even when they're crossing the street and Bev moves faster than him. Especially not when they're descending the grassy undergrowth to reach the lush wildlife that inhabits the thick woods. Richie watches this with a sort of... longing, one that craves for Eddie Kaspbrak to be weeding through branches and tall grass with them.

Mike is there, excited to see Richie, and congratulates him on serving his prison sentence. Richie smiles, doesn't say much, and then retires to a patch of dry land near the water. He sits beneath a tree, the shade only amplifying the cold, and he watches as Ben and Mike carry logs across the stream to stack against one side. He's not sure what they're doing, but Bev is directing logs and branches like the natural director that she is.

As if boiling his skin through the fabric, Richie becomes eerily conscious of the letter burning a hole in his chest pocket. He reaches inside, feels the thin layers of confessions, and carefully pulls the letter out to give it a good read. Richie glances at the others, making damn sure that they're distracted, and then unfolds the papers that Henry Bowers had worked on so intensely.

my apology 2 richie tozier:

im sorry i hit ur face, & im sorry that i cracked ur glasses 2. I just remembered that you know me better than that, and I don't have to pretend to be illiterate. Isn't it funny? I'm willingly suppressing my intelligence to play the role of fuck-up that everyone has cast me as. Ironic, really. I suppose I've always been one for being a people-pleaser. (That is sarcasm.)

Ah, it feels weird to talk like a normal human being again. It's draining to act stupid all the time, but I've got to. My boys don't understand me when I use words like "apprehensive" or "lexicon." Can you believe it? Such simple words. You've always been the smarter one, but I know it's because of how adamantly you studied. You worked for it, why don't you own up to it? I guess I could say the same about myself. I'm sure you have your reasons for not being a mathlete.

God, this is horribly off topic. I kind of had an idea of what I wanted to say, but I'm not sure how well the message will convey in print. I've thought about it for years... and then I didn't think about it all, and then when I punched you for that first time... I thought of it again. Oh well. You have always been understanding, so fucking understanding. How are you so patient, Richie Tozier? It drives me crazy, I can't figure out how you take things in stride the way that you do. I envy your virtues.

I don't know if you think about that day that I ruined things, but I wish that you would. I hope that you do. You see, I didn't mean to ruin anything, I just let my temper get the best of me because I had freaked out. I'm not going to apologize for the fight we had over your geek friend, but I am going to apologize for the one in fifth grade. The one I never said a word about after it happened.

When I think about that day, my memory has blacked it all out like a redacted sheet of information. What I do remember is fuzzy, though, and I don't like thinking about it much. I remember you pulling away and saying "Hen, no." I remember the way I stepped back, and you stepped forward. The way you reached out and said "Hey, it's okay. Let's forget it ever happened. It was an accident." And then I remember hitting you until you bled because I couldn't stand to look at your stubbornly patient, wonderfully beautiful face and think that I would never get to kiss it again because you thought it was just an accident.

It wasn't. It still isn't. I meant that with every bit of courage I had managed to muster that night, and you just shot me down, brushed it off, and wanted to forget. I couldn't forget, dickhead. I tried to forget about the way you look when you smile, or how you felt against me when we would roughhouse, or how you listen to your cassettes, and the moon that turns your hair purple. I tried to forget so that it wouldn't ruin the friendship, but when I couldn't urge the memories to leave, I kissed you. And it wasn't an accident.

I really hate you, Richie Tozier. I really do. You were my best friend, the only stable source of sanity I had to cling onto when my life went to shit. When my dad went crazy, you were my rock. When he got worse, you kept me grounded. Do you realize that? I know I never told you, but you were my anchor in the hurricane my life had become. And on top of that, I was a fucking faggot? God, just take me out of my misery now, thanks. Fuck. Even writing the words makes me want to puke, but you already know. There's no point in pretending I'm not. You already know.

Even now, that idea scares me, but it's oddly comforting in a way. We aren't friends anymore, but you still know and keep this huge colossal disgusting secret about me like you remember the pinky promise we made each other when we were eight. I don't know if you remember that, but we promised to never tell anybody about our darkest secrets. You never had secrets, but you still kept mine. Thank you.

That doesn't change the fact that I hate you. Going back two paragraphs, you were the only constant in my life that felt safe. And you know what you did when I decided to share my soul with you? Never fucking spoke to me again. I thought it would pass, that you would get tired of hanging out with Beverly Marsh and you would knock on my bedroom window and ask to arm wrestle, but you never did. You were done with me. You were done. I miss it, but I don't think I want it back. It will never be the same, no matter how hard we try.

I take it back- we did speak once after the kiss. You saw me picking on some pip squeak with a Bozo the Clown lunchbox, and you had said 'Do you have to be such an asshole, Hen?' You never liked picking on kids, but I suppose you have no reason to enjoy it in the first place. You don't need to feel tough, or masculine, or strong. You feel all those things on your own because you aren't a queer like me. I told you to mind your own business, and you said 'I'm just not going to sit back and pretend like this is fun to watch. I'm not going to be around you anymore if this is how you act.'

That was the last time we spoke.

I left you alone in the halls, and in return, you forgot about me. I could tell. You didn't look up when we brushed shoulders, and when you walked through an alley my gang and I were smoking in, you barely even lifted your head. I stopped existing to you, and I don't think I've ever felt a more gut wrenching feeling before in my life. My own best friend. Disgusted with me. Because I'm a fag.

Now, you can imagine my absolute blind rage when I found out that you've been slutting around with the stuttering freak's group. Belch told me all about how you walked Wheezy to class like a god damn girlfriend, and how he kissed your cheek and everything. I was infuriated. He didn't want to actually fight you, but after telling me this, I itched to beat your face in like I did the night we kissed, just to get revenge for all the fucking hurt you've caused me over the past years. Fuck you, Tozier. I wanted to kill you.

But as soon as I heard pipsqueak screaming for me to get off, and I saw the way that you smiled at him through all that blood, and the way you promised to see him later, I just grew... very glum.

Why did it have to be Eddie Kaspbrak? You barely know him, Richie. He doesn't understand you the way that I did, and he doesn't know what subjects to avoid, or what to say when you get in your pissy moods. Why him? What is so special about a walking asthma attack?

I guess I just can't wrap my head around it. You've never spoken to them before, but when you do, you're suddenly head over heels for Wheezy? What is so fucking great about a fannypack wearing queer? What does he have that makes him so special in your eyes? What about him isn't an accident, but our kiss is? We were best friends, Richie. Can Wheezy say the same? Can he?

Why him? Why him? Of all the boys in our grade, why did you have to go and be gay with Eddie Kaspbrak? What's so special? What does he have that I don't? Why him?

Why wasn't it me?

Henry Bowers.
sorry, meant Hen.

Richie sets the letter on his lap, staring up at Mike and Ben struggling to pick up a particularly heavy water-logged tree trunk. Beverly watches, her hand held up to her forehead to protect her light eyes from the sun. Just then, as if she feels Richie's eyes on her, she looks over her shoulder and shoots him a sweet smile. Richie returns her wave, then looks back down at the letter on his lap.

Out of everything that Henry Bowers has just confessed, the most Richie took away from it is the fact that he is accusing Richie of loving Eddie Kaspbrak.

And the thing is, Richie doesn't think he's wrong.

Chapter Text

No matter how many times he reads it, the words still don't make sense.

"Wuh-What are you r-reading, Richie?" Bill asks.

Richie glances over at the boy sitting right beside Stan, the sunlight poking and prodding at the boys on their picnic blanket. They've gone through all of the snacks they had packed, and Richie has considered running up to the KwikStar just to get more candy to share with the other two.

"Love letters," Richie laughs, his eyes returning back to the eloquent handwriting that belongs to Henry Bowers. "From your mom."

"Yeah right," Stan scoffs. He pulls the binoculars down from his face just so he can give Richie an incredulous, doubtful stare. "Mrs. Denbrough is a classy woman, idiot. In your dreams."

"What can I say? Some ladies can't help themselves, talk about girls gone wild," Richie jokes, folding the letter up and sticking it in his coat breast pocket. There's no use in trying to make sense of it, he's read it over and over since the minute it was handed to him yesterday afternoon.

To be honest, Richie had nearly forgotten about his plans with Bill and Stan. Thankfully he didn't, and he made it to their meetup point on the corner of Jackson like Stan had informed him to do so. Stan was there, Bill was not. Bill came flying by a few minutes later, and Stan didn't hesitate to get on his bike and start chasing after him. The wind felt nice against Richie's cheeks, and as gravity ripped him through the atmosphere as he soared downhill, chasing Stan and Bill before he could lose them, he felt free.

Now, they sit on top of a grassy hill, a blanket spread beneath them while Stan watches the trees with a keen eye. He has a leather bound journal in his lap, and each time he spots something, he grows excited and tries to show Bill. Bill always says the same thing; "Yeah, t-th-that's a bird all right." And Stanley will record the breed in his journal. Richie thinks it's cute, but he would never admit it out loud.

"S-S-Speaking of muh-mothers," Bill stutters, earning Stan's undivided attention. "Eddie got permission t-t-to go camping. S-S-Sonia juh-just thinks he's staying over at m-m-my house."

"Eddie's coming?" Richie's ears perk up. He had previously been lying down, but with his attention piqued, he sits up quickly and earns some alarm from Bill. Then, in a flash of insecurity, Richie asks "I'm still invited, right?"

"Only if you have your own sleeping bag, I'm not sharing one with you," Stan grimaces.

"Y-Yuh-You'll have to s-sshh-share a tent with Eh-Eh-Eddie," Bill fidgets with a blade of grass, tearing it apart in his fingers and resting it against Stanley's khaki-clad knee. A pile is forming, but Richie notices that Bill puts equal amounts of grass onto each knee after Stan fixed it the first time.

"Okay?" Richie asks. Honestly, he was hoping it could work out that way, God must listening in on his thoughts. Hey, dude, if you're listening; sorry about all the Playboys in my room. "Is that a bad thing?"

"Well," Bill looks away shyly. "He h-has nuh-nuh-nuhhh-nnnnnn-"

"Nightmares," Stanley finishes, which causes Bill to relax and release the tension in his shoulders. "Everybody hates sharing a tent with him because he... he cries through the night."

"S-S-Ssssometimes he wakes up suh-screaming," Bill mumbles sadly. The two linger in their owns mind for a moment, each recalling a time where Eddie's nightmares had become an issue that devolved into a situation.

Richie knows about the nightmares, in fact, he knows exactly what the nightmare is. He also knows that it's just a one, singular nightmare. Not plural, just the same recurring dream that was whispered to him in the warm glow of Eddie's bedroom.

"That's fine, I'm a heavy sleeper," Richie shrugs in an attempt to play it cool. In reality, he feels nothing but excitement and euphoria stimulating his nerves. In a tent? With Eddie? All alone in the woods? At night? Richie Tozier really has to start thanking the big man up above.

"Hey, Billy, can you do me a favor?" Stan turns to ask, leaning to the side and hooking his chin over Bill's soft shoulder.

Bill lifts his head, an innocent flush dusting over his boyish cheeks. His blue eyes blink in surprise, the tip of his nose grazing against Stan's cheek. Richie watches these actions with tender eyes; noting that the actions are fond, but not necessarily romantic. Pure affection. For some reason, seeing it occur between two boys is much more comforting than the boys and girls that kiss in the school hallways.

"Yuh-Yuh-Yeah?" Bill asks.

As if reading Richie's mind, Stan says "Can you go down and fetch some more snacks? There's a ten in my bag. Can you get me some sunflower seeds?"

"Aw, shucks, you buyin'?" Richie asks, lifting his hand against the sun and shielding the light from blinding his lenses. Shadows cast across his face from the action, and in doing so, Stan takes notice of how sharp Richie's cheekbones are.

"I suppose," Stan rolls his eyes. "Bill, grab something for the Mouth over here."

"O-Okay," Bill nods, reaching over Stan's lap to grab the messenger bag next to Richie's leg. Bill stands up, pats the top of Stan's head and skews the yarmulke, and then starts jogging down the hill.

The two boys watch Bill go, and once the tall head of hair is out of sight, Stan says "He's a right one, that Bill Denbrough."

"He's pretty... pretty bitchin'," Richie nods.

Stan rolls his eyes, but then quietly says "Richie. Do you want to see?"

Richie opens his mouth, quick to make some comeback, but then thinks better of it. This is what Stan enjoys, and something about Eddie saying he loves when people talk about their passions, makes Richie say "Yeah. Okay."

Richie sits up, moving closer to the edge of the blanket, and peers over Stan's shoulder with hungry eyes. There's sketches of birds, all very detailed with diagrams detailing their bold colors and shortened beaks. There's lists, some of the factors crossed out, some with check marks next to the long names.

"What's this for?" Richie asks, tapping on the list in Stan's journal.

"It's my bucket list," Stan explains, sharing the journal with the four-eyed lad. "I crossed out the ones I've seen, and the ones with checkmarks are ones I'm not sure of."

"Wow," Richie remarks.

"Pretty cool, right?" Stan grins. He then reaches over and picks up a second book, flipping to the front and showing the words The Encyclopedia of Birds.

"No, not at all," Richie scoffs. However, as he says this, he flips the page in Stan's journal to start examining the pencil strokes that create feathers on the page.

"Here, look, I'm trying to spot a tufted titmouse today," Stan hands over the binoculars.

Richie presses his eyes close to the binoculars, but then moves his glasses up to rest on top of his head. He can see better this way, surprisingly, and he lets his head move the way that Stan gently guides the boy towards a treeline.

"It's name is tufted titmouse? Oh, I don't need binoculars for that, my man. Just check right under your mother's-"

"Shut up, Richie," Stan says quickly.

Richie flinches backwards as if he's been physically slapped, the binoculars falling from his hands as a short breath sucks in between his teeth. He stares at the grass with wide eyes, shellshocked from hearing such harsh words.

Shut up, Richie.

You're annoying. You don't want to annoy your only friend, do you?

You've just barely met him. You can't even keep one friend around for more than a week? You must really screw everything up.

Geez, annoying and useless! What a deal, two in one! Buy one get one free! Run your mouth until everyone is sick of you, why don't you!

Shut up, Richie. You can hear it in your father's voice, can't you? Why don't you just shut up? If you would just shut up, he wouldn't have to talk to you like this.

"Beep beep," Richie says softly. His tone sounds dejected, and he quickly curls in on himself. "Bev says beep beep when my motormouth is going as fast as Roadrunner. It's... It's not as... harsh."

The words feel stupid coming out of his mouth, and he wishes he never even spoke to begin with. Stanley Uris is going to laugh at him, going to call him a baby and snicker, he's going to say shut up shut up shut up shut up over and over until geysers of hot springs erupt from Richie's shattered eyes, he's going to-

"Sorry," Stan whispers, letting his hand brush against Richie's arm. "I didn't know, I didn't mean to upset you."

"You didn't," Richie blurts out, attempting to make himself as small of a problem as possible in order to take the burden off of Stanley's shoulder. "It's okay."

Stan is quiet, probably one of the most supportive traits that would later strengthen their friendship. Richie moves away, his sad eyes focused down on the ground. He doesn't place his glasses back downwards, no, he merely stares at the blades of grass with skewed vision so that he can blame the blurring shapes on poor eyesight and not tears swelling up.

Then, with a juxtaposition that underlines the fact that these words do not belong on the tongue of someone as religiously dedicated as he is, Stan mutters out "Your mom is a tufted titmouse."

Richie cracks a smile, stealing a glance sideways to see Stanley peering into the binoculars. Not glaring at Richie in pleasure, not looking mockingly, merely continuing on as if he is not completely bothered by Richie's actions like the boy thinks he is.

Stan's posture straightens up, alarm reaching his movements, and Richie looks out to see what's caught his attention.

"Did you see a titty?" Richie asks.

"Yes! Yes! Look!" Stan passes the binoculars over and points towards a lonely tree isolated from the rest of the forest outskirts.

Richie spots a small bird, perched on a tree and pecking about meticulously. Richie sees the similarities between Stan and these beloved creatures. Strong posture, puffed out chests, confident decisions, but... careful. Precise. Intelligent.

"Yeah, I see it. Bit wimpy, don't you think?" Richie lowers the binoculars and squints to watch Stan hurriedly write a note down in the margins of the journal.

"It's just a baby, Richie. It's learning how to fly, you can tell in the sporadic wing movements. The nest is probably somewhere nearby, I can't imagine it would travel far from home just yet," Stan says, then, with no interruption whatsoever, slips in "You're not annoying, by the way. You've just got a mouth on you."

"The only mouth on me is the one around my dick," Richie doesn't skip a beat, adjusting his glasses back onto his face so that he can hide the blush creeping throughout his skin. "Would you like to volunteer?"

Stan frowns, still writing in his journal, when he mumbles "That's fruit stuff, man."

"Ain't nothin' wrong with that," Richie laughs in a sarcastic way, though the words hold some sort of truth. He's afraid that Stan can hear the honesty in the words. "Ain't Billy Boy a bit of a fruit?"

Stan's eyes widen and his head snaps up to look at Richie, mouth agape as if he's suppressing a gasp. He looks baffled that Richie would even suggest such a thing, which makes the spectacled man frown in rejection.

"Relax, Stan. It was just a joke. Bill's got a crush on Neverly, remember?" Richie scoffs. Does Stan hate queers? Is that why he looks so shocked? Richie suddenly feels a bristle beneath his skin, one that doesn't naturally retreat the way it always does. But why do I care? I'm no fag.

Richie bites his tongue.

"Why would you-?" Stan breathes out, flustered. "Do you- uh, do you... think so? Do you think... he... is one of the few that play for both teams?"

The thought crosses Richie with as much clarity as a storm finally dissolving in the foggy air. Play for both teams? You can do that?

Eddie Kaspbrak's moonlit face enters his mind, and he quickly shakes his head free of the thought.

"Bill can't even play for one team, don't be stupid!" Richie laughs.

Stan joins in, however, he sounds apprehensive and unsure as if he's nervous, although Richie doesn't know why he would be nervous about such a thing.

With the idea of... playing for both teams in his head, Richie reaches into his pocket and withdraws the letter that has been written in a foreign language for the past 24 hours.

Both teams. Boys and girls. Both of them. Richie has heard about those types of people, swingers and players always swarming with ladies, but he figured they were all destined to get some STD. However... now it doesn't seem so bad to him. Certainly not when he knows a boy cuter than the moon hanging everpresently in the pale sky.

And suddenly, Henry Bowers' letter makes complete sense.

Chapter Text

"You probably have herpes," Eddie says.

Richie glances up, but just enough to pull in the expression adorning Eddie's face. He looks confident, saying these words so matter-of-factly that Richie is sure Eddie could convince him of anything if he were to use that tone.

"Wuh-Where the hell would I get h-h-herpes from, Eh-Eh-" Bill stutters.

"Eddie," the small boy finishes, mumbling "You know I hate it when you stutter my name."

"Eddie," Bill repeats, this time more surely.

"You can get herpes from McDonald's," Stan chimes in. He's holding a book in his hands, so he's not quite paying attention, but he's got enough focus to follow their conversation. "There was this mom who filed a lawsuit against McDonald's because her kid went pee in there and came out with herpes."

"D-Did she win?" Bill asks.

"Which McDonald's? Was this in Derry? Was it the one on Main Street? Is there a herpes outbreak?" Eddie asks with a voice full of concern.

"You're scaring them again, Stanley," Bev's voice comes from the seat in front of Richie. He can't see her, but a mess of firey red hair sticks up to remind him that she's there.

"Oh, but it's so fun," Stan sighs, a smirk on his face as he returns to his book.

As Eddie and Bill start a conversation about whether or not cooking AIDs into a burger would kill someone, Richie lets his eyes fall back down onto the empty sheet of paper in front of him. His headphones dangle around his neck, tape turning, the music nearly inaudible over the screaming sounds of the Derry bus they're all packed into.

Today's the freshman field trip down to the Bangor aquarium, where they're doing a Christmas special show with the sea lions and dolphins. It's only November, but Richie isn't complaining. It's a reason to skip class.

When the freshman class was first loading onto the buses, Richie was stepping onto one that looked fairly empty when he had heard "Hey, Tozier!"

He looked up and saw Ben hanging out of the window on the next bus over, and then soon after, Eddie's mousy face appeared in the glass. Richie joined that bus, making his way down the narrow aisle to claim the seat that Eddie had saved for him. Richie can act aloof all he wants, but he secretly feels his heart warm at the idea of sitting with people he can call his friends.

"What'cha writing?" Ben Hanscom's voice comes over the seat in front of Richie.

Richie looks upwards, seeing the round face peering over. Beverly turns around the corner of the seat, her curious eyes falling from Richie to Eddie. Bev has been loving this, she was smiling at Richie the entire time he walked down the aisle to reach Eddie.

"Nothing," Richie shakes his head, his hand covering over the name scribbled on top of the paper. "Nobody."

"Love letters?" Bev giggles, drawing out her words with a mocking sneer. Her eyes point to Eddie accusingly, and Richie watches the way that the boy shies away and retracts into himself.

"Only to you, Beverly Marsh," Richie sighs, returning to the paper.

"Hey," Ben pouts, reaching over the seat to ruffle Richie's hair. "Stay back, Tozier. She's still under the impression that she's in my league."

"She's way out of your luh-league," Bill laughs, earning a hearty jab from Stan.

Richie smiles, watching the way that Eddie leans over and starts thumb wrestling with Bill, while Beverly leans up and kisses Ben's cheek. Stan puts his book down in order to play the referee for the boys' games, and as this all occurs, Richie feels nauseatingly happy. He has friends, people who save seats for him, and he has a home. Not a house, but a misfit group of kids who just want the best for one another.

"I wish Mike were here," Richie's voice comes out in a whisper.

Eddie hears, looking over his shoulder and smiling at Richie. He says, "We can go out to his farm today, if you want."

Richie's cheeks burn, and he says "I'd... I'd like that, yeah."

"Can I come?" Ben asks, returning to leaning over the bus seat.

"I don't know, Big Ben, can ya?" Richie retorts, standing up and leaning forward to ruffle Bev's hair. "Whaddya say, lassie? Can the chap cum? Is it true, lads? Do'ya nice fellows finish last?"

"Beep beep, Rich," Beverly says impassively, flipping through the magazine on her lap. Richie, dejected, sits back down and returns his gaze to the letter in his lap.

"Woah, how the fuck did you do that?" Eddie gasps, tapping on the seat in front of him. The bus hits a pothole, causing the boys to bounce off their seats like mints in a tin container. "Beep beep? Is that his off button? God, wish I knew about that! Dickhead is really annoying, isn't he?"

Richie flinches, his hand clenching the paper in his hand and crumpling it into a ball. Without another word, he places his headphones on and turns the volume on his mixtape up as far as it will go, resting his head against the glass next to him. He watches the countrysides pass by easily, long stretches of green arms reaching out to hug the soil, livestock and cattle feeding off their harvests.

Stan, who was trying so very hard not to listen to the idiots around him, leans forward and says "Way to go, Eddie. You're such an asshole."

Eddie looks at Richie, his eyes filled with guilt, and then looks at Beverly, who is leaning around the seat to take a look at Richie's despondent posture.

Eddie desperately crosses his fingers right then and there, holding his breath and praying that the god up above will read his mind and make Beverly tell him everything's fine, Richie is fine, that Eddie didn't hurt the boy's feelings.

Instead of doing any of this, the ginger just shakes her head and says "Jeez. Cut him some slack, Ed."

Eddie is silent for the rest of the commute to the aquarium.

When the buses park, Richie turns his head and watches as Eddie stubbornly refuses to move. Everyone else on the bus is already leaking out through the thin row that the aisle will allow, but Eddie stays firmly planted to his seat.

Richie slides his headphones off, then reaches down to his pocket and stops the tape. "You gonna go, Eds?"

"I didn't mean it," Eddie whispers.

Richie is quiet, not letting a word pass his lips as he watches Eddie shift around uncomfortably.

"I didn't mean it, okay?" The short boy repeats himself, reaching over and wrapping his hand around Richie's. Rich goes to retreat, trying to retract from human contact, but Eddie squeezes on. "You aren't annoying."

"Then don't act like it just to fit in with your friends," Richie shrugs. He notices the wording of your friends instead of our friends and it just makes things feel worse.

Eddie stands up, shaking his head and keeping guilty eyes on the floor. Richie follows him, and the two start to leave the bus side-by-side.

Upon stepping into the parking lot, Richie starts scanning the gaggle of freshmen to see if he can find the rest of the losers that seem to have slipped away from them. Upon doing so, however, he catches eyes with Henry Bowers. When Henry starts making his way through the crowd, Richie instinctively wraps an arm around Eddie's shoulders and pulls the boy to fit snugly into his side.

"Rich-" Henry starts out, then loses his voice inside his throat when he sees little Eddie Kaspbrak peek out from behind Richie's frame. Eddie spots Henry, and as a reaction of fear, the small boy brings a hand up to settle on Richie's chest. Henry frowns, his entire face reading betrayal and hurt. "Nevermind. Fucking forget it."

"Hen," Richie says softly, moving forward in the crowd.

"Fuck off," Henry spits. "Fucking queers. Faggot and girly boy."

Henry exits quickly, and before Richie can call after him, Bev's arm is resting on Richie's shoulder as she leans against him.

"Man, that guy's a dick," she says. "One time, he twisted Bill's nip-"

"B-Bev!" Bill shouts, the tips of his ears hot with embarrassment. "You puh-puh-promised not t-t-to tell anybody about th-thh-that."

"Right, sorry, Billy," she smiles, pinching Bill's tinged cheeks. "I forgot."

For a brief moment, Richie wonders what secrets of his she forgot to keep.

"He... He looked like he was going to say something," Stan points out. "Or am I mistaken?"

"No, I saw it too," Eddie points out, then cranes his neck to look upwards at Richie. He squints against the sun, and when he does so, all of his eyelashes fan out in a beautiful array of shadows dripping down his cheeks. "Do you know him?"

"Henry Bowers?" Richie stares out at all freshman, his eyes gravitating to the same place that they always have for the years that he was a child. Henry is sulking more than usual, his head bent down, leaning against a light post in the parking lot. Henry is supposed to be a junior, but after being held back two times in a row, Henry is stuck friendless in a sea of fifteen year olds. Richie sees him, all the memories and fights and first kisses, but... he sees through Henry, as if the familiar shape is translucent; a ghost. "No. Not really."

The kids' chatter is cut short by their homeroom leader calling for their attention, and then they break into subgroups of ten. Eddie moves to stand close to Bill, grabbing his shirt sleeve and not letting go as kids break apart into their own subcategories. This rubs Richie the wrong way, so he stands back and lets everyone else choose their groups and begins the wait to see where he ends up.

After a few moments, Richie becomes increasingly aware of Stan Uris standing beside him. When he looks over, the Jewish boy is merely waiting patiently with Richie, while Ben stands behind them.

"Aren't you guys going to find a group?" Richie asks.

Stan looks at him, a lack of surprise on his face. In a monotone voice, he says "You are our group, dumbass."

Upon saying this, Richie looks over and sees Eddie and Bill huddled in behind Beverly. Bev has her arms wrapped around herself, fingers tapping impatiently on her shoulder. This is Bev language for I want a fucking cigarette.

"There's only six of us," Richie says, looking over their faces to do a headcount.

"Shh, they won't know," Ben smiles up at a Richie with an admiration that Richie has never seen before. Does Ben Hanscom... look up to Richie? Annoying, trashmouth, music snob, no-filter Richie Tozier?

Richie's first thought is Why?

Richie doesn't care much about sea life or anything within the aquarium, so he walks around silently, headphones on, making sure to follow Beverly's bright red hair. The lights in the aquarium come solely from the large tanks, ripping blue scenes onto the excited kids running around. Everyone seems to be going crazy with their temporary freedom, but the losers that Richie has learned to love are all moving from exhibit to exhibit very slowly, almost meticulously.

Bill and Eddie are at the front of the group, Ben being the group guide for sealife funfacts. Stan doesn't look at the tanks too much, but he does write down what Ben is saying in a leather moleskin journal.

Bev bumps her elbow into Richie's side, so the boy stops his tape and looks over at her.

"How you doin'?" She asks. My god, Richie Tozier could love this girl for the rest of the life if she would let him. It's not that he's in love with her, no, but he loves the fact that she takes time out of her day to ask if he's okay. To check on him. To worry. To give him attention.

"Good," he nods, "Craving some fries. You wanna ditch and go down to Curly's?"

"Curly's fries are awful!" Bev scoffs, but then says "No, Ben and I have a date after school."

"Right," Richie nods, looking towards the head of their group and watching the way that Eddie wiggles in between people to get closer to the eel exhibit. "What is it this time? The library or the museum?"

"Museums are more Mike's thing," she says, then without waiting for Richie to respond, she slaps something into his hand.

Richie looks down and sees the familiar rectangle of smokes in his hand, the label soothing his everpresent nerves. Winston, his favorite.

"Thanks, Marsh," he smirks, shoving the squares into the pocket of his jean jacket. "Feels like Christmas fuckin' morning."

"Go talk to Eddie," she nudges his shoulder. "Poor kid is scared you're pissed off at him."

"Who says I'm not?" Richie frowns, moving to the side as two of his classmates run by holding a lobster. Where the fuck did they get that?

"Because you're not. Go talk to him," she says.

Richie glares at her, but in the dark of the aquarium corridor, he only sees the way that her eyes shine in response. He wants to object, but there's no point in arguing with Beverly Marsh. So, accepting defeat, Richie moves forward in the crowd and makes his way to where Eddie Kaspbrak is talking Bill Denbrough's ear off.

"Look at that one! The spots on his tail, do you see 'em, Bill? Do you see it?" Eddie points on the glass at a fish zipping by frantically.

"I see it Eddie," Bill smiles at the smaller boy. Richie stops beside the two, staring into the large glass panel in front of them and letting his eyes follow neon fish all around the tank. Slowly, daringly, he lets his eyes move down to Eddie, his breath catching in his throat.

Eddie's freckles freeze like snowflakes beneath a pale blue wash dusting his face. His doe-like eyes are wide with wonder, his pupils glowing like winter embers as his gaze darts around, his usually pouty lips now turned up into a dazed smile. In this moment, with the look of complete sapphire awe on Eddie's face, Richie remembers that he has that fish tank in his room. Eddie likes fish. This is his element.

Eddie looks up at Richie, and the happy smile falters as he realizes who is standing next to him. The minuscule difference in the facial muscles is still significant enough that Richie feels the impact of it in his chest.

"Listen to this song," Richie says in a low voice, making sure that nobody around them can hear but Eddie. "This song is good."

Richie reaches up and takes his headphones off, sliding them over Eddie's ears. Eddie doesn't object, just covers the earpieces with his tiny hands and nods at Richie. The taller of the duo reaches into his pocket, pressing play on the tape, and watches for those tiny insignificant changes in Eddie's face as a way to read the boy's thoughts.

Eddie knows that in the foreign language of Richie Tozier, this is his way of sharing intimate pieces of his soul with you. When Richie Tozier says "listen to this song," you better listen, because he is trying to tell you more than his tongue will allow. Not many people are fluent in Richie, Bev might be the only scholar, but even then... she doesn't quite speak it as fluidly as she likes to believe. Eddie is getting there, though, one song after another he is getting closer to become a connoisseur of the secret language that is Richie Tozier.

Eddie smiles as he listens, his eyes moving over Richie's face but not wandering, more like... observing. He takes in all of Richie's features with a face similar to how he looks at fish, but just a touch different. Richie can't quite put his finger on it, can't place the difference in emotions, but he feels it. He feels the difference.

Just then, like a flash of heat that bursts through the blues surrounding them, Beverly's hair catches Richie's attention. He looks up at her, watching the way she slides in between Bill and Eddie with ease. She brings her eyes over to Richie, smiles, and taps the tip of her nose to signify she knows what he's thinking. Richie frowns, looks away, but can't help returning to looking at her. She's smug, practically joyous with satisfaction; the look of a girl who is well in over her head. Richie shakes his head, glares at her, and then returns his attention to Eddie.

Eddie keeps the headphones on for the remainder of the trip, being careful to not stray too far from Richie in order to prevent damaging the headphones wire. The two shuffle around as if they're entwined, and Stan gives Richie dirty looks more than once throughout the day. Still, even then, that doesn't compare to the stares of fireball fury that Henry Bowers shoots at the back of Richie's head as the two bend over Richie's bag to change the tapes out. Richie ignores him, in fact, he pretty much ignores everyone. All that matters to him is the way that Eddie's eyes widen to fill up with stars when he starts to fall in love with a new song that Richie introduces to him.

Their lunch break times up right before the Christmas Spectacular show. The freshman class of Derry High all sit down in the tunnel that runs through the sea turtle tank, chattering and eating their sack lunches, shouting any time a turtle comes over the top of the tunnel. Richie watches the ceiling, admiring the way the sun reflects on the waves, comparing them to the veins running through his pale wrists and thinking that these are much more beautiful than anything that can adorn his body.

Eddie, who is sitting right next to Richie, says "Hey, you want my apple? I like oranges anyway."

Richie glances down and sees Eddie extend his hand to present the apple so perfectly. Stan snorts, but Bill looks more surprised than anything.

"Y-You're not going t-t-t-to eat your ahh-ah-apple?" he asks, brows knitting together. "An a-a-apple a duh-day k-k-keeps th-thhh-the doctor away."

"Keeps his mother away," Stan corrects Bill with a smug smirk.

"Yeah, well," Eddie shrugs, placing the apple down on Richie's thigh with careful hands. "What's she gonna do about it? You think she's got spies planted to make sure I eat my apples?"

"It's the turtles," Ben remarks. His sack lunch is about three times the size as everyone else's, but he's also sharing with Beverly, so there's no telling what's his and what's hers. "They're Soviet Russian spies. Your ma is a commie."

"My mom is not a communist!" Eddie scoffs, sticking his tongue out at Ben as he places a ziploc bag full of pretzel sticks on Richie's lap.

Richie's attention falls on the food being stacked on his thighs, and with a short glance towards Eddie, he carefully returns the food to Eddie's lunch sack.

"I packed too much," Eddie then says to him, insisting that Richie takes the food. "I can't eat all this. You gotta help me out."

Richie clenches his teeth together, wanting nothing more than to decline the offer and refuse this food, but he can't say no to Eddie. Not when the boy looks at him with light waves dancing hula hellos on his face.

So, Richie bites into the apple, his stomach opening up to accept the food once he realizes just how hungry he is. He's been trying to make the food at home last, but he's running low on easy to make meals. He hopes his parents return before he can deplete the ingredients left in the fridge.

While the rest of the freshman all gossip and run their mouths, five of the six losers remain silent. Not out of discomfort, but because they're focused on listening to the sixth loser as intently as they can so he doesn't have to speak louder than he's comfortable with. Ben reads from a book, a novel that they've all been reading (or, listening to Ben read) for awhile now. Richie notes that they're more than halfway through the hearty novel while Ben clears his voice before each new chapter. They all sit in complete and utter silence, enthralled with the boy's ability to paint better scenes with his voice than the author could with words. Richie thinks of his Voices, and how he hasn't done any of them in years, not really. He wants to be as captivating as Ben Hanscom is. Richie listens along, although he doesn't quite follow the storyline, having jumped in halfway through the book. Even so, he thinks it's nice to be a part of something as dorky and welcoming as a storytelling tale.

When their lunch break ends, Bev and Stan collect the garbage from everyone while Ben places his bookmark and packs up. Eddie stands patiently by Richie side, headphones still looped around his neck, waiting to see where Rich leads them.

The auditorium that the children file into is a vast one, certainly designed to hold more than the freshman class of Derry High. Because of its copious amounts of space, the students get to pick and choose where they want to sit, most of them heading straight towards the balcony stairs, including Ben and Bill.

Bev, Stan, Eddie, and Richie all huddle in the aisle between rows of seats, looking around with uncertainty.

"Sit in the back," Richie remarks. He nods his head in the general direction of where he's implying, so Bev starts up to make her way towards it.

"I..." Stan breathes out, unsure. "I wanted to sit up close. Eddie?"

Eddie would be the obvious candidate for this request, for he adores fish the way Stan adores birds. It isn't unreasonable, either, it simply is just asking a mere favor of the short boy. However, to Richie, it feels like Stan is asking Eddie to surgically remove himself from Richie's side.

Eddie hesitates, his face pulling back in a tight grimace, which Bev immediately picks up on. She notices the way Eddie takes a very, very reluctant step away from Richie, and she feels the need to protect the young boy.

"I'll sit with you, Stan," Bev smiles before reaching down to entwine her hands with Stan's. If it were anybody else, Stanley would burn a shade bright red at the mere thought of someone holding his hand. But it's not just anybody, no, it's Beverly Marsh. She makes you feel loved, no matter who you are. Her specialty is to make you feel safe.

Eddie and Richie are left to the far back row, separated from the rest of their classmates. Neither of the boys complain, though, Eddie just moves real close so that the two of them can hear the music playing from the headphones.

Richie can't focus on the show. He can't. His eyes fidget from his bouncing knees, then down to Eddie's hands folded neatly over the small boy's thighs. Richie wonders what would happen if he were to reach over and just let his fingers slip between Eddie's, just like Bev did with Stanley. They're friends, it wouldn't be strange, would it? It's just hands.

Just hands. Just hands. He won't mind.

Richie lifts his hand, his palm turning upwards to invite Eddie, but then he chickens out last second and plays it off as moving the Walkman over on his lap. Richie shifts his legs around, his pants feeling too tight, shirt too itchy. He can't find a comfortable position at all, his mind far too focused on Eddie and Eddie's hands and holding Eddie's hands.

He won't mind, would he?

He might.

Then, as a way to put Richie's mind to peace, Eddie gently rests his head on the boy's shoulder. Richie's heart comes to a complete stop, his chest constricting and squeezing up in so many different ways. Does Eddie know what he's thinking? Is Eddie a mind reader?

Eddie, if you're reading my mind; I think I love you.

Richie gathers the courage to look down at Eddie, craning his neck and leaning forward to catch a glimpse of Eddie's facial expression. He wants to know if Eddie is as flustered as he is, if the emotions are returned in any kind of way.

Instead, he's met with the face of a sleeping boy. Eddie's eyes are closed so heavenly, his freckles still spotting through even in the dim lighting. His cheek squishes upwards in the place where it touches Richie's shoulder, lips pouting outwards.

I do. I do love you. I haven't loved anybody except for Beverly Marsh, but I think you are taking her spot, Eddie Kaspbrak.

Chapter Text

The cold creeps in underneath Richie's cuffs, slithering up his arm like slimy snakes making their way towards his neck. He shivers, burrows further into his coat, and pushes the pedals faster to get his body moving. Any heat that exerting the energy creates is instantly washed away by the cold air blasting against his face as they ride downhill.

"Keep up, Hanscom!" Eddie's voice floats through the blistering air, bringing a warmth into Richie's cheeks that eats away all of the frost collecting on the tip of his nose.

Ben pedals past Richie quickly, swerving between Bev and Bill in order to catch up with Eddie near the front. Richie considers picking up the pace just so that he's not left behind or forgotten, but then Stan falls back to match his speed with Richie's. Stan's bike is a newer model of the one Richie has, but the chains still make the exact same clanking noise.

"Have you been out to Mike's farm yet?" Stan asks. Richie nearly doesn't hear him over the howling wind.

"No, this is my first time," Richie shakes his head, grinning over at the more quiet boy.

"It's nice," Stan nods, his hands on the grips of his bike so very tightly. "But... it's best when it's cold like this because Mike's grandma makes us hot chocolate. I've never tasted anything so good."

"Huh-huh-haven't you heard, S-S-Stan?" Bill turns around on his bike, the too-big wheels swerving into Beverly's path as he does so. The girl rolls her eyes and straightens out her line, but otherwise doesn't say anything to Bill's reckless driving. "Sh-sh-she puts in guh-growth hormones t-t-to make you ffffff-ff-f-fat like their c-c-cows."

"That is not true!" Eddie pipes up, a loud scoff slipping out of his mouth like a puff of fog.

"It's totally true," Ben nods affirmatively. "Mike told me himself. She wants to fatten you up, Eddie."

Bill winks at Ben, a movement that Richie does not miss. He feels a bit bad about everyone teasing Eddie, but it's hard when the boy just makes it so easy on himself. He wouldn't be as much of a target if he didn't open himself up to such vulnerable opportunity.

And when Richie sees an opportunity, he can't resist taking it.

"What would she gain from fattening me up? Your story is so stupid, Bill, seriously. Were you dropped as a baby?" Eddie scoffs again, this time a bigger puff of air exhaling into the cold November air.

"So she can eat you, Eds," Richie calls up to the front of the pack. "You think she's going to feed off of a scrawny kid like yourself? No no, she needs to fatten you up like a juicy pork."

"What!" Eddie screeches, resulting in bursts of laughter from everyone around them. The kid's genuine concern isn't that funny, but Richie laughs anyway.

When the group turns left down an old country dirt road, deja vu reaches up and swallows Richie whole. He feels as if he's drowning in it, unable to swim in this neverending ocean of memories flooding in like tsunami waves.

Hot summer afternoons, usually. Dirt flying up behind his tire wheels, scraped knees hitting the handlebars as he rides, and an overwhelming taste of green apple gummy bears that Henry would pick out to save for Richie.

He'd wake up at seven thirty in the morning and ride his bike out to the Bowers farm just outside of town, usually bringing along his BB gun or toy soldiers to line up in the long driveway and watch as Henry kicked them all down with boyish glee. They spent hours together; chasing each other around the farm, wrestling in the crop fields, making forts out of dirt, and crowding around the radio to listen to the baseball game after placing bets. Henry always won, but it's not as if Richie was losing real money. Richie would bet sticks of gum while Henry would put down his baseball cards. It seemed like a fair trade to the two, but Henry would always sneak a card or two into Richie's bookbag when he wasn't looking.

The farmhouse needed a lot of tending to, and a lot of that tending was passed down onto Henry and disguised as chores. Richie knew the truth; Mr. Bowers was just too much of a lazy prick to do it himself. He was a drunk, and he was angry, and when those two traits crossed paths, he would take it out on Henry. So, the boy spent a lot of time outside, mainly hiding from his old man's line of sight. If he was busy working, or just hidden from view, he could avoid a beating pretty easily. Richie understood this, it was an unspoken knowledge that Henry never once had to bring up, Richie just knew. And he understood. And he would come over early in the morning so that they could split the chores up and have them done by high noon.

"Richie?" Bev's voice calls out, snapping the boy from his trance.

Richie looks up, seeing her slowing her bike down to match his and Stan's speed. She looks genuinely concerned, which only plagues Richie with guilt. He doesn't mean to make her worry so much, he just... he can't help it. He can't.

"I'm fine," he shakes his head, eyes focusing hard on the ground so that more memories aren't unearthed by their surroundings. "Just thinking."

"About?" Stan prods at him curiously.

"Huh-huh-haven't you heard? T-T-To-Tozier's got a secret guh-girlfriend," Bill snickers.

"Is that who you were writing letters to on the bus today?" Ben chimes in, craning his neck to look over his shoulder at his friends behind him.

Richie's face flushes up, his eyes darting up to meet with Eddie. The tan boy doesn't turn around, doesn't look back, but Richie doesn't miss the way that his shoulders bunch up as he shrinks down onto his impossibly big bike. This must be a sign, Richie is sure of it. But... a sign for what?

"Crap, watch out, guys. Asshole alert," Bev curses, speeding up to ride alongside the right of Ben protectively. Richie notices the way that they all speed up, and he subconsciously follows suit without even glancing at what Beverly is referring to.

He wishes he didn't, however. The deja vu from riding along the familiar path was bad enough, but seeing the dirt driveway leading up to the Bowers residence is ten times worse. He feels as if he's a kid again, coming over early in the morning to help Henry with his chores. The nostalgia tricks his senses into tasting those green apple gummy bears, but he knows better. Things aren't the same anymore.

During Richie's lost gaze, Henry stands up from where he is in the yard and sees who is riding their bikes down this far away from town. He's met with a group of people he's learned to hate, along with the very bane of his existence. Henry's eyes fixate on Eddie Kaspbrak, the small boy leading the whole wolf pack, and his stomach hardens at the sight of him. Eddie is... Eddie is conventionally attractive, Henry knows he can't compete. He's not mad about that, though, he is no jealous type. What's actually bothering him is the fact that he can recognize Eddie's beauty in the first place.

Henry and Richie seem to make eye contact at the exact same time. The two remain staring at one another, Richie's bike gliding right on by the driveway he used to play cops and robbers in. The green apple taste gets stronger, but there's... there's something else there. Something fainter.

The juicy fruit that hits the tip of his tongue is a reminder of the way Henry felt pressed up against him. His first kiss, his only kiss, New Year's, midnight. Henry grabbed the front of his shirt, and Richie flinched. He assumed he was going to get punched. Then... juicy fruit, juicy fruit, juicy fruit.

Richie looks away, his hand wiping at the corners of his mouth as if he can still feel the wetness of Henry's nervous lips. Richie doesn't look back at Henry, just pedals faster with his head down, but that doesn't stop Henry from staring enviously.

Before the kids are completely out of sight, they all hear a distant shout followed by the sound of an axe slicing through wood.

Henry's voice calls out "Fuck, fuck, fuck!" and Richie has to pretend as if it doesn't bother him.

When they finally arrive at the Hanlon residence, they all wait by the road as Bill slips under the fence to unlock the gate from the inside. They say they all take turns, and that Mike dug that hole especially for them, but Stan leans over and informs Richie that Bill usually does it because he's the group leader.

They meet Mike out in one of the barns, the boy's shirt soaked with sweat in the same way that the droplets glisten on his skin. Richie knows he must be doing extensive labor, there's no reason for him to sweat like that in the middle of November.

"How was the field trip, you guys? Was it fun? I've always wanted to go to the aquarium," Mike smiles at them. He heaves, lifting his shirt up And wiping the sweat from his face. Richie takes notice of the abs bursting beneath his skin and how the muscles move with each moment. Jealousy courses throughout him.

"It was so cool," Eddie gleams, "There were, like, a million-"

"You weren't even paying attention, Eddie!" Stan interjects. "Too busy listening to Richie's mind control music."

"It's rock 'n' roll, baby," Richie smiles, leaning on Stan's shoulder and moving in to be dangerously close to the boy's face. He expects Stan to give some smart one-liner that will shoot Richie down into his place, but Stan just stiffens and stares back at Richie with wide eyes, a warm flush tinting his cheeks. Richie backs away, confused, the smile dropping from his face. Stan looks... embarrassed?

"I'm more of a blues and jazz kinda guy," Eddie shrugs nonchalantly. A blatant lie, but it still makes everyone giggle.

"What do you know about blues?" Mike laughs.

"I know enough," Eddie nods his head as if he's confirming an order. He stands stiffly against Bill, using the taller one as a support beam. Bill doesn't mind, just watches everyone with those perpetually glossy crystal eyes. Richie thinks that Bill would die for these kids if he had to.

"Ed, you couldn't tell the difference between a tuba and violin," Beverly laughs so easily, her back against a barn door that they were all told is full of cow shit. They can certainly smell it.

They all burst into laughter, teasing Eddie and pushing him around like friends do. Not in the way Henry Bowers pushes him around, but more gently. More affectionately. Little touches that tell him they are laughing with him instead of at him.

Richie watches them; his eyes traveling from Ben's pullover sweater, to Bev's fiery hair, to Stan's still-flushed cheeks, to Bill's misty eyes, to Eddie's sunkist freckles, to Mike's dazzling teeth. He thinks he would die for them, too, if he had to. He wouldn't think twice.

Mike leads them all down to the pasture, the crisp, yellow grass beneath their feet crunching with each step the group makes. As they walk, they all discuss the camping trip planned for this weekend, but Richie admires the scenery. He's never been on a farm like this before, Henry's was much smaller. Mike's family owns more land than he's ever seen, and he can't help but admire the way that each patch is carefully groomed and cared for with precision. This farm is loved and it shows by its neat fields that lack any overgrowth.

"You guh-guh-guys w-w-wanna play t-tag?" Bill suggests once they have made a decent dent into the pasture. Richie can look back and see where the grass has laid down for their footsteps, a path that marks all of them moving together in one continuous direction. He hopes that path never ends.

"Not it," Stan touches the tip of his finger to his nose. Ben quickly follows suit.

"I'm out," Bev sits down, extending her legs and leaning back as if she's sunbathing. Richie wants to tell her it's November and that all she will get is frostbite, but she has a smile on her face, so he refuses to be the reason that it disappears.

"Yeah, me too," Richie sits down. Tag seems like too much effort, too much energy wasted, and Richie hasn't been eating the right amount of food to keep himself substantially involved in a game of chase.

He sits next to Beverly, who smiles and leans her head on Richie's shoulder, but he is more concerned with Eddie Kaspbrak sitting down and taking a seat next to them.

"Asthma," he says simply. Everyone nods, and then Mike claims he's it and starts chasing them through the pasture.

Richie is silent for a moment, just watching the way that Ben runs faster than Stan. Bill is protective of them, shouting directions to run as he tries to get Mike's attention to distract him from Ben. When Mike finally catches up to Stan, he slaps a big hand on the kid's shoulder and yells out "Tag, you're it!"

Richie jumps when he feels someone pressing into his side. When he looks down, he relaxes. Eddie is nuzzling in underneath Richie's coat, trying to stay close for warmth, his tiny fingers curling around the sleeve of Richie's jacket as he tries to move the boy's arm and take its place. Richie's muscles drip with euphoria, the boy lifting his arm so Eddie can come closer, and then wrapping his coat around the two of them. Eddie doesn't say anything, just shivers and breathes out shaky puffs of air.

"You guys are going camping in this weather?" Richie asks to crack the silence.

"So are you, Tozier," Beverly rolls over in the grass to lie on her stomach. Richie looks at all of the dead grass clinging to the back of her white shirt like brush strokes on a canvas. "Don't try to wiggle outta this. You're coming whether you like it or not."

"You're coming with us?" Eddie asks, lifting his head. With their proximity, the tip of his nose kisses the curve of Richie's jaw. Neither of the two move away.

"Yeah," Richie nods, then puts on a Voice "Eye'suh gun be sharin' a tent wit ya, Missur Kaspbrak."

"Ew, what is that?" Eddie laughs, the little giggles pushing against Richie's neck. "Is that supposed to be some southern kid?"

"Do the posh guy," Bev requests. "I like the butler the best."

"Oh, my lord Kaspbrak, do let me repeat my aforementioned inquire. I have been gifted the honor of sharing slumber headquarters with you, my dear good sir. Does this sound acceptable or shall I make arrangements to something more pleasurable that would better suit your standards, my lord?"

"Posh Richie sounds funny," Eddie laughs, leaning forward and resting his forehead right against the curve of Richie's neck. Warm. So very warm. "You're a wise guy, Richie Tozier."

"Yet you haven't given me an answer," Richie becomes himself again as easily as taking a coat off. Sometimes, he wishes he could be someone else forever. He wishes he never had to take the coat off.

"That sounds fine," Eddie replies. "No funny business in the tent."

"What, you don't want no late night lovin'?" Richie churns out smoothly, his familiar smug grin finding its way onto his face. This is Richie's default, this is how the world sees him. Not as the emotionally distraught kid that Beverly and Eddie know, but the smooth talker who has a joke for every situation. "Now, Eds, that isn't what you were saying the other night when I was crawling through your wind-"

Bev looks up, raising an eyebrow, as Eddie simply slaps a hand over Richie's mouth. This does nothing, however, because after years of friendship, Bev and Richie can communicate with just their eyes. One look at Richie is all it takes for her to figure out that this night actually did happen just like Richie is telling it.

After a few more moments of silence, Eddie breaks it again. He says with a bit of yearning tracing his words, "Doesn't it look fun?"

Richie glances down and sees him watching the boys running through the pasture with longing in his expression. It's obvious he wants to join them, but something in his mind is holding him back from doing so.

"So go be with them," Richie nudges his shoulder into Eddie's back. "Go on, then."

"I can't," Eddie says. "My lungs don't work."

"Have you got your inhaler?" Richie asks. Eddie nods, patting his fannypack. "Refills?" Eddie nods again. Richie nudges him once more, then says "If you feel tired, you can come sit down again, and we'll take care of you. We've got all the medicine if anything happens. You can go play, Eds. Go be a kid. I'll take care of you."

Eddie blinks those big brown eyes up at Richie for a few moments before silently standing up and brushing his knees off. Eddie takes a few steps forward, looks back, and keeps walking when Richie gives him an encouraging nod. The boy picks up his speed, then slowly starts to jog, and by the time he finally reaches the other boys, he is running.

"I'm it! I'm it!" Eddie declares, earning cheers and hollers from the boys chasing one another around. Stan looks back at Richie and Beverly, then lifts his hand and gives a wave that says 'thanks'. Richie waves back.

"You're soft on him."

Richie looks over at Bev, who is still looking at him with an amused smirk. Richie shakes his head, furrows his eyebrows, and returns to watching Eddie run as fast as his little legs will let him. He's quite fast, actually. A kid with asthma wouldn't be able to run that fast.

"I don't know what you're talking about, Marsh," Richie shakes his head, and, no, really, a kid with asthma wouldn't be able to run this fast. Richie picks up Eddie's fannypack and unzips it, digging around through the various amounts of pill bottles to find the aspirator refill. "The kid wanted to go play, so I told him to go play."

"Mhm," she smirks, rolling over in the grass until she reaches Richie's side. She rests her head in his lap and looks up at him with those diamond-like eyes, twinkling devilishly. "Sure. Whatever you say, Tozier. That doesn't change the fact that you're totally soft on him."

"So what if I am?" Richie scoffs. He pulls out the packaged materials, flipping it over to read the list of ingredients.

"Is he like a brother to you?" She asks. Beverly reaches up and traces her fingers along the healing cuts on Richie's lips. He doesn't notice, just squints his eyes and reads the fine print on the label.

"This is just hydrogen and oxygen," Richie reads out. "And a drop of camphor. Probably just for taste."

Richie presses down on the trigger and releases the spray onto his tongue, careful to not let his mouth touch the piece out of respect for Eddie's fear of germs. He twists his face up and splutters, earning a quick slap from a Beverly, who got spit on.

"Tastes like battery acid, fuck," he sighs. "This is bullshit."

"It helps him," she says.

"No, it deceives him. These are placebos," he says. "Hydrogen and oxygen. It's just fucking tapwater."

Bev is quiet, the realization crossing her kind of what exactly that means. Eddie doesn't have asthma, or his mother is just trying to trick him, or the pharmacist Eddie fills prescriptions with is a cheap bastard who can't be bothered to make proper medicine. Richie doesn't quite know how the specifics of asthma work, but he does feel as if a bit of tapwater isn't going to solve all the issues Eddie has been convinced that he has.

"It feels real enough to him," Bev says. "And that's all that should matter."

Richie looks up at the kid who does not seem to be struggling at all, now running from Stan, who isn't putting in much effort to chase him anyway. Still, even then, Eddie is smiling and laughing so brightly that it warms up the chilly oncoming winter air. For a brief second, it feels like summer. And not because Richie is remembering Henry Bowers, but because Eddie brings the sunshine wherever he goes.

Bev reaches up to touch the side of Richie's cheek again, her fingers brushing against the scar that is forming where Henry's ring had cut deep. She sees a look of love that has never quite been on Richie's face before, but she doesn't even need to look to see where his eyes are staying.

"Does it feel real for you?"

Chapter Text

2:02 am.

Who would be calling so late? Sure, it's a Friday night, and it's not as if Richie was sleeping anyway, but still. If it's someone calling the Tozier residence to make an emergency appointment with Went like they so often would; why would they call at this hour? Richie answers the phone anyway, his father would kill him if he were to cost the man a client.

"Richie?" Stanley Uris' voice greets Richie on the other line.

Normally, Richie would be more than happy to hear from his new friend, but the clock hanging above the wall phone reminds Richie that this is a time of night that people like Stan Uris should not be awake. Something must be wrong.

"Yeah?" Richie asks, his voice quiet and lacking any of the humor or teasing it usually carries for Stan.

Halfway across town, standing in the middle of the kitchen and only wearing a pair of pajamas pants and his Christmas robe, Stan Uris begins to cry. He doesn't know why he's calling Richie Trashmouth Tozier of all people, but he needs to say it. He needs to say it. He feels like he's lying, worse, he feels like he himself is a lie. A sham. He can't take it anymore.

Stan Uris breathes rapidly, his fingers tightening around the phone cord as the kitchen tiles beneath his bare feet freeze his tiny toes. Even in his frantic state of mind, he still finds the time to reach out and straighten the pen clipped to the notepad on the wall. Written in his mother's handwriting is a grocery list, and then his father's note about meeting with Mr. Jenkins. Stan doesn't know what it's about, but he does know his dad comes home angry each time that he goes out with Mr. Jenkins.

"Stan?" Richie's voice brings the boy back to reality, and it almost feels as if he is over at the Tozier house in the kitchen with Richie beside him. Richie's kitchen is smaller, but it's more organized. Stan especially likes the spice rack. Richie presses on, feeling more and more concerned by the sobs breaking through the telephone line. "Stan? Stan?"

"Today with Henry Bowers," Stan cries out, keeping his voice low so that he doesn't get caught. Richie feels bad, but there's nothing he can do about it. Stan wouldn't let Richie come sneak in the way that Eddie does, the two boys are just too different. Maybe Stan still respects his parents, or maybe he just respects the authority. Either way, he's no rule breaker. Richie's knows this. "W-What did he... what did he mean? About you?"

Richie pauses, his body growing cold as he stares out the kitchen window at the hanging paper moon. Silk light lays down on every kitchen surface, going to sleep over countertops and cutting boards. The room feels cold, but maybe that's just Richie's fear taking shape in his mind.

Stanley and Richie had been walking to class together, Richie having biology in room 304 while Stan's history lecture takes place in 305. When they realized their paths crossed, the two began walking to class together daily and usually telling each other about their uneventful mornings and unfair loads of coursework. Today, however, the two were plucked straight from the hall without a single head turning to see where they went.

Patrick Hockstetter and Victor Criss shoved the two into the boy's bathroom, Richie hitting the side of a urinal and falling to the floor while Stan was held against the sinks. He looked terrified, that much was obvious, and seeing such a look cross his friends face (even if just for a moment) made Richie shift gears into defense mode.

"What the fuck, Hen?" Richie scoffed, standing to his feet just to be shoved back down by Belch's fat boot colliding with his chest.

Henry emerged from a stall, twiddling his beloved knife between his fingers with a unicorn delicacy to his fluid motions. He walked by Stan with a dirty look, but paid the kid no attention. He had crouched in front of Richie, placed his knee very carefully between Richie's thighs, and then pressed the blade right to the spectacled kid's cheek. Stan cried out, but Richie felt nothing. No fear. He knew Henry wouldn't do it, he doesn't have the balls. He never will. Maybe he'd find the nerve to cut some other kid like Ben Hanscom, but Richie knows that he will never fall victim to any pain exceeding a punch or two when it comes to Henry Bowers.

"Now I thought I made myself fucking clear, you faggot," Henry growled as the tip of the knife dug into Richie's skin. He said, "I thought I told you I don't want to see you whoring around with little girly boy."

Stan cried roughly, terrified of what would happen to Richie. He doesn't know what history the two had shared, so all Stan knew in that moment was that Richie had a knife pressed to his face, and that Henry was crazy enough to push it right on through. Stan was convinced he would have to carry Richie to the nurse afterwards, but his brain was making plans of action and deciding which adult to run to first.

"Fuck you," Richie hissed stubbornly, and Stan was convinced that the boy had lost his mind. Then, to make things worse and to diminish any chance of making it out alive, Richie spat directly in Henry's face. "Fucking hypocrite."

Henry had pulled back and wiped the saliva from his face, his eyes flashed furiously but also... excited. Like he was getting off on this interaction with Richie. Henry pulled back, pocketed his knife, and then brought a fist right into Richie's stomach.

Stan jerked forward, his body moved roughly against the two pairs of hands that had held him down, and he tried to escape so that he could get to Richie's side and help him. He couldn't. He didn't.

Richie grinned, then said "You jealous, Hen? Is that what the issue is? You're fucking jealous of him?"

Henry punched Richie again, this time in the face. Stan didn't know exactly what Richie was saying, but he assumed that Richie was implying Henry was jealous of Stan. Why else would the two be in this situation?

"You're fucking disgusting. You queer, you fucking queerboy, you faggot," Henry's voice had dropped low, which Stan knew meant danger. Yet Richie grinned. Was Tozier really crazy? "You fucking gayboy. Faggot. Faggot. Queer."

"Wow, Hen, you know you're looking at the wrong person, right? Mirrors are over there," Richie nodded his head towards where Stan was being held against a sink. He had caught Stan's eye, and while Stan looked absolutely terrified, Richie only winked.

"Shut the fuck up," Patrick spoke up, his voice sounded flustered and embarrassed. "Fuckin' queer."

"Jeez, guys, I-" Richie started, but he was cut off by Henry's knife pressing to his throat. Henry held it close, so close that it could cut, and for a moment, Richie was sure that the history didn't matter anymore. Henry was certainly going to cut him.

But he didn't.

He said, "I don't want to fucking see it again, Richie. Next time I see you parading around my town with fucking fagboy, I will cut your spine out."

Richie only nodded, his Adam's apple bobbling against the blade as he swallowed. He was completely silent, eyebrows furrowed, and if Stan didn't know any better, he would guess that Richie was genuinely scared in that moment.

Cut to later that night, where Stan is now sobbing on the phone as he relives the memory for the hundredth time this night. It's not the knife that he's scared of, it's the words.

"Did he really mean it?" Stan cries, his voice trembling in the silence of the air. He holds the receiver to his ear with two hands, his knuckles blooming moon-white from how hard he clutches the handle. "Are you really a queer?"

"Jeez, Stan," Richie breathes out, a bit of tension forming between his shoulders. "What kinda question is that? Can't this wait till morning?"

"No, Richie," Stan blurts out. He's tired of lying. He's tired of not being... him. He's tired of not being him. He just wants to be honest, and he needs Richie to listen to it. Not to accept, just to listen. "How did he know, Richie? How did Henry know? How did he know that I'm gay?"

Richie's house drops to a silence that is more quiet than what it sounds like in deep space. If he were to listen, Richie would be able to hear his neighbors snoring from across the street. If he were to strain his ears, he could hear Stanley Uris crying in his own kitchen halfway across the town.

What is he supposed to say to that? Why did Stan tell him? How does he respond? How does he react?

"Say something!" Stan whisper-shouts.

Richie blinks, but still no words come. The only thing he can think of is little Eddie Kaspbrak running around in the field yesterday, but more specifically, how little Eddie's thighs looked when his shorts would ride up from each stride. Does Stan notice these things too? Is that how he knows he is this thing he claims to be?

"Are you... sure?" Richie asks.

"I don't know!" Stan cries, then starts sobbing again. After a moment of incoherency, he finally blubbers out "I think I am! I... I can't pretend anymore- I can't pretend I'm not!"

"You don't have to," Richie shakes his head. "At least not with me. It's okay if you are, I don't mind."

"Are you?" Stan then asks, his tone hopeful but afraid. The kitchen around him seems tight, he can't seem to get enough air. He wants to stretch the cord out to the living room like his mother so often does when she wants to talk to her girlfriends while also standing beside her husband and giving him back rubs, but alas, the fear plants his feet to the spot and he is rendered frozen.

"Am I, what, gay?" Richie asks. He opens his mouth to laugh, and then it hits him; what's so funny about that?

What if I am?

"Don't know," he says honestly, and the following words that come out of his own mouth genuinely surprise him; "Never tried with a guy, maybe. Could be."

What? What? Did I just fucking say I could be gay? Did I just say I could be gay?

Of course I did.

Have I seen Eddie Kaspbrak?

Of course I could be.

"Are you just fucking with me, Richie?" Stan asks in a voice so shaky, so insecure, that Richie's heart hurts at the mere sound of it. He can't imagine what the boy is feeling right now, and he can't imagine that most of it is probably a fear of him rejecting the vulnerable kid.

"No, no, of course not, god no," Richie shakes his head. "It's after midnight, you know that lies don't exist after midnight."

"That makes no sense," Stan manages to say in his usual Stan Uris way. This gives Richie a smile, so he knows that it's not as bad as it could be.

"'Course it does, pardna'. Jus' ask my pal Could-Be Tozier," Richie uses his cowboy accent, then says normally "It makes sense."

"Are you going to tell the others?" Stan suddenly blurts out before another single thought can enter his brain. His mind is racing far too fast right now, and Richie isn't giving the right answers. Stan doesn't even know if there are right answers, he just wants to feel safe.

"Nah. Not my business, nor do I care," Richie shrugs. "So what if ya like boys, Stanley? You'll be good at it from all the times you tickle your pickle."

"God, ew, gross, Richie," Stan grimaces, but he still finds himself smiling.

This is why he called Richie. This is why.

Because Richie is Could-Be Tozier, and because Richie can make it less scary. He can make anything less scary. All he has to do is whip out a Voice and talk about his dick and suddenly the world doesn't seem as if it is going to drop you into the ocean and swallow you whole.

"We'll figure it out together, Stan the man," Richie then says a bit more seriously, yet still promising and comforting. He holds a lot of power in these words, power that Stan wants to believe in. "You and me, dude. We'll figure something out. It's not that scary, alright?"

"Alright, yeah," Stanley nods. "Sounds good."

"Then awf to bed, good sir!" another Voice is back, one Stan hasn't heard before. The English accent is terrible, but it makes him giggle anyway. "Pip pip tally ho! London awaits!"

"Thank you, Richie," Stan sniffles, wiping the wetness from his cheeks with the back of his hand. He feels nothing but a giant boulder break apart and fall off of his back, just from getting this weight off his shoulders. He thought that if he didn't tell somebody just this second, the world will fall apart. Now, he told, and the world keeps turning. "Hey, Rich, your parents home yet?"

The house feels colder.

"Comin' home soon," Richie whispers, though they both know it's a lie.

"How 'bout I have my parents pick you up tomorrow, okay? We can pick you up. Five?"

"Five," Richie repeats, then "Thanks, Stan."

"No, thank you, Trashmouth," Stan exhales. He doesn't quite want to hang up, but he knows his parents will both have duel blood vessels pop in their brain if they catch him talking to someone at this hour. "Listen, I gotta go. Sleep well."

"Sleep well, gay boy," Richie jokes. If it were anybody else in the world, it would not sound like a joke. Or, maybe it would, but it wouldn't be a funny one. Yet, somehow, coming from Richie Tozier's mouth, it sounds like the most friendly thing that Stan has ever heard. He may have a trashmouth, but that trashmouth knows how to lighten the mood.

As promised, The Uris family car shows up in the Tozier driveway at five o'clock on the dot. Not a minute late, precise as can be. Richie understands where Stan gets it from, and as he carries a bookbag and his sleeping bag out to their car, he wonders if he should have at least tried to look somewhat presentable when meeting such respectable parents. The only parents he's ever met before has been Beverly's father, and he did not take to Richie well. Now, he's meeting a Rabbi and he decided to wear ripped jeans with a Zeppelin t-shirt. He couldn't even be bothered to brush his hair, and the bruise painting his nose from their bathroom incident the day before shines through like a beacon that screams I'm a bad kid! I'm gonna corrupt your child! I smoke weed and worship the devil!

Stanley climbs out of the car when Richie approaches, guiding him around to the trunk where he helps neatly organize Richie's luggage alongside his own. Stan packed lightly, but no lighter than Richie. Richie only brought what was necessary, nothing more, nothing less. Bare minimum.

"Am I, uh," Richie glances down at his jean jacket. "Am I dressed poorly?"

"Dressed poorly? How so?" Stan looks Richie up and down, then quickly directs his eyes elsewhere when his cheeks start to burn. "N-No."

"I look like a burnout," Richie whispers, feeling more and more insecure as he looks at Stan's polo shirt tucked into a pressed pair of khakis. "Shit, Stan. Your parents won't let me hang out with you any more."

"Don't be ridiculous," he shakes his head. He slams the trunk shut, then reaches out to run his fingers through Richie's hair. Rich's hair is thick and soft, yet generally tends to stay wherever it is told to go. Stan combs his hands through Richie's hair easily, pushing the messy curls backwards, tucking strands behind his ears, and smoothing down the stray hairs that seem to stubbornly stick up. "Just have to do something about this mop you call hair."

Richie melts into the touch, his face nuzzling against Stan's hand whenever they happen to brush his cheeks. He wants to be touched, to be reminded that he is real. Sometimes, it's easy to forget. Stan's hands are warm as opposed to the chilly November, but all he wanted to do was make Richie's hair more presentable.

Richie opens his eyes, batting thick eyelashes at Stan, transformed into a completely new human. He looks vulnerable, shy, and... not Richie. Stan's stomach burns a hole right through his organs, lighting himself on fire from the inside-out.

"How do I look?" Richie asks, a bit of hair curling around his sharp cheekbone. Stan never noticed how prominent they are, but there they sure are. He reaches up and tucks it back again, letting his hand linger against the side of Richie's face. When Richie doesn't pull away, no, when Richie leans into it, Stan is aware that he is about to get himself in trouble. Richie Tozier is going to be the trouble.

"Pretty," Stan says honestly, his words leaving traces of fog in the billowing air around them. Richie blushes and steps away, tucking his face into the side of his jacket. He shakes his head, but then looks at Stan with seeking eyes, as if he's trying to figure out if that compliment was the truth or not. Stan reassures him, "You look pretty, Rich."

Those words stay in the space between the two boys as they sit in the backseat, tense and embarrassed, nervous tension hanging off of their bodies like a string connecting them. Despite the unknown feeling being more than absolutely terrifying, it is still alluring. It draws them in, and Stan finds himself wanting to just be close with Richie. To be close. To feel him. He steals glances at the boy every few seconds, admiring his tamed hair and pale complexion. Richie is... actually quite beautiful once you get past his mouth. If he's silent, he's the most gorgeous boy in all of Derry.

"Richie, it's very nice to meet you! Was quite surprised when Stan made the request this morning, but couldn't leave a friend of my son's to ride the bike out in this weather," Mr. Uris finally breaks the silence.

Richie jumps as if he's been startled, his wide eyes going from the window to Stan. Stan shrugs, then nods his head as if trying to get Richie to answer his father.

"It's not that cold, sir," Richie shifts uncomfortably.

"Camping! In November!" Mrs. Uris proclaims from the passenger seat. Richie is sitting behind her so he can't get a good look at her face, but her big, teased hair comes out around the seat like masses stapled to her head. "I say, you boys are rowdy. How did Sonia ever agree to this?"

"Ah, that Sonia," Mr. Uris taps the wheel. "Poor Eddie. Kid will never have a normal childhood."

The sympathy in the man's voice in regards to Eddie makes Richie frown and return his gaze out of the window. They're driving away from town, the buildings becoming sparse and very far apart, wooded areas filling up the environment around them. Maybe it is cold, but Richie doesn't care. He'll be with his friends. That's all that matters.

"Ah, there they are, gentleman," Mr. Uris declares. Stan and Richie sit upwards, leaning towards each other to see out the windshield. With their sides pressed together, Stan blushes and presses just a little bit closer. "Hmm, that's Marsh's girl, isn't it?"

"Yes sir," Stan replies nervously. Richie looks over and notices that guilt is written on Stan's face, so it doesn't take much to piece together that Stan had failed to mention they would be camping with a girl.

"Hmm," the mother makes a displeased noise. "Hm."

"Bev is a nice girl," Richie speaks up in defense of his best friend.

"I'm sure she is, son," Mr. Uris turns around to look at them. He's parked a bit away from the group of children waiting patiently beside the camp trail entrance. Richie watches the way they all burst into laughter, pointing at Bill, who holds his arm up. They're too far away to see what they're all laughing at, but Richie burns with jealousy. "Listen here, Stan. You be safe tonight, okay, son? You stay close to that fire and stay warm. I don't want to receive a call from the sheriff and hear my boy and his friends froze to death in their tents."

"We won't, sir," Stan's voice is quiet. Richie watches him with careful eyes, analyzing the straight posture and how Stan seems rigid with fear. There's no sass or sarcasm to his tone, none of the usual bite that resides in his words when he makes a quick comeback to Richie's poor jokes. "We'll stay safe. All of us. I packed my survival guide just in case."

"And your flashlight?" His mother chimes in.

"Extra batteries."

"Good. You stay close to Eddie too, alright? Take care of that kid. He's the only one who can fix your wound if you impale yourself."

"I won't impale myself, dad," Stan shakes his head.

"Alright, then," Mr. Uris leans forward. He rubs the steering wheel, and says "Then go have fun, boys."

Stan clambers out of the door so quickly that it spooks Richie. He moves to unbuckle his seatbelt, moving twice as fast now that Stan's speed inspires him. He helps Stan take everything from the trunk, offering to carry Stan's sleeping bag when he sees how the boy's arms fill up quickly.

"Stanley!" Mike's voice can be heard. When Richie shuts the trunk, he turns to see Mike jogging to meet them in the parking lot. The Urises drive off quickly, leaving the two boys in a cloud of dirt and red tail lights. "And Richie!"

Richie looks up, meeting eyes with Mike and smiling. The cold makes him shiver, but Mike's smile fills the world with warmth. "Hey, Mike."

"Come on, we're all waiting for Eddie," Mike takes a sleeping bag from Richie's arms and relieves Stan of his backpack. Richie goes to object, but he starts off without waiting a second.

Stan and Richie exchange a glance, then break into grins and find themselves following the naturally kind boy.

They're welcomed to the group with big hugs and warm greetings. Ben hugs onto Richie and doesn't let go, so Richie laughs and holds the kid back twice as hard. Beverly watches this with fond eyes, mouthing the words 'thank you' to Richie.

"Just waiting on Eds?" Richie asks, pushing his glasses up. He looks at Bill, who's nose has turned cherry red from the cold. The sun is dipping behind the tree line, glimmering like amber crystals on all of the decaying leaves.

"Yeah, he had to walk," Ben says.

"What? How come?" Richie responds quickly, his body bristling. Eddie is out there walking? Freezing to death, probably? He's tiny, he can't survive the winter.

"You t-t-think his muh-mother would d-d-drive him to the wuh-woods?" Bill asks, shaking his head. "He h-had t-t-to lie juh-just to get out of th-thhh-the house."

"Jeez," Stan whispers, "Wish I knew. I would have given him a ride."

"He'll be here soon," Beverly looks at her watch. "When I called this morning, he had left early so that he would arrive by the time we got dropped off."

"Well, where is the matey?" Richie does a pirate voice, squinting one eye shut and holding up an imaginary spyglass. "Ayyyee aren't seein' the fella."

"'Cause I'm right here, dipshit," Eddie's voice cuts through the air like a torch melting every single touch of cold air.

Richie spins around, his voice getting caught in his throat, eyes widening as they land on the short boy approaching the group from the side of the parking lot that Richie was ignoring. Bill jumps in surprise, then pulls Eddie in for a hug and ruffles the kid's hair. Eddie looks tired and out of breath, and all of his belongings are strapped to his backpack as if he is a traveler with no home. Around Christmas time, the homeless people sleep down on Main Street. When it gets too cold to sleep on concrete, they carry everything they own on their back and make their way for the hills. Eddie bears a resemblance to them in this moment.

"Perfect entrance," Beverly applauds Eddie, saying "You really timed it up just right."

"Still the last one here," he furrows his brows, shaking his head. "Come on, we're losing daylight. If we don't get to the campsite before dusk, we'll lose the trail."

With Eddie's leader-esque attitude, everyone silently picks up their bags and starts onto the dirt trail cleared out by Derry's WildLife Camp.

Richie lingers for a moment, his eyes transfixed on Stanley, and he thinks about what Stan had confessed last night. Richie said he could be, and now, in this moment, he's thinking he very possibly may be.

"Richie," Eddie says quietly.

Richie snaps out of it, looking down at the boy waiting for him. Eddie's impatient eyes soften up when they connect their gaze, and a slow blush blooms up under his already reddened cheeks.

"Your... your hair," Eddie murmurs.

Richie instantly brings a hand up and starts to bring his messy curls down again, embarrassed that they were still left like that after leaving the Uris' car.

"Yeah, god, ignore that," Richie laughs. "I probably look stupid. I was trying to make Stan's parents think-"

"No, no," Eddie reaches up and grabs Richie's wrist tightly, pulling the boy's hand away from his hair. "It looks... good. You look good."

Eddie stands on his tiptoes and begins the smooth the hair back once more, his hands cold to the touch but still sparking mini forest fires inside Richie's nervous system.

And Richie thinks, okay, maybe it's a little more than just "could be."

Chapter Text

When Bill and Ben finally figure out how to get the fire started, Bev claps and cheers her boys on. Off to the side, Stan and Mike struggle to set up the second tent, and Richie wonders if he should go help them.

Eddie looks up from his book when he feels the blast of warmth hit his face, embers flying up into the air and dancing with the incoming stars. Richie watches Eddie carefully, the nimble fingertips that turn the page, and the tiny outline of his body beneath a blanket. Stan can be heard cursing from a few feet away, and Richie really thinks he should go help, but... he is admiring.

"Richie?" Bill calls, interrupting the admiring session. Richie looks up like a deer caught in headlights, but it doesn't seem as if anybody had noticed his fond expression. "Can you g-g-go collect some wuh-wuh-wood?"

"I'll give you some wood," Richie stands up, grabbing the front of his pants. He looks down to see if Eddie laughs, but instead, the short boy just rolls his eyes and continues reading.

Dejected, he nods quietly and says "Yeah. Can Stan come with? I don't want to get lost."

Stan nervously glances around, but then gives in and puts the tent rod down with an apology to Mike. Stan approaches Richie's side, his eyes cast to the ground, and then the two boy's wave farewell and depart from the campsite.

"Thought I would save you from tent hell," Richie elbows Stan's side, causing the boy to swat his arm away.

"Not my fault you and Eddie got yours set up in two minutes," Stan shakes his head, curls falling out of place and bouncing right back.

"What can I say? We're a dynamic duo," Richie grins at the mention of Eddie. It's involuntary, he can't help it.

"Right," Stan nods.

"You okay?" Richie then asks, watching as Stan bends down and picks up a particularly good piece of lumber.

Stan looks up at him briefly, then says "Yeah. I'm just... I have to share a tent with Bill."

"What's wrong with Bill?" Richie asks.

"Nothing, nothing, he's perfect," Stan shakes his head. Richie leans down and picks up a log, cradling it beneath his arm. "He's perfect. Have you ever met a perfect person? He is. He's..."

Stan sighs and sits down on the ground, dropping the wood from his arms. Richie watches him for a moment, and then without even thinking about it, he follows suit. The ground is cold beneath him, so he moves close to Stan and puts an arm around the kid to keep him warm.

"Bill's great, yeah," Richie nods. "Are you... Do you...?"

"I don't know!" Stan huffs, burying his face in his hands. With muffled words, Stan mumbles into his palms "It feels weird around him! I don't want him to be scared of me."

"Who says he would be scared?" Richie asks, then says "Stan, if you have a crush-"

"A crush? God, no, ew," Stan shakes his head. He grimaces in disgust, then looks over at Richie and exhales. His expression softens up, his eyes falling over Richie's features, and then he nods as if he's making up his mind about something. "Richie, I know that you and Ed-"

Richie waits for Stan to finish, looking into Stan's nervous eyes as if it will provoke the rest of the sentence to come right out. Instead of that happening, however, Stan pulls Richie forward by the front of his shirt and lets their lips collide.

Richie lets out a tiny yelp, placing a hand on Stan's chest and pushing away. His eyes are wide and startled, goosebumps rising on every surface of his skin. His lips feel like pop rocks, his tongue numbed to the core. What? What just happened? What is happening? What?

The confidence leaves Stan's voice quickly, immediately being overpowered by the evident fear he is feeling. "Richie, I-"

And then Richie seizes forward, capturing Stan's lips beneath his own and holding the boy in place by cupping the side of his neck. He can feel Stan's pulse going crazy in his palm, and his fingers wrap around Stan's tight curls.

The two kiss for what feels like hours, their lips moving back and forth with enough friction to create heat between them. Their cold noses bump into one another, and Richie feels chills run down his spine each time that Stanley reaches his hand under a new piece of clothing. Right now, the boy is gripping onto Richie's arm, his hand tucked into the jean jacket adorning Rich's body and his fingertips trying to find some form of warmth on the boy's bicep.

It feels new, and good, but weird. Maybe it's just because it's Richie's first proper time, but he shrugs it off and pushes deeper into the space that Stan allows him to take up.

His hands find comfortable places; one on Stan's chest, the other tangled in his messy hair. As Richie tightens his grip on a handful of curls, Stan will slide his fingers further up Richie's shirt, making the dark-haired boy gasp in surprise. Every once in awhile, Richie will stray away and kiss various parts of Stan including his cheek, or his jaw, or his nose, or his neck, or the spot beneath his lips, the little dimples, the place where his throat vibrates from a shy giggle, and his ear. He doesn't kiss these spots very long, his lips begin to miss and crave being on Stan's so he quickly finds himself being drawn back to the same spot. Over and over. Kiss after kiss.

Stan lets out a shaky gasp against Richie's mouth, his nose pressing into the soft apple of Richie's cheek. Winter seems to melt around them, the seasons regress, and the two boys begin to live in summer.

Still, that doesn't erase the underlying tone of feeling bad. Not bad because they're kissing another boy, not bad because they're kissing their friend, but bad because it's not the right one. At least, for Richie, it's not the right one. It becomes very apparent the longer that they sit in this frozen dirt and mingle lips, but Richie can't pull away. It feels too good, too warm. He has lacked human touch his whole life, he has never felt this close to someone else before, and he doesn't want to push it away. He needs it, he needs to feel loved, he needs to feel wanted, he needs to feel needed.

To their left, a twig snaps, and Stan immediately pulls away and holds a hand against Richie's neck to prevent the boy from diving back in. His wide eyes land on something, or someone, and he begins to breathe rapidly, his whole body filled with fear. Richie watches this, watches his eyes, and then slowly turns to see what, or who, it is that Stan has spotted.

Mike Hanlon.

"Oh, uh, sorry," Mike backs away, his hands up in surrender, an embarrassed yet guilty look spread across his face. He turns on his heel and makes a quick getaway, which only makes Stan hyperventilate even harder.

"Oh god, oh god, oh god, oh god," Stan goes off on a mantra, shaking his head and clenching the collar of Richie's shirt tightly. "Oh god he saw."

"Hey, hey, calm down, alright? It's Mike," Richie says quickly, reaching out to cup Stan's cheek but getting his hand slapped away in reply. Richie can't hide the rejection on his face, but he still shakes his head and says "It's Mike. He won't tell anybody."

"Yes he will! Oh my god, Richie, I'm so totally screwed, I am so screwed," he exhales, his grip on the boy's shirt tightening dangerously.

Richie bites his tongue from making a foul joke, and instead says "Listen, I'll go talk to him. I'll talk to him, okay? Calm down. Calm down, you're okay, we're okay, this is all okay."

Stan's scared eyes meet Richie's and it's obvious that he's desperate for any kind of safety. The ground has been ripped out from underneath Stan, and now he's freefalling straight into the abyss. Deeper, darker, and darker, and darker...

"I'll go talk to him," Richie says again. "It'll be okay! It'll be fine, Stan. You're Stan the Man! You're fine, it's fine, everything is fine."

Richie stands up, but then stops when he feels Stan's tight grip fasten around his wrist. He stops, looks down at Stan, and meets eyes with the most scared boy in the world. His fingers shake against Richie's pulse, digging into his veins and holding on tight.

"Richie," Stan wheezes. Richie stands there for a patient moment, but then Stan shakes his head and releases the boy from his grip.

Richie gathers a short amount of wood to make it look as if he was being productive, then jogs back to camp in search of the peeping Tom who walked in on the scandal unfolding between Richie and Stan.

Bill is sitting on a log beside Bev while Ben and Eddie arrange the various coolers. Richie bursts into the clearing and drops the wood in his arm, then asks "Anyone see Mike?"

"Went that way," Ben points towards the woods. "Looked a bit weird, though. Maybe give him a moment."

Richie shakes his head and follows the direction of where he's being guided, his main thought circulating around one thing; not to bribe Mike into silence, but to protect Stan. Richie doesn't care if people find out about who he kisses, but Stan does. He needs to make sure that Stan is okay, that his dignity is protected, and most of all, he needs to prove himself to be a trustworthy friend. This may be his only chance.

"Mike," Richie calls out, heading down into the woods and warily watching his surroundings. The last thing that Richie needs is to get lost, he feels as if it would be the worst thing to happen to a human. Not because he's scared of what's out there, but because he is afraid that nobody would come looking for him. Richie is terrified of going missing and not a single search party is sent out in his name. Shaking his head of these thoughts, he persists further. "Mike? Mike!"

"R-Richie," Mike's voice calls out, so the pale boy begins to wildly look around to spot the other male. When Mike finally steps out from behind a tree, it's clear that he saw exactly what Richie and Stan were doing. The guilty expression and avoiding eyes are clear enough signs.

"Hey, dude, what's up?" Richie tries to stay calm. For Stan's sake.

"Oh, nothin' much," Michael shrugs back, looking up at the treeline with sweat dripping down his back. "Just hanging around and stuff."

"Yeah," Richie nods, kicking a bit of dirt with his shoe. "Yeah. Totally. Chilly night, huh?"

"Huh? Oh, yeah, I suppose so," Mike nods uncomfortably. He looks so stiff that if Richie didn't know any better, he would assume that Mike had slept on his back wrong and pinched a nerve.

"Just trying to keep warm," Richie says slowly.

"...Yeah," Mike hesitates.

There's a silence between the two boys, one where Richie stares at Mike as if trying to analyze him, and Mike looks just about everywhere that isn't Richie Tozier's face. The air seems to drop about ten degrees between them, the cold stiffness creaking into their aching bones. It's clear that neither of them want to be standing here having this conversation, yet the atmosphere remains silent and their feet don't budge an inch.

"So are you going to tell anybody?" Richie finally asks. Then, as if the floodgates have been broken down, the boy spills. "I just hope that you know it doesn't mean anything. I'm not a queer, neither is Stan. It's just cold out, dude. It's cold out and neither of us have had our first kiss, we just wanted to see if it would warm us up like everyone says. Survival instincts, you know. We were practically starving out there in these woods, eating roasted squirrels to survive. Our only source of hydration is by swappin' spit, Mikey boy, so are you really 'bout to blame two boys merely tryin' to survive? No idea why's you would go 'n' do such a thing, fella. We'se mearly tryna' survive these darn cold harsh woods, ya see."

He slips into the bad southern accent easily in an attempt to calm his nerves. It doesn't help, however, so Richie figures that he oughta up the ante. He finds refuge in the absurdity. Whenever the real world gets too tough, it's easy to put on a Voice and become someone else. Everything is easier to swallow if you coat it in about nine layers of irony.

"Step right up, hot off the press, you heard it here first, folks! Two fellas kissing mouth to mouth in the middle of the woods. Yessiree that's correct, this isn't the Twilight Zone, nor are your hearing aids deceiving you! Step right up and hear all about the tale of two men found canoodling scandalously!" he tries his best to sound like he's a paper boy from New York. Without waiting for a response, Richie begins pedaling another Voice. He's desperate for anything, anything at all, just so that he doesn't feel the silence in the air. Silence is deadly, and Richie of all people should know that one day, silence will kill him. "Oi oi! Nip on down to the shop for some fish 'n' chips, innit?! Down on the corner a tabloid was sayin' there were two blokes snogging-"

"Richie," Mike finally cuts him off out of exasperation.

Richie's throat goes dry as it becomes hard to breathe. He can't bring himself to look at Mike, so he stares at a loose thread on the boy's shoulder instead. This is it. Here comes the rejection. He finally found a family to call his own and he's gone and fucked it up by kissing Stan Uris.

"I won't tell anybody," Mike says.

Richie looks up in surprise, his eyes widening behind his magnified glasses. Richie reaches up and drills a finger into his ears, dramatically cleaning them out to see if he's hearing Mike correctly. The boy in front of him looks certain and sure, not joking, not pulling a prank on Richie, but honest and positive.

"You won't?" Richie asks, a glimmer of hope sparkling in his words like a glass shard lost in piles of sand.

"Are you two...? Uh..." Mike asks, frowning just the slightest. "I guess I'm just confused?"

"Dating? No, god no, Stan wishes he could go steady with a groovy catch like me, baby," Richie jokes in his usual Richie way. He realizes the severity of the situation and shakes his head, dropping the antics. "No, we're not dating. I was just confused, I think I might like boys. Stan was only helping me out. He's a really good friend."

Mike looks as if he doesn't want to believe that statement, but Richie doesn't blame him. What Mike saw was not an act of trial periods, it was Stanley Uris arching his back so his chest was flush against Richie's, and it was Stanley Uris holding on with tight fists and opening his jaw up to take that extra step forward, and it was Stanley Uris shakily exhaling in pure bliss, as if this exact moment is where he was destined to be all his life. It's clear that Stan was not "just helping Richie out," the body language gives it away. Stan Uris was as deep into that kiss as Richie Tozier was and both boys know it.

Still, even then, Mike nods and says "Oh. Okay. That's really nice of him."

"Yeah," Richie nods, then rubs his forehead. "He isn't gay. He's not. But I think I am, so if you're going to tell anybody, just make sure it's my name coming out of your mouth and not Stan's."

"I won't talk about it," Mike shakes his head. "It's none of my business. It was... it was private, I didn't mean to intrude. I won't tell something I wasn't meant to see."

Richie lets out a sigh of relief and steps forward to hug Mike. At last second, he realizes that perhaps he isn't quite to the level of friendship where Mike would hug back, so he takes a step back and lets his arms hang at his side. Without a moment for hesitation, Mike reclaims the space Richie made between them, and he initiates the hug so Richie doesn't have to second guess anything.

"You're brave," Mike whispers, his voice shaking in the cold. "You're brave, Richie. Please don't let anybody take that away from you, okay?"

"I won't, Mikey," Richie laughs, his words muddled by Mike's strong hold. "You sure you don't wanna share a tent with us and get a little frisky tonight?"

Mike suddenly pulls away and laughs at the absurdity of Richie's joke. He shakes his head, then says "And go all night with Eddie's nightmares? You must've lost your damn mind. God have mercy on your soul."

"It's a little too late for that," Richie remarks, and the two start making their way back to the camp.

It's comfortable, it doesn't feel unsafe, and it doesn't feel cold either. Mike has a kind of... radiance about him. He can melt polar ice caps with just one smile. Richie looks over, watches the way that Mike steps over a branch and holds his arm out so that Richie does not trip, and he feels nothing but safety in the presence of this one. He doesn't know much about Mike other than he's got a farm and he likes history, but Mike knows that Richie may or may not be gay, and he thinks that it is brave. Richie thinks that's all he needs to hear in order to trust someone.

Upon returning to their little camp, Bev and Eddie call Mike over so he can show them how to weave tall grass together to make bracelets. Richie watches this for a moment, fondly, filled with adoration, when there is a slight presence that makes itself known beside him.

"What did he say?" Stan asks. Richie notices the grinding teeth and tight jaw, the wound posture and clenched fists. It's obvious he's got a secret to keep, he will certainly give himself away if he doesn't get his shit together.

"Not much," Richie shrugs. His shoulder bumps against Stan's as he does so, the fabric of their coats rubbing together noisily. "I told him I might be gay, you were just being a good sport and helping me figure it out. He doesn't suspect you."

"You... You told him that... Just to protect me?" Stan turns to look at Richie, but then he remembers the way it felt to kiss another boy, to kiss Richie. He burns brighter than the fire and looks away.

"Yeah, why wouldn't I?" Richie shrugs again. His eyes fall onto Eddie, who is tangling dead flowers into Bill's sleek hair.

"You're... not so bad, trashmouth," Stan murmurs in a quiet voice, but one that doesn't sound ashamed.

Richie feels warmth on his knuckles, and when he looks down he sees that the tips of Stan's fingers are ghosting against his hand. He smiles, bumps their hands together, and then joins the rest of the kids by the fire. He's terribly cold, he fears the temperature drop he will have to endure throughout the night. Then, he looks over at Eddie, who is smiling and pressing some of those flowers between the pages of a journal, and he thinks he will survive the cold. As long as that kid is around, he will survive anything.

Bill tells ghost stories around the campfire, his stutter shedding from his words as if he's finally broken free of a bad cold that just wouldn't go away. He tells the stories with vivid details, using voices for monsters that make Richie jealous. Bill often will throw his hands at Beverly and suddenly scream, making the girl roll her eyes. If he's trying to scare her, he needs to try harder. Ben, however, cowers beneath the blanket that him and Beverly are sharing.

Richie watches this with a bit of curiosity. Bev and Ben are sharing a blanket, sure, but they're a couple. Everyone else has their own blankets... except for him. He looks down, sees the way that Eddie tightly holds a big comforter around him, listening to Bill with attentive ears. Casually, as to not seem too obvious, Richie moves over on the log that they're sharing just to be a little closer.

Throughout the night, he moves inch by inch, budge by budge, brick by brick. By the time that Stanley is passing around s'mores, Richie is pressed against Eddie's side.

"Jeez, Rich, aren't you cold?" Mike asks.

Richie looks up at the boy, the glow from the fire flickering in his chestnut eyes. Mike's face has a bit of twinkle in it, a knowing little smile that says he's playing wingman. Richie blushes, bites his lip, and glances at Eddie out of the corner of his eyes. Michael Hanlon, you know too much.

"A little," Richie shrugs. "It's cool. Your mom always offers a warm bed."

Eddie joins the two's conversation and says "You're cold? Here, here you go, come on."

Eddie opens up his arms, offering the blanket he has wrapped around him. If he's honest, he noticed Richie moving closer about four ghost stories ago, he was just too shy to say anything.

Richie moves closer, filling up the space in Eddie's side, reveling in the warmth that the boy spreads. Not just on the outside, no, but the fires spark within as well. He holds the blanket tightly around his shoulders, makes sure Eddie is still wrapped up, and then graciously lets out a sigh of relief. He avoids Stan's eyes, not because he's ashamed, but because he is terrified of seeing Stan look disappointed. You know, maybe he should be snuggling up with the boy he just made out with, but his body naturally gravitates towards Eddie like the waves cling to the shores.

The night continues, the group of kids laughing and coming up with their own games. About halfway through Mike and Ben arm wrestling, Richie takes notice of how Eddie is writing in the same leatherskin journal. Probably homework, but he doesn't ask. Eddie seems focused. He'd hate to disrupt that.

"I don't think I've ever heard Richie this quiet, you guys," Bev announces. All eyes shift over to Richie, and the boy shrinks beneath the scrutiny. "What's got your tongue?"

"Yeah," Mike smiles. He looks directly at Stanley and asks "What's got your tongue, Rich?"

Richie's face burns, and not just from the heat of the fire. He shrugs, shakes his head, and then says "I'm just enjoying the moment, you know. I want to remember you guys just like this; happy."

After such a response, it's only natural for everyone to fall silent. They all look around at one another, their faces covered in orange prisms, shadows flickering over their features. He's right, they're all so happy. They should remember this. They never once pause to appreciate the blessings that they have, but Richie is teaching them to stop and smell the roses. One day, they might not be friends. They fear the day that comes.

Stan is the first to retire, he gives up on trying to keep his eyes open and announces he's going to sleep. Upon making this declaration, Mike calls it quits and follows Stan in the direction of their tent. Bill nods and tells them he'll be in soon, but makes no effort to move.

After awhile, Bev leans down and gently kisses the side of Ben's cheek to wake the boy up. Once he is alert and blushing colors that glow even in the presence of fire, the two take off towards their own tent. Richie and Eddie remain wrapped in the blanket, and so Bill moves around the fire to sit on the log that Beverly was previously on.

"Th-Th-Thanks for cuh-cuh-coming," Bill spits out.

Eddie looks up for the first time in what feels like hours, closing his journal and holding it tightly against his chest. Richie moves his gaze towards Bill, offering a jagged smile.

"I could make a joke," he says, looking towards the stars and deciding that Big Bill belongs up there with the rest of them. "But I won't. Thank you."

"At l-least you won't have t-t-to sleep alone this time, right Eddie?" Bill asks. Richie makes a mental note that the boy stutters less while talking to Eddie, but fumbles over simple words while addressing Richie. Perhaps it's a comfort thing, but maybe it has something to do with trust.

"Yeah, sure," Eddie shrugs. "Not sure that trashmouth here is really the solution that I wanted, though."

Despite his cold words, he looks up at Richie and the boy instantly knows that Eddie does not mean it. He has an easy way of reassuring Richie with just merely his eyes, though it feels like magic.

"Aw, shucks, he can't be that bad," Bill laughs. Not a single stutter. "I've slept at the kid's house. It's not like he s-sss-snores!"

"That's not my problem," Eddie shakes his head. He points at Richie's nonstop fidgeting hands and says "That is."

"You afraid I'll cop a feel while you sleep, Eds?" Richie hums, squeezing the air in front of Eddie's face to mimic a pair of breasts. Eddie scoffs and shakes his head in disgust, so Richie claims "In your dreams, kiddo. There's nothing on you to squeeze! Just bones, you're practically a skeleton. Jeez, Eds, haven't you ever drank a glass of milk before? Get some calcium in your system!"

Eddie rolls his eyes and says "On that note, goodnight, Bill."

Eddie stands up and unravels himself from the cocoon of blanket that the two boys have wrapped themselves in. Richie watches him cross the campsite and unzip their designated tent, and only once the tent flap has been officially closed does he allow himself to look back towards Bill.

"H-H-He's a guh-goo-good kid," Bill nods quietly.

The fire crackles between them, wood chips breaking down and combusting with heat. Besides that, crickets sing midnight melodies and owls harmonize from the strings in the trees. Nature has its own symphony, and Richie thinks it's a beautiful one.

"Yeah, pretty rad," Richie nods. He holds the blanket in his hands and finds solace in the disinfectant smell it has lingering in the threads. "You all are."

"Us? N-N-No wuh-way, T-Tozier," Bill laughs. The two try to be quiet, but for different reasons. Bill doesn't want to disturb his friends' sleep, but Richie doesn't want to miss out on the soundtrack that the woods around them are writing. "We're all a b-buh-bunch of luh-losers."

"And you think I'm not?" Richie scoffs. "I've got no friends, Denbrough. You ever consider why? 'Cause I'm a loser too, baby."

"Yuh-yuh-you're no loser, R-Richie," Bill adamantly shakes his head. "N-N-No. Yuh-You're the coolest k-kid th-thhh-that I know. W-We all th-think so."

Richie's heart bursts into flickers and explosions that singe the insides of his body with white-hot love. He doesn't quite know that what he's feeling is love, the boy has never experienced it before this moment. A supernova collapses in his chest, and he feels like the fire is merely a tiny ember compared to what is raging on inside of him.

"You really think so?" Richie asks. He hears the insecurity in his voice, and this time, he does not kick or punch himself for it.

"W-We really luh-like it when you hhh-hh-hang out with us," Bill smiles. "St-St-Stan's happier. Eh-Eh-Eddie t-too."

"You really think so?" Richie asks again.

"T-T-Take a walk w-with mmm-me," Bill stands to his feet, extending a hand to where Richie is sitting.

Richie's eyes catch onto the electronic watch strapped to Bill's wrist, the numbers glowing 1:03 AM.

"Okay, yeah," Richie smiles and takes the boy's hand. This is what he's wanted his whole life, just this. Maybe he didn't recognize it quite at first, and maybe he lied to himself to ignore the pain of being alone. But this is what he's always wanted; people who want to be with him as much as he wants to be with them.

Bill navigates them through the paths carefully, holding his arm out whenever Richie clumsily approaches a log as if he doesn't see it as clearly as Bill does. It's clear that the stutterer knows his way around this campsite fairly well, he pulls Richie aside to avoid stepping in the infamous trap hole that so many would fall into while running the path at night, and he knows which roads to take when the dirt forks off into two different directions.

The thick trees open up into a sandy clearing, Richie's eyes landing on a rippling bank of crystallized water. It moves and dances in the moonlight, whispering and giggling to the air around it. Richie admires the lake, the way that it sings provocatively.

"W-We used t-t-to come up h-here a llll-lot," Bill says into the open air, his voice shaking more fiercely than the waves. Richie stops staring at the moon-dusted water to glance over at the leader of their pack. "B-B-Before."

"Before?" Richie asks. He sticks his hands in his pockets and treads carefully, his shoes slipping in the sandy deposits. He and Bill start walking the perimeter of the lake, the two silhouettes painting themselves into the picture-perfect scene. "So this is, like, a regular thing for you guys, huh? I'm honored to be here."

Bill shakes his head, his jaw clenched tightly. Even in the dark of the night, Richie can see the sharp curve of his face where anger sets in.

"N-No. Not t-th-the losers," Bill says grimly. "B-Before."

Richie opens his mouth to ask again, but something in his brain clicks like the twigs snapping beneath their shoes.

Before.

Before his brother died.

God, how could I be so stupid?

"Before," Richie says again, this time, more persistent as if he understands the word's weight. "Did he like it up here?"

Bill smiles, his jaw easing up as his shoulders drop down. The tension flows out of his shoulders and runs off into the body of water beside them, and Richie swears he can see the sparkles it adds to the surface of the lake.

"He loved it," Bill's voice does not shake. Not a bit. "He would catch crabs in the water and try to sneak them into mom and dad's tent, b-but I always stopped him. He liked the s'mores, but dad wouldn't ever let him have more than two. I would s-s-sneak him mine when dad wasn't looking, I was never a fan of muh-marshmallows to begin with."

Holy fuck. Stuttering Bill can talk? Sure, there's still a few words that get caught in his teeth, but this is the smoothest Richie has ever heard the boy breathe. It must be the memory of his brother helping him and holding his hand. Was Bill a stutterer before his brother died?

"We would wake up early before the sun was over the trees, when it was... kind of that light blue of dusk, you know, where things feel cold and warm all at the same time. We would come down to this lake and swim. Or we would explore. He liked to play puh-puh-pirates a lot, or sometimes Planewreck. We would pretend like we crashed on a deserted island and try to survive off of berries and lakewater. He had... t-the most amazing imagination, Richie."

Most kids do.

"Do you miss him?" Richie asks, though he feels as if the answer is obvious. Of course he misses his brother. Any normal human being would. But, Richie grew up as an only child, so he doesn't quite grasp that brotherly bond the way that Bill does.

"Every single day," Bill sighs. He looks at Richie, and the moon glints on his watery eyes at such an angle that makes them look like they've been angel blessed. Richie knows better. He knows they're sad tears. "Eh-Eh-Ehvery single f-fucking d-d-day."

Bill hears his stutter make a hasty return and only shakes his head, keeping his eyes cast downwards.

"Thank you for telling me," Richie says softly, his elbow coming up to prod into Bill's side. "You're brave, Bill. You're really brave."

"I d-d-don't think s-so," Bill shakes his head. He looks up at the water with a wistful kind of smile, and he says "He'd wuh-want me t-t-to be br-brave. I t-t-try... but... n-not enough."

"You're brave, Bill Denbrough," Richie repeats again with more certainty in his words. The world is cast under a silver spell, white hues dancing along the high peaks of the mountain ranges living under Bill's cheeks.

"Th-They all are," Bill gestures back towards camp, the boy's almost entirely around the lake and completing their loop. The sand from the shore sneaks into Richie's slip-on shoes, and with each grain that persistently digs its way into his skin, he wishes he brought a more sensible footwear choice. "B-B-Bravest people in D-Derry."

"Yeah," Richie laughs without hesitation. The two start steering back towards the path, gentle smiles lazing across their faces. "They really are, aren't they?"

"You t-too," Bill says.

Richie shakes his head. "Me? Nah. Don't be ridiculous, Dennybrough."

"Yuh-yuh-you're a hero, R-RRR-Rich," Bill insists.

Richie shakes his head once more and says "Hero? Now I know you're just tugging my leg. I see how it is, Big Bill! Think you can get a couple o' chucks outta the master? You've got quite the set of balls on ya for tryin' to trash the trashmouth. Nice one, though. Very funny. 'You're a hero, Rich.' Yeah, right! Chuckalicious."

Bill opens his mouth to counter Richie's denials, but the words die down in his throat as a scream pierces through the air.

Richie's heart comes to a complete stop, the hair on his body coming to an erect standing ovation. His arms break into goosebumps, and for a few moments, he doesn't inhale a molecule of oxygen. The scream cuts through the air, not swiftly, but in jagged motions. A raw, ragged scream of someone in excruciating pain. There's only one person capable of screaming so loud, and to hear his vocal chords stretch to such lengths is what really sends a haunting chill to Richie's very bone.

Eddie.

Richie's long legs are crashing through underbrush before his brain can even process what he's doing. Tree branches and twigs lash out at his cheeks, cutting, snagging, biting at his skin and his clothes, but this does not slow him down. Richie runs faster than he has ever ran before, his thighs building up fire to burn the muscles away after years of inactivity. He doesn't care. The scream continues, more agonizingly now, and all Richie is capable of thinking in that moment is Get to Eddie Get to Eddie Get to Eddie Get to Eddie.

"This way!" A voice overlaps Eddie's persistent screams, and Richie skids to a complete halt when he sees Bill running right alongside him. Bill stops as well, grabbing Richie by the shoulder and pulling the boy along the quicker path back to camp.

The two break through a wall of bush, scraped and beaten up by the forces of nature, panting and trying to catch their breath. In the clearing, Mike stands outside of Eddie's tent, while Stan and Bev hold onto each other by the fire. They all look terrified, their desperate eyes latching onto Bill like he will fix everything. He always does. He's Bill.

Before Bill can even come up with a plan, Richie is stepping forward and rushing to the tent spilling such dismal melodies. He drops to his knees, unzips the flap, and scrambles to find the bookbag he had set inside after the two finished setting their tent up earlier this evening.

Eddie's screams become more anguished, the boy's body writhing around in unbearable pain. Richie can feel the four pairs of eyes peering inside the tent, putting a pressure on his shoulders that only makes him move more frantically. He scrambles through the bag, pulling out spare clothes and water bottles to find the one object he can't leave home without. He is moving as fast as he can, but it doesn't seem fast enough.

"Eddie," Mike calls into the tent, his face exhausted and tired. He's clenching his pajama bottoms with tight, nervous hands, an action that seems very out of character for Mike's usual head-strong persona.

"He can't hear you," Richie pulls the tape out of his walkman, throwing the rock 'n' roll mix to the side and going back to digging through the assortment of tapes he brought with. All of them seem to upbeat, too hardcore. None of them are suited for the disaster unfolding right in front of him.

Finally, relief washes over him as he punches a cassette into the tape deck, his shaking hands shoving the headphones over Eddie's throbbing head. He hits play with so much force that the button gets jammed into place, but that's the least of his worries right now. He holds the headphones over Eddie's ears, and when the screaming doesn't immediately stop, he moves closer in order to pull the boy in his lap.

Richie holds onto Eddie tightly, his grip squeezing harder and harder as each scream begins to die down into a shaking sob. Eddie's hands clasp onto the front of Richie's shirt, the tiny boy tucked up as small as he can be, trying to shrink away from the world and everything in it. He buries his face deep in Richie's chest and tries to surround himself in the smell of the boy; he wants nothing more than to just let Richie take up the world around him and forget about everything else.

"I-I-I'm so s-sorry," Eddie sobs as he comes to consciousness, hiccuping during words from the pure velocity behind each syllable. "The s-spider came and-"

"Shh, shhh," Richie strokes the back of Eddie's feathered hair, rocking the two back and forth in steady motions. He holds on tightly, his chin tucked over the top of Eddie's head, his whole body shaking with relief. "No words. You're okay now, I've got you."

Eddie doesn't reply, but Richie wishes he would. Instead, Eddie just nuzzles further into Richie's chest, accepting the comfort after such a haunting dream.

Richie glances over at the entrance of the tent, seeing Bill and Mike still hanging there and watching with concerned eyes. Richie waves them off, motioning that he's got it from here, his steady movements flowing back and forth to lull the scared boy back into his slumber. The music is soft and steady, and Eddie's sleepy brain mumbles the thought of Richie picking this tape just for him.

"I've got it from here," Richie whispers once he notices Bill Denbrough not moving from his station. Mike and Beverly went back to their tent, making a short joke about Ben's ability to sleep through anything. Stan isn't by the fire anymore, so Richie assumes he took off at some point during the screaming. He doesn't blame the kid, it was bloodcurdling to hear such a ghastly sound.

"T-This," Bill says in his soft, quiet voice.

Eddie moves closer to Richie, his eyes closed as he begins to get lost in the symphonies serenading him through Richie's headphones. He doesn't feel any of the fear eating away at him anymore, it's as if Richie flushed it all out of him, and now he's slipping off into a dozy sleepland where he doesn't feel the fear of the world around him.

Richie continues stroking the back of his head, not faltering for one moment. He holds onto Eddie like his life may damn well rely on it, and sometimes, Richie feels like it might. The two fit together well, like two puzzle pieces locking together in their unique patterned way. Nobody will ever fit in Richie's arms the way Eddie Kaspbrak does.

Just in that moment, as if everything in the universe has aligned so perfectly for Bill to prove his point, Eddie stops crying all together. No whines, no soft-spoken sobs, just the hum of his lungs syncing up with the music being fed through his ears. He stops crying, no longer sobbing, but he doesn't move to get out of Richie's arms.

"This," Bill whispers again, this time more clearly. No hesitation. No stutter. No shaking. Cold, hard truth. "This is why you're a hero, Rich."

Chapter Text

Shafts of sunlight come in through the hazy windowpanes, casting beams of gold across Beverly's freckled eyes. She swiftly shuffles through racks upon racks of clothes, her attention completely undivided by the world around her.

"You almost done yet, Bee?" Richie groans, leaning across a rack of clothes in exhaustion. He holds two bags on each wrist, the objects weighing his arms down heavily.

Beverly doesn't make Richie go shopping with her very often, but every once in awhile the Tozier household will get a call where the princess formally requests an escort to the ball. Richie would never dream of declining this offer, but he still hates every agonizing second of it.

For starters; he hates shopping to begin with. Beverly drags him along to thrift stores when she decides she needs new overalls, or her favorite dress sports a new stain. It's all she can afford, but Richie hates following her around the aisles and having to carry the stacks of clothes she piles into his arms. Even worse, he hates sitting outside the dressing room and telling her if an outfit looks good or not. He'd never tell her of this hatred, of course, but if she were to ask if he liked their shopping dates, he wouldn't be able to lie.

Second reason that he hates shopping; he doesn't like it when she starts picking on his own sense of clothing, telling him he needs a new pair of pants or his favorite shirt has got one too many holes in the material. Richie explains "It's rock and roll, babe." but she never understands. This leads to her making him try on new clothes, and he hates looking at his body. He knows he's tall, he knows he's lanky. He knows that he's pale and sickly, but you try putting meat on your bones when you can't afford to feed yourself because your parents can't be bothered to do so. Richie will avoid a naked mirror any chance he gets.

"I haven't even gotten to the blouses yet, Richie!" She exclaims.

"I'm bored, Beverly," he huffs in annoyance. It's true, he is bored, but he's mainly just bored of the fact that she's not talking. When she's in the zone, she's in the zone.

Bev pauses, looks up at Richie's pleading eyes, and says "Okay. Let's take a break. Wanna smoke?"

"God yes," he exhales. "I've been itching for a square all morning."

Beverly leads Richie up to the counter, where she drops off the pile of clothes and explains she's just going to step out for a moment. The cashier smiles at her and says to take her time, but most adults are sweet on Bev. She just has that personality.

As the two are walking out the door, Beverly says "What would you do without me, Richie?"

"Crash and burn," the boy does not hesitate to reply. They step into the closest alley, leaning up against the brick wall as Beverly hands him a cigarette. Not Winstons, but it'll do.

"So," Beverly says matter-of-factly. He can hear the atomic cherry bomb in her voice, and he knows that she's about to drop it down on him without warning. "How's Eddie?"

Boom. Cherry bomb.

"Dunno," Richie shrugs. "Am I supposed to be keeping track of the little shit?"

Beverly elbows his side and says "Beep beep. Talk nice about him, okay? I was just... curious as to how you guys were doing."

"Haven't seen him since..." Richie trails off, his mind resurfacing memories of falling asleep in a tent with Eddie's waist tucked up in his arms. Camping was warm and lovely, but what occurred in that tent has left Richie more than confused.

"Since we went camping?" Bev asks as if she can read his mind. "It was nice what you did for him. Really nice. I was shocked you had it in ya."

"I can be nice," Richie defends himself as he strikes a match against the wet brick. "You just don't do shit that is worth being nice about."

"Yeah, sure. You spend a lot of time comforting Ed? Seemed a bit rehearsed if you ask me," she pushes her cigarette into the flame at the same time as Richie, the flame dividing to the two cigarettes. "You did good, though. I've never seen him come down that quickly."

"Has he been having the nightmares for awhile?" Richie avoids her question. Whether or not he spends time comforting Eddie isn't her business, especially when he's not even sure what comforting means.

"Oh, yeah," she takes steady drags, nothing like Richie's chainsmoking habits. "For as long as I've known the kid. He's always been like that, he usually just falls back asleep after awhile."

"Nobody's tried to do anything about it?" Richie asks.

"What are we supposed to do?" she scoffs. "Enter his dreams and fight off the scary monsters?"

"Has he told you what they're about?"

"Has he told you?" she looks at him pointedly.

Richie looks away, the wind blowing dead leaves through the hollow alley. He hates talking about Eddie, only because he doesn't know what to say. He doesn't know what to think. Eddie is... he's uncharted territory.

"Do you like girls, Richie?" Beverly then asks.

"What? Of course, don't be stupid," he shakes his head, his heart thumping uncontrollably. God, why is he so scared?

"You've never had a girlfriend," she states.

"Okay? And? I'm fifteen for fuck's sake, just because I'm not married with seven kids and a dog doesn't mean I'm a queer," he says defensively, kicking his shoe into the loose gravel.

Beverly watches him with wary eyes, her face showing the skeptical expression. "So you do like girls?"

"Of course," he says again, glaring at her with hostility in his gaze. His heart wants to climb out of his throat. "I like girls. Love 'em."

She looks at Richie one last time, her eyes pleading her best friend to just be honest. They both know he's not telling the truth, or, maybe he is, but he's certainly omitting details. She just wants him to stop keeping secrets from her, she feels the gap between them growing to the size of a five foot two kid with freckles everywhere that the sun shines. Even now, as the two lean against the wall and smoke their cigarettes, there's distance. It's not the same. Richie doesn't meet up with Beverly outside of gas stations anymore, she's learned that he's too busy crawling through windows of the Kaspbrak residence.

Beverly stubs her cigarette out and finally accepts the fact that maybe Richie might not be her best friend anymore. Or, more accurately, he is her best friend, but she's not his.

"I'm letting you off the hook, Toto," Beverly laughs to cover up the fact that her eyes are brimming with tears. She looks away, starts to move backwards, and slowly creeps away from Richie. The distance between them grows and grows, and she keeps taking those steps back. "You get a get-out-of-jail-free card just for today. I can finish shopping on my own."

"Really?" he asks, eyes wide. Then, he realizes how out of character it is for her, and he says "Are you sure? I can stay if you want."

Beverly nods, a wistful smile on her face as she recognizes the pieces of Richie that used to be hers for so long. "Go, Richie. You're bored out of your mind. Go say hi to Eddie for me."

Richie frowns, looks away, and feels his body tense up. Is she accusing him of something? What's she trying to say?

"Sure. Whatever. Have fun shopping, princess," he says bitterly. Richie bites down on his cigarette, feeling the bursts of tobacco and nicotine wave across his tastebuds.

Beverly turns on her heel and starts walking back towards the store, and Richie feels nothing but anger in him. Why doesn't she trust him? Why is she so insistently jealous of Eddie? Is he not allowed to have friends without automatically becoming a queer? He hates that. He hates that this is all she can see. He doesn't know if he can be friends with someone who judges him for something he's not.

Richie waits in the alley for a few moments before heading back to the bike rack in front, unlocking his stupid bike and mounting it. He has no destination, but he just rides. He rides. He rides until the concrete roads become gravel, and then he rides until the gravel becomes dirt. His bike is taking him down a familiar road, a road that leads to Mike Hanlon's farm. Mike always knows how to take Richie out of his head, always knows how to make the boy engage with the world around him.

It isn't until Richie is in the middle of the country that he stops and breaks hard. His bike stutters against the unpaved road, his body lurching forward with realization. He bounces back and thinks I can't go see Mike. That's her friend. They're all her friends. They'll all side with her, too.

But Richie keeps going further anyway, riding away from the city with the motivation to be with anybody except for himself. He hates being alone. He can't stand it. He left his walkman at home, he can't even escape if he wanted to.

Richie pulls into the familiar driveway and discards his bike next to the mailbox. He glances at his watch, sees it's 10:42, and starts walking around the back of the house. If the schedule of chores is still the same, the person he has come to see will be out back scrubbing the laundry his father has thrown onto him.

As expected, the boy is sitting against the washbin, his hands buried deep within the suds. Richie approaches him quietly, gentle on his feet, and picks up a shirt from the pile of clothes next to him. Richie sits down, dipping the shirt into the water, and quietly rubbing it against the side of the basin. Henry Bowers jumps out of his skin, splashing himself down the front of his chest from the mere surprise. He lets out a tiny yelp, one that sounds entirely too feminine, but Richie does not cast him a glance at all.

"T-Tozier? The fuck are you doing here?" Henry remarks, his voice shaking in fear. He's not afraid of Richie, no, he's terrified. "I haven't- I haven't touched Bill or his faggy friends, I-"

"Chillax," Richie mumbles. He doesn't feel good about being here, but he doesn't know where else he would go. He didn't realize that the Bowers residence was his default safe space, but here he is. He was hoping there would be more of a warm welcome, but the last thing he said to Henry was a threat to kill him. It's understandable that the boy is shaking. "Just so we're clear-"

Richie looks up and peers into Henry's hazel eyes, memories unfolding in his brain. He has spent so long suppressing those memories, but now he's... he's letting them breathe and air out like the linens pinned to the clothesline to their left. He doesn't know why he's spent so long trying to forget in the first place.

"-You aren't a second choice. That isn't what's happening, so don't go and assume I'm only here because Bev is being a bitch."

"That's exactly what you're doing, isn't it?" Henry narrows his eyes. He bristles up like an offended cat, his stature puffing up to look bigger than it actually is. "What'd the bitch do now?"

Richie opens his mouth to tell Henry off for calling her a bitch, but he supposes that would only be hypocritical of him. "Nothing. Don't worry about why I'm here, just accept that I'm here. That's all that matters."

Henry looks away, his skin flaring up, but not from the cold winds biting at their young cheeks. He feels embarrassed that Richie is here, but only because he wasn't prepared. He's sitting in his dirty farm clothes, unbathed, and completely, shockingly, unattractive. Eddie Kaspbrak is clean, he's neat, and he's perfect. Henry Bowers feels as if he's the exact opposite.

Henry Bowers is two and a half years older than Richie Tozier, but with the way Richie was raised, or, not raised, he was forced to mature faster than others in his grade. Richie and Henry met when they were just kids, hardly even old enough to understand that parents aren't supposed to treat you the way they were treated. Richie was buying groceries, not snacks, not junkfood, not candy, but groceries. Henry was lurking in the aisle and trying to steal a bar of chocolate without being caught. As Henry was making a hasty escape, he bumped into Richie and knocked the paper bags out of the kid's arms. Henry had said "Hey, watch it!" and Richie just silently began to collect the boring adult items that kids don't buy. Henry then said, "Hey, why you buyin' such weird stuff?" and Richie looked up with his young, innocent face, and Henry Bowers had fallen in love.

Richie did not love him back.

Even now, as Henry stares at Richie in wonder and amazement and utter disbelief that the boy is back sitting on his farm and helping with chores like the old days, he knows that Richie does not love him back.

"How'd your ribs heal up?" Richie asks, focusing hard on a particular stain painted across the front of a button-up with Bowers sewn into the breast pocket.

"Nothin' wrong with my ribs," Henry says stubbornly, shaking his head to deny the accusation. Richie glances up at him, just a simple look, before returning to the stain. Henry's face burns.

"Yes there is. I bruised them, probably fractured one. I've seen the way you've been limping around, dude. They heal up yet?" Richie asks again, ignoring Henry's flustered aura. The stain starts to loosen up out of the threads, so Richie lets a content smirk grace his face.

A moment of silence passes between them, the sound of water gently splashing against hands, birds chirping, cicadas dying down for the winter. Then, Henry says in a voice that doesn't hold any of the hostile defensiveness that it is so used to speaking in, "Yeah, they're healing up pretty good."

"Good," Richie says. He stands up, walks by Henry to clip the clothes to the line, stretching the shirt out so it can properly breathe.

Henry can't help but watch the way Richie moves as he does this. He's different, the boy's definitely been blessed throughout puberty, and now his body is an entirely new one compared to the body that Henry used to know like the back of his hand. Richie's shirt rides up as he stretches out, the sun coming down and putting hues of purple and blue into his hair. The boy's got an oilspill happening over his ivory tusk skin, and Henry wants nothing more than to explore this new Richie and see what he's grown into.

Instead, he looks away, and he learns to hate himself a little more.

"How long have they been gone?" Henry asks.

Richie's arms fall to his side, and he says "What? Who?"

"Rich," Henry frowns. He refuses to look up because he doesn't trust his translucent cheeks, so he stares downwards and asks "Come on. I'm not stupid. You think you're the only observant one?"

Richie bites the inside of his cheek and returns to sitting in front of Henry. He leans against the basin, the cold water kissing the tips of his fingers that hang over the edges.

The fact of the matter is that Richie has been hanging out with someone nonstop. If he's not out with someone, then there are two or more bikes in his driveway. Henry has seen it, he's noticed, and he's noticed the way that Richie's hands have been shaking since he arrived. He hasn't eaten. All the clues point towards the fact that his parents aren't here, they're gone, and it isn't the first time this has happened.

"How long?" Henry asks again.

"Three weeks? Four? I lost track," Richie says. "Maybe five."

"For fuck's sake," Henry breathes out, shaking his head in disbelief. "What've you been eating?"

"Canned beans, uh, bread," Richie shrugs. "Some of Bev's friends split their school lunches with me." He avoids saying Eddie.

Henry knows who he means anyway.

"You've gotta tell someone," Henry frowns. "You can't- What's going to happen when the bill collectors show up on your doorstep and you have to explain that your parents haven't been home in weeks?"

"I checked. Paid off everything for the next three months," Richie shrugs.

"Three months?" Henry repeats. "Jesus. Did they leave you any money?"

"No," Richie's face twists up as if he's physically being tortured. He doesn't want to talk about this, especially not with Henry. Now that he thinks about it, it was probably a stupid idea for Richie to come here in the first place. What was he thinking? What was I thinking? "Have to find some work so I can buy groceries. Maybe rake up some leaves, or something like that."

"Do you need groceries?" Henry asks.

Richie stays silent.

"Do you need groceries?" he asks again.

Richie meets his eye, and he doesn't have to say a word. Henry nods, stands up and wipes his wet hands on his pants, and says "Okay. Come on."

"What? Where? Where are we going?" Richie panics, tripping over his feet to follow Henry inside. The house still smells the exact same; old cigars and rusty leather. The smell alone makes Richie's head spin with nostalgia, the boy gripping onto a banister to keep balance. Henry clambers up to his room and comes down twice as fast, holding a wad of cash in his hands.

"Come on," Henry says. He grabs Richie by the base of the neck and starts pushing him towards the front door, his fingers softly brushing against the boy's curly hair. Henry takes a moment to savor the warmth of Richie's freckled skin, and then he shoves the boy forward onto the porch.

"The fuck are we going, Bowers?" Richie scoffs, climbing into the rusty Camaro that Henry has been working on and fixing since he was in fourth grade. Richie didn't know it was finally drivable, he knows how much effort Henry has put into it. He asks again, "Where the fuck are we going?"

"Come on, Rich," Henry shakes his head, buckling his seatbelt. "You're a fucking asshole, but do you really think I'm going to let you perish away in that big empty house? You're fucking delusional. Do you really think that lowly of me?"

Richie wants to say Yes. You act like a god damn heathen.

Instead, he silently listens to the German death metal that Henry loves, staring out the window as they drive into town. Richie wonders what his life would be like if he were to have stayed friends with Henry. He thinks things would be much different, and he certainly wouldn't know Beverly Marsh or Bill Denbrough. Maybe, just maybe he'd end up bullying Eddie Kaspbrak for his girly little shorts if that were the case, he would probably be part of the reason that Eddie is too scared to walk to class alone. And maybe he might end up kissing Henry in the back seats of rusty Camaros, not kissing Stan Uris in the middle of the woods. Maybe Richie wouldn't mind kissing Henry. Maybe Richie wouldn't mind having a relationship, even if it were with a guy. Maybe Richie regrets pushing Henry away on New Years Eve.

Richie is completely silent, a rare occurrence, all the way to the supermarket. It isn't until Henry Bowers is standing next to him and considering the price difference between wheat or white bread, that Richie finally speaks up.

"Do you think we could have been good?" He asks. He stares at the cinnamon raisin bagels. "This. But... older. Adults. Do you think it could have worked?"

The back of Henry's tongue touches the roof of his mouth as his lips begin to form the word "Yes." Then, on second thought, he changes his mind.

He says, "It didn't work, that's the point."

"But imagine if it did," Richie says. He turns to Henry and asks "Do you think you'd love me?"

Henry stares at him in utter disbelief. Are you serious? he thinks to himself. Are you mentally disabled? Richie, I loved you. Even now, I still love you. Don't you fucking get that?

Instead of vocalizing these words, he shrugs and turns away. "No. I'm no fucking fruit."

Richie sighs and follows his old friend, the remaining trip only widening the space between them. He figures he shouldn't have spoken up about it, but it needed to be asked. Richie is so, so confused about himself and where he stands in the world, and he only feels a sense of clarity when he's kissing Stan Uris. But Richie knows that won't happen again, no, not with Stan. But it's not really about Stan in particular, is it? No, it's all boys. All boys. Richie thought he would be able to clear up some of the confusion if he were to exploit the first boy to ever initiate these conflicting feelings within him. Henry sowed something in Richie that cold, freezing night. While all the adults were inside getting drunk off of champagne and new years resolutions, Henry Bowers was busy planting the first seed in the weeds that would sprout and tangle around the subject of Richie's sexuality.

Richie doesn't say much while they're shopping. Henry does most of it, picking out ingredients for meals and every snack food that he can remember Richie used to gravitate towards as a kid. He's pretty spot on, too. Richie only puts one item back, and that's solely because of the night that Beverly had dared him to eat 80 gummy worms in under a minute. He puked, and now the sight of it fills his heart with horror. Henry counts money out at the register, and Richie feels guilt fill him up from the inside out. He thinks he really is so pathetic, Henry of all people is standing here buying him food. How pathetic.

"Thank you," Richie says as they navigate through the parking lot. His voice is soft and genuine.

Henry looks over at him, stopping to pop the trunk of his car. "Yeah, of course. Your parents are assholes."

"Yeah," Richie laughs, transferring paper bags over to the trunk. There are stolen school books, broken vinyls, and a leather jacket with the initials PH stitched into the collar. Richie doesn't ask about it.

"Yeah. I think it would have worked," Henry says quietly.

Richie looks over in confusion, tilting his head to the side and asking "Pardon, good sir?"

Henry shrugs, avoiding Richie's magnified eyes. "It would have worked. It. Us. We would have worked. I would have made it work, you know. Fought for something- no, fought for us. I would have made sure that it worked."

Richie knows that this is something sure and stable that he could fall back on. Eddie Kaspbrak is not a stable bet, he's unpredictable and could very well get tired of Richie's jokes one day and leave him. Henry Bowers, a boy who has loved him since they were in primary school, yeah, that is simple. That is guaranteed. If Richie truly does want to try playing for the other team like his thoughts have been alluding him to as of recent, he feels like it should be something not as fickle or indecisive as Eddie Kaspbrak. Besides, Henry already knows everything about him, including which food he eats. It really would be the safest bet.

But he doesn't love Henry. That's the problem. That's always been the problem.

They don't listen to the radio as they drive to Richie's house, and somehow, it feels as if Henry is driving back home. Not to his daddy's farm, but home. Where Richie lives, where he gave Richie his first black eye, where he would rush to at 3pm after middle school had separated the two boys, where he would sleep in a tent down in the living room instead of up in Richie's rooms like the Toziers were always begging the boys did. They would say "You've got a room, Richard, please use it." and yet Richie would always unroll his sleeping bag on the living room floor in an act of defiance.

"For fuck's sake," Richie whispers to himself as the car pulls into the driveway.

Richie stops, pushing his glasses up so he can rub his eyes. He pinches the bridge of his nose, shaking his head, and silently cursing Eddie Kaspbrak. Of course he has to show up right now. Of course.

Eddie is bent over a journal, writing delicate words and so involved in his own story that he doesn't even notice the car shifting into park until the engine is shut off and the growling noise comes to a complete stop. Then, in turn, two car doors slam shut, and he can't help but look up.

Henry still has yet to notice the tiny boy, but Richie is trying to gather everything from the trunk as quickly as he can. He needs Henry out of here, now.

"Rich?" Eddie calls out.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Do something, quick.

"Oi oi cap'n o' the sea," an Irish accent spills out. "Got a wee lassie approachin' that there ship. Bugger, s'actually a laddie!"

Eddie stops in his tracks, his blood running cold, the hair molecules on his skin standing up, goosebumps breaking out beneath his flesh. He is immediately kicked into hyperdrive, his flight or fight response becoming active in an instant. He has locked eyes with the very bully that makes his life hell, and he's standing next to Richie with an armful of fresh produce.

"The fuck is he doin' here?" Henry asks. He's more... hurt than anything, and Richie can recognize that.

Richie drops all the bags back in the trunk and turns to Henry, saying "I'm so sorry, I didn't think he would be here. Just give me a moment, please."

"What the fuck, Richie?" Henry whispers, only because he doesn't trust himself to try and speak clearly. His throat feels dry and lumpy, as if he's swallowed an entire bottle of antacids. "Just... What the fuck?"

Richie can't find the words to say, so he turns on his heel and makes his way to Eddie on the porch. He digs his keys out of his pockets and hands the house key to Eddie, looking at the boy with pleading eyes.

"Please go inside. Please. Just go sit in my room, I will be up in a second," Richie begs.

"H-Henry? Henry Bowers? You're- You're- Youre-" Eddie shakes his head in disbelief.

"No, I'm not," Richie doesn't want to hear the end of that sentence. "You need to stop fucking showing up on my porch all the time. Go. Go wait in my room."

Eddie is quiet for a moment more, stunned by such harsh words. Then, the tears come quickly, and he feels himself wearing thin right in front of Richie's eyes. So, as quickly as he can, he gathers the things he brought over and turns to face the front door. His hands shake from fear and heartbreak, in turn making it difficult to unlock the door. When he finally gets it, he slams the door shut, the wooden frame shaking and creaking under such force.

Richie returns to Henry cautiously, his whole body sluggish with dread. He begins picking up grocery bags again, not wanting to share a word with Henry at all.

"You're fucked, you know that?" Henry asks. "You're entirely fucked."

"I know," Richie nods. He opens his mouth again, but he's cut off.

"Don't give me a fucking accent, Richie. I can't believe you. God," Henry grabs everything left in the trunk and begins marching across the lawn. He's moving so angrily that Richie is convinced that the boy is going to crash right through his mother's garden along the sidewalk, but Henry is still courteous enough to respect Mrs. Tozier's flora like he was taught to do so.

Richie sighs and shuts the trunk, following Henry up to the porch with full arms. Out of everything to go wrong, this is it. This sure is it. Henry kicks the door open forcefully, bee-lining straight for the kitchen without stopping to take in the new furniture. He drops the bags onto the kitchen island, then swivels to make his exit.

Richie drops his bags and grabs Henry by the arm, holding him back.

"We could have been good," Richie says quietly. He feels as if this is it, the last straw, the final nail in the coffin. Eddie was too much, it only fed into the fear that Henry so vulnerably exposed to Richie.

"No," Henry shakes his head, staring at Richie in disgust. "We wouldn't. Don't lie to me, you fucking asshole."

Richie's eyes are caught by a gleam of light breaking through and intercepting his vision. Dangling around Henry's neck, attached by a beaded chain only given with dog tags, there is a gold ring. One from an arcade, one that was won many years ago. It's partner... still remains in the cup by the sink with the rest of the rings Richie stripped from his fingers the dreadful day that he fought with the boy now standing in his kitchen.

Henry kept the ring.

"You-" Richie takes a step forward, but the side of Henry's forearm comes across his chest and shoves him backwards.

"Don't come near me, you fucking faggot!" Henry's voice is shaking, and his hands tremble on the counter to steady himself out. "Go run to your little pixie boyfriend. Fruits."

"Okay," Richie nods.

Henry stops, then lifts his eyes to Richie's face. Richie is calm, collected, placid, and ready for his face to get caved in.

"Okay?" Henry repeats.

"Yeah," Richie shrugs, stuffing his hands in his pockets. He leans back a bit, his posture groaning in resistance, and then says "I'm a faggot. I like men."

Henry grits his teeth and looks away, embarrassed by the hot tears kissing his cheeks. He doesn't want to cry, no, not in front of Richie. Please not in front of Richie.

"Yeah," Henry says through a tight jaw. He shakes his head, quickly fishing around for his keys in his pockets, and backing away from Richie. "Homo."

"Yeah," Richie nods again.

"Queer."

"Sure."

"Faggot."

"Mhm."

"Fruitcake."

"Yep."

"Nancy boy."

"Totally."

"Poof."

"For sure."

"Gay," Henry finally says.

"Yeah," Richie nods. "Yeah, I might be. I probably am."

Henry is quiet for a moment, his hands tight around the set of keys, his thumb and forefinger pulling them forward to use as a possible weapon. He feels like he might vomit, hot, sticky bile rising in his throat, acidic and burning. He feels like he really might barf all over Richie's beat up converse, but then he realizes it's not vomit, it's words; "Me too."

Richie nods, says "Good," and shrugs again.

Henry feels sick with the conformation he just made aloud. He has never been more self loathing than he is in this moment, so much that he doesn't even know if he can drive home without crashing his car. He can't go home, no, can't face his dad knowing that he likes men and dicks and stubble and abs and pecs and everything not female.

"Eddie," Richie then says. He says it calmly, as if it makes sense, as if it's the only thing that makes sense.

Henry's face twists up for a moment, a pained expression that comes with the rejection of not hearing his own name. Then, slowly, as if admitting a sin to a choir of god-fearing angels, he says "Patrick."

Not Richie's name, no, that's a given. That's obvious. But the truth is... when Belch and Victor aren't looking, Henry's hand will run along the side of Patrick's thigh. And when they're playing strip-poker in Victor's bedroom, Patrick's eyes will linger on Henry's body just a little bit too long, and Henry will "accidentally" grab the wrong shirt when the game is over just so he has an excuse to wear Patrick's clothes. And sometimes when they go to the drive-in, Belch occupying the concessions stand while Vic hits on the freshman girls, Patrick and Henry will exchange secretive kisses in the backseat of Henry's car that nobody else knows about. Nobody at all.

Nobody at all, except for now.

Richie nods. "Okay."

Henry looks away in shame, guilt plaguing through his body. Richie... perfect Richie, Richie Tozier who gets perfect grades but never pays attention, Richie Tozier who can do a million accents and make anybody laugh, Richie Tozier who he has been in love with since they were kids, Richie Tozier who is gay.

If Richie is, then it must be okay, right?

Henry shakes his head and pulls away from the conversation, making his way through the house in a desperate attempt to escape what he just confessed. This time, Richie doesn't stop him.

Right?

Chapter Text

The front door slams shut and Richie stands there for a moment more, waiting for Henry to come back in and punch him until he can't feel his face anymore. But then, the Camaro starts up, its muffler bleeds, and Richie listens as Henry Bowers tears through the neighborhood at illegal speeds.

Richie sighs and shakes his head, turning around to return to the kitchen. He begins to put the groceries away with a lack of care. If his parents were home, his mother would throw a fit about whether vegetables can go in the fruit drawer and vice versa. But because there is a cute boy waiting for Richie up in his room, Rich really can't find a moment to care about where he puts the green peppers.

As Richie turns around to put a bunch of bananas on the counter, he's met with a tiny figure standing in the doorway of the kitchen, small hands resting against the oak frame with a certain delicateness that comes from fauna in woodland areas.

"Oh, Eds," Richie exhales, then remembers that Eddie could have heard the entire conversation that he confessed to Henry Bowers. "Eds. How long have you been standing there?"

"Just came down," Eddie says, then frowns. "Why the fuck are you- Why are you- You-"

Richie raises his eyebrows and puts on an auctioneer voice. "Step right up, step right up! This piece is an authentic, one-of-a-kind tongue of 15 year old Eds Kaspbrak! Caught by yer local kitty cat, dragged in from the lands of Derry! DoIhearuhhh 100? 100 ova there to that foine gent, do I hear uhh 200? 200? 200 to the lady with the massive breas-"

"Beep beep," Eddie spits out, glaring at Richie. "What the fuck were you doing with Henry Bowers? Are you- Are you friends? You're friends with the asshole that beats the shit out of me on a daily? Are you serious, Richie? I told you about how he... he... I thought- I thought I could trust you."

"Eds-" Richie begins.

"Don't fucking call me that!" Eddie shakes his head, his petite hands curling into fists by his sides. "Eddie! Eddie! Is that so fucking hard?"

Richie puts his hands up in defense, having to physically swallow another Voice from coming up. He's nervous, and when he's nervous, he performs.

"Eddie," Richie says softy, taking a step towards the boy. When Eddie doesn't push him away, he lets his hands gently rest on the sides of Eddie's cheeks. "I'll tell you everything. I swear. Come on, go wait upstairs."

Eddie opens his mouth to object, almost demanding that he goes home instead of listening to fabricated stories, but then he looks at Richie and sees a bit of that vulnerability that is considered a rarity for people like Rich.

"Okay," Eddie nods, pushing Richie's hands off his face. "This better be good."

Eddie begins climbing the stairs, and Richie smiles as he watches the boy's shirt untuck from his shorts, exposing a strip of tanned skin over the small of his back. He can hear Henry's voice calling him a poof, yet his only thought is Fuck yeah I am.

Richie finishes up the groceries quickly, and as soon as everything is put away, he's climbing the stairs two at a time to get to Eddie faster. As expected, the boy is in his room, but he's focused on the vinyl collection stacked on the bookshelf next to Richie's desk.

"Lot of oldies," Eddie says, then traces his fingers over the spines of Richie's modern collection. "Lot of new stuff, too."

"Little bit of both," Richie shrugs. "Do you want to listen to anything?"

"I'm starting to fancy tapes more," Eddie says, followed by him batting his wide eyes and saying in a feminine voice "They're groovy."

"God, the sixties called, they want their word back," Richie rolls his eyes.

Richie smiles, and for a moment, it feels like he doesn't have to explain anything to Eddie. It feels like they can just hang out in his room and have a normal night together, but then the sad fear shoots back up through Eddie's eyes like spiderwebs being sprayed from the ass of an arachnid.

"The thing about Henry Bowers is that-" Richie stops, realizing he doesn't exactly know what to say. How can one really explain their relationship? Richie sighs and sits on the bed, rubbing his face behind his glasses. Then, in a fit of exasperation, he dramatically throws himself back and says "Whale, oi'll be fooked."

"What was that, Scottish?" Eddie sits down next to him, crossing his legs on the mattress.

Richie rolls over onto his side to face Eddie, smiling at him. "Something like that."

"I think you always sound the same," Eddie says. "Every Voice just sounds like Richie Tozier to me."

"You wound me, Eds," Richie puts a hand on his chest in a dramatic fashion. "But... Voices aside, dude. I... I was friends with Henry when we were little. Like, real little. Six, seven maybe. I don't know. He was super different back then, y'know, not a complete-"

"Psychotic fucking asshole?" Eddie finishes his sentence, and then adds with a face of disdain "And... dirty."

Richie laughs at this, but continues talking, "Less of an ass, yeah. He was actually pretty nice, always taking care of me, letting me come over when my parents were being ''meanies," you know, kid stuff. He was nice, or at least he was to me. We were at each other's houses everyday, always hanging out and wrestling, just... bein' kids. We started growing up, but it was fine. Even when he went to middle school, he'd still come hang out with me everyday after school, and he'd tell me about this cool song he heard on his dad's radio that day. It was great, it was, we were best friends.

"And then... New Year's Eve came. Henry's father had thrown a party for everybody in his office, and my parents were invited too. Henry and I spent most of the night trying to see who could sneak the first glass of champagne without anybody noticing. At the end of the night, neither of us had been successful, but it was still fun just to try. Anyway, we had gone outside to see if we could see any shooting stars. Oh, that was a tradition by the way. Shooting stars on New Years Eve, and we always wished for the same thing; Henry Bowers stops getting hit and Richie Tozier stops being ignored. It was unspoken, but it was what we wished for every time.

"We were on the porch... it was cold, so I said "Hey, it's fucking cold." And then Henry looked at me. I remember his face, he was... he was terrified, Eddie. I always looked up to Henry, you know, he was older, stronger, cooler, he was everything I wanted to be. But he looked terrified, and I could hear the adults counting down to midnight inside, and I asked "Hen? What's the matter?" And the adults were inside, 5, 4, 3, 2, and it was freezing, and I couldn't see any shooting stars, and the adults were so drunk but we were kids outside, freezing our tiny acorn dicks off, and then they said "1!" and he had just kissed me."

"He what?!" Eddie practically shouts. Then, as jealousy blooms within him, the shock is quickly erased by an expression much more aggressive. "Did you kiss back?"

"No?" Richie scoffs. He shakes his head and says "We were just kids, I didn't even think about kissing girls, let alone my best friend. I pushed him away and suddenly understood why he was terrified, he was scared because of me. Because he wanted to kiss me but he didn't know how I would react, and that scared him. His dad's... his dad's rough, Eds. His dad throws him around, so being... being gay isn't an option for him. But he took that risk anyway because he- he- I don't know. I never got to look inside his mind, but I knew he was scared, and I knew that nothing would ever be the same. So I tried to go easy on him, I tried not to react the way his father would. I told him it was okay, that we could just forget it happened. Because it was an accident, right? He didn't mean it."

Richie stares up at the ceiling, his face vacant as he recalls the memory. He thinks things would be different if he didn't call the kiss an accident, but then he wouldn't have Eddie Kaspbrak in his bed. And as he told Henry; it's Eddie. Eddie.

"And then?" Eddie encourages him to go on.

Richie blinks as if he forgot Eddie was there, then chuckles a little. He shrugs, his shoulders sliding against the bed sheets as he says "And then he beat the shit out of me. And I mean it, dude. He fucked me up pretty bad. He was older, so he was, like, going through puberty, but I was still this shrimpy little boy. I tried to defend myself, but I couldn't put up much of a fight. He beat the fucking shit out of me, and I just walked home because I didn't want to go inside and ask my parents if we could leave. They didn't ask where the swollen eyes had come from, and they didn't say anything when five of my baby teeth had been at the bottom of the trash can when they got home. I went to school, and I didn't talk to Henry anymore. That was it."

"That's it?" Eddie asks. "No closure? No ending?"

Richie looks over and smiles. "What were you hopin' for, Eddie Spaghetti? Want me to marry Bowers and live happily ever after?"

"No, no," Eddie shakes his head. "I just- You never tried talking to him about it?"

Richie sits up from the bed and approaches his desk, opening the top drawer and withdrawing the folded up papers that he has been stressed over since he was given them. He hands the letter over to Eddie and takes his seat once more, watching as the boy's hands unfold the papers neatly.

"When I had detention two weeks ago, we had to write apologies to each other," Richie explains. "This is what Henry gave me."

Eddie reads it with precision, his careful eyes scanning over the words with a very intense concentration. His face twists up multiple times through the letter, his finger tracing along the words so he does not lose his spot. He moves about the words delicately, like he is reading the diary of his childhood bully.

When he finally sets the letter down, Eddie is at a loss for words. He looks at Richie, a little worried, because he doesn't think that he can compete with Richie's childhood best friend.

"You broke your pinky promise," Eddie finally says.

Richie's brows knit together, and he says "Excuse me?"

"Here. On page two, look," Eddie points to the paragraph about the pinky promise they made as kids, where Henry and Richie had promised to never tell anybody each other's secrets. "You broke your promise."

"Yeah, well, he broke my face, so," Richie shrugs, though he feels guilty. But... he needed Eddie to read this. He needed Eddie to understand. "Is that all you got from that entire letter?"

"No, I have literally one million questions," Eddie frowns, but then says "I guess I'll just boil it down to one, though."

He looks at Richie, then down at the letter to read the last couple paragraphs.

"Was he right?" Eddie's fingers scan over his own name in Bowers' hand writing. "Is it... is it me?"

Richie's face burns with the realization that Henry had basically pinpointed Richie's crush. Richie forgot about that portion of the letter, it had completely slipped his mind. If he had remembered that, he wouldn't have given Eddie the last page and just claimed he lost it.

Richie feels embarrassed. Though, he tries to own it, even when his pride is faltering. "You sound a little excited there, Eds. Something you want to tell me?"

Eddie looks away, rejected and embarrassed. "Okay, forget it."

Richie sits up and leans back on his elbows, watching the way that Eddie recoils. "No, wait."

"I said forget it, Richie," Eddie tucks his legs underneath his body, trying to get more comfortable. He looks so small, so delicate, and so fragile. Richie realizes that Eddie is giving him access to the kingdom, and he was just about to carelessly toss the key aside.

"Yeah," Richie blurts out. "Yes, it's you. Eddie. Yes."

Eddie's eyes widen and he looks at Richie with a bewildered expression. "Are you joking?"

Richie flinches.

"No?" He tries uneasily, almost certain that this isn't going the way he had hoped. "...Should I be?"

Eddie bites his lip, nervously fumbling around with his hands. He looks like he wants to say something, but as he opens his mouth, he only shakes his head and digs around in his pocket for his aspirator. He plunges it into his mouth just so that he doesn't have to talk.

Defeated, Richie lies back down and stares up at the ceiling. He feels like an idiot, so fucking stupid. Why would he tell Eddie that? Why? Why would he tell Henry that?

"Are you staying the night?" Richie asks, changing the subject to save himself the embarrassment of unrequited feelings.

Eddie watches as the boy throws his glasses aside, rubbing his face in frustration. Richie is clearly tense, so he doesn't know if he should accept the invitation or not.

"No. Is that okay?" Eddie says. When Richie nods, Eddie asks "Can I call my mom to come pick me up?"

Richie waves him off so Eddie quickly clambers down the stairs to the kitchen. He dials a phone number almost habitually, while Richie begins pacing around his room in anger.

Idiot. Fucking idiot. Why didn't he beep you? You were clearly saying something stupid, something inappropriate. Why would you say that? Dumbass.

Richie opens his bedroom door and sinks to the floor, listening to Eddie's voice from the top of the stairs. He lets his head rest against the wall, trying to dissect the words that the boy is quietly whispering.

"He's- I don't fucking know, Bill."

Richie listens a bit more closely.

"No! ...I don't know? ...I think he's gay."

Richie squeezes his eyes shut and feels the shame drip through him like an oil spill infecting the ocean.

"Do I like him? Are you stupid?-" Eddie's voice floats up the stairs, so Richie gets up and returns to his room. He tries to shut his door quietly, but the sheer anger and humiliation running through him still makes the door slam on its hinges, the wooden frame trembling beneath the force.

Richie paces, wanting to cry and punch something all at once. His fists clench and unclench, restless and confused. His body feels wrong and heavy, but he can't even imagine sitting down right now. He needs a fucking cigarette. His skin itches with impatience, but he knows he doesn't have any left. He can't call Bev, not after this morning. Does he have anybody? Anybody at all?

If my own parents don't love me, what makes me think that Eddie Kaspbrak would?

And maybe if Richie had stayed in the hallway, sitting at the top of the stairs, eavesdropping on a conversation he was not supposed to hear, maybe he would have heard the rest of Eddie's sentence.

"-Of course I do."

Chapter Text

Stan Uris seems to accept the role as Richie's new best friend. He doesn't question it, doesn't even ask any questions when Richie shows up at the Uris residence in the middle of the night. He nods, holds the door open, and hugs Richie when the boy folds in on himself in a mess of sobs and sniffles.

Richie had stayed the night, finally telling someone that his parents are gone and nodding when Stan said that they should go down to the police station in the morning instead of first period. Stan is not one to deviate from his schedule, the boy has a time planned for everything right down to when he should piss, but something about the way Richie had cried so hard made him feel like this was more important than his own OCD tendencies.

When morning came and Richie had refused to go to the station, Stan said "Okay," and took him down to the standpipe to show him the beautiful birdbath that was installed in the late 50's.

Now, here they sit, Stan's posture perfect and precise, so still and patient that Richie can't describe him as anything other than fastidious. Richie is trying to sit still as well, but the boy has never been still in his entire life. He wiggles, shifts around, bounces his legs, stretches his arms, bobs his head, taps his feet, and watches the damn birds.

"Do you want to make out?" Richie asks.

For a moment, Stan is still so concentrated on his binoculars that Richie is almost convinced that his words fell on deaf ears. Then, with stiff robotic movements, Stan lowers his arms and turns his head to look at Richie.

"Excuse me?" He asks. "At least take me to dinner and a movie first."

"Okay," Richie shrugs. "I will. I've got $20, you can eat all the cheeseburgers your heart desires, Stan Uris."

Stan's cheeks flush. "Are you joking?"

"Why does everything fucking think that?" Richie exhales, frowning. His voice booms as he suddenly becomes a WWE announcer. "In this corner we have Rrrrrrrrrrriiiichie Toooooooooozzier! Human disaster incapable of doing anything but making jokes! And in this corner, we have the undefeated crippling self-doubt! Who will win? I think it's a pretty obvious maaaaatch, laddiessss and gents!"

As Richie proceeds to do a terrible drumroll using his shaking hands and trembling thighs, Stan rolls his eyes and shakes his head.

"Okay. Kiss me," Stan says.

Richie stops and looks over at the boy. Stan's cheeks are pink and burning bright, but he looks certain, like he is about everything.

"Really?" Richie sits up straight, his body suddenly as stiff as a statue.

"Yeah. There's nobody around, go for it," Stan says. "Kiss me."

So Richie leans forward until his nose bumps against Stan's and he has to tilt his head to the right while Stan goes left. The early December air warms the same way it did before, and it's just these two boys in their calm little center of temporary spring. Flowers bloom and spread across their skin, hummingbirds singing them love songs.

Richie pulls away, blinking his big, huge, owl eyes at Stan, trying to decide if he was any good or not.

Stan smiles and grabs Richie by the front of the jacket, pulling the tall boy in for another kiss. This one is less precise, which is ironic considering Stan initiated it. This one is a bit more messy, but more comfortable. Richie smiles, which makes Stan laugh, yet the two boys remain kissing each other.

This time, when they pull away, Stan says "I think you're a bit gay, Richie Tozier. Maybe try wrestling a match with your blatant homosexuality."

"Yowza!" Richie grins. "Stan Uris Gets Off A Good One! A true comedian! Yowza, yowza, yowZA!"

The two boys grin at each other and decide that they should be getting to school. Richie suggests skipping the whole day, but Stan reminds him that they're going to be watching a movie in History today, so Richie goes just so he can pick up on a few Yankee accent tricks.

At lunchtime, Richie doesn't think anything related to Eddie. He is giddy with the idea of seeing Stan, his new best friend, his new best friend that he can kiss. That changes things, makes Stan more exciting than Beverly ever was, and closer than Eddie ever got. Richie heads into the cafeteria with a spring in his step, the universe correcting itself as he finally begins to feel as if he is happy.

I don't need Eddie. I don't. I don't need him to like me, no, I don't. Stan Uris makes jokes with me, and he lets me kiss him. I won't feel lonely as long as he is around.

Richie grins when he sees Stan and Bill sitting at their usual table, their lunches looking like complete opposites. Stan always brings home-packed lunch, while Bill takes the chance with the cafeteria food. Richie slides a chair up next to Stan, sitting real close and throwing his arm around the boy.

"Hellow fellas," Richie tries to sound like a New Yorker from the 1950's, "What a coupl'a fine folk like you handsome devils doin' in these pahts'a town."

Richie picks up a pencil from Stan's notebooks and tucks it into his mouth like a fake cigar, which earns a gagging noise to the left of the table.

"Richie, that's disgusting, do you know how many bacterial germs are on Stan's hands? You don't know where they've been!" Eddie takes his seat down at the table, his authoritarian voice taking over.

"Oh, dahlin', I know where they've been," Richie turns and grins at Stan, reaching over to tickle the boy's tummy.

Stan frowns and slaps Richie's hands away, saying "Asshole. You forget your medication today, Richie?"

Though, when Bill looks away and starts asking Richie about the new game being put into the arcade, Stan quietly smiles to himself, and Eddie is the only person to see it.

It doesn't feel good to be replaced, Eddie thinks. Especially not so quickly. Was he lying to me all this time?

Eddie silently starts to divide his lunch, splitting things down the middle so he can give them to Richie. Then, he looks over, and he sees Richie preying on Stan's lunch like a vulture waiting for a rabbit to drop dead.

Eddie shakes his head. It's not like Richie and him were going steady, so there's no need to feel jealous. Richie is just his friend, and that's all they've ever been. Richie is just a very good friend. That's all.

After lunch, Richie decides he doesn't want to finish the rest of the day, so he tries to find Stan in the halls between fifth and sixth period. Though, he does find Bill, and Bill is more than ready to avoid his math class after forgetting to do his homework.

"Do you want to go out to Mike's?" Richie asks once they're off school property. Richie and Bill ride double on Bill's massive bike, Richie admiring the silver gleam in the winter sunlight.

"Do you wuh-want to go t-t-to the Qwuh-quarry?" Bill asks instead.

"Are you fucking insane?" Richie tucks his chin over Bill's shoulder, his needy, desperate hands sliding around Bill's middle. "It's December, dipshit. It's probably frozen over."

"Ice s-s-skating," Bill shrugs as if it makes perfect sense. Bill Denbrough has a confidence in everything that he says despite the stutter, and that is the sole reason as to why he is the leader of the losers.

"Okay," Richie says, burrowing his face into the crook of Bill's neck, exhaling muffled breaths. "Ice skating."

Bill rides his bike easily, the only person in the world with the capability to handle a bicycle so much larger than their own body. He doesn't care, he rides with ease. There are moments that Richie feels as if the whole bike will tip over whenever they take a particularly sharp corner, but Bill always steadies them out. For this, Richie will trust Bill Denbrough with just about everything.

The two boys spend a few minutes trying to balance themselves out on the frozen lake, attempting to twirl and do spins without falling on their asses. Neither of them are quite good at it, but the falls don't hurt as much when Richie hears Bill's bright, bubbly laughter surfacing up through the air.

Richie takes a hard tumble after an attempt at doing a backflip, and he sits on his bruised ass, watching as Bill's shoes glide across the frozen ice with ease.

"I t-th-think I'm really gettin' the huh-huh-hang of it R-rrr-Rich!" Bill grins.

Richie watches him, his cheeks cold and fingertips colder. He doesn't have much of a proper coat like Bill does, nor does he have a scarf and matching hat. Richie has his jean jacket with the wool collar, and that is good enough for him.

"I can see it now," Richie says dreamily. "Bill Denbrough's name up in lights for the Winter Olympics. You could be a real fancy figure skater."

"Aren't th-they..." Bill trails off, an expression of guilt flashing across his face.

"Gay?" Richie finishes for him. He knows that Bill knows, but he doesn't know if he wants to confirm what Eddie told him over the phone. "I dunno. Not really our business, don't you think?"

"Ruh-right," Bill nods. He floats across the sparkling ice like he's lost in a hazy daydream. Tide pools stir beneath his feet, but the ice is thick enough to protect the boys from plunging into below freezing waves. Then, as if taking out all the ice from underneath Richie, Bill asks "Why are y-you muh-mad at B-B-Beverly?"

Richie blinks in surprise, a short puff of air escaping his lips in the form of fog. "What?"

Bill opens his mouth to repeat himself, but Richie can hear the stutter before the boy even has a chance to talk.

"No, I heard you," Richie says, but then his confused expression deepens. "Why would I be mad at her?"

"She s-says you guh-guys don't hang out as m-m-much as you used t-to," Bill says, gently taking a seat next to Richie in the middle of the lake. Coldness radiates from Richie, and all Bill can think of is how Rich had given Bill his coat on the first night they met. "She s-says you're d-d-different."

"Me?" Richie scoffs. "Yeah, right. She's the one running off with all these new friends - no offense, Big Bill. And don't even get me started on her boyfriend."

"T-T-T-Tell me about it," Bill rolls his eyes.

Richie laughs and says, "Oh man, you've got it bad, don't you?"

Bill shrugs.

Richie takes this as an avoidance to the topic, so he looks out at the frosted basin they're relaxing in and tries to imagine how he was swimming here only a few weeks ago. That was... That was the day that he and Eddie danced to the music. The day that the losers all went to the parlor and all Eddie had said was "Go on ahead, we'll catch up with you guys." That was one of the first of many confusing days spent next to Eddie Kaspbrak.

"I think I do too," Richie says. Then, he realizes the confusing particles of his fractured statement, and he says "I mean- I've got it bad too, but not for Bev. She's too..."

"Badass?" Bill finishes for him.

"Something like that," Richie shakes his head, chuckling slightly. "But in all reality; doesn't it suck? Being in love with someone who doesn't want a thing to do with you? And then when they do... it's... you just keep getting your hopes up, you know? It's like; okay, I'm definitely in. I've got two feet inside the door and I'm practically home. But then they shove you out and change the locks. Isn't that fucked?"

"Fuh-Fucked," Bill agrees.

Richie looks over at the boy, the beautifully brave boy who has all the qualities of a leader with no army to lead. He thinks that Bill will grow up to be someone important, someone with authority. He has that aura in his posture, he breathes importance. If only he could get over that damned stutter.

"How do you deal with it, Bill?" Richie asks. He's not joking, he's not pulling pranks, he's not doing any Voices. He's being genuine right now, and Bill can sense the urgency in his tone. "How can you bear to be in love with one of your friends?"

Bill looks over at Richie and he feels everything that is going on inside of the boy. It burns the edges, but the core is frozen. It slowly eats away at you like rot, molding your internal organs until you become mushy decay. Love can be beautiful, love can be toxic.

Bill sighs and slips his gloved hand into Richie's bare fist. Then, after feeling the frostbite chew through the material, he slips his glove off of his hand and slides it onto Richie's fingers. Richie gave him his coat when Bill was cold, now he's just returning the favor.

"I d-don't," Bill says. "It hurts. Juh-Georgie used to..."

When he trails off, Richie imagines that Bill is getting lost in a memory, thawing out the frozen pieces of time and trying to relive them, but the cold of the ice below their asses makes it impossible to heat up the past.

"Georgie used t-to tell me th-that Ben f-found his wife. He s-s-said that I would f-find a girl who luh-loves me like mom loves d-dad," Bill continues. Then, his eyes harden, and his grip on Richie's hand tightens. "Mom loved dad."

Richie nods in understanding, not pushing the subject too hard. Sometimes, all you can do is sit and just listen. Most people don't have someone to tell things to, so more often than not, these words will rattle around their mind for weeks, months, hell, even years. So Richie listens, knowing that Bill needs to talk about it and how much it hurts.

Instead of divulging any more personal information about his broken family and dead brother, he shakes his head and asks "Wuh-What about y-you?"

"What about me?" Richie laughs, though it rings out nervously.

"Does your mmm-m-mom still luh-love your d-dad?" Bill asks. He moves his hand up Richie's arm, slowly drawing circles on the boy's back. Richie leans into the touch, and Bill identifies those clingy attributes that Eddie had mentioned before. Richie craves to be touched, and Bill is starting to see that.

"I don't think they ever loved each other to begin with," Richie shakes his head. "It's hard to imagine them actually wanting to be with one another. It was a shotgun marriage, you know. Right out of high school. I was conceived on prom night."

Bill lets out a breath of disgusted air and shakes his head, continuing his comforting rubs in an attempt to keep Richie talking. It works.

"Yeah, right? So two drunk teens hook up in a skeazy motel, and nine months later you get an ADHD dipshit of a kid and realize you're stuck with him for the next eighteen years. Sucks, right? And on top of that, what was supposed to be a one-night-stand now becomes your fiancé, and you just can't help but wonder where the hell your life went wrong. Your kid's a nuisance, he never shuts the hell up. So you hit him. Not hard, just little shoves and slaps, nothing major. But then bruises start showing up, and his third grade teacher calls home to see if he's doing alright. You blame it on the older kids that he's been hanging out with and you call it a day."

"R-Richie..." Bill murmurs sympathetically, but Richie shakes his head. He keeps going.

"So you can't hit him anymore, fine, whatever. Just don't talk to him and he won't have anything to complain about, right? Just don't talk to him. Just don't talk to him. Just don't talk to him. And then when he starts acting out, getting in fights, sneaking cigarettes out of your purse, climbing down the rose trellis at all hours of the night... just start drinking. You won't remember you have a son if you're drunk all the time. The alcohol reminds you of the spiked punch at prom, and that helps you imagine the life you could've lived. And eventually... just... just go. Leave. Go somewhere with your forced husband and pretend that the bastard child was never born in the first place. Don't come back, because then he might ask questions like; mom, how come you don't love me? And you can't answer that."

Richie finishes, staring out at the scratched ice surface and processing everything he just said. He can feel the dent in his head, the one that formed when she pushed him down the stairs after the boy had practiced his Robocop impression one too many times and she grew tired of the fact that she could never understand her son. Henry had inspected the wound later that day, crouched out back near the chicken coop and holding Richie's head between his delicate hands. He didn't need stitches, or at least that was Henry's conclusion. Richie trusted Henry with everything back then, and he even trusted the boy when he said there was no dent in Richie's skull even though he felt like there was.

Bill wraps his arms around Richie's shoulder and holds him close, the boy stiffening and bristling up in fear at the sudden contact. The thing about Richie that is one of the many complexities living within him is the fact that he craves affection, yet he doesn't know how to accept it when that affection is given to him. So he freezes over faster than this lake did.

Bill strokes the back of his hair and says "Richie, yuh-you're v-v-very brave. Welcome t-t-to the loser's club."

"Oh, am I officially sworn in?" Richie asks, though his voice is strained and a sniffle fights its way through. He coughs, but it only comes out as a sob, his fingers tight in the material of Bill's coat. He didn't realize he needed that validation from the losers' leader until it was given to him.

He's one of them now.

He's officially one of them.

Chapter Text

Stan and Ben talk excitedly by the ticket booth, the two boys spiraling out on dead-end conversations about the geometrics of the library and how beautifully precise all of the measurements are.

Richie stands behind Stan, carrying the boy's messenger bag while keeping track of the fourth member of today's party.

Eddie is perched at the concessions stand, leaning against the counter in a way that requires him standing on his tiptoes. The boy smiles as he talks to the employee, his face lighting up as he nods. Richie is too far away, but he knows the routine of the movies well enough to know that Eddie was accepting butter on the popcorn.

"Right, Richie?" Stan then asks.

Richie snaps out of it, bringing his eyes over to the two he's currently with. What were they talking about again? Just nod and say yeah, that's all they want to hear.

Richie nods, "Yeah."

Stan agrees once more before bringing up another point in his case. Ben listens intently, much more attentively than Richie. As if he's dismissed from the conversation, Richie's eyes immediately float back to where Eddie is at, the small boy struggling to balance two large popcorns in his toothpick arms.

Richie moves quickly, coming over to rescue the boy from a buttery meltdown. Eddie looks up in relief, smiling at Richie and adjusting his fannypack, his arms thankful to be free. Richie holds them easily, although his fingers begin to slip at the sight of Eddie's smile.

"You ready to get your mind blown, freak?" Eddie asks with glee in his tone.

"You wish, Kaspbrak," Richie rolls his eyes fondly.

When Richie Tozier woke up this morning, he wanted nothing more than to be with someone. Anyone. Even Henry The Fucking Asshole would have sufficed.

He called Bill first, feeling significantly closer to the boy after their truth session at the quarry. Bill declined though as he has a speech therapy appointment later today. Then, Richie called Mike, but once again he was shot down. Mike has to prepare the animals and the crops for wintertime, and he rattles off a chore list longer than Richie's lanky limbs. So, as his safe bet, Richie called Stan and finally sighed in relief when someone accepted. But then...

Richie looks back down at Eddie Kaspbrak, his heart bending and tugging at the seams. How did Eddie end up being invited? Who let this happen? Was it Stan? Was Stan being evil?

Stan doesn't have it in him to be evil, dipshit.

"I'm glad you're here," Richie says first, his eyes fixated on not moving from one spot in time.

Eddie looks up with a shocked expression, and then quickly averts his gaze elsewhere when he feels himself burning up. "Whatever. Idiot."

Eddie walks away quickly, his shoulders hunched up and tense. Richie sighs, kicking his boot against his ankle until he can feel the skin tingle with numbness. He keeps doing this as punishment for being stupid until Ben looks over and summons Richie to follow them to the box office.

The horror film that they choose to see is absolutely terrible. The effects are cheesy, the acting is subpar, and the soundtrack is the worst disco imaginable. Stan jumps at every scare, burying his face into Richie's shoulder and trying to avoid the haunted scenes. Richie pays the bare minimum of attention, mainly just rubbing Stan's shoulder and whispering promises of safety into the boy's curly hair.

"It's okay, Stan. It's just a movie, love. Ghosts aren't real, okay? You're safe with me," he whispers quietly in an attempt to build some kind of safety for his new best friend. He wants to be that comfortable place where people run to, and for Stan, he wants to be that place where the boy sees birds in every corner of his life.

The seat next to Ben's squeaks loudly through the silent theater as Eddie stands to his feet. Richie lifts his head off of Stan's hair to watch the dainty silhouette of the boy make his way down the aisle to escape the row. Eddie's features brighten up like a lightbulb when he turns to face the screen, and Richie can catch a glimpse of the wet streaks down the boy's freckled cheeks.

"Haystack, where'd Shortstack go?" Richie reaches his long arm over to nudge Ben behind Stan's back.

Ben looks over as if he genuinely didn't notice Eddie's departure, then shrugs in confusion. Stan lifts his head, looks at Eddie's seat, then asks Richie "Did the ghosts get him?"

"No, dipshit," Richie scoffs, stroking Stan's hair softly. Comfort him. Be his safe place. He's your best friend, protect him. "Probably just went to the bathroom I guess."

After ten minutes, Richie grows worried. He decides to give it another ten minutes, but then the first movie ends and the second film of the double feature boots up. Richie knows that Eddie is out there, possibly crying, and he knows he's sitting here doing nothing to stop it. Richie is so busy being Stan's emotional guardian that he's not even trying to shelter the one person who actually really matters.

"I'll be back, Stan. I gotta take a leak," Richie announces loudly, to which Stan looks up with wide eyes and shakes his head.

"No, don't leave, Rich," Stan's hand clasps down over Richie's wrist, but the tall boy shakes free.

"Ben's here, he'll protect you. Won't you, chubs?" Richie looks over to Ben, who is once again completely clueless.

Stan gives Richie one last pleading look, but Richie pulls away and stands up from his seat much more quietly than Eddie's noisy exit.

The lobby of the theater is empty, as well as the concessions stand, albeit two customers that are certainly not Eddie. Next, Richie pushes the door to the bathroom open, hoping to find the small boy and not some man trying to do his business in peace.

"Eds?" Richie calls out, turning the corner to eye the stalls and urinals. He passes by the sinks, catching a glimpse of his reflection and feeling repulsed. Richie shakes his head and says "Sorry. I meant Eddie."

The last stall in the lineup unlocks, the door to the handicapped vacancy slowly creaking open. Richie sighs in relief, taking a few steps forward to push the door open the rest of the way. Eddie is standing on the other end, his arms crossed, eyes glaring.

"Hey," Richie feels himself bursting into a smile. My sunflower asthmatic boy. "You waitin' for me, babycakes? You're missing the movie, dude-"

"Fuck you, Richie," Eddie spits out, his arms coming down to his sides in exasperated motions, his fists clenched tightly. "You're a fucking asshole."

"Woah, woah. The fuck did I do?" Richie puts his arms up in self defense. He tilts his head to the side and tries to figure out what he said in the past three hours to piss Eddie off so badly.

"God, that is so like you. You don't even know what you did!" Eddie approaches him in the stall, cornering Richie and pushing his tiny hands into the boy's chest with much aggression. "You arrogant, self-serving, hypersexual, sociopathic, apathetic freak."

Richie falls silent, unable to respond to any of the words being shot at him like arrows. He can feel the daggers cutting into his skin, the sharp blades carving the insults into his flesh for all to see. He stares at Eddie with no expression, his eyes dulling down as the boy hurls more insults at him. As Eddie punches his chest, his subconscious is validated, and every bad thought he's ever had suddenly becomes correct statements.

"You're such a dick! You're a prick! You're an egocentric, impotent, feces-collecting, ill-bred heathen!" Eddie slaps his hand against Richie's chest one more time, only for it to be one too many.

Richie's reflexes move quickly, his hand coming up to grab Eddie's as its suspended in midair. He holds the boy's wrist tightly, staring down at the other one with no expression on his face.

"Talk to me," Richie says as calmly as he can despite his inner walls crumbling. "Now."

Eddie loses some of his edge, the boy's entire demeanor shifting from furious to just upset, his shoulders dropping down as he shrinks in on himself. His eyes get even impossibly bigger, shifting in tiny movements from Richie's left eye to his right.

"I-I-" Eddie stutters out, at a loss for words. Then, he frowns as he remembers the anger, and the vocabulary suddenly seems to form itself. "What makes you think you've got the right to just use people however you want? Does it make you feel good to know that you're hurting innocent people? People who just want the best for you? Does it make you feel like more of a tough man when you break hearts, Richie?"

Richie told Eddie that he had the fire in him and he should speak his mind more clearly. Now, Richie is feeling the wrath of those flames.

Richie stares at him in scrutinized confusion, completely thrown off guard by the word's new string of insults. "Excuse me?" he asks.

"God, what don't you get?" Eddie asks. He yanks his arm out of Richie's grasp, backing away to let the boy breathe. "What, I reject you so now you have to go and steal love from Stan, too? Could you be any more self absorbed? Jesus, Richie. Are you going to hop around the whole fucking group? Gonna turn us all into little heartbroken Henrys?"

The words sting like lemons being squirted into wounds. The salt that Eddie rubs in only adds bitter flavor.

"It's just a little fucked up, dude. That's all I'm saying. I wouldn't date you so now you've got to take my best friend from me?" Eddie shakes, his words crumbling down as his eyes fill with tears. He frowns deeper, shaking his head and wiping his eyes with the backs of his hands. "No. No, no, no. I am not crying."

"What, so I can't possibly ever find love? You don't want me, you're not gay, but I can't ever date another boy? How the fuck is that fair?" Richie snaps, taking a step towards Eddie.

"I didn't-" Eddie shakes his head, frowning more deeply. "I didn't mean that. And don't- don't- don't say that. Don't say I'm not gay."

"Even if you were, you wouldn't date me. You just said it yourself, I'm fucking arrogant," Richie scoffs. "You think so lowly of me, don't you? And you expect me to just, what, sit around hopelessly dreaming about you like some lovesick pup? To never move on or find someone who reciprocates? Yet I'm the selfish one?"

"I reciprocate!" Eddie shouts, moving closer to glare at Richie. He shoves the boy's chest again, growling the words "You fucking dumbass! Are you seriously that stupid!? I fucking reciprocate, you asshole!"

Richie falls silent, taking a step back and letting his body flatten out against the stall wall. Is Eddie lying to him? No, no, that doesn't seem like him. Besides, if Eddie were lying, he wouldn't be producing fake tears this easily. Eddie's telling the truth.

"Oh," Richie says.

"But you didn't- you don't- you don't care about me. If you did, you wouldn't be draping yourself all over my best friend. You don't even want to hang out with me anymore! What is wrong with you!? God, you didn't even try, Richie. You didn't even wait a single day. You just- You went and took Stan from me as well. Do you like him now? Is he your boyfriend?"

"We're just friends, Eds," Richie looks away with a guilty face.

"Right. Like you and I are 'just friends'. Do you hold Stan's hand too? Do you crawl through his windows? Do you make him mixtapes? Are you just friends, Richie?" Eddie asks. "God, this is what you do to people, isn't it? You make them fall in love with you and just move onto someone new because you decided you don't want them anymore? And to think that I fucking believed your sad, tortured soul delusion. I felt bad for you! But you aren't sad or tortured at all, you're just a fucking apathetic robot with no regards for others."

"What do you want from me? Do you want me to never talk to Stan again? Are you just jealous that you aren't the center of my fucking universe?" Richie says, his words biting through the air.

"I want you to fucking tell me the truth!" Eddie shouts, his voice echoing in the bathroom. "I'm tired of playing this stupid game with you, Richie! You either like me, or you don't. You can't tell me that I'm the one and then turn around and kiss Stan's neck in movie theaters!"

Richie burns in embarrassment, not realizing that Eddie had seen that. He opens his mouth to respond, but the boy still has more to say.

"I don't want to be fucking played around with. If you're going to come along and make me care, then you should fucking care too! I don't want to sit around and wait for you, Richie. I have other choices," Eddie shouts, his cheeks red and eyes filled with tears. He's an emotional cryer, the type of person who's eyes brim with water with each flash of anger that they feel.

"Who, Greta Bowie?" Richie laughs sarcastically, leaning against the stall door and saying "Eds, you're a fuckin' comedian."

"Will," Eddie frowns. His anger only grows the more he's laughed at, so the venom in his voice spreads through the following words, "Will Byers."

"Excuse me?" Richie straightens up, his whole body and demeanor stiffening at the mention of another male's name. "Who the fuck is that?"

"Someone who doesn't fucking date my best friends the day after confessing he likes me!" Eddie shouts.

"If you love Will Byers so fucking much, why don't you go marry him, you fucking prick," Richie's self esteem begins to collapse, his legs weakening beneath him as his mind whirls.

There's a silence that comes over the pair, Richie's eyes avoidant and focused on the checkered floor tile as he begins to hate himself overwhelmingly. Eddie stares at his profile, the curve of his nose, the soft cheeks hidden beneath his thick glasses, Eddie's body seething in anger. Both boys tremble, but for different reasons.

Eddie finally breaks the silence, his voice shaking and full of weakness. He murmurs, "Because he's not you, idiot."

Eddie pushes past Richie to exit the stall, and Richie doesn't do anything to stop him from leaving. He listens as the door opens and closes, then the silence that follows. His mind feels sick with insults, the toxins leaking in through his ears and poisoning his brain. Richie feels as if he's inhaled fumes, his body deprived of all oxygen.

Then, in a burst of complete fury, he turns and punches the wall of the bathroom stall. He punches and punches, keeps punching, until his knuckles bleed and leave streaks on the dented wall. After his hand goes numb and his forearm deals with all the damage, he loses feeling in his fingertips. Not just his fingertips; everything. It's a miracle how he's still standing.

Eventually, Richie somehow finds it in himself to go back to the theater. He takes his seat next to Stan again, trying so very hard not to even glance in Eddie's general direction whatsoever. Stan gratefully hides under Richie's jacket as the monsters appear on the screen, but Richie doesn't hold him like he was earlier. He stares forward, his body empty and merely a shell of everything that was once there.

If Richie did look, however, if he did manage to gather the courage to turn his eyes to the left, he would see Eddie staring right at him. Eddie's eyes catch onto the bloody knuckles and he feels the yearn to clean the split wounds. Eddie wants things to be normal again, for Richie to not sit next to Stan but want to sit with Eddie in the back row. Eddie wants things to go back to how they were, when Richie would promise him that he wouldn't die alone.

But after everything that was just said in a fit of frantic emotions, neither of the boys are sure if things will ever return to how they once were.

Chapter Text

"Nice sweater, loser," Greta's voice manages to cut through the rest of the chatter, gaining Richie's attention.

He looks over and peers through the sea of students to see where Eddie is standing, wiping his desk down with disinfectant wipes like usual. Greta stands behind him, waiting impatiently for Eddie to move so she can reach her seat. The boy sighs and looks down at his knit sweater, a patterned designs of blues and pinks.

"God, and I didn't think he could get any gayer!" one of Greta's lackeys exclaims.

Say something, Eds. Fight back.

Eddie takes a deep breath, and Richie sits forward to hear this insult deconstruct Greta's entire life. Instead, the boy just closes his mouth and takes his seat without any word of resistance against the girls' comments.

Richie sits back in disappointment, watching the way Eddie's sad eyes roam across the chalkboard, his expression longer than Richie has ever seen.

As if he can feel eyes on him, Eddie turns to look in the direction of Richie's seat, so the boy quickly turns his head to look out the windows at the hurricane of snowflakes raining down over Derry today. Despite his quick actions, Eddie still caught him staring.

Richie doesn't listen to most of the lecture, just watches the blizzard outside wreak its havoc on the small town. It's too cold to go anywhere, and too cold to bike to anybody's house. Richie is stuck at home, alone, and he dreads the school day coming to an end for the first time in his life. When the bell finally rings, Richie heads to his next class and repeats this cycle of window-gazing until it's finally lunch time.

Richie returns to his comfortable routine of hiding in the library, finding his lonely table and sighing in relief once he sits down at it. It feels familiar, and it feels safe. He starts to untangle his headphones and feels himself returning to normal.

Almost normal.

"Hey, Richie!" Ben Hanscom's voice calls out as loudly as you can within a library. "Hey!"

Richie looks up in alarm, seeing the round boy come towards his table with the brightest smile upon his face. He's holding a stack of books, all which make a terrible plopping sound when he drops them down on Richie's table.

"Hey, Ben," Richie says, followed by "What can I do for ya, fella?"

"Oh, nothing. I just thought we could sit together since you're in here today," Ben suggests, taking a seat without waiting for approval. "Haven't seen you in here in awhile! Heard you were sitting down with the other guys. Anyway, I'll stop talkin' your ear off and let you get back to your music."

Richie nods quietly, continuing his cords conundrum, when he suddenly has an idea. "Ben, where are the yearbooks kept?"

Ben looks up at him with a curious expression.

After a good five minutes of carrying over the Derry School District yearbooks from the past five years, Richie finally sits down and opens the most recent yearbook. He flips through the pages until he finds B and scans the page for the name William Byers.

After minutes of no luck, Richie tries looking through the yearbooks from private schools. None. Richie even checks the middle school yearbooks on the shelf, but there is nobody in the books under the name that Eddie had shouted out. Richie tries one last desperate attempt at finding his name in the phone book, but after scanning the various names of Benson and Bryers, Richie gives up. There's nobody in the Derry area under the name Will Byers.

Did Eddie just make him up? Is he trying to make Richie jealous by fabricating an imaginary friend? That's so stupid, it doesn't seem like Eddie at all. Richie is very much about to give up and just put his headphones on when the library door opens up and offers a solution to Richie's problems; Beverly Marsh.

Bev approaches the boys at the table with a simple smile, leaning down to press a chaste kiss to Ben's cheek. She brought him his algebra homework that he left in her bag, and he gratefully thanks her for saving his life. The girl doesn't even blink in Richie's direction at all, and he assumes the tension between them is there for a reason. Sometimes Bev gets moody and will ignore Richie until she feels like he's learned his lesson, and he's learned to just shut up and wait for her to come around. She's gotten really good at avoiding people over the years.

Before she goes, however, Richie clears his throat and says "Hey, Bevvie?"

Bev turns on her heel to look at him. "Yeah?"

"Do you know anybody named Will Byers?" Richie taps the front of the yearbook casually, trying to sound as normal as he can.

The girl stops and scrunches her eyebrows in confusion. Richie assumes she's never heard the name before, sighing and closing the other yearbooks in defeat when she finally says "Why are you asking about Will?"

"So you know him?" Richie perks up.

"No, I don't. He's Eddie's penpal from Indiana," Bev frowns deeper. "Why do you ask?"

"That's where I know the name from!" Ben snaps his fingers together in triumph.

"Eddie's got a penpal?" Richie asks, his body shifting in the chair with a slight discomfort in his bones. "One who lives in Indiana?"

"Didn't they meet at summer camp?" Ben asks. When Beverly nods, the boy continues talking with much more confidence. "Yeah. Eddie's had that penpal since he was, like, eight. They meet every summer at the camp down in Pennsylvania. Did Eddie not tell you about him?"

"He mentioned the name," Richie shrugs in embarrassment. Is this information he should know? It dawns upon him that he doesn't know much about Eddie at all, not really.

"Oh, weird. He usually talks the ear off of anybody who will listen about Will," Bev snickers, earning a nod of approval from Ben. Bev mocks Eddie, reaching her voice up high enough to impersonate the late bloomer boy. "Oh, and then Will told me about how he had a funeral for himself and was buried alive and everything!"

"He was what?" Richie asks, his face twisting up in confusion.

"It's a long story," Bev shakes her head. "Ask him about it sometime, I'm sure he'd love to share it with you."

"I'll get right on that," Richie scoffs, finally making progress with his headphones and successfully plugging them into his Walkman with minimum knots in the cord. "Run along, Marsh."

Richie puts his headphones in before she can say anything more, pressing play on the mix of songs that only remind him of what it means to be in love. Richie remembers Eddie saying how he craves to have what love songs are written about, and he remembers the way pollen floated through the air when the boy had said it. He was beautiful that day. Eddie is beautiful every day.

Richie's heart fills with dread as school finally comes to an end. He makes the short commute home, but each step feels like his feet get heavier, his boots filling with lead and concrete to weigh him down in the snow. The harsh flurry of snowflakes whip and lash at his cheeks in painful ways.

When Richie finally walks up his driveway, he will admit a bit of disappointment fills his chest when he does not see Eddie sitting on his porch like usual. Still, even then, he goes inside and drops his bag down at the bottom of the stairs.

Richie craves something warm in his body, so the boy heads to the kitchen to prepare a snack for himself. He still feels like he is in debt to Henry, but he doesn't want to ever bring himself near that psychopath again. Henry is nice to Richie, sure, but that doesn't excuse the fact he's abusive to everybody else in Derry.

When the boy goes to open the fridge, he stops, his hand frozen on the handle and feet planted to the floor. A single piece of paper taped to the fridge makes his bones disintegrate, his body harden, and his blood boil. He feels nothing but pure fear and hatred fill him at once, quite possibly the scariest of the combinations.

There, taped to the freezer door, a note scrawled in his father's handwriting. It reads as the following;

Richard.

Clean your room. You should feel disgusting and ashamed of the pig sty you're living in. I didn't raise you to leave clothes on the floor like that, I bought you a hamper for a damn reason.

Bring your grades up, too. You're failing math. You're not trying hard enough, you need to apply yourself in class more and stop hanging out with Marsh's girl. I'm disappointed in you.

Fix this, boy. You're making us look like absolute fools.

Everything seems to snap into place in that exact second for Richie. The rubber band around his balloon mind finally bursts and releases the memories of the last few days, everything flooding him all at once and beginning to soak into his brain against his consent.

Richie collapses to the floor, his whole body racked with sobs. His ribs shake as he cries, his hands covering his face as he rocks back and forth against the tile. He feels like he has nothing to keep him moving forward. He is only moving backwards. And like a shark swimming in the wrong direction, he will die soon.

Richie's self pitying is cut short by a trite, loud ring emitting from the telephone. He stands up, wiping the tears from his face and trying to compose himself. His breathing is still shaking, still rugged, but he doesn't have time to let the phone ring too long.

"Hello?" Richie's voice shakes. It's obvious that he's been crying, any normal person would be able to identify it in his tone whether or not they knew the boy well.

There's silence on the other end, a quiet eerie lull of sounds, the pure void entering his ears and brain through the speaker. Then, as Richie is about to label it a prank call and hang up, he hears someone clear their throat.

He waits patiently, listening for the person to talk. When there's no sounds, Richie tries again. "Hello? This is the Tozier residence, may I ask who's speaking?"

The person doesn't respond per se, however, Richie does get an answer to his question. Upon hearing the familiar noise, he shakes his head and hangs the phone up on the receiver, taking a step backwards as his lungs fold back in on themselves. He knows who it was, the sound was so distinct and familiar that it's impossible for it to have been anybody else than the very bane of his existence.

It was a simple sound. One that Richie will never forget.

The trigger of an aspirator.

Chapter Text

Richie sits with his head in Mike's lap, headphones covering his head as he tries very, very hard to ignore the closet door located five feet to the left.

"Three minutes!" Stan exclaims, laughing brightly.

"F-F-Fuh-Fuck off, d-dipshit," Bill's voice comes from the other side of the wall.

Richie sighs, closes his eyes, and turns the volume up on his Walkman. He can't stop listening to sad songs sung by female artists, his recent favorite has been Time After Time by the infamous Cyndi Lauper.

Mike's hands idly run through Richie's hair, soothing and comforting the broken up boy. Before he had arrived, Bev had warned the losers to be gentle with him. None of them asked why, they just nodded and understood. Then, they went to the den to mess around on the piano, but Eddie stayed behind in the kitchen. It was Friday, just after four o'clock, so the kids all ravaged the Denbrough pantry to find after school snacks. While the clattering bangs of the piano could be heard drifting through the air, Eddie remained leaning against the counter and stared at his untouched PB&J.

"Everything alright, Ed?" Beverly had asked, slowly lingering in the doorway to check on the smaller boy.

Eddie looked up with a startled expression, but he quickly recovered. "Huh? Yeah. I'm fine, Bev. Thanks for asking."

Normally, Beverly would have shrugged it off and joined the rest of the boys, but she had flashbacks to the night Richie scolded her for not being active in her friends' emotional matters. She approached Eddie and leaned against the counter with him, then stared out the kitchen window and watched the fluffy snowflakes sprinkle down on Derry like bright glitter bombs.

"Is it about Richie?" She asked.

Eddie looked at her and didn't respond, but sometimes silence speaks volumes.

Beverly nodded and nudged him with her shoulder. "Whatever he did, he's sorry. He gets real moody sometimes, y'know? And sometimes he gets clingy. You just gotta learn to go with the flow when it comes to Richie. He... He genuinely means well, even if it doesn't come off that way."

Eddie bit his tongue. After a moment of silence, he turned and asked "Is he okay?"

And then Beverly had explained the note from Richie's father, and how Richie had called the Marsh house and begged to see Bev, and how he cried on the floor of their laundromat because everything in his life was going wrong and he felt so entirely lonely.

"He's lonely?" Eddie had asked.

Bev looked at him with sad, sympathetic eyes. She said in a very quiet, very soft tone, "Honey, you've gotta understand that Richie Tozier is one of the loneliest men in the world. Don't let the Voices and jokes fool you."

Now, here they are, pumped full of junk food and sleep deprivation. It's reached the point in the sleepover where everyone is willing to try anything all because their brains are clouding their judgement. Richie has been nearly silent all night, staying to his own and listening to his tapes.

When Ben suggested 7 minutes in heaven, Mike came over to offer comfort to the boy who visibly started shaking.

"Six minutes!" Stan calls out.

Richie squeezes his eyes shut and tries to not be bothered by any of it. It's not as if he has a right to be angry, no, he lost that right the second that Eddie threw the first insult at the movies merely two days ago.

Beverly speaks up and says, "Ah, just let 'em out of the closet, Stanley. This game's a mess when you play it with a group full of guys."

Stanley glances away guiltily, an expression that Richie definitely mirrors. Ben and Mike don't seem affected by her statements, but why should they? They're not the gay ones in the room.

Stan opens the door silently, allowing Bill to escape with a proud smile on his face. Eddie comes out behind him, sheepishly rubbing the side of his arm and looking around in embarrassment. When his eyes land on Richie, he instantly frowns at the sight of Mike practically petting him like a dog. Richie's eyes meet his, and as if Eddie can speak telepathically, his mind says Now you're moving onto Mike? Seriously?

Richie breaks eye contact first and instead brings his hand up to cover his face. Bill and Ben start joking around with each other about who would last longer in the closet, but the argument ends when Ben says he doesn't need seven minutes in heaven when he's got an angel named Beverly Marsh right beside him. Everyone groans at this, but Bev smiles and kisses his cheek.

"What now, you guys?" Stan flops onto the couch, kicking Bill's ankle and earning a hard punch from the taller one. Eddie takes a quiet seat on the floor next to Mike, but stays opposite of where Richie's head lays.

"Muh-Muh-Monopoly?" Bill suggests. He points towards the basement closet that is filled with board games waiting to be played.

Nobody has a positive reaction to that, so Bill lowers his hand and pouts moodily. Eddie looks around at his bored friends, then glances at the closet. His eyes go down to where Richie is, and an idea strikes him.

"Truth or dare?" Eddie asks.

Everyone lifts their head up.

"That's always a classic," Mike says, nudging the headphones off of Richie's ears. "You hear that?"

"Truth or dare," Richie repeats. He can hear Eddie's voice through the music more clearly than any other sound he's ever heard. It doesn't matter how loudly the tape is playing, if Eddie talks, he can hear it. He can always hear it.

"Okay, I'll s-s-start," Bill takes lead like usual. He looks around the room carefully as if he's inspecting who his first victim will be. Then, to nobody's surprise, he says "Beverly. T-Truth or d-d-dare?"

"Are you kidding? Come on, Denbrough," the girl smirks confidently.

"Al-Alright," he laughs, "I dare you to eat one of Ben's boogers."

"Hey!" Ben shouts. "Don't drag me into thi-"

Before he can finish his sentence, Beverly's manicured nail is shoved so far up his nostril that he nearly chokes. Stan watches with horrified eyes, and Eddie immediately starts gagging.

"Bev, don't you dare fucking eat that, are you serious? You're eating mucus. Do you hear me? Do you know what mucus is? Do you want to get a sinus infection? What about swine flu? W-What about pneumonia? Are you serious? Do you seriously want to die? You know, there was this pregnant woman who caught swine flu and she died so her baby had to be cut out of her stomach. Do you seriously want to get swine flu, die, then have an abortion-"

Beverly interrupts Eddie's warnings by sticking her finger right in her mouth and happily smiling at Stan, who audibly gags louder than Eddie.

The girl says "Try harder, Denbrough."

Bill flips her off but there is still a pink tint to her cheeks. Richie frowns, thinking You seriously think that's attractive? What's wrong with you, dude?

"Rich, truth or dare?"

Richie looks at Beverly and sees the years of friendship in her eyes. He knows Beverly, and he can read her mind. He knows that if he says dare, she is going to make him kiss Eddie. He can see it written all over her stupidly beautiful, heavenly face.

"Truth," Richie shrugs, sitting up and letting his headphones drop around his neck.

"Bummer," she shakes her head. Despite this, she still says "Do you have a crush on anybody?"

"Yeah," Richie says bluntly. Every single person in the room goes stiff, all looking around as if they're bewildered that Richie is 1) capable of such honesty, or 2) confused about how the robot kid has a heart? Richie doesn't linger on the subject for too long, but instead says "Ben, truth or dare?"

"Uhhh," the kid jumps when being put in the spotlight, and you can see as his face begins to turn hues of red like a human sunset. He begins tugging on the bottom of his shirt anxiously, so he says "Dare?"

Richie looks around for inspiration, trying to find something that would be entertaining but not humiliating. After a few seconds of searching, he gives up and says "I dare you to touch Bill's dick."

"Wh-What?!" Ben and Bill stutter in unison.

Stan laughs, a snarky secret laugh, one that he hides behind his hand as he looks away so people can't see his reaction. Of course, the only other queer in the room chooses to think that's funny.

"I'm just messin' with ya, Haystack. Come on, go drink toilet water like the rest of us chaps. Eds, you follow. Make sure he drinks a full cup," Richie waves the two boys off very casually.

Eddie looks at Richie with a mortified expression, more offended and disgusted than Ben himself is. Eddie opens his mouth to protest the act of drinking toilet water, but Richie simply stops him with a simple look.

Go.

So Ben and Eddie stand to their feet, dragging themselves to the basement bathroom. Mike grins and says "Oh, I gotta see this," and offers his hand to Stan on the couch. Richie, Beverly, and Bill remain seated, even though Bill really wants to watch. He stays where Beverly is, the curse of a lovesick fool.

"You have a crush?" Beverly asks him in a loud, incredulous tone. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"Didn't think I needed to announce it to the whole fuckin' town, Miss," Richie leans back on his elbows, stretching his long legs out in front of him. "Extra! Extra! Richie Tozier's got a crush! Cold robot surprisingly finds sense of compassion! Read all about it!"

"Wh-Who is it-t?" Bill asks, leaning on the edge of the couch in anticipation. He looks as if he wants to say something, but he's sworn the words to secrecy and will never utter them. Especially not to Richie.

Richie's head rolls to the side as various shouts emerge from the bathroom, signifying that Ben has actually drank toilet water and now everyone is on the verge of puking from the sight.

"Ah ah ah," Richie shakes his head. "Those aren't how the rules work, Billy boy."

"F-Fuck the game," Bill laughs. "Who i-is it, d-d-dude?"

Richie's smile drops a little as he imagines having to actually tell his friends that he thinks he's homosexual. The thing is, Richie thinks he does like girls, but trying to explain that to his friends seems as if it would be far too complicated. They would only hear the parts they want to hear and block out the rest. Even if Richie pleaded that he still feels attracted to women, he doesn't think they would listen. They would just go straight to Richie Tozier likes dicks!

"Come on Bill, enough about me! What about you? Why don't we discuss your crush??" Richie asks as Mike and Stan run back to the circle to reclaim their spots.

Bill's eyes widen and he quickly shakes his head, saying "N-No. R-Richie, no."

Richie looks at him, a knowing look that says they're now at an agreement. Bill can't ask about Richie's crush, and in return, Richie won't run his mouth and expose Bill's true intentions when he looks at Beverly.

"That was disgusting," Eddie takes his seat next to Richie without even thinking of it. Richie seems alarmed, looking down at the boy in confusion and wondering if he got lost. Shouldn't Eddie be busy hating him? Or is it just natural instinct? A force of habit? Eddie says to Ben, "I can't believe you actually drank it."

"Wasn't that bad," Ben shrugs, "The sewer water in Derry must be tasty."

Eddie covers his mouth and feigns vomiting, causing everyone to laugh around them. Once the chuckles die down, Ben begins looking around to pluck candidates down one by one. After a good amount of time, the anticipation comes to an end with the word "Stan."

Stan looks up from where he was examining his nails, looking around in confusion. "Excuse me?"

"Truth or dare, dude," Ben laughs at him.

"Oh," Stan makes a bit of a disgusted noise, rolling his eyes and saying "Truth."

"Hmm," Ben taps his chin for a moment. "Have you had your first kiss?"

Stan blushes just slightly but quickly regains his composure. He sits upright, like usual, and nods affirmatively. "Yes."

Everyone in the room gasps, and it's almost as if the earth stops spinning. The room is so quiet that Richie can only hear static in his ears, an overwhelming sound that makes him want to return to the music in his pocket.

Stan shrugs and says "What's the big deal? It's not like it was a good kiss."

"Wow, rude," Richie blurts out and immediately earns a look of alarm from Stan. Everyone seems to shift their shocked expressions at Stan to confused looks for Richie. You could hear a pin drop.

"Um, who the fuck are you kissing that we don't know about?" Beverly leans forward.

"I don't kiss and tell, Beverly," Stan teases her, but it's obvious that he's distraught. You can tell by the way that he's repeatedly tapping his right foot in intervals of four. "Ever heard of a bit of mystery?"

"Where's the fun in that?" Bev asks, then plants a huge kiss on Ben's unexpected mouth.

Stan scoffs and shakes his head, but then quickly says "Eddie. Truth or dare?"

"Dare," Eddie says bravely.

Stan looks mildly surprised, clearly not expecting that answer. Nobody was, they all turn to look at Eddie with impressed expressions. The boy's ears grow hot under the spotlight, but he didn't want to risk having to tell the truth about anything involving Richie.

"Lick the bottom of your shoe," Stan shrugs.

"What? What? Are you kidding me, Stanley? Do you know how many germs are going-"

"Fine, truth," Stan cuts the boy off before a long mantra of hygiene can finish.

Eddie bites his lip and realizes the mistake that he's made, saying "Okay, okay! I'll do it!"

"Eds, you don't have to," Richie exhales quietly, reaching out towards the small boy. Eddie glares at him and shoves his hand away, reaching down to untie the laces.

Richie's eyes can't help but wander down the length of Eddie's legs. His breath shortens, hungry eyes devouring the curves of Eddie's knees, the sweet linear flow of smooth calves, and the indented skin that is lined with the band of Eddie's athletic socks. Then, the shoe is pulled off, and Eddie holds it in front of his wide, fearful eyes.

He moves quick, his tongue darting out to graze against the surface of his shoe, barely a swipe visible enough to see unless you were really watching. He exhales quickly, shaking his head and throwing his shoe across the basement. Ben claps, applauding Eddie's bravery while the boy wipes the corner of his mouth clean.

Eddie looks up vindictively, saying "Richie. Truth or dare."

Richie stares at him, slightly fearful about the fire igniting in Eddie's eyes. He glances at Bev for reassurance, but the girl looks about as confused as he does.

"Truth?" Richie tries. Can't go wrong with truth.

"Who was the last person you kissed?" Eddie asks.

Richie immediately pales. His eyes go to the floor in an attempt to not give himself away by staring at Stan, but the boy still visibly sweats. He shakes his head, his hands trembling in his lap. If he tells the truth, he'll expose Stan. He doesn't care if the losers find out he likes boys, but he doesn't want to jeopardize Stan as well.

"I haven't had my first kiss yet," Richie shakes his head.

"Bullshit," Bev laughs. "That's such a lie. What about that girl in fifth grade you told me about? The one who kissed you on New Year's Eve?"

Eddie looks at Richie harshly, his eyes blaming Richie and accusing him of rightful crimes.

Richie looks up slowly, his eyes meeting Stan's, and he notices the other boy is just as uncomfortable.

"Guys, knock it off. It's not funny," Stan exhales. "Let's just stop playing."

"Party p-p-pooper," Bill laughs at him, causing Stan to shake his head in embarrassment.

"Just say it," Eddie says, spitting harshly. "Just fucking say it."

Richie looks at him, guilt more clear on his face than a dog who was caught disobeying rules. He shakes his head, then looks down at his hands, knowing that Eddie already knows. He just wants to hear Richie say it.

"Stan," Richie whispers.

Eddie stares at him in disappointment. He knew, he knew that would be the name to come out of Richie's mouth, yet it still stings. He had been holding out and hoping and praying that Richie would say anybody else except for Stan. Anybody.

"What?" Beverly is the first to speak.

Richie kicks into hyperdrive. He finds his Scottish bagpipe playing Voice, and he quickly spits out "We wur juist muckin' aboot yin day, y'know. It wasn't serious. Ah said why th' bugger nae, 'n' kinda forced him intae it. It wasn't serious, we wur juist joking aroond. We wur high, actually. Na, juist me. Ah was stoned. Stan didnae want it."

"Richie. It's okay," Stan speaks up. Richie looks at him apologetically, so the boy just calmly nods to let him know it's fine. "We kissed once. It's not a big deal."

Stan's body language says that he's imagined this so many times before that he has come to the conclusion that the good outcomes outweigh the bad. Now, his fastidious personality resumes, and he no longer feels as if he's lost control. His main concern is getting Richie back in control now.

Richie bites his lip as he tries to think of which kiss Stan is choosing to forget. The first one? Or the fifth one? How many of them didn't count?

"Okay," Richie says quietly. "Sorry."

Stan nods, even though Richie isn't apologizing to him. He's looking at Stan, sure, but the word was meant for Eddie only. The small boy still sits in complete shock, his mouth hanging open as he stares at the floor like he's not quite sure what to do with himself now.

"S-So," Bill uncomfortably says. "L-Lets stop pluh-playing."

Everyone nods and uncomfortably moves about the basement to settle down on their designated sleeping areas. Richie laid his sleeping bag down in the far end of the room, the one closest to Stan but furthest from everyone else, but now he wishes he placed his next to Beverly. Ben and Bill beat him to it.

Stan remains sitting on the couch, his posture stiff as Mike comes to sit next to him. Richie stands near his pillows, hugging himself as he watches everyone look around like the night has been ruined. Mike is talking to Stan very quietly, words spoken in a gentle tone. Richie can't make out what he's saying, but he catches "Why didn't you tell me, Stan?"

Richie knows when he's messed things up. He does. And right now, he is getting the hint that he has ruined the atmosphere. It isn't until he looks at Eddie, still on the floor, zoning out like he's just lost, that Richie realizes he hasn't just messed things up. He's ruined it.

He quietly carries himself down the hall where Ben just drank toilet water, the bathroom holding loud, bright laughter only a few minutes prior. Now, it's just Richie's sanction for destroying the night by uttering the truth.

The boy closes the door behind him, locks the door, and does his business very quietly. While washing his hands, Richie looks up and sees his raw, tired eyes. His skin is pale and translucent, and his gaze travels along the blue veins spiderwebbing their way through his eyelids.

Richie looks down, sliding his jean jacket off his shoulders and taking hold of the bottom of his shirt. Richie slowly lifts the material up, bracing himself for what he's about to see.

As expected, he immediately hates it. He turns his face away, pulls his shirt back down, and lets out an anguished breath. He's too skinny, far too skinny, and he can't imagine ever exposing himself naked to any potential partners. Richie imagines himself letting his insecurities fester on the surface of his body while making out in a dark room. The lights off, the blinds closed. No possible way to see him. He wants to keep his lover in the dark so they can't spot the damage attached to his vessel.

Richie exhales and tries again, lifting his shirt up and bringing his gaze back to the mirror. He counts each rib that protrudes out of the skin, memorizing the way his belly button dips outwards and his hip bones curve down sharply. Richie slowly turns to the side, wincing at how a door probably has more volume than he does. His stomach caves inwards, and it only feels like a reminder of how much the emptiness aches. Pieces of him have been taken so much that he is nothing but bone.

There's a feeble knock on the door and Richie quickly brings his shirt down, scrambling to pick up his jean jacket. He covers up quickly, just as the knock resonates again, this time accompanied with a voice.

"Richie? Are you in there?" Eddie calls out almost urgently.

Richie feels his blood flow slow down and fill up with lead. He unlocks the door anyway, pushing some of his hair back as he opens up to see the beautifully glowing Eddie.

Eddie looks up with these sad puppy dog eyes that Richie knows will get him in trouble later on in his life. "Do you have your Walkman?"

Richie stops and tilts his head to the side. That's what Eddie wants? After everything they've been putting each other through, that's what he has to say to Richie?

"Yeah, of course. How come?" Richie asks curiously.

"I was thinking I could borrow it if you don't mind," Eddie leans against the doorway, his hands resting against the frame. "I brought my tape along so that I can listen to it and not have the nightmares in front of the others."

"Do you not have your own cassette player?" Richie asks. He figured Eddie did, but now that he thinks about it, he doesn't remember seeing one in the hypochondriac's bedroom.

"No," Eddie smirks, his smile blinding. "She says rock 'n' roll will blow my eardrums out, she doesn't want no headphones on this precious head of mine."

"Aw, now how could I disobey mommy's precious orders?" Richie jokes, reaching out to ruffle Eddie's hair. The small boy smiles and shakes his head, shoving Richie's hands away.

"You're such a loser, Richie," Eddie smiles.

For a moment, it's normal.

But then they both remember at the exact same second that it's not normal, and it never will be. Richie ruined things by kissing Stanley.

"Yeah, yeah, it's by my pillow," Richie shakes his head, then reaches up and removes the stiff headphones from around his neck. "Here. Take these."

Their fingers brush over each other when Eddie takes them from him, and the electricity that travels between skin molecules makes the boys remember just how much they like each other.

Eddie sighs and takes the headphones, turning to disappear down the hall when Richie stops him. "Hey, Eds," he says.

Eddie stops and tightens his shoulders up, slowly turning with a frown on his face. "What?" He snaps.

"Sorry, Eddie," Richie shakes his head. Softly, he murmurs, "We can get you a Walkman. Next weekend, or something. I'll take you to Blue's and get you one."

Eddie's face scrunches up, and he says "Don't try to buy me back, Rich."

And then that's it. Richie sighs and rests his head against the wall, exhaling and counting to four. Then, Stan comes in through the open door, shuffling in next to Richie and setting his toothbrush down on the counter.

"Hey," Stan says.

Richie jumps at the voice, looking up and trying to figure out when Stan got there. The boy begins brushing his teeth carefully, looking at Richie's reflection in the mirror.

"I'm sorry," Richie says.

Stan shrugs. "You're fine, Richie. You were just playing the game."

"I outed you," Richie hurts.

"Nothing to out," Stan shakes his head.

Richie looks up, confusion written on his face. Then, he shuts the door, and says "What do you mean?"

"I don't think I'm gay," Stan says. "I really don't. I- I thought maybe since I don't like girls, but... I don't think I like boys, either."

"Oh," Richie says, feeling isolated. He now feels stranded on an island of queerness, and his only other survivor just left him for safety. "You don't like Bill?"

"He's strong," Stan shrugs. "I admire his order, but I can't... I can't see myself dating him, you know? Or anybody for that matter. Boy or girl."

"Oh, cool," Richie nods. "I think I like both."

"Both what?"

"Boys and girls," Richie clarifies. "I think I like both."

"Do you..." Stan trails off.

Richie clenches his jaw and blinks rapidly to avoid letting tears fall from his eyes. He nods, his teeth held tightly together to avoid letting the name slip out. He confessed to Henry, he confessed to Eddie. If a third person finds out, Richie is afraid that it will become real.

"No," Richie shakes his head. "I don't like Eddie."

Stan nods and puts his toothbrush down, stepping forward to gather Richie up in his arms. The boys hug tightly, embracing each other and all their problems. That hug is safety, a floatation device thrown down to the island.

"You don't have to lie anymore, Richie," Stan whispers in his friend's ear. "It's okay. You don't have to lie."

Richie pulls away first, his hand fumbling to find the doorknob behind him. He laughs weakly, saying "Isn't this a night, ey Stan?"

Stan chuckles and shakes his head. "Gotta love it. Oh, and Eddie wanted to switch spots, so I let him. Hope that's okay."

Richie nods silently, leaving the bathroom and exiting the hall. Upon entering the basement, his eyes fall onto Eddie sitting on the sleeping bag located right next to Richie's. Headphones cover his head, and the boy is hunched over the cassette player that Richie cherishes more than his other possessions.

He moves quietly, sitting down on his sleeping bag and laying down silently. Eddie looks up, glancing at Richie, but returns to the tape he's fast-forwarding through. Richie rolls over, his back to the boy, and slowly takes off his glasses.

Sleep comes instant.

Richie is acutely aware of the fact that he's dreaming. It's obvious by the way that the air sweetens, the flowers bloom, and the sun shines down on him. In a hazy mind, he looks down at his hands, and he only sees flowers phasing through his fingers.

"One with nature," a voice says behind him. "Flower boy."

Richie looks over his shoulder, the sky crashing with waves. He gazes up at the blue ocean, clouds floating between the sea.

Then, Eddie is in front of him. Eddie, but not Eddie. Different. His skin is yellowed with golden pollen, his freckles shining in the sun like gems. His irises are ruby red, and the way he smiles opens up a break in the waves to reveal an opalite marigold ceiling. The rays of eternal sunshine ghost down on Eddie, silhouetting him in the meadow of flowers.

"I like you," Richie says, but his voice sounds different. Disembodied, almost.

Eddie laughs and takes a step back, his foot giving way in the field as he falls backwards. His arms spread out wide enough to impersonate an angel. Richie reaches out to catch him, his arms looping around Eddie's waist, but upon contact, the boy only bursts into a supernova of daisies. The flowers shower down on Richie as he sinks to his knees, and he can feel Eddie's petals covering him with blossoms of kisses.

Then, the ocean sky breaks down from the atmosphere, and Richie's meadow is drowned in the sea of lukewarm waves.

Richie jolts awake, the basement pitch black and freezing cold. He blindly reaches up to push hair out of his eyes, the boy blinking rapidly to adjust to the darkness. His ears pick up on tiny sounds, including the whirl of a tape running.

"Eddie," Richie breathes out. A reminder that Eddie is there, presently, and not lost in a field of flowers. "Eddie, are you awake?"

Richie pauses to wait for an answer, but after a few moments of silence he is certain that Eddie must be asleep. Then, to his surprise, he hears the tape stop with a click of a button.

"What?" Eddie whispers.

Richie rolls over to face the boy, craving to see his face in the dark room. Across the basement he can hear Ben snoring, and Mike's sleep mumbles.

"Nothing. I just wanted to know if you were... uh, here I guess. Sorry to bother you," Richie exhales. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah," Eddie replies quietly. "I like this tape, Richie. These are good songs."

Richie hums quietly, a noise that gestures contentment. He is afraid to ask what's really on his mind, but he doesn't have to. Eddie talks again before he can even gather the courage to.

"I'm not mad, you know," Eddie whispers. "I'm sorry if I acted like I was. I was just frustrated, that's all. Frustrated and... hurt, I guess."

"I'm sorry," Richie murmurs honestly. "I'm really sorry, Eds. It's just... it's confusing, it's confusing. It's scary to like a boy. I just wanted to... make sure that I do like boys."

There's some shuffling around as Eddie turns over in his sleeping bag. Both boys are facing each other, but neither can see the other's faces. "Do you like him?"

"Stan? No. I mean, objectively yes, he's a really good friend. But not romantically," Richie answers truthfully. "We were just testing things out, that's all."

"And what about me?" Eddie asks.

"What about you?" Richie repeats. He reaches his hand out at the exact second that Eddie does, and the two bump knuckles in a clumsy, awkward, teenage boy way. "I like you romantically. You know this."

"I just want to hear you say it," Eddie whispers, his voice ridden with euphoria. "Romantic? Genuinely romantic?"

Richie's fingers tangle between Eddie's. "Genuinely romantic."

"Good," Eddie's voice is lined with smiles. He doesn't say it back, but it isn't needed. His hand squeezes Richie's and that's enough translation for both of them.

"Can I ask you something?" Richie then murmurs.

"Of course," Eddie responds.

Richie tugs on his bottom lip, nervously trying to decide if what he's about to ask is idiotic or genius. He decides that he doesn't care, and instead just blurts it out. "Can you hold me?"

Eddie is stunned for a moment, taken back by Richie's boldness. Then, without thinking about it, he moves the tape deck out of the way and lifts his arm up.

"Come on, then," Eddie says.

Richie moves over quickly, tucking his legs up into his torso as he makes himself a home in the curve of Eddie's chest. One leg extends outwards, moving between Eddie's thighs as Eddie props his leg up over Richie's hip. The boy drapes his arm over Richie's shoulder, tangling his hand into the back of Richie's hair.

Richie feels safe. His arms tighten around Eddie's core, and he doesn't feel the boy burst into flowers. The flowers are there, though. On the inside. Eddie is filled with sunshine and oceans and flowers and all those heavenly things that Richie dreams of, but Richie himself feels like he is only made of decay and rot.

It doesn't matter. Eddie knows, he really knows, and things feel okay. Even if people call him gay and queer and guys like Henry Bowers beat his ass for simply being, but it's okay.

Eddie exhales, pressing play on the tape and turning the volume up so that they can both hear the sounds of Don't Fear The Reaper.

And it's okay.

Chapter Text

Richie stands in the hallway, carefully moving about the wooden floorboards so that he does not wake anybody.

Early morning light falls through the blurry curtains, dust pirouetting through the stiff air on the 5 am winter Saturday. Richie's t-shirt feels too thin in the cold house, and the blue light coming in from the sky only makes things colder.

He stares at the photos, each picture frame hanging up with a sense of purpose. Photos of Bill riding a bike, Bill holding fishing rods, and Bill in Cub Scout uniforms. There's photos of a younger boy with four gaps in his teeth, a younger boy caught mid-laugh, and a younger boy hugging Bill with all the might in the world. Those ones hurt the most. The photos of Bill and the kid, only because Bill has a certain light in his eyes that Richie has never seen before.

The floorboards creak eerily beside him, and when he glances over, he sees Bill himself emerging from the kitchen slowly. His usually neat hair is dissaray, his bleary eyes focused wistfully on the wall of memories.

"C-Couldn't s-s-sleep?" Bill ponders.

"Sorry," Richie shrugs, "Got a bit bored waiting for everyone to wake up. You?"

"W-Wanted a glass of wuh-water," Bill lifts the cup up, the light catching the lip marks on the brim of the glass. "Ben and M-Mmm-Mike are cuh-cuddling."

Richie smiles a little, one that doesn't quite reach the rest of his face. He watches as Bill's eyes drift back to the picture frames, a lifetime of memories with his brother that he will never get to make flashing on the male's features.

"He used to cut photos from dad's newspapers and stick them on this wall so that we could remember other people's lives as well as our own," Bill speaks with a clarity in his voice. No stutters, no hesitations, no falters. "Nobody had the heart to tell him he was cutting out obituaries."

Richie looks back at a particularly painful photograph, an image of Georgie riding on top of Bill's shoulders, the kid reaching his arms up to the sky.

"Hm," Richie grunts, not quite sure of which words to say. Richie is a single child, so he's not sure what it would mean to lose a brother, but he's sure it feels a lot like the hot rock that tightly winds in his throat when he imagines Beverly's father taking things too far one night. He says, with comfort, "I'm sorry, Bill."

Bill shrugs, letting out a weak but desperate laugh. His stutter returns quickly, attacking his words in full force. "Wuh-What c-c-can you d-do, right?"

"Are you going to head back to bed?" Richie asks quickly, not wanting to be alone in the silence of the Denbrough house.

"P-Planned on it," Bill nods, then says "D-Do you wuh-want me t-to stay up-p?"

Richie looks away in embarrassment, shrugging a little but silently begging Bill to choose him. Bill nods, turns on his heel, and heads back to the kitchen. Richie follows him aimlessly, watching as the boy opens the fridge.

"Do you want b-breakfast?" Bill asks, "We've g-g-got, uhh, cereal."

"Hmm," Richie leans over his shoulder, examining the food that he's working with. "You like omelettes? I can cook."

"T-Trashmouth knows how to c-c-cook?" Bill almost laughs. "I mean, s-sure. G-Go for it."

Bill gets everything that Richie says he needs, showing the tall boy where the pots and pans are for any future breakfast endeavors. It makes Richie feel just a little bit more welcomed, a little bit more home. Bill is welcoming him in and showing him around for the future, which ignites hope that there will be future sleepovers for the two to spend together.

Bill watches Richie cook with mesmerized eyes, astonished by his nimble and perfected skills. Richie seems like the last person to ever have any kind of culinary talent, yet his omelettes look better than those on the cooking television shows that Bill's mom loves to watch.

"Hey, Rich," Bill speaks up, watching the boy decorate a plate with garnishes he found in Bill's fridge.

"Hmm?" Richie lifts his head.

"C-Can I ask s-sss-something?" Bill inquires, his hands nervously folding over each other.

"Just did, Billy boy," Richie grins easily, setting the plate off to the side with the other three. He returns to the pan, grabbing two eggs from the carton. There isn't enough, he knows he'll only be able to make six plates, but that's fine. He doesn't need to eat.

"Ab-b-bout last night," Bill clarifies anxiously.

Richie's movements slow as he recalls the cursed game of truth or dare that they were all subjected to. He should have seen it coming; of course someone would ask. Bill just happened to get to the punch faster than Bev could.

"About Stan?" Richie asks for him, peering over the thick rims of his glasses. "I'm not gay, Bill."

"D-D-Didn't say you were," Bill remarks. "J-Just wanted to a-ask if, um, he... Is he?"

"Is Stan gay?" Richie recalls their conversation in the tight bathroom, the way that Stan had confessed no sexual attraction to any gender while there was a bit of toothpaste on the corner of his mouth. Richie mourns the loss of his makeout partner, not quite sure of who to have fill the new spot. "No. Were you hoping?"

"No," Bill shrugs. "I was j-j-just curious. S-Sometimes he looks a-at me l-like..."

"...Like?" Richie urges him to continue.

Bill's cheeks flush a little, his eyes averting Richie in guilt. "T-The way E-Eddie looks at yuh-you."

Richie nearly drops the spatula against the counter, barely tightening his grip at the last second. His heart seems to plummet through the kitchen floor and find it's way back to the sole owner of it; the boy still sleeping with headphone cords tangled around him.

He shakes his head and tries to shrug it off, merely replying "Oh, with disgust? Darling, that's how Eds and Stan the Man look at everyone, don't think you're so special."

"Hmph," Bill chuckles, picking at the green peppers that Richie has chopped up. "M-Maybe so, S-Stan does have th-thhh-that look about him, d-doesn't he? B-B-But not Eddie. At least not w-with you."

Richie shakes his head again, his grip on the spatula only tightening more and more. "There you go again with this nonsense, Billy boy. Honestly, ya yankin' my chain, yee lads? Toyin' wif mah legs, buster?"

Bill reaches out to punch Richie's shoulder, his face smiling in amusement. "S-Shut up, Trashmouth. You d-d-don't have t-to pretend-d."

Richie relaxes a little, the tension unhooking from his shoulders. God, Bill's right. He doesn't have to pretend, what does he have to lose? Bill clearly doesn't discriminate, so why is Richie so afraid of confessing this god awful secret to anybody who isn't Eddie?

"Alright, Bill. You wore me down," Richie turns to look at his fearless friend, the one who had death and grief on his face not even an hour ago. "I like E-"

"Is somebody cooking?" A voice interrupts them, the sound of footsteps entering the kitchen. Richie jumps at the sudden surprise, his heart leaping out of his chest at the sight of Mike.

"Jesus, Hanlon. You tryna give me a heart attack?" Richie exhales, adjusting his glasses in an attempt to compose himself. "The fuck is your fixation on interrupting important moments?"

"Sorry," Mike smiles sheepishly. "I didn't expect anybody to be up this early. This is what time I usually get up to tend to my chores."

"I'd k-k-kill myself," Bill says bluntly.

"Trust me, I've considered it," Richie points at Bill with a snarky laugh, but there's a hint of swirling darkness that resides in a pool beneath Richie's words. A bit of truth, a bit of torture.

"Richie, did you make all of this?" Mike asks, astonished. He approaches the plates of omelettes with eyes the size of the sun, his stomach growling loudly. "I didn't know you can cook!"

"I'm full of surprises, dahlin'!" Richie's voice squeaks effeminately. He shoves a specific plate down the counter to where Mike is standing and says "No ham or bacon in that one. Vegetarian, right?"

"Yeah," Mike nods, a gasp on his lips. He seems so genuinely surprised at Richie's attentive personality, but gratitude seems to take over. "You noticed! Thank you so much, Rich. I'm going to go wake the others up!"

"W-Wait," Bill calls after him, but Mike is already disappearing down the basement door again. Bill sighs, mumbling "L-Let them s-sss-sleep a bit longer."

"Have you always been the mother of the group?" Richie asks in amusement.

"F-For as long as Bev's b-been the father," he smiles fondly at the excuse to mention her, but Richie can't even find it in himself to laugh at the boy's evident lovesick eyes. Richie is sure that he has the exact same expression when he thinks of fannypacks and first aid kits.

"I like him," Richie says quickly, just to say it. He blurts it out into the kitchen with a bit of reckless abandon, and he can feel the weight of the world lifting from his back as soon as the words leave his mouth. "I do. I like him, y'know."

"I k-know," Bill nods. Richie knows that Bill knows, he overheard Eddie telling his secret to Bill through the phone not even a week ago. Bill still smiles and says "B-B-But not gay?"

Before Richie can answer, Beverly emerges from the basement with a heard of boys behind her like a female goddess leading her men to war. Richie is grateful for the distraction away from the topic of his sexuality, he silently thanks Beverly Marsh for repeatedly coming to his aid whenever he needs it. Despite this, he still can't help but notice that Bev's gang of men is lacking a particular shorty.

"Thank you, Richie," the girl takes the plate she knows is hers. The girl leans on her tiptoes and presses a chaste kiss to Richie's cheek, causing the boy to blush and look away.

Ben is next, taking the plate that Richie points out to him. The stout boy grins, saying "You cook? And Bev's been hiding you this whole time? Damn selfish, that girl. Thank you, Tozier!" before standing on his tiptoes and pressing a kiss to the same spot that Beverly's lips previously just were.

Richie looks over at Bill in confusion, but the boy only shrugs with a smug smile on his face.

Richie turns back around to face the line, now being met with Mike, who is already holding his vegetarian plate. He grins as he kisses Richie's cheek, the boy getting nothing but teeth against the side of his face. It still feels like sunshine being forced into his pores.

Then Stan, beautiful Stan, steps up to Richie with precise movements. He looks down at the omlettes, inspecting them with a keen eye. "You poison them, doofus?"

"Only yours," Richie slides the plate made for Stan across the counter, biting his lips as he waits for approval. He tried to be as neat as possible, tried to fold the omelette with exact lines so that he would not make Stan feel the discomfort that comes with asymmetry.

Stan narrows his eyes at it for a moment, then grants his approval by nodding. "I expect nothing less than arsenic, you monster."

Then Stan leans up and lightly presses his lips to the side of Richie's jaw, the kiss gentle and sweet as opposed to the rest of their friends. Richie feels the words ghost against his skin, the words that don't have to be spoken to be said. It's a goodbye kiss above all else, a goodbye to their short-lived romantic friendship. Neither of the two will necessarily miss it, no, not when they've come to terms with what they were ultimately trying to avoid each time they would kiss each other. Stan would kiss Richie to force himself to feel something, anything for another human. Richie would kiss Stan to forget about the way that Eddie's nose would turn up at him each time that Richie proved to be a fuck-up. Now that neither of the two are hiding, all that's necessary is a goodbye kiss. Stan gives that to him, softly, and then it's done and over with. That chapter of the book is finally closed.

"Move along, S-Stan," Bill smiles, "M-My t-turn."

"Ah, yes, the co-pilot of the kitchen?" Stan raises his brows at Bill, giving a mini salute before following Mike to the dining room. The grandfather clock in the foyer strikes six am, and Richie wonders if any of the kids, albeit Mike, would ever wake up this early if they were alone.

Bill takes the second to last plate, avoiding the omelette shaped like a heart. He knows not to claim what's not his. However, he will smile at Richie, and say "G-Good job, captain. You d-d-deserve those k-kisses."

"Do I?" Richie rubs his cheek in embarrassment. Sure, he gets Stan's, but everyone else? Richie isn't deserving of anything.

"We luh-luh-love you, T-Trashmouth," Bill takes a step forward and gently kisses Richie's sharp cheekbone. "Don't forget t-that."

Richie smiles down at the floor, rubbing the back of his neck. "I won't, Bill. Go. I'm gonna go wrangle the hypochondriac."

"Go g-g-get him, t-tiger," Bill smiles, then leaves to join the rest of his friends feasting in the dining room.

Richie stands in shock for a moment, letting the love and acceptance wash over his skin for a moment. Even Stan's goodbye kiss felt like a new beginning, like the page has been turned and all the ink smudges have been erased from the side of his hand.

Richie quickly shakes his head and knows to move fast, or else Eddie's food will grow cold. He heads down the creaky steps to Bill's basement, his body eager to see Eddie's messy bedhead and sleepy freckles.

"Eds?" Richie calls out, stepping over empty sleeping bags to locate the boy. A light is cast down the hallway, so Richie slowly moves to the direction of the bathroom. "Hey, Eddie, you decent? I made breakfast for you if you want it."

"Breakfast?" He hears, Eddie's head poking out from the bathroom doorframe. Richie's heart blooms at the sight, an instant ease coming over his mind.

"Yeah," Richie comes to stand in the doorway, looking down at Eddie's sweater and pajama bottoms. Cute boy. "Omelettes. You like omelettes? I can make you something else, if you wish."

"I like omelettes," Eddie nods with a laugh. The faint smell of toothpaste has left traces in the bathroom, lingering on all the pill bottles that Eddie has lined up and ready to be taken. It seems he's about halfway through, half a dozen pills have the cap tightly secured on. "You got up early. How'd you sleep?"

"Decent," Richie shrugs, staring down at Eddie with comfort. He feels comfortable here, just comfortable. Not bursting with love and compatibility, just pure comfort. "Kinda uncomfortable. This cute boy was digging his elbow into my ribs all night, but yknow, I'll suck it up."

Eddie smiles bashfully and hits Richie's chest, turning to resume his pill taking. "Idiot. You could've moved me, you know."

Richie leans against the doorframe, admiring the boy fondly. He would never move Eddie, never. Even when his elbows dig in, even when his hair tickles, even when his knee presses into places where the sun doesn't shine. He'll never move Eddie, because he finds comfort in the discomfort.

Eddie swallows down his last pill, gulping and sighing with the ease of someone who has done this a million times before. He gathers them back into his bag, carefully zipping it up and slinging the bag over his shoulder. His hazel eyes travel upwards to meet Richie's expression, a small smile on his face.

"Do you still like me?" Eddie asks.

Richie's smirk falls, nerves immediately biting at his fingertips. "W-What? Yes? ...Am I not supposed to?"

"Just making sure," Eddie stands on his tiptoes and grabs Richie by the front of his shirt. Despite this now being the third time that Eddie has pulled Richie down to his height, the taller of the pair still feels surprised and caught off guard by the shorter's bold moves. Eddie presses his lips to Richie's cheek, kissing right along the curve of his face where freckles hide deep under his skin. He boosts himself up a little further and kisses Richie again, his hand settling on the side of the boy's neck. He goes in for a third kiss, this time, bravely smooching the cusp of Richie's jaw.

When he bounces back down, Richie is breathless. He feels like a stuttering, blushing mess, his clothes suddenly feeling way too hot to be wearing. He asks, "D-Did Bev tell you to do that?"

Eddie tilts his head to the side in curiosity, then shakes it. "No? Why do you ask?"

Richie blinks in confusion, his mind refusing to believe that Eddie would kiss his cheeks that many times without being prompted to. But then he remembers Eddie's frustrated words, with tears in his eyes, the way he shouted "I reciprocate!"

Perhaps Eddie just genuinely wanted to kiss him.

The idea seems absurd, but... not unattainable.

Richie's hand slides up Eddie's shoulder, combing through the side of the boy's hair. He asks in a nervous, insecure voice, "Can I... Can I return the favor?"

Eddie nods, smiling up at Richie with ripe fruits waiting to be picked nesting in the hollows of his cheeks.

So Richie conquers his fear and anxiety, leaning down to gently press his lips against Eddie's forehead. A soft, delicate kiss, but a sweet one, one with no fear of sentimentality.

Richie looks to Eddie to see if that's okay, and in reply, Eddie only reaches up to clasp his hand over Richie's, holding him there tightly.

"I always did like Elton John just a little bit too much," Eddie smiles. Richie speaks music as his first language, and Eddie knows this. In Richie's cassette tape mind, this translates to a confession of sexuality. Elton John and Eddie Kaspbrak hold the throne for gay men in Richie's heart.

Richie laughs, then shrugs. He returns the indirect confession, now proclaiming his connection with his favorite bisexual musician. "If that's the case, I like Queen an unhealthy amount. What's that say about me?"

"It says you're a hypersexual freak, Richie. You just want one thing from me," Eddie jokingly clicks his tongue, pretending to shame the boy in front of him.

"You got me there, Eds," Richie leans down to scoop the boy up in his arms, turning and carrying him down the hall. Eddie laughs and screams in amusement, pushing on Richie's chest in an attempt to escape. His legs flail helplessly above the floor, and Richie spins the two of them in the center of the basement. "I only want one thing."

Eddie gives up on protesting, instead locking his legs around Richie's waist so that he doesn't slip out of the boy's arms. His legs fasten tightly, and he lets his petite hands rest on Richie's broad shoulders. He can't remember why he was mad at Richie in the first place. "And that is?"

Richie feels the urge to lean forward and properly kiss Eddie, in fact, it's really the only thing he can think of. Maybe Eddie was right, maybe he is a hypersexual freak. But he knows that now is not their time, and that he will take things slowly so he does not mess it up like he is prone to doing. Instead, he settles on letting his nose brush against Eddie's, his forehead resting against the other's.

"I only want your happiness," Richie says truthfully. "Whether or not I'm the one to give it to you, all I want is to know that you are happy."

Eddie's hands tighten as he gathers bundles of cotton material in his fists. He is scared of how hard his heart is pounding, but he craves for this feeling to last forever.

"I think I like Honest Richie," Eddie comments, his hand coming up to cup the boy's cheek. His thumb gently grazes against the apple of Richie's cheek, a fingertip so delicate that Richie nearly mistakes it for a brushstroke. "Then again, I think I like every Richie."

The basement door opens, a clatter of footsteps descending the stairs. In fear of being caught, Richie immediately drops Eddie, and Eddie scrambles backwards to put some distance between them. Ben is the one to greet them, asking if they're ever going to come upstairs, so the two sheepishly follow the chubby boy up to the dining room. Eddie's food is definitely cold, but still. The heart shaped egg makes his chest feel warm enough that he doesn't mind the lukewarm food.

As Mike collects everyone's finished plates, Eddie catches Richie by the sleeve and asks "You're not eating?"

Richie shrugs and remembers the way he saw himself in the mirror last night. Barely a skeleton.

He says, "I already ate, don't worry."

Chapter Text

Be honest.

"Thirteen times," Richie exhales.

"Thirteen? Thirteen?!" Eddie shouts, his hands flying up to the window in preparation to slam it shut. "What the fuck, dude?"

"I wanted to make sure!" Richie defends himself.

"What, make sure he had both tonsils in the back of his throat? You don't accidentally kiss someone thirteen fucking times!" Eddie shouts, his body trembling in anger.

"I don't know, Eds, just let me in, please," Richie pleads, his fingers curled around the windowsill. His gloves have all the tips cut off, giving Eddie a clear view of the blue frostbitten fingers. The snow eats away at Richie, threatening to freeze the boy in a permanent post of begging outside Eddie's window at nine PM.

"You kissed Stanley thirteen times!" Eddie scoffs. "And you want me to let you in and do the same to me?"

"It's cold," Richie's voice is quiet, his heart aching. "Please."

Eddie frowns, glaring down at the boy angrily. He definitely holds the upper hand, and the remainder of their relationship lies solely on what the boy will choose next.

Eddie reaches his arm down to grasp onto Richie's, tugging the boy up through the window with a brute force that nobody would think Eddie is capable of.

Richie stumbles onto Eddie's floor, dusting the snow off of his clothes and quickly shedding his coats off of his body. Eddie shuts the window quickly, his little actions being far more passive aggressive than necessary.

"You were fine with it before," Richie says quietly, his voice jagged around the edges.

"Yeah, before I knew it happened thirteen times! I thought you kissed him, like, once or twice!" Eddie pouts, sitting on the edge of his bed. Richie doesn't dare sit next to him, but instead kneels down in front of the boy and cautiously reaches out to let his hands hover above Eddie's knees. When Eddie doesn't slap his hands away, Richie lets them rest against the soft skin exposed beneath cotton shorts.

"I just want to be honest with you, angel," Richie sighs out. "Please understand that. You... You asked for me to tell you the truth, so I am. All of it."

Eddie lifts his head to look at Richie, his gaze softening up when he meets Richie's vulnerable state. This isn't some joke, not a Richie Tozier gag, but something raw and genuine coming straight from his heart.

"All of it?" Eddie asks, a hopeful tone acting as a silver lining in the cloud of curiosity settling over those three words.

Richie nods, confirming. "Anything you want to know."

"Are you ever going to kiss Stan again?" Eddie asks.

Richie is hit with a realization that comes on stronger than anything he's ever felt before. Eddie isn't mad, he's not angry, and he's definitely not jealous. He's insecure.

"God, no, no, no, baby," Richie shakes his head. "No, of course not. It's you. I really, really like you. Honest."

"Romantically?" Eddie then asks.

Richie's hands slide up to cup Eddie's, their fingers entwining with one another. "Romantically, yes. Only you. Kissing someone doesn't automatically mean romance."

"Like Henry," Eddie says, but there is no accusation in his voice. Just curiosity coming from a boy who is trying to understand the situation as best as he can. "He kissed you, but you didn't feel anything, right?"

"No," Richie shakes his head. "Unfortunately, no. Maybe if I did, he wouldn't have turned out so... so... psychotic."

Eddie squeezes Richie's hand tightly, saying "That is not your fault."

Richie shrugs, clearly not believing him, but neither of the two want to dwell on the subject of Henry Bowers for too long.

"Can I ask you something?" Richie rubs his thumb against all of Eddie's soft knuckles, completely confused by everything going on.

Eddie called the Tozier house around eight, asking Richie to come over once his mom went to sleep. Of course Richie would never turn the offer down, and after their eventful night at Bill's, Richie rode over on a lovesick high fueled by the excitement of what parts of themselves they'll explore tonight. But something happened during the ride to Eddie's, something changed. When Richie knocked on the window, Eddie opened it with a livid expression, immediately demanding to know about the amount of times he had kissed Stan. What Richie did this time, the boy is still unsure. What he does know, however, is that he never wants to make Eddie angry again.

"It's only fair," Eddie nods.

"Your other options," Richie starts out, carefully stepping around his words. "Do you... Do you wish that- uhm."

"I was lying," Eddie shakes his head. Then, he scrunches his face up and says "Well, I mean, Will is a friend, but he's not an option. He's got too much going on to get a boyfriend. His life is like a sci-fi TV show, it's kinda crazy."

Richie blinks.

Eddie pauses for a moment, just observing Richie's face and all his little tiny expressions that he never realizes he's making. Then, he continues, and says "But no. I kinda made that up just to- I don't know. Make you jealous? I guess that's kind of shitty now that I think about it, I'm sorry."

"Kissing Stan Uris thirteen times is shitty," Richie claims.

Eddie bursts into a laugh, one that says everything will be okay. Richie smiles at the heavenly sound, lifting himself off the ground to take a seat on the bed next to Eddie. The two boys smile at each other, breaking into silly chuckles, all for no reason. Just because they can. They see each other, and the overwhelming amount of joy and glee is enough to make them giggle throughout the night.

"Do we have everything out on the table, now?" Richie asks. "All past crushes and romantic prospects out in the open?"

"Right, because I just have so many crushes to tell you about," Eddie laughs again, but then nods. "Yeah. Completely out there. It's nice to trust you, Richie. I don't know if anybody's told you that."

"What do you mean?" Richie leans back on his hand.

"When I tell you things, I know that they're safe. You'll keep all my secrets no matter what, and I think that's why I like you. You're honest, but you're funny, but you're not stupid. A good blend of traits, I think," Eddie explains, his fingers working through Richie's. "It's so nice to just trust you. Even when I'm mad at you, I know you won't tell anybody anything. It's so nice to just... to just like you this much."

Richie's entire body feels moved by those words, the roots of every insult Eddie has passed on in the previous weeks fading away to be replaced by these lovely, wonderful words. Things make sense right now. The world makes sense. Maybe Richie will be okay. It sure feels like it.

Richie gets an idea, one so impulsive that it can't be anything but brilliant. He fumbles around in his coat pockets for a moment before find the crumpled up wad of cash that he has stashed for emergencies. He has approximately twenty three dollars and forty five cents, and as he's smoothing the cigarette burns out of the dollar bills, he gives Eddie an excited, rash, insane look that says he is about to give Eddie the best night of his life.

"Get dressed, Kaspbrak," Richie says matter-of-factly.

"What?" Eddie responds incredulously. "No, you weirdo!"

"Get dressed," Richie pokes and prods at Eddie's thighs. "I'm taking you on an adventure."

"Richie- it's a school night, are you serious? What if my mom comes in here and sees that I'm gone? I can't go 'adventuring' past the curfew. What if the cops catch us? What would we do then?" Eddie fires off a million questions at once, shaking his head and pushing Richie's hands away.

"Then we run, my boy," Richie smiles. He takes Eddie's hand in his, bringing the delicate limb up to press his lips against Eddie's knuckles. "Come with me. Just this once."

Eddie frowns deeply, his eyes fixating on his fish tank as he outweighs the pros and cons. He knows he's going to end up following Richie out the window anyway, so he's not sure why he's even pretending to have this internal struggle, but if they do get in trouble he would feel better if he could say "I didn't want to go with him."

Eddie looks at Richie, the frown deepens, and Richie knows that he's got the green light. Eddie lets out a huff of air, pulling his hand away as he stands up.

"Don't look," Eddie says, sliding his closet door open.

"I won't," Richie shakes his head, but does nothing to cover his eyes. He watches Eddie push hangers aside, fumbling through neatly hung clothes, and finally picking a peach colored polo.

Eddie glances over his shoulder at Richie, sees the boy blatantly staring, and blushes at the prospect of getting undressed in front of someone. Well, not just anyone, because Eddie feels no shame in stripping his clothes off at the quarry on warm Saturdays. But this is different, he's not with his friends in an environment they've made their own, no, he's alone with Richie in a bedroom that the spectacled boy is quickly dominating.

Eddie takes a deep breath and lifts the shirt off of his body, cold air suctioning to his skin like saran wrap. He shivers, quickly sliding the polo on, and then finding a sweater to go over it. Eddie's hair curls against the collar of the shirt, and Richie admires the fans spreading out from the base of the boy's neck. Eddie turns around at that moment and glares at Richie very harshly, his eyes like daggers ready to lunge.

"Don't look!" He pouts.

Richie nods, smiling softly, and says "I'm not."

Eddie holds his stare for a moment longer, and then slowly hooks his fingers in the waistband of his shorts. Once it clicks in Richie's brain what's happening, he finally closes his eyes, letting his palms conceal his glasses in darkness.

Eddie frowns a bit in disappointment, but still quickly changes out of his pajamas and into a pair of khakis. By the time he's got his shoes on, Richie is still covering his eyes, so he nudges the boy by stroking the side of his head. "Hey. You can look now."

Richie moves his hands away from his face and lets his eyes roam up to Eddie's. In the bright light, Eddie can see the way that Richie's pupils shrink against the exposure, but widen at the sight of him, flip flopping back and forth and fighting with one another to stay a certain size.

"I, uh, I hope you don't mind, but, umm," Eddie moves his pillows aside to reveal a windbreaker decorated with neon greens and pinks. Richie lost it weeks ago, he assumed that Stan took it the night they went through Richie's closet. "I've been wearing this around. You left it here, so I, uh... yeah."

Richie watches Eddie slip his arms into the holes, the swishing material swallowing up his petite body. His whole heart trembles at the sight, Eddie now zipping the coat up with precise hands, and Richie feels himself fall in love.

"As long as you're warm," Richie sighs, his breath smothered in nothing but affection. He will give Eddie the skin off his back if the boy asked to wear it, he wouldn't even question it at all.

Richie slides out the window first, landing in the snow with a soft thud. He turns and instructs Eddie on where to put his feet, holding his arms out to catch the boy. Eddie looks down at the drop in fear, his nervous breaths coming out to form clouds in the cold air.

"I'm scared," Eddie says.

The drop is less than six feet.

"You don't have to be," Richie shakes his head. "I'll catch you, I always will."

Eddie gulps and bites his lip, eyeing the snow-mounds piled up around Richie's ankles, and then inspects the boy's outstretched arms to evaluate if the jump is safe or not. It's not, it's really not, and yet...

He jumps anyway.

Richie tries his best to catch him, but the sheer force of a grown 15 year old hurtling down from a window knocks him right off of his feet and he lands flat on his back in the snow.

"Caught you," Richie laughs, his arms wrapped tightly around Eddie's middle. The snow melts through the back of his jacket and threatens to freeze his skin over, but Eddie counters out the cold with the eternal warmth persistently radiating from him.

Eddie reaches up and fixes the glasses that skewed across Richie's face, and says "You caught me a long time ago, Richie Tozier."

The words are simple, yet they hold so much meaning. The boy feels them enter his bloodstream, and he hopes to god that they never leave.

The two ride double on Richie's bike despite the fact that Eddie's is sitting against the porch. The two want an excuse to hold on tightly, and that's exactly what they do. Richie pedals to their mystery destination, the wind chilling the boys to their bones. They feel nothing but the drive to press closer, so Eddie lets his hands grip onto Richie's waist and Richie pushes his back into Eddie's chest just the slightest.

"Where are we going, idiot?" Eddie whispers, his chin tucked over Richie's shoulder. His lips move in hushed dances against Richie's jaw, giving the boy shivers that aren't caused by the cold.

"It's a surprise," Richie responds, nuzzling the side of his head against Eddie's. "You'll see."

Eddie sees. He sees their final destination before Richie can even ride his bike into the parking lot, and that's because of the strobe lights swarming the building with neon parties. The flickering marquee declares in loud, demanding words; COSMIC BOWLING! 10 PM TO 1 AM!

"The hell's cosmic bowling?" Eddie asks, getting off of the bike first so that Richie can lock it in the rack by the doors.

"You've never been?" Richie asks, astonished. "Really? Fuck, you're in for a treat. It's so cool."

"But what is it?" Eddie asks again, rubbing his cold hands together.

Without thinking of it, Richie clasps his hands around Eddie's and attempts to keep them warm. He doesn't think anything of it, just shakes his head and says "Man, you've really lived a sheltered life. The fact that you've never been cosmic bowling should be considered child abuse, dude. Bev for real hasn't taken you guys?"

"I don't know, I'm never out past nine. That's my bedtime," Eddie reminds Richie, blushing furiously at their tangled hands. Richie drops them down, but remains holding onto Eddie by the wrist. He guides the two of them indoors, desperate to be out of the unforgiving cold.

"Oh, so this is your first time sneaking out? And cosmic bowling?" Richie says so smugly that you would assume he's got the ego of an arrogant teenage boy.

"You're my first everything, idiot," Eddie mumbles under his breath. Richie doesn't hear him, he's too busy opening the door to the most chaotic arcade in all of Derry.

This arcade isn't Richie's favorite, so he never bothers coming here. When he does happen to stop by, however, it's usually with Beverly Marsh after their gas station smorgasbords. They always choose lane 13 and hope to compete against the odds of superstition and bad luck, it seems more fun that way.

Richie guides Eddie through the arcade, the busy bodies pressing together and stepping on each other's feet. The lights are UV bulbs, making everything glow a neon brightness. When Richie looks down at their hands, he sees that Eddie's pinky nail is shining a bright pink that he hadn't noticed before now.

"Welcome to the kingdom, Eds," Richie pulls aside a beaded curtain, pushing the shorter boy forward in an encouraging manner. The sounds of chatter and pixelated sound effects is quickly drowned out by the sound of pins colliding and bowling balls crashing against the floor with harsh apologies.

Eddie looks around, taking in the flickering lights and the rotating discoballs giving everything a reflective surface. It seems more like a night club than a bowling alley, so he stays perfectly still until Richie tells him where to go.

"Size eleven," Richie says upon approaching the tired employee at the counter. He looks back, raising his eyebrows at Eddie, then asks "Your shoe size?"

"Oh, six, please," Eddie relays to the employee with a polite smile.

Richie chuckles, then straightens his jacket out and says "Would'ya lookit that, folks. This here young chap's got sixes! My wife's got bigga feet, my boy! You know what they say 'bout small feet, don'tcha?"

"Beep beep, idiot," Eddie punches Richie's shoulder, letting out an embarrassed puff of air. The employee comes back with two pairs of shoes, so Richie smiles and compares their shoe sizes once more before Eddie can pull them off the counter.

"Which lane?" The employee then asks.

Richie stands on his tiptoes to see across the bowling alley, spotting a group of older men using lane 13. Disappointed, he turns to Eddie and says "What'dya say? Which one should we take?"

Eddie looks above each lane nervously, reading the neon, glowing numbers marking each strip. Then, he shrugs, and says "The one on the end?"

"The one on the end," Richie repeats to the employee as if they didn't hear Eddie the first time. The boys are handed a ticket, and Richie slides his crumpled up money over the counter.

"Is that- Is that all your money?" Eddie asks, his hand resting against Richie's arm as he leans over.

"Don't worry about it, Eds," Richie tells him, which in turn, makes him worry about it.

"But I-" Eddie says, only to be cut off by Richie pulling him up into a headlock.

"Don't worry about the finances, Eds. I'm covering this date, which only means that you got the next, right?" Richie rubs his knuckles into the top of Eddie's head playfully while the boy pushes on Richie's stomach to get away.

"Date?" Eddie repeats, lifting his eyes up to look at Richie. "This is a date?"

Richie is handed his change, but he only feels anxiety come from Eddie's words. What if he was too presumptuous? And Eddie doesn't want to go on dates? He shakes this fear, and says "You said it first, my dear. Tonight's a lot of firsts."

And neither say it, but the two of them are both secretly hoping that this night will end in a first kiss.

Chapter Text

Richie rushes down his stairs in a hurry, his hair a mess and flying out in so many different directions. The grandfather clock in the living room tells him he has about three minutes to get to school, so he flies into the kitchen to grab a bottle of water from the kitchen.

He stops in his tracks when he sees what's pinned to the fridge. Another note, another note, another note. He picks it from the magnet, reading over the words with a sour flavor in his mouth that makes him forget about the time.

Richie

Didn't your father tell you to clean your room? Don't make me clean it myself.

You're eating garbage, get some nutrition in your body. Don't spend this money on smokes, or I'll have you eat every cigarette butt I found out in the garden.

Marsh's girl is a bad influence. I'll be talking to Alvin about her shortly.

Richie immediately panics, shaking his head at the prospect of Beverly's father finding out what his daughter has been up to. No, no, god, please no. He'll kill her. It'll be my fault.

Richie turns and spots the money on the counter, quickly pocketing it and moving twice as fast as before. He takes the risk of riding his bike to school, just because he is already running so late and now he needs to talk to Bev more than ever before.

He's going to kill her.

The words won't leave his mind. He has the crumpled up note in his coat pocket, yet it somehow feels like a boulder weighing him down as he rides. The rush hour morning traffic has died down, giving Richie clear access to the roads.

Upon arriving at school, Richie ignores the kids trying to hustle to class, instead checking every single spot that Bev is prone to hide out in. The thing about the feisty redhead is that she has spent her whole life learning how to hide. If she does not want to be found, she will not let you find her. Richie knows this, and it only fuels each curse he makes under his breath as he comes up empty handed once again.

Come on, Bev. Just this once. Come on.

"Hey, Rich!" Richie hears, so he turns on his heel to greet the smiling face in the barren hallway. Ben Hanscom is the next best thing, if anybody is going to know where she is, it's Ben.

"Haystack, thank god," Richie exhales. "Have you seen Bev? I gotta talk to her. She still skips first period, right?"

"I was just on my way to see her," Ben is startled, holding up the hall pass. "She sleeps in the library first period, but she has a test today, so I was going to help her study. You wanna come with?"

"I can't stay long," Richie says, but what he means is I don't want to stay long.

Ben and Richie start their trek through the halls, the taller boy nervously fumbling with his hands in his pockets. He shifts around restlessly, his nerves only making it so much harder for him to control what he has often considered to be ADHD or something along the same vein. On impulse, Richie suddenly decides that he absolutely cannot see Beverly's face right now. Not after handing her this note, not after skipping their gas station meet ups, not after failing to tell her about kissing Stan, not after anything he has put her through. He realizes he's a bad friend, a terrible one, actually, and his legs begin to itch with the desire to run.

"Here, I gotta go, actually," Richie says quickly, turning to Ben and digging the note out of his pocket. "I just remembered I have a test too. I gotta go. Can you give this to her? Tell her I love her?"

"What is it, a suicide note?" Ben jokes, taking the paper and carefully sliding it into his top pocket.

Richie's mouth forces a smile as he says "Something like that. I'll see you 'round, Haystack. Take care of her."

Ben's grin drops as he watches Richie walk away. Something about the choice of words and how they were said just makes Ben feel wrong, as if he will never see Trashmouth again. He decides he's overthinking and shakes his head, turning the opposite direction to continue making his way to the library.

Richie doesn't go to his first period, no, he heads to the locker room and changes in the eerie silence of the basement space. He knows that everybody will be choosing to stay inside to play dodgeball, but for the girls who never like to participate, the track field remains open all year round. Richie tightens his shoe laces, his legs bouncing uncontrollably just to make it that much worse for him.

He heads up to the gym and tries to blend in with the class of seniors, moving about the bodies until he reaches the exit. Once he's outside, he feels the spring in his step turn to electricity, as if his feet will be shocked if they are to stay in one spot for too long.

So he runs. He runs until his lungs catch fire and his blood pumps battery acid, and then he runs some more. Richie feels the cold start to decay as the sun slowly rises up over the trees surrounding their school, and the warmer it gets, the faster he runs. These laps seem to be the only thing keeping him here right now, and the boy is afraid of everything catching up to him if he were to suddenly stop. Keep running. Keep running, or you will surely die.

"Slow it down, would'ya?" A voice bursts next to him.

Richie jumps, nearly tumbling over his feet in surprise. His eyes snap over to Stanley jogging along side him, huffing and puffing with each step. Richie glances down and notices that Stan's legs aren't as long, so he's trying to overcompensate the height difference by taking exhausting strides. Richie slows down.

"What are you doing here?" Richie asks in confusion.

"Me? I have gym class, you know, I'm actually where I'm supposed to be," Stan remarks, feeling much better now that Richie is running at a regular pace. "Where are you supposed to be, and why are you not there?"

Richie glances down at his watch and sees that four hours have gone by. Four hours. With the reminder of how long it's been, his brain finally registers the pain in his sore legs. Oh, god. Where did he go? Did he just check out of his mind for four hours? What was he even thinking about for such a long time?

"I'm supposed to be in math," Richie says between breaths, "I felt like running instead."

"Alright," Stan nods, then watches Richie's posture for a second. His ankles buckle with each step that they take, and his knees wobble threateningly. He knows Richie must have been running for awhile now, but how long? "Do you feel like walking?"

Richie shakes his head, picking up the pace a bit but not leaving Stan stranded in the dust. The boy reaches out and grabs Richie's elbow, practically forcing him to stay down. "Take it easy, Tozier. You'll kill yourself."

There it is again. Richie thinks, The second time someone has alluded to suicide. Are they trying to tell me something?

"N-No," Richie pulls back on his arm. He has to run faster. The thoughts are starting to catch up.

"Yes," Stan says more firmly this time, tugging on Richie and not giving him a choice. Richie is going to walk at a casual speed with Stan, there's no other option. "Fucking calm down, freak."

"Sorry," Richie nods, huffing and puffing as if he hasn't breathed in hours. God, was I even breathing? How am I not dead?

"How are things with Eddie?" Stan asks. Not out of curiosity, but just so that he can get Richie talking about something he loves, hopefully to drag the boy out of his own head.

"I think he hates me," Richie deadpans. "I told him everything about us and he was mad."

"Oh? That's not what I heard," Stan shakes his head, wrapping his arms around himself to protect himself from the cold. He hates the Derry High School sweatpants, but they're better than wearing the gym shorts during the winter. "He was ecstatic this morning when Bill and I spoke to him. Says he's never had more fun in his life."

"Really?" Richie's head perks up, and Stan can practically see the boy receding from his cave. "He said that?"

"Mhm," Stan nods. "He told us about how you guys went bowling. It was his first time, so he was pretty excited about that. He said you paid and everything."

"I did, yeah," Richie nods, the slightest of smiles tickling onto his face. "He really enjoyed himself?"

"Would I lie to you?" Stan scoffs. Then, he says "He's not upset about us kissing. Are you?"

Richie thinks for a moment, trying to consider what things would be like had he never kissed Stan the night they all went camping. He wonders if him and Eddie would be closer, but he knows that's not realistic. The truth is that they would still be in this exact same position, but Richie would be about ten steps backwards in his development due to inexperience with his feelings. "No. You're pretty integral to me, dude. Helped me figure shit out, helped me experiment and realize who and what I really want. So thanks for that, I would do it over again if given the chance."

Stan is quiet for a moment, not because he doesn't have anything to say, but because there is nothing that needs to be said. Stan is quiet, he's understanding. It's why the two get along so well.

"I love you," Richie says first.

Stan lifts his head in surprise, automatically waiting for the chorus of laughter to erupt from the taller one like a can of snakes. But no snakes come, no laughter either. Richie is completely serious.

"How come?" Stan responds.

Richie flinches away, lifting his shirt up to wipe some of the sweat off of his forehead. "Do I need a reason?"

Stan shrugs and says "No, was just wondering what provoked it. I love you too."

"Really?" Richie asks.

Stan will never get tired of reassuring him with the validation he needs. He understands that Richie spent his whole life being denied of that, so if Stan needs to repeat himself until Richie believes it, he will. That's what best friends do.

"Yeah, you're a lot better than what the rumors say. You're pretty cool for a trashmouth," Stan shrugs again, then smiles. "Besides, what kind of psychopath would fall on his own sword just to protect my nonexistent sexuality?"

Richie laughs, then feels startled by the sound. He puts a hand on his chest as if he's not sure where it came from, but still finds it in himself to say "I'm so glad we could use each other like cheap whores."

Stan rolls his wrist as he waves Richie off, but the smirk on his face is obvious.

Richie has only said I love you to three people in his life.

The first was muttered under an oak tree, clumsy words getting more scraped up than his knees. He was ten years old, the boy who he had confessed to was twelve. They were carving curse words into the tree outside Henry's house, winded and breathless from all the running they just got done doing. They were planning to go into town to get ice cream later, but for now, Richie used Henry's knife to carve the word FUCK into the bark with delicate precision. Henry was standing over his shoulder, laughing gently, ruffling Richie's hair. They both were beaten up from rough housing that morning, but the cuts on his knees stung in the most beautiful way. He gave the knife to Henry, and Henry did not carve a curse word at all. He carved his initials, and then Richie's initials right below it. Richie turned to him and said "I love you, dude." Henry Bowers smiled and said "Who doesn't?" Five months later, the two would share their first kiss, and Richie would get his face beaten in for loving Henry.

The second was not as clumsy, and it did not end or result in violence. The words were spoken to Beverly Marsh, the girl in his gym class who had been making fun of the teacher with him all semester. They were standing in the middle of Blue's, it was Richie's first time ever stepping foot inside of the vintage record store. Beverly's hair was down to her waist at this point, and she had flipped some of the glowing sun rays off of her shoulder, turned to Richie, and said "Come on. I'll show you where the good music is." Richie followed her blindly in complete awe of the entire shop. They had cases upon cases of vinyl, record players with state of the art surround sound, and psychedelic posters for bands like The Who and Rolling Stones. Richie was in heaven. Beverly had brought him to heaven. The girl flipped through a shelf of tapes, then turned to Richie and said "Here. I think you'll like this." and handed him his first AC/DC tape. He looked at her and said with as much honesty as he was capable of, "I love you, Beverly Marsh." She only smiled her little knowing smirk, the one he would always get in response to that phrase no matter how or when he tells her that he loves her. She never said it back.

Now, for the third time, he uttered the words aloud because he felt as if he absolutely needed to let Stan know of the fact. Despite their kisses, the love is not romantic. Nothing between them has ever been romantic, not really. They were just two curious kids who felt safe with one another, it makes sense that they would test out all of their curious thoughts with one another. Stan was merely the trial run, and now Eddie is the real deal. That's clear now.

Richie told Stan he loves him, and Stan has said it back. For the first time, Richie has heard it be reciprocated. He no longer feels like he has to run.

"Hey, Rich," Stan then asks. "Your parents home yet?"

The happiness does not last long. Richie looks over at Stan in fear, coming to a complete halt in movements. His brain screams at him to run, sending all the right messages to his muscles, yet his feet seem to be cemented to the ground. He stares at Stan with shaky eyes, the boy trembling in the December wind.

"Hey, come on, it's alright," Stan gathers him up for a hug. "We'll figure something out. I'll talk to my parents, we don't have to go to the police, okay?"

Richie collapses in the boy's toothpick arms, his body folding in like a house of cards. The sobs aren't loud, they're silent and rehearsed. Richie has perfected the art of making his problems as insignificant as possible so that people don't have to worry about him, but Stan's different. They all are. The whole damn group of misfits are different from any other people he's ever met.

Stan frowns when he realizes the severity of the situation. Sure, Richie's parents have been gone for a couple weeks. But as the boy cries in Stanley's arms without a single concern about whether or not other students see him crying only makes Stan realize... What if they don't come back?

"I'm warning you, though," Stan strokes the back of Richie's unruly hair. "You might have to convert to Judaism."

Even though he is a complete wreck, he is still Richie Tozier, and he still somehow manages to find the energy in him to say "I'm on an all-ass diet, is that kosher?"

Stan laughs and pushes the boy away, then pulling him back in to give him a tighter hug. He says, "You're disgusting, Richie Tozier."

Richie smiles and buries his face into the side of Stan's neck, quietly whispering "Thank you, Stan."

"For?"

"I don't think I would be able to tell Eddie these things."

Stan pulls away to look Richie in the eye, then says "You should. He wants to keep you safe, Rich. Let him in every once in awhile."

Richie nods as he wipes his wet cheeks away, cleaning himself up with the help and support of his friend. He tries to remember what he did before befriending all of these kids, but he can't remember. Whenever he spoke to Bev about these issues, she would just commiserate with something so much worse than what Richie said that he feels like nothing but a complete asshole. But now, when he's sad, all he has to do is reach his arm out in front of him and he will end up touching someone willing to help him.

"Do you want to go bird watching this weekend?" Richie asks hopefully.

"Birdwatching?" Stan chuckles. "Look around, goof. There's eight inches of snow blanketing over this town. All the birds migrated down south for the winter, dummy."

Richie smiles and says "Oh, right. Sorry. Hey, when springtime comes around, you wanna come over and help me set up bird feeders in the garden? Then you can come over all the time..."

Richie trails off, realizing just how presumptuous his question was. Who's to say that he will still be loved in a few months time? Spring seems like it's light years away, there's no way to tell if they'll still be friends when April showers drown the town in sorrows.

"I'd like that, yeah," Stan smiles. The two boys begin casually walking once more, the track treading beneath their feet. "We can see more tits."

"You're not seeing anything, my dear boy," Richie laughs, elbowing Stan's side. "So you're for real about that? You don't want any action?"

"No, not really," Stan pushes his arm away. "Is that a problem?"

"No, not at all," Richie adjusts his glasses, saying "I'm just curious about how it works, that's all."

"There's nothing to 'work'. I'm happy and content being with myself, and I have no desire to copulate with another person, regardless of gender or orientation," Stan nods surely as if he's practiced this in his head.

"What about Bill? Last I checked you had a massive raging boner over him and his perfection," Richie nudges him again.

"Yeah, and then I stuck my tongue down your throat, you weirdo," Stan laughs. "Like I said, I can recognize beauty without being attracted to it. Bill's a cool dude, damn near perfect human specimen, but don't we all look up to him in a way?"

Richie remembers the way that Bill had held his hand at the quarry, and how he did not feel afraid at all in that moment. Bill has this sort of magnetism around him that just makes him so... so much like a home. He thinks that all of the Losers feel that, not just him and Stan. There have been moments when Eddie clings to his side, or Mike looks to him for advice. They all look up to Bill in a sort of way that elevates his role as leader of the group.

"Eddie once told me that he thinks it's amazing how we came up with the concept of love," Richie tells Stan, carefully recounting the way the flowers smelled that morning they walked to school together. Eddie didn't reek of his usual sterile hospitals, he smelled of Richie's coconut shampoo. "We're designed to reproduce, and yet we built a society based around courting to impress one another. Humans invented romance, and that's just... that's so cool, you know? And it's so cool that some people aren't born to reproduce. Some people just want to love, with no family. Some people don't. Some people find their partners within themselves. Eddie told me that he doesn't care if he doesn't get married or have a family, he just wants to experience romance at least once so that he can just be in love. Isn't that so cool?"

"Well, how does it feel?" Stan asks.

Richie gives him a skeptical look and says "How does what feel?"

"To be his romance?"

Richie bursts into a grin so wide that he can't even remember why he was freaking out this morning. Stan is right, he really is giving Eddie that experience. He hopes Eddie is falling in love the exact same way that he is, because he wants to be able to give that boy all the validation and serotonin that his brain may require. He doesn't care if he never receives more than a blink from Eddie Kaspbrak's heavenly eye, that doesn't matter. What matters is making sure that he is loved, no matter what.

But that's not the case, is it? Because Eddie gives him more than just blinks, he gives Richie his hands to hold and Hello Kitty bandaids to plaster over wounds. Eddie gives Richie more than the boy could ever ask for, and that feeling is so entirely ethereal that it doesn't feel like it came from this world.

"It feels fucking incredible," Richie exhales.

There's no doubt that Richie's fourth "I love you," will be said to Eddie Kaspbrak, but the date and setting is still undecided, and that's the beauty in it. There's no way of telling when or where it will happen, because it truly could be at any moment, but Richie knows it will be him. It's undeniable. Though, there is no need to rush. The two boy's have the rest of their lives to experience this romance to the fullest, and that's what Richie intends to do. It's undeniably, indisputably, completely and utterly Eddie. Always Eddie.

However, this one will be different. It won't be a platonic "I love you," like every other person has gotten, no, it will be worded just slightly differently.

Richie's fourth "I love you" isn't going to be an I love you at all. It's going to be an "I'm in love with you."

The difference between the two sentences is vast and neverending.

Chapter Text

"What are you going to do?" Bev asks, her voice gentle and cautious.

Richie resembles a wounded animal. Prey tend to have a two track thought process when they're wounded; fight or flight. Richie might as well be an injured gazelle facing this question; what is he going to do?

Fight or flight?

"Enough about me, what about you?" Richie asks her, his hands shaking as he lights his fourth cigarette. "Has she called him yet?"

"No. He doesn't know," Bev shakes her head, strands of her honeysilk hair curling around her spotted cheeks. Freckles have a new meaning to Richie now that he's learned to love them. Though, the stars patterned on Bev's cheeks aren't nearly as beautiful as the constellations etched into Eddie's skin. "If he does, he's hiding it."

Richie bites the inside of his cheek and then takes a long drag of his cigarette. The two sit under the streetlight, their bikes collapsed on the sidewalk behind them, their favorite gas station taunting them from across the street. The note from Richie's mother lays on the wet asphalt in front of them, the snow melting through the paper and making the inked words bleed with truth.

Bev had called Richie's house and asked him to meet her there. They haven't been to the laundromat in weeks, not since Richie went and made things weird between them. But she needed to see him, they needed to talk. The note that Ben gave her this morning has been haunting her all day. She needs to share these ghosts with the only other person threatened by the danger she's being put in.

"He'll ground me," Bev says quietly. "I'll be home all the time."

"I'm sorry," Richie says. He shakes his head, his fist crumbling the cigarette. "I'm so fucking sorry. This is all my fault."

"Are you seriously trying to blame yourself for having shitty parents?" She scoffs, then asks "What, is it my fault too that my dad is such a creep? Should I cover myself up more?"

Richie winces and looks away, shaking his head. "No, that's not your fault. This is mine. They don't- They- I don't know, Bev. Maybe if I was normal, they would understand me better. I think... I think that's what the issue is. They just don't understand me, so they don't even try to," he mumbles in a low, tired voice.

When Bev and Rich first became friends, he had a shrill, piercing tone, a mouth that would not stop running, and a brain that couldn't keep up. She called him "Roadrunner" for the first half of their friendship, and that's where beep beep had stemmed from. Now, she can't remember the last time she had to use it more than once a month. Richie sure has changed throughout the course of a year, he's now weighed down by the neglect and constant shunning from everyone. Not just his parents, but the teachers in Derry who will ignore his questions during lectures because they've cast him as the class clown and assume everything he's got to say is just one big joke.

Bev reaches over to hold Richie's hand, tightly squeezing the fingers that were once so familiar to her. They're different now, they've touched so many people since the last time she held them. His fingertips have redesigned the prints to be an entirely new person, but she won't give up. Her Richie is in there somewhere, she knows it. If she has to learn the ups and downs of this new Richie as well, she will. She'll do anything it takes.

"I'm sorry," Bev says, followed by "I don't think I do, either. And don't give me that bullshit, Richie. I mean it. I don't think I understand you either."

"But you try," he tightens his grip on her hand like he's lost sight of the one person in his life to truly give a shit. "You try over and over again. I'm thankful."

"I'm not the only one," she shakes her head. "The others want to try as well. You're not alone, Richie. Not anymore."

"The others?" Richie lifts his head up to look at her. The light illuminates his face for a moment, showing her his cherry red nose freezing over in the winter cold. "Eddie?"

"Yeah," she nods. "Eddie asks me stuff about you. They all do."

"Like what?" Richie scoffs. He can't imagine a single thing about himself worth wondering about, it's not as if he's interesting or anything. Everything about Richie is on the surface, it doesn't get much deeper than bad humor and blatant insecurity.

"Well, Eddie asks me what to do when you're upset. He seems really concerned about that, he wants to help. Mike asks what to do when you get that little impulsive light behind your eyes. Apparently you make him nervous when you guys hang out. Bill asks about what kind of things you like to do for fun, you know, just normal stuff," she shrugs casually. "It just makes sense, y'know. I've known you the longest."

"I had no idea," Richie lights another cigarette. Bev gave him a new pack, and he's about to go through the whole thing in one sitting to make up for lost time. "I-I didn't think they cared that much."

"Are you kidding? They love you, idiot. Ben wants to make a D&D character for you," she scoffs. "Stop thinking so lowly of yourself, Richie. We love you."

Richie smiles, then hides his mouth with the back of his hand. He wants to say he's blushing because of the mention of Eddie, but they both know that's not true. It's because... people care.

"I don't know what I'm going to do," he laughs, chuckling to himself. "I really have no idea."

Bev cracks a smile at the sound of his harmonious chuckles. It isn't often that Richie laughs, usually because he's the one dealing the jokes, but something about the sound paired with such absurd words makes her grin with him.

"It's not funny," she says, but a giggle punctuates the end of her sentence anyway.

"I know," Richie laughs, taking his glasses off to press his palms into his eyes. "It's really, totally fucked, isn't it?"

The two burst into hysterical laughter, doubled over and holding their stomachs that ache with joy. Bev drapes over Richie's arm, clutching his shoulder tightly and trying to regain composure. Any time one of them manages to calm down, they'll look at the other one and completely lose it all over again.

It feels like mending. It feels like the last few weeks being erased and rewritten, like the two are just as close as they've always been. They're faced with quite possibly the worst scenario, yet they both find refuge in the absurdity and allow themselves to just be kids and laugh. It's important to remember how vital laughter is when you're both facing shitty parents.

"But seriously, ToTo," she finally calms down, wiping tears from her eyes and tugging on his jacket sleeve. When Richie lifts his eyes to hers, she says "What are you gonna do?"

He says the first thing that comes to his mind. "I'm going to tell Eddie that I want to go steady. Seems like the only thing that makes sense right now."

Beverly doesn't look surprised, but then again, nobody is oblivious to the fond eyes that the two boys share with one another. It's obvious by the way that Richie shares his music with Eddie and Eddie alone, and it's painfully apparent by the way that Eddie stares at Richie whenever the boy is not looking. The only time the losers have ever been shocked was by the truth that spilled out during truth or dare that exposed Richie as Stan's first kiss. They were all certain that the night would end in Eddie confessing to Richie, but the game was cut short after that terrible confession that left them all so confused. But now Richie admits it, and Bev only nods in support.

"Sometimes, that's all you've got," she shrugs. "Don't get me wrong, you're a great friend, but I'd go mental without Ben. There's something... so special about taking friendship to such a deeper level."

"Is he your best friend?" Richie asks, though he doesn't feel victimized. If Ben is Beverly's best friend, then he will genuinely feel so happy for the two and their endless trust.

"Yeah, I think so," she nods. "I'd like to say that either you or Bill are my best friends, but it's really Ben. I tell that kid everything."

"I'm glad," Richie nods. "Honesty is important."

He remembers how Stan held him by the side of the face and told him that he should let Eddie into his mind. He thinks that is a little more than true, and Richie craves to have what Beverly and Ben have. Best friends, but leveled up like the video games that Richie plays at the arcade. He wants his name to be the top score in Eddie's heart, and he's got to start with telling him the truth more often. He can't keep dumping all his issues onto Stanley or Beverly. Sure, they're trustworthy and they do offer genuine advice and reassurance, but they're not Eddie. Ultimately, at the end of the day, that's all Richie ever wants.

The two finally gather up their money to go into the gas station, stepping on the note from his mother as they go. They eat and enjoy their time together, the empty laundromat feeling as much like a home as detention halls do. They don't worry about Richie's parents or what Alvin will do when he finds out Beverly has been hanging out with a bunch of boys, they merely enjoy themselves while they're still free. Who knows when the next time that'll be?

As Richie rides his bike home, the frozen slush slapping his pant cuffs and soaking his bony ankles, he starts to think of Eddie and everything that he has learned. He really does need to be more honest, and not just about how many times he's kissed someone. Honest about everything.

So Richie turns left instead of right on Witcham street, his bike carrying him to one of those safe places his heart has determined as an additional home. It's funny how therapeutic it feels, how things may be falling apart, but it's all okay, because he will be seeing Eddie soon.

Richie props his bike against the side of the Kaspbrak house, tiptoeing around the back to where Eddie's window is located. The light is off, but that's no surprise, it's nearly one AM. Eddie went to sleep long ago, but that's not stopping Richie from hauling himself up to the window sill, pushing the window open as best as he can with one arm. Eddie's room is dark and blackened, so he doesn't see the curtains obscuring his entrance until it's too late.

Richie Tozier makes an entrance louder than a damn circus.

"Holy fuck!" Eddie immediately shouts, shooting up in bed and backing himself into the corner.

The curtains get stuck beneath Richie's weight, the whole entire rod pulling away from the wall and crashing down between the nightstand and desk. Pill bottles clatter around and roll off of their flat surfaces, books falling from the shelf, and Eddie's fish tank tilting off of it's stand from such a dull force offputting everything in the room by a few inches.

"Richie, is that you? What the fuck! What the fuck are you doing here, you fucking idiot?" Eddie drops his defensive stance when the dark figure sits up. The moon catches on the side of his face and shows Eddie these big eyes and a lovesick grin. "You fucking dumbass, you broke my god damn curtain rod! You could have killed yourself! Are you a fucking moron?"

Eddie stands up, helping the boy off the floor and turning him towards the window to inspect his face for any obvious wounds. Just as he declares Richie as safe, the two hear plump footsteps coming down the hall.

"Eddie bear? What was that noise, honey?" Mrs. Kaspbrak calls down the hall, her voice right outside the door.

Eddie's eyes widen and he looks around in panic, trying to figure out where the hell to hide Richie so that his mother won't have a heart attack. He glances back towards the open window, and Richie immediately shakes his head, pulling away from Eddie.

Eddie panics, dragging the boy to the foot of his bed and throwing his closet door open, shoving him in and pressing a finger to Richie's mouth. Just as he slams the door shut, Eddie's bedroom opens up, and the infamous mother makes her entrance.

Richie is shrouded in darkness, surrounded by the overwhelming smell of medicine and bleached clothes. His hand comes up to touch the shirts hanging beside him, the cotton well-worn and loved by Eddie's heavenly body, and Richie feels jealous.

Through the door, he can hear Sonia say "What on earth was that noise? Are you alright? What happened? Are you hurt?"

"N-No," Eddie shakes his head. "I had a nightmare, that's all, momma. I fell out of my bed. I must've pulled my curtains down too."

"Another nightmare, Eddie?" She asks, then says "Oh, what if you have a concussion! Dear, you cannot go back to bed! What if the curtain rod hit you and gave you a contusion?"

"I'm okay," Eddie persists. "Can you turn the light off? I want to go back to sleep. I have school tomorrow."

"But dear-" she says, only to get caught off by an impatient son.

"I'm really okay, mom, I feel fine! I'm tired," Eddie sounds exasperated. Richie presses his palm against the door, knowing that his boy is just on the other side. He knows that Eddie isn't ashamed of him, so he's not trying to hide Richie. This is just how things need to be in order for them to safely love each other. Richie has a feeling that he will be spending a lot of time in closets for the rest of his life.

"Oh, dear, why is your window open?" Footsteps tread across the floor, and then the sound of Eddie's window sliding shut and being locked penetrates the closet door. "You could catch a cold. You don't want that, now do you?"

"No m'am," Eddie says obediently. "Thank you."

"Of course, Eddie bear. Now you get some sleep, okay? I love you," Sonia sighs. Richie is sure that she does, but she loves him too much. That's the problem.

"I love you too, mommy," Eddie says, making Richie smile. He contains his laughter for the sake of their safety, but it sure proves to be hard.

After Sonia leaves the room, the two wait for a couple moments, before Eddie finally says "Okay. Come out, idiot."

Richie opens the door, stepping back into the room and saying "I like boys."

Eddie rolls his eyes at the awful "coming out" joke that Richie just made, but still stands on his knees at the end of the mattress to be eye-level with him. Eddie wraps his arms around Richie's shoulders and pulls him forward in a tight hug, pressing his lips to the side of Richie's head. "Nuh uh. Correction; you like one boy."

"Oh, how could I be so ignorant? Forgive me, lord Kaspbrak," Richie shakes his head at Eddie's stubbornness, yet he lets his hands settle on Eddie's waist as he says "You're entirely right. I do like a singular boy."

Eddie smiles.

"Freddie Mercury," Richie deadpans.

Eddie frowns.

"I'll kick you out," Eddie threatens, though the words hold no meaning. "I mean it, trashmouth. I'll kick you right out into the dead of the night."

"You wanna break my heart while you're at it?" Richie asks, nuzzling his nose into Eddie's neck, kissing a particularly prominent freckle.

"Hmm," Eddie pretends to ponder it for a moment, then laughs at Richie's mouth tickling him, and pushes the boy away. "No can do, looks like you're stuck with me cherishing you."

Eddie falls back onto the mattress, the blue limelight of the tank glowing on all his best features. Richie crawls over him, hovering over the boy just to get a good angle of his face. Eddie's hands slide up Richie's chest and clench onto the fabric of his t-shirt, smiling up at the dark-haired one so sleepily.

"Guess so," Richie smiles smugly. "What a shame. I'll truly be miserable spending my whole life with you."

"Is that what you want?" Eddie then asks, tilting his head to the side. His bedhead looks so entirely cute in this moment, but then again, Richie truly thinks everything about this boy is just adorable.

"Possibly," Richie shrugs, then remembers honesty. "If you let me."

Eddie smiles so hard that two dimples make an appearance in his cheeks. It's the first that Richie has ever seen them, so they take him by quite the surprise when they dip in. He didn't think it was possible to find more perfect details about Eddie, but these dimples certainly just proved him wrong.

"I guess we'll have to wait and see where life takes us, then," Eddie comments, tugging on Richie's shirt so that the boy will lie down.

Richie does so without hesitation, laying on his side and pressing his back against Eddie. The smaller boy rolls over and wraps his arm around Richie, pulling him in close and letting the tip of his nose connect with Richie's neck. It feels so, so, so entirely safe, so lovely, and so... content. That's what it is; it's content. For once in his life, Richie feels entirely at peace. Everything will be alright in this moment. For as long as Eddie holds him, the world will be okay. He truly believes it.

"My parents don't understand me," Richie whispers. The last thing he wants is for Sonia to hear voices and catch the boys canoodling like this. Eddie listens, pulling the blankets up over themselves. When Richie doesn't continue, he gently rubs the boy's lanky arm as a form of encouragement, which seems to work out for him. Richie continues, opening up and saying "I don't think they ever did. I think I have, like, ADHD, or Tourette's Syndrome or something. I wasn't... a regular kid because of this. And I wasn't supposed to be born, by the way. I was the result of a drunk prom hookup, so I think that's another reason why they don't like me. But... they haven't ever left me on my own before. Not until now. Sometimes they'd go on vacation or spend a weekend away in Bangor, but they always came home after a week. They always left money. I always had a babysitter."

"And now?" Eddie asks.

"And now I don't think they're coming back," Richie whispers. He wants to reject the words coming out of his mouth, but Stan is right. He needs to let Eddie know these things if they are to ever start a proper relationship. "They're still in town, though, so I don't think it counts as abandonment. They leave me notes and stuff. I don't know, man. I don't know what to do."

Eddie listens carefully, not interjecting with the little comments he wants to make. He knows Richie has to get everything out on the table before he starts talking, or else the boy will shut down and fail to divulge any other information. Bev told Eddie this, she said it's better to know now than have to learn the hard way. She says it's because Richie feels like what he has to say is never actually important.

"Sometimes I feel like you all hate me. I know that's irrational, but something in my brain tries its best to convince me that is a legitimate statement. And then the logic section of me gets angry with that, and then my brain is at war with itself. I never feel like I'm good enough to be hanging out with you. I don't like my jokes, but they're all I have. I'd rather have shitty humor than no personality, or worse, only be defined by my evident insecurity. Oh, that too. I'm insecure about everything, if you haven't already noticed. Really. Everything. Just now, when I was in the closet, I felt jealous of your clothes because they get to live on your body in more intimate ways than I will ever be. I only know, like, three songs by David Bowie. Sometimes I feel like Stan hates me for no reason. I'm failing math, no, wait, you already know that. I hate lemon flavored foods, and I love the feeling of-"

"Richie," Eddie exhales with a laugh. His breath ghosts against the base of Richie's neck, his lips pressed to the boy's spine. "You don't have to tell me everything just yet. We've got forever to figure it out, okay?"

"Okay," Richie nods against the pillow, his hands coming down to hold Eddie's.

Eddie hums in a sleepy tone, saying "How 'bout we skip tomorrow, okay? Just us."

"You wanna skip?" Richie asks in complete shock and surprise.

"Yeah," Eddie says in his most tired voice. "One time won't hurt. It's my turn to take you on a date."

Richie breaks into a smile, rolling over in bed to face the boy he traveled across town to see. Things start to make sense to him, like his teenage years were written for greatness. He kisses Eddie's forehead, nuzzles his nose against the other's, and finally reaches up to take his glasses off. "I'd like that," he says. "I'd like it a lot."

"Goodnight, idiot," Eddie mumbles.

"Goodnight," Richie responds, slowly watching Eddie fall asleep. It's a beautiful sight, it's like watching morning glories fold their petals up inside when the moon finally makes its entrance.

Then, right on the cusp of slumber, the smaller one mumbles through freckled lips, "I like you in a romantic way."

Richie laughs and kisses his forehead again, deciding that phrase must be their thing. Every couple has their own quirks and traditions, and that specific term must be theirs. He can't wait to recall it when they're older, Richie already planning out all the old people pranks he could play to get good chucks out of Eddie.

And it feels good. It feels good to plan your future with someone, even if they're asleep for half of it. Just the prospect of wanting a future is enough to obliterate any of the darkness creeping and living within Richie's heart.

Richie doesn't want to die before he can grow old with Eds.

Chapter Text

Richie smiles, pressing his forehead against the closet door as he listens to his boy spin such extravagant lies.

"I think it was the window being open," Eddie feigns a cough. "I don't feel good, momma."

"Oh, you poor thing. Should I stay home from work to take care of you?" She asks.

"No!" Eddie says quickly, then coughs again to try and keep the appearances up. "I mean, no. I just want to stay in bed. I know to take the amoxicillin, okay? I just want to sleep, momma."

"Of course, Eddie bear," she coos softly.

Richie chuckles under his breath, shaking his head at how truly ridiculous this entire situation is. Eddie's alarm went off twenty minutes ago, and they spent the first ten minutes of the morning staring into each other's eyes without saying a single word. Then, when footsteps were heard coming down the hall, Eddie pushed Richie by the chest and said "Hide. Now."

Now Richie stands as quietly as he can in the midst of Eddie's clothes, his body serenely still. He notices that above all else; just how still he is being. Richie has never sat in one spot for more than three minutes before in his entire life, and now, they're going on minute twelve of being in the closet, and Richie has barely moved a muscle. He thinks it's because of Eddie, or more so, because he wants to spend the day with Eddie without getting caught. For the sake of his honeymoon boy, he will remain as still as a statue.

When Sonia finally says farewell, Richie sheepishly peeks his head out of the closet and silently asks if the coast is clear. Eddie waves him over, so the boy grins and slides out as quietly as he can.

"She's still here, but-" he's cut short by the sound of the garage door opening. He smiles, and says "Okay. She's gone. Do you want breakfast?"

Richie thinks of all the junk food he ate with Beverly last night and decides that eating more is the last thing he should be doing. Instead, he asks "What, you aren't going to give me a tour? We finally have free reign of the Kaspbrak household and you're going to keep me secluded to the damn bedroom?"

"Alright, fine, idiot," Eddie rolls his eyes and takes Richie by the hand. "Before anything, I'm brushing my teeth."

Richie, who obviously does not have a toothbrush, results to using Eddie's mouthwash that burns like absolute hell. He reads the back of the label to investigate the ingredients, his eyes widening at the high amount of alcohol splashed in. He spits his mouthful out, then says "Jeez, Eds. You gettin' tipsy off this damn stuff?"

Eddie looks up at him with glaring eyes, his toothbrush hanging out of his mouth, as he says "No, idiot. It's to prevent cavities."

"Yeah, and give you liver damage in the process," Richie scoffs. "Is this how they're selling vodka to underage kids nowadays?"

Eddie spits toothpaste from his mouth and says "You're an idiot. I need to shower, so you have to leave."

"Do I?" Richie whines, tugging on the bottom of Eddie's shirt. "Can't I just join you?"

Eddie's eyes widen at the suggestion, his face flushing red as he quickly puts his hands against Richie's to push the boy away. In a flustered, erratic tone, he says "N-No! You can't! Go!"

Richie pouts but still leaves without question, shutting the door behind him to give Eddie his privacy. The boy looks down the hall towards the bedroom and considers returning to safe territory, but then turns his head and sees the hallway lead out into the living room, and he decides to start his journey there.

The living room is as clean as you would imagine, albeit the stacks and stacks of magazines next to the recliner chair with nail polish stains in the arm rest. The TV is much bigger, and the antennae are pointing in all sorts of directions, making Richie wonder what kind of shows they watch that require such a strong signal. There's a shelf of VHS, but upon inspection, they're all cheesy romantic comedies, so Richie moves to something that seems more promising.

An egg crate full of vinyl stashed underneath a record player, so the boy crouches down to start flipping through the records and admiring Ms. Kaspbrak's collection of swinger music. He finds a greatest hit's record for Elvis, but as he pulls it out of its sleeve, he hears a car stop in the driveway. Richie immediately shoots up, his eyes going towards the picture window behind the TV, and spots Sonia making her way up the sidewalk to the front door.

Richie panics and drops the record, looking for a place to hide. He'd have to pass right by the front door to get to Eddie's room, and he doesn't have the time for that. He throws open the nearest door and finds a linen closet with absolutely no room for a teenage boy. The front doorknob jiggles as she unlocks it, and Richie panics. He panics. He panics. He dives behind the couch, laying down as flat as he can, and continues to panic.

"Where did I leave that pesky wallet?" The woman mumbles to herself as she opens the door. She sets her purse down on the coffee table, ravaging through stacks of Cosmopolitans and People magazines. She grumbles angrily, checking the cushions of the recliner, then coming over to the couch to stuff her morbidly obese hands between the cracks.

Richie is freaking out. He can hear the shower water running and he tries to telepathically communicate with Eddie to get the hell out right now so he can distract his mother, but the water continues, and Richie panics even harder.

"Ah!" She exclaims, her head leaning over the back of the couch. Richie closes his eyes and prepares for the absolute worst, but to his surprise, the woman only holds a folded up wallet into the air and says "Found'cha!"

When the front door closes again, Richie lets out the biggest breath of air that his lungs are capable of holding. He sits up, his head peeking over the back of the couch as he watches her car back out of the driveway. The boy catches his breath, stands up, and resumes what he was doing.

With Elvis now calming his nerves, he feels brave enough to venture into the kitchen. There's an island, as well as a state of the art refrigerator that is packed to the brim with food. Richie begins going through the cabinets, mostly bored with plates and cups, until he stumbles upon an entire pharmacy. The cabinet is lined with medication, half of which have labels that Richie can't even pronounce. He feels angry with the idea that she's probably force feeding him half of these, or worse, cooking antibiotics right into his food. Richie closes the cabinets, because he is certain he would end up washing every pill down the drain if he stared too long.

He finds the pots and pans, so he pulls out a pan big enough for today's endeavor, then searches for the baking supplies. He finds them easily, so he begins to make from scratch a recipe he doesn't have memorized. He's hoping for the best.

Eddie comes into the kitchen as the food is cooking, drawn to such a delicious smell. He's dressed in new clothes, a towel draped over his shoulders as he dries his hair. He looks at Richie curiously, then at the pan frying up what look like... tortillas? Then, he looks at Richie again, admiring the way the boy sways his hips back and forth while cradling a mixing bowl in his hands, his eyes closed as he mouths along to the words streaming from the record still playing.

"Elvis? Really?" Eddie asks, causing Richie to jump.

"Jesus, Eds. I didn't see you there, you scared the shit out of me," Richie gasps, his hand slipping and nearly dropping the strawberry filling. "Warn a boy before being all sneaky like a ninja!"

Eddie puts his hands up and apologizes, then follows Richie over to the pan to watch what he's doing. He stands on his tiptoes to look over Richie's tall shoulder, then eventually asks "What the hell are you making?"

"Crêpes," Richie says as if it's obvious. "Have you ever had crêpes?"

"Once," Eddie says. "Bev and I shared one at the fair once, but she accidentally leaned forward on the table and her- her... her breast got on the plate."

"What're you whispering for, weirdo?" Richie laughs, flipping the crêpe like a pancake. "You can say the word boob, you know. Which one was it? The Destroyer or DJ body butter?"

"You- You named her breasts?" Eddie scoffs in complete disgust. "I am appalled, Richie. I truly didn't think someone could hit rock bottom twice, and yet here we are."

"Hey, I didn't name them. She did," Richie defends himself as he moves around the kitchen to get the plate setting right.

"Why the hell do you know the names of her breasts?" Eddie asks in an incredulous voice.

"What, you're telling me you don't know the name of Bill's knocker? C'mon, man, that's what best friends do," Richie laughs.

"No, it most certainly is not," Eddie gives him a very disgusted look. "Honestly, Richie. I would say I'm disappointed but at this poi-"

His sentence is cut short by Richie's finger invading his mouth, his fingertip smothered in strawberry filling. Eddie's teeth automatically clamp down on the foreign object, causing Richie to squeal and retract his hand, but not before Eddie gets a proper lick of what he was being forcefed.

"Oh, wow, that's actually really good," Eddie frowns, stepping forward to dip his fingers into the bowl Richie is holding.

"Ah, ah, ah," Richie slaps the boy's hand away, waving his injured finger in Eddie's face. "Not on my watch, Shortstack. Go sit down and wait until I serve you."

Eddie pouts, blinking up at Richie with those devilishly gorgeous eyes. Richie stays strong, though, which causes Eddie to sulk into the living room, where he immediately changes the record. He changes it to something that Richie has never heard before, but the air fills with a romance that can only come from 50's music. Richie sways as he cooks, finishing up the last touches while being serenaded by the sweet sounds of a man with a voice like a legend.

As Richie carries the plate of crêpes into the dining room where Eddie is waiting, he asks, "Who is this? It's so good it should be illegal."

"Oh, this?" Eddie digs into the food as if he's been famished for days. "Paul Anka. Put Your Head On My Shoulder."

"It's so dreamy," Richie sits across from Eddie, closing his eyes and feeling himself pulled to the tunes.

Eddie watches him for a moment, just a moment, a moment where he admires the way that the morning light builds a home on Richie's skin, the way that secrets reside in the shadows, and the way that beauty seems to radiate from every surface of him. He looks like he is floating weightless through a space of good music, his oxygen tanks filled with sweetened air. This is the Richie that hears music differently than the others, the Richie that makes Eddie jealous of how in love one person can be with simple instrumental combinations.

"Why aren't you eating?" Eddie breaks the spell.

The bubble pops, and the voice no longer sounds like a serenade, it sounds like a death sentence.

Richie opens his eyes to look at him, then says "I did. I ate while you were in the shower, then ate as I was cooking. I ate mine first because I didn't want it to get cold."

Eddie narrows his eyes at the boy but they both know they won't push the subject. Instead, Eddie just gives a curt nod, and continues eating as silently as he can.

"So, what do you have planned for me today, Eds? What's this magical journey you plan to take me on? It better be worth skipping school for, kid. You know I'm a stickler for the rules," Richie smiles, changing the subject as quickly as he can.

Eddie immediately rolls his eyes. "Jeez, first of all, don't call me Eds. Secondly, your date was a surprise, why can't mine be as well?"

"Oh, wow, adding in a little mystery, are we?" Richie taps his fingers on the table as a bad attempt at doing a drum roll. "That's hot."

"Oh, beep beep, you idiot," Eddie grins, and he doesn't even try to hide it.

Richie smiles back at him, filled to the very brim with affection. He used to degrade himself to piles of rubble and nothing any time he would get beeped, but now, the saying doesn't sound so violent when it's coming out of Eddie's mouth.

While Eddie steals money out of his mom's not-so-secret stash, Richie stands in the hallway and smiles at the copious amounts of picture frames that document Eddie's upbringing. From the looks of it, he's always been a bit of a clean kid, but maybe he didn't really have much of a say in that matter. Either way, Richie thinks the photo of Eddie dancing on the shoes of an older man is about the cutest one up there.

"Hey- What are you doing?" Eddie announces his arrival, stuffing the money into his fannypack.

"Hm? Oh, just looking," Richie shrugs, turning his attention back to the photos on the walls. "Is this your dad?"

Eddie is quiet for a moment, then says "Yeah. Momma says I look like him. What do you think?"

"I can see that," Richie smiles. It's evident where Eddie gets his good looks, because it's certainly not from the cowardly Sonia that he's learning to hate. Then, to change the subject to something a bit lighter, he turns and grins at Eddie very carefully. "Hey, maybe I can finally get you a Walkman since we'll be in town today."

"Town? Who said anything about going into town?" Eddie asks, zipping his coat up so that he can endure the blistering cold.

Richie widens his eyes, to which Eddie replies with a challenging smirk. There's a bit of that familiar flame lit behind his eyes, and the fire only makes Richie's bones ache with anticipation.

"Where are you taking me, you little rebel?" Richie inquires, tilting his head to the side as Eddie's smirk only spreads to a grin.

"Wouldn't you like to know?" Eddie teases him, then slips by Richie in the hallway. He calls out over his shoulder, "Strict parents raise sneaky kids, my dear."

Richie fumbles to catch up with him, blindly following the boy out the front door and into the street. Eddie seems confident, and Richie can't deny that he's extremely attracted to this much personality. Eddie doesn't say a word to him as they walk, but, he does walk with his hand outside of his pocket so that it can occasionally brush against Richie's. The thing is, two kids holding hands isn't a big deal. Two boys holding hands is different. That isn't exactly acceptable in the year 1988. Not in Derry, anyway.

"Are you finally going to fucking tell me where we're going?" Richie asks in exasperation when the two arrive at the bus station. The heat blasts in their faces as they enter, and Eddie instantly files in line for "immediate departure" like he's done it a thousand times.

"Fine," Eddie says. "There's an iceskating rink up in Bangor. I doubt you've ever been, so I thought it would be fun to take you up there."

"Your mother lets you ice skate?" Richie asks in disbelief.

Eddie shrugs, then says "She doesn't know about the day trips I take with Mike and Bev. Why should she?"

As Eddie approaches the counter and asks for two tickets, Richie watches him with awe in his eyes. He can't believe how brave Eddie is today, and he's not exactly sure where it all came from. Eddie would let this fire show occasionally, but in small amounts. Either sitting next to Richie at Bev's party when nobody was looking, or asking him to dance at the quarry after an afternoon of splashing, it's always been small portions. This side of Eddie is daring and courageous, and he doesn't care of the repercussions.

He pays for the two tickets, then looks over at Richie and says "Well? You comin' or what, Trashmouth?"

Richie stumbles after the smaller boy, completely dumbfounded and shocked by his sudden dominance.

"Eddie, you really find new ways to surprise me every damn day," Richie tells him. The two return to the cold outside, searching around for the bus getting ready to leave.

Eddie looks around with narrow eyes, reading the directory to find the designated transportation assigned to their tickets. In a distracted voice, he says "Richie Tozier, you find new ways to annoy me everyday."

Richie's heart drops as he instantly looks away, his eyes dropping to the icy ground as they walk towards their bus. His hand comes down quickly to pinch his thigh, but before he can do so, Eddie's fingers slips into his and he gives it a tight, quick squeeze.

Richie looks over at him in surprise, to which Eddie only gives him a soft smile.

"And I wouldn't have you any other way, okay?" The hazelnut-eyed kid whispers. "No more pinching, alright?"

Richie nods, his cheeks flushed from the exposure to the cold and Eddie's observant skills. He can't believe that Eddie picked up on the habit, not to mention cared enough to intervene. Richie is truly speechless, yet again blown away by Kaspbrak's ability to shock him over and over.

The two get seats located in the very front of the bus, so they sit quietly as the carriage fills up with a variety of folks that all seem to have something to say about the two youngsters who aren't in school. Eddie keeps his head down, but Richie stares each boarding passenger dead in the eyes as if he's challenging them to speak up. Richie would never fight anybody without reason, but he definitely would not fight someone in front of Eddie, and he absolutely would never fight someone while on a date. He just likes to... challenge, that's all. Just challenging.

As it turns out, Richie's challenging seems to turn out well for the two, as no adults have the nerve to approach the boy with the edgy stare. So, as they begin their commute to the neighboring city, Richie braves the risk and decides to hold Eddie's hand in front of others. He keeps their entwined hands stuffed down between where their hips touch, but the point is that they're still getting away with it. Eddie smiles and turns to the window, fogging the glass up with his breath, then painting a smiley face into the condensation with the tip of his free hand. Richie watches the smiley face fade, yet it's replaced by one much better when Eddie turns his head to grin at him.

"Can you imagine being in second period right now? Totally gross," Eddie laughs, and Richie falls weak with affection.

"What do you think the others are doing right now? Ben's probably studying like some nerd," Richie chuckles. "And Bill's definitely failing a science lab as we speak."

"Oh, he's awful at chemistry. Honestly, who let him sign up for that class?" Eddie throws his head back as he laughs, causing Richie's amusement to die down as he gets caught up in the slow motion shots he seems to view Eddie in.

"Hey, Eds," Richie blurts out, tugging on their hands. "You're really beautiful, dude. You really are."

Eddie looks up at him with a doubtful expression, but still smiles nonetheless and says "Thanks, dude. That's very sweet of you to say."

Richie smiles and nods, then asks Eddie to tell him all about these mysterious day trips that nobody seems to know anything about. Eddie spins wonderfully threaded stories, nodding any time Richie asks if he's being serious, and taking breaks to laugh with the boy who just can't seem to get enough air. They don't realize it, but this bonding is much more intimate than when Richie is bundled up in Eddie's arms late at night. There's something much more personal about telling stories with no end to someone who is incredibly eager to listen just for the sake of hearing your voice. That's a strength that nobody else in Derry will ever find, no, just these two boys pressed so tightly against each other's sides that you would assume they're only attempting to spread warmth in this cruel, unforgiving morning.

As it turns out, Richie is absolutely terrible at ice skating. He assumed it would be just like rollerblading, but he could not be more wrong.

He wobbles slowly, his hands gripping the railing, and he takes deep breaths to calm his nerves. Eddie, however, might as well be an Olympic figure skater based on the way he does flips and spins so gracefully. He makes the ice his, owning the solidity beneath them, dragging his leg out in finishing moves.

"Come on, Richie!" Eddie laughs, skating in figure eight motions around the boy. "Keep up!"

Richie glares at him and says "Excuse me, not everyone is a fucking ice-ballerina like you, Eds."

Eddie smiles, skating over to a delicate stop in front of Richie. He gently pries Richie's hands off of the handrail, entwining their fingers together.

"I'll help," he says.

Richie looks up at him, then at the neighboring skaters who seem to not give a shit about the two holding hands. From this point of view, it certainly just looks like Eddie is being a good instructor, not a homosexual romantic partner.

So Eddie slowly skates backwards, dragging Richie along carefully, his grip tightening anytime the taller one begins to lose balance. When Richie gains some momentum, Eddie lets go and swivels around to stand behind Richie, pushing the boy forward by the waist.

"I don't know, Eds," Richie shakes his head as his skates begin to wobble beneath him. "I don't like this."

"You'll get the hang of it, I promise," Eddie moves closer, his chest against Richie's back with his hands on the narrow waist. Eddie moves smoothly, gaining speed very rapidly, only to Richie's displeasure. His pale, broken hands come up to clench Eddie's, his body stiffened with fear.

When Eddie lets go of Richie, the lanky boy goes flying in a mess of tangled limbs and clumsy movements. He skids across the ice, his coat doing absolutely nothing to protect him from the cold, while his jeans tear at the knees from such friction. He lands on his side, his glasses straying from his face and landing only a few feet away. Richie squeezes his eyes shut, absolutely flushed and reddened with embarrassment. He can't believe he fell, especially in front of Eddie, who is not only his crush, but also an Olympic fucking figure skater.

Eddie considers the options for a moment with a hand covering his mouth. Mostly to keep the laughter stifled, because he truly doesn't want to damage Richie's ego right now. So, he does the first thing that comes to mind, and automatically throws himself on the floor.

"Oh, ow! Ouch! Owww!" Eddie cries out, "Ow, I think I bruised my tailbone! Ouchie!"

Richie opens his eyes to see Eddie lying beside him, writhing around in faux pain. It's obvious what he's doing, though it seems to be working. All the onlookers are now staring at Eddie in confusion instead of mocking Richie's tumble.

"You didn't have to do that, idiot," Richie sits up with a smile. He slides across the ice to help Eddie sit up, dusting some of the ice shavings that dusted his coat.

"No, I didn't," Eddie shakes his head. He lets his hand settle on top of Richie's skinned knee, reaching over to put the glasses back on Richie's face, and says "But I did. Come on, let's go sit somewhere and talk, okay?"

Richie sighs in relief, following Eddie off of the dangerous ice floor and instantly kicking his skates off. The two find a table in the diner portion of the establishment, hiding away from anybody who might ask why they're not in school. Richie looks at the menu, and Eddie looks at Richie.

"Hey," Eddie taps the table gently.

"Hey," Richie responds, pointing at the menu. "What's a kamikaze meltdown? It sounds incredible."

"No, seriously," Eddie taps again to get his attention. "Can I just- Can I- I don't know, Rich. Can I be honest?"

Richie immediately puts the menu down, his muscles tensing up as he prepares for rejection. To hide his fear, the boy puts on a Voice and says "I don't know, can ya?"

Eddie doesn't get annoyed, which is a new sign to Richie. Is he unbothered by Richie's obnoxious jokes? Or is what he's about to say really that serious?

"I feel a little overwhelmed sometimes," Eddie admits. "You have to take it all in from my point of view. Maybe you're comfortable being openly gay, or bisexual, or whatever, but I'm- I'm not? I don't know. I have been told that I'm a queer for, like, my whole life, and I just don't want them to be right, you know?"

"Them?" Richie asks.

Eddie looks up, his eyes flashing dangerously. "Henry Bowers. You know, your boy toy."

Richie bites his lip and looks away, the sting wounding him.

"That's what scares me. You're so open with it, Richie. You're okay with kissing boys. I'm... I'm not. I'm scared. And I am scared that you will get bored with me the way you do with everything, and that you'll only go to Stan or Bowers or one of your other backup plans."

"You think I have backup plans?" Richie asks. He tries to not let out a laugh, but the sound comes out of him involuntarily. "Eds, you're a complete dipshit. You're the only plan I have. Everything else is just... accidents."

"Making out with Stan over and over again was an accident," Eddie frowns at him.

Richie shrugs, his hands coming up to make vague gestures out of his power. He then says "It is what it is. I can't keep apologizing for it. It happened, but it isn't going to happen again. It is what it is, take it or leave it."

Eddie nods, thinking his options over and considering where the two can go from here. He watches the way that Richie fumbles with the pages of the menu, then reach over to start organizing the sugar packets by color and size. Most people would think these are weird behaviors, but they're so overwhelmingly Richie Tozier that Eddie doesn't think they're anything but endearing.

After a moment of silence, Eddie says "Let's order a kamikaze meltdown, I wanna see what the big deal is."

Richie doesn't realize it, but that's Eddie pushing all his chips in and completely devoting himself to this unconventional relationship they've been formulating. Eddie's all in.

After stuffing their faces full of a terrible dessert nachos platter, Eddie takes Richie down to the used book store on the corner of the street. Eddie only gets one book, but it looks old and well loved. Then, after they leave the store, Eddie announces that it's time to go home.

"Already?" Richie asks.

Eddie smiles and says "Tozier, it's two PM. It takes an hour to get back, and I have to be home before my mother."

Richie pouts and looks away, but then says "Okay."

"Hey, cheer up," Eddie elbows Richie as they walk down the street. Strangers pass by them, bundled up in winter clothes. The chilly air surrounds them in dry, unforgiving anti-romance, yet the two insistently pour loving steam into the air by smiling. "This was our second date. You know what happens on the third, right?"

Richie's eyes light up as he says "'Course I do. You know about fuckin', right Eds?"

Eddie's face burns brick red as he looks away and focuses hard on walking. Since he was a kid he has made sure to walk carefully against pavement after Mike told him a tall tale about his mother's back breaking. Even now, fifteen years old, he still takes precaution wherever he steps.

"Idiot," Eddie says. "I just wanted to give you a kiss, that's all."

Now Richie is the flustered one, his hand coming up to cover his mouth so he can physically prevent himself from blurting something ridiculous out. He doesn't want to ruin the moment, not after such raw honesty from Eddie. He learns to take it as it comes, feel the genuineness, and continue to breathe.

"Even though I kissed Stan?" Richie asks, then curses himself for being an idiot. With the hand that isn't next to Eddie's, he punches his thigh through his jeans.

"Yeah," Eddie shrugs, his eyes on the ground as the used book sticks out of his pocket, the well worn pages ruffling in the wind. "It is what it is."

Richie smiles and looks out ahead at the streets of Bangor. He wonders what it would feel like if the two were to just... run away together. To leave their shitty parents behind, to leave Henry Bowers behind, to leave all of their school pressures and anxieties in Derry and just run.

Right now, everything feels open and possible. Richie can't help but have a sense of impending doom waiting for him back in Derry, as if all of this will come to an end if he doesn't take Eddie and run as far as they can in this moment. The world is a sandbox, and Richie wants to build a castle on the other end of it. He feels as if everything can happen as long as they stay here, and the alluring road to running looks more and more appetizing.

For a moment, Richie considers the money in his coat pocket and whatever Eddie has leftover, and he thinks, maybe. Just maybe.

But Eddie has other plans.

"When we get back to Derry, you should go hang out with Beverly."

"Bev?" Richie is pulled from his thoughts, frowning at Eddie. "What's up with Bev?"

Eddie shrugs.

"She misses you."

Chapter Text

"You know, you could have just fuckin' called," Richie mumbles. "Didn't have to go through Eddie."

"Well, can you blame me?" Beverly Marsh asks from the living room. "You're practically attached at the hip."

"We are not," Richie scoffs, carrying the two mugs into the living room. This is the first time that Bev has properly been in his home besides the morning she barged in. With Richie's parents around, he never had much freedom for friends. Now, he can do just about anything he wants. For example, setting Bev's coffee down on the table without using a coaster. "You're a freak, you know that? Who the hell drinks their coffee black?"

"Cut the shit," Bev waves him off, propping her feet up on the coffee table. In front of them, MTV plays a Michael Jackson video that the two of them both know the choreography to. "Why didn't you tell me about Stan?"

"Stan? What about Stan?" Richie feigns innocence as he tucks his legs up into his father's recliner.

"Rich," she says flatly.

Richie shrugs, drawing the answer out as he traces the rim of his hot cocoa mug. "Didn't seem important."

"Didn't- Didn't seem important?!" She scoffs. "Jeez, Rich. It never crossed your mind to tell your best friend about whose throat your sticking your tongue down?"

Richie shrugs again, "He wasn't ready to come out. I was just respecting that."

"Right, because confessing this during a game of truth or dare is obviously the right way to come out," she scoffs. "I don't get you boys."

Richie smiles and watches the television in silence, his leg bouncing. Bev isn't angry with him, no, despite her words, she's very much glad to be sitting here with her old friend. Richie doesn't tell her that Stan has become his best friend, he doesn't want to hurt her like that. He thinks she'll figure it out eventually, or she'll move on. Besides, she said so herself. Ben is her best friend. Stan was his, but now... now it's shifting over to Eddie with the closer the two become.

"We've been going on dates," Richie speaks up. As soon as the words leave his mouth, he automatically lets out a huge grin, his face lighting up as he remembers how Eddie looked in that dusty bookstore. "We've gone on two now. Like, proper dates. Not just hanging out."

"Oh?" Bev lifts an eyebrow. "Is that what he's been gushing about lately? I knew I missed something."

"He gushes?" Richie asks.

"Oh, god, all the damn time," she rolls her eyes. "You should hear him at DnD. 'Guys, Richie said he's never seen Dirty Dancing.' and 'Do you guys think Richie looks better in the yellow hoodie, or the pink windbreaker?' He never shuts up."

Richie smiles and looks away, then says "He's a good kid. Real good."

"Are you going to ask him to go steady?" She inquires, saying "Ben asked me on the third date. You said you've been on two, right?"

Richie nods, his face flushed as he takes precautions sips of his hot chocolate. "Mhm. I wanna ask, but I'm nervous. Can you believe that? Richie Tozier is nervous."

"Not as tough as you thought you were, huh?" She laughs.

"Shut it," Richie shakes his head. "I'll ask. I just want it to be special, you know?"

"It will be, Rich. I know you, and I know you've got a heart of gold buried deep down in that cool exterior of yours. You'll make it special, don't worry," she says, then glances at the grandfather clock and lets out a silent curse. Bev stands up, gathering her bag and leaving her coffee untouched. "Fuck. I've gotta meet Ben down by Curly's. You wanna come with?"

"What, and crash your date? No thanks," Richie scoffs, though he can feel the disappointment. He made an effort to reach out to her, but now she's just running off after a measly half hour? Richie becomes increasingly aware of how alone he feels, and he hates it. "I've got planning to do."

She smirks at him, zipping her leather jacket up. "Yeah you do. Good luck, dipshit. I love you."

Richie nods, pointing fingerguns at her to avoid saying it back. Not because he doesn't love her, but because the words feel too big to come out of his throat and leave his mouth. Bev doesn't mind, just stoops down to kiss his forehead on her way out.

Richie glances at her mug of pure black coffee, followed by the smudges of dirt that her boots left on the table. Without even thinking about it, he slowly gets up and moves her mug over to a coaster. He uses his shirt to wipe the table down, terrified of receiving another angry note on the fridge.

I've got planning to do, Richie thinks to himself, trudging up the stairs to work on some of his homework. It's gotta be special.

Richie is consumed by his thoughts for the rest of the evening, and most of the next morning as well. He hardly even pays attention, only pulling himself out momentarily to smile and wave at Eddie when the boy enters their math class. Then, as soon as class begins, he resumes his quick-paced thought track that revolves around where to ask a boy out and how to do it.

When class ends, Eddie waits by the door for Richie, the two silently smiling and leaving the room side-by-side. They don't say much to each other, but that's the beauty in it. They don't need to.

"Tozier," a voice calls behind them.

The two stop, turning to look at who is calling for Richie's attention. When they see who it is, Richie immediately rolls his eyes while Eddie grabs onto his jacket out of fear.

"What do you want, Hockstetter?" Richie groans. Eddie presses closer to him, so Richie sets a comforting hand down on the smaller boy's shoulder.

Patrick Hockstetter slinks through the hall menacingly, his body moving like that of a shadow. He radiates danger and poison, his dark hair curling around his sharp cheeks, his eyes focused on the tiny one cowering in fear. Like a cat hunting a mouse, he prepares to pounce on Eddie, but then he remembers what he's really here for.

"Can we talk?" He asks, then looks back down at Eddie with some of that raw evil stare. "Alone, preferably."

Richie clenches his jaw, then slides his hand off of Eddie and says "Alright. Make it quick."

Eddie tugs on his sleeve, but Richie turns and gives him a promising look. Quietly, so that Patrick can't hear him, he says to the mousy boy "Go. I'll be fine. I'll see you at lunch, okay?"

Eddie gulps and nods, but remains fixed to where he's standing while the two tall boys shuffle through the hall traffic to find somewhere quiet. Patrick ends up pulling Richie underneath a stairwell, the sounds of the rush to get to class dying down underneath this secluded area. Richie leans against the wall, looking at Patrick expectantly, his arms crossed over his chest as he waits for an explanation.

"So," Patrick uncomfortably sticks his hands in his pockets. "You're, uh, gay."

Richie scoffs. "Kinda, sure."

"The fuck do you mean kinda?" Patrick spits, then shakes his head and drops his shoulders down from their defensive state. "Shut up. 'M not here to fight."

"Then don't," Richie offers the obvious solution.

Patrick glares down at Richie, but pushes his anger aside to ask "How do you... How do you tell people? Like, mom and dad and stuff. What do you say?"

Richie blinks in surprise, waiting for the punchline of the joke or for Belch to come out of nowhere and announce he's on some prank show right now. But Patrick loses some of his edge, the gleam in his eyes dying down, and he... looks vulnerable. He came to Richie for genuine advice.

"Why are you asking me?" Richie questions. "I'm two years younger than you, dude. How am I supposed to know?"

Patrick shrugs, nervously kicking at the ground with the toe of his shoe. "I don't- I don't know, okay? Henry said that you are, and I obviously can't ask him, y'know, 'cause... y'know."

"Because of his dad," Richie nods. "Yeah. Henry told you about me? Wow, kinda shitty."

"He told you about me, too. Welcome to the fuckin' club," Patrick frowns. "I wanna tell my family. I think they'd be okay with it, you know. They're pretty open minded. My aunt is a Prince fan, so she might be supportive."

Richie laughs at this, and then says "I don't know, dude. I wish I could help you, but I haven't even heard from my parents in weeks. You're on your own with that one."

Patrick lets out a frustrated groan, rubbing his conflicted eyes. He says "Okay, then can I ask another question?"

"Shoot."

"How do I, uh, take things to the next level? God, this is so fuckin' stupid. I swear, if you tell anybody about this, I'll-"

"Save it," Richie waves him off. "I'm right there with you, dude. I'm gonna ask the little one out soon, I think. Is that what you want? To go steady with Hen?"

"He hates it when you call him that," Patrick points out. "I hate it too."

Richie gives a slight shrug, then says "Sorry, Pattycakes. Nickin' names has been my thang since I was pissin' in diapers."

"God, what did he ever see in you?" Patrick scoffs, then shakes his head. "Just tell me what to do, flamer."

"Well, for starters, you might wanna dial it back on the flamer comments. Or should I remind you that you're also a flamer? Secondly, you should know Hen, dude. He doesn't like grand gestures, and this is especially something he really wouldn't want to be publicized. Just ask, man. That's all it takes with him," Richie shrugs.

"Is that what you're going to do with girlyboy?" Patrick asks, then says "Sorry, habit. His name's Eddie, right? Eddie."

Richie nods, a tiny hint of a smile finding his face. "Yeah. Eds. It's a little different with him because he does like big gestures, so I'm working on a bigger plan. Hen is simple, though. He's always been so simple."

Patrick tenses a little, then asks "Have you... Have you thought about this a lot?"

"What? With Hen? No, obviously not," Richie lies through his teeth as if he wasn't heavily considering starting a relationship with the guy less than three weeks ago. "There's a reason we aren't friends, dude. Has he not told the story?"

Patrick nods. "Yeah. I had to pry it out of him, though. You mentioned New Year's when we were all jumping you, and I brought it up again later out of curiosity. Sorry about that, by the way. The whole beating you up thing."

Richie laughs, motioning towards his cracked glasses. "Yeah. Real fair fight, wasn't it?"

"I'll tell ya, that kid of yours has got a solid right hook on him," Patrick nods. "Vic couldn't stop talking about his reach. Flexible, too. Be careful, dude, he's dangerous."

"I'll survive," Richie chuckles again, his heart fond at the topic of Eddie and how feisty the boy truly is. He gave those bullies hell that day, even if it took him his whole life to do so. "You watch out for Hen, though. He knocked out about half of my baby teeth growing up. Now he's got a blade, talk about double threat."

Patrick smiles, saying "I'll survive."

Richie nods, then asks "Do your friends know you're not that much of a douchebag?"

"Ha," Patrick fakes a laugh, then says "They haven't figured it out yet. But, if we're being honest, between me and you... none of us are really that douchey. Not really."

Richie tries to picture all of them sitting around and taking care of each other the way that the losers do, but it's hard to imagine. Any group of kids that hold underclassmen at knifepoint in the bathroom are automatically labeled as douchebags for the rest of their lives, no matter how kind they might be on the inside. Richie doesn't share these thoughts, though. He just reaches forward to pat Patrick's shoulder.

"Good luck with your family, dude. Good luck with Hen," Richie says. The bell rang a little over two minutes ago, but it's not as if either of the two are in a rush to get to class. It only proves that Richie has the attitude to fit in with the Bowers gang, but he doesn't have the heart to commit cruel acts of violence like they do. That's what separates them; Richie's heart of pure gold.

"Can I just-" Patrick grumbles out in an annoyed tone. "I know you've got the short kid, but just leave Henry alone, dude. He's trying to get over you, he doesn't need you coming over when your friends are being pricks. Just leave him alone."

Richie frowns, all the good feelings washing away as he remembers exactly why he hates these guys so much.

"Yeah, sure, whatever," Richie says with hostility in his voice. "I'm sure it's hard knowing that you're only rebound. My respects to you, good sir."

"Excuse me?" Patrick lets out a sick laugh, one that's deranged. "Care to repeat that, Tozier?"

"No, no," Richie sticks his hands up in defeat. "Just can't help but wonder how it feels to have my sloppy seconds, Hockstetter."

Richie's mouth will ultimately be the death of him one day.

Patrick swings at him, but Richie catches his wrist and gets a punch in before the junior can recover. Patrick stumbles backwards, clenching his nose, looking up at Richie with wild eyes.

"Tell Henry he can fuck himself," Richie says, "He needs to leave me alone. I've fucking moved on, its about time that he does too."

When lunch finally rolls around, he tells Bill that he's excited to see Eddie.

"Jesus, you t-t-two," Bill laughs, pushing the door to the cafeteria open. "Luh-Lovesick sweethearts."

Richie smiles, nodding to himself as they navigate through the cafeteria to their table. As per usual, Stan sits patiently with his packed lunch, waving at the two boys that approach. Richie takes his seat next to where Eddie usually sits, looking out at the crazy sea of students to see if he can catch sight of the smaller boy.

By the time that Bill returns with his school lunch, Eddie still isn't here. When he sits down, he sees Richie's frowning face, and says "Wuh-Where's Eddie?"

"He has biology before lunch," Stan says, looking over to Richie. "Maybe check second floor? That's where Henry lingers."

"Henry? No, he wouldn't bother Eddie," Richie shakes his head, but then has a terrible gut feeling settle in the bottom of his stomach like coal. His knuckles sting as a reminder that he physically punched one of them earlier today, and they're all just psycho enough to get revenge on what is most important to Richie. Richie stands up, exhaling in a frantic breath "Fuck, fuck, shit. I'll go look for him."

Richie finds Eddie in the exact spot he feared.

The boy only moves this fast when he fears that Eddie is in danger. The last time that his muscles burned this good was when they were put to use in the midst of the woods, breaking through underbrush to get to a boy crying in a tent. When Richie knows Eddie is in danger, his body kicks into a hyperdrive that lays dormant for any other human.

Second floor boy's bathroom, pinned between two urinals with Henry hovering above him. Richie bursts in, shoving Henry aside and taking Eddie up into his arms, looking at Henry in disgust. There's only one other person in the bathroom with them, and that is Patrick Hockstetter himself; leaning against the sinks and sporting a shiner that would give Richie a sense of pride had it not been for their current situation.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" Richie nearly yells, his hands clutching onto Eddie so very tightly. Eddie is trying very hard to make his sobs sound silent, but his whole body trembles and acts as a dead giveaway for how terrified he is.

Henry regains his composure, his face calm and collected. There's a few red splotches flourishing in his pale skin, making Richie wonder if Eddie got a few good punches in.

"Oh, my bad," Henry says in a low, dangerous voice. "I could have sworn that we were attacking each other's toys. Is that not the game we're playing, Tozier?"

Richie's arms tighten around Eddie, his eyes narrowing in anger. "Maybe if you could control your fucking ape, I wouldn't have to put him back in his place."

Patrick stiffens up by the sinks, but Henry raises a hand to get him to remain calm. It seems to work, Patrick resumes his slouching and evil glaring. The thing about Patrick Hockstetter is that he holds a much darker energy than anybody else in their sick gang of misfits, a vibe that makes it easy to believe he would kill someone if given the chance. Although, judging by Henry's disconnect from reality, Patrick only seems like the perfect option for him.

"I'm not his fucking pet," Eddie spits, finding bravery when he's sheltered under Richie's protection. "You're fucking psychopaths. I hate both of you."

"Oh, the feeling is mutual, little one," Patrick steals the petname that Richie had referred to Eddie as only mere hours before this.

Richie ignores their banter, instead putting a hand over Eddie's mouth and looking Henry dead in the eye. "You're not going to do this shit again. Ever. If Eddie tells me that you even look at him wrong-"

"What, you'll expose me? You'll tell our little secret?" Henry laughs. "Guess what, sunshine. You're in the same fucking boat. Who do you think they're going to believe is really gay; me, or the faggot who can't keep his hands off of the infamous girlyboy?"

"Go ahead," Richie shrugs. He moves to cover Eddie's ears with his hands, threatening the next part with more malicious intentions than he originally planned. "Doesn't matter if you expose the two of us, neither of us have parents that would put a bullet through our heads for liking men like you do, you little bitch."

Henry takes a step back, clearly thrown off by Richie's sudden ability to come off as menacing as he wants. He may crack about a hundred jokes a day, but that doesn't make him any less terrifying when it is needed. Henry clears his throat, regains his confidence, and asks with a chuckle "Oh, you want to bring parents into this, Richie? Remind me, when was the last time you saw your mom?"

Richie's jaw tightens, and he merely shakes his head. Every tie that he had left with Henry has been cut, then burned, so that they may never be reknotted again. It was a longtime coming, and Richie can't believe that it took him so long to come to this closure. Henry is a psychopath. Richie shouldn't have given him as many chances as he did.

"You're a cocksucker," Eddie says.

Richie looks down in surprise, letting his hands drop from the boy who radiates anger and fury. Eddie's face holds something that Richie has never seen before, a whole new level of rage. Something about the way that Henry talks down on Richie just... infuriates the tiny boy.

"Excuse me, pixie?" Henry laughs.

"I said you're a fucking cocksucker. Richie has kept your secret for years. Richie has been nothing but a loyal, good friend to you, and you're such a fucking arrogant asshole that you- you- fuck you. You deserve every beating your dad gives you," Eddie says, his eyes watering in blinding rage. He's not crying because he's sad, he's crying because his body feels as if it is going to come unraveled with the overwhelming desire to slew a string of insults into the two that stand in front of him and Richie. Eddie isn't mad over the years of torment that he has endured at the hand of Henry Bowers, no, he is furious over the years of mistreatment that Richie has suffered despite being nothing but kind hearted and trusting of the piece of garbage that leads the whole garbage gang.

"Hey, Eds, tone it down," Richie says quietly, "Backpedal a bit. That's a bit harsh."

"Stop defending him!" Eddie shouts in exasperation, looking up at Richie with those tear-stricken eyes. "How can you still be so- so- so naive! He's never going to change, Richie, stop defending him!"

Richie glances over at Henry, who has lost some of the edge in his stance. Eddie has only gained it, however, as he stands with his fists clenched at his sides like he's ready to be given a good reason to start swinging. Richie says, quietly, delicately, "There's... history, Eds-"

"Bullshit," Eddie spits. "If you were two seconds away from dying, he wouldn't lift a finger to help you. He doesn't care, Richie. He's obsessive, but that does not mean he cares. Stop acting like he does! He's not your childhood best friend, he's an absolute psychotic fucking asshole who just held a knife to my god damn throat. Just be angry! You don't fucking owe him anything!"

Richie takes a deep breath, gently comforting the tiny ball of anger by rubbing his shoulder's. He says, "I hear you. I do. Can you go wait outside? I'll be out in a second. I... need closure."

Eddie drops some of the rage, nodding his wide brown eyes up at Richie. He picks up his bag from the ground, tightly slinging it over his shoulders, before bouncing up on his tiptoes to press a secure kiss to Richie's cheek. He whispers, "Good luck, hero," before turning to Henry Bowers and glaring harshly. "Fuck you. You're an asshole. I hope you realize you're about to lose the only good person in your entire pathetic life."

Eddie leaves the bathroom before he can get grabbed and punished for his loose tongue, so Richie watches the swaying door for a moment before finally getting the courage to face Henry and Patrick. He sees the two standing idly close to one another, and he wonders what things would be like if he chose the path of destruction over creation. He would be one of them, there's no doubt about it. Whether or not he's got a heart of gold, he would not be able to stand up for himself like Eddie has just made abundantly clear.

"Just leave us alone," Richie says after a moment, his voice tired of all this tension and betrayal. "We aren't friends, Hen. We haven't been for a very long time. Just leave me alone."

Henry's jaw clenches as he grinds his teeth back and forth, insults pounding against the roof of his mouth as they demand to be let out. Instead, he simply nods, pocketing his knife. The gesture is massive, and Richie definitely does not miss the symbolic meaning behind it.

"Are you kidding me?" Patrick speaks up, nudging Henry's shoulder. "You're just going to let them get away? After everything that pansy just called you? Are you fucking kidding me?"

"Yes, we are just going to let them go," Henry snaps, pushing Patrick's hand away. He gives the stare that can only be him asserting dominance as their leader, his eyes threatening Patrick in silent ways. The knife may be in his pocket, but his hand hasn't left it. "And you're going to not fucking bother them anymore, got it?"

Patrick frowns, but doesn't speak up again. He simply backs away, giving a solemn nod, and staring at the ground in shame and embarrassment. Henry returns his attention to Richie, who is twisting an object off of his thumb with meticulous precision in his movements. Richie steps forward, not breaking eye contact with the boy he broke up with, and holds out his hand to offer the object over. Curious, Henry extends his palm, his nerves spiking at how close his hand is to Richie's.

Richie drops the object, then gives one last nod before turning on his heel and heading past the urinals to leave the bathroom. Henry looks down at the golden ring in his palm, the memories of winning them at the arcade surfacing up in his brain like painful stab wounds spouting up blood. He drops his grip on the knife, his other hand coming up to cup the ring like an injured baby bird. Then, as he realizes this truly is Richie giving up on him, he becomes filled with an inexplicable rage.

"You're a fucking coward," Henry speaks up. Richie stops in his tracks, but he doesn't turn around. "You're an asshole. What happened to being each other's watchguards?"

"That was a stupid promise we made when I was eight," Richie says over his shoulder. "That was before you fucked me over time and time again."

"This isn't over," Henry calls out, throwing the ring down so hard that it ricochets off the tile and bounces through the bathroom. Patrick flinches at the sheer anger in Henry's voice, knowing that this can't end well for any of the Bowers' gang.

"I'm sure it isn't," Richie drones, pushing the bathroom door open and entering the hall. He takes a deep breath in, allows himself to relax, and officially comes to terms with what he just did.

Henry is out of his life. Officially out. Gone forever. The bridge has been burned, the ring has been returned, and now he only has an eternity to spend with people who don't drag him down. He breathes in the fresh air, and he feels himself starting over.

"Are you okay?" Eddie's voice comes up from his left, so Richie looks over to see his perfectly golden honeynut boy waiting so patiently, his peach pit eyes examining Richie for any injuries.

Richie smiles. He is starting over. He feels as if he has tended to the garden after years of neglect, and he can finally see the flowers beneath all the weeds. He has been given a clean slate, a brand new shot, a chance to start over.

"Yeah, I am now."

"Okay, good. Come on, lets go," Eddie drags on his arm, leading Richie towards the direction of the stairs. He turns and says, "I've got this book that's, like, super good. You wanna borrow it?"

"Oh? What's it about?" Richie smiles, willing to listen to Eddie recite the entire novel if needed.

He is starting over.

Chapter Text

Richie Tozier sits on his bed, book in his lap, a tape playing from his boombox. His homework sits untouched on his desk, but this book that Eddie loaned him seems much more important than anything school may have to offer.

At first, Richie thinks the tapping noises are merely part of the song he's listening to. It's not uncommon for Echo & The Bunnymen to sample strange instruments in their songs, so he doesn't think anything of it. But then the tapping gets louder, and it becomes impossible for him to ignore.

Cautiously, the boy presses stop on his stereo, sitting at the corner of his bed and waiting for the noises to show their heads once again. Eventually, after a moment, the tapping continues on his window, so Richie quickly pushes the curtains aside to be surprised by bambi brown eyes.

"Eddie?" he asks, pushing the window open. "The fuck are you doing? Oh my god, how did you get up here?"

"I wanted to see you," Eddie says as if it's obvious. "You're always climbing through my windows, I thought I would take a chance and come to you instead."

Richie smiles, leaning against the windowsill that has the most committed relationship with the soles of his shoes. If you look carefully, you can see all the scuff marks on the windowpanes from the times that his converse have taken the leap of faith down into the dirt below. Now, here Eddie is, gazing up at Richie as if he is the reason the moon glows.

"Well, I'm truly honored," Richie smiles. "Wasn't it cold? Did you walk? Will your mom find out?"

"Who cares?" Eddie asks, a hint of that familiar rebellion in his voice.

"I think I'm starting to rub off on you, Eds," Richie says teasingly. "Getting a bit too cocky, aren't we?"

"Shut up, I just couldn't wait till the third date," Eddie grabs the front of Richie's shirt through the window, pulling the boy through the tiny space that the frame allows.

Richie feels the entire galaxy constantly expanding. He becomes aware of the tides that have receded on Mars, he can feel the rings of Saturn, and the pits of the sun open up right in his very chest. He becomes one with the entire never ending universe, and the cosmic supernovas are given to him in the allusion of two lips curved like constellations. Eddie kisses him, and Richie feels the second Big Bang explode within him.

"Oh my god," Richie exhales against Eddie's lips, feeling as if he will never be able to pull away. His glasses get in the way, so as he reaches up to push them on top of his head, Eddie leans down to tangle his hands with the roses that crawl this far up on the trellis. Richie watches nervously, saying "Be careful."

Eddie looks up at him, rolling his eyes at Richie, though the role reversal is not lost on either of the two boys. How drastically they have changed one another is unbelievable, but Richie knows that they're changes for the better. These two have improved their entire beings by just simply knowing one another, and Richie wonders just how lucky he got to have met somebody like Eddie Kaspbrak.

His thoughts are cut short by the creak of wood coming from beneath Eddie. Both boys stop, Eddie's hand frozen mid-postion where he holds the rose outwards, their eyes locked onto one another as they have a million silent conversations with just stares.

Richie finally says, "Don't you dare fall."

The rose trellis snaps as soon as the words leave his mouth, Eddie falling too fast for Richie to catch him by the arms. It's over within the blink of an eye, and Richie doesn't even have time to process the boy falling from a two story high window before Eddie is crying out in pain.

Richie moves into gear, hiking his leg up to fit through the window frame, not taking a second to plan his landing like he usually does. He jumps without a second thought, landing on a clumsy knee, the snow crunching beneath his body's impact.

"Hey, hey, Eds, look at me," Richie cups Eddie's cheeks with his hands, inspecting the boy's head for any blood. Eddie fell ungracefully, whereas Richie has been jumping from that window all his life. "Look at me. Look."

Eddie opens his tear-filled eyes, the golden orbs catching light in the pale moonlight. His irises sparkle with pain, and Richie hates himself for finding it so damn beautiful.

"Ow, ow, ow," Eddie cries out, attempting to keep his suffering down to a minimum. The last thing he wants is to wake up Richie's neighbors, but the excruciating feelings he is experiencing at this moment makes him feel as if he's been shot through the bone. "My arm, Rich. My arm, my arm, ow, ow, ow, ow, my arm, my-"

The two look down at the exact same time, their eyes feasting upon the inhuman angle that Eddie's arm is bent at. It's clearly broken, there is no mistake in that whatsoever. The curve is undoubtedly a jagged piece of bone sticking out of places it's not supposed to be.

"Hooooly fuck," Richie whispers, his hands dropping from Eddie's cheeks to the broken arm. His mind races a million miles per second, no thoughts solidifying long enough for him to grab onto one. Panic sets in, and he gently squeezes Eddie by the wrist, trying to gauge just how broken the arm is.

"Ow! You fucking asshole!" Eddie jerks back and slaps Richie upside the head with his good hand. He pulls his arm close to his chest, attempting to cradle the wounded limb into safety. He breathes heavily, the unmistakable rasp of an asthma attack coming on. He looks around in fear, quietly shouting "My mom's gonna kill me, oh god, she's going to fucking kill me."

Richie thinks that there's something a bit sad about Eddie's first thought gravitating towards the punishment rather than the actual bone dislodged in his body.

"I'm gonna try and snap it back into place," Richie says with sudden clarity. It seems like the only logical thought, the only thing that makes sense in this whirlwind of what the fuck.

"Do not fucking touch me," Eddie says quickly, his words biting more harshly than the winter air.

Richie grabs Eddie's arm by the wrist, then looks up at the boy with honest eyes. Richie says "I'm sorry," right before he pushes his hand down on the crooked right angle.

There's a moment of silence between the two for a moment, where the world is still and they are engulfed in the dead of the night. Then, as if releasing the flood gates, Eddie opens his mouth and lets out the loudest scream that his lungs can possibly produce while simultaneously seizing up.

Richie panics even harder, standing up and picking Eddie up out of the snow. The boy begins to hyperventilate, so Richie sprints around the side of the house to get to the front door as fast as possible. He struggles getting the knob open, but once he does, he pushes it open with his hip and heads straight for the guest bathroom located downstairs.

Before even turning the lights on, Richie drops Eddie down in the bathtub and rummages through the medicine cabinet with only the moonlight to guide him. After finding the tylenol, he flicks the light on and tosses the bottle into the tub, to which Eddie scrambles to catch. The two work silently, tossing pain killers in and taking the appropriate amount of dosages. After a moment of dry swallowing pills, Eddie looks up with shallowed breaths, his eyes full of panic as he knows that things are only going to get worse from here.

"Stay right here, don't move," Richie says to him, his hands shaking with tremors. "I'll be right back, don't go anywhere."

"Where the fuck am I going to go?" Eddie wheezes through a tight throat. The words sound raspy and tired, as if they're being forced out of him like an accordion being pushed as tightly together as possible.

Richie shakes his head, exiting the bathroom and clambering up the stairs with twice the speed he usually holds. He bursts into his room, heading straight for his desk drawer, and opening the top shelf to grab the object he never thought he would have to use. Richie flies back down the stairs, busting back in through the bathroom and causing Eddie to jump.

"Here," Richie tears the package open, discarding the box onto the floor. He hands the device over to Eddie with desperate hands, his eyes exasperated and in need of some sort of validation that they're going to be okay. "Here. I bought it awhile back. I didn't know if you'd ever need it, but I guess now I'm glad I did."

Eddie takes the aspirator from Richie's hands and puffs on the mouthpiece with gratitude. Once he feels like he can properly breathe again, he looks up at Richie and says "My asthma is the least of our concern right now."

Richie looks back down at the broken arm, which appears so much worse in proper lighting. The skin is already flourishing with bruises, Eddie's skin swelling up in blatant pain. Richie is afraid that he only made it worse, so he feels as if he has to fix it.

Richie kneels down and digs around underneath the sink until he finds the gauze his father keeps around for when his knee starts acting up. He quickly leans over the bathtub, his hands delicately hovering above Eddie's arm, waiting for approval to touch the injury.

Eddie nods, symbolizing "Go ahead," before Richie starts to wrap the arm in the ace bandage. He doesn't really know what he's doing, and he definitely wraps it more tightly than needed, but he just wants to make sure that he did something for Eddie instead of leaving the boy there to hurt.

"Richie," Eddie says quietly, watching Richie's ADHD hands work rapidly. "I think I need to go to the hospital."

"No," Richie shakes his head, panicking even more. Just when he starts to calm down, something else arises that brings a whole new wave of nausea. "You'll get grounded. I'll never see you again. Your mother will hate me."

"Would you rather have me lugging around a broken arm?" Eddie asks. He knows it's scary, he definitely feels that exact fear as he speaks, but he knows when he needs to step forward and reach out for help. As much as the two rub off on each other, some things just don't change. Richie's inability to accept defeat, and Eddie's level head maintaining its cool seem to be stuck in the roots of their foundations.

"I don't want you getting in trouble," Richie whispers, struggling with the pin in the bandage. "...Just for my sake."

"It was worth it," Eddie then says. Richie touches a sore spot, causing him to flinch and pull away, but he tries to relax again as the pain killers work their way through his bloodstream. "It was worth kissing you."

Richie stops and looks at Eddie, the two breaking into completely lovesick grins at the exact same time. The situation they're in seems to be absolutely life-threatening for the both of them, and yet, they still find it in themselves to smile.

"A sling," Eddie then says, holding up his heavily bandaged arm. "I should have this in a sling."

"A sling?" Richie repeats, now rapidly putting the pill bottles away. He tries to think of anywhere in the house where they might have anything remotely close to that, but he can't seem to think of one. "I'll tell you what, I'll make one for you."

"You're going to make one?" Eddie scoffs, his eyes filled to the brim with pain. He tries his best to mask it for Richie's sake, he knows the boy is freaking out and Eddie needs to be stable for him right now.

"Yeah, I went to Scouts for a year, I think I know how," Richie nods, looking around. Then, he reaches up over his shoulders to grab his shirt by the collar, tugging up and off of his body. He holds onto the two ends, raveling the shirt up into a rolled strip, then ties the two ends together in a knot. He slips the shirt over Eddie's head, gently guiding the broken arm into the sling, then tightening the knot accordingly. It's absolutely awful and nowhere near a proper sling, but he still tried his best, and it's absolutely the next best thing in Eddie's eyes. Richie says, "How's that?"

Eddie can't respond, not when he's distracted by protrudent ribs and sharp hipbones. He knows Richie is skinny, but he had no idea that the boy was so... sickly. Richie usually wears about a hundred layers of clothes to cover it up, so it's nearly impossible to see how thin he is under three flannels and jackets, but now it becomes painfully apparent by the shadows cast across his stomach from the dim lighting.

Richie realizes where Eddie's eyes are and he shrinks up in insecurity, the boy bringing his arms up to shelter his body from the naked eye. Quickly, he picks a towel off the rack, and drapes it over his shoulders in a way that requires minimum movement. At an attempt to lighten the mood, he says "What, you want a slice of Tozier's meat, pretty boy? My eyes are up here."

Eddie blinks as he snaps out of it, his head lifting up as he returns to maintaining eye contact. The pain is absolutely unbearable, but it's slowly becoming nothing but a dull throb thanks to the muscle relaxers that Richie tossed into the tub. He slowly stands up, his legs shaking, the boy using his good arm to balance himself out on the wall. He doesn't know what else he and Richie are going to do from this point on, but he knows that he can't go home with an arm in a makeshift sling. Eddie is terrified of all the tests she'll run, and he's even more scared of all the additional pills that are going to be added to his daily routine.

When they were about six years old, Bill and Eddie had been playing doctor out in the Kaspbrak front yard. When it was Eddie's turn to play the patient, he feigned a cough and told Dr. Denbrough that his throat was growing fungus in it. Even though they were just kids playing games, Sonia still spent the weekend in the ER with Eddie, getting every imaginable test done on the poor kid. That precise memory is what makes Eddie feel so scared to go home, so he opts to be irresponsible and just stay here with Richie. Nothing can hurt them if they stay together, the rest of the world doesn't matter when the two of them are trapped inside this house.

"How you feelin'?" Richie's voice brings Eddie back to reality, the tall boy guiding Eddie out of he bathtub carefully.

"Sleepy," Eddie admits. He doesn't know if it's the pain killers or the concussion he might have, but his body suddenly sends the signals to the brain that they're ready to go to bed. He tries to tell Richie that he can't sleep if he's got a concussion, but the words don't leave his mouth. He feels as if his whole jaw is cement, and it takes a crane to open or close.

"We can sleep," Richie nods. "We can sleep, yeah."

Eddie nods, letting Richie guide him out of the bathroom. When Richie tries to move upstairs, Eddie remains completely transfixed at the bottom of the staircase.

"Can't climb?" Richie asks, halfway through his ascent. His bedroom door hangs open, the cold air creeping in through the gaping window.

Eddie shakes his head, moving his legs apart as if they feel weighed down with lead. He looks down to see if he's wearing concrete shoes, but upon doing so, his head just sleepily bobs and it starts to occur to him that maybe he took one too many Xanax.

Richie comes back downstairs and leads Eddie to the living room, disappearing for just a moment to grab a sweater out of the dryer to avoid anymore staring. Upon his return, Richie lies down on the couch on his side so that Eddie may have enough room. The small boy curls up against Richie, the wounded arm held at a direct angle to avoid getting smushed. Eddie's eyes are closed before he can even drag his legs up onto the cushion, so Richie silently moves hair out of the boy's eyes and strokes his cheek as Richie watches him fall asleep.

It hasn't sunk in just how severe the situation is. Sure, they both have seeds of fear planted in the back of their brains, but neither of the two teenagers really have the ability to step backwards and realize what they're doing. They're ignoring a broken bone, pumping pain killers into someone the size of a nine year old, and hiding from any sort of help or authority in a household where a boy has been abandoned. Neither of them realize just how terrible their situation is, mainly because neither of them have the ability to see things for what they are. When you're in love, you tend to have tunnel vision. That tunnel vision is obscured with rose tinted glasses. Those rose tinted glasses seem to be more out of focus the younger their beholder is. Richie and Eddie have all the odds stacked against them, but for right now, they don't see any of it like that. All they know is that they want to be around each other, always. No matter what, they will cross town just to say goodnight to one another, even if it results in broken arms.

That peaceful ignorance does not last long.

Richie is woken up by sounds of disorientation and pain, his body becoming alert when he recognizes familiar whimpers. When he opens his eyes, his glasses are not on his face, so he has to squint to get his eyes to focus.

"Eds? What's wrong? Nightmare?" Richie asks, moving his arms around the boy's tiny waist. Eddie is sitting up on the couch, holding his arms close to himself and sniffling as quietly as he can.

"N-No," Eddie tries to act as if he hasn't been crying. "My arm. My arm fucking hurts, Richie. Those meds you gave me are wearing off-"

"Oh, let me go get more," Richie sits up and prepares to hop over the back of the couch, only to be stopped by Eddie's good hand coming up to grasp the back of Richie's sweater.

"I need to go to the hospital," Eddie says, this time with a more affirmative tone. "I need to go, Richie. This is... This is fucked up."

Richie is silent for a moment as he weighs his options. He know the only choice that they have is to either walk to the emergency room themselves, or to call Eddie's mom and explain why he's being picked up from a stranger's house in the middle of the night. Richie sighs, not wanting this romantic atmosphere to come to an end, but he knows he can't keep Eddie here with such a brutish injury. Richie just has to accept that the memory of his first kiss with Eddie will be tainted by the broken arm.

"Okay," Richie nods in defeat. "Okay, I'll go call your mom. What should I say?"

Eddie looks at him, his very brave boy, and tries to not jut his bottom lip out as his eyes water. He instructs Richie on what to say and how to say it, wishing the boy all the luck in the world to get through this phone call.

Once it's done, Richie comes back in through the doorway and watches Eddie on the couch. The tiny boy tries to adjust the makeshift sling, but only ends up flinching every few seconds. Richie stares for a long minute, afraid that this might be the last time he sees Eddie free from a school environment.

"She's on her way," Richie then says, his voice soft and gentle to not disrupt the mood. "She's not happy."

"Why would she be?" Eddie laughs to cover up his nerves. He feels himself growing shaky again, so he puffs from the inhaler that Richie gifted him, taking deep breaths to exalt his anxiety.

"Let's go wait outside," Richie suggests. It's freezing cold out, but his idea sounds like the right thing to do for both boys.

Eddie stands up, following Richie to the front door and resting his head against Richie's shoulder as the tall one unlocks the deadbolts. There's a certain sense of dread and misery in their actions, for instance, the way that Eddie sits down on the porch step as if he will never get to visit again.

Richie goes to comfort Eddie, but he realizes he sat on the side with the injured arm, so he can't exactly hold his friend's hand. Instead, he rests his hand over Eddie's knee, his thumb rubbing the material of his jeans with soft, gentle movements. Neither of the two say anything, the mood is too depressing for words. Richie tried to keep that phone call as friendly as possible, but it's obvious what happened. He knows he's only leading Eddie to his death like lambs to a slaughter. That woman was so furious that there is no doubt in Richie's mind that he'll never be able to see his little one again.

Richie suddenly chuckles, soft tendrils of air dancing in the shafts of moonlight breaking between heavy cotton-soaked clouds.

Eddie looks up at him, sleepy and delirious, and asks "What's so funny?"

"God must really hate us fags," Richie says. He looks down at Eddie, then rests his cheek on top of the boy's head. "Nothing says punishment like making you fall from a second story window after kissing another boy."

"Hmph," Eddie pouts. "Not sure it was retribution for sins, per se. Maybe because you're the antichrist, that seems more logical."

"Oh, am I?" Richie laughs, "I think you're just falling for me. Physically and metaphorically."

Eddie laughs but does not deny that claim, just rests his hand on top of Richie's. The fabric of the sling rubs against their cold skin, acting as the only barrier between the two's hands from touching. Yet somehow, the skin molecules break through the material to mingle, because the two both still feel those little electric tingles they get at the thought of one another.

"Damn it," Richie whispers as he watches a car squeal around the corner at the end of the block. He knows this is it, he knows that Eddie is about to be grounded until his eighteenth birthday, and he knows that he will never get late night kisses again.

"I didn't get to give you your Christmas present," Eddie suddenly says. He sits up, alert, ignoring the car that approaches faster and faster. He looks Richie in the eye, the headlights beaming into his eyes like angel halos. "I'm going to be grounded. I can't even give you your Christmas present."

"Present?" Richie responds, completely shocked. Richie Tozier has never received a Christmas present in his entire life. Sure, there was the occasional card from his relatives that would show up on the fridge, and some years they would write his name in it, but he never had a gift to call his. With him and Beverly, the rule has always been birthdays only. "You got me a present?"

"I did, yeah," Eddie nods, smiling. "I'd bring it to school, but, uhh... I think I would get in trouble."

"Oh my god, Kaspbrak, you take my breath away," Richie laughs, oblivious to the car pulling into his driveway. It doesn't matter that Sonia is crawling out of the car, screeching her head off for her baby boy. It doesn't matter that this boy is about to be taken away from him. It doesn't matter that they won't get to have anymore dates. All that matters is that Eddie got him a present. "I have to get you something now as well, don't I?"

"You don't have to," Eddie shakes his head, pushing Richie's hand off his knee as Sonia draws closer. She may be frantic, but her stubby legs sure make it hard for her to waddle quickly. For once, Richie is grateful for the long driveway.

"What kind of shitty boyfriend would I be if I didn't get you a gift?" Richie asks.

The two both realize what he said at the exact same time, but neither of them have strong reactions. Eddie's smile just grows, and Richie tries to casually play it off as if he isn't as red and flustered as a cherry ripe tomato.

"Eddie? Eddie! Eddie my boy!" Sonia's squawking can finally be heard. Something snaps in their mind, and they suddenly remember as if there are other people on this earth. As soon as that realization floods back, so does the background noise. "Oh, dear god, Eddie!"

When Eddie Kaspbrak told Richie Tozier what to say when calling his mother, he instructed the tall boy to just explain the situation without any kissing. The scenario was supposed to presented as Eddie coming over for a sleepover and breaking his arm by falling down the stairs in the Tozier home. Richie did not stick to this script, however, mainly because he did not want Sonia to blame him for Eddie's injury. (Although he does feel as if he is at fault.)

Instead, Richie stands up and starts spinning his tale as if he's rehearsed this script for weeks before giving his best performance. "Hi, you must be Sonia. This little guy's been going on about how you take care of him. I'm so terribly sorry to call you out this late in the night, but I am very worried about his arm. I was up late studying when I heard a crash, so I looked out my window and saw him in the street. Must have flipped his bike, Miss. The roads are quite icy, you see. He's a little out of it, but I'm so glad we were able to get ahold of you. He may be concussed, his memory may be a little fuzzy."

Eddie looks at Richie in genuine surprise, shocked at the boy's coherency and polite manner. The Richie he knows is the Richie who would not miss a beat when it came to making a joke about fornicating with the very woman standing before him, but when presented the opportunity to prove himself, Richie goes so far above and beyond that he's damn near nearly unidentifiable.

"What are you, a doctor? Get out of the way!" Sonia pushes Richie with her shrill voice, yanking Eddie up to examine his face. Richie's fists tighten at the sight of such a handsy approach, but he bites his tongue to refrain from what it so desperately wants to say. Instead, Sonia asks "What on earth were you doing out this late? And talking to strangers? You know better than to leave after sunset, Eddie! Nighttime is when the junkies come out! What if a junkie had found you!"

"Ma, stop," Eddie pushes her hands away. "I was- I was- I was-"

Eddie looks over his mother's shoulder, his eyes seeking Richie's for help. The goofy boy mimes a pretend box, mouthing the word "Present."

"I wanted to get you a Christmas gift," Eddie says suddenly. "Yeah. I wanted it to be a secret, mommy. I'm sorry for going out without permission, it won't happen again. I learned my lesson."

Richie deflates a little, trying to not look so dejected. He fondly remembers the Eddie Kaspbrak that once stood in his room and yelled "Fuck my mom!"

That boy is gone, he seemed to have faded with Eddie's ferocious fire. Richie wonders how long it will take before Eddie eventually extinguishes his feelings for him. He fears that day, knowing that their relationship has an expiration date.

As Sonia drags Eddie back to the running car, Eddie brushes past Richie and lets his hand roam across Richie's stomach as he walks by. Before Richie can even react to the hand being there, Eddie is whispering the word "Eat," to him.

Then, car doors slam, and Sonia tears out of the neighborhood in a rush to get to the hospital. Richie stands on the icy sidewalk, watching the glaring red taillights flicker farewells, his heart burning like the shell of a missing muffler.

Richie returns to his bed, sitting down and staring at the open window that led to Eddie's literal downfall. He's not as angry with himself as he imagined he would be, only because it's hard to self loath when he imagines Eddie's lips on his. Everything he's done seems to be forgiven; kissing Stan, associating with Bowers, being annoying, etc. etc. It's all written in between Eddie's lips, an inky apology waiting to be stamped onto Richie's mouth. He feels warmth, infatuation, and forgiveness.

Richie feels happiness.

He wonders what Eddie is feeling, though it's hard to imagine the boy can focus on anything other than the fading painkillers and broken bone. The truth is, Eddie is sitting in the passenger seat of his mom's station wagon, a grin plastered on his face. He feels the exact same renewal of romance blooming and budding within him, the traces of nicotine still lingering on his mouth.

Eddie feels happiness.

As Richie goes downstairs to make himself something to eat, he thinks of Eddie's little push towards taking care of himself. With Eddie's blessing, he doesn't feel bad about eating, in fact, he almost feels proud knowing that Eddie would approve of this. Richie eats a few snacks, his body finally relaxing at the presence of substance.

The two boys, although apart, feel the exact same mutual happiness.

And Richie thinks that yeah, maybe things will be okay after all.

Chapter Text

Richie sits patiently, watching the library door for the last of their group to arrive. Richie taps his pencil against the cover of his algebra book, nervously tapping his foot.

"He'll be here soon," Ben says in a comforting tone. He's sitting across from Richie at the table, pouring himself over the world studies textbook. "Relax."

Richie bites his lip and glances at Ben, trying his best to remain calm. Richie doesn't reply, only because Ben wasn't at the lunch table the day that Richie and Eddie came back after being held at knifepoint by two closeted queers. Now, any time Eddie is late, Richie can't help but fear the worst has happened. With a broken arm, Eddie is just about ten times more vulnerable than he already is, so it's only natural that Richie feels more on edge than usual.

"H-H-He's okay, R-Richie," Bill stutters. "C-Can you huh-help with my m-mm-math?"

"Yeah," Richie nods, averting his gaze from the door to focus on the textbook Bill is sliding across the library table.

For the past three days, the losers have been using their fifth periods as study halls for upcoming finals. Next week is finals, then the week after that is the start of their Christmas break. Richie feels uneasy with the upcoming holiday, but he guesses there's no real reason to be afraid when his parents aren't around in the first place. Richie hates Christmas, mainly because his mother drinks more than usual. He hates hearing about what gifts the kids at school were spoiled with, and he hates knowing that he will never receive a gift in his life. But without his parents around, maybe Christmas won't be spent hiding out in his room.

"Just carry the exponent over," Richie marks on Bill's paper, trying to explain the equation in simple terms. Bill is awful at math, so Richie tries to tutor him before the upcoming tests. But Stan is bad at chemistry, so Richie also tries to help there. On top of that, Bev is failing her lit&lang class, but he's hoping that Ben the Poet will help her with that one. "Here. Multiply these two - yeah, like that. See! You're getting the hang of it, Billy boy."

"Th-Th-Thanks, Rich," Bill smiles, then writes down an answer that is totally incorrect.

Before Richie can point out his error, Stan is tapping him on the shoulder. Stan is much more subtle in his approach, too prideful to admit that he needs help from Richie of all people. Stan rests his hand on Richie's arm, then says "Hey. Do you remember the formula for density?"

"Yeah, yeah, let me finish up with Bill," Richie nods, his hand coming to brush over Stan's. He remembers Eddie's dejected expression after learning of their thirteen shared kisses, so Richie pulls his hand away guiltily. It's not that he's against showing platonic affection, he just really doesn't want Eddie feels insecure with the idea of Stan being a back up plan.

Just then, the library door opens, and Eddie Kaspbrak bustles in, arms full of books and lungs out of air. He rushes over to the table, looking at the two boys on either side of Richie, then shamefully takes a seat next to Beverly.

Richie stands up, ready to swap seats, but realizes he doesn't want to bring so much attention to this secret love that the two boys are sharing. It's really not that secret, just about everyone at the table knows how the two feel about one another, but that doesn't mean Richie particularly wants to confirm what is meant to be only his and Eddie's.

"Where ya been? We were worried," Richie sits back down with flushed cheeks. Nobody says anything about his abrupt movements, probably just equating it to classic Richie Tozier ADHD tendencies.

"Sorry, sorry," Eddie exhales, digging around to find his inhaler. "I was talking to Mr. Irwin about my report, apparently I got a D."

"What? We were up all night writing that one," Ben huffs, shaking his head.

"He said the writing was spectacular, it was just my facts that were fabricated," Eddie shrugs, taking a few hits off of his aspirator as quietly as he can in the silent library. Around them, many other kids study for their finals as well, but most of them are actually doing proper work instead of socializing.

There is a table that Richie knows for a fact isn't doing any work. He spotted them when he came in; Victor Criss and Belch Huggins waiting in Richie's familiar back table isolated behind shelves. It seemed like they were waiting, and that is made abundantly clear when Henry and Patrick come in a few moments after Eddie sits down. The two have flushed cheeks and their appearances are in disarray, and Henry is busy wiping the corners of his mouth away when he makes brief eye contact with Richie.

At least they weren't terrorizing Eddie. Sure, probably getting up to no good with one another in a bathroom stall, but they seem to be leaving Eddie alone. That's what matters.

As Richie looks away to avoid tempting Henry through prolonged eye contact, he assumes the role of his southern Voice and turns to his friends. "Eye'sa do declare that we's gon havta go on down to that boy there Hanlon's farm-o."

"Yeah, that sounds like a good idea," Stan nods in agreement. "He could help us with history. You guys in?"

"I'm not failing history," Bev laughs. She leans back in her chair, putting an arm around Eddie comfortably. The boy smiles and leans into her side, but not in a way that Richie should feel jealous of. He knows better than to think anything of Beverly's friendly gestures, that's just how she is. The girl points a single finger gun at Richie and asks "Neither are you, meaning we can go down and catch a flick at the Aladdin."

Richie's eyes glance over to the cast adorning Eddie's arm, then the pair of hazel clean eyes pouring into him. Richie shrugs, then says "I'm the one who suggested going to Mike's. Don't you think it would be a little weird if I didn't go?"

Bev frowns, feeling dejected and humiliated. She takes her arm off of Eddie, fully realizing that the small boy is the only reason that Richie is not shooting out of his seat at the idea of a movie. It's as if she needed a reminder that Richie no longer considers them best friends.

"I'll g-g-go with you, B-Bev," Bill pipes up, doing his best to give a comforting smile. "D-Don't really wuh-want t-t-to be ssss-smelling like cow shit anyways."

Bev laughs, then nods and agrees to go with Bill, but it's undeniable that it's not really the same. Her and Richie used to throw popcorn into people's hair, and then sneak outside snacks in through Richie's pants. The two would almost always get caught, and nothing can beat the way that the security guard shone his flashlight on the two loud mouthed teenagers in Richie's prime moment; trousers down and twizzlers in each hand. Bev is sure that Bill will be just as fun, but again, she just wants her best friend back.

Richie doesn't dwell on it for too long. No, his attention is almost immediately snapped up by Stan folding paper delicately, his fingers creasing the edges of his creation with artistic precision. Both Richie and Eddie watch, the two enthralled in Stan's fastidious movements. Eddie picks up early on what the boy is crafting, but Richie doesn't quite comprehend until the paper bird is placed upon his text book.

"Oh, shit, Uris!" Richie picks up the paper bird by the wing and turns it over in his hands to inspect the intricate folds. "Stan the man! I didn't know you like origami!"

"Shh," Ben hushes Richie, reminding the trashmouth that they are in fact still located within a library. Upon being shushed, Richie guiltily raises a hand in apology, then gives Eddie a sheepish look.

"Just something I picked up on," Stan shrugs, tearing out another sheet of notebook paper to make another bird. "I don't know. It just kinda makes sense to me, you know?"

Richie nods, though he doesn't know at all. Still, even then, he watches Stan more closely this time, trying very hard to memorize the movements. Stanley finishes the paper swan off with a bit of a flourish, then takes his pen and begins to ink something into the wing. When he finishes, he sets the bird down on Eddie's notebook, giving the small boy a friendly smile.

Later on, when the losers are all packing up and heading to their sixth period, Richie holds the door open for a lagging Eddie who got caught up checking a book out. When Eddie finally makes it to the door, Richie lets his hand grace against the back of Eddie's neck, his finger running along the shaved stubble growing in from Eddie's last haircut.

"What did Stan write on the bird?" Richie asks, habitually following Eddie to his locker as he always does.

"Hm? Oh, hold on," Eddie shifts his books to one side of his arm, then digs around in his pocket for the bird. Despite being stuffed into Eddie's tight jeans, the bird still remains stiff and untouched, blessed by the gentle hands of Stan Uris. Eddie holds it out, wings up, and shows the inky word 'Bellbird'.

Richie then fishes out his own bird, turning it upside down to inspect the underside of the spread wings. As expected, in Stan's precise handwriting, the word 'Chickadee'.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Richie asks, comparing their origami swans to one another. The boys start descending the flights of stairs it takes to get to Eddie's locker on the first floor, and Richie watches carefully to make sure that Eddie does not slip his footing anywhere.

"That's me," Eddie points at the bird in Richie's hand. "I'm chickadee."

"You're what?" Richie laughs. His eyes linger on the cast wrapped around Eddie's arm, feeling a bit bad about the fact that it's his own fault Eddie got hurt.

"You seriously don't know?" Eddie asks in mild surprise. "You were oh so chummy with Stan, yet he never told you about the birds?"

"I know he likes them," Richie states a bit defensively. He hates when Eddie acts like a know-it-all, it makes him feel completely foolish. "I don't know any of the names."

"Stan gives all of his friends these, uh, assigned birds? I guess that's what he would call it. I don't know, it's just always been his thing. We all have a designated bird that fits our personalities. Mike is a saddleback, Ben's a kiwi, I'm a chickadee, you know."

"Then who's the bellbird of the group?" Richie asks, stopping beside Eddie as the small boy begins to put in his locker combination. Richie admires the paper swan honestly, completely astonished by Stan's artistic precision.

"Well, I'm assuming you are, dipshit," Eddie remarks, swinging his locker door open.

Richie lifts his head to throw back a quick-witted remark, but he's caught off guard by a photo of himself staring back at him. Still taped up inside Eddie's locker, still on display for the whole school to see. Eddie carefully makes room amongst his pharmacy for the tiny paper bird to nest, then begins to grab his chemistry textbook from his bookbag.

Richie feels himself burning up with admiration, so he covers his face with his ring-clad hand. He would make some smart comment about Eddie's inability to carry more than one book at a time, but his tongue seems to be stuck in his throat after seeing such a blatant love proclamation. Especially such a public one.

He expected Eddie to take that picture down, that he was only keeping it in his locker for that one day so that he would not lose it. Richie did not expect the photo to stay there, especially not to be joined by a gift of Richie's designated bird given to him by their friend. Stan giving the two boys the other's respective birds was as much approval as they could ask for, meaning that at least one of the losers is okay with the two of them dating. Richie wonders how long they can keep this facade up before the rest of them find out what they probably already know.

"I'll see you after school," Eddie then says, shutting his locker and spinning the lock dial absentmindedly. He stands on his tiptoes to get Richie's attention, the curious boy saying "Okay?"

"Yeah, yeah," Richie blurts out, nodding his reddened face. "Yeah. Sorry. Zoning out."

Eddie smiles a completely bashful smile, his face practically being a dead giveaway about his feelings for the boy in front of him. Thankfully, nobody is really paying attention to the two, so their embarrassed and flushed actions go unnoticed.

"I'll wait out back behind the soccer field," Eddie says, his expression one full of mischief and trouble. "Maybe you can finally get me a fancy Walkman to match yours."

Richie pouts. "But if you get your own, what else would I have to offer?"

"True," Eddie nods, half smirking. "Maybe your handsome face and dazzling personality can make up for it."

Richie bends down to Eddie's height, grinning with satisfaction. The bell rings, but neither of the two really move from their conversation, too absorbed in each other's dreamy eyes. "You think my personality is dazzling, Eds?"

Eddie frowns, furrowing his brows as he scrunches his nose up in faux disgust. He says, "Let me rephrase that; your obnoxious personality."

"Oh, but you love it," Richie moves forward, only for Eddie to lean back. Richie suddenly remembers where they are and quickly stands up, correcting his posture in an attempt to collect his composure. Embarrassment seeps into him, the boy nervously glancing around to see if anybody caught onto the kiss that nearly just unfolded.

"You're an idiot," Eddie then says, but the smile is back just as soon as the words leave his mouth. "After school, Tozier."

"Right. After school. See you later, chickadee."

Eddie rolls his eyes at the nickname, but does not protest it. He shakes his head, turning on his heel to hurry to class, leaving Richie standing lovestruck and whisked away with infatuation.

Richie doesn't know how anything could possibly mess this up.

As promised, Eddie Kaspbrak is waiting so very patiently by the end of the soccer field at 3 pm, his petite body leaning against the frame of the goal. He perks up when he sees Richie approaching, the tiny boy grabbing his bag from the ground and jogging to meet Richie halfway across the empty field. The snow crunches beneath their footsteps, and Richie genuinely wants to remember the earth like this forever. Eddie's shoes leaving marks as they run to come meet up with his own footprints. Nothing seems more beautiful than the display of their paths connecting.

"Hey," Eddie grins, his words completely breathless.

Richie wraps his arms around Eddie's middle, picking the boy up as Richie scatters tiny little kisses all over Eddie's melting face. Eddie laughs, so brightly and alive, tiny hands pushing on Richie's chest with no real force.

"Knock it off!" Eddie giggles, his legs wrapping around Richie's hips tightly. "You saw me, like, an hour ago!"

"Tell me about it," Richie mumbles between kisses, his lips craving to be pressed against Eddie for the rest of eternity.

"Richie, stop, someone could see us," Eddie protests, but his fingers still entangle with the back of Richie's perpetually messy hair.

"Let them," Richie shrugs, his hands finding the back of Eddie's thighs to support the boy clinging onto him. Richie looks up at Eddie, enjoying the ring of light reflecting in sugar tea eyes, and he asks, "May I kiss you?"

"You may," Eddie nods, leaning forward to brush his lips against Richie's.

Richie surges forward just the slightest, invoking the most gentle of kisses, just a pinch of sweetness on both of their lips. Then, he lets Eddie down, his hands traveling up the small one's back as he does so. He smiles, brushes some snow out of Eddie's hair, and asks "Ready to go, chickadee?"

Richie and Eddie spend hours downtown shopping with one another, blowing money on useless trinkets that remind each other of one another, Richie showing Eddie how easy it is to shoplift despite the boy's protests, and more importantly, traveling to Blue's to get Eddie a proper tape player.

Richie was careful to guide Eddie around in that store, not wanting the boy to accidentally slip past the beaded curtain and be greeted by the plumes of smoke that pirouetted throughout the air. He kept his hands on Eddie's shoulders the whole time, guiding the tiny one around like a toy car. They did not stop and look at the vinyls, they did not check out the TV playing MTV, they went to the walkmans and then straight to the register. In and out in under five minutes. That store is no place for Eddie to be hanging out, and Richie really doesn't want the aroma of hemp getting caught in the threads of Eddie's knit sweaters.

Now, the one he so carefully protects, sits on his bed and fiddles with the batteries for his fancy new Walkman. He's said thank you about a million times, but Richie keeps waving him off. It was money left on the kitchen counter, presumably from his father's pocket. He can't remember what he was told to buy with that money, but nothing seems appealing enough to purchase unless it's for Eddie.

Richie sits in the desk chair, his long legs pulled up as he holds the mug to his chest. Eddie's own hot cocoa remains untouched on the nightstand, but something about his pure excitement erases all offense Richie might have taken.

"Hey," Richie speaks up, his eyes trained on the golden halo of afternoon light glowing throughout the silk threads of Eddie's hair. He thinks of how beautiful this boy is, inside and out, and he know he needs to do something about it.

"Hmm?" Eddie hums, his delicate fingers finally pinching the back into place. Then, with the side of his cast, he scratches the spot above his knee absentmindedly.

"We should talk," Richie sits forward, letting his legs drop from the chair onto the floor. This seems to catch Eddie's attention, his wide fauna eyes lifting up to penetrate Richie's.

"What's up?" Eddie sets the tape aside, now reaching over and taking the lukewarm mug into his hands. Richie watches the way that his gentle fingers wrap around it, finding new ways to love every appendage on this hypochondriac boy.

"What do you think?" Richie asks, suddenly losing his nerve and glancing over to the photos taped to his wall. Next to a picture of Bev on a swing set, there's a napkin from Curly's that has a reminder set on it. The reminder is cryptic to anybody who isn't Richie. Learn to love other things besides b-sides. He looks back to Eddie, and he knows that this may be his only chance to fall in love with something outside of music. "About us?"

"What about us?" Eddie feigns innocence.

Richie bites his lip, but finds the courage to continue. "Like...? You know? Like Bev and Ben."

Eddie spills out a hearty giggle, attempting to hide his mouth behind the rim of the mug, but it's too late. The damage is already done. Richie is already shaking his head, attempting to move onto the next subject.

Fuck. Fix this, Kaspbrak Eddie thinks to himself.

"I think we could be boyfriends," Eddie says suddenly. "If that's what you want, too. We could work towards that, yeah? Keep going on proper dates and doing it how Bev and Ben do."

The two realize that the only real couple they have in their lives are the redhead and her chubby companion. That's not much of a good model at all, however. Not when you're both boys.

"You think?" Richie sounds hopeful. "Like, for real? Real boyfriends? Not just high school dating, you know, like, only dating for the reputation."

"Jesus, if I was worried about my reputation, do you really think I'd go and fall for the likes of you?" Eddie teases, a tone so loving that it can't be mistaken as an insult. Richie understands it as it was meant to be understood, a small smirk playing on his lips. "Much less another man."

This raises concern.

"We'd have to keep it a secret," Richie nods. "Nobody could know. I don't- I don't want to find out what would happen to you if people thought you were a fruit."

"But I am," Eddie finally admits outloud.

Richie must say, he's shocked. He stops in his tracks, mouth held agape, a complete surprise taking over his emotions.

"You are?" Richie asks.

"I thought the kisses would have explained that," Eddie bites sarcastically, taking a long sip of his cocoa. "Maybe you're too dull to understand that, though."

"Shut up," Richie laughs, setting his mug down carefully. "I'm serious, dude. Nobody can find out. They'd... I don't know. They wouldn't approve. So if you're serious about being serious, then it has to be a serious secret."

"What about the losers?" Eddie asks. It's a valid question; can they trust their own best friends? Their homemade family?

"Let's be real," Richie says, "They already know. I think Ben is the only loser without a clue, but it won't take him long to pick up on it."

Eddie nods, accompanied by a laugh. He glances down at his mug as if he sees a mystifying truth swirling around in the substance. What he comes up with, however, seems to be "Yeah, that's okay. We should keep it a secret. That way... it's just for us."

"Are you serious about this, though?" Richie isn't sure how many times he can ask for emotional validation before Eddie gets tired.

"Deadly," Eddie responds. "I really like you, Rich. For some odd reason, I really like you. Are you... Are you not serious?"

"No, I am! I am, I promise I am!" Richie quickly protests, his mind panicking at the thought of losing Eddie. He pushes some hair out of his eyes and continues. "I really want to be with you, too. Like, outside of high school too. Like... when we're adults and shit."

"I think people would frown upon two men living together," Eddie mumbles.

"Fuck 'em. We'll move somewhere crazy. We'll move out to Vermont, or Oregon, or California. One of those crazy places. Hell, we can build our lives in San Francisco, I hear it's the gay capital of the world," Richie rambles in his usual overly energetic fashion.

Eddie watches him with a fond smile, loving that little jitter that Richie gets in his bones whenever he is excited. He listens to Richie list off capitals and cities, before finally interjecting. "You wanna start a life together? Just the two of us?"

Richie stops in his tracks, realizing the grave danger he's put himself in. With a knot in his stomach, he begins to ramble once more, but this time he spends his time backtracking. "I mean, yeah. We're young and stupid, and I've only known you for, like, two months, but why not? We'd be good at it. It would be fun, just the two of us. Just think about it; the shenanigans. Imagine one day opening a pill bottle and a bunch of snakes jump out of the can. How great would that be? Again, I know I'm getting too far ahead of myself, but I really like you, Eds. I don't know what could come in the way of that."

Eddie says nothing, just smiles. He takes long drinks of his hot cocoa, nearly finishing off the cup as Richie watches him. Not expectantly, no, Richie would never push Eddie to answer, just waiting to see what Eddie has to say.

Eventually, Eddie opens his mouth to reply, but before the words can inject themselves to the tip of his tongue, there's an echoing chime that rings throughout the whole house. Richie and Eddie both freeze, unsure of who would be disturbing the Tozier residence. They don't ignore it for long, however, because frantic pounding begins to beat the front door immediately consequently following the bell.

Richie stands up, Eddie of course following him. The two hold hands as they descend the stairs, but when Richie sees the flashing red and blue of police cars through the smoked glass, he drops Eddie's hand and pushes on the boy's chest.

He turns around, keeping Eddie contained to the bottom of the staircase. From the front door, the stairs are hidden, so Eddie will be fine if he stays out of sight. Richie points a finger at Eddie very accusingly and says "Don't move, Eds. Don't move."

"Rich-" Eddie reaches out for Richie's sleeve, but he misses the fabric by a fraction of a centimeter. To busy his hands, he retrieves his inhaler from his pocket, and he begins nervously huffing on the mouthpiece.

Richie braves up to answer the door, knowing that it would be far worse if the police were to bust the door in and barge in themselves. He tries to look respectable and mature, the boy straightening his back out and he smooths some of his hair back.

"Hello, officers?" Richie's voice shakes despite his confident demeanor. Upon the words leaving his mouth, he realizes that there is only one police officer, accompanied by a woman wearing a very fancy business suit. She's got a stack of paper in her hands, all tucked into a manila folder.

"Hello, I'm from the Derry PD, I've received an anonymous tip that there's a case of child neglect and abandonment? May I speak to the man of the house?" The police officer's voice sounds growling, a threat that sends Richie's bones into a chill.

"Ch-Ch-Child abandonment?" Richie feigns ignorance, his words jumbling up, making him sound like Stuttering Bill.

The woman with a pantsuit seems much more calm and friendly. She opens the file in her arms, and then asks "May I speak to Mrs. Tozier, please? Is Maggie home?"

"They're, uh, both at work," Richie begins to outwardly panic, his legs tapping against the doorframe, his hand patting his thigh in rapid successions. "They work late. That's all."

"It shows here that Mr. and Mrs. Tozier haven't showed up to work in the past... 42 days? Does that sound right, Richie?"

Richie's vision begins to blur, his brain exploding. This can't be happening, no, this can't be happening. Nobody was supposed to know. Richie has grown up in the shadows, always being cast aside and ignored because he was taught that his life didn't matter. He grew up with the assumption that he could go missing one day, and nobody would look for him. Now, here are two adults, accusing him of being abandoned, and he doesn't understand it. How did they know? Who told them? Who saw Richie's loneliness and decided to go to the police?

Richie's heart thuds inside of his chest, his mind racing with a thousand thoughts at a millions miles per second. He instantly retreats from the door, recoiling and instinctively drawing in on himself, attempting to find some shelter in the isolation that he has grown up in. He feels naked, raw, exposed. In his driveway, there are two cop cars, and then a third SUV parked across the street. Here are all these people that suddenly notice him, see him and his flaws, his imperfections and all the little details that his mother never understood. He feels naked, but worse, he feels as if he's being stared at. Richie is not an exhibitionist, he can't stand the idea of being examined. Once, Bev spoke of getting a psych evaluation, and the idea of having his brain picked apart like that sends Richie into a frenzy of over exposure. He doesn't like being noticed, he doesn't like being in the spotlight.

For someone whose entire personality revolves around desperate attempts to gain attention, he now realizes all at once that he absolutely hates being singled out.

"Th-They're here, they're in town," Richie stammers over his words, his chest rising and falling with rapid acceleration. His stomach squeezes beneath a tight fist, a pool of dread settling in his chest like a concrete slab solidifying inside of him. "They're in town. They leave me notes. They leave me money. They didn't abandon me, they're here."

The two standing on the front porch step exchange sneaky glances, a conversation between their eyes that drives Richie crazy. He needs to know what they're saying about him, he needs to hear it out loud. He can't deal with this body language and behavioral subtext, he needs to know what they're saying about him.

"May I come in and look around?" The woman asks, her voice sweet and kind. Richie decides that he hates her more, her aura appearing too plastic to be considered real. He doesn't trust her one bit, but he's more afraid of the gun strapped to the police officer's belt to say no to her.

Richie nods feebly, opening the door a bit wider so that the woman and police officer can step inside. Upon doing so, the cop shuts the door behind them, leaving Richie and him trapped in the living room.

Richie nervously bites his nails as the woman approaches the kitchen, knowing that Eddie is going to be discovered. For some unknown reason, Richie prays that Eddie had enough common sense to go upstairs and hide when this conversation first ensued.

But he didn't, and that is made apparent when the woman stops in her tracks and looks to the stairs as if her eyes have met something. She holds a hand outwards, and says "We've got another. This one looks younger, just under 11 or 12. Broken arm."

Eddie is pulled from his hiding spot, his ghostly face frozen in absolute horror. His eyes find Richie's for some sort of comfort, but the taller one is just as scared as he is, if not more terrified. The room feels tight, and neither of the two boys think they can breathe.

"This your baby brother, son?" The cop asks Richie, planting a large hand on Richie's skinny shoulder.

"N-No," Richie shakes his head, saying "He's just a friend. He's got a mom. He's just a friend."

Despite the situation, the words still sting in Eddie's ears. But he knows that Richie can't exactly tell a cop that Eddie is his boyfriend, that would seem too... too bold. He doesn't want to risk the two of them being arrested, as delusional as that may be.

The woman seems satisfied with that answer, and then leaves to enter the kitchen. Richie feels his guts knot up in anguish and fear, and without having to speak a single word to Eddie, the smaller one automatically follows the woman to see what she's doing. Once he knows that Eddie is on the case, he visibly relaxes, some of the tension easing up in his shoulders.

"Son, would you come down to the station to answer a few questions for us?"

Richie's relaxation is cut short as his blood runs cold. He feels as if he's been shot in the chest, and now he is bleeding out all over this cop and the polished hardwood floors that his mother worked on so fervently.

Suddenly, all in one moment, Richie misses his mother. He knows that there's no real reason to miss the reason you're now being investigated by the local police, but he still feels sick with nostalgia as he remembers the scent of her perfume. He misses waking up on Saturday mornings to the sounds of her doing laundry, he misses coming downstairs and being yelled at for not washing the dishes already, he misses being slapped around for dragging mud in the house from outside. He misses the way she filled her wine glasses with whiskey during dinner, and he misses the way that she looked at him with confusion in her stare. It wasn't that she hated him, she didn't, she just never understood him. That's all.

Richie even misses his father. His father was a bit nicer, would occasionally go out and throw a ball around with Richie if he had had a good day at the office. He encouraged Richie's voices sometimes, but other times, would get irritated and slap the boy upside the the head to get him to stop. He misses his father blackmailing him into chores, the way his father's aftershave smelled, and the way that his father looked at his mother as if he could learn to love her if she would just give him a chance. But she never did, and Richie supposes he misses that too.

Richie ends up with his arms wrapped around himself in an attempt to shield himself from the raw stare the policeman is giving to him. He needs some sort of protection from the outside world. Eddie has now followed the woman upstairs, so Richie has no choice but to protect himself alone.

"Sure," he murmurs quietly, as if the house is too big to talk in without hearing an echo. He doesn't want to hear himself; not now, not ever. His own incessant babbling is what ultimately drove his parents away.

He doesn't know how long he stands there, he doesn't count the minutes. He knows it feels like an eternity though, and his racing thoughts aren't doing him any favors towards calming him down. He feels as if he spends a lifetime next to that police officer, standing there and waiting for Eddie to come back downstairs and report on what the woman is doing. He feels like he has aged years by the time the two both come back down, and when he dares to look up at Eddie's face, he's not pleased by the expression that he's greeted with.

Eddie is looking at him with sympathy.

Sympathy.

No, no, no. That's not supposed to happen. Eddie knows his parents are in town, he knows. Why is Eddie looking at him like that? Eddie shouldn't pity him, he shouldn't feel sorry for Richie, there's nothing to feel sorry for. What had the woman done or said that suddenly turned Eddie against him?

"The tip was correct, there's perishables that have been bought recently, but the master bedroom wardrobes have been cleared out," the woman says to the officer as if the two boys weren't even standing there. "Food was most likely bought by our tipper. There's a collection of dust over everything in that room, they haven't been home in awhile."

Richie's stomach plummets through his body, freefalling off of a high story building and leaving Richie weightless, with nothing to anchor him. He looks at Eddie, his eyes lost at sea and pleading for comfort, but Eddie betrayed him by giving him another sad expression.

No, no, no, no. Richie becomes so painfully aware of how alone he is in that exact moment, and it isn't fair at all.

"Can you come down to the station for us, son?" The officer now asks Richie, and the tallest of the two kids can only nod.

Eddie has never seen him this grim before. Sure, Richie gets upset and anxious, but never has he seen Richie so... complacent. Flaccid. Passive. Richie always fights back just for the sake of arguing. He always stirs up trouble, even if he knows he's wrong. He lives for being stubborn, but now... he's just surrendering, showing how weak he truly is. Eddie doesn't think he's seen anything sadder.

"Only if I can come with," Eddie interjects, taking a deep breath in and trying his best to appear taller. If Richie won't argue, if Richie won't fight, if Richie won't be Richie, then Eddie will. Eddie twists his face up in embarrassment at what he's about to do, but then clears his throat and tries his best at Richie's auctioneer voice. "Buy one, get one free! Step right up! We've got a package deal; you can't take one without getting the other!"

Richie immediately breaks into a grin, one focused towards the ground, but a grin nonetheless. He can't believe Eddie sometimes, that boy is going to be the death of Richie. What's he doing making a fool of himself like this?

It dawns on Richie as the two are escorted to the officer's vehicle; Eddie is trying to make him smile. The sympathy nearly crushed Richie, and Eddie could sense that. So to return the balance to their relationship, Eddie did his best to bring some of the fire inside him to the surface.

"You impersonation was awful," Richie says in the backseat. He smiles at Eddie, his face not exactly matching the true emotions he's feeling at the moment.

Eddie looks away from the window, or more specifically, the people outside the window. The woman probably retells the scene of complete abandonment that Eddie had witnessed with her the second they stepped foot into that master bedroom, but for now, he can't worry about that. He turns back to Richie and frowns, saying "I didn't see you doing any better."

Richie shrugs, a small smile on his face. His life may be coming to an end in this moment, but by God he is so completely and utterly head over heels for Eddie Kaspbrak. Who else would follow him into the back of a cop car? Not Bev, no, she hates cops. Definitely not Henry, he's got a record twice as long as anybody else in all of Derry. Eddie Kaspbrak is the only one crazy enough to follow him into the backseat of a sheriff's temporary holding cell. But it's not just that, no, Richie thinks that Eddie would follow him anywhere.

The two boys both reach over at the exact same time, entwining their fingers with one another, gripping their hands like it's the last time they'll ever touch. And as Richie brings their connection up to his face so he can press a kiss to the back of Eddie's hand, both boys think the exact same thing.

It very well might be the last time. It might be.

Chapter Text

Richie was under the impression that he would be locked in a concrete room with no windows and one-sided glass. He assumed he would be interrogated of his parents' whereabouts as if they had just killed a man and Richie is their only suspect. That didn't happen, of course, but it still took some time for Richie to process what had actually happened.

Him and Eddie were separated almost the second they walked into the police station. Eddie was guided towards a waiting room of some sorts, and given a dollar for the vending machine. Richie, however, was taken to a man behind a desk, a computer sitting on top.

Richie had only seen a computer a couple times in his life. There were two in the school library, but both had games disabled and were purely for research only. There was always someone inhabiting the seats in front of them, however, so Richie never got to experience the technology himself. Here, however, he was sat right next to the computer screen. He stared at the computer, at how it was less boxy than the ones at school, his eyes following the wires down beneath the desk and disappearing to some place he cannot seat. The keyboard looked less clunky, too. Richie guesses that this is where the taxpayer's dollar is being spent; the police having up to date innovative technology.

The man asked a lot of questions, some that seemed irrelevant. He asked about Richie's birthday and where his dad works. Richie answered everything the best he could, but there were some questions that were left blank, such as "When was the last time that you saw your parents?"

When the interview finally ended, the man started printing directly from the computer, and Richie was fascinated by it. Before he could stay and see the result of the quiz he had just taken, another officer was guiding him by the arm out of the office area. As he walked down the hall, a door opened up in front of him, and the last person he expected to see walks out from the doorway.

Henry Bowers.

Certainly Henry was no stranger to the police station, being taken down for petty crimes such as vandalism and loitering. But this was different, the timing was too convenient, and Richie was being taken into the exact same room that Henry had just been coming out of.

"You fucking told them," Richie blurts out, his eyes pouring into Henry's. He feels himself grit his teeth, his fists clenching at his sides as bile begins to rise in his throat. "You called the fucking police on me, you piece of shit."

The officer that's guiding Richie tightens his grip on the thin arm hidden beneath a jean jacket, pulling him back from Henry in just the slightest.

Henry looks away, guilt evident all over his expression. He moves like an injured rabbit, one that's just had its lucky foot cut off. It's a familiar walk, Richie knows the way he limps quite well. He knows that if Richie were to lift up Henry's coat right now, he would see belt lashes and welts raising all over Henry's pale skin. He went too far this time, Henry's dad. He went too far and Henry felt cornered to telling someone. But instead, he panicked and ratted Richie out rather than telling the truth about what really goes on. After all, his father is the sheriff.

"I was worried," Henry says dejectedly. He is at a low, maybe his lowest point, and he doesn't really need nor want Richie's opinion of him being added onto that pile. But Richie doesn't care, he's going to kick Henry while he's down.

"You don't have the right to be worried!" Richie spits, trying to twist his arm free of the officer's grip. The man only tightens his hand, now attempting to coax Richie into the tiny room. But Richie is done being complacent, he's done giving up. He's fighting back so that Eddie doesn't have to. "You don't get to be worried after you held a knife to my fucking throat!"

Then, Richie is shoved into the room, and the door is shut. He stands there, rigid with anger, his hands shaking in fury as he tries to swallow the betrayal he just experienced. Henry doesn't have the right. He just doesn't.

Even if he doesn't have the right, they had promised to each other. Promised when they were little. Two young boys huddled under a tree in Henry's backyard, pinky promising one another that they would never tell anybody their secrets. Now, here Henry is, breaking that promise by dragging the police into Richie's abandonment case.

"He beats him, you know," Richie blurts out. He makes a vague arm gesture towards the door, looking around at the cops in the room. "His father beats him. If anybody needs social services on their doorstep, it's him."

"Chief?" One of the cops almost laughs at Richie. "No way. Docile as a kitten."

"I would beat him if he were my son, too," the one still holding onto Richie's arm suddenly says. Richie yanks his arm out of the man's grip, feeling disgusted by the words that just came from his mouth.

"He beats him," Richie repeats, with more emphasis on the word. Why is nobody listening? Are they really that caught up in what they think of their precious Chief?

The only one who takes him seriously is the woman from before, sitting at a desk with another computer, but her piece of technology is slightly older. She nods at Richie, then takes the pen from behind her ear and makes a note on a pad of sticky notes. Richie leans forward so that he can read it, but when he can't, he bounces back in defeat.

"Sit," she asks him, motioning towards the chair in front of her desk. She pushed the pad forwards, so Richie takes another look.

Investigate Bowers for potential child abuse.

The words are underlined, giving off a sense of urgency that calms Richie down. He nods, thankful that somebody actually listened to him. So, Richie takes his seat, his body stiff and uncomfortable in the room he's been locked in.

"I'm not talking to any other cops," Richie says bluntly. He eyes the woman, preparing to see how she reacts, but she barely even bats an eye at him.

"I'm not a cop," she says simply.

Richie eyes the other men lining the room, and with a simple wave of her hand, they all start to vacate the room. Suddenly, Richie straightens up and turns to one of the officers on his way out.

"Wait!" Richie calls, his voice panicked. "Can you check on my friend? He's in the waiting room, his name is Eddie."

"Little one?" The man asks, to which Richie nods. He waves Richie's request off, saying "That kid is fine. He's been calling up a storm, using up all his money on phone calls."

Richie's stomach drops at this, but he knows that Eddie would not dream of calling his mother. Not in this position. Sonia would quite possibly quarantine Eddie for the rest of his life if she were to have to pick him up from the police station. No, Eddie is calling people who matter. Richie just isn't sure if he wants all of them involved just yet.

As the last officer leaves, and the door is shut behind him, Richie suddenly doesn't want to be alone with this woman. She came into his home and went into his parents' bedroom, and Richie feels like that is partially illegal on its own. He avoids eye contact with her, looking at the pictures of various children on her desk. There's no way these are all hers, there's dozens. Kids of varying age and race are all framed for whoever enters her office to see.

"He means a great deal to you, doesn't he?" she asks.

Richie is caught off guard, his body tensing, muscles locking up in fear. He feels as if he swallowed a ton of molten lava, his insides stripping away from the inside out as it eats him alive.

"Sure, I guess," Richie tries his best at being nonchalant.

"Does he take care of you?" She asks. "Eddie?"

Richie bites his lip, not trying to give away anything too crucial to his and Eddie's true relationship. "Um, sure, I guess."

She nods, and Richie braces himself for whatever her next question is going to be. When Richie finally works up the courage to make eye contact with her, he notices that she doesn't look annoyed like all the other cops did. She looks friendly. Pleasant. He doesn't trust the facade at all.

"What's your name?" Richie asks so he can stop referring to her as the woman.

"Dr. Wendy Patome, PHD in behavioral science and sociology."

Richie shakes his head, saying "I don't want your credentials. I'm not an employer. What's your name?"

She smiles at him, tucking some hair behind her ear. She's really quite beautiful for an adult; long brown hair, dazzling green eyes. Eyes that haven't been dulled by her line of work yet, eyes that are still hopeful. Upon inspecting her hands, Richie doesn't see a wedding ring, but that's no surprise. This woman is married to her work, and all these children are just lives that she has saved.

"Wendy," she tries again, and Richie seems to accept this answer better. She's got a young face, almost too young for someone who has a doctrine in sociology or whatever it was that she said.

"Are you smart?" He asks.

Wendy doesn't blink at this question, merely nods and says "Yes, I graduated top of my class at NYU."

"Then why come to a shithole like Derry?" He questions.

She hums a little in amusement, then sits back in her seat as if she's getting more comfortable. Richie just wants to derail her from the topic of his parents, and even if it seems obvious that that's what he's doing, she still humors him.

"I tested to be placed in the FBI," Wendy tells him, her voice full of nostalgia for a life she never lived. "I was going to be in the behavioral analysis unit. Do you know what that is?" She doesn't wait for Richie to answer before she continues. "But I requested to be moved to Derry, Maine. Do you know why?"

Richie shakes his head.

"The crime rate here is higher than any other town all throughout Maine. The missing children files are almost double what they are in Chicago. I've seen a lot of towns, a lot of crime, a lot of death. But I have never seen a town like Derry. The adults here... they don't really care, do they? It's the strangest thing. I saw this, and I knew that I could help. Sure, I could help in the FBI as well, but I knew that I could really make a difference in Derry. So, I packed up, and I moved. Now, here I am, about to make a difference in your life."

Richie frowns at the last sentence. He doesn't want a difference, he likes his life the way it is. Sure, there's some rough patches here and there, and not everything is ideal, but he likes it. He likes seeing his friends every day, he likes being able to cook with the radio on, he likes not having to climb down the rose trellis that broke Eddie's arm, he likes being able to walk out the front door with nobody stopping him, he likes having Eddie over whenever he wants, he likes it. He likes the sense of responsibility that he was given, and he doesn't want that to change. Not now, not ever. He wants to be with Eddie, just like they talked about.

Him and the woman, Wendy, talk for ages. He feels like she's dissecting every bit of his personality, her questions ranging from "What do you like to eat after school?" to "What's the worst thing that your parents have ever done to you?"

This.

Richie's answer is this.

The worst thing they have ever done is leave him alone for so long that he has to be taken into police custody. Richie doesn't tell her that, though. He just says "They never bought me Christmas presents," despite the fact that Richie is not much of a materialistic boy and he doesn't mind the lack of gifts in his childhood.

Wendy talks to Richie as if he's another adult, not talking down on him or simplifying her vocabulary for the sake of making sure he understands. He does, he does understand, and she recognizes that. She tells him about what their next step will be, and what they have to do to take that step. Richie feels sick by the end of their conversation, but there's really not much else he can do about it. Wendy tells him that it's unlikely his parents will come back, and she also tells him that it is not his fault that they left. Those were the words that Richie had been searching for from the moment he noticed they were gone. He just needed somebody to tell him it wasn't his fault.

Wendy finally releases Richie, walking him to the station's waiting room while talking about the best Chinese restaurant in town. Richie nods as he listens, somehow enthralled in her tale about egg drop soup. When they turn the corner, though, her story is cut short by the smile that takes place on her face.

Richie follows her line of vision to see what's caught his attention, his heart pounding and threatening to leap out of his throat once he sees. His knees buckle in, legs growing weak, stomach doing somersaults and backflips at the scene in front of him.

It's not the whole group, but it's enough to make Richie want to break down and cry. There, sitting in the waiting room, are four out of six of his friends, all worried sick. Mike paces through the room, while Bill and Bev try their best to comfort a sobbing Eddie. Richie thought he didn't want the others to know, but now that they're here, he couldn't be more grateful.

"Your friends?" Wendy asks. The two still haven't been noticed yet, which Richie is thankful for. He doesn't want them to see his stupidly shocked face, though he knows they would not make fun of him. When Richie nods, she places a hand on his shoulder. "Bill Denbrough's a great kid."

"You know him?" Richie turns to ask, alarmed. He didn't think that Wendy would know anybody else other than him and Henry, it just makes sense. Him and Henry are broken.

She smiles sadly and rubs Richie's back in small circles. "I worked his case after... after his brother died. His parents... well, can't say they're the best."

Richie's eyes widen and his gaze goes back to Bill, a new light shining down on the kid who has been in Richie's shoes. To know that... to have that information... it feels unlike anything else. Richie and Bill share a bond now, whether Bill knows it or not. It's a bond stronger than anything, and Richie knows that they've become connected for all of their future life.

"You stay with a friend tonight, okay?" Wendy asks. "I'll see you again on Thursday, just like we discussed."

Richie nods, now desperate and eager to get out her clutches so that he can meet his friends. He looks back at her one more time, trying to see if she has anything else to say, but Wendy stays silent.

So, without hesitation, Richie jogs down the hall to the waiting room where he automatically throws his arms around Mike. The darker boy yelps in surprise, but once it's clear who is hugging him, it does not take long for Mike to hug back.

Bev hugs next, inserting herself into the equation by forcing her arms around Richie and Mike. Richie doesn't even need to open his eyes to know it's her, he can smell her perfume from a mile away.

"Jesus, Rich," she sighs, squeezing her face against his. "You had me worried, kid."

Richie laughs, his grip tightening on Mike as he hugs harder. "Sorry," he laughs, a classic Richie laugh, one that can make everyone smile.

Mike pushes on Richie's chest, attempting to get the boy off of him. "Eddie. Now."

Richie doesn't need to be told twice. He separates from the two, spinning around to face Eddie now standing up in front of the chair. Bill is behind him, a hand on Eddie's trembling shoulder.

Eddie's eyes are the most heartbreaking part. Wide, sparkling, full of pain and confusion. Tears streak his face, and his eyelashes clump together to form wet triangles. Every single emotion that he has stored for Richie is shown perfectly in that moment, the two need not confess another word to one another. It's written all over his face, as if Eddie is wearing love as an accessory.

Richie steps forward and hugs Eddie without fear of holding back. He doesn't care about the other losers around him, he doesn't even care that they're in the police station. He stoops his body down low enough to Eddie's height, and he nuzzles his face into the side of Eddie's warm neck. The boy seems to cry a bit harder, his tiny arms wrapping around Richie and squeezing as hard as they can. Neither want to let go, they know if they do, they might get taken away from one another. It feels as if the sunshine is finally ending, the sun is setting, and the moon is rising to take it's place. Richie once would have fallen in love with the moon. In fact, he's sure that he did. He loved the moon when it lived along the outskirts of Eddie's features, illuminating the boy's face late at night. Now, Richie would give anything to have their eternal sunshine back. He never wants this day to end.

Richie feels the same way that waves do when they cling to the shores come high-tide. Once again, a current controlled by the moon. He's afraid that the riptide is going to suck Eddie in and pull him under until the boy drowns. Richie knows that the longer he hugs, the more water is filling up in Eddie's lungs. So, he gathers every single bit of strength he has in his body, and he pulls away first.

Eddie looks up at him completely heartbroken. Richie pulled away. Richie pulled away. There are many things for Eddie to be freaking out about right now, a countless supply of factors that he should be more primarily fixed on, yet his brain seems to get stuck on a mantra of Richie pulled away. Richie pulled away. Richie pulled away.

"Come on," Bill speaks up first, oblivious to the other worldly conversations that both Richie and Eddie are holding within their eyes. Bill says the only thing that comes to his mind in a situation as dire as this one, and that is "Let's go home."

Home.

What a foreign fucking concept.

Chapter Text

"W-W-We can uh-uh-uhdopt you," Bill suggests.

Richie shrugs, his body weak and exhausted from the day's events. His arms are crossed tightly over the front of himself, as if hes guarding his heart from being prodded at by yet another person. "It doesn't matter. It's not- It's not- I don't think you can, Bill."

"We can t-t-try," Bill says persistently.

Richie shakes his head, staring down at his leg bouncing up and down on the couch with impatience. The fabric of his jeans is ripped at the knee, threads criss crossing all across his skin in a disorganized manner. Richie reaches down and slowly starts picking at the fabric, only for his hand to be slapped away by Beverly.

"Stop fidgeting," she comments, motherly as always.

"Then give me a fucking cigarette," Richie replies with a distant tone.

They sit in Bill's basement, the only place that Richie can really go without having to explain anything to overbearing parents. Mike suggested they go to Stan's, but Richie quickly shot the idea down. Stan Uris is a boy who worries about everything to the point of giving himself stomach ulcers, Richie's afraid that the Jew just might damn near have a stroke if he were to hear about the current situation.

The basement door opens, followed by a clatter of footsteps descending the long hallway. Well, a pair of footsteps, and then a kickdrum setting off in time with the beat of Richie's heart. One sounds like a pair of shoes, a regular old pair of shoes, while the other sounds like a ballerina symphony calling his name.

Richie looks up to greet the two new guests, Mike and Eddie finally making their way to the Denbrough household after stopping at the convenience store to get snacks for everyone. Richie denied this, claiming he wasn't feeling hungry, but Eddie gave him that kind of look that can get him to do just about anything. So Richie nodded, told him he'd pay Eddie back, then kissed the boy on the forehead as he mounted himself in the basket of Mike's bicycle. Nobody has spoken a word of the blatant affection that the two boys are sharing, there's a much bigger issue than whether or not two of the losers are gay together.

Even now, when Eddie chooses to ignore the empty seat that Bill left open next to Richie, and the tiny one instead opts for bringing himself up onto Richie's lap, tucking his feet between Richie's thighs to warm them up from the cold outside, nobody says anything. Richie takes notice of the ducks decorating Eddie's socks, and he smiles a little at the sheer absurdity of it. Still, even then, he fastens his arms around Eddie's torso and rests his chin upon the heavenly shoulder. Mike passes out snacks, making small talk with Beverly about the road block set up on fourth street to avoid car crashes that could occur while descending the hill.

None of it seems important. Stupid Derry and its stupid fucking hills, stupid fucking road blocks, stupid fucking downtown traffic. It's all meaningless, none of it matters. We're all going to die eventually. Why don't I just... die now? I could die now and it wouldn't change a thing. Not a damn th-

Richie's train of thought is cut short by the feeling of warm lips being pressed to his temple. His eyes flutter upwards, and he is brought back to reality by the sight of Eddie, the tiny one holding up a bag of chips.

"Here, eat," Eddie says encouragingly, holding his own snack on his lap.

Richie looks at the bag of food for a moment, his eyes glancing over the nutritional facts label and counting the calories per serving, but then his gaze returns to the resting place they have decided to call home; locked with Eddie's own hazel sweet eyes.

So, without thinking it over much further, Richie takes the bag of chips and leans back so that he can eat them without hovering over Eddie. He thinks that this boy really can get him to do just about anything, it's a little alarming just how much of himself he gives up and surrenders in the name of Kaspbrak.

"This is so fucked," Beverly says, bringing the mood in the air back down to a dead standstill.

Richie's whole body stiffens, his instant reaction going towards the idea of her disapproving of Eddie sitting on his lap, but then he slowly calms down when he remembers the task at hand. Oh. Right. Abandonment. Child neglect. Court hearings. Foster home.

"I don't see why we can't just..." Mike begins to say, but then he trails off once he realizes that there's nothing they can do. Mike itches with the need to create a game plan, to invent something that will save Richie from being packed up in foster care. But... there's nothing.

Eddie rests his head down on Richie's shoulder, curling his legs up so that he can fit in Richie's embrace. The one holding Eddie merely wraps his arms around the cluster of a boy and connects his hands. For a moment, there's a sense of... completion. As if the two finally feel whole. Only when they are touching in such a manner do they feel this way, and it weighs heavy on their chest that they will never be able to touch again come next month.

"It'll be fine," Richie finally says after awhile. "It'll be fine. Wendy said I'll just go into foster care. I'll still go to school with you guys, I'm not leaving Derry."

Eddie holds on a little tighter, but it's obvious that his muscles have relaxed tremendously. The news still weighs heavily in the air, but there is a silver lining of hope along the edges of the dark storm cloud lingering overhead.

"Should we... tell the others?" Mike asks. He's looking at Bill, but the words are clearly meant for Richie. Whether or not Richie feels comfortable sharing this awful tragedy resides entirely within him, so now Mike is just asking if he has permission to call Stan like he so desperately wants.

"I mean, I guess," Richie shrugs. "They've got a right to know."

Bill nods at Mike, giving the darker boy all the permission that he needs. He asks Beverly to come with because he doesn't have Ben's number memorized, and the redheaded girl is reluctant to leave Richie's side. I think that's how all of them feel at that moment, however. They're all afraid to let Richie out of their sight, or they might lose him forever.

Richie thinks he wouldn't mind getting lost right about now.

He's spent years terrified of oblivion, he practically ran from the void with all the strength that he's got. Richie is terrified of being forgotten, terrified of going missing, terrified of being irrelevant. His biggest fear is that of a missing child poster, but right now... he's come to accept that maybe the world is better off if his face just isn't on it. Richie craves to not exist, to be nobody, to mean nothing. He's starting to slow down, his limbs heavy with fatigue. He thinks it's time he lets the void catch up with him. Richie is inviting oblivion to swallow him whole.

"Why didn't you call them to begin with?" Richie whispers softly, his mouth muffled by the collar of Eddie's sweater. His tone isn't accusatory, merely curious.

"I called the ones I thought could help," Eddie explains himself and his choices to pick the three losers currently sitting in Bill's living room. "Bill, because he would know what to do. Bev, because she's your best friend. And Mike, because he knows how to make people feel better."

Richie smiles a little, letting out the ghost of a chuckle from his haunting lips. Then, as quietly as his first sentence, he asks "You're wrong."

"What?" Eddie lifts his head in surprise. "Should I have not called Mike? I just- he always cheers me up, I just thought-"

"No," Richie shakes his head. "That's correct. You were right about that one. I just mean you were wrong about Beverly. She isn't my best friend, you are."

Eddie catches his bottom lip between his teeth and he sucks in a breath of surprise. The sheer shock of it all is what takes him by surprise, but that astonishment is quickly replaced by flattery. Eddie melts further into Richie's arms, nuzzling his face against the boy's chest while letting his hands wander up Richie's neck to play with the delicate woven silk curls laying along Richie's fair skin.

"T-T-Told you he luh-liked you t-too, Eh-Eddie," Bill interjects from where he's sitting in a chair adjacent to the couch.

Without missing a beat, Eddie responds with a huff and the sharp words "Shut up, Bill."

Richie smiles, knowing that Eddie's cheeks are warm and glowing red from embarrassment. He can practically envision the way that the freckles twinkle like ghosts in the snow without having to even look down at the one in his arms.

"This just in," Richie announces, but he does not use the booming energy that his auctioneer Voice usually has. He says the words gently, albeit goofily, but still with care and precision. "Richie Tozier is completely head over heels, and he's not afraid to admit it."

Eddie lifts his head up, but before he can say anything, Bill's basement door slams open with a burst of fury that only one person is capable of producing.

The three in the room jump in surprise, then relax only the slightest when they see none other than Stan Uris coming down the stairs. Mike emerges behind, confused by all of the commotion, his confusion deepening when he sees Stan approach Richie with a look so evil that Mike wonders if he is about to witness a murder.

"You fucking- You dumbass! You absolute dipshit!" Stan shouts, his face red and furious. "How much of a moron do you have to be to let things get this bad? Are you fucking braindead? What is your problem! You're fucking- You- Richie! You're so unbelievably stupid! You seriously would not be able to dump a bucket of water if the instructions were taped to the bottom of it. How could you be so dense?"

Eddie straightens up, sliding off of Richie's lap but keeping a protective arm around Richie's shoulders. He narrows his royal bourbon eyes at Stan and defensively says "Watch it, Stanley. Who the fuck do you think you're talking to?"

"I'm talking to a fucking idiot," Stan does not cower under the wrath of Eddie Kaspbrak. As if to make his point abundantly clear, Stan reaches forward to smack Richie upside the head, the boy's dark hair falling down in front of his eyes carelessly. "Are you seriously braindead? Is there even a brain up there? Am I just talking to an empty shell?"

Richie looks up at Stan finally, his eyes steady and full of acceptance. He doesn't even have to ask what it is that he's done, he just knows that whatever it is, he deserves to be slapped around. Stan could only tolerate Richie for so long, and apparently he's reached his breaking point. Richie doesn't blame him. Not at all-

"Why would you not come to us sooner?" Stan finally asks, his voice now trembling as he struggles to keep up this strong facade. Richie's eyes snap up in confusion, his entire chest constricting when he sees the pained expression twisting upon Stan's face. His smart, assertive eyes now fill to the brim with tears, while his lip trembles and quivers. The very same lip that Richie once kissed before. Beautiful Stan, breaking before his very eyes. As if to twist the knife sticking out of Richie's chest, the Jewish boy then whispers out one last question "Why didn't you let me help you?"

Richie stands up off the couch then, his hands coming up to touch Stan's shaking shoulders. Upon the contact, Stan's frame wobbles as it becomes increasingly hard to support himself, so Richie steps forward and holds the boy up in his arms. Richie hugs him tightly, stroking the back of Stan's curls as gently as he can, Richie's eyes looking at Bill sitting quietly to the side.

The two hold a silent conversation through shared looks. Richie asks Bill to do something, to fix this, and Bill merely replies and says there's nothing he can do. This is a pain that they all just have to sit and feel.

After a few moments, Stan finally pushes away from Richie and asks if he can talk to Eddie outside, so the two travel out to the blistering cold to have a secret conversation that sets Richie on edge. It's not that he doesn't trust either of them, he just... he fears what they would have to say. Richie believed every single insult of hurt that Stan had to say, and he doesn't exactly want Stan convincing Eddie that those braindead statements were all factual.

Mike sighs once the drama is over, returning to the kitchen to see what's taking Beverly so long. Richie remains standing, his arms dangling hopelessly by his sides, a silence filling the air between Bill and Richie.

"It's guh-guh-gonna be okay, R-rr-Richie," Bill says quietly. He's trying his best to ease the pain of this whole situation, but if he's honest, he is absolutely terrified.

Richie is quiet for a moment, watching the basement door to wait for Stan and Eddie to come back in. Richie wonders how everything got so absolutely fucked in just a couple hours, his body yearning to be back in his bedroom and discussing plans to have a sneaky escapade to San Francisco with Eddie. He wonders if it's too late for the two of them to run away.

"What if it's not?" Richie finally asks, his voice small and lacking any of its usual humor.

Bill thinks for a moment, his big crystallized eyes conflicted with all the different emotions bubbling up inside him. He shrugs, shaking his head imperatively.

"I'll m-make it ok-k-kay," Bill says, then says the next line with such certainty that it only shows he's finally found the right words to ease at least one member of the losers' club today. "I'm n-n-not losing a ssss-second bruh-brother."

Richie feels the weight of the universe collapse within his chest, the never ending expanse of a galaxy, and a supernova burst of energy and matter all coexist inside him. He smiles, big and wide, showing off all the teeth that once had braces lining them, and he just can't help but feel some security in this freefalling state of mind he's been pushed into.

Chapter Text

Richie isn't as angry as he thought he would be.

He stands on the front porch, staring at the chipping paint and peeling wood encasing the whole house. Even their home looks abused, neglected, and forgotten. Mr. Bowers sure knows how to destroy everything he touches.

Richie pauses for a moment, trying to remember exactly what it is he's doing here when he should be on his way to Curly's. He promised Beverly and Ben he'd meet them there, but instead, he's about twenty minutes outside of town, standing on property he shouldn't be standing on.

Eventually, the cold ultimately makes up Richie's mind. He's certain that he will give himself frostbite if he continues to linger outside, so he raises a steady hand to knock on the front door. He doesn't know exactly when he and Henry got on formal standards, but maybe it had something to do with the switchblade threats that were made in high school bathrooms.

Henry answers the door wearily, cracking it open just enough to investigate who is knocking. Once he sees Richie's patient face, he slams the door shut. Richie doesn't move, doesn't even flinch. He just sits, waits, waits some more, and then relaxes his shoulders when he hears the sliding of a deadbolt lock.

When Henry opens the door this time, he opens it all the way. He doesn't say anything to Richie, doesn't even mutter a weak hello. He simply avoids eye contact and holds the screen door for the freshman to walk inside.

Richie shakes some of the snow from his hair, kicking the frost off his boots in the doorway. Once standing in the foyer, he turns to look at Henry, or more so, the damage on the boy's face.

"What's the story you're telling people?" Richie asks, nodding his head towards the two swollen bruises puffing up around Henry's hazel eyes. The fingerprints engraved into his neck are a rich purple color, and there's a nasty gash running along his lower lip from where a set of teeth clamped through.

Henry looks to the side in shame, his voice lacking any of the usual anger and insanity that it always has. He sounds... broken. Like this time really did just completely break him. "Fell down at the Barrens."

Richie nods. The Barrens can be quite a dangerous place if you're not looking where you step, it's almost believable. But he knows better, he knows that Henry is a regular explorer when it comes to the muddy waters, he knows those fingertips better than anybody else in Derry. So, he asks "And the actual story?"

Henry doesn't respond, just lets his head fall and starts walking down the hall towards the kitchen. When they were younger, it was tradition for the two boys to make their own hot chocolate by heating up milk on the stove and adding cocoa powder. It always tasted like complete shit, but it was just their thing. It made them happy, and now Henry craves to taste that nostalgia more than anything.

Richie doesn't ask the question again until he sees Henry pouring milk into the pot on the stove. He feels a bit of the past flicker up inside him, but there is no way for that fire to be rekindled. Eddie made sure that the embers were all extinguished, stomped on the ashes, and kicked them around to insure that absolutely no bridge could be built there again.

"What actually happened, Hen?" Richie asks.

Henry blinks a couple times, his body curling away as if he's expecting to be hit. Richie notices the boy wearing two thick sweaters over one another, causing his brain to start fabricating images of what Henry's skin looks like. Henry's dad likes the torso the most, he can whip that with his belt as much as he likes without it showing to a single person. If he was angry enough to leave such evident bruises on Henry's face, there's absolutely no way that his torso went unscathed.

"Someone tipped off that child abuse lady," Henry mumbles. "Said my old man hits me. He didn't like when they started pokin' their nose around."

"Yeah, it's a bit shitty, isn't it?" Richie smirks, the irony of the situation presenting itself oh so perfectly. "Sucks when social services show up on your doorstep, huh?"

Henry flinches but tries his best to not show weakness. He gets the cocoa powder down with a few pained sighs, clearly struggling to lift his arms above his head. Richie watches all of this with examining eyes, clearly trying to assess all the damage done.

"Those ribs never healed up, did they?" Richie asks.

Henry doesn't respond. He feels embarrassed by his own weakness, his own mortality practically laughing in his face. He continues stirring powder in silently, the dragging of the spoon being the only sounds shared in the kitchen.

"They're worse now," Richie continues. He says thoughtfully, "You need to see a doctor."

"Yeah? I need a fucking doctor?" Henry snaps, "And tell them what, Rich? Tell them I fell down some stairs, and that's why three of my ribs are cracked? Who's going to believe that? Social services won't. If I go to the hospital now, they'll only- they'll just-"

"Put you in a foster home?" Richie finishes his sentence for him. He has a smug smirk on his face, letting the words flow from his mouth easily. "Join the club, eh chap?"

Henry pauses as if this is the first time he's hearing this. He slowly lifts his bruised eyes up to look at Richie, his greasy hair hanging down across his neck like fingers reaching down for his shirt collar.

"What?"

Richie blinks back, his expression indifferent. "What? You didn't know that? Yeah, apparently when you're abandoned, they get to declare you an orphan. My court sessions tomorrow. Thanks for that, by the way."

"I-" Henry tries to explain himself, but there's really no way to justify what he did. Even to say he was worried is a lie, they both know that Henry only turned Richie in as payback for their last encounter involving a ring exchange. So, instead of trying to spin lies that make him into the victim, Henry just nods and retrieves two coffee mugs.

Richie doesn't plan on staying long, he honestly just came to see if Henry would even be here. He didn't expect Wendy to find much on Henry's dad's abusive behavior, especially considering his father is the sheriff and everyone who does know what happens behind closed doors is too scared to spill the truth. Richie didn't expect her to find any solid proof, but he did expect Mr. Bowers to put Henry in a grave by now.

"Sorry about..." Henry trails off, his face twisting up and contorting in confusion and anger. He looks as if he wants to bite his own tongue off, furious that an apology even escaped past his lips. He continues, but through a clenched jaw and gritted teeth. "Sorry about Eddie."

Richie goes to say 'it's okay,' but the only thing that comes out is "You should be."

"We'll leave him alone from now on," Henry nods.

"Yeah, I know," Richie confirms his threats once more, reminding Henry what will happen if they don't leave Eddie alone.

"Did you-" Henry stops himself, biting down on his lip only to wince and pull away in pain, licking up the bit of blood that spurted from his wound. "Did you ask Eddie out?"

Richie shrugs, "I kinda got interrupted by the fucking police, so no. Thanks for that."

"Patrick asked me out," Henry then says, his eyes meeting Richie's to see if he can detect any sort of emotion. He doesn't know what he's looking for; jealousy? Rage? Hurt? All he knows is that he doesn't want the expression that actually is on Richie's blank face, and that is, complete and utter indifference.

"Okay," Richie nods. "Did you say yes?"

The question was asked more out of obligation rather than genuine interest, and Henry can recognize that. Still, he says "Yeah. Isn't that fucking crazy?"

Richie shrugs. "Stranger things have happened."

They stand there for a moment, complete silence taking up the space between them.

Then, Richie bravely says "You fucked up my life, Henry."

Henry doesn't respond. He stares at the stove in the hopes that this conversation doesn't escalate to kicking and punching. He really, really cannot handle another beating. Not in his current state.

"You fucked up my life," Richie says again. "I'm a fucking orphan now. I'm an orphan because you fucked up my life."

"You're an orphan because you have shitty parents," Henry points out, causing Richie to scoff in belittlement.

"You still contributed to the chaos," Richie responds just as harsh. "Do you feel bad? Do you feel anything?"

Richie doesn't wait for a response. He shakes his head and turns on his heel, passing by the old furniture that he used to spend Saturday afternoons on.

Henry bites his tongue from lashing out any harmful words that he wants to say, knowing that his own rage and anger will only make things worse. He doesn't mean to be so angry, he was just never shown any other emotion. Henry grew up in a house where feelings were foreign, and those that did show even a hint of remorse, were crushed beneath a belt lash.

"I feel bad," Henry says quietly, his voice just barely above a whisper. The ring inside his pocket burns deep against his thigh, yet he continues to watch Richie walk out of his life yet another time. He doesn't understand why it hurts more than the last.

Richie does not dwell on it for too long. He wants to feel bad for the the bruises blooming beneath Henry's skin, but all Richie can think of is the way that Eddie cried in the police station, and he feels a little less sympathy.

Richie mounts his bike and begins riding down the long driveway, keeping his eyes forward so that his gaze does not stray to the tree with his initials carved next to Henry Bowers. They aren't the same kids playing around with switchblade knives anymore, no, they've evolved. Now, Henry just holds them to the throat of Richie's new lovers because there's a jealousy planted in him so deeply that it resembles the roots of that very same tree.

Richie pulls into the parking lot of Curly's, discarding his bicycle against the bike rack without any sort of concern about locking it up. He spots Ben's bike carefully secured to the stand, the seat collecting snow and the metal frosting over. Winter is unforgiving this year, and Richie quickly hurries around the side of the building to get out of its cold grasp.

Ben is sitting in the back booth next to the jukebox, two milkshakes already sitting on the table. His face lights up when he sees Richie enter, the bell above the door chiming to inform the diner of his presence. Richie shakes some of the snowflakes from his hair, kicking his dirty shoes against the floor mat to knock some of the snow off.

"Hey, Haystack," Richie sings in a light, airy voice. He slides into the booth across from Ben, looking down at the book spread across the table with lots of sticky notes coming out of various pages. "Whatcha got there, man?"

"This? Oh, its just a book about famous buildings," he laughs, closing it and tucking it into the bag before Richie can read the cover. Ben's cheeks flush pinker than the strawberry milkshake sitting on the table, and he shakes his head in embarrassment. "It's nerdy, I know."

"No, no," Richie remarks. He thinks of how Eddie said it was absolutely beautiful to see what people are passionate about, and Richie is finally starting to understand that sentiment. "Reading isn't nerdy. It's cool as fuck."

"No need for the sarcasm, Tozier," Ben rolls his eyes. Richie almost feels hurt. Does Ben think he's being sarcastic? Is it so out of character for Richie to say something nice? Before the boy can become introspective, Ben speaks up "Bev should be here by now, she's usually not late."

"Well, it's snowing out, you know how it goes," Richie shrugs. "She's probably busting her damn ass on a patch of ice somewhere."

"Let's be honest, she probably hasn't even left her neighborhood," Ben smirks.

"Probably hasn't left the damn driveway," Richie retorts, a grin finding its way onto his face. Henry Bowers leaves his mind, the court trial leaves his mind, his parents leave his mind, and for once, he's just a kid. Just a kid who is sitting at a diner with one of his friends, listening to terribly awful music.

No, really, terribly awful music.

"God, who the fuck chose this song?" Richie scoffs as his eyes wander over the jukebox. He digs around in his pockets to find some change, finding an assortment of things instead. Receipts from the gas station, crumpled up gum wrappers, bent paper clips, empty lighters, three dollars he won from a bet with Bill about who could chug a pint of milk the fastest, and lastly, a business card with Wendy's phone number on it. He hasn't called her, though he knows he probably should.

Richie takes his three dollars and stands up from the booth, approaching the jukebox with full expectations to be disappointed. They change the songs out every once in a blue moon, but Richie doesn't expect them to have anything new since his last trip to this scummy diner.

But one song does catch his eye, one that makes him smile and think of falling headfirst out a window to rescue the boy who fell trying to kiss him.

Africa by Toto.

It seems perfect. Richie has heard the song on MTV so often for the past few years, but now the words finally start to make sense. It almost feels as if it's something bigger than him, even bigger than Eddie. As if something clicks and he just finally gets the lyrics. He finally understands.

Richie puts in coins and presses the right amount of buttons, feeling an overwhelming amount of euphoria bum rush him and his emotions. He has never felt this happy before, he has never felt like he is just an elevator rising through the roof on its ascent to heaven. He's locked in four walls, the buttons of the control panel glowing in the reflections of his heart shaped eyes. Richie feels the elevator rising, but what he doesn't realize is that the cable supporting it is as thin as an angel's feather.

A feather that gets cut loose the second the bell above the door rings to alert customers of a new customer.

Except it's not a customer at all. It's Richie's worst nightmare, standing in the diner with wild eyes, trying to locate some kind of safety when they finally make eye contact.

Richie's heart, as well as his elevator of love, plummets down to earth. It shatters against the impact with the ground, and then Richie is pulled through the soil straight down to the pits of hell, where he can feel the fire ignite on his body starting with his toes. Richie has never felt more gutted, all his threads coming undone and stuffing flowing out of him like an abandoned teddy bear. He feels like his lungs are rubber tires that just got nails pierced into them, and he feels those very same nails aiming for the bullseye centered on his glass shaped heart.

Beverly Marsh's fair skin tends to stand out when she's bleeding. The blood compliments the swelling of her face.

The moment of absolute silence ends, the elevator is out of service, and reality crashes through the front gates of Richie's mind. Beverly comes to at the exact second, and then she's weaving between tables to get to where Richie is standing at that stupid jukebox.

Ben stands up and rushes to Beverly's side, his words completely lost and drowned out by the music filling Richie's head. The lyrics have been tainted now, completely tortured by the image of Beverly so clearly beaten and damaged.

Ben asks "What happened? Were you robbed? Did you fall on ice? What happened?"

But Richie doesn't need to ask. Richie knows.

Because of this, Beverly is pushing Ben aside to get to Richie, her movements frantic and sporadic. She's got the twitch of someone going through aftershocks, telling Richie that she just barely escaped her torment. His arms are around her in an instant, the boy stooping down to shove his face into the crook of his neck. He feels like the world is coming to an end. Judgement day is finally here.

"Where'd he hurt you?" Richie asks so quietly that he can't even hear himself. The blood rush flowing through his eardrums is much more glaringly loud, but he whispers the words against her pulse, and she still knows exactly what he says despite the mumbled fragments being so broken.

"Ankle," she says back. And the tone of her voice is what kicks Richie's anxiety into gear.

The room seems to collapse underneath an earthquake. Richie feels everything tremble, but perhaps it's just his own equilibrium that is completely fucking shaken. Richie has been a glass snowglobe sitting idly on an antique shop for the last fifteen years, but now he has been shaken completely. His twist-tube intestines gather and bunch up into a singular knot, weighing down everything inside of him. His body is dipped in tar, or maybe he's been encased in amber to preserve this terrible fucking feeling for the rest of all history.

"You're okay," Richie then says. Once he says it, the words all shout and scream at him inside his brain. There isn't a siren, but more like a complete fucking wail of horror. He begins to sweat cold droplets, tiny bullet ammunition for the soldiers of the panic attack war. He begins to talk all at once, the words piling up and stumbling out of his mouth at a mile a minute, his teeth chattering and clacking as he tries to talk around the locked jaw he has clenched in fear. "You're okay. You're okay. You're okay. You're okay. We're okay. Everything's okay. Safe. Safe. Safe. Beverly, safe. I'll make you safe."

"Guys," Ben's voice seems to come into frame, and it's almost as if Richie had completely forgotten where they were. When the earthquake struck, all that was left in Richie's mind was Beverly Marsh and this god damn jukebox playing Africa. "Can we- Can we move this outside? I don't want to make a scene."

But a scene has already been made, as proven by every single adult in the restaurant jabbing their knife-like stares into the two absolutely broken teenagers.

See, the thing is, Richie hurts. Even when Beverly's father would just toss her around, give her a cut lip or a busted finger, Richie would physically ache in sympathy pains. He couldn't stand the absolute helplessness of it all. He can't function knowing that she is hurt and he did nothing to prevent it. He can't bear the thought of being weak. Of being useless. Of being worthless.

Now, here she is, the fighter of a girl who could set off dynamite with just a simple smirk. Completely fucking tattered. That's the only word for it; tattered. She's ripped beyond belief, her whole entire face resembling the work of what Henry's father unleashed on his son. Richie feels this one though, he feels it so deeply that he could easily be convinced that he's the one who has shown up bloody and beaten.

As the two silently limp out of Curly's, Ben paying for the two milkshakes, Richie has an epiphany.

Both Henry and Beverly look like this... because of him.

Because of him.

It's his fault. It's Richie's fault. It's all his fucking fault.

My fault. My fault. It's all my fault. I did this to them, I did this, this is because of me. I did this I did this I did this I did this my fault my fault my fault my fault my fault-

"We have to- to go somewhere," Beverly says with a labored exhale. Bruised ribs. Henry breathes in the exact same way. "He oughta be looking for me. We- I have to hide."

Richie nods, frantically straightening his bike up and mounting it with just enough space for Beverly to ride double. Richie thinks for a moment, trying to figure out absolutely anywhere he can go where they will not be found.

"Mike's-" Richie breathes out, but Bev's girlish eyes grow wide with fear as she shakes her head. It feels crushing to see her so terrified, Richie has never seen Beverly so... so gone. So fucking gone. Her spark, her fire, her flame... it's all extinguished.

"No," she says quickly, her voice scratching. Four little bruises slowly painting themselves up against her neck. Richie is too scared to look, but he doesn't even need to. He knows that there is the imprint of a thumb on the opposite side. "No. He knows- He knows where Mike is. He called Chief Bowers and he told daddy that I ride out there a lot. He- He knows. He knows, Richie. He's..."

She trails off, too weak to finish the sentence. Water springs to her eyes, soft rivers flowing down the ivory planes of her freckled cheeks. She can't carry on, she can't.

"What's happening?" Ben finally interjects. He is frantic and worried, scared to the god damn bone.

"My- My parents told Bev's dad about us," Richie exhales. "My parents. My fucking parents. All because I'm failing math."

"Your parents...?" Ben trails off, his confusion deepening. "But they're-"

"Still in town," Richie says. "Come on. We have to go. We have to get somewhere. Her ankle..."

So Richie goes the only place that he knows he can be safe. He doesn't think anything of it, it's just muscle memory for his brain to take him to that little house at the end of Ashburn street, the one with the red mailbox.

"Eddie's?" Ben breathes out as Richie practically screeches to a halt in the boy's driveway.

Richie looks back skeptically. "Yes?"

"His mom will have a c-"

Ben's sentence is cut short by Beverly letting out a low groan as she tries to put weight onto her leg. Standing seems to be a struggle, so Ben quickly dumps his bike next to Richie's and comes to the girl's side as her crutch.

"Come on, come around out back," Richie waves over his shoulder, his heart thudding frantically. He's overstimulated, nervous, and quite frankly, he's scared. It's exhilarating.

When the group of kids come around the bend of the house, Eddie's window is already wide open and showing a very flustered boy. His eyes soften at the sight of Richie, but only widen once more when he catches sight of the wounded Beverly stumbling behind him in the snow.

"What the fuck is going on?" Eddie asks, "What happened to Bev?"

"Hey, Eds?" Richie asks, grinning up at the boy. He hears the words to Africa running through his mind, and they don't seem as scary anymore. This is how the words were meant to be heard- with ears full of love. Not blood. "Could ya not ask so many question, my dear?"

Eddie tries not to smile, but he finds it difficult. Instead, he reaches his unbroken arm down to link hands with Beverly. Richie and Ben both give the girl a boost, and Eddie is clumsily pulling her through the window within seconds. Ben is a little bit more difficult, and for once, Richie doesn't crack a joke about how chubby the shorter one is. He merely kneels down and lets Ben stand on his back, ignoring the aching bend of his spine.

Richie climbing through the window is much easier, however. He has had practice from many nights of saying goodnight to Eddie, and Eddie doesn't even attempt to help Richie. Both boys know that Rich is capable of climbing in by himself, so neither of the two reach out for one another. Richie grasps the windowsill easily, hauling his body weight upwards like he's done a million times before.

When Richie stumbles in, Eddie's room looks a bit different. It looks like... it looks like a different room entirely. The desk has been pushed to the far wall, and the TV has been relocated to the top of Eddie's dresser. The fishtank is fixed into its spot, but now Eddie's bed is turned to a different corner, opening up the floor space and allowing for more room. Richie's eyes wander around, curious about the behavior in his little one, spotting all the unusual things. The inhalers have been cleared off the desk, but they're now replaced by a familiar moleskin journal that has been left open, pages of ink written so elegantly in Eddie's wonderful scribe. The closet door has been left open, displaying half the wardrobe that used to be in there. Richie knows exactly just how many shirts should be hanging up, and he knows that half of them have been cleared out, as well as the boxes on top the shelf above the racks.

Richie takes all of this in, the furniture, the new space, the journal, and he comes to a conclusion pretty quickly.

Without thinking about it, he barely skips a beat when he asks "Are you making room?"

Eddie looks up from where he's standing next to Beverly, a bandaid in his mid-frozen hands. "Huh?"

Richie looks around once more and notices that Eddie's comic books have been sorted into crates that are now peaking out from under his bed. The bookshelf next to the door remains empty, except for a single tape that is sitting on the middle shelf. Not top, not bottom, the middle. Eddie height. Somewhere he can access it easily. He's going to put music there.

"You're making room for me," Richie repeats. He can't believe it. He is in so much shock and wonder, he genuinely does not comprehend how Eddie could surprise him so much. The sleeve of his neon windbreaker peaks out from under the pillow on Eddie's neatly made bed, and Richie just feels the weight of it all. Eddie is making room for him... to move in.

"Do you think you'll need more closet space?" Eddie asks, wiping a cotton swab along Beverly's bleeding mouth.

"No," Richie shakes his head truthfully. "I don't have that much stuff. I... I don't... You didn't have to make room for me, Bill's-"

"We should call Bill," Ben says out of nowhere.

Richie jumps, fully forgetting that Ben was sitting amongst them in the first place. Then, before he can recover from the scare, he feels panic hit him like a ton of bricks. "Bill."

"Oh," Eddie says at the same time, realizing what that single sentence means. "You just got here, though. That- I- Beverly..."

"I can't be late again," Richie shakes his head, "She nearly beheaded me for wanting to stay with you last night. I have to get back."

"What's going on?" Beverly asks, her once strong and powerful voice now weakened and full of confusion. Richie feels little ping pong balls of pain ricochet around in him whenever he sees her face, the constant thoughts of this being his fault not washing away in Eddie's presence.

"I've got a curfew," Richie explains, "My caseworker comes by at 8 to make sure I'm where I'm supposed to be."

"Can't Bill lie for you?" Ben asks desperately, his hand reaching out to squeeze Beverly's. "We need you right now. This is a lot. We need a leader."

Richie hates that sentence.

He immediately takes a step backwards, his ankle knocking against the desk. He shakes his head, and looks straight at Eddie. "I'm not a leader."

Eddie looks away. It nearly kills Richie.

"I'll see you tomorrow morning," Eddie says. "Nine, right?"

Nine.

"Yeah," Richie confirms. "Nine. Just us."

"Ohh, a date?" Bev smiles through her busted lips, a bit of the fiery girl's spark reigniting in the wreckage of what her father left. Richie admires that about her; sure, she'll get beaten down, but she does not hesitate to get back up.

"Yeah," Richie smiles, leaning out the window as he glances at his watch nervously. If he's late, he knows he'll get in trouble with Wendy. He hates putting the Denbroughs through so much, especially with... the loss of Georgie still fresh in their hearts. "A date. Just us."

But the two do not have a date, and that's apparent by the look of absolute dread on Eddie's face. You can tell the softer one of the pair just wants to blurt it out and tell Bev what's really going on, but he has to respect Richie's wishes. Richie doesn't want anybody there, because he knows it'll be too hard. He wants Eddie, and he wants Bill. That's it. He doesn't want anybody else to witness his demise.

Tomorrow at nine o'clock sharp; Richie will be attending a court session for his case of abandonment.

Chapter Text

"How do I look?" Richie asks.

Eddie glances upwards at Richie, then straightens the boy's tie. Richie looks like a hot mess, but Eddie isn't going to tell him that.

Richie showed up in a powder blue suit that barely reached his ankles. It's evident he's grown so much since this suit was purchased, but the only other clothes he owns are neon striped shirts and torn band tees. He even managed to comb some of his hair back in an attempt to look presentable.

"You look so handsome," Eddie smooths some of the fabric down, the material returning to puffing out around Richie's chest. "You're going to be alright. I promise."

"You'll be there in the crowd?" Richie asks.

"Bill and I are going to sit as close as we can," Eddie nods. In the back of the room, the Denbroughs sit next to Bill, the whole family watching the two uneasily. Richie wishes they would all look away, because all he wants to do is lean down and kiss Eddie until they can both see stars.

Instead, he looks down at those heaven sweet eyes, the pouting lips that have whispered countless reassurances to him, and that little polka dot nose that he gave a nosebleed in a drugstore many months ago. Richie holds up his hand, making a fist, and he smiles down at Eddie as fondly as he can.

Eddie glances at Richie's hand, then rolls his eyes and reaches up to fistbump the other boy. "Love you."

Richie falters a little, his hand pausing in midair even after Eddie's drops away. His stomach clenches, his world spins, and he feels as if Eddie just pulled the pin on his grenade heart. Fireworks burst within him, setting all the blooming flowers ablaze to fill Richie's ribs with a sickeningly sweet hazy smoke.

"Love me?" Richie repeats, his cheeks growing flush as his lips turn up at the ends.

Eddie's eyes widen, and he pulls away just the slightest. Then, he looks away quickly, embarrassment scattered across his face. "Yeah. I guess, yeah."

Richie smiles harder, the fluttering twitches of butterflies and moths making colonies within his lungs.

"Love you too," Richie responds, his voice very, very quiet and lacking any of that classic Richie sarcasm.

"Richie?" Wendy's voice calls from the doorway. Richie instinctively takes a step backwards, his eyes shooting up in fear. He's not afraid of Wendy, no, he's afraid of being seen with Eddie in such an intimate manner. Richie is terrified of love. Wendy doesn't notice, however. She just smiles very sadly at the boy's powder blue suit and says "It's time to come meet your lawyer."

The trial comes too quickly, much too quickly, and it all seems to pass by just as fast. Richie can't really understand any of the words they're using; not because he can't process them, but because he's choosing to ignore what's being said. Instead, his eyes are focused on the window placed behind the judge, one with reflective glass that shows the people sitting in the pews. He can see Eddie's faint reflection, sitting next to calm Bill, hunched over that damn journal of his and writing feverishly. He watches Eddie write pretty much throughout the whole trial, only answering questions when directly spoken to, but those are mostly "Yes," "No," and "I haven't seen them."

And then it's over.

It's over with one sentence and a pound of the gavel.

One sentence.

Richie's life is over in one fucking sentence.

"Then Richard Tozier will proceed down to Philidelphia's Orphanage where he will remain under the care of Madame Tusoe until his 18th birthday. Court adjourned."

Richie turns around in his seat so that he can see his friends, not their reflections. His mouth has fallen open in despair and heartbreak, and that's all that he gets back in return. Bill's face is gut wrenching, sure, but Eddie's face is downright painful. His hot eyes are immediately filled with tears, rivers flowing down his freckled cheeks so easily. He feels the world beneath him shake and crumble as an earthquake swallows them whole.

Philadelphia.

"Wendy, I can't do that," Richie automatically turns to say to his caseworker. Richie hasn't said much to his lawyer, only because his lawyer doesn't care whether he stays in Derry or not. Wendy does. "I can't leave. Please. Please don't make me leave. The Denbroughs are here, they said they'd take me in, please. Please tell the judge the Denbroughs are adopting me. Please."

Wendy looks stricken with grief. The attractive woman leans forward on the desk they're sat at, her hand covering her mouth in horror. She... has lost her first case. She's lost her first kid.

Richie shuts down after that. There's not much else he can do at this point, everything's already been decided. He is quiet as he's led down a hall, away from Eddie and Bill, away from his family, away from Derry. He's driven to his house in the back of a cop car, which Wendy claimed was absolutely ridiculous and borderline horrendous. They didn't listen to her, and now Richie sits in his driveway, stuck in the backseat behind bars.

"Come on, kid. You've got to gather your things," the cop says from behind the wheel.

Richie feels ill. He doesn't want to comprehend what's happening, he just wants to go upstairs and get in his bed and never come down. He wants the world to go away, Eddie included. He can't bear to look at those broken hearted eyes right now.

But still, even then, Richie quietly goes inside with the cop and the caseworker that isn't Wendy. He doesn't know her name, but he doesn't care. She's not Wendy. He doesn't care.

Richie is told what to bring, not even given a choice on which clothes to pick. He can't bring his pillow, not even his favorite jean jacket. He doesn't feel real panic until he reaches for his Walkman, and they tell him that no electronic devices will be allowed.

Richie ends up with a backpack containing the following; five shirts without a band logo, two jumpers, three pairs of pants, four pairs of underwear, six pairs of socks, a toothbrush, one reading book, and a photo from his bedroom wall. Richie chose the book that Eddie gave him, the only thing tied to Eddie that he's allowed to bring, as well as the photo of Beverly that was taped above his desk. Everything else, he has to say goodbye to. Including the rest of his friends. And his beloved tapes. His fucking tapes.

The ride to the train station feels like the most painful thing he's ever had to endure. Why is it happening so fast? Can't he stay in Derry just another day? Can't he say goodbye?

"Hey," Richie speaks up from the back. "Hey. Why the fuck am I being rushed off?"

"The orphanage is expecting you by the end of the day," the male up front says, his voice cold and lacking compassion.

"Can't I say goodbye to my friends?" Richie asks, desperate and scared.

He gets no response. They continue driving.

Richie holds onto the straps attached to his backpack, standing in line next to the social worker. He's told that this woman will be accompanying him to Pennsylvania, because Wendy has cases in Derry to attend to, she can't cradle Richie every step of this life changing process. He wishes she would. He sees a mother in her that he never had, but then again, he thinks he'd see a mother in any woman that pays him the slightest bit of attention.

"Richie!"

Richie is pulled from his thoughts, his eyes lifting to track the familiar voice finding its way home. He sees a bit of a struggle a few lines over, and then little Eddie is breaking through the wall of people to get to him. He's followed by both Bill and Stan, which makes him feel... empty. He wishes everyone were here. He wishes Beverly were here. He loves her so much, he needs to see her one last time to make sure she's going to be okay. Although, with Richie leaving town... Maybe it's for the best. Maybe Mr. Marsh won't be angry about Beverly hanging out with him.

"Richie!" Eddie calls again, colliding straight into the boy roughly and knocking him out of line. Richie doesn't respond at first, his eyes seek the caseworker he's been assigned to, silently asking permission. She nods, waves him off, and then turns to tap on her watch. Richie understands their time is limited, but he is endlessly grateful that there's any time at all.

So Richie allows Eddie to push him out of line, the small one directing Richie's tall frame straight to the back of the station. There's a man sleeping on a bench, so Richie turns their direction just a bit. With Eddie's hands on his chest, he remembers the way those little fists punched into him in a bathroom stall. Back when Richie was unsure, when he was scared. He wishes he wouldn't have wasted so much time being indecisive, because that's time he could have spent loving Eddie.

"We had a chance," Richie starts out, his voice cracking and surprising himself immensely. He didn't know he was so emotional, but his throat feels tight, and the backs of his eyes are hot with forming tears. "We... We gave it our best."

"We're not over," Eddie says stubbornly, furrowing his brows in that little disgusted way that he does. "I'll write to you."

Richie isn't hopeful. He still gives Eddie a sad smile, embracing the little hands between his own, his eyes carving along the wooden edges of Eddie's delicate fingers. He touches and feels each and every crevice of the boy's hands, his mouth filled with a bittersweet feeling. Doubtfully, he asks "Will you?"

"Every day," Eddie promises. He squeezes Richie's hands tightly, then leans forward to put his face in Richie's line of sight. "Hey. Look at me. We're fifteen. You're turning sixteen in three months. Then, it's just two years. Two years and you'll come home."

"Home?" Richie repeats. He can't really remember what that word means. He once felt like his home was in Bill Denbrough's basement, packed between Mike and Ben in a game of never have I ever. Then, home became honeycomb eyes and hazel sweet lips. Now, he just doesn't know. He doesn't know.

"Home," Eddie says more surely, squeezing down on Richie's hands again. He steps forward, balancing on his tiptoes to look Richie in the eye. "You come home to me, Richie Tozier."

Richie smiles, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes. He feels like his life is ending, just slowly. One fragment at a time.

"Don't hog him, Eddie," Stan scoffs, rolling his eyes at the blatant affection the two are showing. "Some of us want to talk to him too."

"Oh! Right, yeah, sorry," Eddie blushes, stepping away and surrendering his love. He looks at Richie, smiles, and then turns away so that Stan can have a private moment.

Stan approaches Richie slowly, as if he's unsure about whether or not he wants to say anything. He stops in front of Richie, looks up at him through his perpetually curly hair, and opens his mouth to say something. Before any words can escape, Richie bursts forward and seizes Stan in a hug.

"Thank you," Richie exhales, something that's been weighing heavily on his chest since day one. "Thank you so much."

"For what?" Stan asks, cautiously hugging back. Stan Uris is not a boy who receives many hugs. He is apprehensive of the motion, but he understands the severity of the situation and will allow it to happen just this once.

"For being my best friend," Richie whispers, words partially muffled by Stan's shoulder.

Stan Uris smiles, a soft smile, one that's never been on his cynical face before. "Yeah, yeah. You're not as bad as they say you are, Trashmouth."

Richie lets out a laugh, a pathetic one, a laugh that makes him realize he's crying. Fuck. Don't cry. Not in front of them. Wait. Wait until you're away, Richie. Hold it in just a little bit longer.

When Stan pulls away, Richie quickly wipes at his face with the sleeve of his stupid suit, and he lets out a shaky laugh. "Should we kiss for old times sake?"

"Absolutely not!" Eddie swivels around, which makes the three boys bust up laughing.

"Richard," the pin in the bubble bursts the happy atmosphere, and all of them turn and look to see the unhappy caseworker waiting off to the side.

"Just a few more minutes, please," Richie whines, trying his best to use his puppy eyes.

It seems to work, because the woman sighs, nods again, but holds up two fingers to let him know his minutes are limited.

"Okay, g-g-get outta th-thh-the wuh-way," Bill shoves Stan to the side, wrapping his arms around Richie much tighter than Stan did. Bill is confident and sure, as always, and he doesn't hesitate to convey his love for Richie.

"Thank you for being my brother," Richie remarks, his voice as fragile as a spider's web.

"Th-Thank you for b-b-being mine," Bill responds, running his fingers through the back of Richie's messy hair. "I'm j-j-jealous. You guh-get t-t-to live in Philly. The s-s-sports are... incredible."

"C'mon, Bill. Do I look like a guy who gives a shit about sports?" Richie laughs, pushing Bill away just to give him a slap on the shoulder. "You take care of these assholes, alright? Eddie's going to be writing to me everyday, I better not hear that you're letting them run loose like some hooligans."

"But isn't that what you do?" Stan pipes up, earning a shoulder slap as well.

"Fuck you guys," Richie laughs, but the words have never been more affectionate. "I'm gonna miss Derry. What a shithole."

Eddie surges forward again, wrapping his arms around Richie's middle and clinging on for dear life. He presses his ear against Richie's chest, trying to memorize the rhythm of his heartbeat just right.

"I love you," Eddie says. "I fucking love you, idiot."

Richie looks at Stan and Bill, then at the caseworker impatiently tapping her foot. He looks at all the people in their train station, and then he looks down at Eddie's full head of hair. He wishes he could kiss his boyfriend goodbye, but there are far too many eyes watching to be able to do that. Instead, he settles for resting his hand on the back of Eddie's neck, and pressing a feathery kiss to the top of the boy's head. He hopes that equates all the love that Eddie is trying to give him.

"I have to go," Richie says, his eyes nervously glancing towards the caseworker walking towards them. "I have to go, Eds."

Eddie pulls away, gripping the front of Richie's powder blue shirt. "No. Please. Stay."

"Aw, c'mon, kid," Richie rubs the back of his neck painfully. "Don't make this any harder than it already is."

And Eddie knows Richie language. He knows it quite well. And in Richie language, that translates to "Please don't make me cry." Eddie can respect that. He nods solemnly, taking a step backwards, and watching as Richie straightens his backpack out and turns to face the approaching caseworker.

"You all set? The train leaves in ten minutes. We've got to board now."

"Okay," Richie nods, his playful attitude washed away and replaced with the heartbroken submissive boy that goes wherever he's told. It's clear that Richie has given up on everything, his whole life has just completely been taken from his own hands and given to anybody who would take it. He feels helpless, and out of control, and most of all, he feels heartbroken.

Heartbroken that he has to leave his family in Derry. Heartbroken that he has to leave Beverly without a proper goodbye after the girl practically raised him and kept him well fed. That he has to leave Eddie. His lover.

"Okay," Richie says again, more defeated this time. He begins to walk away, his feet heavy. He imagines himself standing in blocks of cement, and then sinking to the bottom of an ocean. Anything would be better than this. Anything.

"Wait!" Eddie calls out.

Richie stops in his tracks, his heart twisting and tearing out of his chest. Tears swell up in his eyes, and his face flushes with color. He turns around just a little bit, broken in every sense of the word, as he watches little asthmatic Eddie run up to him at full speed.

"I told you, kid. Don't make this hard for me," Richie sniffles, tears streaming down his face.

"Here," Eddie ignores him, shoving a book into his hands. It's bound with smooth leather, the pages feeling worn and loved between Richie's fingers.

Richie looks down, and he sees the moleskin journal that Eddie carries around with him anywhere. The journal that Eddie pours himself into, day and night, writing feverishly as if his life depends on it. Eddie wouldn't let a single person even glance inside. Now, it rests in Richie's hands.

"Your journal?" Richie looks up in confusion, his snotty nose running unattractively. Eddie doesn't care.

"It's yours now," Eddie tells him. "I wrote. You told me to start writing, so I did. I wrote everything in there for you."

Richie looks down, slowly lifting the cover up, but Eddie places his nimble hand over the top of it and rubs his thumb against Richie's.

"Not here," Eddie says. "Not now."

Richie nods, looking back down at the precious material he's been gifted from the gods. It all becomes too much, and he feels himself starting to lose it. He has to go. He can't let Eddie see him cry.

"Thank you," Richie smiles wistfully, remembering the color red that crystallized from Eddie's fawn-like nose the day that he ran into the little boy in the pharmacy. The boy who crowded him at a birthday party and quizzed him about Elton John. The boy who slowdanced with him in the shade of an oak tree, their hair still dripping wet from a day of swimming. The boy who took a chance to fall in love with an anxious mess. His boy. "Thank you for loving me."

Eddie smiles. Simple and sweet, always simple and sweet.

"Thank you for letting me."

Richie doesn't look back this time, and Eddie doesn't stop him again. He boards the train quickly, easily, and settles into his uncomfortable seat without many complaints. He prepares for the rest of his life to be like this chair, that is, uncomfortable. As the train pulls away, its loud whistle blaring through the air, Richie accepts that he will never return to Derry again. Not in two years, not in a million.

He looks down at the journal in his lap. The well-worn piece of work that's been gifted to him by the only person to truly see endless potential in him. He contemplates whether or not he should read it so soon, his chest still feeling sore from being ripped open, but he decides he can't do that to Eddie. It was given to him to be read, he should read it.

Richie opens the first page, smiles at the familiar handwriting.

And he begins reading.

Chapter Text

Richie,
I'm sitting on my bedroom floor, writing this as quietly as I can. You're still asleep in my bed, it's only around 4:30 am so I don't think you'll be awake for a couple more hours.

Last night you had said that you wanted me to start writing a journal, which I thought was ridiculous. Who would want to listen to me ramble? But then... you asked about my nightmares, and I realized; you do. You want to listen to me ramble. So, I'm taking you up on the journal idea, but I don't think I'll ever let you read it. I don't know. Maybe. We'll see.

I think I'm just going to recount my days as they come and go, just so that I don't miss out on any of my best memories. Tonight was a good one, though, so I hope the rest of these pages get filled up with other memories similar to the ones we created tonight.

I was waiting for you to come; I was watching the clock so anxiously and I was completely convinced that you weren't going to show up. I don't know why I was so scared of that possibility, but all I know is that I felt a tidal wave of relief wash over me the second I heard your feeble knock on the window.

There's an old saying; the eyes are the windows to the soul. I don't think that's true. As I stood up and checked my hair in the mirror, I thought the exact opposite. The windows are the eyes to the soul. I opened my window, and there you were. A perfect soul. A little damaged, rough around the edges, but still peach ripe and honey sweet.

Then we sat and talked, and you laughed, and it filled my room with a coating that had never been felt there before. I don't have friends over often- scratch that, Ben will sometimes stay the night because he's the only friend my mother trusts. Other than him, I don't... I don't have people over often, and this room often feels like a shell. This house is far too cold, and it feels more like an imprisonment camp than a home. You changed that, though. You made the room feel warm and bright, and when you started humming those darling songs, it felt... safe. I felt safe. I know I barely know you, but it's just peculiar how comfortable you are.

I know this may be a long shot, but something about you feels like I've heard it before. I don't know what your beliefs are, because again, we just met, but I feel like I've met you before. Maybe in a past life?

Maybe I was some business man named Marshall and you were my next door neighbor, Ivan. Maybe we had potluck dinners, maybe we exchanged jokes while watering our lawns, maybe I took your daughters to soccer practice if you had to work overtime, maybe we would have family game nights in the basement of your house and while the kids argued about who cheated, we would go out to the garage to sneak a beer by your Mustang. Maybe when we had those quiet moments alone, no wives, no jobs, no kids, no responsibilities, maybe we would... share a look. And we would kiss. And you would taste the beer on my lips and maybe I would pull away too quickly. Maybe when we came back inside my wife would note how I smell like your aftershave. Maybe when we were all crowded around the dinner table eating a casserole, I would see your hand on your lap, and I would let my fingers overlap yours. Maybe. Just maybe.

Hold on, I think you're waking up. No, just rolling over. I can see your face now, your bruises are healing up. If you do happen to read this, I should probably remind you of events that happen in case you forget too. You fought Henry Bowers to defend me, and then went out exploring with Mike. You've got a lot of cuts, Richie, but I must admit that I enjoy getting to take care of you. It's nice being so close, and seeing you drop your tough guy guard while I clean you up. Especially when you take your glasses off. You have the most beautiful eyes, it really is such a shame that you hide them. I can see them now, although they are closed. Your glasses are sitting next to my leg, you had taken them off to sleep earlier and I made sure not to step on them when I untangled myself to start this journal.

I couldn't sleep. Not because of nightmares, but because I was entirely overwhelmed with the idea of Richie Tozier being in my bed and holding me. I didn't really want to sleep and possibly miss out on this rare experience, I wanted to appreciate the moment for as long as I could.

And in case future Eddie forgets how it felt, this is a reminder;

Warm. So very warm. Seriously, does this guy just radiate heat? The moon spends its whole life chasing the sun, always coming up a bit too late, always just out of reach, but you've found it. Not only did you find it, but he pulled you in real close and held you for a majority of the night. So very god damn warm, producing more heat than the human body is capable of making. You checked his forehead to see if he had a fever, but in his sleepy state of mind he simply grabbed your hand and held it. He was asleep, you were not, and you just could not even attempt to sleep with his hand in yours. You stroked each individual knuckle, bruised and healing over, and let your breath fan over the skin as if breathing life onto the damaged kid. Even though you were the one to originally ask him to stay, he still held on so very tightly. Butterfly grips, but needing and desperate. I don't think he gets any attention, not even from Bev. Something about the way Richie Tozier acts... as if he is used to being the only person on earth... it's heartbreaking. Even now, writing these words, I feel the need to close this journal and never leave his side again. He deserves to be loved and he deserves to know how it feels, and I just want him to taste that sickeningly sweet rose bloom on his tongue when he finally gets the privilege of swallowing the reality of someone loving him unconditionally.

So, older Eddie, if you're reading back on this and you can't remember how his hands felt on your waist, remember this; it felt safe, and it felt warm, and it felt like hot sand on the quarry you used to swim in when you were younger and coming in from winter mornings to see cocoa steaming on the table. It felt like an overwhelming urge to be closer, to open him up and crawl inside and live between his lungs. To never let go, to just grab on and not ever back away, to let the rollercoaster tick and tick up to the top with the knowledge that the drop will be painful and scary, and to feel okay with it. It's okay. The drop is worth it, because he is a little chunk of sunshine that you have managed to wrangle in your bed. It feels like a smile on your face knowing that in the morning the sheets will still smell like him; cigarettes and books, and you hope that the scent lingers for as long as it can. Or, alternatively, you hope that he keeps returning before the scent has the chance to fade. It feels like wanting him to come back over and over again, to crawl in the window, and to hum those songs in your ear until you get goosebumps. It feels like bird feathers and supernova touches running up your thighs, and water faucets that have been running for so long that steam billows up and envelops you in a hug of redamancy.

He has fingertips that are stained with wanderlust, and you could feel it every time he ran his hand up your bare back. An adventurer, a tiny planet explorer, and yet he chose to be here. With you. He may be the sun, but you are his earth. And I hope to god that you stayed that way, future Eddie.

The sky is starting to paint itself a hazy blue, so I think I'm going to stop writing now and get back in bed with Richie so I can enjoy the few hours of morning before we have to wake up for school. God, school. I forgot all about it. It's hard to think about anything other than Richie Richie Richie. Okay, now I'm really starting to miss being tucked up beside him. I'm going to go, the sun will shine soon enough and I want to be close enough to see how it will make his freckles glow.

Richie was right. Writing is kind of fun. And if Richie ever does read this; ignore everything I just said.

Eddie Kaspbrak.

Chapter Text

Rich,

It's technically the same day, just later in the evening as opposed to the middle of the night.

The morning started out dry and crisp, as if the weather had taken the life out of Derry itself and not just the changing leaves. My room packed humidity, but it was hot. Not just warm, but rather hot. I could feel myself sweating beneath my clothes, little droplets of rainfall forming under my storm cloud skin and rolling down my body like hurricanes. I didn't move, however. Even though you made me sweat like a pig, I wanted to stay in your arms. Or, actually, I wanted you to stay in mine. I may be smaller, but you love to be held, Richie. I think it's the neglect. You need to be held.

When my alarm went off, you sat up and pushed me away very quickly. Instead of staying and getting ready with me, you mumbled curse words under your breath and gathered your things throughout the room like the whole night had been a mistake. I didn't say anything, just sat on my bed and watched you go. Ballerina, I think. In our past life, you weren't some banker or middle aged family man. You were a ballerina. You dance so delicately, you slip out of my window like a finishing move. I couldn't even hear you land, you're so quiet on your feet.

Then, I got ready for school and lied to my mother about how I slept. I told her it was fine, but my room was cold, so I didn't know if I was feeling too well. The truth was; my room was hot, burning hot, with fire and lava and heat and just... I don't know what to call it. Passion seems too intense, but it seems to be the closest thing that my mind can think of. I just think I wish you would have stayed. You left your jacket, though, so maybe that can substitute as some kind of Tozier stand-in until you stay over again.

During first period Beverly told me that you are serving detention today. I think it's wrong. You shouldn't be getting punished for self defense, and especially not when the fight was four against one? Henry Bowers is a psychopath and I feel guilty that I ever even got you involved with him. You don't deserve to be punched, not when you have such a heavenly face. Doesn't he see that? Probably not, actually. The kid would rather slit his wrists than ever be attracted to another man. I feel sorry for the broad that marries him.

Oh, jeez, I didn't mean to imply that I'm attracted to you. I'm not. I'm not gay, but it's okay if you are. I don't know. I just... get those feelings whenever I'm around you? The feelings that you might be a queer? If you are, it's okay, I don't mind. I just don't want people to think that we're queers together, I have enough of a hard time trying to convince everyone that I'm straight as it is. I'll ask Stanley. He knows a lot of the gays at our school, maybe he'll be able to tell if you are too. Bill calls this "gaydar" but I don't know what that means. Billy thinks that Stan is a little gay too. He always catches Stan staring at him, and one time, Stan went to hold his hand while they were walking around the cul de sac. Sometimes I catch you staring at me, so maybe... but I just hope that it's not for me. I'm not gay, and neither is Bill, so. I don't know. I'll ask Stanley to use his "gaydar" anyway. It sounds like an X-ray gun, though, and we all stopped playing guns when we got to middle school.

Whatever. I am rambling. The point is, you had to serve detention for defending yourself in a fight that wouldn't have happened if I didn't make you walk to class with me. I should toughen up on my own so that I don't have to make you fight my battles, I hate seeing the way your skin bruises. It bruises easily. I don't want to ever see any discoloration on your face again. It just might damn near break my heart.

At the end of the day, while Bev was taking you to detention, I ran into Ben outside the building. He asked if I wanted to go down to the Barrens with you guys, and I wanted to. I did. But I know that I can't be down in those sewers, not after the time I came home with grass stains on my shorts and my mother made me stay inside for a week. If she found out I was playing down in the Barrens, I think she would homeschool me up until college. I don't want that. I want to be able to see you. Even if it's just in our math class, when you're staring out the window to your left and I can't see your face. I can see the silhouette of it, though, and the outline of your prominent features is enough for me. You usually have headphones on, and I always want to know what you're listening to. Sometimes I wish you would turn and look at me, too.

I hope you had fun at the Barrens. I wish I could have gone. I did, however, get permission to go over to Stanley's where Bill came over with his new comics and we all took turns reading them. That was fun, the little stories are easier to live in than my own life sometimes. Stan has always been nice to me as well, a little too nice, and I think I am starting to pick up on what Bill means about Stan being a queer. He's nice, sure, but sometimes too friendly. Sometimes his touches last a little too long, but it's not like they're uncomfortable. It doesn't feel wrong, but it doesn't feel right either. I think it would feel more comfortable if they were your hands and not Stan's dried out palms from how much he washes them a day. Even though your hands are always filthy, I think I would still prefer them. But maybe I just prefer the person they're attached to, I don't know.

Bill's mom called him home for supper, but I stayed with Stan since it was a Friday night and I got permission from my momma. I didn't know I would be staying over so I didn't get my sleeping bag, but Stan told me I could sleep in his bed. I was unsure.

But then I thought; why?

Why was I scared of sharing the bed with Stan? I've known him since we were toddlers, and suddenly I'm uncomfortable just because I have the feeling he's a queer? That didn't stop me from sleeping with you, did it?

So Stan and I sat under the covers and read older comics together, though I wasn't really reading at all. I was thinking of you. The room was silent except for the crisp overlay of paper whenever Stan would turn the page, the same sound that resembles my mother's magazines turning whenever she reads a new Cosmo. Outside, the crickets got louder and louder as night grew near, and when the afternoon sun came in to say farewell to us for the evening, I found my voice between rays of gold glowing on Stan's face.

"Stan, what do you think about being gay?" I had asked him.

The boy nearly choked.

He looked scared, but I don't know why. Maybe I was wrong, maybe Bill was wrong. Maybe he wasn't gay, and maybe he hates queers just like Henry Bowers does. He chewed on his bottom lip which is Stan-language for "I want to change the subject."

With a kid as quiet as Stan Uris, you learn to pick up on his body language. Tonight's language was scared and upset. I wish I didn't ask.

"It's alright," Stan said after awhile, but his voice was shaking. "Not for me, though."

"Yeah, me neither," I told him. I think I was lying because I got that heavy peach pit feeling at the bottom of my stomach. Not a sweet peach, not the tender fruit that you pour into my nectarine life, no, but the bitter core of an apple that was planting its bad seeds into my very stomach. I felt like I was going to be sick, and I only ever felt like that when I tell lies.

And then I said "I think Richie is, though. Richie Tozier. He seems a little faggy to me."

Stan clenched his teeth and didn't say anything for the rest of the night, so I eventually put my comic away and pretended to go to sleep. After an hour, Stan got up and left the room. His walls are thin, and I could hear the water in the bathroom running in the next room over. It made a loud, hushing sound, one that is meant to mask other noises, but it didn't quite do the right job. I could still hear Stanley crying.

The tiny waterfall stopped, and eventually, the ones coming from Stan stopped as well. Then, he came back in, and I shut my eyes so he wouldn't feel bad about someone hearing him. I don't think I've ever heard Stanley cry before; not even when the kids at school would tease him about being Jewish. Not when people would write "big nose" on his lunchbox and he would have to scrub it off with me in the bathroom so he wouldn't get in trouble with his parents. Not when he would get his face scrubbed in the snow until it bled because he refused to sing the Christmas carols they taught us in choir class. Not even when Bill had called him a "fucking asshole" and didn't talk to him for a week because Stan had snitched on Bill when he first started smoking cigarettes with Beverly. (Even then, when the two made up, Bill didn't smoke again. Not because he got in trouble with his parents, but because he didn't ever want Stan to go away again.)

Stan Uris has always been the strongest out of all of us, because his strength isn't mentally like Bill's or physically like Bev's, no, Stan is one of the few people who are... emotionally strong. I don't know how to explain it, but he is just so level headed and reasonable about everything. I envy it.

So to hear him crying to himself through a thin sheet of drywall and plywood, it broke my heart. I can't help but feel like it was my fault, because maybe I shouldn't have brought up the gay subject. But it was eating me alive, Richie. I just wanted to ask someone if they think the same things about you that I do. I don't know. I didn't get an answer.

Stan is sleeping beside me right now, and he looks much more calm than when he first came to bed. His eyes were swollen and puffy, his nose was red, and his flushed cheeks were streaked with tears. I still think it's my fault. My fault for calling you gay. I'm writing this underneath his window and using the moon as my only light, but I just feel so bad about calling you gay and making Stan cry.

I don't think I'll ask again.

yours,
Eddie Kaspbrak.

p.s. The moon is colossal tonight. It feels like I could throw a lasso around the whole thing and pull it down to earth, that's how close it is. I can see each individual blemish and crater, and if I squint, my eyes blur together and my vision will double. It resembles your eyes, big and pale and beautiful. I could stare at the moon all night but it will never compare to the way you look when you are so peacefully off guard. Gazing out school windows, sleeping in my bed, all actions I wish I could memorize forever.

Chapter Text

Tozier,

We went to the aquarium today! I was so excited about it, I had been counting down the days on my calendar to November 18th. Bangor is about an hour ride north of Derry, so I had to pack extra medication just in case. The buses left early in the morning, and our bus filled up so quickly that I was worried you wouldn't find your way onto it. I had to save you a spot, and Stan kept saying that you were probably sleeping in late. But then Ben spotted you, and he called you over, and you sat next to me.

I'm really sorry that I said what I said today. I don't think you're annoying, I really don't. Do you know that? You're not annoying- no matter how many vulgar jokes you make. Even... Even when you call me Eds, which I hate. I still think you're as interesting as when I first met you, before all the gross chucks. I apologized to you, but I don't think you accepted it. I think you listened to what I said and believed it, which scares me. Why would you believe something so obviously not true? Do you genuinely think you're annoying? You're not, Richie. You're really not. You're brave. I hurt you, and you still protected me when Henry Bowers approached us today. That takes the strength of a hero, maybe you could be mine.

The fish were beautiful, though.

God, they were so beautiful. They flow with water like silk, their fins opaque and transparent at the same time, gleaming with golden neons, touched by the nimble, delicate, and graceful hands of God. They move with elegance, pure beauty captured in their quick-paced movements. I couldn't believe how many there were, and how absolutely stunning each one was. Stan told me that aquariums and places like SeaWorld (?) are cruel to their fish, but the Bangor aquarium must be an exception. Their fish swim with poise and purpose, and I crave to be anywhere near their level of absolute sheer beauty.

But you don't have to try. You already are beautiful. I don't know when you'll read this, or if you ever will, but you came up to me and asked me to listen to a song on your tape. That's how I knew we were okay. That was Richie Tozier language for 'you're important to me.' Thank you for letting me listen, Richie. I know I fell asleep on you, but I had dreams circling around ballrooms and waltzing with you in tune to George Michael. You look good in black tie, but I doubt I'll ever see you wear something so dapper outside of my dreams. Do you ever get tired from running around my daydreams all day? Do you look both ways before you cross my mind?

I don't know what any of this means. I don't. I tried talking to Bill about it, but I couldn't exactly explain the depth of it all to him without dropping your name, so I just changed the subject and asked him about the new sled his parents bought him for the winter. I don't know, sometimes I wish I did try talking to him about it, just so that somebody can explain it to me. I don't get why I feel the heat of the sun inside my tummy when you touch me. I don't get it, dude. It's so... I don't know. I just want to be around you all the time, I never want to be anywhere else, and I feel angry when your eyes stray from me. Isn't that so stupid? I think I definitely won't ever show you this journal now, not after saying something as embarrassing as that.

You walked home with Bev to go retrieve your bike; our plan was to meet back up at the corner of Greendrive and go to Mike's. When I suggested that the two of us go out to Hanlon's farm on the bus, that's all I wanted it to be; just us. But then everyone else invited themselves, and I couldn't explain why I didn't think that was a good idea. I guess I'm just selfish, I don't know. I want to hang out with you alone, but so does Bev. She told me so, and I promised that I can't tell you, or else you would get upset with her and stop being friends with everyone just to prove a point. She explained this with a bitter tone, disdain in her voice, but I can't help but think that your stubbornness is endearing. I don't know. Maybe it's just because you're new to the group; you know, Bev has known you for years so maybe the endearing aspects of you have worn off for her. I hope they don't ever wear off for me, I hope I still think you're just as pretty twenty years from now. Maybe we'll have wives by then, maybe we'll be neighbors, and maybe we can recreate that family-man life that I described in my first entry. Would you want that? Would you want to meet in my garage and share Pabst Blue Ribbon-tainted kisses? Maybe you'll grow up to be a whiskey man. Who knows. What matters is that I'm there to see which you end up to be, you know?

When I was running around and playing tag with the boys, I thought I was going to die. I really did. My lungs burned, but not from the asthma, but rather because of the inactivity. I'm so out of shape that it physically hurt to play with them, but I persisted through and kept going because it was just so fun. And I knew you were there, probably watching me with Beverly, and I didn't want you to think I'm weak or anything. I didn't want to make you have to use my aspirator on me, I just wanted to be normal for a second. So I ran, I ran quickly, and all these thoughts temporarily fell out of line with my brain and struggled to catch up. I thought that was amazing, Richie. I was running so fast and so hard and my lungs burned so much that I completely forgot about the way my stomach knotted up like rope when you would stretch your arms up in class and I could catch glimpses of forbidden territory. But the game ended, the thoughts caught up, and you stood up against the sunlight and started glowing.

Then we went inside for hot chocolate, and Stan took the only seat next to you. I was so mad at him for a moment, white hot flashes of blind rage completely hypnotizing me for brief moments. I felt like everything was riding on that seat, as if the world would crumble if I didn't get to sit next to you. In the end, I sat next to Mike, and tried not to feel that weird kind of angry I mentioned earlier when I saw the way that Stan was making you laugh.

Don't get me wrong, I'm glad that you guys are friends, it's really great and it makes me incredibly happy seeing two of my favorite people so absolutely overfilled with joy, but... I don't know. Something about the way I made Stan cry, and all this stupid talk about "gaydar"... it makes me scared. If... I don't know. If Stan is gay, I wouldn't want him to be with you. It seems unfair, I feel like I claimed dibs on you long ago? No, wait, god, what am I saying? You're a living human with real feelings, I can't call "dibs". Sorry. You can date Stan if you want, but just... I don't know. It doesn't feel right to me in a way.

Not to mention Stan absolutely hated you when we first started hanging out with you. So how is that fair? I've been in love with your music since the moment we spoke, and I've adored your owl-eyes since the day you gave me a nosebleed.

Again, I know you're a human, so I'm really not trying to objectify you, but... I don't know. I deserve to feel those warm fuzzy feelings, not Stan. He can get them from someone else, a boy if he wants, but not you. Not you. You're my boy.

I don't think I'll ever say any of this outloud. It sounds far too embarrassing and demeaning, and you might just laugh right in my face. You're a jokester like that, it's so hard to tell when you're being serious or when you're just pulling my leg. You're confusing, you know that, right? Like when we were all up in Mike's room later, warm and drunk off hot chocolate, and you put your arm around my shoulders and said "What a good room for some lovin', am I right, Eds?"

I frowned and elbowed you in the side because I couldn't tell if you were just trying to get some "chucks" or not. I hate that I can't tell, Richie. I hate that I can't tell, because I know that I'm never joking. I don't want you to be joking either. I want things like that to be serious, I want you to say them with conviction, and I want them to be honest.

I want a lot of things, I guess.

Ben and I left early because of our curfews, but I know that the conversation was circling around going to get cigarettes when we were leaving. I hope you didn't, I really don't want you getting lung cancer and dying on me, Tozier.

I thought about you the whole ride home. Ben was telling me stories about his great aunt's side of the family, and I kept nodding and pedaling at a slow pace so that he didn't have to exert himself, but I was just so, so, so lost in the way that your body shaped around mine. Every time you put your arm around my shoulders, I think something clicks together, as if we're cut from the same cloth or carved from the same stone. I want to believe so, but I think I'm just desperate for any sort of attachment to you. For what reason, I have no clue.

You were beautiful today. I forgot to write that until just now. You were very beautiful today, and I wish I told you so. I think you need to hear it sometimes.

The blues hues of the fish tanks soaked your skin with saturation, casting hazy shadows across knife-point cheekbones and that marble jawline. You're made from the same composition as Michaelangelo's greatest statues, and Van Gogh's best paints. Such a delicately composed boy, complex in all your little tangled ways, and there's got to be a supernova at the very core of it all. There must be. It's the only way to explain why stardust and glitter shine through your skin so easily. I hate that I'm the only one who can see it, but I'm grateful that I get to appreciate it in its entirety.

God. I just lost my breath at the memory of you slipping your headphones over my ears. Your face was an open door, one that transports me through a subspace that can summon alternate realities. You lead to different universes, Richie, and I want to explore each and every single one of them.

yours,
Eddie Kaspbrak.

PS: (I hope these don't become a tradition, I just find that I have so much to say to the imaginary Richie that reads this journal.) I can't wait to see you at school tomorrow. Hopefully you talk to me in math class, because I'm always too scared to.

Chapter Text

Richie,

I haven't hung out with you in two days.

I am aware that that is merely a blip in time, and that two days means nothing, but I still feel the ache in my chest. I thought it was heartburn, I thought it was acid reflux, I thought it was early onset respiratory infection, but it was merely Richie Tozier. Or the lack thereof.

I wish I didn't miss you, because it feels stupid to want to see you. Do you think the same thing? Probably not. I don't know. If you did want to see me, you would probably call me or something, right? But then again, I don't call you either, so who knows? Maybe you do, maybe you don't.

Today you were wearing a really cute shirt. It was a buttonup with tiny little cacti printed all over it, and you had these outrageously ridiculous flame design socks pulled up over your jeans. Has anybody ever told you that your fashion is awful? Bill seems to love it, though, which is so weird to me. That's besides the point, however. The point is that I was admiring this lovely shirt at lunch, taking in all the little details on the cacti, when you looked over at me and smiled.

It was a simple smile, nothing ground-breaking here.

But I still felt my heart physically patter against my ribs like a moth trapped under a glass. The delicate wings make such hefty noises against the containment, but I didn't feel trapped. I felt free, scarily free, as if I was falling straight from a helicopter with no parachute. Nobody wants to be that free, and yet you can make me feel that airborne just from a spotty smile.

And then I did something brave. I don't think you see it as brave, but for me, it was quite a big deal. I get nervous around you, Richie. You make me feel such... angry, demanding feelings, so its hard for me to overcome those nerves when they beg to be felt. But I reached out and grazed my fingertips right against your thigh, so lightly that I don't even think you felt it. I don't think you did, or else you would have said something, right? I don't know. You were arguing with Bill about some guy who cheated during gym class, I wasn't exactly listening. But I know that you put your hand down on your leg, right on the spot that I touched. I think you were inviting me, or maybe hoping that I would touch there again, but I lost all the nerve that I had managed to build up and instead went back to peeling my orange. Stanley was stressing over his review notes for history, yelling at you to take this test more seriously, but you just smiled and said you had it covered. I wish things were that easy for me. I feel like I live in a perpetual state of confusion, and you only make things worse, Richie.

Still. Even so, I don't think I would have it any other way. May my life be confusing for the rest of my days if it means you get to be beside me through it all.

I think your parents are still out of town, so I might ask you to come over for Thanksgiving. I don't know how my mom would feel about it, especially considering that I haven't even told her that you exist yet, but I just don't want you being home alone and feeling bad about it. Stan's family doesn't celebrate it because the food isn't "kosher" (whatever that means), so he either goes to Bill or Mike's. Beverly always goes to Ben's, but I suppose you already know that, being her best friend and all. I don't know, I just think it would be nice. Everyone gets to spend Thanksgiving with someone else, and I'm stuck with my mother. Kinda sucks. It would suck way less if you were there.

On a bit of a darker note, I haven't been sleeping well lately. I wish I could listen to your tape, but I don't even have a fucking Walkman. Can you believe that? It's 1988 and I'm the only person in the world who doesn't even have a tape deck. Mom thinks that the devil brainwashes kids through music nowadays, so I don't even get to have a radio. (But she bought me a TV despite all the negative side effects of those?) Oh, I guess I should make a note of that. If I invite you to Thanksgiving, I have to remind you to not wear any Led Zeppelin shirts or anything along the lines. My mother would be convinced that you're an evil, soul-sucking, dopehead. I'd never hear the damn end of it if I brought home a boy with an appearance as rough as yours.

(Just so we're clear, I happen to be very... fond of your appearance. I like you the way you are, dopehead shirts and all.)

Back to the point. I haven't been sleeping well because of the fact that I can't hear the music. It feels so fucking wrong of me to have access to this special gem straight from Richie Tozier's brain, with absolutely no way of listening to it. I must admit, nobody has ever given me a mixtape before, but I am beyond flattered by it. The thought and raw passion that must have gone into these songs, all for me... it's more than I could ever ask for, Richie. I know I'm not very good at expressing these things, but I really truly do love the fact that you tailored this mix of songs just for me. I only wish I had a way to actually, y'know, listen to them. It feels wrong to have them sitting there collecting dust, but what else am I to do?

Maybe it's because you're not here. I certainly sleep better when you're around, so perhaps it is just your presence that eases me, not the music itself. I... Again, I wish that I didn't miss you so much, because I just sparked a craving to feel your warm chest cradling my spine. What's the opposite of anemic? You radiate more body heat than what should be considered normal, but I miss the warmth. It feels like summer days and sunburned, scorched skin. Bambi blood and recoils on BB guns. The burn in my pec as I draw the bow. The arrow is pointed at your chest, I hope to god I don't miss this shot.

I'm going to try and get some sleep tonight, hopefully I don't have that dream again. I'm still sleeping with your jacket, so maybe that can aid my restlessness. It's worked well as a replacement Richie in these past two days, but I think I would about die from embarrassment if you were to ask me what happened to your favorite windbreaker.

We go camping this weekend. While everyone is still in a turkey-coma from Thanksgiving, I will be spending a whole weekend in a tent with you. Isn't that amazing? I'm- I'm actually excited. Ludicrous, isn't it? I, Eddie Kaspbrak, am excited to stay with Richie Tozier. There's just so many possibilities, you know? So many.

I hope you're as excited as I am.

I'm bringing peaches to school tomorrow, I've noticed that you like those more than the apples. I like making sure you're well fed, it gives me a sense of pride knowing that I've helped. Maybe my place in this world is in your wake, feeding off of your ghostly shadow, and taking care of you where I can. If it were, I don't think I would mind all that much. Like living in the shade beneath a tree, I will carve my initials into the bark and leave my mark where I can.

yours,

Eds.

Chapter Text

Richie,

You're sitting right next to me as I write this. You keep moving closer and closer, and I don't know if I'm supposed to notice or not, but I definitely have. The fire is blazing, embers threatening to attack at any given second. This winter has a bright, glaring sense of death lingering in it, a stiffness in the air that only brings misery with its harsh winds. We're right on the cusp of the first snowfall, the clouds have that pout about them that tells me it won't be long now.

Despite this, I haven't felt warmer. Not because of the campfire, not because of the blankets wrapped around me, but because you just moved a little closer. I really do think you're trying to be nonchalant, and something about that strikes me as humorous. Whatever it is that you're hoping to achieve, I truly do wish that you don't give yourself any splinters by the way that you're digging your palms into the log.

I walked a lot today. I could've had my mom drive me, I could have called the Denbroughs to drive me, hell, even Ben's mom would be glad to pick me up, but I needed to walk. I needed the time to think, and I even left early so that I could loop around town a couple of times and just sit with my thoughts. I was hoping that it would help clarify some things, such as why I shiver and get goosebumps when you exhale, but I'm afraid it only made things worse.

I was reflecting on all of these unique little Richie Tozier things that make me so shaky, and only thinking of them got my heart racing. My feet were treading through dead, heavy leaves, and I considered laying down and burying myself right in a grave of autumn to escape what the conclusion keeps circling back towards. I don't want to say it, mainly because I think you already know. Everyone else already knows as well, I've been called a fag since the second grade. Why should I have to say it in the first place? It doesn't matter. I think it'll go away, it's just a phase. I don't feel anything towards boys in the first place; just you. That's got to mean something, right? That means it's not serious, it's not real. Right?

I want to ask Stan. He seems a little weird and bothered since you guys came back from gathering firewood, but I don't want to ask and potentially make him uncomfortable. I still hear the echoes of his muffled sobs through thin drywall barriers. I know that, like, being gay or whatever is a touchy subject, but I just need to know if this is normal. Why is it just you? Just Richie Tozier? Nobody else makes me feel like this, nobody at all. Is it normal? Am I normal?

What if I'm not?

What happens then?

Do I have to live the rest of my life knowing that I've had a crush on a boy for a majority of this school year?

Oh god, I actually said it. Oh dear god. The words actually left my mouth- or, left my pen onto the page. Pen. I can't erase this, Richie, I genuinely just wrote those words down. Oh, you're moving closer now. Please don't look. Don't look at this page. Don't look at that sentenc- okay, you're talking to Beverly now.

I have a crush on a boy. A boy. I have a crush on a boy. Why do I keep repeating it? Am I trying to convince myself it isn't true? It's almost like those times when you say a word so many times that it no longer sounds real, you know what I mean? Like, apple, apple, apple, apple, apple. Sounds weird doesn't it? I have a crush on a boy, I have a crush on a boy, I have a crush on a boy, I have a crush on a boy.

Jesus, it's not working, it's just sounding more and more real. What the fuck, dude? What the fuck. Like, actually, genuinely; what the fuck. Oh god, what if my mom finds this journal? Fuck. Mom, if you're reading this, it's a joke. Richie pulls pranks on me, I'm just trying to get him back.

Yeah, maybe that's what it is. I'm just trying to prank him. Or prank myself. Why would I prank myself? But why else would I like a boy? God, none of this makes sense. I just want somebody to fucking tell me if this is okay, because I don't know!! I already get the living shit beat out of me, I don't want to add to it by actually being queer, god, my life would be hell. I can't imagine it, nor do I want to.

The idea of Henry Bowers discovering this journal is enough motivation to not tell anybody. I can't; I mustn't. If anybody were to read this, my life would be over.

You're pressed against my side now. I smell that coconut, that dusty book smell, that old leather. I hate how comforting it is. I hate how warm you are. I hate how familiar you feel. I hate how lovely you look against the tangy glow of the blaze. So beautiful. I hate it.

I feel sick. I need to take some anti-nausea medication so I don't end up vomiting in the marshmallow bag and ruining the night for everyone. I'll be back later- maybe.

For now,

Eddie.

Chapter Text

Hey, Richie.

It's the morning after. You're still sleeping, and I'm trying to detach myself from you as I write these words. You have a bit of a deathgrip on yourself, dude. My organs are rearranging themselves under Tozier's deadlock on my waist.

I know I had a bad dream last night, it was terrible. I can't remember what it was about, exactly, but it wasn't a spider, that much was for sure. It was somehow worse, scarier. It felt too vivid, too realistic to be a dream. The memories of it are wiped blank from my mind, so I can't even recall anything except for the way I felt. Terrified. Alone. So awfully, terribly alone. It was the worst I have ever felt.

And then it didn't hurt anymore.

It all stopped within a nanosecond, every feeling of isolation instantly being washed out to sea as the waves crash against my shore. You swept me up quickly, burying my head in your chest, rocking us back and forth patiently and whispering quiet songs to me. Then I realized, no, you put the headphones on me. I was hearing Richie's music, that's what it was. And that calmed me down even faster, because I was just so focused on listening to the words that you drill into your brain on a daily basis. If I ever want to know how you're feeling, all I have to do is listen to what music you're playing. It's how you communicate, Richie.

I fell back asleep, it must have been the middle of the night. I don't remember anything else other than you were here, for me. For me. And you didn't leave in the night, you stayed and held me and didn't push me away when we both lied down and I put my leg over your hips. It felt so interlocked and personal, we are vines growing around eachother and knotting together in a grape vineyard. We'll make beautiful wine one day, I know we will. We'll get drunk off of our feelings for each other.

Everything feels so good right now, Richie. I read what I wrote last night and I think I was just a little freaked out by finally admitting to myself that I might like boys. No, scratch that. I might like a boy. Not plural.

The sun is coming in through the trees and creating puppet shows on the side of our tent, tiny molecules of light fighting through the thin material to find their land on your freckled cheek. The tent is warm and heavy with loving air, all the sighs and exhales of two boys that want to be holding each other for as long as they can. I can hear birds starting their song, and just a moment earlier, there was a tent unzipping that was undeniably Stan going to respond to their flighty call. You look so heavenly when you sleep, I cannot comprehend how there is someone on Earth as ethereal as you, let alone someone who will lie next to me with his arms around my waist. I feel good about it now, I feel okay. Liking boys isn't as scary if it happens to be this one, and if he happens to hold me the way he is now this bleary November morning.

The birds sing for you, Richie Tozier. Wake up and listen to them.

yours,
Eds.

Chapter Text

Richie,

I'm sorry I didn't invite you over for Thanksgiving. I really wanted to, believe me, but I grew so scared at the idea of my mom drilling you with thousands of questions. She always interrogates my friends, and that's why I just stopped bringing people over. She likes Ben, though. Everyone likes Ben. He's likable. God, what do you think she'd do if I brought Beverly over? She'd get me tested for STD's on the spot. She hates girls, she thinks they'll corrupt me. We learned a word for that in our humanities class, are you taking humanities? You should take it next year, it's a good class. It taught me that my mom is "misogynistic" and she has "Munchausen syndrome by proxy." That means she makes up illnesses for me, just so that she can shelter me and give her life some sort of purpose. I think that's really sad, so I just let her.

I think you stayed home for Thanksgiving, and that makes me really sad. I wish I knew where your parents are, just so I could give them each a hard punch. (I wouldn't in reality, but it's nice to pretend.) Either way, we had two days off for school, and I missed you all weekend. I think you are ignoring me, because I heard that you were going to hang out at Stan's, but once I got permission to come over, you backed out and decided to go ding-dong-ditching with Beverly. I get she's, like, your best friend and everything, but why did you choose her over us? Was it because I was there?

I think it's because of what happened when we went camping. I'm confused too, Richie. Why can't we figure it out together? Sometimes I feel so close to just telling you, just blurting it out and letting you know about every single thought that enters my head, but that would be disastrous. Can't we talk about what happened? It's not normal, no "friends" hold each other like that. I was right, you needed to be held. You curl up against me so tightly, and you somehow make yourself seem so small. You don't have to do that, Richie. You don't have to minimize yourself just for my sake. You aren't a burden, and I'll still hold you either way. It was nice, okay? It was nice. Even after I calmed down from the nightmare, the whole night was spent entwined with one another, and I swear I felt your lips graze my jaw at one point. Why do we have to pretend like it didn't happen? It was so nice. Why are you so upset by it? Was it a mistake? I hope not. Please, please don't be a mistake.

I think I really want to go see you. It's a Saturday, you should be home. I haven't heard about plans from anybody, so I think that I'll ride my bike on over to your house and see if you want to talk about this. I hope you do. I really, really hope you do.

I'm going to go now before I lose the nerve. It's not that late, so momma should let me out of the house with no problem. I'll just say I'm going to study with Benjamin. Again, she likes him.

I'll bring the journal with so that I can write down what happens, in case you ever find this when you're old and have dementia. I hope it goes well, I really really... like you, Richie. I do.

I'll see you soon, beautiful boy.

Eds.

Chapter Text

You like me back.

But Henry Bowers likes you.

Chapter Text

Richard.

Okay, I'm sitting on Bill's couch right now. He's helping Mrs. Denbrough put the groceries away but when he comes back we're going to go outside and rake up all the leaves in his yard to jump in the pile. I don't like this idea, it seems filthy.

I feel... angry. No, angry isn't the right word. I don't know what I feel.

I stayed the night at Bill's after I left your house. I think I was too scared to go home, or I just needed him to tell me it was okay. He said it on the phone, the phone in your kitchen, but I needed to hear it face to face. So the Denbrough's picked me up from your house, Zack and Sharon made my favorite for dinner, and I tried not to cry in Bill's bedroom later that night when he asked if I'm gay.

I told him yes.

We sat and talked about it for a long time, as well as you and everything that you make me feel. I recounted the letter from Henry and how you said you like me too, and how I didn't believe it. Bill asked if I want to go steady with you, and he asked what exactly it was about you that made me feel this way. He didn't judge me, not once. He didn't look down on me, he didn't laugh, and he certainly didn't call me any names. He nodded and understood, because that's just how Bill is. He always understands us.

So I told him I love the way you laugh, the sound that lights up cathedrals. The way you smile, and how it's like the bend around a river. I told him I like the way you push hair out of your face, and your arm bends at the skinny wrist like a wishbone waiting to snap. I told him about the way you smell, and how you listen to me when I talk. I said you have the kind of atmosphere around you, one that is meant for Eddie Kaspbrak only. I told him about your crude jokes, and how none of them are actually that crude. I told him about the night I slept at your house and showered in the morning, and how the steam wasn't the only thing making me sweat as we shared the bathroom. Oh, and how you shared your clothes with me, and how I have that shirt tucked under my pillow so that I can use it to dry my eyes when I cry on the nights you don't sneak in through my window. I told him about that, too. The late night goodnights. I told Bill about all of these things, these impossibly complex black holes that lead to voids of romance, and he only listened. As I said them, none of them seemed that special after coming to life through my voice. I think the specialness of it all lives solely within my heart, because Bill doesn't melt the way that I do when I talk about how you dance when you cook.

I didn't tell him about the music, though. That seemed too personal, too intimate. Sure, I want Bill to know just about everything, but I don't want him to take the music and run. You made those songs for me, you dedicated a tape to me, and it would be wrong if I were to just invite Bill into those lovely melodies. They're ours, Richie. They always will be.

I was too upset to write about what happened last night, so I'll recall it now; When I showed up at your house, you weren't home. That's fine, you frequently aren't. I sat on the porch and waited like I usually do, but I don't like what I was waiting for. I didn't like it at all.

I should have known when I heard the busted out muffler rattling down the street. I should have known. But I was naive, and I was just excited to see you pulling up in the driveway, so excited that I was blind to who was driving. You weren't as excited, though, you were... uncomfortable. You kept pushing on me and telling me to go inside, but I didn't understand why. Why didn't you want to see me? Was it because of what happened when we were camping? We were just cuddling, Richie, it's not like we fornicated.

But then I saw what you didn't want me to see, and he saw me at the exact same time.

I don't really remember what happened after that, I think I was kicked into high anxiety mode. I'm sure you can imagine how hard it was for me when the person I hate with the person I love most. I freaked out, immediately under the impression that I was going to die, but then it clicked; are you friends with him?

Looking back now, it was ridiculous to jump to this conclusion, but I was scared. I had convinced myself in that brief second that you were part of his gang and that this was all some intricate plan to kill me. I was entirely, 100%, utterly under the impression that I was going to die in that moment. But you gave me your keys and told me to go wait inside, and I wanted to trust you. So I did. Maybe it wasn't a smart idea, maybe I was just leading myself to the slaughterhouse, but part of me was still hoping and praying that you weren't friends with him and you were just being held hostage.

I headed up to your room without waiting for you, I just wanted to be out of Henry's sight. He's been leaving me alone at school, but that doesn't mean I want to provoke him or poke the bear. I didn't know why he's been leaving me alone, but I guess I know now.

While waiting on your bed, I let a moment of weakness take over me. I'm embarrassed to admit this, but I laid down on your bed and let head rest against your pillow. I imagined sleeping with you, and how you pull me closer when the sheets feel too cold. Your bed smells just like you, and part of me was hoping that your scent would rub off onto my clothes.

What happened was this; I heard the shouting down in the kitchen, and I was worried that he was hurting you, so I tiptoed down the stairs as quietly as I could. Before I could make myself known, he called you a faggot, which isn't uncommon language in Henry's vocabulary. That part didn't surprise me. What did shock me, however, was when you said "Okay."

And then he called you a lot of other words, but it all boiled down to him saying "Gay." And you responded "Yeah, I am," as if you were so entirely sure of it. My heart stopped in that moment, my body trembled. I couldn't believe that you admitted it, and you were brave enough to admit it to Henry. The very person who has beat me up for looking too girly for most of my life. Can you believe how brave you are? I was so shocked, and so excited. Richie Tozier is gay, and maybe now I won't feel as bad thinking the things that I do. I thought it was a miracle.

And then you said my name.

I froze, I thought you had seen me sitting on the stairs, that you were going to come around the corner and pull me right out of the spot and expose me to my bully. I thought you were going to read my mind and tell him I'm gay too, and that would only make my life so much harder. I didn't move, I didn't know what to do, but... you hadn't seen me at all. You were saying my name because you like me. You were telling Henry that you like me.

And he said "Patrick" and I think he was talking about Patrick Hockstetter. I don't know, I'm not too sure. You guys were quiet for a moment, and then Henry freaked out and stormed out of the house like a god damn tornado on cocaine. I stayed put, too afraid to move in fear of you yelling at me for eavesdropping. What did I do with this information? I felt guilty because I know that I wasn't meant to hear, and you weren't ready to tell me, yet I knew anyway. Whenever you're reading this, if you're reading this, I'm sorry I listened.

I eventually worked up the nerve to go stand in the doorway, but was too scared to say anything. And then I remembered that you were friends with Henry, you were buying groceries with Henry, even after you knew about all the hell he makes me suffer through. That made me angry, and I snapped almost the moment you noticed me. I didn't understand how or why you could be friends with a guy who beats your ass and makes you get detention, or a guy who physically makes me too scared to walk to class alone.

You told me to go wait upstairs, and I truly am growing so tired of you making me wait. Even so, I obliged, and headed upstairs to wait for this grand explanation you were scheming to sell to me.

I can't really explain what happened next. It still confuses me. You told me all about Henry and your first kisses, and how he loves you, and I read a letter straight from him that proved you weren't lying. I don't really know how to process that, but then you added more on.

You told me you like me.

And I tried to tell you too, I really did, but I grew heavy with fear that all of this would backfire and blow up in my face. I'm only 15, Richie. I'm just a kid. How am I supposed to know anything about my sexuality, or even confess to someone? I crave to be in love, but I am so scared of it.

What if you hurt me? What if you decide you're not really gay? What if you're plotting with Henry to humiliate me? There are too many possibilities, and all of those tiny risks absolutely terrify me. I don't know how else to swallow this information without gulping down fear as well. I feel sick with nausea even thinking about it, but I'm hoping it goes away. I'm hoping this all goes away. I wish we could just be friends, because this is scary, Richie. This is so scary. I don't know what to do, and I'm too scared to even try. I just hope you understand, and that you don't get angry with me for not telling you I like you back.

But I do. I do like you. I told Bill, so that's a small baby step towards telling you. Even if it's terrifying, it's just a risk I have to take, or else I will live the rest of my life in complete ignorance as to what could've happened between the two of us.

Billy's done, so I think we're going to go play outside now. I hope you don't feel weird after reading this, I'm sorry that I left your house, I just didn't know what else to do. It's scary. I'm scared.

Okay, Bill's getting impatient.

farewell,
Eddie Kaspbrak.

ps: I felt nothing but jealousy when I found out that Henry has kissed you before I did. I hope one day we get to experience that together, and that your lips don't stray to anybody else's for the rest of our lives.

Chapter Text

R.

I'm writing this is fifth period with a broken heart. I should be taking notes down for the geography quiz we have before winter break, but my hands are shaking and I cannot seem to see straight.

I don't know what a broken heart feels like, but it surely must feel just like this.

Stan wasn't at the staircase where the losers meet up before school, so we assumed he was just in class early. God, I'm going to start crying. Why? This is stupid. I'm not crying. I'm not.

He wasn't in first period either, so maybe he called in sick? But by third period, I saw him in the halls, smiling at you from across the hall and promising to see you at lunch. I didn't think anything of it, whatever, you know? You were walking into your classroom so I couldn't catch up with you fast enough, but I did get Stan by the shoulder.

I asked him "Hey! What were you and Richie talking about?"

Looking back on it now, I surely know that what face he gave me was only one of guilt. I should have seen it in his features, after all, I've known the boy since we were in diapers. But I was naive and optimistic, and all I wanted was to hear something about you to get me through the day. Anything. A single Tozier funfact is all I craved to pick my mood up.

"N-Nothing," Stan mumbled. "Just... you know, plans."

I didn't know you guys were making plans without me, you would have told me. You would have. I know you would have. So I nodded, tried to not act hurt, and went to class.

It all became very, very, very clear to me when lunch time arrived.

I don't want to admit that I am so ultimately betrayed by you, Richie, but I fucking am. It hurts. Do you feel that at all? Do you feel that pain? Or were you just lying to me when you said I was the one? Why the fuck would you- Why would you? Why? Is it just some joke to you to watch me get my hopes up only to inevitably let me down and move onto your next victim? It fucking hurts, but I can't figure out why. I don't want to believe that you would just move from me to Stan so quickly, but I guess I don't know a thing about you, not really.

Bill noticed as well, he told me that we could go to the cinema after school to get my mind off of it. I invited Ben as well, he always makes me laugh. Chucks, as you would call them. You and your fucking chucks.

I hope you got some good chucks out of this, Richie, because I don't think it's chuckalicious at all. It's fucking... its selfish. You're so fucking selfish. Why would you make me care so much? Why would you make me want you, tell me you want me too, then turn around and spark up this chummy relationship with Stan? It hurts.

And of all people- you had to go for someone in the losers club as well. My best friend, Richie. My best friend. Do you realize how much that fucking hurts me? God, I feel just like Henry Bowers. Is this your party trick? You gaslight and manipulate people into loving you just so you can leave them? I thought I knew you. I thought I could trust you.

I can't believe I'm fucking crying over you in the middle of class.

You don't deserve my tears. You don't.

I hope Stan doesn't fall for your dimples and ugly fashion the exact same way I did, but he's smarter than that. He is so intelligent, much more intelligent than you and I are, so maybe he'll be safe. I hope so.

Nobody ever deserves to feel their heart break like this. Nobody. Not even Henry Bowers. I think I get what he means by being replaced, and I can understand why he's so angry all the time. It's not rage that makes him an asshole, Richie. It's you. You broke his damn heart, and you're breaking mine too.

I understand him a bit better now that I've been where he is. So, with that, I have one question for you.

Why was it Stan? Why wasn't it me?

no longer yours,
Eds. Eddie.

Chapter Text

Dearest Tozier,

I had a really long talk with Beverly today. I asked why you do the things that you do, and if there were any things that I can do to make you change why you react to certain things so intensely. She was pretty evasive, she tiptoed around a lot of subjects, but I suppose I can't blame her. She's your best friend, she's just doing her job to keep your secrets.

But she did tell me to be patient.

Beverly told me about how you once ignored her for two weeks because she kissed your cheek and you thought you weren't worthy of it. I thought that was crazy, but she told me that was Richie Tozier. I guess you're not used to affection? Or maybe it's attention in general. I mean, I know this, but I didn't know you would try to reject it so harshly. I didn't rat myself out to her just yet, but I did try asking her what to do about the situation with Stan while making it sound as platonic as possible.

She told me to be patient again. I told her I didn't have time for her bullshit air-filled advice. She laughed and ruffled my hair and told me to cool it, so I did.

Beverly said that if Richie feels himself getting too attached to someone, he will distance them so that he does not feel too lost when they abandon him. She said that he expects it, so he always manages to stay prepared for worst case scenario. He's guarded and hardly honest, so it takes lots of patience and wearing down. All she said is that I need to prove to him I won't leave. So that's what I plan to do.

I read my journal entry from last Tuesday and I think I certainly overreacted. I don't have any proof that you like Stan, you're just making new friends and I think I grew jealous. It was stupid of me to be so dramatic and go to such awful extents, I shouldn't have compared myself to Henry Bowers or say that you broke my heart, because you didn't. You just folded it a little, but I'm smoothing out the edges so it will be okay.

I think I'm afraid of being replaced. I will be as patient as you want me to be, Richie, but I am afraid that I will end up as forgotten and bitter as Henry. I know you didn't make him that way, but I still fear that falling out of love will release that chemical into my brain that makes me become a psychopath like him. I hope I don't. I really hope I don't.

I'm glad you and Stan are so close, it's good to see you two getting along. He absolutely hated you at first, but I think we all did based off of the rumors we were told (which were all totally not true, by the way!) I hope you guys remain close, because I think you're my two favorite people ever. I want you to be best friends, and I hope I am just patient enough to survive until you decide you want to be close with me again. I miss you, again, I know, but I can't help but feel this sour bittersweet taste on my tongue when I think about how cold my bed will be without you in it.

I think I want to show you some of my music, Richie. You're always introducing me to all these new songs and giving me tapes to listen to, but I haven't reciprocated that at all. I think you would really like some of the 50's music I love, or at least I hope you would. That was truly such a romantic era, sans the racism and blatant sexism. Still, despite that, those years produced some of the best vinyls that I am proud to own. I think they're all special songs, and I wouldn't mind showing them to someone like you.

The music is heavy with love, grooves in the vinyl flowing like rivers of passion, and I want nothing more than to hold your hand and get lost in the sickeningly honeysuckle sweet sounds of doo wop vibrations. Our backs on the carpet, our skin touching, our faces flushed like they're sunburnt from the ocean floor. I'd love to get lost with you, Richie. You're always the one controlling the tides, but for once, I want to spin my records and let you drown alongside me. What a heavenly, delightful thought to live in. I'll go pick out some vinyl to take over to your house.

I don't want to be mad at you much longer, because I truly do miss hanging out with you. I even miss your terrible jokes. I know I must be fatally screwed if I miss someone I see at lunch everyday, but sue me. I like you, I do, and I want to see your face every day, all the time, nonstop. I am trying to be patient, like Beverly said, but I just want you to be back here in my bed again so I can play these vinyls for you already. I want to get lost in the tunes with you, my dear. Please, come home soon.

hopefully yours,
Kaspbrak.

Chapter Text

Before you go any further, I'm sorry. If you ever, ever read this journal and you somehow manage to get this far, I'm so, terribly, incredibly sorry.

If you are Richie Tozier, you will look at the date and recognize what happened on this contrite day. I don't even want to recall the events because I am still in so much pain from the entire counter. I wish I had not spoken a single word today, but I did, and they're all words I can never take back.

I won't describe what happened. You remember. But, if it's 50 years from now and the words December 6th have no meaning to you, I will refresh your memory by saying this; movie theater bathroom stall.

I'm sorry about everything I said, Richie, I was just so, so tired of waiting. I know that a mere couple of days does not give me any excuse to be so completely unhooked, and there is no excuse as to why I acted the way I did. I just... I don't know. It was driving me crazy watching the way you held him as I thought about how that was once me. You were so soft, so fond, and it was very clear that I meant nothing to you in that moment. Your affections had officially shifted over to Stan, all because I followed Beverly's terrible advice and let you slip through my fingers.

I should have fought for you as it was happening. I should have made you stay. But, I fought when it was too late, and my words of passion only came out in the form of heartbroken insults as the image of you kissing Stan's neck looped in my brain. I could not stand the idea that... that... that you didn't want me, when every night I worship the mere idea of you. I should have fought for you before you could become so involved with Stan, but I fought too much, too late.

You didn't speak to me for the rest of the night, and I had to sit in the booth next to you at Curly's and act like things were okay while you and Ben shared a milkshake. I think Stan noticed that something was weird, because he kept asking things like "Eddie, what did you think of the movie? Richie thought it was cheesy" as if he was trying to get us to talk without much success. He tried, though, which makes me believe you were telling the truth when you told me you are just friends with him. Still, even so, it doesn't make it hurt any less that you still want him over me. What did I do so wrong? I know I can be... a handful at times, but this is the first time I have ever intentionally hurt you, and for that, I am so sorry. I truly am. I didn't mean for my words to cut so deep, but they did, and I might as well own up to it.

I don't have other options, by the way. I screamed Will's name at you in a petty attempt to see if you would even try to care, but I truly wish I hadn't. I felt heartbreak, Richie. I did. I felt heartbreak, and I saw it in the reflection of your eyes the moment you heard his name come out of my mouth.

He's just a friend, but I mean that. He's been my penpal since we were kids, he has a much more crazy life than I do. Things have been quiet from him lately, they have been since the accident he went through. He won't tell me much, but he does tell me about how he feels attracted to the boys at his school. I told him about you, and he wrote back and said that he doesn't feel what I feel towards anybody, but he's glad that I found a crush. I think I get it, you know? Will and I are helping each other figure out whether we prefer boys over girls, and I think that's what you and Stan are doing as well. I'm not sure how, but it's not a dynamic I need to understand, I don't think. Will is one of my best friends, and I'm truly grateful for him confessing to me so that I felt less alone. Maybe that's what Stan is doing for you, or vice versa. In that case, I'm truly very sorry I acted so possessive and insane. I shouldn't have, and I understand if you never want to see me again. I am disgusted by my own actions, and I never thought that I would become the type of person who tries to hurt my love interest the way that they hurt me.

I'm home now. I'm sitting on the couch next to my mom, the Murphy show is on. I don't know why she likes this show, but it's some background noise to help me think over what I did. I don't like reflecting on it, only because I feel too guilty.

The longer I sit here and write, the more I think I should call you. I think I will. I hope you pick up.

Okay, I'm back. I tried calling you, but you didn't pick up, so I don't think you're home. I'm a little worried about that, I don't know where else you would be- actually, never mind. I should have known you would be with Stan.

I called Mike instead because he knows how to make everything feel better. No matter what the situation is, he knows how to fix it. I told him about what I called you without including too much detail, and he asked what you did that made me so angry. I couldn't tell him it's because you moved on, but I wanted to. I think Mike already knew, because he told me a story.

Mike told me about his family down in Georgia. He told me about how they visit during the holidays, and how it always ends up as a disaster.

His great uncle is madly in love with his grandmother. He said that back in the fifties, they were going steady with one another. Then, Mike's grandpa came and swooped up his brother's girlfriend. Mike said that his great uncle hated his brother for that, the two got in plenty of fist fights over his grandmother. Then, a month away from graduating high school, his great uncle ran away to Georgia to live with their auntie. As time went on and Mike's grandparents had kids, it became harder and harder for Mike's great uncle to stand seeing them during the holidays. As his anger grew, so did Mike's grandma's.

The story ended with the great uncle losing his one true love in the end because he couldn't accept that she had moved on. Mike's grandmother wanted friendship, but she couldn't stand to be around someone who put her husband through so much pain. So, she confronted her former lover, and basically told him to fuck off.

I asked Mike how this would help me at all.

He said, "Don't lose the one you love just because you can't accept him loving someone else."

I think that makes a lot of sense. Mike always does. I don't ask how he knows about my feelings, or if I'm just that obvious, but either way he is so incredibly smart for a homeschooled kid.

I think I will heed his advice.

I don't wanna lose you, Richie. Not now, not ever. If Stan is the place that your affections may rest, then I will try to put my feelings aside just to support whatever endeavors make you happy.

I just don't want to lose you.

Eddie.

Chapter Text

R.

I'm writing this in the cafeteria. It's been one day since our fight, and you aren't sitting with us today. Bill keeps asking if something happened, but Stan just shakes his head and gives me this sort of side-eye that makes me wonder if he knows. But you wouldn't tell him, would you?

Winter seems to be taking a toll on me. The snowstorms living within my head are icing over every single part of my brain, and it's just now occurring to me that you brought the fire that kept me warm. Now, there's an empty seat next to me, and I'm stuck with an abundance of food that I packed in my lunch for you.

I was thinking about you in second period today. I mean, I'm always thinking of you, but I was thinking... a lot about you. I was thinking about your sleek oil-spill eyes, your stretched canvas skin, even the paint splattered bruises on each protruding knuckle. I was thinking about your bathroom and how the cold tile felt beneath my feet, but more importantly, how your hands felt on my hips. How you looked up at me as I tended your wounds. How I looked beneath you as I got on my knees.

I was thinking about you so much that I forgot to take notes all throughout chem. Thankfully, Bill is going to let me come over and copy his after school, but I just don't want him asking what had me so distracted, because I really don't want to explain that I was too busy thinking about the night we met.

I love that night. That memory is held at a high level. I really, really love that night.

You were so nervous. So shy. It's hard to imagine you as the same boy I found sitting in that chair that night. You were timid and uncomfortable, nothing like your loud and vulgar personality. But you still appealed to me, something about your long fingers tapping out drum solos on the knees of your ripped jeans, or perhaps the wanderlust stars swirling in your teacup eyes. You looked bored, almost lost. You looked as if you were ready for adventure, but nobody in this shithole town would give it to you.

It is a bit uncharacteristic of me to approach strangers first, especially with this AIDs epidemic happening across the nation. But I saw you, recognized those moon owl eyes, and I remembered the way that your shoulder had aligned with my nose just so perfectly. That must have been fate calling for us, it must have. The second we collided in the pharmacy, I went and stood in the bathroom and tried to wipe my face clean. I couldn't understand why the red wasn't coming off my cheeks, but then it all made sense when I saw the infamous trashmouth walk into Ben's party-decorated basement.

You had a lack of adventure, and I wanted to try and be that. I know that I am just Eddie, the weakling, the runt of the group, the boy with as much medical issues as a stage 4 cancer patient, but I just wanted to try. The curve of your lips pulled me in, and I couldn't stay away. You were a bit of a forbidden fruit, my sweet peach nectarine.

I can't tell Bill any of this. He already knows I like you, I don't want him teasing me for just how much that admiration actually is. Even now, Stan keeps trying to peek over my shoulder to read these words about you, you're the boy who is now more focused on birds and Hebrew culture than aspirators and pharmacy trips.

Hold on, the bell just rang, so lunch is over. I'll finish this later. I hope you had a good lunch, wherever you ended up being. Hopefully soon you will forgive me and come back down to our table, because this seat is growing so very cold without you here to ignite the warmth.

Come flicker, my fire. You don't even have to be my twin flame, I just want to admire your glow from afar. Even if you're deadly to the touch.

Okay. Stan's telling me I'm going to be late. I'll finish this later.

Chapter Text

You,

I have made you cry.

I, Eddie Kaspbrak, have caused tears to fall from the most gorgeous creation to ever fall from Michelangelo's hands. I deserve the death penalty, I wish that I could turn myself in and be put on death row with no court hearing. This is the most criminal of crimes, the most morally wrong, the most lawfully evil, the most repulsive of decisions. I made you cry.

I don't think you know that I know, but you might. I don't know. I don't know anything anymore. I feel like I'm being drowned in a sensory deprivation tank, my whole world is falling apart around me and the void is just slowly consuming everything into a mass of blackness. Will has told me about sensory deprivation tanks, he has a friend who says they're terrifying. I think I'm going to drown in one, but rightfully so. After making such a beautiful creature cry, I deserve every ounce of liquid to fill my lungs.

I didn't mean it, Richie. I know saying it over and over again isn't going to change the fact that I said it, but I truly didn't mean any of the words that I said to you. This is eating me alive. I don't know what to do with myself knowing that I made you cry.

In case you don't remember this night, or maybe you don't recall shedding tears over my treason, I'll remind you.

After school, my palms itched with anxiety. I needed to see you, to apologize, or to at least just... just hear your voice. I needed to be in contact with you somehow, I felt like I was going insane. I told Bill all of this when I was at his house getting the chemistry notes, so he encouraged me to just call you and talk things through. Bill doesn't blame me for what I said, but... I don't know. I blame myself, and that's something I just can't shake from my head.

So I called you from Bill's phone. I have the Tozier's residence phone number memorized, and dialing those numbers felt like pressing tiny little elevator buttons that would direct me straight up into heaven. The phone rang only twice, and then I heard the most Earth-shattering sound to ever fall upon my ears.

I heard a sniffle, and I heard the tightness in your throat, and I heard the sob that had died down just seconds before you answered the phone, and I heard you absolutely break as you greeted the call. I didn't say anything, I was too paralyzed by the fact that I was here, with you, on the phone, listening to you cry. Nothing has ever hurt me that bad before, Richie. Not a single fucking thing.

My chest felt like it was going to collapse as soon as I heard you talk. I felt as if my lungs had been taken out of my body, and I desperately needed something to replace them. I fumbled for my aspirator, and as soon as I pressed the trigger to inhale, the line went dead. That's why I think you knew it was me, and it just fucking hurts to know that I'm the reason you cried.

I'm laying in bed writing this. Part of me hopes you'll crawl through my window and just joke it off with your infamous Richie Tozier smile and things will be okay. The shirt you gave me when I showered at your house is resting on my chest, but it doesn't smell like you anymore, and that breaks my heart. That breaks my fucking heart, Richie. There isn't even a spot of you still lingering in this room, and I've never felt more trapped in a prison than I do between these four walls.

I'm sorry for what I've done. I don't think that will ever fix things, but I'm sorry for what I've done. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.

I'm starting to cry, so that's why the ink is smearing a little. Sorry if these words are becoming too bleary to read, but I cannot contain all of this inside of me knowing that you're across town feeling this exact same way.

I'm sorry, Richie Tozier.

I'm sorry for coming into your life like a fucking hurricane and destroying every rose in your garden.

Apologies,
Me.

Chapter Text

R,

You were gone when I woke up.

This is the morning after we all slept at Bill's. Remember? Truth or dare?

This is the morning after I found out you kissed Stanley. This is the morning after I found out that you truly did replace me. This is the morning after I felt like complete fucking shit because the boy I am so very much in love with admitted that he has locked lips with my very own best friend.

I've known Stan since we were in preschool, Richie. I was mocked for being little, he was mocked for being Jewish. We bonded over our obscure lunches; mine being full of organic foods that wouldn't give me diseases, his being spreads of food items called Kosher. I didn't know what that meant, but neither did he. Stan didn't have a choice about being Jewish, just like I didn't have a choice about being small. We bonded quickly, and we stayed by each other's sides forever.

And you kissed him.

You kissed him and not me.

And you know what? That's okay. That's okay, Richie. You know why?

Because this is the morning after we spent all night cuddling. Is that the proper word? Cuddling? That's what Ben tells me him and Beverly do, so I think that's right. Unless cuddling is a euphemism for sex...? Oh, Christ.

Okay. I asked Mike. He said it's what I think it is, then laughed at me. He came downstairs to wake us all up, but I was already sitting up, writing in this journal the details of our touch-filled night.

I didn't think it would be easy to forgive you after finding out the information about Stan, but I just didn't want to be away from you anymore. I didn't care. You were hurting, and Stan stopped that hurting. I wish it would have been me, but I know from our phone call that I was the exact reason you were hurting. You needed him, you always need someone. I couldn't be there, you wouldn't let Beverly in, so it's okay that it was Stan. It's okay. I don't know how things turn out between us, or when you'll read this, but in case you don't hear it at any point; I forgive you. I do.

Bill and I played seven minutes in heaven last night. I hate that game, it's weird and puts too much pressure on everybody involved. I was sitting in that closet, thinking about how you were outside, moping and sulking on Mike's lap. I hated that. I felt my chest burn with anger, but I couldn't understand why. Bill sat and stared at me, his knees tucked up to his chest, and he quietly asked if things were okay with us. I shook my head. Then he asked with a moth-like voice; Are they ever going to be okay?

I didn't know that you had kissed Stan yet. I said maybe.

But it's the morning after, and they are. Things are okay. I'm going to make sure they're okay, because you're so fucking passive about everything. I could light you on fire and you would just let yourself burn, Richie.

I think I'm in love with you.

I think I fell in love with you a long time ago, but didn't know how to admit it to myself.

Well, this is me admitting it. I think I'm in love with you. In a romantic way. In the forever kind of way, the mixtape kind of way, the "it's gonna take a lot to drag me away from you" kind of way. I heard that song on the radio and only thought of you, so that must be love. That must be something.

I'm going to go brush my teeth now. I have to take my morning medication.

Yours,
Eds.

Chapter Text

R.T.

We went on our first date tonight. I'm finding it hard to write the words when I am still soaring on such a euphoric high, but we went on our first date tonight. You spent $23 on me. We danced.

I want to talk about us dancing, if that's alright. I'm not sure if you'll read this, or if I'll ever give it to you. I want to remember how it felt when we danced, but I want you to remember as well. Ill get to that in a moment.

For now, I want to back up a bit further and recall the conversation I had with Stanley on the phone. I called you and asked you to come over, and as I impatiently paced in the hallway, waiting for my mother to finally stagger to bed, I grew anxious with paranoid thoughts.

I wanted to kiss you tonight. That was why I called you over. I wanted to try kissing you goodnight, like real couples do. But then, I got so unbelievably scared. What if you don't like kissing me as much as you liked kissing Stan? If anybody is going to know what to do when it comes to kissing Tozier, it's gonna be Stanley. He has firsthand experience. So I called the Urises, asked for Stan, and I asked him what it was like. I wanted to know what you guys did. I felt like you two were on top of a huge oak tree, and I was stuck at the bottom, clawing at the bark encasing the trunk.

The conversation kind of went like this:

Me: Hey, Stan.

Stanley: Eddie, why are you calling so late? I was getting ready for bed.

Me: yeah, I know, I'm sorry. I just wanted to ask something kind of personal if that's okay?

Stanley: Of course. Go ahead.

Me: What all did you do with Richie? I'm not mad, it's okay, I'm just... curious, you know?

Stan: ...I'm not sure Richie would be comfortable with me telling you. I'm sure you can respect that.

Me: Oh, yeah, of course. Totally. I was just, um, god. Don't make fun of me for what I'm about to say.

Stan: Hey! Did you forget who you're talking to? I'm the level headed one of the group! I'm offended, Kaspbrak.

Me: okay, okay! Sorry. What I was going to say is that I was just thinking about, um-

I whispered this next part so that my mom couldn't hear it.

-giving Richie my first kiss tonight. I think the time is, like, right now.

Stan: Oh.

Me: Is that a bad idea? Should I not?

Stan: What? No, no, of course you should! Do you know how much that absolute ADHD headcase rants about you? It's all Eddie this and Eddie that.

Me, smiling: Really?

Stan: Really.

Me: Oh, groovy.

Stan: Richie's good at kissing, I guess. He's a bit needy. Like, once you start, he doesn't wanna stop. Does that help?

Me: Wait. What's that mean?

Stan: God, the amount of times he went in for second or third kisses was... I can't even count.

Me: ...How many times did you guys do it?

Stan: Its not like I remember off the top of my head.

Me: Try.

I was getting kind of mad at this point. I think Stanley noticed, because his next response was quick and short.

Stan: I don't know, Eddie. Why don't you try asking him? Listen, I've got to go. My parents will kill me if I'm not in bed soon. I'll see you at school tomorrow, okay?

Then he hung up, and I stood in the kitchen with my back against the fridge to cool off some of my heated skin. My grip around the receiver was tight, so I slowly hung the phone back on its hook and walked down the hall. Momma said goodnight to me, but my hands were shaking in anger, and I was afraid my voice would crack if I said anything back. I shut my door, maybe a little too hard, because my fish tank wobbled a bit on its stand.

You showed up shortly after that. I opened my window, saw your stupidly handsome face, and I just couldn't get the image of that handsome face locking lips with someone else.

I asked you how many times you guys kissed, and you got really quiet. The guilty kind of quiet. I've noticed that you can't really lie to me, Richie. You had the exact same look on your face when we were playing truth or dare. You resemble a hurt puppy, cornered and fearful, but I don't like the fact that I'm the predator hunting you. I'm not trying to. I just... I just want you to be honest.

Thirteen times, Richie.

An outrageous number. Double digits. Almost 14, which means almost 15, which means a kiss for every year that I've been alive. And on top of that, Stan said you went in for more. Once you started, you don't stop. Was it actually thirteen? Or is that just a number you told me to get me to let you inside? How many times have your lips belonged to someone else besides yourself?

I am scared that I won't compare to Stan. That's a lot of times to kiss somebody, and it's all I could think about as I stomped around my room like a child throwing a fit. What if my lips aren't as good? I don't know how kissing works, I'm not quite sure. I wish Bill and I would have fooled around during that game of 7 minutes in heaven just so that I can have some kind of experience. What if I mess it up? What if you kiss me and realize you actually like Stan? Everyone else in the losers' club is so experienced compared to me. I can't compete with thirteen kisses.

But you didn't seem to care about that. You told me none of those thirteen mattered. Not even the Henry Bowers kisses, or any other secret affairs you might have had prior to knowing me. You laid everything on the table and said it how it was, and then you told me none of them mattered. To you, I am the only one that matters.

You asked to take me on an adventure. I didn't know what this meant, I just knew it made my heart flutter in that fast tempo way that it always does whenever you get brave. I reluctantly said yes, but my mind was racing with thoughts of kissing you. I wanted it to happen tonight. Riding double on your bike, pressed against your spine, the curve of my chest interlocking with your puzzle piece vertebrae, my thighs graciously rubbing against yours as you pedaled faster, I wanted to kiss you. Downtown lights shone down on your skin, my windbreaker arms wrapped around your middle. We are a cave. Deep, and never ending.

Then, we danced. More specifically, we were bowling first, but the dancing came later. I'm not very good at bowling, all the balls are too heavy for me and my fingers don't fit in the holes quite right. But you're wonderful at it. Every time you throw a ball, you'll turn and look at me with this smug look, hold up the "rock and roll" sign with your hands, and stick your tongue out like you know you've made the strike without even having to watch. Which you did. Every game you won.

We danced after I got my first spare. You were so excited for me, you ran up onto the lane, grabbing me by the wrists and exclaiming loudly about how I'm on my way to becoming a professional.

I looked at you, all those cosmic neon lights kissing kaleidoscopes all over your skin, pointed lasers making your skin just as freckled as mine, and the black lights giving your eyes and teeth a radioactive glow. You are beautiful. You always will be. I can imagine growing old with you, and you will be the most handsome old guy. I just know it, I can tell by your soft serve smiles and state-connecting bridge of a jawline. Even if old age were to take my eyesight, I'd still find comfort in reading you like a Braille book. Your beauty kisses my fingertips whenever I brush my hand against the ghostly outskirts of your features.

The song was Fooled Around and Fell In Love by Elvis Bishop. I know it from my momma's record collection, it's one of the most romantic songs I've ever heard. And tonight, it was ours. Just ours. Nobody else in that bowling alley heard the words like we did, but maybe that's just how it felt.

It's so strange that the first person I were to fall in love with happened to be a boy. Not that it's a problem, no, of course not, just... I didn't expect it. And I still don't. I know I'm inexperienced and I don't have many "firsts" but I think the clandestine sense of it all is what adds to the aroma of love. To everyone else, we're just friends. Couple of boys. But to us... we live in a whole different world. We are the royalty of our own kingdom, one built for sharp jawlines and boys who kiss them.

I'll admit, I'm worried about our future. What are we to do? Live in hiding for the rest of our lives? That's not fair, no. I want to be able to kiss you in public just like boys and girls do. Why should the world get to smother our affection? Why do they get to choose whether we can love or not? Why don't we get to marry just like them? It's just... it's just love. Don't they see that? It's just like theirs, we are just like them. I don't want to be a freak, but it feels so good if you're a freak with me.

You heard the song come on, and you pointed up towards the ceiling as if to draw my attention to whatever speaker it was coming from. Your eyes lit up like flickering Christmas lights, your roasted chestnut hair curling around the sides of your face with the same delicacy of lace edging a Victorian dress. You came up, backed me up against the wall we were bowling next to, resting your forearm against the space next to my head. You tower over me, I hate how incredibly small I am. But in a way, I love it too, because I love feeling protected beneath your size.

"Wanna dance, Kaspbrak?" You asked me, holding your other hand out in an offer.

I felt hot with affection, hazy with love, and completely drunk off Tozier. I smiled up at you, felt my nose scrunch, and held my hand up past yours to brush some of that ruffled hair out of your face. My palm ghosted the outskirts of your face, cradling your hidden freckles and smooth marble cheeks. I can't tell if they flushed, or if the red hues we were soaking in made you look more cherryesque.

Then, I accepted your hand. I brought my nimble sewing needle fingers down to your hand, resting in the palm of yours and feeling those tiny wire-short sparks fizzle between our touch. As soon as my hand was in yours, you pulled me away from the wall and in towards you, situating your hand in the small curve where my waist blooms down into my hips.

And we danced. I don't know how to dance with other people, I've always just practiced alone in my room after mom's gone to bed. It wasn't that different, though. You made it easy. Our clumsy little feet struggled to find a pattern at first, and you were adorably watching them to avoid stepping on my toes. But once we fell into it, finally got the proper groove, you looked up at me and the neon strobes reflected off your glasses in a way that showed me how you would look if you were a beautiful abstract painting.

The whole song we moved slowly, delicate fox trots on bowling alley flooring, nobody else in the world watching but just the two of us. Every once in awhile, you would crack a grin and let out the tiniest laugh, and every single time I would wonder what it was that you were so gleeful over. I hope it was something good. I love to see you happy.

You took me home and we stood outside my bedroom window, my ankles freezing from the foot of snow that they were submerged in. You looked down at me, tilted my chin up with your thumb and forefinger, and I definitely thought you were going to show me what one of those thirteen times with Stan looked like.

But you said, "I'll never grow tired of this face of yours, Eds."

I tried looking away out of embarrassment, but your hand only turned my head back to face you. You looked at me, just looked, as if you were memorizing every little detail that my looks have to offer. After a few moments, you nodded with satisfaction, and let your hand drop away and allowed the cold wind to take its place. You didn't stay away for long, no, you never do. Richie Tozier may be a vulgar, obnoxious, jokester of a man, but Beverly was right. He is one of the most lonely people on earth.

So you stepped forward and knelt down a little to hug me, hooking your arms beneath mine and lifting me up to your height. My feet dangled above the snow, and I tried to keep my laughter quiet by burying my face into the side of your neck. You held on tight, a feeling I wanted to be embraced in forever, and your cheek pressed against mine.

"And I'll never grow tired of this," you sighed.

You helped me back up into my window, and I leaned out as I watched you walk around the corner of my house to where your bike was discarded in the frosty driveway. And that was it.

I'm going to bed now, but thank you for a first date. I hope that there's more to come, and I hope I can make you feel as special as you made me feel tonight. I want to give back as much as I can, because I know you give me everything.

Yours,
E.K.

Chapter Text

Riches,

Sorry for not writing. I forgot to. I was busy living in the moment a little, falling in love with you is all time consuming.

It's hard to write with a broken arm. We had our first kiss last night.

I don't think I'll write anymore, it seems a little pointless. Why keep track at this point, you know? I wrote because I was falling in love and I didn't know how else to cope with it.

Now I'm in love, entirely in love, and I'm not as scared. I want to spend more time building a future with you and less time writing about our past lives.

This might be my last journal entry. If it is, then I guess this is a goodbye. You have kept me warm through this winter. You have kept me loved.

Yours, yours, absolutely yours,
Eds.

Chapter Text

Richie.

They're taking you away today.

I can't think of any other words to write, I am so numb from all the crying I've done. Please don't forget me. Please.

I love you.

Please promise to write to me, I can't stand being apart.

Love,
Eddie.

ps. I'm in the court room now. You look so scared. I wish I could say more, but my mind won't really allow me to think about it for too long, though. I don't think it's properly sunk in that you're going away. If I think about it, I'll break. I have to be strong for you today. I won't cry when we say goodbye, I promise. You've always been my brave boy, so now it's my turn to be brave for you. But... I'm giving you this journal today. These words were once mine, and they now belong to you. Every single sentence, every letter, every entry, every dotted I and crossed T is yours.

I'm in love with you. I always will be.

Chapter Text

No matter how many times he reads, the words will never make sense.

They did at first, a long, long time ago when the feelings put on these pages were something that he could comprehend, something he understood, something he reciprocated.

But... things change. Years go by. Feelings fade.

Richie Tozier closes the worn out leather journal, his thumb tracing over the initials etched into the soft cover. The author of these confessions are the last thing on Richie's mind, especially when there's so much happening today.

"Richard!" Madame calls up the stairs, her voice as abrasive and anxiety-inducing as always. Her boom echoes throughout the house, the boys he shares a room with exchanging nervous glances with one another. "Come wait in the foyer, they're going to be here any minute now!"

Richie blinks a few more times, remembering exactly who is coming. He's excited, he'll admit. The stale air of the attic bedroom he's been stuffed in with four other boys doesn't exactly allow changes in facial expression, but those who have spent the past three years with Richie can read it in his stiff body language.

"You excited?" Tim asks, the first of the roommates to mention the big day.

Richie lifts his eyes, looking at the familiar thirteen year old through his cracked glasses. They've acquired more and more splinters in the lenses over the years, but Richie has learned to adapt. He's learned to adapt to everything, he didn't have any other choice.

"Sure," Richie shrugs, stuffing the journal into the front pocket of his backpack. There's a hole in the side, he's worried about water damage. All his belongings are inside this bag, if it were to be soaked, Rich would truly be left with nothing else.

"Come ooon, man. You're gettin' out of this hellhole!" Martin exclaims, coming over and slinging an arm around Richie's shoulders. He laughs loud enough to shake the loose floorboards of their cramped room, so Tim reaches over to give Martin the usual daily slap.

"Mhm," Richie hums, shrugging Martin's arm off of his body so that he can replace it with the bookbag.

"A family," Tim says dreamily.

Tim has been there the longest. Nobody really knows exactly when he arrived, nor does he. Richie's learned all their backstories over the course of three years, and Timmy's is objectively the saddest. Some time when he was little, he's not sure, his family had been the targets of a home invasion. His father was shot, his mother raped and killed, his siblings all slaughtered. Tim survived off of sheer dumb luck, the invaders not thinking to check the pantry for any stray children. He's been in Madame's home ever since.

Everyone else is pretty simple, though. Martin was a teenage pregnancy, and his mother didn't want to give up her social life by having a baby. James was taken from his parents after his mother suffered from a psychosis and simply couldn't take care of him or herself. In the far corner, the residential weirdo, is Twiggy. His real name is Daniel, but he's bone thin and freakishly long. Richie is thankful that his own growth spurts never caused him to get stuck with a nickname like that.

He looks at his brothers, the closest thing he's had to a family, but he doesn't... feel remorse. He doesn't feel anything. It's not his fault, any single one of them would be bouncing off the walls on their adoption day. The fact that Richie is so calm is suspicious on its own.

"Well, you better get going," James says from his bed. He's sat on it, watching Richie intently. "Can I have your spot at the dinner table? I want to sit next to Cindy."

Richie shrugs, looking down at the floor. "Go for it, kid."

A lot of things separated Richie from the rest of his roommates. For example, when they would all stay up and talk about the girls downstairs past lights out, discussing which one is the prettiest and who kissed who out in the garden, Richie would lie awake and tap the beats to his favorite songs against the wooden headboard attached to his bed. He was aware he was the social outcast of the attic room, and even the whole house. But... that's partially his fault. Richie never attempted to make friends, never bonded over childhood trauma the way they all seemed to. Some of the more empathetic girls tried to get him to let his walls down, but there were no successes. Richie guarded himself heavily. The only things he let others know were of his hometown and when his birthday is. Those were both mandatory facts that he had to share on his arrival day.

His arrival day. What a mess. Richie thinks of it with no fondness at all, the memory of him shaking and sobbing on the front porch as he greeted his new fate. Now... he's departing. He's finally getting out.

Richie looks up at the one ghost haunting this room, the singular person who hasn't interjected about anything happening around them. Daniel sits against the wall, staring out the window the way he does when new cars arrive. If there's a car here, then that means...

"Bye, Twigs," Richie speaks up.

Daniel looks up at Richie with the resentment in his eyes of a kid who is eternally jealous of anybody on their departure day. There's not much that Richie can do about that.

Richie looks around at all of them one last time, the room, and his bed. His little tiny prison. A purgatory where he has paid the price for his sins.

Fucking farewell.

Richie leaves without saying anything else, but that's always been in his nature. He's the quiet one, it's a miracle that he got adopted before anybody else.

Richie bounds down the stairwell, the planks creaking beneath his feet as he moves quickly. If he knows anything, he knows that Madame will not tolerate for him to be late to any event, even if it's his own funeral. The woman takes punctuality more seriously than the CIA does bomb threats.

He locks gaze with the homely blue eyes waiting for him in the foyer, and the last remaining three steps seem to fall out from underneath him as he comes clambering down the staircase. When blue meets brown, things begin to make sense again.

Bill Denbrough pushes his father aside to reach Richie, his arms wrapping around the lanky center of the brother he hasn't seen in years. He wasn't sure if Richie would remember him, but the way Tozier's shaking arms are slipping around Bill as well, says that he could never possibly forget.

"Oh my god, you are so tall," Bill mumbles, his chin just barely tucked over Richie's shoulder. "When did this happen? When'd you get so tall?"

Richie pulls away to look at the face he has only seen in his dreams for the past three years. His skin burns with each place that Bill touches, his heart trying to remember how it feels to touch another human. He feels warm in all the places that Bill's fingertips go, and right now, they're rubbing up and down Richie's arms in a comforting manner.

Bill has certainly grown up, he's not the same geeky boy that Richie only saw in his dreams. Now, his choppy red hair is less in his face, cleanly pushed back to maintain a healthy, neat look to him. The hair frames his face well, showcasing an extremely sharp jawline that was hidden beneath baby fat all those years ago. His mouth is the same, but the words coming from it are not. Stuttering Bill is no longer stuttering at all, and Richie thinks it's almost as surprising as how deep his own voice has gotten.

"Not that tall," Richie mumbles, his voice taking Bill by surprise. Richie looks around anxiously, almost scared of Madame coming to reprimand him for engaging in physical contact. His hand remains clenching Bill's sleeve, as if he's scared to let go.

"Do your parents, like, need to..." Richie trails off, mumbling under his breath. Bill leans in a little to hear him, confused as to where that trashmouth went. "Like, sign paperwork?"

"Dad already did most of that," Bill grins, his hand holding onto Richie's sleeve just the same. He feels overfilled with tremendous amounts of joy, his fingers trembling by his sides. His eyes dart all over Richie's face, his gaze consuming and engulfing all of the tall one's features. "All we have to do now is sign the release form, or whatever, and then you're an official Denbrough."

Richie nods, staring over at Zack and Sharon. The two watch the boys fondly, no longer seeming like the negligent parents they were the last time Richie encountered them. Him and Bill bonded over their lack of involvement from parental figures, and now, he's becoming part of their mending family.

Bill's eyes sparkle the way they did in old family photos. Richie isn't replacing Georgie, no, he's just... their family is growing. That's all.

"Anything in the world," Zack whispers to Sharon. "Kid could've had anything in the world for his birthday, and he brought us the adoption papers of a kid clear down in Pennsylvania."

"He gets that stubbornness from your side of the family," Sharon whispers back, watching the two boys interact nervously and hesitantly, but mostly excitedly.

"I think you mean intellect," Zack chuckles. "But still... you gotta admire his dedication. He didn't let this kid go. Shit, wish I had friends like that when I was in high school."

"You did," Sharon reminds her husband as the two turn back to the returning maiden. Madame Tusoe is an intimidating woman, she is the equivalent of talking to a cop while stoned in the backseat of your buddy's car.

Richie stiffens when he sees Madame coming down the hall, his hands dropping from Bill's side as his eyes cast downwards. Bill watches in confusion, focusing on the way that Richie begins to hold his breath.

"Come on, let's go wait in the car," Bill says, tugging on Richie's jacket sleeve. He looks down and notices that the way Rich's skinny wrists extend past the cuffs, even his pants look too small for him. Richie gives him a look of alarm, pure fear written on his face. What happened? This boy used to be so confident, so vulgar. Bill turns towards his parents, the two talking with the strict woman apprehensively. "That's cool, right dad? Can we go out to the car?"

"Keep it warm, big guy," Zack Denbrough tosses the keys to their Pontiac over his shoulder, Bill skillfully catching them midair.

"Come on, we got blankets in the back so that we can sleep on the ride home," Bill urges him eagerly, tugging and yanking on Richie's sleeve.

The tall one nervously glances backwards towards Madame Tusoe, who seems to be giving him one of her most foul stares. He looks back towards Bill, though, and he sees a bit of that childish gleam in his long term friend's eyes.

So, Bill pushes open the creaky front door, braving against the harsh January storm that the two are walking into. Richie doesn't mind the flurries, but he does mind the cold. And who it reminds him of.

Bill talks as they walk through the heavy snow, but all Richie can think about is who is going to have to shovel the driveway after dinner this evening. All of his chores were surrendered when he was told that a family from Maine was adopting him, so he's curious as to who got stuck with the task of laying down salt on the concrete leading up to the rusted mailbox.

Bill unlocks the back of the family car, holding it open for Richie to get in. The car's a horrible yellow, the bottom of it rusting out and frosted over from the nuclear winter they're experiencing. Richie gets in, Bill leaning forward between the two seats to stick the keys in the ignition and start the car.

"So," Bill says, sitting down. He begins to distribute the blankets, giving Richie the nice thick one. "I can't believe you're here. This is crazy. I've been waiting for this moment for so long, man. You're finally coming home!"

Richie stares at his shaking hands, the entire situation drowning him in anxiety. When Richie was told that the Denbrough's would be adopting him, he simply nodded. When he was told they were a family from Maine, his whole world trembled.

Richie didn't think that he would have to face Derry ever again. The whole town's got a curse on it, and Richie assumed that he narrowly dodged that bullet before it could incarcerate him. But... here he is, sitting next to a major facet of his past, and he is facing Derry head on.

Richie looks upwards towards Bill Denbrough, the kid who held his hand while the two jumped off a cliff into the nasty, muddy waters they'd swim in on Saturday afternoons. What was it called? Richie can't remember, his memories blocked out for most of his life. He remembers the good times, mostly. Or... he tries to, at least.

It's just Bill. Stuttering Bill.

"What the fuck happened to your stutter?" Richie asks, his voice tender and gentle but still sharp along the edges as he forces a smirk.

"Oh," Bill laughs, his eyes crinkling. He tries to get comfortable, turning against his seatbelt to look at the missing piece of his life. There's been a Richie shaped hole in Derry ever since they were 15, and Bill finally gets to bring that piece home. "I took speech therapy. She taught me French, and then speaking became a bit easier after that. Bienvenue domicile, Tozier."

"That works?" Richie asks. The car begins to warm up, and the boys' hot breath makes the windows fog easily. They're in a little cloud of their own worlds, and that's okay. Richie doesn't want to see the orphanage outside, he doesn't want to look at the broken windows and tattered panels ever again. He's spent way too long memorizing which floorboards he needs to avoid stepping on, some more talkative than others.

"Totally. I'm talkin' just fine, aren't I?" Bill laughs. Lighthearted and clean, lacking any of the pain and loss that it held when him and Rich would have their private conversations on the cusp of puberty.

Richie wishes he could say the same for himself.

"What..." Richie says slowly, picking at the threads coming undone from his jeans. The fabric is torn around the knees, but he doesn't mind. His fashion has gone from obnoxious disco ball to a more toned down, muted grunge. Richie has recently gotten into a band called Nirvana and he sort of likes the fact that all his clothes look so worn. "What... has happened... since I've been gone?"

Bill's smile falters for the first time since they've been reunited. He knows Richie would have asked this question eventually, he just never figured out what to tell him in the case that the boy did ask.

"Things are good," Bill says, but it's clearly forced. "Beverly's really excited to see you. You know how she is. That girl's insane, I tell ya. She's only gotten crazier over the years."

Richie smiles just fairly, a flicker of an ember glowing in his chest as he recalls the fires that Beverly Marsh once built in him. He nods, looking up at Bill encouragingly. Maybe Derry won't be so bad this time, maybe he can get through it with his old family and be okay. The family he made, not the one he was born with.

"They know I'm coming?" Richie asks delicately. His heart begins to quicken, the bassline of an uptempo rock song.

Bill looks away. There's something he's hiding, and Richie can sense it. Bill Denbrough is and always will be an older brother, it's in his nature to hide and protect their siblings from upsetting news.

"Bev does, yeah," he tries to avoid the question.

Richie feels tense again, the idea of everyone's surprised faces filling him with anguish. What if they don't want him back? What if they kick and spit in his face? What if they despise him?

Big, brown eyes flash through his mind.

What if they don't love him?

Neat cursive letters lining a page take the place of those Bambi stares.

What if they never did?

The Denbrough's adopting Richie was out of the blue. In fact, it was so out of the blue, that Richie hasn't really let it sink in that he is sitting beside one of his childhood best friend. He's thought about Derry here and there, the friends that he had, the hearts that he broke, but after the first year or so... it all sort of... faded away.

Now, like a bandaid being pulled back to reveal a wound that never truly healed, he is heading straight into the massive abyss that is the oblivion. He has no idea what is waiting for him back in Derry, or if he'll even make it back. He's afraid that if he talks too much, or breathes too loudly, or blinks too often, the Denbrough's will turn around and return Richie to where he came from. He can't do that. He can't drown in all the blue that surrounded his glum life.

Out of the blue, and into the black. Two separate parts of his life that he has kept apart so very boldly, now blurring together and fading at the same time. Yes, out of the blue and into the black is the only way to describe it.

Richie thinks about the void that is waiting to swallow him whole, how he is standing right at the edge of that thin line. Will he jump? Will he take the risk? Will he allow the abyss to swallow him whole?

Like when they were fifteen, Bill's soft hand slowly moves over to hover above Richie's. He's hesitant, unsure if the other male will be as comfortable with contact as he once was. But once Richie looks down and sees the hand above his, he slowly just turns it over until his palm is facing up. Bill takes this as all the permission that he needs, threading their fingers together to banish out any of the remaining cold haunting Richie's body. It's a warmth he can't remember, but still associates with the harsh impact of landing in a ravine. Bill's hand feels like swallowing lake water, spitting it out towards your best friends, and the warm rays giving his shoulders a terrible sunburn. Fifteen was... he can't remember. It's all surrounded by the black.

Richie's toes hang over the edge of the wormhole, looking down into the onyx nothingness.

"Hey, Bill," Richie speaks up. His palm fits against Bill's nicely, reminding Richie what it feels like to be cozily loved. "Happy Birthday, by the way."

And Richie jumps.

Chapter Text

Richie stands in the center of his bedroom, looking around at all the faint lines on the bedroom walls where picture frames once were. A dust has settled in this room, a dust as fine as cremated ashes.

Richie had originally thought that he was going to be sleeping on a couch, or maybe down in the basement, but Zack said that a year or two back the basement had flooded and made it inhabitable. The carpets has been torn up, the wood paneling stripped from the walls, the furniture taken to the Goodwill. All that remains down there are the trapped memories of a truth or dare game played between a bunch of fifteen year olds a long, long time ago.

Richie's already unpacked, there wasn't much to unpack, really. He has four shirts, two pairs of pants, and just the one jacket currently hugging his body. Sharon was a little disappointed that the family pack of hangers she bought in anticipation of having another teenage boy fill up the closet were only going to waste, so she promised to take the boys up to Bangor this weekend for new clothes.

"Hey, Richie, I'm goin' down to the parlor to get some pizza, you wanna come with?" Bill announces his presence, leaning in through the open doorway.

Richie jumps a little, his heart easy to scare these days. He turns, seeing Bill all dressed in scarves and gloves, his blue eyes blinking patiently.

"The parlor?" Richie asks, his voice as soft as the gentle snow pirouetting to the ground outside.

"Yeah," Bill grins. "They got a TV set up and play MTV nonstop. It's pretty rad."

"Um..." Richie looks around, nervous. His bedroom is the shell of Georgie, and he feels trapped in this haunting. Even so... Richie knows he has to face Derry eventually, he can't hide in this tomb forever. "Okay. Can I have a minute?"

"Sure thing, buddy," Bill Denbrough has an impossible smile. He is the caring leader, the understanding one. He is nothing like the harsh dictatorship that Richie's been living under for years.

Bill shuts the door behind him, and Richie lets out a trembling breath as soon as he's alone. He doesn't realize how tense he is until he finally relaxes, his muscles groaning and hurting in a symphony of pain. He looks around, the empty room lacking any other beds, and he realizes that he is entirely alone in this room. Nobody to watch him, nobody to prevent him from doing all the bad things that he thinks about. Absolute freedom.

Richie picks up one of the pillows off the bed, wrapping his arms around it and burrowing his face into the cushion. He sits on the edge of the foamy bed, his heart racing as he bends over to hide his face even more so. With the pillow smothering him, Richie lets the scream trapped inside his throat escape through the tight windpipes that have been blocked off for years.

He feels slightly liberated, a rush of relief washing over him in place of the pressure that he was once feeling. With the shackles removed from his wrists, he stands back to his feet and moves slowly across the creaky floorboards. Each time a the floor groans, Richie pauses, momentary fear flooding through his system. Then, coursing in just as fast as terror did, he feels the relief of remembering he's not at the orphanage anymore. He doesn't have to be quiet.

Bill is in his room, right across the hall from Georgie's- now Richie's. His door's left open, leaving Richie to see the way his new brother is fidgeting with his hair in the mirror. Bill has acquired a different style over the past few years, he's gone from knit sweaters and button ups to tattered shirts and neon windbreakers. He looks like he tries very hard to dress the way Richie used to, and Rich must say, the boy is pulling it off far better than he ever did.

Richie hovers in the doorway uneasily, his knuckles floating above the wooden doorframe like he's afraid to knock. Overcoming that fear, he quietly taps against the door, earning the attention of his friend.

"Oh, hey," Bill grins. "You ready?"

Richie nods, shifting on his feet a little weakly. He's scared of throwing himself right back into Derry, but he's gotta do it eventually, right? No point in delaying the inevitable. Besides, he doesn't want to be alone. Not now... not in this house.

The two boys clamber down the stairs, Bill more clumsy than Richie's precise foot steps. As soon as they're in the foyer, Bill grabs for the keys hanging off the hook and yells out.

"Mom! Dad! Richie and I are going to the parlor!"

Richie's eyes widen, unable to believe that Bill raised his voice like that. His heartbeat quickens, rapidly raising his blood pressure as he starts to imagine the punishments they'll receive for speaking out of turn like that.

Instead, however, Zack shouts back from his recliner "Be back by curfew, you know the police are cracking down on it."

Richie physically exhales, his trembles coming to a stop as Bill begins to unlock the front door. As the two step out, Richie can hear Sharon say "You boys have fun!"

"You drive?" Richie asks, approaching the family car alongside Bill.

"No, I'm just carrying these keys for fun," Bill scoffs, a smile on his face. "I'm eighteen, dork. Of course I can drive."

"Oh," Richie shakes his head, feeling stupid. He punches the side of his leg three times, takes a deep breath, and tries again. "Sorry."

"For what?" Bill asks, and then gets into the car.

Richie follows, carefully buckling into the passenger seat of the car they just spent hours in the back of. The drive back to Maine was not pretty, but it was nice to leave Philadelphia behind.

"There's some tapes in the glovebox if you wanna find somethin'," Bill explains, turned around so he can safely back out of the driveway. "Mom hates it, but dad loves jamming out to Metallica. He's got good taste for an old man, haha."

Richie slowly, cautiously opens the glovebox. He hasn't had much access to music at all over the past few years, the only time he got to listen to the radio is when he was out working on the yard outside the orphanage. The neighbors next door would sit on their porch with a boom box and ask the boys what station they would want to listen to. Most of the time, his friends would all want to listen to the baseball game. Philadelphia is obsessed with sports. But... on a few occasions, they would single out the quiet one, and they'd ask Richie what he wanted to listen to. To which he would respond, with a wavering voice, "the rock station." This is how he discovered Nirvana. Three times a week during summer months, Richie would go out to the garden and pull weeds until his hands were sore and fingernails were dirty. He didn't mind, he got to discover a new reason to love Kurt Cobain each time he heard the man's distinguishable voice.

There's no Nirvana tapes, but Richie finds a Bon Jovi tape that has good songs on it, so he slides it into the dashboard and cautiously watches to see if Bill approves or not. (He does.)

The parlor feels almost... surreal. They tore down the stained glass wall that was separating the kitchen from the dining area, instead putting in a swinging doorway for the waitresses to walk to and fro. The jukebox remains, but it's old and barely functional anymore. As they walk in, Richie watches someone smack the top of it in order to get their song to start playing. He knows the song, he recognizes it as Keep On Loving You by REO Speedwagon. Teenagers litter the bar stools, couples sharing milkshakes and rowdy boys throwing fries at the waitresses walking by. The parlor has become the hangout spot it seems, and Richie certainly wasn't expecting to see so many people his age in one area.

Richie brings his attention back to following Bill, but as soon as his head is turned, he's met with a mess of orange curls and a smothering attack. He panics, locks his arms by his side, squeezing his eyes shut in preparation for whatever he's about to experience. However, once it registers in his mind that he's being hugged, he only panics further by pushing the body away from him in a fleeting fit of claustrophobia.

He opens his eyes, and brown meets blue. More specifically, the exact shade of blue that glows from the sky above on spring days, where the horizon is lacking any grey clouds, only providing warmth and light from the sun above. The kind of blue that flowers bloom for, and that oceans drown in.

Her hair is different; it's down to her shoulders now. Her freckles are a bit faded, but her lip is busted open. Richie feels his throat tighten and he tries to find Bill in the parlor, his vision is getting dark and spotty.

"Oh, God, I think I scared him," she says. Even her voice is different. It's... fuller. Less nasal. Her lips don't suffocate each syllable anymore, she's grown into her lungs.

"Good job, Beaver," Bill punches back, pulling the girl away from grasping at Richie. He smiles at her, and that's one thing Richie is sure will never change. The way he looks at her will stay that way for the rest of their lives. "Told you not to go and freak him out, you psychopath."

"I couldn't help it!" She pouts, frowning up at Bill with her bottom lip jutting out. Bill leans down and presses his mouth right to hers, throwing Richie into another whirl of confusion.

Richie comes to his senses, rubbing his eyes behind his glasses as he takes slow, steady breaths. When he looks back up, Bill's arm is wrapping around Beverly's waist. They're both looking at Richie expectantly, so the boy looks behind him to see if the president has walked in or something. When he realizes they're looking at him, he grows anxious.

"Hi," Richie speaks up. His voice sounds timid, doing the exact opposite of what Bev's did. Where she grew, he shrank. Richie is just a pint sized version of the man he used to be, if he was ever a man at all.

"Hey, weirdo," she teases, "You forget how to fuckin' act like a human? You're, like, totally being an alien right now."

Richie presses his mouth shut and looks to the floor, but he doesn't miss the words that the two exchange right in front of him.

Bill says in a quiet tone, barely audible beneath the chorus spilling out of the jukebox, a simple "Dude, chill out. He just got here, he's a little spaced out."

"Yeah, but he's not a stranger, Bill."

"Just go easy on him, alright? Let the poor kid adjust."

"Whatever. You're a freakazoid."

"Do you want to go sit down?" Bill says, and it takes Richie's brain a moment to register that the question was directed towards him.

He glances up, blinking wide eyes behind his glasses, saying "Oh. Okay."

His eyes flicker over to Beverly for a second, who is now changing her warm, inviting smile to a confused, wary one. Her eyes look Richie up and down, as if she's trying to identify who exactly is standing there. She doesn't know who Bill brought back, but she knows for sure that it is not the boy who was once her best friend.

"I'm gonna go order," Beverly says slowly, backing away from the two. Her combat boots scrape against the linoleum tile, and then she turns on her heel so quickly that her dress flares out around her.

Bill takes this moment to jerk his head in the direction of a back booth, Richie being more than eager to go hide in seclusion. He's overwhelmed, he'll admit. He hasn't even taken notice of the other customers, too focused on getting away from the only fire burning in the middle of winter.

"She's a lot, sorry," Bill laughs. He sits across from Richie, dragging the sugar packets out and pushing them towards Richie's fidgeting hands. The boy is thankful to have something to distract him, he starts organizing them by color just to keep his hands busy. "I was trying to ease you into things before we go back to school."

"School," Richie repeats.

"Yeah, yeah. We got all your credits transferred from your old school, so you can graduate with the rest of us in May. Only a few more months, man!" Bill smiles.

Richie nods, his eyes anxiously following the person who walks by them towards the bathroom. Once they're gone, Richie lets out a deep breath and relaxes his tense shoulders.

"You gotta ease up," Bill says quietly. "I know it's... hard... to adjust... but nobody is out to hurt you. Promise."

Richie looks up, confused by those words. Nobody is going to hurt him? ...Promise?

"Okay," Richie says quietly, he isn't one to be swayed easily, but he knows Bill Denbrough. He knows that Bill is the most genuine person in this town. He knows that if Bill says there's nothing to be afraid of, he's probably right. "Sorry."

"Stop apologizing," Bill says, holding up a finger when Richie opens his mouth. Richie swallows his "sorry" with embarrassment, so Bill speaks up again. "Sorry for not telling you that Bev would be here. She wanted it to be a surprise... you know how she is."

Richie glances over to where the girl is standing in line. Does he know how she is...? The two make eye contact, to which she crosses her eyes and sticks her tongue out at Richie. When Richie forces a smile, she puts up a middle finger and sticks it up her nose. It's a classic thing that he would have laughed at years ago, but he's changed too much since then.

"You're, uh, dating?" Richie looks back to Bill.

"Oh! Yeah," Bill nods. "Crazy, right? I told myself, give it up, Denbrough. She'll never want you. And then one day... she did. Bonkers."

"What about..." Richie trails off, his confusion deepening. He doesn't know if it's insensitive to ask about Beverly's apparent ex, he's unsure about where the boundaries are. So, he closes his mouth, and just returns to sorting sugar packets.

"Ben?" Bill says anyway. He shrugs, unbothered by the topic. "It kinda got weird once the group drifted apart, but he's still trottin' around. Him and Stan are in A/V club together, they hang out a lot. I suppose he's good. He was our star quarterback this season. What a joke." The last sentences are accented with a flare of sarcasm, Bill mockingly waving his hands to replicate the fame that Ben Hanscom has accumulated ever since he joined the football team.

"Drifted... apart?" Richie asks, his mind whirling. The losers club, gone? They drifted apart? His... His family?

"Yeah..." Bill trails off, brushing crumbs off the table. He doesn't say much more, mostly because Beverly approaches the table and falls into the booth next to Bill. She's holding a stack of plates, balancing two milkshakes in her other hand.

"Feast, my boys," she giggles, dividing the plates to their respective owners. Bill got cheese pizza, and Richie looks down at his own plate. In all honesty, he's not sure he can eat after the meal that Sharon stuffed in him that night, but Beverly still remembers his favorite pizza after all this time. It would be rude not to eat.

"I was just catching Rich up on the talk of the town," Bill explains, his mouth already full. He gestures for her to take over, which she clearly has no problems doing so.

"Oh, God. Yeah, some shit's happened, dude," she flips hair over her shoulder. "God, where do I begin?"

Richie has a lot of questions. Why did you and Ben break up? Why aren't the losers friends anymore? What's the busted lip from? Where's your dad? Where are my parents? Why are you dating Bill? How's Eddie? Does he miss me? Does he still love me? Did he ever?

Richie knows that nobody could love him. The thought of someone still caring seems absurd.

"Bill says..." Richie pauses between words to breathe, his thoughts running faster than he can process. "That... you guys don't hang out... with the others..."

"Oh, shit, yeah. Not really," Bev looks over at Bill. "I hadn't even thought of that. It's been so long since-"

Bill elbows her in the side, cutting the girl off before something stupid can fall from her mouth. She shoots him a glare and elbows him right back, causing the boy to begin choking on his pizza.

"Since what?" Richie asks, feeling a little brave. It's clear he's not meant to know, but dread fills all the little cracks of his surface, and he feels nothing but trepidation in the air as his imagination fills in the blanks to create gruesome scenarios.

"Nothing, really," Beverly shakes her head. "Don't even worry about it. We just don't hang out much, that's all."

And Richie feels guilt hit him hard. He poked a subject too hard, and now they're mad at him for being annoying. He can't punch himself in front of them so blatantly, so he settles on digging his nails right into the skin between his thumb and forefinger. He pinches until he feels the skin break, then pulls away to bunch up a napkin and clench it against the wound.

"Okay," he says softly, looking down at the food he doesn't not deserve. He doesn't even have money to pay her back, he's now in debt to someone who hates him.

"I'm sure you don't wanna talk about living in an orphanage," Beverly then says. "Probably sucked, huh. Probably sucked balls."

"Gross, dude," Bill scoffs, elbowing her again. This time, it results in them breaking out into a fist fight, the two gently roughhousing in a weird way that would suggest their relationship is more on par with siblinghood rather than lovers.

The bell above the door chimes, Richie's sensitive ears pick up on the noise quickly. He drags his eyes away from the two, now looking over to the figure entering.

The male is looking down, shaking a blizzard's worth of snowflakes from his feathered hair. There's a tight red coat adorning the body, and as he begins to slip his mittens off, he lifts his head up to scan the parlor.

Their eyes meet, and the world closes in on itself.

He's taller. A little thinner. More freckles, less baby fat, more carved out cheeks. Even from across the room Richie can identify those glowing church bells that live within his eyes. His nose is flushed pink, matching the tips of his ears. Blistered from the cold. His skin looks dewy and mature, unlike the texture of tears that streaked those cheeks the last time that Richie saw them.

Richie stands up, not breaking eye contact at all. Tunnel vision blacks out anything else in the room besides this person, and he needs to run before that person can register who is staring at him. He says in a distant, disembodied voice, "I'm gonna go to the bathroom."

Richie stumbles back towards the restrooms, pushing the doors open in an attempt to escape. He knew Derry would catch up with him, he didn't expect it to get thrown in his face like that.

Richie catches himself on the sink, balancing himself out from his stumbling weak legs. He feels nauseous with nostalgia, his chest clogged with unidentifiable emotions. His hand is still bleeding, and Richie turns the faucet on to the hottest setting it will allow. It's still not hot enough.

His hands begin to turn red when the bathroom door opens again. Richie tries not to look, if he's learned anything, it is to mind his own business and speak only when spoken to. He continues to scrub at his hands, the skin not stinging harsh enough.

"Oh my god," he hears. A soft, annoyed voice. He looks up in the mirror, seeing his past manifesting behind him in the form of a very, very pissed off teenager. "It's you."

Richie slowly turns around, his hands dripping water droplets on the tile as he confronts the boy. He looks just the same, but so different. Where Beverly's freckles have faded, his have spread. His hair has more curl to it, but that could be the moisture it's holding from the snow. His eyebrows are furrowed, resembling the loaded gun that Richie feels he has stared down the barrel of far too many times. A dark grey scarf is hidden inside his red coat, but the jeans wrapping his legs are tight and narrow around the ankles. He resembles a fire that Beverly will never be able to burn as bright as, no matter how many fuses she lights.

"It's really you," he breathes out, his words sound almost like they could be mistaken for a statement of joy, but the inflections are coated in venom. The fluorescent lights above are harsh on their appearances, showing all of the hurt and betrayal etched into the marble features of Eddie Kaspbrak's face.

Richie looks away, unable to find the courage to say anything. He can't speak, because if he does, he'll only say the wrong thing. His face hurts, his eyes wilting like the petals of a dying flower. All of the emotions he has ignored for three years.. coming for him in the blink of an eye.

When Richie looks back over at Eddie, the smaller one is fixated on Richie's hands. Still wet from the scalding water running behind him, Richie looks down at his knuckles, seeing the horizontal scars bubbled over. His hands are tattered, not from self mutilation, but it sure does look that way. He moves his hands behind his back, and this seems to get Eddie to snap out of it.

All at once, like a hurricane dissipating into thin air, Eddie turns and pushes the bathroom door open, leaving without another word. All of the air in the room follows, leaving Richie in a vacuum seal of unbreathable space, no oxygen tank thrown to him even out of pity.

He waits. He counts to ten. He takes a deep breath in, as much as his lungs will allow, and he shuts the water faucet off. Richie dries his hands on his pants, then counts to twenty. Once he's reached fifty, he exits the bathroom in the wake of destruction, following the path of the tiny tornado.

When Richie sits down, Bill and Beverly are turned to watch a figure cross the restaurant. The door chimes again, announcing that a customer has exited.

"Bowers," Bill states, sitting forward again. He looks at Richie, notices that somethings wrong, and tries to identify it instantly. Nothing physical. "Dude just got up and started running out of the parlor after someone. Now if anyone's a freakazoid, it's that guy."

"Yeah. Talk about psychopath," Bev scoffs, leaning forward on the table.

"If Bowers was here, that means-" Bill cuts himself short, his eyes widening as he looks away from Richie to scan the room.

"Oh, shit," Beverly realizes this too. Richie feels queasy with his near death experience, and all this talk of Henry Bowers is not helping either. Beverly just stiffens the blow by asking, "Did you see Eddie?"

Richie looks up in alarm. He resembles a deer caught in headlights, guilt scripted on his face. Bill nods, identifying the problem.

"What? Why?" Richie asks, paranoid thoughts racing through his mind. Is it obvious? Did Eddie say something to them when he walked by? Are they all going to turn on Richie?

"The little weirdos never go anywhere without each other," Beverly shakes her head, sipping from her milkshake casually. It seems she has forgotten the history of Richie Tozier's love life, something he has tried to do, and clearly failed.

"...What?" Richie inquires. He feels lightheaded, unable to comprehend the combination of those two people in his mind.

Henry and Eddie? Henry and Eddie? It doesn't seem real. It can't be real. No, Richie won't accept it. It's unnatural, it's... it's downright unfathomable.

Bill is more apprehensive to approach this topic, much slower and careful than Beverly was, his eyes darting back and forth as he tries to translate words into French within his mind so that he doesn't stutter during any part of this next sentence.

"A lot has changed while you were gone, Richie..." he speaks slowly, his eyes focused and concerned. "This isn't the same town that it used to be."

Chapter Text

Richie stands in front of the mirror in discomfort, shifting his thighs around to feel less uncomfortable in the new jeans he's wearing. Sharon held up her promise on buying the boys new clothes, and now Richie has a closet full of clothing articles that he never thought he'd have the money to buy. He tried to convince Mrs. Denbrough that she didn't have to go through so much trouble, but she simply explained that if he was going to be living beneath their roof, he would have to accept that they would be treating him as one of their own. She thinks it's just simply unacceptable that Richie was still wearing jeans that were bought four growth spurts ago.

But these jeans are stiff, they're new, and they're itchy. They don't have any holes in the knees, and they make Richie's ankles look swollen.

There's a knock on the door, followed by Bill's voice "Hey, Rich? You ready to go?"

"Uhh," Richie trails off, his face squished with discomfort. The backpack hangs off of his shoulders, empty and waiting to be filled with textbooks. He's nervous about the curriculum, what if it's different than what he was learning in Pennsylvania? What if he doesn't understand? What if he fails, and gets held back another year?

The door opens just a bit, and Bill pokes his head in to see what the hold up is. When he sees Richie awkwardly standing in the center of the room, he lets out a little chuckle and enters all the way.

"C'mon, doofus. Bev's outside," Bill chuckles.

"Um," Richie mumbles, looking down towards the floor. He's got new shoes, converse that aren't dirty. They're new and shiny, and they kind of hurt his feet. But not in the way his old ones did. These ones actually fit. Richie looks back up at Bill, and he simply points downwards.

"What, your shoes? Your shoes are fine, man," Bill shrugs.

Richie shakes his head, patting the side of his legs to indicate he's referring to his jeans. Then, he points to his ankles again, looking at Bill desperately.

"Oh," Bill says. He takes a few steps forward, kneeling down on the floor and grabbing Richie by the ankle.

Richie's heart seizes up, fear paralyzing his body as he fights every urge to yank his leg away. He controls his breathing, not letting himself get too worked up over something as simple as Bill pulling his leg forward.

"You just gotta tight roll them like this..." Bill trails off, pinching the sides of Richie's jeans and rolling the cuffs up to trap the fabric against his leg. Once done with that leg, he reaches out for the other leg. Richie slowly lowers his foot, then cautiously lifts his other leg towards Bill outreached hands. "There. Now you're set. You ready, man?"

Richie sits in the backseat of Beverly's beat up car and listens to her and Bill talk about the most ridiculously mundane things. For example, Beverly asks if her shirt is too low cut, for she's afraid that her exposed shoulder might get her dress coded. Richie doesn't think that they realize there are bigger problems, but he's not going to be the one to burst their bubble. He would kill to have such a sheltered state of mind, for his worries to simply be whether they'll get rid of that weird tuna smell in the cafeteria or not. Instead, all Richie got stuck with is low self esteem and trauma. Some self-inflicted, most not.

Bill asks if he needs Richie to walk him to the office, but Richie remembers the layout of the high school well enough. He hasn't stepped foot in it since freshman year, and now he's returning after Christmas break for the last few months of his senior year. He doesn't know if he'll be able to live to walk with his classmates, but he's trying. Jesus Christ is he trying.

"I know where it is," Richie responds, his tender voice being lost in the chatter of students pouring into the building entrance. Richie's senses are heightened as he becomes more and more aware of what's going on around him, the sounds raising to deafening volumes.

When Bill responds, it practically sounds like he's shouting at Richie, "Alright, just try and find me in the halls once you get your schedule. Maybe we'll have the same lunch hour."

"Yeah," Richie nods, keeping his eyes glued to the floor. "Maybe."

And then they part ways. Bill gives him an encouraging pat on the shoulder, then the two are divided right down the middle as they split to head in opposite directions.

Once alone, Richie's mind shuts off as he shifts into auto pilot. He's there, but not really. Just enough to answer basic questions, to read his classes, to print his name on the sign in sheet. Basics. It isn't until he's navigating his way through the halls to his fourth period does Richie come back into manual mode.

It's not like he wanted to. If it were up to him, he would have been checked out for the rest of the day. But he stops in his tracks, blocking hallway traffic to the displeasure of the people behind him, but his eyes land on a duo that he hadn't thought about all day.

Ben Hanscom isn't chubby. Well, he is, but he is not the fat kid that would get picked on relentlessly. He's taller now, lost the fluff, and now maintains the body of a stocky athlete. He's leaning against the locker of a wiry thin boy, with curls framing his face and obscuring Richie from viewing his features. It's apparent who it is, he'd be able to pick Stan Uris out of a lineup even if Richie were to go blind.

Richie must cause a scene by coming to such a harsh stop, because Ben lifts his eyes to look at the six foot traffic cone standing idly in the midst of the hallway flow. As soon as their eyes meet, his jaw drops in just the slightest way, his hand coming over to pat the male next to him.

Across the hall, Richie can hear Stan's whiny and still so high pitched voice ask "What? What do you want?"

When Ben doesn't respond, Stan turns around to see what it is that his built friend is gaping at. Richie isn't exactly hard to miss, he's the tallest person in the hallway, probably gawking at them just as hard as they're gawking at him.

Instead of sharing the smile that Ben Hanscom is spreading, Stan Uris simply gives a frown. His eyebrows knit together in confusion, and he slowly analyzes Richie's entire appearance. He feels faint under the scrutiny, so Richie turns and heads into the classroom he's meant to be in.

The scrutiny does not end there.

Eddie Kaspbrak is sitting in the last row of desks, watching the people pour in with a bored expression on his face. He sits up when Richie walks in, then quickly averts his attention out the window to appear uninterested.

Slowly, with nervous steps, Richie approaches the teacher's desk. His eyes don't really leave Eddie at all, not even when he feebly asks the teacher "I'm, um, new. Where should I sit?"

Eddie glances at him, but jerks his stare away once he sees that Richie is still looking. Maybe it's the reflection of his red sweater hitting his skin, but Richie could have sworn that those speckled cheeks flushed.

Richie takes the seat in the back like directed, trying very hard to focus on the lesson and not the literal hole that is being burned into the side of his head by Eddie's harsh glare two seats over. He's not even being subtle about it, he is as annoyed as can be and wants to make sure that's Richie knows it.

So, once the bell rings, Richie remains in his seat until the classroom is empty so that he doesn't accidentally bump into someone who doesn't want to touch him. Once the last student leaves, he quickly rushes to his next course, only to find to his dismay that Eddie Kaspbrak is in that class as well. So is Stan Uris. So is Henry Bowers.

It's an intro to astrophysics class, so the room is set up with long tables of two as opposed to individual desks. Richie stands at the front of the classroom, staring at one table in particular and trying to comprehend how it came to be that Eddie Kaspbrak is leaning on the table, his head in the palm of his hand, talking to none other than Henry Bowers. Henry looks worse off than anybody else, rough around the edges with these tired eyes. He listens to Eddie, nodding slowly. There's no malice or rage in his posture, and the sadness that was hidden beneath that tough exterior seems to have come to the surface. He's not as threatening as Richie remembers, he looks weak. As if he has given up. He keeps his eyes on Eddie, exhausted but interested, as if the little being of pure chaos is the only thing keeping him from dropping out of school.

Knowing Henry's obsessive nature when it comes to friends (or lovers,) that's probably the case.

Then, Richie looks over at the opposing table, making eye contact with Stan. The Jewish boy looks away, as if he's guilty of something. What could he possibly be guilty for?

"Heyo! Are you Richard?" The teacher announces, standing from his chair. He does a jig across the room to meet Richie, giving the kid a fist bump instead of a handshake. "Zack told me you'd be starting today! I'm his buddy from college, we go waaay back. You ask him about the time he infested the whole dorm block with bed bugs. What a riot!"

There is nothing more humiliating than a teacher wrapping their arm around your shoulder as you stand in front of the entire classroom of people you dong know. The bell has yet to ring, but everyone already seems to be seated. He's got 30 pairs of eyes staring at him, the teacher rattling on to all the students about his drunken college days, fondly recalling a bender that Richie's adoptive father went on during finals week.

"Anyway- enough about me! Let us get you situated, kiddo!" The exuberant scientist ruffles his hair, causing a few students to giggle. Richie's hands tighten around his notebooks, the fear of showing tears in front of his classmates only clogging his throat up with more tears. In an eccentric tone, the teacher calls out "Who wants to take one for the team and show our new friend Richard the ropes this semester? This is your chance to get out of your crummy partnership! Speak now or forever hold your peace!"

Richie slowly looks up to see who will bite the bullet, his eyes painfully flicking over to Eddie. But Eddie isn't even looking towards the front of the class, he's more focused on staring at the ceiling than anything else. The bell rings, and Richie drags his gaze over to Henry Bowers in the seat right next to Kaspbrak. The silence that fills the room after the last bell is a violent roar, the bloodthirsty eyes of Henry Bowers lacking their usual bite. Instead, he looks tired, beaten, and positively over it. He looks like the mere sight of Richie Denbrough is something that has put the weight of the world upon his back, as if the simple presence of Richie has truly just drained him of anything he had left.

"Going once? Going twice?" The teacher calls out, the tension just thickening. Maybe if Richie weren't so awkward...

So Richie looks down again, unable to face the classroom full of people who don't want him. He feels so stupid right now, so humiliated and pathetic. His hand drops away from supporting his books, touching his thigh and subtly pinching at his leg through the fabric. Richie's mastered the art of invisibility, used to getting away with damn near anything.

But Stan Uris has been bird watching for years, and he can spot even the slightest of movements.

Stan raises his hand, calmly and politely, earning various looks from the people around him. When the teacher's eyes light up but Richie's remain downwards, Stan speaks up.

"He can join our group. Jordan's not here today, or ever," Stan claims. A few people snicker at his comment, but Stan Uris speaks the truth. He's got a lousy partner, and if he weren't so interested in the course, he'd be more upset about having to do all the work himself.

"Soooold to Stan the Man, stepping up to the plate!" The teacher exclaims, slapping Richie on the back. The boy jumps at the action, his body jolting forward as he stumbles away from the contact. This earns some strange looks from everyone in the front row, but Richie quickly composes himself and hurries towards the table that Stan's sitting at. His back burns where the hand was, the scars there suffering from severe nerve damage and making his shoulder blades extremely sensitive. He needs to be out of the spotlight. He needs to hide. He needs to hide now.

"Thank you," Richie whispers, putting his stuff down, burrowing his head in his arms as soon as he's able to. He can't scream into a pillow at school without looking like a psychopath, so Richie just has to grasp onto his arm so tightly that it bruises.

Stan doesn't respond right away, so when Richie lifts his head up to look at the boy, he sees that Stan is looking across the room. Richie follows his gaze, finding Eddie and Henry on the other end. The two stare over their shoulders at Richie, then Eddie leans in without breaking eye contact to whisper something to Henry. As the words leave his mouth, Richie's eyes focused on the cherry sweet lips, the two turn around to face the front.

Richie feels goosebumps rise all over his skin, so he just drops his head back down into his arms and decides to hide there for the rest of the class. He almost expects Stan to bother him, to yell at him for coming back to Derry, or to straight up attack Richie, but none of those things happen. Stan takes his usual organized notes during the lesson, and then puts both his and Richie's name on top of the worksheet they're given later. He doesn't pay Richie's slumped figure any attention, not even breathing a single syllable in the male's direction.

Then lunch comes, and Richie is the first one out of the classroom this time. He moves quickly, finding his locker on the first floor and twisting open the lock by reading the combination off of the sticky note he was given. When he drops off his books, he closes the locker door to see Bill standing on the other side.

"Hey!" Bill smiles, his crystal blue eyes shining bright. "Bev and I are going down to Curly's for lunch. Wanna come? Senior's are allowed to leave campus."

Richie spins the dial nervously, trying to weigh in on his options. On one hand, he doesn't want to intrude on the lovers' alone time, but on the other hand... does he want to be alone?

"Is it okay?" Richie asks.

There's a tap on his shoulder behind him, the mere action causing the boy to startle and jump forward in fear. He turns around on his heel, his eyes wide and heart racing. However, he's just met with fair skin and rusty hair, so his heart slows the alarms down and allows him to relax.

"You comin' or what, ToTo?" She asks, zipping up her leather jacket. She untucks her hair from the fur hood, looking at him expectantly.

"Hey, he's an official Denbrough now," Bill leans forward to punch the girl's shoulder, but she catches him by the wrist and sneaks a slap into his body quickly. Bev's got years of self defense up her sleeve, Richie sees that old habits must die hard.

"I'll come," Richie says quietly. He doesn't want to find a place in the cafeteria to sit, and he doesn't want to accidentally run into Beverly's ex lover in the library either. He'll take his chances with Bev and Bill, because apparently they actually... want him to come with? Foreign, right? It can't be true.

But it is.

The two hold hands as they walk off campus, so Richie stays back to give them a bit of space. They talk about their classes for this semester, and how Beverly hates her ceramics teacher already. As they talk, Richie remembers the embarrassing display during science, and he wants to just never return again. He considers telling Bill about the teacher who supposedly knows Mr. Denbrough, but he is busy explaining to Beverly the syllabus for his creative writing class, so Richie stays silent.

The unforgiving winter wind berates their faces, Richie's shoulders bunching like the gears to a wind up clock. They walk through the student parking lot, snow capping off the hoods of cars and making it difficult to identify which is which.

But Richie knows the rusty Camaro. He knows the busted leather interior inside, and he knows the exhaust pipe exhaling gaseous fumes. He knows the two people leaning against the hood of it, braving the cold as they wait for the car to heat up.

He knows the lean figure, the one that slimmed out and no longer fits against his the way it used to. He knows the hunched figure next to it, slouched posture and always too stubborn to wear coats, despite it flurrying down snow around them. He knows the brown eyes, he knows the hazel eyes just as well.

"Tozier," he hears in the voice he didn't want to hear.

Bill stops, turning to look at the person calling for Richie. Beverly frowns, her posture bristling up in anger. If looks could kill, she'd be a murderer.

Henry Bowers gets off the hood of the car, taking a step forward in the crunch of snow beneath his boot. Eddie Kaspbrak's hand reaches out to grab onto Henry's flannel sleeve, but Henry looks back and gives him a reassuring gesture. Eddie glares at Richie, then softens up towards Henry, giving a simple nod and hopping off the car as well. He circles around to climb inside the passenger seat, and that sight alone brings back all the confusion of Richie being unable to understand how this duo was formed to begin with. Eddie... Eddie hated Bowers. He hated the torment, the ridicule. Now they're chums?

...Possibly more?

Henry comes up to Richie, looking up at the man who towers over him. He takes everything in, Richie's new appearance that is a gauntly ghost of the younger kid he once knew. Henry himself has changed, the mullet growing out a bit longer, now accompanied by the facial hair. He's supposed to be graduated by now like the rest of his friends, but having been held back two grades has put him in the senior class with kids two years younger than him.

"Hey," Richie says, just to break the ice. He's sure Henry would have stared at him all day had he not spoken first, and truthfully, he just wants to get this over with so that he can leave as quickly as possible. He can't handle much more stress today.

"Lose the bodyguards," Henry says, nodding towards Bill and Bev.

Beverly scoffs, but Richie just looks at them over his shoulder, one that Bill interprets as Richie needing space. He wraps an arm around his girlfriend and guides her away, despite her pouting and childish faces directed towards Henry.

"So," Henry says, his words sharp and coated in venom. This isn't going to be a welcome home conversation, this is going to be a threat. Richie can tell by the edge in his words, but mostly in the way he clenches his jaw. Henry Bowers always starts a threat that way. "You're back in Derry, reclaiming what you once had."

"Um," Richie rubs the side of his arm uncomfortably, his eyes shifting to the snowflakes twirling through the crisp air. "Not really. Nothing's... the same."

"And who's fault is that?" Henry spits, looking Richie up and down as if he's in mere disgust at who the boy has become. "I'll tell you what, Tozier-"

"Denbrough," Richie interjects. He hates interrupting people as they speak, so as a punishment, he digs his nails into the palm of his hand in the sharpest way he could imagine. He just needs to stand up for his family's honor. "It's, uh, Denbrough now..."

"Richie Denbrough," Henry hums, clearly amused. He reaches into his pocket, pulling out a pack of cigarettes and offering one over to Richie.

Richie quit cold turkey when he got sent away, mostly because he was afraid of the punishment he'd get if caught a second time. He got caught once, and the lashes rolling down his shoulder blades from the extension cord that Madame would use on rule breakers scared him enough into quitting. Sometimes during the night, the girls would sneak up to the attic and Cherry would roll a blunt like the boy's down the street showed her how to do, and all the kids would pass it around and get high with one another. Richie never partook, mostly because he didn't like Cherry, nor did he like the boys down the street that she'd hang around with. Richie liked not getting beat, so on those nights, he would go sit in the kitchen until he heard the girls clambering back down the ladder to return to their rooms.

Henry gives him a cigarette anyway, lighting it protectively against the cold wind they're standing in defiantly. Henry takes a drag out of his own cigarette, his breath fog intermingling with the smoke coming from his ember lungs.

"You're going to stay away from him," Henry proposes, not giving Richie the option for anything else. "Don't wanna catch you giving that kid a hard time. Some people are better off without you around, so get it through your thick head that he does not want to see you."

"Okay," Richie knows, agreeing that people are better off without him. He's not the same, sarcastic, quick-witted jerk that would stand up to Bowers without problem, but now Richie just stares at the burning cigarette between his fingers and nods.

Henry hesitates for a moment, having expected a fight from infamous Richie Tozier. He expected the boy to prove that he can do what he wants, to lash back and say that Henry doesn't own Eddie, but none of that happens. Richie doesn't speak another word, simply agreeing to the terms that Henry has put down. He truly is a Denbrough; he doesn't know how to stand up for himself anymore.

From the rusted car that's engine is running, Richie can hear The Chain by Fleetwood Mac begin to play. A song he hasn't put much thought into, but the volume raises higher and higher until its heard fluently through the rolled up windows. Henry glances back at his car, then back at Richie. Henry is infamously known for listening to death metal, yet he doesn't seem to mind Eddie's songs.

"Stay away," Henry says again, turning back to face Richie. His eyes are still tired, like something's been taken from him while Richie was gone. Henry's nose always turns cherry red whenever it snows, but even the color in his cheeks can't bring the life back to his eyes. "We don't need this."

Richie simply nods again, allowing Henry to step away from their conversation without another word. Henry gets into his car, the music pouring out when he opens the door. Then, with a slam, the music is back to being muffled.

He tries to look at Eddie in the passenger seat, their eyes just barely meeting before Eddie looks towards Henry, opening his mouth to say words that can't be heard. What can be heard, however, is Stevie Nicks' voice clear as day singing out "If you don't love me now, you will never love me again."

"That dude's seriously a dick," Beverly's voice can be heard from behind him.

Richie turns to see her approaching his side, staring after the Camaro reversing from the parking spot. Without hesitation, she holds up two middle fingers to the car in protest.

"Yeah," Bill is now on the other side of Richie, focused more on Richie's face than the fading car. "He's a dick."

Richie looks down at the cigarette in his hands, the glow of the embers contrasting against the stark white snow caked to the ground. He thinks of Eddie's glares, and how they burn more than any of the cigarette holes he has burned into his stomach. A graveyard of healed scars, no pain that can compare to the eyes that are merely the dead bodies of what love was once there.

"Yeah," Richie speaks up, finding his voice a bit more confidently. Henry Bowers is hurting, and Richie doesn't know why. But like usual, he takes his pain out on others, he makes them feel his hurt. Richie doesn't have sympathy for people that weak, not even in the slightest. "What a fucking dick."

Chapter Text

"How was school?"

Richie keeps pushing his food around on his plate, trying very hard to not scrape his fork against the dish. After a moment of silence, he looks up to see why Bill hasn't responded, only to find all eyes on him.

"Oh," Richie exhales, feeling embarrassed. "Um. It was okay."

"Okay? Just okay?" Zack repeats. He opens his mouth, gearing up to make a shitty dad joke, but Bill cuts him off before that can happen.

"Dad," Bill warns him, then changes the subject. "My creative writing class is offering college credits at the end of the quarter. I think it might look good on my application."

Richie blinks back down at his plate, confusion evident on his face. College...? He never gave it much thought. He didn't think he would get this far, to be honest.

"That's great!" Sharon exclaims, congratulating her son. Then, she turns to Richie, and asks "What about you, Richie? Any colleges you've got your eye on?"

Richie wonders what he would like to do after high school, but his mind keeps coming up blank. What would he like to do? He doesn't know. Richie doesn't have many talents, and he has fewer interests. He can't even remember what he wanted to be when he grows up, much less know what he wants to do after high school.

"I'm not sure," he says quietly. "Maybe I'll get a job in town."

There's a silence, one that comes from conservative parents who did not expect that type of answer. Every kid's life plans include going to college, it's just how things are. Maybe just in Derry, but it's certainly a custom that nobody has deviated from since the Great Depression struck.

"That's cool," Bill breaks the silence. "Dude, get a job at the movie theater so you can sneak me and Bev in."

Richie smiles at this, turning to his new brother and quipping back "Why? So you two can just make out? No thanks."

Bill's ears turn scarlet red, his eyes widening as he turns to look at his parents. Neither of the two react, they just nod and keep on eating as if it's expected. Bill and Bev aren't exactly sneaky about their relationship, she always kisses him goodbye on the front porch right in front of the living room picture window.

"You treat her right, son," Zack comments. And that was that.

Or so Richie thought.

The apocalypse begins with a question, an armageddon of ammunition locked and loaded with the following words. They're ones that Richie didn't really expect to hear, so he isn't prepared for the worst case scenario like he is with most things. This catches him off guard, and shakes the boy's whole world from beneath him.

"What about you, Richie? Any girls catch your attention?"

Richie can't help but think about how only one face has been on his mind, but that's natural, right? Him and Eddie Kaspbrak shared an awkward, clumsy, fast paced, idiotic crush on one another when they were kids. It was all very nervous, secretive, cringe worthy touches in the dark of people's basements. The two thought they were in love, but Richie knows better now. They were 15 and desperate to have someone to call their own. That's all it was, that's all it ever will be.

"Uh," Richie pauses, trying to think of any girl in his class that may have piqued his interest. He can't seem to recall anything other than Bowers and Kaspbrak, the only deviation from that thought process being Stan Uris to take pity on him during his public humiliation. "I don't know. I was studying."

Bill raises his eyebrows as if trying to say he doesn't believe that bullshit at all, but Richie becomes very focused on eating his broccoli instead.

After dinner, Richie stands and helps Sharon wash the dishes like he does every night. She has insisted every night since Richie moved in that he truly does not need to go to such extents, but until Richie can get a job, he wants to be able to find little ways to repay them for the time being. Besides, he was trained and conditioned by Madame that a slacker is a worthless man, and so Richie tends to keep himself busy with mundane chores so that he does not accidentally fall under the category of a slacker. He doesn't want to be worthless, he already feels enough as it is.

"Richie!" A voice floats down the stairs, and then is followed by the sound of Bill sliding down the banister and hopping to the ground. Each time he does this, the photo frames hanging in the kitchen will rattle, and Mrs. Denbrough will roll her eyes each time. Despite this, she still ignores Bill when he pops his head into the kitchen, which allows Bill to ask "Hey! Wanna come down to the quarry? Beverly wants to skate."

The quarry. That's what it was. He couldn't remember, it almost scared him. Derry has been coming back in spotty patches, for example, he seemed to have forgotten that there was a barber shop on the corner of Elkwood street until Zack took him there to get a bit of a haircut. Just a trim, Richie had asked nicely. The wild curls look as if they haven't been touched at all, Richie's constant state of bedhead making haircuts seem useless. Derry comes and goes in fleeting memories, and each day that he is here he learns to turn over another rock.

The quarry... a warm, swampy area, surrounded by thick wilderness that most kids in Derry know like the back of their hands. A steep cliff, a drop off into a lake. Swimming on Saturday afternoons, dancing with the lazy sunbeams. The memory feels like a distant memory that comes and goes like passing under street lights on a dark highway. There and gone, there and gone, there and gone.

"Isn't it late?" Richie asks, looking towards Sharon to see if the boys will be scolded for their plans.

Instead, she just says "Curfew is in three hours, boys."

So, Richie ends up sitting on the frozen lake as Beverly and Bill twirl and skate around the perimeter of the basin. They are entirely in love, unable to keep their hands off of one another. Each time she falls, he will fall twice as hard so she doesn't feel embarrassed. Bill knows he doesn't need to do this, the girl never feels shame. However, it's something he just wants to do. He will bend over backwards to save her from looking like a fool, even if they're the only two around.

Richie moves a little, his ass feeling cold from the frozen ice beneath him. He's got two jackets on, but his hands go unprotected, his fingertips turning shades of blue similar to the light rings around the moon. He rubs a thumb over his hand, touching along each scar coating the skin. Little wounds that will never go away, mistakes embedded into his skin for him to remember always.

He touches each one, recalling what they were for and why he received them. Madame had a leather paddle, about thirteen inches in length with a handle for her to hold. It was a bit like a ruler, only flexible and capable of much more damage. Troublemakers would present their hands on the dining room table, and she would whip their hands until their knuckles bruises and beads of blood would dribble up to the surface of the skin. Richie touches each scar, remembering the hammering in his chest as he watched her prepare the leather paddle. His hands shook every time, but he knew better than to pull away. Kids who pulled their hands away only received more punishment, and her next step was something Richie hated more than anything. He would keep those hands locked on top of that surface as if his life depended on it.

There's a scar beneath his ring finger knuckle. Caught sharing food with Tim after he had an allergic reaction to the berries in his breakfast cereal. A scar connecting his middle finger to the basin of his thumb. Lied to Madame about the extra blanket he stole because the attic was freezing during the winter and Twigs had come down with pneumonia. A series of connecting scars across the cuticles of his left hand, the skin around his fingernails torn and confusing because of this. Used the wrong toothpaste during bed time routine.

Simple mistakes, ones that aren't to be taken seriously, yet he has permanent damage to his body because of them. Richie thinks that's his own fault, however. He should have known better, should have looked at the toothpaste a little bit more carefully. He learned quickly, though. Once he got his first second-tier punishment, he vowed he wouldn't mess up again. He grew more careful, more attentive to his surroundings. Blended in wherever he could so that he did not make himself visible to her. Richie spent nearly two years living in the shadows, and now Bill Denbrough has brought him out into the spotlight of the moon, a halo of light glowing on Richie's features.

"Hey, guys?" Richie speaks up, his voice wavering and getting caught up in the wind that blows it away like a simple dandelion wish. Richie watches the lovers spin and twirl on the ice, lost in each other's eyes. The quarry has seen a lot of that kind of loving gaze, but none from Richie's eyes in a very long time. Richie clears his throat a little, trying again in a tone a bit louder. "Guys?"

There's no point. The two are lost in their own world, shards of ice shavings flying up and swirling in tendrils around their sharp skating blades. Bev's ice skates have a bunch of Lisa Frank stickers all over them, that seems to be her newest obsession. Richie has noticed that a large majority of things in Bill's room have those stickers as well, as if she's making her mark in his life so that he may not forget her. Richie doesn't think she realizes that her mark was made long before she got into stickers. It's clear that the two only exist to one another, and Richie knows from the unforgiving smile on Bill's face that his new brother is feeling the "How have I lived without you by my side?" euphoria high. Richie knows that high all too well, and he knows how hard the crash down to earth is. It's a damn miracle how a drop like that didn't kill him.

He keeps track of the time by watching the moon tango across the sky. Once it hits a high point, he stands to his feet and feels his frozen knees buckle in the cold. He reminds Bill of what time it is, and that they have a curfew to abide by.

Bev says, "Since when do you care about curfews?"

Richie shoved his scarred hands in his pockets, attempting to hide the reform and attitude adjustments he underwent until he had reason to fear breaking the rules. Instead of telling her this, he just shrugs and says "Don't want to get busted by the cops or anythin'."

Obvious bullshit, but Bev has the grace to drop it.

Later that night, Richie is sitting in the tub, staring down the faucet with empty, cold eyes. His knees are brought up to his chest, arms wrapped around his middle and feeling all the little bumps and protrusions of his bony ribs. His neck muscles hurt from how tense he incessantly is, but the hot water helps a little. It's hot, far too hot. Scalding hot. The kind of water used to burn skin, to cause third degree burns. As if lying in lava, Richie accepts his punishment and merely lets the water consume him, filling every broken crack and crevice in his skin until he feels as if he's nothing but the flames engulfing him.

"Hey, Richie," there's a knock on the door.

Richie jumps, easily startled and nearly bonking his head against the ledge of the tub. He tucks his knees even closer to his chest, attempting to hide any visible part of his chest at all. He backs up into the corner of the tub until his back isn't visible, but the scars lining his shoulder blades still feel thick and heavy and extremely apparent.

"C-Come in," his voice shakes, the boy nearly hyperventilating. He's completely exposed, entirely vulnerable. If anybody wanted to do anything to him, now would be the perfect time. He has no means of self defense, he's like an exposed artery just waiting to be cut.

Bill enters the bathroom with his hands over his eyes, the man's pinky finger slowly moving so his eyes can peek through. Upon seeing Richie's sheltered body hidden in the bubbly water, he lets his hands drop entirely.

"Bev just called, she said to meet her in the library during lunch," Bill informs him, glancing at the foggy bathroom mirror.

"Aren't- Don't you guys go off campus for lunch?" Richie's voice stutters in a way that Bill is reminiscent of.

"If the lady wants to talk to you, I'll just get some pizza from the cafeteria. No biggie," Bill shrugs. He straightens out Richie's towel on the hanging rack.

Anxiety starts to find its way into the bath, slowly poisoning the water like a drop of oil spilling in, slowly swirling through watercolor storms of blacks and greys, but consuming the pure silk water hungrily.

"Did she say what for?" Richie inquires. His grip on himself tightens as he tries to imagine everything Beverly could want from him.

The thing is, he knows she doesn't trust him. Not quite the same. Richie is vastly different than how he used to be, and he can't even blame her for not vibing with him like they once did in freshman year. What else could she possibly want from Richie if not to humiliate or abuse him in some way?

"Nah, just said that it was urgent," Bill shrugs. He draws a smiley face on the mirror with his pointer finger, the condensation swelling up into droplets that roll down the glass surface to make the smiley face have the appearance of it crying.

Richie's heart drops even further, the word urgent catalyzing in his brain like a fucking tumor. He feels his head swell, the beginnings of a migraine coming on.

"Okay," Richie nods.

"Night, man," Bill says, backing out of the bathroom door and latching it behind him.

Richie stares at the melting smile on the mirror, condensation bubbling out of the eyes that left Bill's fingertips. He relates to that mirror in this moment, an attempt to smile, but everything still leaking. He can't put bandaids on his wounds, the blood gushes from his insides incessantly.

Richie doesn't think he'll ever heal. He'll be stuck like this, forever. Never getting better, never feeling okay, never feeling. He's afraid that he's going to be afraid for the rest of his life. Of what? Who knows, but Richie fears that it will be like this, always and forever.

Is that a life worth living?

Chapter Text

The next morning, Stan Uris decides that the grace period is over.

Richie doesn't know this, however. He just stumbles into his astrophysics class and takes his seat next to Stan, keeping his eyes focused downwards as he grows nauseous with the idea of having to go see Beverly after this period is over.

The first bell rings, a tendril of anxiety coiling in Richie's stomach, sticky heat dripping down the back of his throat as he swallows his nerves.

The lecture goes on as proceeded, and Richie takes notes today. Not good ones, he's still distracted by his own thoughts and fears, but he makes an effort to actually write something down today instead of just lying helplessly next to Stan. Stan took the chance of letting Richie be his partner, he doesn't want to be a deadweight like the supposed Jordan who has yet to attend class.

However, when the lecture ends and the students are set off on their own to complete their lab worksheet for the day, Stan Uris turns to Richie and gives him an expectant look.

"I'm... I'm only on number five," Richie taps his pencil against the paper, showing that he doesn't have the answer to question eight, which Stan is stuck on.

Stan takes a deep breath in. He could tell from the minute he saw Richie staring at him and Ben in the hallway that something was off. Later on, Ben told Stan that he had given Richie a nasty look, but that wasn't Stanley's intention. He wasn't trying to be rude, he was just confused by who was standing in front of them, or more specifically, what happened to the infamous Trashmouth.

He gave Richie a day. He saw how Eddie and Bowers had been glaring, figuring there was a lot to unpack there that Richie was overwhelmed by. He assumed that Rich would need some time to catch up, so Stan gave him precisely that.

However, he was growing tired of being patient, for he has many questions that crave to be answered.

"When did you get back?" Stan asks. He sets his pencil down, tucking some curls behind his ear. He's not accusing or biting in anyway, he speaks in a soft, gentle tone. Richie flinches at anything else, Stan's been noticing little habits that weren't there before.

Richie looks down at his paper, guilt crashing through his body like a tidal wave on rocky shores. He should have told Stan, he should have tried to phone his old friends to get in contact. But he was paralyzed by fear, stupid fucking fear. He's missing out on life choices just because he's too afraid to take them.

"Bill's birthday," Richie says quietly, idly picking at the tiny shreds of eraser that are sticking off the ends of his pencil.

"The fourth," Stan clarifies, then nods as if he's processing something in his mind. "So are you living with Bill?"

Richie taps the eraser end against his paper, the wooden utensil bopping against the name titling the paper. Richie Denbrough.

Stan nods again, and then says "What's going on with Eddie?"

As if on command, Richie lifts his eyes to look at the duo at the table one row up and over. Henry has his head down on the desk, snoozing carelessly while Eddie flips through the textbook in front of him for the answer to whatever problem is puzzling him. He always did need to study more, intellect practically came naturally to Stan and Richie. They're the only pair in the whole classroom without a book open in front of them.

Richie turns back to look down at his paper, quietly recording the answer for number five after finding the proper way to word it. "I don't know," he says, followed by "Not much."

Stan pauses, frowning at the response. His brain does some recalculations, working this Richie and Eddie equation out because they clearly won't. After a moment, he sees Richie's hand tightly gripping the pencil, his knuckles white with pressure. Stan's eyes coast along the raised white scars embossed into Richie's skin, his hands reading like blank sheet music.

"Do you want to come with me for lunch?" Stan asks.

Richie's head lifts up, his ears perking as if he's a dog who was just thrown a bone. Is it only out of pity? Does Stan feel bad for him? Is Stan planning to ridicule or humiliate him?

He hears Bill's voice in the back of his head, one that says "Nobody is going to hurt you."

Richie sucks in a breath, the air cool in his lungs as his body inflates just the slightest. He releases some of that tension, forcing himself to relax in the seat and not be so tense. His jaw has been locking up lately, Sharon says it's because he clenches his teeth so often. Zack promised to get a mouth guard on his way home from work, promising that Richie will feel better if he were to stop grinding his teeth in his sleep. That's not the issue at all; the issue is that Richie is terrified. Of virtually everything. There was once a time where he would stick his tongue down this kid's throat, and now he's about to faint from the proposition of eating lunch together.

"Who else?" Richie asks, wondering if he's going to be sitting with the entire A/V club that Bill had mentioned.

Stan senses this urgency, so he promises "Just Ben. We eat down in the music room, Mr. Hawthorne lets us play music."

Richie doesn't respond, he just returns to his paper and after a moment, Stan does the same. They work in relative silence, but Richie picks up on the tune of Stan's foot tapping in intervals of four. As obsessive compulsive as always, at least that has never changed.

After their twelfth round of four's, Richie lifts his head and says "Number nine is the weight of gravity."

Stan glances up, then looks down at his paper and begins to write down that answer. The two go back and forth like that, reading the question aloud and coming up with the answer together. The paper goes by just as fast, and as they put punctuation on the end of their last sentence, Stan volunteers to take their papers to the front so that Richie doesn't have to get up in front of everyone.

With the way Stan's chair scrapes against the linoleum floor, a few heads turn to look at the source of the noise. Stan gets up without a word, walking around the table to trek towards the front. Most people turn back to their books, unbothered by the brainiac Uris who always gets up first.

A pair of eyes don't leave, however. They follow Stan all the way to the front, then flicker back to fixate on the other half of that duo.

Richie locks their gaze together, his eyes ghosting along the clumps of eyelashes that bind together in bountiful amounts. He always did have the prettiest of features, that much will never change either. His freckles must be so prominent in the summer, Richie can't imagine how much he glows like a speckled fruit. Sweet as a peach, but that peach rotted after Richie took a bite and left it there to collect flies.

Richie looks away, a look of hurt flashing on his features in what can only be assumed to be embarrassment. Stan's on his way back, though, so Richie quickly looks back to Eddie at the opposing table.

Eddie's still looking, he somehow always is. However, when his stare meets Richie's this time, the corners of his lips lift up in the offer of a gentle smile. The water subsides, a bit of the bridge poles poking out from the shallow ends of the tides retreating. A bridge that wasn't burned, but rather drowned.

Richie has water up to his chin, and yet he still slowly stretches the muscles in his cheeks to smile back. The room releases some of the pressure, and Richie's shoulders slowly drop down. Relief.

It doesn't last long, however. Eddie's eyes flicker with some of the betrayal he's been harboring for years, looking away in shame. Richie's lips part, the tip of his tongue hitting the back of his teeth. He's not sure what he's trying to say, however he merely closes his mouth and turns back to Stan approaching their table.

"I'll sit with you," Richie responds.

Stan lifts his eyes, surprised at the words. He smiles nonetheless, calming and warm. The sun hanging over those rippling waves that Richie is stuck in. The cold winter has bloomed into a springtime, as if maybe he is finally warming up to being here. Warming up to being alive.

Richie follows Stan to his locker after class, watching the boy fetch a lunchbox from the top shelf of his locker. Richie stands patiently, looking at all the magnets inside Stan's locker. A lot of Star Wars magnets, the occasional bird decoration. Richie's fingers trace along the corners of a magnet, reading the motivational poem.

"Richie! Richie!" He hears, a voice deeper than anything he's remembered but still engulfed in that chipper excitement it always has.

He turns, seeing Ben Hanscom wait for a group of girls to pass by before stepping up to Stan's locker.

He pauses, his arms a bit stretched out, before looking at Richie for approval.

Richie takes a cautious step back, his hand dropping away from the locker as he crosses his arms over his torso in an attempt to protect himself. Stan closes his locker, turning around to look at Ben's lifted arms and Richie's apprehension. He looks over to Richie, their eyes meeting as Rich tries his very best to telepathically communicate with Stan.

Stan seems to understand, because he puts his hand over Ben's arm and slowly guides it downwards, changing the subject entirely. "So did you see the commercial that played after Family Fued? There's a collector's coin coming out this year. Bush is going to be on it."

"Seriously?" Ben protests, scoffing. "Bush is one of the worst presidents this country has ever had. Seriously, how did he get elected?"

Stan glances at Richie and nods his head in the direction of the hallway, signifying that him and Ben are going to start walking. Richie follows closely behind, but not by their sides. He hasn't earned that place yet.

He wonders if Beverly is waiting for him in the gym. He hopes she isn't too disappointed, but he can't face her alone yet. He's scared of someone being able to read him like an open book, and she's one of the few that can do that. He doesn't need to hear what's wrong with him, he already knows. He'll take a safe bet with Stan and Ben, figuring that the only other safer people he could go to would be the Mike Hanlon that he has yet to ask the whereabouts of. He's too afraid of the answer, unsure if his psyche can handle another blow. It was bad enough that the Losers' Club split up, he's not sure he'd be strong enough to endure hearing that Mike moved away... or something worse.

Richie shakes his head. He knows that he jumps to conclusions sometimes, assuming the worst when there's nothing to be afraid of. Mike is probably fine, although he finds it hard to convince himself of that when he's in such a pessimistic rut.

He sits on the floor of the music room, his eyes traveling over the posters of classical musicians and messy sheet music. There's various instruments stacked against the west wall, while Stan lingers on the east side, speaking to the teacher occupying the desk shoved in the corner.

"It's nice to have you back," Ben breaks the silence.

Richie's attention shifts over to the husky man, watching him spread the outrageously large, protein-packed meal across the floor. Ben's a chubby kid at heart though, there's still a pack of Twinkie's resting next to an apple.

"Are you sure?" Richie asks, shaking his head. "I'm not too sure. Everyone seems so..."

"Don't mind the indifference," Ben sighs. "Things got weird, yeah? Don't mind it. I'm glad to have you back, I feel like we never got the chance to bond."

"We went to the movies sometimes," Richie remarks, his stomach clenching in hunger as he watches Ben start devouring his lunch. There's about six dollars in Richie's pocket, Mrs. Denbrough gives the boys each seven dollars for lunch that day. Richie spent a dollar on a water bottle earlier that morning, one he still holds in his grasp as he fiddled with the cap uneasily.

"With Beverly, though. Or Stan. We never went just the two of us," Ben says. "Our friendship merely existed through the life of Beverly Marsh."

Richie imagines her in the gym, a cigarette tucked behind her ear. She's always wearing these floral dresses, even though it's the middle of January. He imagines her scraped up knees, the bandaids that Bill plastered over the wounded bones, and he imagines the hatred she feels for being stood up. If she were to find out that Richie is sitting here with her ex...

"Did things end amicably?" Richie asks, then shakes his head. He says, "Sorry, I didn't meant to be insensitive."

"Huh? Oh, it's fine," Ben responds. Stan eventually returns from the teacher's desk, unzipping his lunchbox as he sits on the floor. "There's no hard feelings, if that's what you're asking."

"Then... Then why?" Richie whispers, his voice trembling like autumn leaves. "I don't- I don't get it."

"I couldn't understand her," Ben says matter-of-factly. He takes a bite of his apple, the crunch sending chills down Richie's spine. Stan's meals are as kosher as ever, though he still doesn't know what it means. "She was raised with all this trauma, she had so much pain and hurt that I couldn't help with because I didn't understand. I've never faced those things. Not that I minded, she did. I tried to help but she wouldn't let me because no matter how hard I tried I could just never really understand the misery. It got worse after you left, I guess, so I just ended it. I thought it would be better for both of us if we weren't together. She was broken up and completely torn inside, yet would never let me in. It killed me that I couldn't help her. We were both better off going separate ways."

"Still think that she got with Bill a little fast," Stan mumbles under his breath, an aftercomment that Ben ignores.

Bill had misery in common with her. That's what drew her to him. It's not that Bill has the leadership that Richie always admired him for, it's because he knew pain and loss better than anybody else in the loser's club. Besides Mike, Bill was the only one to face real death and still make it out alive on the other side of it all. She loves Bill because he understands what she means when she says that it hurts. He doesn't look for a physical wound, he asks what's on her mind instead. Beverly and Bill bonded over the fact that they had both lost brothers, one to a tragic death, one to the foster system. Richie coming home to them is a rock in the boat of their relationship based off misery.

"I meant," Richie hesitates. He listens to the music that's playing, Stan's choice presumably. Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata. "I meant why did everyone breakup."

He thinks of that tiny little smile, a floatation device thrown to him out of pity in the big, deep ocean that Richie was drowning in.

Did he and Eddie separate for their own good? Ben's right, he was able to look at their relationship logically rather than blindly grasping into whatever love it made him delusional enough to believe that he felt. Does Richie do that? Is he too blinded by the good to see the bad?

Would Eddie ever be able to understand Richie's trauma, or is he doomed to only falling in love with those that have the misery in common?

Richie pauses.

Did Eddie ever understand?

He'd like to believe that the little one did, that those words written in a leather journal worn down from the amount of times it's been read are all entirely truthful and accurate, but... they were young. It's easy to get swept up in the idea of love when Eddie was so adamantly desperate to find it, that much was made clear to Richie that fateful morning they walked to school together and Eddie spun tales of how he longed to experience love.

Did he ever really love Richie? Or was he just eager to be in love in the first place, and it didn't matter who it was with, Richie just happened to be one of the first few people to come along with a needy enough craving for the attention his childhood lacked.

Richie supposes that explains Bowers, then. There's one person in all of Derry that is more attention deprived than Richie, and Eddie seems to have found a kinship with that lonely trait of Henry's. Perhaps that's the reason why those two are inseparable, Eddie is desperate to be in love, and both Richie and Henry are two neglected children that would do anything to be in the spotlight of someone else's life.

"I mean... After Bev and I, it just kinda..." Ben trails off, taking a tentative bite of his hard boiled egg.

Stan toys with his food beneath his reusable fork, his eyes a bit troubled. He says, "Hanlon's the only one who really knows."

"Mike?" Richie's voice picks up in a bit of desperation. He remembers how safe it felt whenever Mike Hanlon was around, as if nothing could ever go wrong in the farm boy's presence. "Is he still in Derry?"

"Yeah," Ben says. "He doesn't come into town much anymore. The last time I talked to him, he was delivering some meat down to the deli on Panama Street. His grandpa fell ill, so he's taking over the farm."

Richie feels as if he could nearly burst into tears from the good news. Not that Mike's grandpa is ill, no, but rather that Michael is still alive and healthy and certainly still in Derry.

He doesn't cry. He bites the inside of his cheek, and he says "Mike knows everything?"

"I mean, yeah," Stan says it as if it's obvious, his superior tone never once faltering. Stan is smarter than everyone in this room, in fact, he's smarter than most people in any room. He likes to remind them of that, it's just in his nature. "Who do you go to when you need someone you can trust?"

"Who else in Derry makes you feel as safe as he does?" Ben adds on.

Richie nods, a slight smile on his face as he remembers all the comfort that Mike brought in stressful situations. Particularly, the fact that he kept Stan and Richie's kissing experiments a secret, then continued to act surprised when those secrets came forward in a messy game of truth or dare.

"Yeah," Richie chuckles lightly. "Mike fuckin' Hanlon. What a fuckin' guy."

"There's a bit of that infamous Richie language," Ben smiles warmly. He looks down at Richie's empty lap and says "Hey, you want some of my carrots? I don't wanna eat them, they'll just go to waste."

As if on cue, Richie's stomach growls. Despite this, he still anxiously asks "You sure, chubs?"

Ben hands them to Richie anyway, a promising smile on his face. "Welcome home, Trashmouth."

Chapter Text

The hall echoes with rainfall, the melodic sound of water droplets dripping into the bottom of a metal bucket breaking the eerie silence every two to four seconds.

A melancholic mood grazes over the whole Denbrough household, the flickering lamps and drawn curtains only placing the cap on the glum atmosphere. Heavy thunder can be heard clapping outside, but Richie's ears are finely tuned to the humming that's floating down the hall, coming from the direction of the kitchen.

"Richie!" The humming comes to an abrupt stop, only replaced by a loud shout.

Richie's skin ices over, dread flooding in through him as if the leaky ceiling caved in to allow the flood to swallow him whole.

He stays silent, listening hard for the sound of footsteps coming to take him to the back office. That's where all the spankings were; her office. Sometimes, she would whack the ruler over a kid's hands in the living room, gathering the rest of the kids to watch. The humiliation was supposed to teach them a lesson, but after Richie's second public sentencing, he only become more of a recluse than before.

The footsteps don't come, no, Bill remains in the kitchen. He follows up his shouting by letting out "Do you want popcorn? We can stay in and watch movies!"

Zack is out of town and Sharon got called in to cover a shift at the hospital, leaving the boys alone on this dreary Saturday. Bill doesn't mind, he's been left home alone since he was about 14. Richie, however, seems to be antsy about the idea of Zack and Sharon being gone.

Richie won't say it, but Bill knows it has something to do with spending all those months in an empty house when they were just kids.

Richie feels like the dust in the air is settling in his lungs, clogging his airways and blocking off any oxygen to his brain. He's going to suffocate in this house, he can't sit and watch movies with Bill until Sharon comes home.

If Sharon comes home.

He is afraid she won't, he always is. He woke up before Bill this morning, carefully treading down the stairs. He's learned which ones creak by now, memorized the walking pattern to avoid disturbing the old house. Usually, Sharon will be up and making the boys some kind of breakfast that Richie picks at until she looks away and he can scrape it into the trash, but today, the kitchen curtains remained shut. No morning light was shining through, just a cloudy sky casting darkness into the lonely kitchen. She left a note explaining the situation, and Richie stood there, staring at her handwriting, convinced he would never see her again.

It's not that he's necessarily attached to them, he's still very apprehensive about their intentions. It seems way too good to be true, and good things just don't happen to people like Richie. At least, that's what he thinks. Richie stood there, staring at her handwriting scrawling out the nurse station phone number for the boys to call in case an emergency comes up, and he had convinced himself that she would never step foot in this house again.

Zack's out of town, it would be perfect. She leaves, abandons the boys, meets up with her husband so that they can make their hasty escape from the mistake they made. Richie is nothing but extra baggage in their lives, and he swore to himself that this note was them trying to get as far away from him as his own parents did.

Then Bill tumbled into the kitchen, bleary-eyed and tussled hair. His pajamas hung low on his hips, a cut off shirt that definitely belongs to Beverly exposing Bill's midriff. Richie looked away, his mind instantly cultivating sinful thoughts of his friends in positions he shouldn't be thinking of. As Bill stood in front of the fridge and chugged orange juice straight from the carton, Richie beat his leg profusely for thinking such disgusting things.

"What's that?" Bill had asked. He came around the side of the island, reading the note over Richie's shoulder. He shrugged and said "Oh well."

Richie couldn't shrug it off. He still can't shrug it off. Even now, he's sitting on the couch and driving himself to insanity by allowing his mind to run rampant. He needs to get out of here, but he doesn't know where to go. He doesn't have anywhere to go.

Richie stands up, walking down the hallway along the sides so that the floorboards in the center don't creak. He stands in the doorframe, watching Bill rip open a box of popcorn kernels.

"Bill?" Richie speaks up, announcing his presence.

Bill jumps, setting the box down before he can make it rain corn. He turns, looking at Richie in the frame, patiently waiting for the boy to speak up.

"Do you still have your bike?"

Bill's face draws up in confusion. He never would have thought of those words to come out of Richie's mouth, but they did, and now he's trying to wrack his mind of where the bike got stored in the garage.

"Silver?" Bill asks for clarification. When Richie nods, Bill scrunches his eyebrows together and says "She's out in the workshop, I think. Why?"

"Can I borrow it?" Richie asks, then shakes his head and softly speaks "Her. Sorry. Her."

Bill smiles fondly at his friend's simple little attempts to fit in better. He looks Richie up and down, the tense body posture, the slouching to look smaller; the clenched hands. Something is up, but Bill won't pry. He simply nods, but does bring up another concern.

"Are you going somewhere?" He asks, followed by a bit more hesitant tone "It's... raining."

"I'll take a jacket," Richie whispers, his hopes of leaving this pressuring house slowly shrinking smaller and smaller.

"Um," Bill looks away, his eyes flickering towards the kitchen window as lightning takes the sky hostage. "It's... fine. Just, uh, be c-c-careful."

Bill's hand clenches into a fist as the side of it slams against the cabinet he's standing against. Richie startles, taking a cautious step back as his heart rate quickens. Bill can practically see Richie's pupils shrink as his neck pulses with anxiety, his shoulders drawing in even tighter than they were before. It's a tiny movement, but Bill doesn't miss the way that Richie's hands move up just slightly, as if he was preparing to defend himself.

Bill quickly calms down, regaining his composure and rubbing his eyes in frustration. "S-Ssss-Sorry," he stutters out, growing even more frustrated but trying to keep his calm. "It's just-"

Bill stops, looks up towards the ceiling, and takes a deep breath in. "Ne fais pas peur au pauvre garçon, Bill," he mumbles to himself, finding his headspace once again.

After a moment of Bill thinking, he turns back to Richie and says "Georgie went out by himself when it was raining like this. I stayed home because I was sick, I just don't want-" He feels the swell of a stutter on the tip of his tongue, so he cuts his words off and presses his lips together in a thin line. He tries to force a smile, but the concern is real in his eyes.

"I'll be safe, Big Bill," Richie promises just the same way that Georgie did. "I just want to get some fresh air. Clear my head."

Richie does not ask for much. In fact, he doesn't ask for anything. He goes wherever Bill goes and he does as he's told, never objectifying or speaking against the orders he's given. Richie asks for nothing, he accepts everything as it is, and Bill thinks it's because he doesn't want anybody to think he's a disappointment or a burden.

Richie's exact thoughts currently revolve around those two things. He is a disappointment to Zack and Sharon, for not being the good teenager they thought they were adopting. He's a burden to Bill, only moping around the house instead of being the fun Tozier kid he once knew.

Bill forces Richie into a thicker raincoat, coaxing a beanie over Richie's head so that he doesn't get pneumonia. Once Richie is bundled up, he opens the door to the garage and presses the button to raise the door, allowing light into the dank room.

"She's over there," Bill waves back towards his dad's circular saw. "She might be a bit rusty, but..."

Richie nods, maneuvering through the garage to find the bike propped up against a sandbag and a stolen street sign. The rain is falling down heavily outside, dripping off the garage door and splattering onto the dry pavement inside. The snow capping off all the front lawns makes the outside appear ten times brighter than the inside of the garage. Richie guides the bike out of its spot, walking her through the garage towards the open door.

"Richie, wait," Bill calls out.

Richie turns, watching Bill's bare feet step into the cold garage, making his way towards Richie and Silver. Bill is usually very good when it comes to personal space, however that thought doesn't seem to cross his mind as he throws his arms around Richie's shoulders and brings the tall one in for a clumsy hug.

"Be safe," Bill breathes out, desperate and scared. Richie doesn't quite understand why he's so afraid, but his fists clenched around Bill's shirt anyway.

"I will-" Richie begins to say, but he can feel Bill shake his head against Richie's shoulder.

"No, listen to me, Rich," Bill says again. "You're going to come home, right?"

It clicks in Richie's brain what Bill meant when he mentioned Georgie. The desperation in his frantic words have a sense of clarity clouded around them, the puzzle pieces aligning to show Richie the bigger picture.

Everyone knows what happened to Bill Denbrough's little brother. It was all over the news, the papers had the Denbrough name in it for weeks. Faux reports and fake tips kept the case alive, and Richie had assumed that it must be hard on the family to have false hope. Georgie went missing right before the beginning of their eighth grade year, but that didn't matter to Richie. He didn't know Bill yet, so he didn't pay attention to the case that everyone in Derry was talking about. Not much happens in a small town like this, so word is bound to spread when a little boy is abducted.

Georgie was missing for four weeks. Then, one morning, Richie saw his dad bring the paper in and read the headline Denbrough Kid Found Mangled Outside of Town Sewers.

The thought didn't cross Richie's mind until now, but it makes sense why Bill is scared. He just got Richie back, he doesn't want to lose another brother.

"I'll be fine, Bill," Richie promises, his voice more sympathetic and gentle. "I'll come home."

"All in once piece?" Bill remembers standing at the Derry morgue, having to identify the dismembered body because his mother was weeping too hard to enter the room.

"I promise," Richie says as genuinely as he can.

"Okay," Bill whispers, letting go. He takes a step back, letting the cold consume Richie.

Richie didn't realize how much he needed a hug, and now that it's over, he finds himself wanting to reach back out. He doesn't waste any time though, just shakes his head and sets out on his original mission of getting the fuck out of that house.

Richie remembers more and more about Derry as he rides the bike down old familiar streets, memories of his childhood popping up to the surface and demanding to be felt. He rides all throughout town, recalling the houses he would ding dong ditch with Henry, or the street that Stan Uris lives on. Richie turns down a road that he doesn't remember, but something is telling him he needs to go down it.

The urging feeling makes itself apparent as soon as the property comes into view. Richie skids to a stop, the bike tires stuttering as he holds his feet out to slide against the wet pavement. His eyes lift up towards the broken down, aging house, the dark menacing clouds and icy cold rain only giving it a more threatening appearance. The paneling of the house swells with rain water and mold, termites weakening the wooden beams that support the creaking porch. All the windows are busted in, shards of glass glimmering in the dirty, overgrown front lawn. The front door is permanently hanging open, wooden boards barricading the rest of the world from going inside, or... perhaps, to protect the world from something getting out.

The Neibolt house was something Richie never liked as a kid. Suburban legends claimed all sorts of evil beings lived inside, but his stigma towards it mainly populated from the stem of Eddie Kaspbrak avoiding it at all costs. Eddie hated it, so by association, Richie learned to take the long way through town so that the two boys never had to ride past it.

He stares at it for a moment longer, drawn to the allure of the destruction that radiates from the broken down property. Instead of succumbing to the darkness, he kicks the pedals on Silver and keeps on riding.

The country is much more familiar than Derry. Something about leaving city limits lifts the curse of the town, and Richie can very clearly picture which route he needs to take in order to get to Mike Hanlon's farm. The woods line the dirty gravel road, a temporary path tight along the sides, but fading once the trees break up and become nothing but pastures.

Richie remembers the way to Mike's house like the back of his hand, twisting down country backroads like he's spent no time away from Derry at all. Despite all these prominent memories of riding in clusters of six out to this farm, he seemed to have forgotten which house is the only residence within a ten mile radius of Mike's.

Richie slows down as he passes the Bowers' house, distant memories surfacing up in his mind. Why is juicy fruit so prominent in his mind? Richie doesn't chew gum, why won't the taste leave his mouth?

He slows to a stop, seeing that the old oak tree that cast shade over the mailbox has been cut down, the initials that had been carved into it sent off to become paper somewhere. Richie feels a bit of nostalgia at the sight of the tree stump, his heart yearning for simply nothing other than the golden film he puts over his past. Perhaps lovenotes will be written on those pages, perhaps those lovenotes will become an entire journal's worth of them that will in turn be held onto by the person each word is dedicated to.

"Hahaha, knock it off!" A voice breaks through the pounding rain like a clean cut katana, the sounds slicing Richie's face with precision. The boy squints through the cracks in his glasses to see where it's coming from, spotting a few figures huddled around Henry's rusty camaro.

Not the whole gang, they seem to be lacking members. Victor Cross stands in the sinking mud, his combat boots laced up halfway over his ankles as per usual. He's reaching out to where Henry is digging a switchblade knife into the side of a can, frustrated and growling with anger. He's too stubborn to let Vic help, though, even though he's holding the knife at an angle that's going to end up getting himself stitches.

Richie isn't particularly paying attention to them, however. He's focused on the petite figure sitting on the hood of the car, an umbrella propped open over his shoulder as his free hands wrap around a beer can like its providing him warmth in some of the storm. He's looking when Richie notices him, and he doesn't tear his gaze away like Richie expects him to.

It will never make sense to Richie how those two became whatever it is that they are, he will never make peace with the idea of them, either. However, he remembers the little smile that Eddie sent his way in class the other day, so he begins to wonder if that partnership was ever anything to begin with.

The raindrops splatter off of Richie's raincoat, slick plops ricocheting off of him carelessly. He has to squint to see through the blurry fog, but he can see Eddie's silhouette perfectly. He always can.

Richie lifts a hand up against the storm, a gentle wave to the one boy paying attention to him.

What's he doing out in the pouring rain? Richie wonders. There's no way his mother is allowing this. He'll catch pneumonia.

Eddie can't seem to read Richie's thoughts the way he was once able to. The two would be able to just glance at each other and know exactly what one another was thinking, but now it's as if him and Eddie are strangers. Distant relatives only meeting at holidays. Broken, but not bonded.

Despite this, Eddie slowly still brings his hand up to wave at Richie in response. As he does so, Henry's slippery hands cause the knife to glide right through the beer can and into the base of his thumb. Richie can see the watery red gushing out of pale skin from all the way on the opposite end of the driveway, a painful wail leaving Henry's throat as he drops both the beer and the knife into the mud pile Vic is standing in.

Eddie looks over in surprise, alarmed by the sudden outburst. Then, quickly, he waves his hand away from the driveway as if he's rushing Richie out of the situation before Henry can notice. Richie begins to move, placing his feet back on the pedals as he watches Eddie slide off the hood of the car and dig into his pockets for the mini first aid kit he always has with him. Richie watches Eddie approach Henry gently, their eyes meeting once more before Eddie gives a curt nod, as if he's giving Richie his final warning to get the hell out of there.

Richie shakes his head, continuing his path down to Mike's farm, the rest of the ride seeming to fly by now that he has something to clutter his mind other than anxiety and abandonment.

Richie drops Silver off at the front gate, pushing some of the chain link fence aside to enter the farm's perimeters just like he was taught when they were young. He's assuming Mike won't be out in the barns, not in this weather, so he chances it by bounding up the long porch decorated with old Christmas decorations that have yet to be taken down.

Richie knocks once, waits five minutes, and then knocks again. On his third knock, the door swings open, revealing a dark skinned male that has more muscle than Richie does hair.

"R-Richie?!" The voice is the same but different, Mike Hanlon's frantic hands scrambling to slide the screen door open. "Is it really you? Are you really here?"

"It's me," Richie says quietly, afraid that he's not going to be welcomed. He should have called in advance, it's rude to show up on someone's front porch unannounced. "Is that okay?"

"Oh my goodness, sweet lord," Mike gets the door open, pulling Richie through the doorway by his sleeve. "It's freezing out! You're going to catch the flu pedaling all the way out here in a storm like this!"

Richie smiles in amusement, seeing that Mike has picked up on much of his grandmother's personality. He allows Mike to sweep him in, shutting the front door behind Richie as the scrawny boy sheds some of the layers that Bill forced upon him.

"Is it okay if I'm here?" Richie's voice is overflowing with insecurity in the same way that Mike's gutters are in this very second. "I didn't know if you were- if you were busy. I'm sorry. Bill says you run the place now."

"I do," Mike smiles. "My old man is probably frowning down on me as we speak, but I've stopped selling to butchers. We're humane breeders now."

"I'm sorry," Richie says softly. Ben and Stan said that his grandpa was sick, but they didn't mention that he had died. "I didn't know he passed."

"Last spring," Mike nods as if he's made peace with it. "It's okay, though. I take care of Nana and the animals, so it's not that lonely."

Mike begins to walk through the foyer, beckoning for Richie to follow. He fills Richie in on the details of their no-kill profit they've been seeing, and how they had enough money to invest in a new tractor that will double their crop harvests. He says he's excited for summer to roll around, explaining all this detailed information about corn detassling as he pours a kettle of tea into two mugs.

Richie sits and sips on that tea for the next hour, letting Mike talk his ear off about all sorts of changes he's made to the property. Richie doesn't mind listening, in fact, it's a relief to be around someone who doesn't ask the inevitable.

However, the elephant in the room must be mentioned at some point or another, because Mike eventually asks "How are you? When did you get back? How did you get back?"

"Two weeks ago," Richie says quietly, his fingers twisting along the handle of the porcelain mug with nervous fingers. "I'm living with Bill."

"Bill Denbrough," Mike leans back in his chair, remembering the memories associated with that name. He looks like he's in disbelief, but anybody would be shocked if their childhood friend showed up on their doorstep amongst a storm. "How you likin' that?"

"It's good," Richie nods again, the question he really wants to ask gnawing away at his insides. He fidgets with his hands restlessly, unable to contain it anymore. He nervously blurts out "What... happened?"

Mike blinks a few times, not really surprised by the question. Instead, he stands to his feet, exiting the room for a few brief moments. Richie can hear him rustling around in a closet, the sounds of items being shifted around reassuring him that Mike didn't disappear. Then, the door closes on squeaky hinges, and the brown boy reappears holding a 3 ring binder in his hands.

Mike slides the scrapbook across the table, the binder stuttering to a halt in front of Richie. The boy moves his mug so that his drink doesn't get knocked over, looking up at Mike curiously.

"That's our '88-'89 binder. I used to scrapbook all of our summers so we could remember the good times we had when we were adults," Mike explains, dragging his chair up next to Richie's. "I never finished '89."

"How come?" Richie asks, his hand nervously tracing along the edge. He doesn't know if he's allowed to open it up, but Mike Hanlon takes it upon himself to flip through the laminated pages.

"That was the year after you left," Mike says, a hint of remorse along his tongue. He finds the page he's looking for, smoothing out the pictures on the face and wiping the dust off.

It's of their camping trip, developed film that Richie wasn't even aware of the pictures that were being taken. There's photos of chubby Ben balancing marshmallows on Bev's head, her hair much shorter than it is now. Pictures of Stan crouched to the ground, holding his hand out to a red bird perched on the ground. A photo of Bill standing in front of the fire, holding a branch above his head, while two boys are pressed together side by side on a log behind him. Richie didn't notice Mike was taking pictures because he was too busy lost in his own little world with the other part of that log duo. They look totally enthralled with one another, it's hard to believe that the two can't even speak to each other anymore. The autumn of 1988 was the hazy three months that Richie spent under the assumption he was falling in love faster than the winter's first snowfall, so it's no surprise he went oblivious to the things around him.

"This was the last time you were in the pictures," Mike flips the page, showing photos from a Christmas that's painted with dread. Everyone looks miserable, wearing their sadness like an ugly sweater. Gifts are exchanged, but in every single photo, Eddie Kaspbrak is clenching onto a box on his little lap. His nose is redder than the Rudolph on his sweater, big eyes so sad and ignoring every camera. Richie's finger traces along the Polaroids, missing the friends that he used to have.

Mike flips the page again, showing fewer photos than the previous page. People are missing, and the ones that are included don't look happy to be. Ben Hanscom isn't in the photos, nor is Stan Uris. Beverly Marsh and Bill Denbrough kiss for the camera while holding up a sign between the two of them that says "Happy 1989!", but Richie is extremely focused on the little one sitting on the couch by himself in the background. No Richie pressed against him, just a large, ugly jacket that Richie knows for certain used to hang in his own closet.

"He's wearing my jacket," Richie points at the one photo of Eddie being moody, covering his mouth with the back of his hand, sulking with a red plastic cup in his hands.

"Huh? Oh yeah," Mike squints at the photo. "He did that for awhile. They cleared out your house fairly quickly, and Eddie went down to the homeless shelter where all your things were donated and spent an entire weekend going through the entirety of their donations boxes just picking out the clothes that used to belong to you. It was the only thing he would wear for awhile, his mom was furious."

Richie's hands tighten a little, his throat swelling as that familiar, dry knot forces itself into the back of his tongue, making his whole head feel heavy with tears. He inhales deeply, asking in the most relaxed way possible "When did he stop coming around?"

"Well..." Mike flips through the scrapbook, various events that dwindle to one or two photographs the more pages they go on. Mike stops on a certain page, a single photo pressed between the lamination. Blue hues shine down on Eddie's features, a profile shot of a boy staring up at the glass that separates him from killer ocean predators. His hand is outreached a little, fingertips pressed against the glass as his arm is engulfed in a large coat that definitely belonged to Richie. His eyes hold that same amazement and wonder that they always have, and Richie yearns to turn back time so they can spend a class trip at the aquarium again. "This was the last time I saw Eddie. He asked to hang out, which I hadn't really had time for because my grandpa was sick. It was the last time I saw him alone, and I wish I would have offered some kind of companionship. He had shut all of us out at that point, which is why I was surprised to receive his call in the first place. But... the next time I saw him, he was... he was with Bowers."

Richie's neck hair bristles, and he feels himself tense with the images of Henry's bright cherry blood spurting out of his hand and into the rain. He knows Eddie has taken care of the wound by now, but he wonders if Henry needed stitches or not. Eddie will try to do as much as he can to avoid a trip to the hospital, a broken arm that the two neglected for hours is proof enough of that fact.

"Why?" Richie asks, shaking his head. "I don't get it. I mean... just... how?"

"None of us get it," Mike shuts the book, but Richie already misses seeing that picture of Eddie's awestruck face. "Henry and his other goon discriminate against me... call me dirty names whenever I'm in town. Eddie just sits there. I can't believe it either."

"Why did he-?" Richie can't make any sense of it. Eddie would tell Henry off in high school bathrooms or ask Richie to walk him to class so that he could avoid Bowers' torment. Now they're friends? Maybe more?? Richie won't understand it until he hears the words come from Eddie's mouth, so he tries to start somewhere smaller. "Why did he push everyone away?"

Mike shrugs. "Everyone was like that. I don't necessarily think it was because you left, but... that gap where you once were was noticeable to everyone. The mood wasn't as light anymore, we didn't laugh as much. Things weren't as funny, and Bev cried all the time. Ben tried to help her, but..."

"She wouldn't let him," Richie finishes, trying to get everything straight in his head. "And Bill?"

"She asked Bill out a week later. Ben and Bev had still been best friends up until that point, but once Bill said yes, Ben stopped coming around. He joined the sports team at y'all's school, so we never got a chance to hang out with him anyway. It was always either some practice getting in the way or he was out of town to play at other schools.

"With Ben gone, Stan didn't have anyone to make snarky comments with. Nobody really listened to him except for me, but he wouldn't talk to me. Admittedly, he stayed longer than anybody else would have assumed he would, but he still stopped putting in the effort when he realized that Bill didn't get him a Christmas present. They always got each other presents, I don't know if you knew that. We'd do secret Santa every year, but Stan and Bill were the exceptions to that. Bill would get a gift for whoever he picked out of the sorting hat, and a gift for Stan, since Stan doesn't celebrate Christmas. Bill liked for him to feel included anyway, but Bill forgot that year. Not necessarily his fault, he had other things on his mind."

"Other things?" Richie asks sorrowfully. He feels anxious from the words being told to him, mental images of his friends slowly fading one by one taking over his feeble mind.

"...Did Bev not tell you?" Mike asks.

Richie frowns, squeezing his eyes shut. Through clenched teeth, he says "Nobody's told me anything."

"Her dad passed. No shocker, she doesn't like to talk about it," he shakes his head. He stirs his tea distractedly, mostly because the next words to come out of his mouth are morbid. "Home invasion. Her dad was killed, but she got away with just a broken ankle and a black eye, and so she didn't want me taking pictures of her at our Christmas party. We delayed it for a couple days because of her dad's funeral, but even with the added time bonus, Bill still did not have the time to remember to get a gift for Stan. So Stan didn't come to the party, he had no reason to. Then, he joined the A/V club, and he stopped answering my calls. I think him and Eddie had gotten into a fight... I'm not too sure. It's kind of hard to keep track of all of this when they all refuse to talk to me, but... I don't know. I think Stan has been more reclusive than anybody else. You were his best friend."

"I was Eddie's," Richie blurts out all too quickly, not even thinking of the words before saying them. Then, he feels embarrassed by the outburst, his cheeks reddening as he ducks his gaze down. "I mean-"

"You may have considered Eddie your best friend, but you were Stan's," Mike says slowly, as if the words never crossed Richie's mind. "He felt that loss just as hard as Eddie did, and I think that's why there may have been some hard feelings between the two of them. I'm not sure. You can try asking Eddie, though."

"We..." Richie trails off, nervously scratching his nail into the wooden tabletop. "We don't talk anymore."

Mike seems surprised by this. "What?"

"What?" Richie repeats, jumping a little at the loud clap of thunder outside. The wood fire over by the stove crackles and keeps the warmth in the home ablaze, the distant sounds of goats bleating being drowned out by the unforgiving rain.

"You guys don't- He's not- He- Does he know you're back in Derry?" Mike stumbles over his words in disbelief.

"Yeah," Richie feels embarrassment, but mostly ashamed. "Is that... Is that bad?"

"No, I guess not, just surprising," Mike shakes his head, frowning as he peers out the window. Richie looks as well, seeing that the pale blue moon is showing her face between the heavy clouds littering the sky like pollution. "I just thought he would be happy to see you."

Richie wonders if Eddie is still outside in the midst of the storm, probably doing his best to avoid any mud puddles in the Bowers' driveway, and wonders if he is looking at the same moon.

Richie says a bit vacantly, "Yeah, I thought so too."

Chapter Text

The next Monday, Richie is a little more quiet when getting ready for school. He doesn't laugh at Bill's jokes, nor does he comment on the music that Mr. Denbrough plays as he drives the two boys. Beverly had some sort of emergency that morning that resulted in her being unable to pick the two up, so they just left twenty minutes early with Zack on his morning commute to work. Bill didn't particularly notice Richie's silence, but then again, everyone was quiet that day. The storms they faced over the weekend have yet to subside, creating a gloomy atmosphere before the town clock can even strike eight a.m.

Richie heads to his locker quickly, desperate to get away from Bill so that the old leader doesn't pry into what's bothering the old trashmouth. When Richie pulls the door open, he watches a loose note flutter to the ground like a leaf falling from a tree in the late autumn. Richie glances at his surroundings around him, looking to see if anybody's waiting for his reaction. His second week, an empty locker, and he's already got notes? Who would have the ability to find his locker so quickly?

Beverly Marsh would, apparently. The note reads in her big, swirling handwriting, complete with doodles of flowers:

Meet me in the library b4 class :)

He lets out a shaky breath, but he wouldn't mind finding solace in the library. In fact, a quiet place lacking teenagers sounds exactly like what he needs. So, he takes the route he knows by heart to his private safe haven, hoping to find his lonely table still hidden in the books of seclusion.

His lonely table is not there. Not there at all.

Eddie Kaspbrak is there, however, and his face hardens the second the library doors swing open and he sees who is entering.

Richie flinches away, considering stepping backwards and just waiting outside for the girl. He turns on his heel, but then he makes eye contact with the librarian and feels guilted. Richie takes slow steps into the library, trying to find a table as far away from Eddie but still visible to Bev. The little one's face doesn't move away from Richie as he crosses the library, he just stares with the same intensity as always.

Richie sits, patting his hand on his leg over and over in a smoothing manner. He read in school once that neglected, anxious individuals will nurture themselves to provide some of the comfort they were never raised with, and it has caused Richie to despise himself any time he catches himself going through the motions.

A paper is thrown on the table, the same vanilla colored sheet that was folded into Richie's locker. When Richie looks upwards, he sees Eddie Kaspbrak standing in front of him. The table between them used to be too much distance, and now it doesn't seem like enough. The older one's eyes see those autumn trees inside Richie, the ones with pirouetting leaves falling all around him, and those bright brown eyes set that forest ablaze. The fire inside Eddie never extinguished, its only grown and spread. Richie is the kindling that Eddie needed to burn.

"I should've known," Eddie scoffs. His voice is different, it's not as squeaky as it used to be. In no way is it smooth, but it's less girlish than how Richie would hear it in his dreams. "She never wants to see me. Not for years. I should have known this was a setup when she stood me up in the gym yesterday."

Richie quietly glances back down at the paper, reading the words that Beverly wrote as neat as the letter he also received. Nearly the same letter, just addressed to Eddie instead of Richie.

"I didn't-" Richie begins to say, his voice as soft as always.

He looks at Eddie, only to find the other one looking a little surprised. Richie coughs in embarrassment, attempting to clear his throat so he may say with a bit more confidence "I didn't write this to you."

"Then why would she-" Eddie is cut short in the midst of his sentence as the library door is pushed open.

Richie looks back towards the doors, the hinges creaking as the redhead makes an appearance. Her frosty blue eyes sweep the library, landing on the two standing near the same table. Upon seeing them, she smiles, then turns to the librarian.

"Mrs. Giles, I think some boys are smoking cigarettes in the bathroom! Come quick!" Bev pleas, earning the attention of the librarian.

Mrs. Giles (woman famously known for being a widow, her husband having died from lung cancer) stands from her stool, rushing from the counter in order to exit hastily. As soon as she's gone, Bev turns her devilish smirk back towards the boys and nods in their direction.

"You two talk, okay? You've got about ten minutes before I get a detention, go," Bev says, slipping out of the door and leaving the two in the library alone.

In moments like this, Richie wonders where Ben Hanscom is, and how much Rich prays for him to appear in this library so that he's not left alone with Eddie.

Richie feels the tension fill, his ears swallowing the water threatening to drown Richie. He can feel the edges of the ocean just brimming the bottom of his eyelids. He prays it doesn't become a tsunami.

"Are you going to say anything?" Eddie asks. Before the question can be processed, he is biting back with another quip. "I suppose you're good at not responding to things, huh."

Richie drops his gaze to the table, his head hanging low as he does not feel as if he deserves to be talking to Eddie. His arms freckle with goosebumps, the same stimulation running through his blood the way it always did whenever he was in close proximity to his chickadee.

"For fucks sake," Eddie drags the chair out from in front of Richie, taking a seat across the table. "I don't know what she expects us to talk about if you refuse to even fucking-"

"Why are you so mad?" Richie blurts out, then holds a hand over his mouth in embarrassment. He looks at Eddie shamefully, gearing up for the asswhooping that the hotheaded friend of Bowers is about to give out.

Instead, Eddie's eyes scan all over Richie's saddened face, the corners of the eyes hidden behind glasses that drop downwards as if even his eyelids are frowning. He used to be perky, so full of life. He's not that happy Richie anymore, Eddie can tell that much. No matter how much distance grows, Eddie will always be able to read those features despite how much Richie feels like he can't.

"I'm not-" Eddie takes a deep breath in, his shaky hands fumbling with the paper to distract himself. "Look. I'm glad you're back. This shitty town needs more clowns in it, but... you're different too, you know. I'm not the only one that's changed."

Richie hates being called a clown. He hates the idea of it, the dunce hat, the prospect of never being taken seriously. He used to hide behind humor as his only coping mechanism, but now he can't stand the idea of forcing a joke through gritted teeth. He is in pain, he's in so much pain, and he doesn't want Eddie to just see the class clown that once masked all that pain.

"I'm sad, Eddie. Things are different, so yeah, I'm a little different too. But you're being outright cruel," Richie speaks up, unafraid of how this one will react. There's a sliver of the old ways still embedded into Richie that knows no matter what, Eddie would never lay a finger on him. It doesn't matter how angry the tiny boy's temper lets him get, he will not put Richie through any sort of physical contact. That was established early on in their friendship, and it seems to be carrying on through.

"You don't think I'm sad?" Eddie lifts his eyes up. Some of the bite is gone from his words, but he does not ease up into the kindness that Richie would once hear. "You aren't selfish enough to think that. You know, Richie. You know I'm sad."

"If I knew, we wouldn't exactly be having this conversation, now would we, Eds?" Richie says slowly, folding the note from Beverly in half. He imagines the girl standing guard outside of the library, probably listening in so she can intervene if a fight were to break out. Always so nosy, that Marsh girl. Too nosy for her own good.

"It's Eddie," the boy corrects without hesitation. Once the word leaves his mouth, a brief moment of hurt flashes over his features as if he remembers all the memories associated with the nickname Eds to begin with. It's a hurt that Richie notices, a brief heartbreak that writes more tales than any leather bound journal could spin. Eddie straightens up quickly, rubbing his nose with the back of his hand as he regains some of his composure, shaking his head. "Don't be so pretentious."

"Don't be so angry," Richie retorts.

"Don't be so closed off."

"I could say the same for you."

Eddie lifts his eyes up, an annoyed expression written on his features. Not a true bother, but the same expression that Richie saw for most of their childhood. The curly headed boy simply smiles, content with his stubbornness.

"You didn't write back," Eddie states.

Richie stares at him, confused about this statement. What is he referring to? Which time?

"What do you mean?" Richie asks.

Eddie huffs, his ears turning hot as he avoids Richie's gaze. His little fists clench, and he repeats with a louder volume "Stop making fun of me! You didn't fucking write me back!"

"What," Richie leans forward, "Are you talking about?"

"My letters! All of them!" Eddie covers his face with his hands as he feels those familiar little prickles of blind rage boiling over and pouring out of him. He tries to regulate his breathing, controlling his anger so he doesn't scare the chronically depressed basket case of anxiety that is Richie Denbrough in front of him. "My letters. You never wrote me back."

Richie is silent for a few minutes, his brain trying to comprehend what language Eddie's speaking in while the tiny one simply rubs the palms of his hands into his watery eyes. Being here, talking with Richie, is bringing up so many unresolved conflicts as well as revisiting emotions that have been dormant for the past two and a half years.

"You... You sent me letters?" Richie asks, his voice weakened and feeble. He feels like the tides are growing violent, creating waves that threaten to overturn his boat. He's going to drown, he just knows it.

Eddie stops sniffling for a moment, slowly lowering his hands away from his angry face. His eyebrows are scrunched down, mouth pouting the way it always does.

"You didn't know?"

Richie shakes his head, feigning as much innocence as possible. "I didn't. When? How many did you write?"

"...Hundreds," Eddie places his hands back on the table, his skeptical look not leaving his features. He's not sure if he should trust Richie, but something by the flushed expression behind the thick owl-eye glasses gives Eddie a gut feeling that Richie is telling the truth. "I wrote to you everyday, Richie. You never responded to any of them."

"I didn't get them," Richie shakes his head frantically, all of his words coming out in one big scared breath, "I didn't know. Please don't be mad. I didn't get them, we weren't allowed to have mail privileges or phone time. I didn't know. I would have written you, I swear. I didn't- I- I didn't know. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I thought... I thought you stopped caring."

Eddie scoffs at the words, rolling his eyes. "As if," he mumbles beneath his breath.

A beacon. A lighthouse turning on in the foggy ocean. A way to guide Richie back home.

The bell rings, indicating that first period has just begun. Eddie stands quickly, throwing his backpack over his red sweater, taking one last look at the stunned boy sitting in the chair before him.

"I believe you, Richie," Eddie says. "I'm just- I'm just not ready to have you back."

"Can we talk more?" Richie asks, no, begs. He needs to know what else Madame hid from him to potentially ruin his life. There could be so many things that he never knew, so many letters addressed to Richie Tozier that have gotten shredded before they even had a chance to be read. "I feel like- I just need to talk more. I don't like this, Eds. We used to be..." he trails off. "I just think we need to clear the air. Get everything out on the table, and then you can go back to hating me if you want."

Eddie pauses for a moment, contemplating if he wants to accept or not. Those brief moments that exist between Richie's question and Eddie's answer feel like a small eternity, one where Richie considers every single bad answer and tries to come up with the worst case scenario for every response.

Eddie cuts Richie short by nodding and saying in a simple voice, "Okay. Meet me by my locker before lunch, we can go somewhere and talk it out."

He begins to walk towards the exit, leaving Richie in the wake of his destruction. That boy has always been a tornado, but Richie thinks that the wreckage is beautiful if it's something that Eddie has created.

Before he exits, Eddie turns on his heel and presses his back against the door, pushing it open just slightly. "Oh, and Richie?"

Richie lifts his eyes up, yearning some kind of closure thrown to him, even if it's out of pity. Something, anything. "Yeah?"

"I never hated you."

Chapter Text

Richie lingers by Eddie's locker before lunch, waiting for the tiny one across the hall.

He can't hear what Eddie is saying, but he knows he's talking fast. His hands wave wildly the way they always do whenever he's worked up, his foot stomping against the tile to prove a point.

Henry is much more calm, but he's always been a silent killer. Richie can see it in his tight shoulders and clenched jawline that he is not happy about who is standing at Eddie's locker.

Eventually, Henry looks up to make eye contact with Richie, a dangerous threat in this pin point pupils. Richie nods, lifting his hands up in surrender. That seems to be enough communication to appease Bowers, because he scoffs and sulks off in the opposite direction. Eddie's shoulders relax as he begins to make his way over towards his locker, mumbling under his breath.

"What was that about?" Richie asks, watching the way that Eddie spins his combination lock. "I mean- Sorry. You don't have to answer that."

"It's fine," Eddie shakes his head, still grumbling. "He's just being Henry, that's all."

"Is... Is he..." Richie trails off, struggling to find the words to form in his mind. He wants to ask if he's hurting Eddie, or even if they're together, but... he doesn't want to offend the temper of the little unit of rage before him. "Is he still the same?"

"Henry?" Eddie lifts his eyes up as he swings his locker open. He shakes his head, a sad look in his eyes. "No. He tries to be, but... no. The Henry you know is long gone."

Richie doesn't quite hear the words because he's more focused on the picture taped to the inside of that metal wall. A picture that's been there since freshman year, one that's aged clearly by the worn corners and folding edges. Richie when he was still a Tozier, cigarettes stuck up his nose, the supple cheeks of a kid who has just barely lost his baby fat.

Richie doesn't look like that anymore. His features are all sharp and hard now, his eyes tired and lacking any of that shine from the photograph. He's aged quickly, but trauma tends to do that to you.

"You- You kept that photo?" Richie stutters out, the tips of his ears growing hot.

Eddie glances at the picture in question and simply rolls his eyes, shaking his head as he drops his books off at the bottom of the locker and retrieves his coat. "Don't flatter yourself."

Richie nods quietly, agreeing that he shouldn't flatter himself. He doesn't deserve to feel flattered; not now, not ever.

The two head out a set of doors that Richie and Bill never go through, leading out towards the soccer field behind the school rather than the parking lot in front. Upon seeing the goal posts, Richie looks over to see if Eddie is remembering the same distant memories as Richie. Instead of a face of recognition, Richie just watches the way that Eddie's eyes cast downward as he walks. His eyes are down low, but his chin is still held high enough with a bit of confidence that comes with hanging out with the likes of Henry Bowers. He's got that scowl, too. The one that says he is pissed off at the world; everything and anything.

Eddie takes Richie to Curly's. Apparently, when the pizza parlor reinvented itself come the 90's, the once famous Curly's died down in business and has become a place for couples to go when they're discussing their divorce.

Richie sits in the booth, nursing his black coffee, watching the very few couples in the restaurant. Eddie's eyes are more focused on the menu in front of him, scanning the letters he's read his whole life. The demographic may have changed, but the atmosphere and food of Curly's has stayed the same. Complete with broken jukebox.

"Well," Eddie exhales after awhile. He folds the menu up, deciding he can't eat with a stomach full of nerves. Eddie looks at Richie expectantly and says "I'm... I'm listening."

Richie nods, trying to think of what words to say. He had all morning to think of this, but it proved to be a bit difficult to concentrate throughout the day. It was as if his brain didn't want to let Richie think of an apology, a small, tiny voice saying he doesn't exactly have anything to apologize for in the first place.

"I didn't get your letters," Richie shakes his head. "I didn't know you wrote to me. I would have written back, Eddie."

"Well, you didn't. You didn't write to me at all, not even a call," Eddie exhales. He rubs his face as if he's exhausted just bringing this up, but he knows that it's all things that need to be discussed. They can't carry on like this, not with their history. "Nothing."

"I can't change the past," Richie shakes his head. He feels some of the fear leave his mind, no longer tiptoeing through his vocabulary to find out which words won't creak. Richie has spent years sneaking around to go undetected, but Eddie lets him take some of that guard down. It makes sense, things just feel better with Eddie, even if the little one is mad. "But that doesn't explain why you're with Bowers of all people."

Eddie inhales, tired of this subject before it can even begin. He looks up at Richie and says, "He's not the same as he used to be, Rich."

"Really? 'Cause I'm pretty sure he threatened me, like, the day I got back. Seems like the same douchebag to me," Richie scoffs.

Eddie frowns, shaking his head. "He's protective. You act like you aren't."

"I'm not fucking insane-"

"You told Henry you would kill him if he ever hurt me. You told him you would tell his dad he's gay if he kept bothering me. How is that not just as bad?"

Richie's heart drops so fast upon hearing those words. Those idle threats were never supposed to reach Eddie's ears, but here they are, being repeated from the boy's lips.

Eddie is saying Richie is just as bad as Henry. Years of torment from Bowers, this whole town terrorized by the chief's son, and Richie has somehow stooped so low that he is comparable to Henry.

"He... He fucking abused you, Eddie. Do you not remember all the times he'd hold you at knifepoint? Or am I the only who seems to remember you absolutely flipping shit on him?" Richie brings memories up to the surface that he hasn't had to think about since the moment he shut them away. "Weren't you the one who told him that he deserved to get beat?"

Eddie clenches his jaw tightly, looking to the side and saying "He's different."

"And I'm not?" Richie asks. "Why are you holding me accountable for not writing you back, when he's the person who completely fucked up your whole childhood?"

"Because he didn't break my fucking heart!" Eddie has always been so temperamental, way too many emotions fit into a compact and tiny vessel. Richie seems to fuel that forest fire, flames engulfing the two of them as hell swallows them up.

"I never wanted to give up on this," Richie breathes out, shrugging his bookbag off of his shoulders. "I still don't."

Eddie clenches his jaw, shaking his head quickly. "I'm not ready for that."

"That's okay," Richie nods, "I don't think I am either. I'm just saying, like... remember when things were good? Before the cops came. I told you I wanted this to be serious. I still want that, Eddie."

"We were kids, Richie. We still are," Eddie reaches out across the table, taking Richie's hand in his. The molecules send little tizzies through each of their bloodstreams, memories of excited touches coursing their minds. "I know I'm calloused and harsh now, I'm not trying to be a bitch. I'm just... I'm scared. I hurt so bad, I'm finally starting to do better again, but... but then you're here now, in front of me, telling me you want to do all that pain over again."

"I don't want it to hurt this time," Richie exhales, turning his hand over so that his palm is pressed against Eddie's wrist. "I want it to be everything it should have been the first time."

Eddie can't meet Richie's eye. He's mostly guilty, afraid of seeing that disappointed look on Richie's features when he tells the new Denbrough that he just can't. The recovery process was long and gruesome for Eddie, he came out the other end less optimistic about the concept of love. He's not ready to strip away all that healing he's spent so long doing just to fall for the same heartbreaker.

"I'm just not ready..." Eddie trails off. His other hand strokes the scars all along Richie's hand, his little magic healing powers taking away the shameful memories attached to those marks. "I don't know if I ever will be. You shouldn't wait for someone who might not ever be able to love you again."

"Okay," Richie nods, his voice soft and lost amongst the music playing. "I hear you. We don't have to try right away, but we can... be friends. Would you want that?"

"We can try," Eddie nods. "If it hurts, though-"

"If it hurts, then you can leave. You don't have to talk to me ever again if you don't want. I just want to try, you know? You make me feel better. Everyone in Derry is so fucking different now, and you're still the same no matter how much you say you've changed. You still make all the noise go away."

Eddie smiles at this, a warm involuntary one. He shakes his head, whispering "I wasn't saying it would hurt for me, Rich."

"Oh," Richie begins to pull away, but Eddie catches him by the little fingers and begins to trace along his knuckles. Richie says, "You don't have to look out for me. It's not your job to protect me anymore."

"Well," Eddie shrugs. "It's just what I'm good at. You and Henry have more in common than you think."

Richie stiffens at the mention of his childhood best friend, remembering all the shared touches that those two exchange in class when they're sitting next to one another. Eddie gets in Henry's car every day, the two doing god knows what. Henry's got a filthy mind, Richie can't imagine what he's subjecting Eddie to.

"Just tell me how," Richie asks in disbelief. "I can't wrap my head around it."

"Yeah, neither could I," Eddie laughs. "I guess it's a bit odd, isn't it? Me and my bully, chumming around."

"It's downright bizarre," Richie responds. Eddie lets go of his hand, and this time, Richie lets him. "I just don't- I can't work it out in my head."

"Well... We bonded, I guess. We both went through some scary shit around... god, like... April? Yeah. The April after you left. It brought us together, and he's just been really protective of me since. I don't think he really realizes that I'm the one that's protecting him."

"What happened?" Richie asks, immediately shut down by him saying "No, sorry. You don't have to tell me. I'm sorry."

Eddie frowns in confusion, saying "You don't have to apologize all the time."

"Do I?"

Eddie looks at him. "Yeah. You don't have to be sorry. You're not doing anything wrong. I'm just pissy, I always am."

"Sorry," Richie says, then shakes his head. He smiles a little, laughing at himself as he says "Sorry- Shit. Ah, fuck. Sorry."

Eddie giggles a little, such a contrast to how much betrayal and hurt that was in his tone this morning in the library. The two seem to be remembering their old patterns, falling back together easily like magnetic puzzle pieces. There's so much they need to fix, but at least it's not all broken. Some parts of their friendship are still salvageable.

"I don't think I'm comfortable talking about it," Eddie then says, followed by "And besides, most of it is Henry's business. I'd be an ass if I told someone about it."

Richie nods understandingly, seeking Eddie's eyes for the warmth he needs. "Okay, that's fine."

"But can you tell me about this?" Eddie then asks, bringing his hand back down to the table so that he can tap on the back of Richie's knuckles. The bumpy scars don't feel safe anymore, the spotlight they're under only burning harder. "You're... a lot more skittish. I've been watching you, you're not- you're not being honest with anybody. If you need help, Rich-"

"I'm okay," Richie says quickly, shaking his head. "These aren't anything. I'm just- you know how I am. Always getting into trouble."

Eddie doesn't believe that for a second, but he doesn't push the topic further. Instead, he asks "Have you been eating?"

A glimpse of bony, protruding ribs come into Eddie's mind. A foggy, Xanax clouded memory that is overshadowed by the pain of a broken arm. Richie's body contorted in ways it shouldn't, and with winter being in full force, Eddie hasn't been able to see Richie outside of his usual two coats in order to judge if the boy still looks underweight or not.

"Yeah," Richie nods, waving his hand to reassure Eddie. "Yeah, Sharon makes these totally rad casseroles-"

"You're lying," Eddie says. He frowns, shaking his head. "You say I'm not different. You're not either, Rich. I can still tell when you're lying. Do you want to eat?"

Richie doesn't respond, he just looks away in embarrassment. He feels hot shame press against him tightly, that vice clamping back down over his lungs and making it hard to breathe. When his hands start to shake, he hides them under the table so that he can stroke his legs in a bit of a comforting manner.

"Okay. I'll go order something," Eddie nods, standing up.

"We don't have enough time to eat anyway," Richie shakes his head defiantly. "We have to get back to school, we've been sitting here for too long. We'll be late."

"Who cares?" Eddie asks, raising his eyebrows. "Do you want to be in school right now? Or would you rather skip with me?"

The question is a no brainer, but that's not what Richie's shocked about. The mere idea of skipping class used to horrify Eddie, but now he suggests it so leisurely... Richie wonders how Henry talked Eddie into skipping for the first time. He wonders what they do in their free time.

"I'll be back," Eddie promises, pressing his palm against Richie's one last time to reassure the anxious kid.

Richie sits back in the booth, watching Eddie go up to order themselves some food. He feels less trapped, like Derry isn't the jail he's thought of it as.

A voice springs into his head that reminds him of a fight between two of Richie's closest friends, reminding him that he needs to ask Eddie what happened between him and Stan. Nobody else will tell him, but Richie knows that he can ask Eddie what happened and receive the truth. That's how he protects Richie, by being the honesty that nobody else in this god damn town seems to give. Everyone thinks they're sheltering Richie from the truth, but Eddie doesn't hesitate to tell Richie how it is so that the boy isn't left clueless.

When Eddie comes back with their ticket number, he takes his seat across from Richie. Without hesitating, Richie asks "Hey, what happened between you and Stan? Hanlon said you guys got into a fight."

"Oh, jeez, yeah," Eddie exhales. "Years ago, though. Before I started hanging out with Henry."

"What happened?" Richie inquires, hearing how needy he sounds. He tries to correct it by saying "No, wait. Sorry. That's personal. I'm just so fucking lost on how things... got like this."

"I would be too," Eddie smiles at him. "Well, I don't know. It's mostly my fault, I was upset. But Stan is way too proud to accept an apology, he'll hold a grudge until he dies."

Richie nods, he knows that much about their Jewish friend. It doesn't explain what happened, though.

"Stan wouldn't let me mourn. He kept telling me to get over it, that it wasn't really that big of a deal. Well, he didn't say that, but it was implied. I told him he had no idea how it felt for me, and then he told me that I was selfish. That I couldn't see anybody else's pain except for my own. I suppose he was right, I'll admit that. But he told me that he was hurting just as much as me because you were his best friend, and that- that hurt, you know. I didn't want to believe that anybody was close with you the way you were."

"You were my best friend, too," Richie says.

Eddie smiles, shaking his head as he stirs his tea absently. He poured plenty of sugars into his tea, but Richie's coffee remains black and bitter.

"That doesn't matter. He was hurting, and I wouldn't let him feel that hurt. He wanted to keep some of your things but I- I don't know, man. I wanted every part of you. I tried to trap your memory in my bedroom, I didn't want anybody else to look at your things, or listen to your music. I was under this delusional idea that you were mine and mine alone. Stupid, isn't it?"

"I mean..." Richie trails off. "I kinda was. I don't blame you, but maybe you should try apologizing to Stan. He misses everybody, even if he doesn't act like it."

"We all do," Eddie sighs unfortunately. "Maybe not Bev. I don't know. I don't trust her since she killed her dad."

"Since she what?" Richie splutters, nearly shooting coffee out of his nose. "What? Mike told me it was a home invasion. Was it not?"

"Classic Hanlon," Eddie shakes his head. "Always wants things to be more peaceful than they actually are... Yeah, Bev killed her dad. She'll never admit to it, why would she? I've read the reports. There were signs of assault all over her, no forced entry, her fingerprints were all over the crime scene. Mr. Marsh was always a sleazeball, I just didn't think she would go that far. I don't think Bill knows, but if he does, he's too blinded by love to care. Love will do that to you, you know... fuck up your morals and common sense."

"How do you know all of this?" Richie shakes his head, unable to even begin to process what Eddie is telling him. Again, his little truth serum. The only person in this town who won't lie to protect Richie from getting hurt.

"You forget that Henry's dad is the chief of police, he was the first responder to the neighbor's domestic abuse call. When they got there, Beverly was all, like, covered in blood. Who's going to blame the murder on an innocent little girl? She's such a liar, too. Too mischievous for her own good. Henry showed me the autopsy report, a blunt force to the side of his head. The back of a toilet seat, you know. Now tell me, Rich. If you're going to invade someone's home, wouldn't you have some kind of weapon? A toilet seat lid just seems like..."

"It was the first thing she grabbed," Richie finishes, his body running cold with terror. He rides with Bev to school, a murderer. The man had it comin', but that doesn't... that doesn't justify murder. She's always been cold hearted, he just can't seem to picture her getting away with such a crime just from batting her eyelashes. "That's fucked up. Where does she live now?"

"Her aunt moved to Derry to take care of her. It was only a couple days after you left, you know. I think she just... she just snapped. And I couldn't be around that anymore, I'm tiny, man. Everyone looked at me and all they saw was you, I was Richie Tozier's sad boyfriend that was left behind, neglected and ignored. I didn't know what she was capable of, but I didn't want to find out. Everyone thought of you when they saw me, and I just couldn't stand it. I was scared she would kill me for being obsessed with you or something crazy like that, I was scared. I thought maybe Mike might treat me normally, maybe he won't pity me, so I tried hanging out with him. As I'm sure he told you, that didn't work out either. I was just tired of people feeling bad for me."

Richie nods, understanding what Eddie means way too well. He's not sure he can ever go back to the jokester he was before, but he's tired of people feeling pity for the poor orphaned adopted kid. He just wants to exist, and to exist with Eddie. A simple request, but a payoff for a lifetime.

Their food comes before Richie can respond, a platter of crepes for the both of them. Richie's meal comes with a side of hashbrowns as well, which Eddie pushes towards him encouragingly.

"You still like crepes, right? That didn't change?"

The memory of dancing around in the Kaspbrak kitchen surfaces in his mind, the adrenaline of nearly getting caught by his overweight mother. It was all so exciting to them, it was the first time they had ever felt such a rush of euphoria. Eddie's romantic 50's music played, a melody of tunes that Richie has grown to miss.

"Yeah, I still like them," Richie says while staring at Eddie. Eddie doesn't notice his gaze, too focused on eating.

Before Richie can even make comments about Eddie's aversion to being pitied, the older one is speaking up again. "Anyways. Tell me about Philly? The good parts, though. Not the parts that make you act all weird."

Richie pauses for a moment, his fork pushing around the food on his plate undecidedly. He knows Eddie wants him to eat, but he feels he still hasn't earned it yet.

"Um, well..." Richie trails off, trying to think of something. What was good? It's hard to remember when the bad stains every memory, even if it's just along the edge. There were a few glimmering moments, however, so Richie decides to tell Eddie about them since Bill has yet to ask. "I like this new band. They're not really new but I like them recently, so I like this new band. They're called Nirvana."

Eddie nods, grinning to himself. "Yeah, they seem like your type. I've only heard one song, but it exudes Tozier energy."

"I'm a Denbrough now," Richie corrects him politely, before saying "Oh, and the sunsets are different. Waaay different. They're more vivid, more color. I would sit and watch them every night during the summer out by the attic window. All my brothers joined. It was some of the only peaceful moments... watching the sky go down. We didn't have much peace, so we appreciated when we did."

"That's..." Eddie's eyes start to sparkle the way they always did, looking at Richie with so much hope. "You need to stop keeping this inside. Talk more, Rich. You're good at it. Not in an annoying way, but... in a way that makes people feel. You only ever talk when you're spoken to."

"How would you know? You've spent the last two weeks ignoring me," Richie scoffs.

"I watch you," Eddie says. "What you just told me? That's incredible. Tell some other people about it sometime, they'd love to hear about that."

Richie scoffs, but then asks "What about writing? You're good at that. Do you write for other people?"

Eddie pauses for a moment, but then resumes eating. "I wrote for you, and then I stopped."

"Then write for yourself," Richie shrugs. "I won't talk unless you write."

"If I write, will you tell me what you're feeling?" The two try to bargain a happy compromise, but they're both stubborn flames that refuse to extinguish.

"No," Richie shakes his head. "It's not that I won't, it's that I don't know how. I can't... I can't put it into words."

"Then give me music. You're good at that, I know you are. You were always communicating through mixtapes... let me know how you're feeling with a song."

Richie looks down at his plate, thinking of the LOVER tape that they shared upon their first encounters. When him and Eddie would slowdance down by the quarry, or sit in the same chair down in Hanscom's basement during birthday parties.

"Do you still have the nightmares?" Richie asks, lifting his eyes up.

Eddie frowns, giving a noncommittal shrug that only proves what Richie just asked. "Sure. Sometimes. They're different now, though."

"What are they about?" Richie asks. Could it get worse than a giant spider ripping your arm off?

Eddie shrugs. "I don't want to tell you. I don't trust you like that."

Richie doesn't feel hurt, he just understands. He doesn't trust Eddie with his scared thoughts either, they're too closed off. Afraid to get hurt, but mostly afraid to hurt each other.

"I tell you what, Kaspbrak," Richie takes his first bite, which causes the boy in front of him to smile. Eddie nods encouragingly, the face of someone proud only making Richie feel more driven to keep doing what it is that made him smile in the first place. He takes another bite, then says "I'll tell you through music. But I want you to tell me, too. I know you listen to music, you've got MTV in your room and your mom's vinyl collection. Give me some of it, explain what happened, what's happening, or what's going to happen. We'll exchange."

Eddie seems to consider this for a moment, pondering fauxly as if he doesn't already know his response.

"Alright," Eddie nods.

"Yeah?" Richie asks.

"Yeah, sure," Eddie nods. "Just one song, for now. We'll listen to it with each other at the end of the week."

"Friday?"

"Henry has therapy on Fridays, so I'm free."

"Therapy?" Richie repeats. Are they talking about the same Henry? Or some clone?

"I told you, Rich. He's different. We're all different."

"Yeah, yeah," Richie shakes his head, putting his fork down. He doesn't feel so encouraged now, he can't help but think about how Eddie only has time for him when Henry's already busy. A second choice. "Friday. I'll give you a song."

Eddie notices the shift, he sees Richie push his plate away and look out the window. Snowfalls are reflecting against the cracked glasses lenses, resembling the tears that want to come down so desperately.

Still, Eddie leans forward and touches his fingertips against Richie's knuckles in a delicate manner. When Richie looks back down, he sees Eddie's pinky finger extended outwards towards him.

The promise of a promise, a guaranteed binding contract. Eddie takes these types of promises seriously, even now that he's 18. Richie takes a deep breath, afraid of the commitment he's about to subject himself to.

He still takes Eddie's pinky and wraps himself around it, promising the truth and honesty that comes with music.

A new mixtape, the B side turning over.

A new soundtrack of trying to remember how it feels to fall in love.

Chapter Text

"Here, this might help," Eddie had said, shoving the items into Richie's hand. "I kept it because nobody else deserved to have it. Bill got your tapes, though. But that... that was yours. Your secret weapon, I guess. It belongs to you, I'm not going to hold onto it anymore."

Then, he shut his locker and ran across the hall to where Henry was waiting, spinning his keychain around on his fingers absently. When Richie looked at the two, Eddie laughing and looking up at Henry, he made eye contact with his childhood friend.

Instead of a scowl or a glare, Henry just nodded towards him in acknowledgment, then looked down at Eddie and smiled at whatever it was the little one was saying.

They walked away, but Richie didn't feel bad about it. Henry is adjusting to Eddie talking to Richie again, he's not controlling either of the two from seeing each other. Maybe he has changed, maybe he hasn't. As long as he's done hurting people, hurting Eddie, that's all Richie could ask for.

Now, Richie sits on the edge of Bill's bed, his thumb stroking the edge of his walkman. He hasn't held one in years, and he certainly never thought that he would get to be reunited with the very first one that served as a surrogate for his love towards music. He's thankful that Eddie kept it, even if it were for selfish reasons.

"Alright, let's see," Bill exhales, dragging out a large shoebox from his closet. "This one's yours, Rich. I've got tons others, though."

Richie watches the girl slide off the bed next to him to kneel next to the shoebox, flipping the lid open with her nimble fingers. Richie doesn't say much to her, he's not sure how to act now that he knows the truth. He's not mad at Eddie for telling him, in fact, he's glad. He doesn't want to be blind to the dangers of a murderer, even if she was once his best friend.

God... I gave her a switchblade. A fucking knife, he thinks to himself, worry setting in. What if she goes on a killing spree using that knife? What if it's tied back to me? What if I'm put back into captivity after finally escaping? I'll never make it to my eighteenth birthday, not at this rate.

"You listened to ABBA?" Beverly scoffs, sorting through the tapes inside the shoebox carelessly. "Get a grip, man. Disco blows."

"Hey," Bill turns around, pointing a hanger towards his girlfriend. "You watch your mouth, we are a disco family in this household."

Beverly puts her hands up in surrender but then begins sorting the tapes into two piles. Good and bad. Richie watches her uneasily, afraid to even have her in the same house as him.

Richie watches her hands, imagining them covered in bruises from self defense. The last time he saw her before he got sent away, she had a sprained ankle and a black eye. Then, he got on that train, and she became a killer just a mere four days later.

Richie spots a tape he recognizes from the handwritten cover, the plastic casing scratched as if it's been well traveled with. He stands up, approaching Beverly's stacks and watches her read the track listing. She looks at her good pile, then at her bad. Before she can make that judgement, Richie holds his hand out to ask for it.

She looks up from where she's kneeling on the floor, trying to register Richie's request. As she places the tape in his hands, Richie feels her fingertips brush his, and he wonders if that was the hand covered in blood or the one still holding the back of the toilet seat.

"I'm gonna go get some fresh air," Richie declares, inserting the tape into the Walkman with ease. He detangles the headphones that look like they haven't been used in years, but the foam around the ear pieces smell like the cough syrup of the Kaspbrak home. It's comforting in a way.

Bill waves him off, but Beverly watches the boy leave the room with conspicuous eyes.

"Isn't that odd?" She asks Bill, turning back to her hands sorting out a tape from The Cars.

Bill lifts a pair of aviators off of his eyes from where he was trying them on in the mirror. He looks towards his open door, then back down to Bev. "Not really. What if he just wanted to go smoke?"

"But he doesn't, he quit," she looks back towards the door, a view of the hallway from her positioning on the floor. Richie is gone from view, the way he likes to be. Hidden. Out of sight, out of mind. "It's just weird. It's the middle of winter and he's going outside."

"Give it a rest," Bill shrugs. "Maybe he's tired of you and your fat head taking up the room."

Beverly forces a smile as she chucks a tape at Bill, who skillfully catches it before it can bludgeon his forehead in. When Bill looks away, Bev's eyes linger back towards the hall. "Yeah. Maybe."

Richie passes by Zack in the living room as he heads out the front door. Maybe Zack said something to him, maybe not. Richie has his headphones on and can't hear a thing other than Freddie Mercury singing to him. He's missed Queen unbelievably, he didn't realize just how much until he heard the start of I Want It All pounding through his headphones.

The snow on the porch begins to melt under Richie's bottom, wetting his jeans. He doesn't care, he welcomes the cold. It gives him the illusion that some of these fires that Eddie has sparked within him are sort of extinguished. Sort of.

Beverly's car is parked in the driveway, her backseat windows cracked down just a little. Richie knows she's trying to clear out the cigarette smoke so that her aunt doesn't catch her, but he's not sure what the big deal is now that she's 18. Besides Ben, Richie is the only one still underage.

"I read the autopsy report," he hears in his mind. "She's a murderer."

Richie sighs shakily, looking down at the Walkman in his hands and turning the music up. His breath comes out in bushes of fog, as cloudy as his mind is now that he's learned far too much for someone with such a weak train of thought to begin with.

Where will she stop? Was it truly just self defense? Or was it more? Will she do it again? It's been two years since it happened... if it was going to happen, it would have happened already, right?

He shakes his head, turning the music up on his tape to drown out all the background noise going on around him. The cold winter is the same bitch she's always been, a couple kids across the street building a snowman. To be a child and to have that much innocence... oh, what a life.

There's a tap on Richie's shoulder, causing him to jump up and slide a few steps down. He turns around quickly, closing his body off to avoid getting hit in the vulnerable parts. His wide, defensive eyes meet Beverly's, and that fear does not go away.

She reaches out and slides his headphones off with an amused smile, her hand moving up to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear.

"Hey, weirdo," she laughs, jabbing a thumb over her shoulder. "Kaspbrak's on the phone for you. You okay?"

The first time that somebody has asked since Eddie. Of course it would be her, she was his first best friend. But now anymore, it's not the same now that he knows the truth. He swallows hard, averting his eyes as he lies to her through his teeth.

"Yeah. Just a headache," he shrugs, standing up and brushing some of the snow off his ass.

"Well I don't think blasting music straight into your cranium is going to help that," she snickers, holding the door open for Richie. "So, have you two talked?"

"He's calling, isn't he?" Richie retorts with a scoff. He doesn't feel guilty talking back to her as much, but that little seed of fear is still planted deep within him.

"Fair point," she nudges him in towards the kitchen, mumbling a little "Go get him, tiger."

She doesn't know a thing about their situation, but that isn't necessarily her fault when Richie won't open up to anybody. Not even the kid on the other line waiting for him. Richie sighs, picking up the phone, his nerves taking the shape of something new now that they're nervous because of Eddie rather than the killer loose in his house.

"Hey," the skinny kid exhales.

"It's Eddie," Eddie declares.

"I know," Richie smiles. "Couldn't stay away, Kaspbrak?"

"You wish, Denbrough," Eddie scoffs, and Richie can practically imagine the way he shakes his head like he always does whenever he pretends to be annoyed with Richie. Denbrough sounds easy coming from his mouth, it sounds better than Tozier ever did. "Tomorrow's Friday."

"Congrats! You finally know your days of the week!" Richie laughs, earning the attention of Sharon, who is preparing dinner over at the stove. It's the first time she's heard such a sound come out of the boy they've adopted, so she turns to marvel at the smile he's wearing.

"Oh my God, I will hang up," Eddie says.

"Okay, okay, hold on!" Richie rushes, anxiety balling up in his throat. "Okay. I'm listening."

"I have to check in with mom after school, but I want you to meet me at the aquarium at five, okay?" Eddie plans, twisting the phone cord around his finger nervously. He can hear the beeping of his mom's timer, letting him know she's going to come in for her insulin shot soon. "Bring your tape and a good pair of headphones."

"No Walkman?" Richie asks, feeling the object in his pocket.

"Keep that safe, big guy," Eddie says, listening for the squeaking of the wheelchair coming down the hall. "Listen, I gotta go. I'll catch you tomorrow. Don't be late!"

The phone clicks dead, the hum of an empty line buzzing in Richie's ear. He sets the receiver back on the hook, a bit of his smile fading away as he comes back to reality and comes to face the kitchen.

"Who was that?" Sharon asks, stirring the pasta on the stove. "You were smiling."

"Oh, just my, um..." Richie trails off, pointing at the phone absently. What would Richie call him? Ex lover? Soulmate? Heartbreaker? "...Friend, I think. Is it okay if I go to the aquarium tomorrow?"

"Honey, I don't give a damn where you kids go as long as you're not breaking any laws and you're in the front door by curfew," Sharon repeats the same speech she's given Bill his whole life. Well, not his whole life. She shut down after Georgie, Bill only just recently got his parents back. Bill healed faster than they did, but they healed twice as strong.

"Thank you, mo-" Richie stops himself from finishing the word, placing a hand over his mouth as he turns abruptly to leave the kitchen and head upstairs. He panics internally at the slip of the tongue, demanding himself to not get attached. She's not his mom, she simply pities him. That's all.

When Richie pushes his bedroom door open, he finds that he's not alone.

"What are you doing in here?" Richie takes a step back so that his feet are on the other side of the threshold, a little barricade between her and him.

Beverly turns and looks over her shoulder, her hands lowering away from the bookshelf that Richie is slowly starting to build up. Her fingers were tracing along the edge of a leatherbound journal, the only book that looks more used than the rest. He tenses tightly, winding up and clenching his fist around the doorknob out of fear.

"What, I can't hang out in here? Dude, relax," she scoffs, flopping back down on his bed.

"No," he shakes his head. He takes that step over the threshold, entering the lion's den. Her fiery orange mane spreads out around her on the linen sheets, her gleaming eyes always holding a secret. "Bill's probably looking for you."

"Bill's taking a shower," she states, lifting her eyebrows. The girl begins to reach into the front pocket of her overalls, causing Richie to tense up. Oh god, he thinks. This is it. She's going to show me everything she learned with that knife I gave her, she's going to make me her second victim. Instead, Beverly pulls out a pack of cigarettes and asks "Got a light, man?"

"Could you..." he loses his confidence. He can't remember what it was that Eddie said about talking to people, but he can't seem to get past the fact that she might literally kill him for saying the wrong thing. "Please don't smoke in here."

"Whaat? Come on, dude, it's not like Bill's parents care," she chuckles, placing a cigarette between her cherry stained lips.

"Th-They're..." Richie takes a deep breath. "They're my parents too. I don't want them to think I smoke, I don't want to disappoint them."

Beverly stares for a moment, her eyebrow arched as if she's in disbelief of the words coming out of a mouth once filled with trash. Then, with quick, short movements, she removes the cigarette from her mouth and shoves it back into the box with finality. Richie flinches at the passive aggressive movements, all too familiar with body language and what that sort of action leads to.

"What the fuck's crawled up your ass?" She asks. "You're totally being weird to me, man. Weirder than usual. What did I do to royally piss you off?

There it is. Not necessarily a murder, but near death. A blow to his chest. Nearly stopped his anxiety ridden heart.

Richie looks behind him, seeing steam billowing out from underneath the crack in the bathroom door. He listens carefully to Sharon making noise down the stairs in the kitchen, picking up on the subtle sounds of Zack watching the game on TV. Then, he turns back to Beverly's expectant face, and the sounds all become deafening.

"What happened to your dad, Bev?" His voice is broken before the words can even come out, his nose turning cherry red as he wipes at the back of it.

She's thrown off her game by this question, her blue eyes widening in shock. That smugness instantly flushes out with the rest of the color in her complexion, fear making her as white as a ghost.

"Wh-Who told you about that?" She instantly sneers.

Richie shrugs, avoiding her eyes. He's scared, he's extremely scared. He wishes Bill were in the room, but he knows he would never bring this up in front of lovesick Denbrough.

"That's not- That's not any of your business," she scoffs in offense, standing to her feet quickly.

Richie takes a step backwards, his feet right on the threshold between his room and the hall. He glances at her combat boots and says "It's not true, right?"

"It's-" she starts to say, but the lie is caught in her throat like the lung cancer she'll contract if she keeps reaching for those cigarettes like a coping mechanism.

Richie gives in, so weakminded. He walks across the room and opens his window, gesturing for her to go ahead. Without hesitation, Beverly scrambles over towards the window sill, leaning over as she fumbles to spark her empty lighter over and over again in desperation of a flame. Her hands tremble, and it's the first time that Richie has really seen her be afraid since he's come back. He's reopening all her old wounds, but he supposes he's doing that for a lot of people.

"Are you scared of me?" She asks, mouth full of clouded smog.

"Yes," he answers truthfully.

She squeezes her eyes shut really tight, her mouth twitching as she attempts to form the proper words. "I didn't... I didn't mean to. I didn't want to. It all just happened so fast, and he was- he was-" she stops to take another shaky drag, opening her tear-filled eyes. Even if she were to be faking it, there's no way she could muster up tears like that. "I didn't mean to hurt him, Rich. I just wanted him to stop. I grabbed the- the toilet seat lid, and I just wanted him to stop. I didn't think... I didn't think..."

She stops talking long enough to cover her face with her hands, her cigarette balanced so perfectly between her fingers that the toxic smoke is still billowing out of his window.

Richie asks, "Why didn't you confess?"

"And be sent away? Get locked up in some freakshow like Hockstetter? I heard what he did, Richie, I don't wanna go to juvie with the likes of him."

Richie frowns, sitting on the edge of his bed and trying to bring up the name Hockstetter in his buried memories. Could it be... "Patrick Hockstetter?"

She lifts her face out of her hands, those crystallized eyes wet with tears. She looks as confused as Richie feels, but her tongue still finds the wit and edge to say "What, Eddie could tell you all about my tragedy, but none about his?"

Richie's throat goes dry when he hears the word tragedy. He's had enough pain and sorrow for a lifetime, he doesn't want to be sitting here discussing self defense with his murderer friend. He doesn't want to talk about Eddie's pain, either. He just wants everyone to be the exact same way that they used to be, running through pastures out at the Hanlon farm and playing tag with one another. Back when things were simple, when all he and Eddie had to worry about were the contents of his inhaler. Not murder.

"Eds and I didn't talk that much," Richie lies. He doesn't feel guilty, either. For some reason, it's okay to lie if it means he's protecting that particular person. He's not sure what that means.

She doesn't believe a second of that bullshit, but she shakes her head. "I'm not getting locked up. I didn't even mean to, and he... he was an awful, awful bastard, Richie. You know how sick he was."

"But murder?" Richie asks.

"I didn't mean to!" She raises her voice in a fit of exasperation. She lights up another cigarette and begins to chainsmoke, her shoulders shaking with her erratic breathing. "It was just there, okay? I didn't know it would hit him so hard, I just needed him to stop hurting me."

Richie hears a shift in the deafening noise, his attention sucking straight towards his open bedroom door. The shower has been shut off, replaced by the silence of what can only be Bill drying off. They don't have much longer to discuss this, so Richie takes a deep breath and shakes his head.

"That's a lot. Who all knows?" Richie asks.

"Nobody," she shakes her head quickly. "You're the only person I've confessed to. Well..."

"Well?"

"Eddie knew, he told you. So that means Henry knows."

"Henry won't tell," Richie shakes his head promisingly. That much, he does know for certain.

"How can you be so sure?" She asks in disbelief. "He got you sent away, Richie. He's the reason you're fucked up now."

Richie stands up, his fists tightening. His brows furrow, so he coughs out the large lump of sand keeping his emotions clogged from getting out. Now with the new freedom, he says "He was afraid. He's a dick, he's a fucking asshole, he's a shitbag, he is scum of the earth, he is the worst human alive. But he is not the reason I am the way I am, and I am not fucked up, Beverly Marsh."

"You're defending him?" She asks. "He's the reason you and Eddie-"

"No, he is not," Richie raises his voice above talking level, but not quite to yelling. That inbetween where he can get his point across thoroughly. "Eddie and I are the reasons we are apart. We're the only ones responsible for this, we only have ourselves to blame. Henry is the reason Eddie is even safe. He may not be as... as... as morally aligned as you, Bev, but he has kept that little fuck happy and content and.. and not alone. You guys all drifted, and I'm glad Eddie was able to find someone to talk to. He doesn't deserve to be alone, and I don't really think you have the right to be passing judgement on Henry when you've got a murder charge to your name, so just... just stop pointing fingers at who's done worse than you."

Bev is silent for a moment, staring at Richie in the center of the room completely unaffected. It's the most he's said since coming back, and Bev is only surprised it took so long with how much she was provoking him. She takes the cigarette out of her lips, blowing the smoke straight into Richie's bedroom.

"Wow," she breathes out, raising one eyebrow. Her face is cold and stoic, but how else would her pride let her react after getting told off like that?

"What?" Richie asks, daring her to make another comment.

"Even after all this time," she puts her cigarette out on the windowsill, flicking the butt of it into the yard below. Her eyes drag back to Richie's, that indistinguishable dynamite fuse lighting in her smile. "You're still so fucking in love with Kaspbrak."

Chapter Text

Richie braces himself against the cold, his legs shaking as air sneaks up around his ankles. He's started tight rolling them on his own, but he doesn't get it right like Bill does. There's still room around his ankles for snow to eat at whenever he steps into a particularly large snowbank.

The only thing keeping him warm is the tape he's got buried deep in his coat pocket, a Queen album that isn't set to release until next month. Bill says he got it from some guy in a back alley behind a bar, apparently that guy got it when he was staying in London and slept with the lead singer. Richie thought this was the greatest news ever. He's holding an unreleased album from a guy who had sex with Freddie Mercury. His life is officially starting to look up.

The important thing on the tape is the last track. The song he's chosen to give to Eddie, for he sobbed uncontrollably when he first discovered it the night before. His door was locked, the lights were off, and he was hiding beneath his blankets when the chorus first struck. Never in Richie's life has he found something that depicts everything he feels; all his pain and heartbreak, but all his confusing sexuality thoughts as well. Bill was telling Richie all about Queen last night, the stories that Richie's missed out on, news and songs he didn't get to hear, and the one thing seemed to stand out the most to Richie was a single word.

Bisexual.

Most people say he's gay, same thing goes for Bowie. A boy wears makeup, or kisses another man, and the world views him as a homosexual. No other options, it's either heterosexual or just plain gay. Richie never agreed with that, he knew he felt attraction to women the same way he did men, so hearing Bill inform him about how Freddie has made statements about how he just loves to be in love, regardless of gender, Richie felt... like he belonged. He supposes that Queen has always made him feel that way, though. Even when he was just a kid, he's had this ridiculous crush on the band's discography.

No song has hit him the way this one did, and he's not sure if he's ready to open up and share such vulnerable and emotional words with Eddie Kaspbrak.

"Hey there, stranger," he hears over his own thoughts.

Richie lifts his head in alarm, his eyes landing on Eddie's familiar figure walking towards him. Richie's eyes fall downwards, remembering how much he loved this sight. Eddie's footprints walking towards his own, conjoined paths starting their own journey side by side. He likes the snow best when their footsteps overlap, or Eddie's disappear as Richie would often lift the small boy up and carry him around on his back.

They don't do any of this today, they just stop a foot apart. Not conjoining, not crossing paths. A respectable distance.

"It's freezing out, you could have waited inside," Eddie says, gesturing for Richie to follow him towards the door.

"It's okay," Richie shrugs, his voice so very soft spoken. "I wanted to make sure you knew I was here. I didn't want you to think I stood you up."

"I knew you wouldn't," Eddie shakes his head, tugging the door open and welcoming the blast of hot air that crashes out of the aquarium. He begins to slide his mittens off, stuffing them into an already bulging coat pocket.

Richie smiles, but Eddie doesn't see it. Instead, Eddie leads him past all the exhibits of the fish he so dearly loves, leading Richie into the auditorium. Eddie doesn't look back to see if Richie is following, he doesn't have to. Eddie shuffles into the back row, sitting down in the seat he claimed years ago. He fell asleep on Richie's shoulder that day, listening to a mixtape full of love songs his boyfriend had crafted for him.

Things have changed. The two aren't dating, and they're no longer giving each other love songs. Richie isn't sure what to expect from Eddie's song, but he watches the boy pull his own Walkman out of his pocket and fumble with the tape inside of it.

"Yours first," Eddie states, holding his hand up. He looks up, then smiles and says "If you're comfortable. I suppose we don't have to get right into it if you don't want."

"It would be nice if we could, um..." Richie bites his tongue, knowing he's going to sound stupid. He hates coming off as needy, but sometimes he just can't help it. "If we sat and talked for a little while."

Eddie pauses, then lowers his hand down into his lap. The auditorium is dark and empty, the only light coming from the saddened stage. It shows the outline of Richie's cheekbone, but the rest of his features is covered by the glare on his thick glasses. Eddie can't read his facial features, but it's a good thing he's well versed in body language as well.

"Okay," Eddie nods, "How was your week?"

Richie thinks it's incredibly forced, but it's still an attempt. He should reach out halfway to make it easier, to connect somewhere in the middle. He says, "I talked to Bev about her dad. She says it was self defense."

"That makes sense," Eddie doesn't question it. "He was a sleazeball."

"True," Richie nods. He remembers the fake voice he used to put on anytime he wanted to talk to Beverly, all because he knows what kind of beating the girl would have gotten if Mr. Marsh found out she was friends with a boy. "I'm still uneasy, though. She never came clean."

"I think Chief Bowers helped her cover up the crime scene," Eddie whispers. "I'm not supposed to tell anybody, Henry made me promise. Do you swear you won't tell anybody this?"

The two aren't 17 and 18, they're just a couple of 15 year olds still at heart. Richie turns in his seat, holding his pinky out to Eddie trustingly.

Once Eddie interlocks their fingers, he lowers his voice. "Henry says that Chief and Mr. Marsh used to play poker a lot, and that Chief owed Alvin a lot of money. Henry says they're broke, so his dad helped Beverly get away with it."

"That's fucked," Richie looks away. He drops Eddie's pinky, shaking his head. "She's... I... This fuckin' town, man."

"Welcome back," Eddie giggles sarcastically.

"She also told me something else," Richie changes the subject as soon as the topic is in his mind. He used to not be able to control that rapid fire, he would blurt out anything that he thought of. But clearly, as time's gone on, he has come to filter himself a bit better. He tests the waters of conversations to see if it would be safe to drop a bomb, and right now, he's dipping his toes into the shallow end. "About Patrick Hockstetter."

Eddie instantly tenses up, his whole body going as rigid as stone. He turns in his seat until his body is completely turned away from Richie, his hand coming up to cover his mouth.

Richie reaches out, placing his hand on Eddie's back. The little one flinches, and Richie suddenly understands how everyone else must feel anytime they try to talk to him. Guilt. Sympathy. Fear. More guilt.

"Hey, wait, I'm sorry," Richie whispers, pulling away just slightly. He lets his fingertips brush against Eddie's arm, just to remind the asthmatic that he's still there. "I'm sorry. We don't have to talk about that, I didn't know."

"It's not your fault," Eddie rushes out in one big breath. He makes some type of movement that looks like wiping his eyes, but it's hard to see in the dark. "You just got back. How could you have known?"

"You can tell me," Richie says a little too quickly. He's not entirely sure what's happening, but he does know that he wants to be there for Eddie in any sort of way. It's hard to be friends with anybody he once was before being sent away, nobody understands the pain he's been in, or they try to act like it never happened. Richie feels like a giant gaping wound that won't stop bleeding, but Dr. Kaspbrak is the only person brave enough to attempt stitches. Even if he doesn't know how deep the wound goes. He wants to be there for Eddie's wounds, too. Maybe not stitches, but he can be a bandaid. "I'll listen. It's all I'm really good at, since I'm not the best at replying to things."

Eddie turns around with a little smile, an anxious one, and says "I was lying when I said that. I was just mad at you, I'm sorry. I don't have the right to act like a dick, I was just really hurt, man. But you're not- you're good at replying. I like telling you things."

"You deserved to feel what you felt," Richie nods, "But thank you for saying that. I'll try to be better."

Eddie smiles, looks up at the ceiling, and then finally says "Henry wants to hang out."

"What?" Richie splutters, then scoffs. "Why, so he can kick my ass for bothering you?"

"No, you dork," Eddie laughs, not realizing how serious that threat was. "He wants to talk and explain himself, I guess. He says there's a lot that he's sorry about, and he doesn't want things to be weird between you guys anymore."

"Well, he made them weird," Richie shakes his head, "Maybe he shouldn't have told me he was going to bust my kneecaps in, or whatever the fuck."

"Richie," Eddie's hand comes out and touches Richie's arm. The fingertips melt through the jacket, going straight for the bone. It's comforting in a way, but it's exciting too. "Please? For me."

With that being said, Richie doesn't hesitate at all. He says, "Alright, Eddie spaghetti. I'll hang out with your boyfriend."

"Don't call me tha- Wait," Eddie stops dead in his tracks. "You think I'm dating Bowers?"

Richie hesitates, trying to do the math in his brain. It's adds up, doesn't it? Them dating seems to be the only way the equation can make sense. Henry is lonely, he needs the attention, and Eddie is just a sucker for love. He always has been. "Aren't you?"

"No!" Eddie's voice changes pitch in embarrassment. He flings his hands up quickly, which causes Richie to flinch. Eddie calms down quickly, reminding himself to not make sudden moves. "Sorry. No. Are you serious? Did you really think this whole time that I was dating him?"

"I mean," Richie shrugs.

"I... I can be friends with another gay guy without dating them, Rich. I don't exist to be someone's boyfriend. I don't want to date anybody," Eddie explains.

The last line hurts a bit more than Richie will admit to, so he digs around in his pockets and pulls out the tape.

"Can we share now?"

Eddie huffs, but he would rather change the subject too. Talking about his love life with the one it revolves around isn't exactly Eddie's idea of fun.

"You first," Eddie restates, handing over the Walkman to Richie. There's stickers all over it, ones that depict little aliens and blue fish. Richie doesn't mind them, he just focuses on getting his tape in so that he can plug his headphones in. Once plugged in, he holds them out to Eddie, who guides Richie's hands up to his head until the boy places them on Eddie himself.

Richie winds through the tape to find the exact moment that he's looking for, his track fourteen. The song that bears his souls in a naked way, giving himself completely over to Eddie in this moment. Once he presses play, he sets the Walkman down on his lap and chooses to look away so he can't see Eddie's reaction to The Show Must Go On by Queen.

About a minute in, Eddie's hand comes over to hover over Richie's. Richie looks down, the light outlining Eddie's knuckles in the prettiest way. He wonders what chorus Eddie is hearing, but he turns his hand over anyway so that the smaller one can grab onto his palm.

Eddie takes his free hand and turns the volume up so loudly that Richie can hear the words clearly, and upon recognizing the exact chorus that beats him down every time, he begins to shake involuntarily. Richie takes a deep breath and attempts to not freak out in front of Eddie, but the smaller one just squeezes his hand tightly and leans over the armrest between their two chairs so he can rest his head on Richie's shoulder.

The shaking stops.

When Richie hears the click of the tape that signals the song has ended, he attempts to pull his his hand away from Eddie. The smaller boy doesn't let him, though. Their hands remain linked, and Eddie nuzzles the tip of his nose into the side of Richie's neck.

"Again," he whispers, the word ghosting along the curve of Richie's jaw. It sends shivers down Richie's spine, so he uses his free hand to rewind the tape to play the song again.

This time, Eddie listens a bit harder than the first time. He was entranced by the instrumentals and vocals of a song he's never heard before, but this time, the words stand out as if Richie were speaking them to him directly.

Eddie listens for a third time, just so he can bathe in the soul of Richie Denbrough that's being exposed to him right now. He missed this. Their intimate moments. He missed the racing heart, the shaky hands, and the feeling of being cloaked entirely in Richie's inner thoughts. He never thought they would end up back here, but it only took a couple days for his hand to be entwined with Richie's again. Some might call that soulmates, but Eddie doesn't think fate has anything to do with it. They choose their destiny, and these two are working damn hard to make this work again. Destiny and fate don't have shit to do with the trust that they are trying to unearth from a grave.

After the third click of the tape ending, Eddie lifts his head up and says "Okay, I'm ready."

His hands are nervous, fumbling over the buttons on the Walkman as he forwards through most of the tape to find the song he chose for Richie. Rich had seen the side of the tape as Eddie was inserting it into the Walkman, so he knows he can at least expect a song from Foreigner, he's just not sure which one.

"Here," Eddie reaches up, causing Richie to panic and back away. Richie tries climbing over the back of the seat, his first reaction being to flee as soon as Eddie's hands came near his face. He's been slapped far too many times to react any other way.

Eddie puts his palms up in surrender, showing Richie that he's not going to hurt him. Richie slowly relaxes, taking deep breaths and settling back down into his seat. He feels embarrassed, his cheeks turning a scarlet hue of humiliation.

"What happened to you?" Eddie asks, his hand cupping the side of Richie's face to turn him towards Eddie. His fingers start to card through Richie's curly mess, brushing all of the hair that obstructs Eddie's view of the handsome face underneath. "I would never hurt you."

Richie looks away, but Eddie only pulls him right back. He pushes the hair on Richie's forehead backwards, being careful to not bump the fragile glasses.

"I'm going to put the headphones on you," Eddie warns, moving his hands slowly. "Don't be scared."

"Okay," Richie nods, feeling utterly pathetic. Eddie doesn't seem to mind though, he is more patient now than he would have been if they chose to do this a week ago, so maybe forgiveness is on the tip of Kaspbrak's tongue.

Eddie slides the headphones over Richie's ears, reaching down to press play. Once the song starts, Eddie sets the Walkman down in Richie's lap and resumes their previous position of hand holding and shoulder resting. It does wonders for Richie's nerves.

I gotta take a little time,
A little time to think things over.

Eddie strokes his thumb against the scars on Richie's hands.

I better read between the lines,
In case I need it when I'm older.

Richie has never heard this song before. He listens to each word carefully, his hand resting on top of Eddie's head as his fingers stroke through the soft hair to stay focused on the boy he's with.

In my life there's been heartache and pain,
I don't know if I can face it again.
Can't stop now, I've traveled so far,
To change this lonely life.

It's as if he knows when the chorus is going to hit, because Eddie lifts his head to look up at Richie in the seat next to him. The words explode with meaning, more meaning than Richie's song had, but maybe Richie is just biased.

Eddie mouths the words, but he does not sing. He leaves that to the tape. "I wanna know what love is, I want you to show me."

His hands lift Richie's up to his chest, pressing Richie's palm flat against the sweater adorning his petite body. Richie can feel the beating of a heart going crazy inside a rib cage. Eddie looks so lost, as if he's holding himself back from what he really wants.

But Richie is holding back, too. He wants this to be right this time, completely right, and he can't rush a love in just a few weeks like they did last time. He pulls his hand away from Eddie's chest, but the tiny one reaches out to settle his touch on Richie's knee.

"I wanna feel what love is, I know you can show me," Eddie mouths along once more.

It becomes too much all at once. Richie takes a deep breath, pauses the tape, and slides the headphones off. His fingers push Eddie's hands off of his leg, and he tries to look anywhere except for Eddie's eyes.

"What's wrong?" Eddie asks. He doesn't get frustrated or embarrassed, he knows that Richie wouldn't be stopping unless there was a reason to.

"This is a lot, Eddie," Richie taps the Walkman, his voice trembling around each word. "Do you realize that it's a lot?"

"It's intimate, yeah, but it... it describes how I'm feeling-"

"No, Eddie," Richie squeezes his eyes shut. He takes a deep breath once more, it never seems to be enough. Anxiety has caused him to believe he has asthma, too. "Listen to me. I'm the same, yeah, but at the same time I am completely fucking different. I thought I was ready and I thought that I wanted this, but this is scary. These lyrics."

Eddie is silent for a moment, trying to figure out which words to use for his response. After an eternity of pondering, he asks "Why?"

Why? What a simple question, but far too complex for Richie to answer truthfully.

"I don't fucking know what goes on in here," Richie shrugs, pressing his palm against the side of his temple. "But it's not well, I can tell you that much. That Queen song can tell you what it's like up here. I'm scared, mostly. Because I don't think I'm capable of showing you what love is, or- I don't know. I'm scared. We're older now, but I think I'm still stuck in this fucking fifteen year old mindset that is scared that everyone's going to leave me in this big house by myself. And you can't be with someone who doesn't trust you to be around, you'll always be on your toes waiting to see if I leave you first before you can leave me. Isn't that fucked up? I'm still just a kid, Eddie. I think the orphan system ruined me."

Eddie doesn't hesitate to reply this time, he doesn't need to. The words come to him instantly. "Rich, the fact that you worry about this shows that you're lightyears ahead of our classmates. I don't think Bill thinks about much else other than getting his dick wet, so the fact that you're this worried for our longterm shows you're not 15, you're not even 17. You're somewhere that I don't think I'll reach until I'm, like, 40. I'm 18 and don't know what I want to fucking do with my life, Richie. I don't know anything. I don't know what schools I want to go to, I don't know where I want to work, I don't know what I'm going to do when my mom dies, I don't know how to get my own insurance for all these gazebo pills, I don't know anything. But I know that you make all that stuff seem less important, because I know I want you. Even if we're not in love, I want to be friends, like you said before. We can do friends."

Richie smiles, nods, and then frowns again. "Your mom is... is she-"

"She's got really bad diabetes," Eddie waves him off, "She's not dying, but she could."

"I'm sorry," Richie brushes against Eddie's arm.

Eddie shrugs, implying that his relationship with his mother didn't strengthen the way that Bill's did. Not all of them can be winners, though.

"They're placebos, dear," Richie smiles in an attempt to lighten the mood.

"What?" Eddie lifts his gaze back up.

"Placebos. You said gazebos."

Eddie smiles at his own stupidity. "See? I can't even use the right words. We're just stupid fucking kids, Rich. Who cares if you can't show me love? Show me friendship, then. That can be a form of love."

Richie nods, knowing he is fully capable of producing friendship. In fact, it's all he really wants, all he desires. He needs his Loser's club back together, and he's got to start somewhere.

"Let's make a deal, Kaspbrak," Richie murmurs, his voice soft spoken. Eddie nods, showing that Richie has his full attention. "I'll hang out with you and Bowers... if you hang out with Stanley."

Eddie opens his mouth to object, but he catches Richie by the eye and understands that this more than just making amends, this is rebuilding what was once there.

Eddie fumbles with the headphones, nodding slowly. "Okay. I will. No promises that he'll want to speak to me, though."

"He will," Richie gives his former lover a pat on the shoulder. He's not sure if that's all Eddie will ever be, just a former lover, or if they'll ever get back to where they were before. He's not sure which he wants, he doesn't want to force anything. What will be, will be.

"Can we go look at the fish now?" Eddie pleads, his voice having a bit of that familiar prepubescent whine that Richie fell in love with when they were freshman. Same inflection, just a different tone.

"Can I finish the song first?" Richie asks in return, overlapping Eddie's hands on the headphones.

Eddie smiles sheepishly and goes, "Oh, yeah, right. Of course. Go ahead."

Richie presses play, and he resumes hearing all about Eddie Kaspbrak's exposed soul. They're in an auditorium, but they don't need to get on stage to put on such a grand performance. The drama belongs to them, they're the only two actors in this whole town that can pretend they're not in love with one another.

Chapter Text

tw: mention of rape and sexual assault. be safe, read with caution.

***

The tension alone is far too thick to breathe in.

The cold air makes it worse, a weight settling in on Richie's throat that closes his windpipe off. The only lifeline he has is the shorter one standing off to the side, his little hands stuffed in his coat pockets, his brown honey eyes darting between the two in front of him.

"Eds," Richie starts out, looking at his lifeline apologetically. He can't do this, he just can't. His knees buckle with anxiety, a pressure building in his sinuses.

"No, no," Eddie shakes his head, taking a shivering breath in, "You guys promised you'd talk."

Henry nods, looking up at the offwhite sky. Winter is like that; cloudy, dark, gray. Monochrome. None of the sunsets like there are in Philly, but Richie is the only one who knows about that.

"Not out here," Henry exhales, retrieving his car keys from his pocket. "Too fuckin' cold."

"Then where?" Eddie scoffs.

Richie's hands twist nervously around themselves, glancing at Silver resting against the bike stand. After their day at the aquarium yesterday, after Eddie showed Richie all his favorite fish and explained their names and relationships with one another, after Richie knocked over a stand in the gift shop and nearly passed out from the amount of guilt, after Eddie took the blame for the commotion and bought a dolphin keychain to compensate for their clumsiness, after a day spent with one another filling in all the gaps of things that they missed out on, for example, Eddie finally lost that last struggling baby tooth that refused to leave his mouth. Richie congratulated him and told Eddie about how he failed his first class down in Philly and had to take summer school. After all of that, Eddie invited him to meet Henry in the parking lot for Curly's the following day so that they can all talk.

Now, here they are, walking into the diner in an unlikely trio. Richie remembers the last time the three of them were together, a clouded memory of a knife held to Eddie's throat.

They all stand in front of the booth, unsure of which side to sit on. Who will Eddie choose? Which side will he partner with?

Henry sits down, and Eddie slides in next to him. Richie flinches, looks away, and comes back to take his seat across from them. Rejection stings, but Richie's used to it.

"Um," Henry starts. He folds his hands over one another, rings adorning his hands to cover up the ugly discoloration on his knuckles. "Sorry, I guess?"

"You guess?" Richie repeats.

Henry clenches his jaw, his fist tightening a little. "Yeah. For what I did."

"Which time?" Eddie asks, a glimmer of hope that he's not entirely on Henry's side here.

Henry looks at Eddie, his gaze softening up. Eddie's been kind to him these past two years, much kinder than anybody else has in his lifetime. He looks a little scared, almost. An expression that doesn't cross the face of any Bowers man.

"Don't be mad," Henry whispers, insecure and scared.

Richie frowns. What the fuck am I watching? This isn't Henry at all.

Eddie shrugs, confusion evident on his face. "About what?"

Henry takes a deep breath in, tightening his grip on his own wrist. "I'm- I- I snitched. I tattled on Tozier, I got 'im sent away."

Richie nods, but doesn't bother correcting the last name. He's not sure what he wants for a last name, they sound different coming out of various mouths. He keeps his eyes on the table, recalling the moment that Henry walked out of the social worker's room as Richie was being led in.

"Wait-" Eddie closes his eyes, "You what?"

"I snitched, alright!" Henry growls, looking out the window they're seated next to. His moodiness will never go away, no matter how much Eddie insists that he's changed. "I fuckin' snitched. I didn't fuckin' think they'd send him all the way down there, just thought- I don't know. I didn't know it would blow up so bad."

Eddie looks to Richie for clarification, but Richie seems just as surprised. He asks the asthmatic boy, "You didn't know?"

"No I didn't fucking know!" Eddie whispers, trying to avoid causing a scene in the middle of the restaurant. "If I knew that-"

"You wouldn't be friends with me?" Henry finishes, a pathetic smirk on his face. "You wouldn't want this, would you?"

Eddie closes his mouth, his eyes having a silent conversation with Henry's as if the two are connected in that telepathic way that him and Richie used to be. Richie wants to look away, but he somehow can't. It's painful, but he needs to observe.

"Why would you?" Eddie finally asks, his voice a bit more feeble. "How could you?"

"It wasn't intentional," Henry scoffs, rubbing his eyes. "I was tryin' to tell on my old man. Fuckin' fed up with his shit, y'know? I wussed out the second I got to that station, man. Nobody would believe me, I freaked. Pathetic fuckin' Bowers makin' up god damn lies about his dad... I didn't want that goin' around, I had a reputation-"

"Not a good one," Richie mumbles under his breath, scoffing.

Henry shoots him a dangerous look, then says "But that lady kept askin' me all these personal questions, 'n' I didn't like 'em. So I cracked and told her all about Tozier's problem just so she'd hop off my fuckin' back. I didn't think all of that would happen."

"Well... Well it did!" Eddie huffs, pushing on Henry's arm. "You know how sad I was! You know how much my heart broke! You didn't think to tell me? Not even mention it?"

As much as Richie hates to admit this, it is a little bit of a relief to see that some of that Kaspbrak rage is shown to other people as well, and it's not just an attitude that Richie inflicts on himself. Eddie's just got a temper, he always has. It's not just because Richie gets under his skin, and that realization is comforting for the anxious one.

"I didn't want you to freak out!" Henry responds, rubbing his arm where Eddie pushed. "We needed each other. I didn't want to ruin that."

Unease sets in quickly, Richie's stomach churning under the pressure. He shakes his head, which Eddie catches immediately.

"No, Richie, it's not like that-" Eddie starts to say.

"Then how is it, Eds? Because you've been telling me that it's not like that over and over, yet Hen seems to disagree," Richie exhales, "I don't know what I'm supposed to believe."

"It's not like that," Henry confirms, to which Eddie nods vigorously. "You really don't get it, man. We really needed each other."

"You're right, I don't get it," Richie stands up. He's not sure why he thought this was a good idea, for it is only deepening the wounds that Eddie's ripping open. He just needs to leave, go home, and figure this shit out by himself. He craves to be alone in his room, but Eddie has other ideas.

"Richie," Eddie warns him, grabbing onto the boy's sleeve. "Sit. Please. Let us talk to you."

Richie clenches his teeth, staring into those pleading bambi eyes that have gotten him into so many things before, this one seems no different. He looks at Bowers next, a look of earnest on his rough features.

Richie reluctantly sits down, which causes Eddie to sigh in relief. The small one says "It was all because of..." he looks at Henry out of the corner of his eye, watching the mullet-wearer nod in permission. Eddie continues, letting the forbidden name come out with hostility. "Patrick Hockstetter. The fucking psychopath. There's a reason he's in the looney bin now, Rich, and we're those reasons."

"Part of those reasons," Henry adds on in a quiet voice, as if he's humiliated even talking about this topic. Richie can't understand why, for the last time he saw Henry, him and Hockstetter were quite the pair. What could've happened?

Eddie comes clean first. He's a bit more confident in his story, a practiced tone from all the nights he's sat up in bed thinking of this dreadful experience or had to recall to the news reporters of his three days. He doesn't think it compares to what Henry went through at all, but that doesn't matter. It was still traumatic enough to give the kid PTSD.

"Patrick liked to... hurt things, I guess. Animals, mostly. Do you remember?" He asks cautiously, tiptoeing around the words slowly. When Richie nods, he continues. "He had this fridge down in the dump, hidden behind piles of trash and rusty shells of old cars. He kept animals in there, he wanted to see how long until they died. He was fucking sick, Richie. So fucking sick. The animals kept dying, and he kept getting bored. So he moved on to bigger things— but not much bigger."

"A freshman would work," Henry says quietly, as if he's reciting the words Patrick told him. "Tiny. One that can't fight back."

Richie's heart begins to hammer with anxiety and his eyes shoot towards Eddie, who is staring down at the table and chewing on his bottom lip. Richie says, "No, wait, no."

Eddie looks up, "I was locked in there for three days. Nobody could find me, I was about three hours away from dying of starvation and dehydration. I couldn't scream, my voice was too hoarse and dry from yelling too much on the first day. I thought I was going to die in there, Richie. I thought I really was. I was just walking home from school, I was so- I was depressed, I think that's what made it so easy for him to sneak up. My mom had a whole search party out by curfew, but nobody thought to check in the junkyard."

"Except me," Henry says quietly.

"Except you," Eddie nods, solidifying their companionship. This is where it stemmed, where it blossomed. Eddie looks back at Richie, finally explaining how this duo came to be in the first place. "Henry found me. Everyone was talking about how I was going to end up just like Bill's little brother, but Henry had a feeling, an intuition, really, and he found me. I couldn't even walk, I was- I was- I was soaked in my own piss, my legs were cramped up from being squished inside the tiniest fucking box, and he carried me to his car and took me to the hospital." Eddie finishes off his sentence with a puff from an inhaler that came out of nowhere, which Richie notes as the first time he's seen Eddie use it since he's come back.

Henry tries to rub Eddie's shoulder in a comforting manner, but Eddie's disgruntled face pushes him back. He seems pained, as if his limbs are remembering how treacherous it was to be trapped in a tin box for three days.

"Come here," Richie holds his arms out, to which Eddie instantly slides out of the booth to join Richie on the other side. He takes a shaky breath of Richie's scent, one that smells more like Bill than how he used to be, but it's still Richie so he doesn't mind. Richie hugs him, resting his chin on top of Eddie's head. He wonders if the little one can hear how rapid his heartbeat is, the anxiety of Eddie in such a situation causing his blood pressure to raise unhealthily. Richie's worst fear used to be seeing his face on a missing poster, but Eddie lived through that trauma.

"Naturally, I went to beat the shit out of him," Henry interrupts the two's bonding moment. He would normally give them space, but he knows that if he doesn't say this now, he will never have the courage to say it again. "I wanted to break up. He was a fucking psychopath, I didn't want to be around that at all. We fucked around and had fun picking on the outcasts, but that was- I didn't like that. It was like a fucking reality check. I was carrying that little fuckin' pipsqueak that you just lost your damn balls over all the way out to my car, and all I could think about is how much hell I gave him. He was so scared when I opened that door and he saw me, he would have screamed if he could. He tried crawling away, but his body just... wouldn't. I didn't fuckin' like that, he associated me with getting hurt and he thought I was in on that sick fucking experiment, and I didn't want it. He's just a kid. I had no reason to be threatening to hurt either of you when I'm two years older, y'know? It was a wake up call. I wasn't fucking insane like Patrick was, and I needed to make him feel the way this poor kid did. Eddie's revenge."

Henry stops for a moment, his hands just fidgeting incessantly. After a moment, he asks "Hey, kid, could you give us a minute?"

Eddie knows what's coming, so he nods and separates himself from Richie. He mumbles something about going to order a milkshake, but he heads towards the broken jukebox just to buy himself some time.

Now alone, Richie feels a little scared to hear where the rest of this is going. He had no idea that there was more to Bowers than what Eddie was letting on, but Richie supposes he really has changed.

Nothing could have prepared Richie for what he hears next.

"Patrick didn't want to break up," Henry says. "So he- he held me down, and he... took me. Said it was to make me feel good so I would stop being mad at him. I tried to fight back, but he held my face down into the carpet until I couldn't breathe anymore. I woke up bleeding."

Richie falls completely silent, the words dropping like an anvil on Richie's head. He tries to imagine Henry in any position of weakness, but it doesn't want to even register in his brain. Henry has always been one to hold his own, the winner of every single wrestling match the two boys had when they would rough house as kids. It would take a real psychopath to be able to conquer Bowers.

"What happened?" Richie asks, his voice so quiet that it's not even a whisper.

"He was asleep on the couch, so I fucking ran. You know my dad, Rich. You know how he is. I'm sure you can imagine what it was like at the police station that night when I had to tell my dad that his son had gotten- gotten raped."

Eddie is standing at the counter now, glancing over at Richie every few seconds. It's like those penetrating looks push into Richie's side, something he can feel, but he's too preoccupied by the nausea that is overcoming him.

Richie shakes his head, unsure of what words to say. Anything that comes to mind seems wrong, like he can't possibly respond to such heavy baggage. All of his issues seem microscopic now, less relevant than an article of dust passing by. Henry's had to live through so much more than Richie ever has, and it's been made abundantly clear why he has the friendship with Eddie that he does now. Eddie knows how to handle that trauma, he had months of experience dealing with it before Richie got sent away.

"He fixed you," Richie eventually breathes out, the final pieces of the puzzle sliding into place. "He does that."

Henry looks over at Eddie, who is talking to a waitress with a bright smile. Gayfully unaware that the girl is hitting on him. "He does, doesn't he? Vic says he's got the soul of a healer."

The two now look over to their shared friend, who just had the rude realization of where that conversation was headed when he is slid a napkin inked with the digits of a phone number. Richie watches him get flustered, shaking his head apologetically, and then say something he can't hear but he can see stumble.

"I'm sorry you went through that," Richie says quietly.

"I think I deserved it," Henry says. "I put out a lot of bad karma into the world, treated you and a whole shitload of people like shit. I chose to date him-"

"No," Richie shakes his head, reaching over to press his pointer finger against Henry's hand. It's the most he can touch someone that isn't Eddie. "Don't say that, man. Yeah, this doesn't excuse any of your shitty behavior, and it's certainly not a redemption arc, but... there's always been potential in you. I think you're finally reaching it. Nobody deserves that. Nobody at all."

Henry shrugs, leaning back in the booth. "The fucker's locked up in an institution now. The kid and I both have restraining orders, so he's not coming anywhere near us again. I'm not too worried."

Richie pauses for a moment, and then asks "Does it get better?"

He figures that if Henry can go through something like that and if he can honestly say that it will get better, that it will stop hurting, then Richie might have a bit of hope to look forward to.

"Yeah, sure," Henry shrugs. "It either got better or I'm just too stupid and blind to see how bad it still is."

Richie chuckles at this, one that Henry mirrors. It might be the first laugh that they've shared since childhood, but Richie doesn't notice the way that Henry does. He just keeps laughing under his breath, busying himself with the sugar packets.

"Sorry for the shit I put you through," Henry says.

"Sorry for the shit you went through," Richie replies.

"No, listen. This is different. I caused you to be put in that home, you didn't cause anything that happened with Patrick," Henry says, followed by a lighter note. "You did give him a nasty shiner once, though. He was so fucking pissed about that."

"And then you held a knife to my boyfriend's throat to get revenge," Richie remembers quite clearly.

"The kid's gotten over it," Henry waves Richie off, then laughs at the absurdity of that statement. "He's good. He was there when I needed him, but I think you need him more."

"You think?" Richie asks genuinely, no sarcasm in his tone.

Henry shrugs and says , "I don't know, Tozier. But I know he wants to be there regardless. I think you should let him."

"I'm going to," Richie nods, glancing at Eddie still politely turning down the waitress. "Has he said anything to you?"

"I'm sworn to secrecy," Henry puts his hands up in defense. Then he adds on, "But I think Derry needs at least one good couple. Your freaky friends sucking face in the hallway is getting a bit boring to me."

"Imagine living with them," Richie laughs. He feels comfortable, something he never would have thought could happen around Henry. While they're on such a good wave, he asks "Eddie tells me you're in therapy?"

"Loads," Henry raises his eyebrows. "That Wendy lady got some anonymous tip about my dad and tried to do an investigation, but I'm sure you can imagine how that turned out for her. She couldn't prove anything against him, but after the Patrick incident she insisted that I seek counseling. I've been in therapy ever since— turns out I have anger issues."

"Shocker," Richie whistles.

"Watch it," Henry says, but not as a threat. More of a laugh.

Eddie comes back over carrying a massive milkshake, setting it on the table as he takes a seat next to Richie. A tiny victory, but still a choice that Richie won. He didn't choose Henry, he chose Richie. A small triumph.

"That girl would not leave me alone," Eddie huffs, embarrassed. "That was so humiliating."

"You couldn't sound gayer if you even tried," Henry comments, but there's no malicious intention in his words. No venom, no bite, no homophobia implied. He's come to accept his own sexuality, and therefore, the internalized oppression he would often take out on flamboyant Eddie has dissipated.

"Coming from you, that says a lot," Richie jokes.

Henry raises his fist, to which Richie instantly flinches away from, his shoulders crashing against the back of the booth as he roughly slams backwards, his arms crossing in front of him to serve as a shield. Such a quick response, but Eddie's hand on his arms is even quicker.

"He was just asking for a fist bump," Eddie says quietly, lowering Richie's hands down.

The boy opens his eyes again, greeting Henry's confused face and hesitant hand held out. Richie stares at it cautiously, his skin aching and burning as he remembers all the times those knuckles collided with his face. Henry looks offended- no, hurt, even, and perhaps it it something to do with the fact that Henry just got done telling Richie that he doesn't want to be associated with fearful reactions anymore. Richie can't help that though, he's too scarred to react normally to a fist bump without going into flight or fight mode.

Softly, Richie reaches out and bumps his knuckles against Henry's, which seems to ease the mullet kid. He nods, relaxing a little, and begins talking about the bullshit course they're all taking in their astrophysics class.

Richie watches Eddie as he talks, admiring each eyelash and cluster of freckles that those lashes brush against each time that he blinks. It's easy to get lost in conversation, especially when the three of them are having so much fun. It feels weird to laugh with Henry, mostly because Richie is still afraid that he's just going to snap one minute and go on a killing spree. He doesn't even seem like the same person. Richie knows that the therapy is helping tons, mostly because he can't help but notice that he's less afraid of Henry than he is Beverly.

After many jokes and a couple milkshakes, Richie looks down at the digital watch strapped to his wrist and he starts to nudge Eddie's thigh under the table.

"It's getting close," Richie whispers, his voice so softened by the grey skies outside.

"Already?" Eddie asks, looking at Richie's wrist as well to gather the time. "Damn. Do we have to?"

"I came here," Richie points out. "You promised you'd talk to Stan. Just get it done and out of the way."

"Who knows, maybe it'll be as easy as this was," Henry interjects, which now makes Richie remember that Henry is in fact Eddie's only friend. Richie had only one friend before, he knows how they work. If Eddie knows something, that means that Henry knows, and vice versa. Him and Bev used to do it all the time, their secrets were each other's secrets as well. This means that Henry knows everything Eddie thinks about Richie, everything Richie says to the little one, and all their upcoming plans. "I can give ya' a ride, if you need."

Eddie nods, but Richie looks hesitant. "What about my bike? Bill's gonna kill me if I leave it here."

"Well then Bill can just-" Henry starts to say, but Eddie cuts him off abruptly.

"There's room in his trunk, trust me."

"Her wheels are big..." Richie says uncertainly and anxiously.

"It'll fit," Henry assures the boy, standing up from the booth. He turns to Eddie and asks "How's your arm, by the way?"

"Oh, fine," Eddie gets out, standing to his feet and digging around in his wallet for some spare dollars to leave as a tip. Richie watches him, then feels a bit of guilt that he doesn't have any money left to leave as well. "Bit achey, but that's all."

"What's wrong with it?" Richie tries desperately to stay in the loop, walking by Eddie's side to keep up with them. He doesn't allow them to go ahead like he does with Bill and Bev, he maintains the same pace because he knows he's going to get the equal amount of respect.

"Oh, it just hurts when it's cold out," Eddie explains. "I don't know why, but it just acts up like a son of a bitch. You remember when I broke my arm, don't you?"

Richie remembers indeed. Except he remembers it much differently than just a broken arm; he remembers first kisses and late night surprises, sleeping off painkillers on the couch, the way the snow melted through his jeans as he knelt down to help an injured boy. So young and dumb and in love, Richie knows better than to try and snap arms back into place now. He can't try and force something back to the way it was before once it's been broken.

He nods silently, unsure of what else to add that wouldn't be absolutely reminiscent of what they once had and now might never have again.

Richie doesn't give Henry directions to the Uris house. He tells Henry which street, but nothing more. He asks for them to be dropped off on the corner of the block, retrieving Silver from the trunk as Eddie leans in through the open window to say something to Henry. Richie tried to not pay attention, focusing on fixing the chain that came loose off the old bike while cramped in the trunk. Richie wonders if Henry knows that he's still got Hockstetter's jacket back there.

After Eddie slaps the top of the car and takes a few steps back, Henry drives off with his painfully loud exhaust. Plumes of smoke and pollution trail behind him, disappearing into the slushy snow all over the streets.

"You don't trust him?" Eddie asks tenderly, rubbing his cold nose with his mitten.

Richie looks up from his bike. His fingers freeze in the cold. "Who said that?"

"You had him drop us off about a block away from Stan's house," Eddie shrugs. "I know I'm not exactly close with you guys anymore, but I would know if he moved, and I know he still lives down that street and not this one."

Richie shrugs, then goes back to repositioning the chain. "I don't know how I feel about him. But I know Stan hates him, and for good reason, so I think it would just be courteous to, y'know, not show up at his house in the car of someone he's terrified of."

Eddie is quiet for a moment, and then he says "It's weird to think that I used to be afraid of him. I can't really imagine him giving me shit anymore, despite the fact I spent most of my life running from him. It's weird. But yeah, I get what you're saying."

"Sorry," Richie shrugs once more, standing up and rolling Silver on the sidewalk a bit to see if she's alright.

"No, don't be," Eddie shakes his head, kicking at her pedals. "You're considerate. Most people aren't."

Richie bites his tongue from spilling that he just wants people to like him, because he doesn't want to sound needy to Eddie. Instead, he asks "Can we share more music next week?"

Eddie smiles. "You liked that?"

"Yeah," Richie begins to push Silver down the sidewalk, heading towards Stan's house. "Made me feel a little normal, I don't know. The music makes sense."

"I know what you mean," Eddie nods. The ground is wet beneath their shoes, and it almost feels like that time they walked to school together. The temperature is a bit colder this time around, but the nervous butterflies are still fluttering just the same. "Yeah, we can make Friday's kind of our thing."

Richie smiles bashfully, "Yeah, I'd like that."

When the two stand on the porch, ringing the doorbell to the Uris residence, Richie takes notice of the little puffs of fog coming from Eddie.

"Hey, what's up?" Richie bumps his knuckles against Eddie's. "You look nervous."

"Of course I'm nervous. I don't think you understand how ugly this fight was, Rich. I haven't spoken to him since, I said a lot that-"

"Hey," Richie calms him down the same way that Eddie calmed him just hours before. "You promised. For me."

Eddie nods yet still has that stubborn look in his eyes. He chuckles under his breath and shakes his head, mumbling "I guess I'm just nervous. You're going to be the one to bring the whole club back together, and I don't know how I'm going to face them after I fucked off and started hanging with Bowers and Vic."

"Yeah," Richie rings the doorbell again, but pulls his fingers away when he hears footsteps approaching. "About that. Where'd Belch go? Is Victor an asshole too?"

Eddie sucks in a breath, but then the front door opens to reveal a sleepy-headed Stan, wrapping his Christmas robe tightly around himself. Eddie glances over, mouthing the word "Later" to Richie.

"Oh, hey," Stan yawns.

Richie looks at his watch, noting the time. 4 P.M., like they agreed. "Did we come at a bad time?"

"No, I just fell asleep watching some dumb documentary that Ben wants me to watch," Stan walks away from the door, waving his hand over his shoulder as to gesture for the two to enter. He barely lifts his feet off the floor, his slippers sliding all the way down to the kitchen. "Do you guys want anything? Tea? I think we have some biscuits floating around here, I don't know."

"I'm okay," Richie says politely, taking a seat next to the kitchen phone mounted to the wall. He wonders if that's the phone that Stan called him from when he falsely came out all those years ago, tears clutching his voice as he recalled their scary encounter with Bowers that day. He told Richie he was gay, and that was what sparked their kinship. Turns out, neither of them were gay at all, but they didn't know that at the time.

"Maybe some cookies," Eddie speaks up nervously.

Richie drops his polite voice and shoots a look towards the boy, asking "How? You just had, like, thirteen milkshakes, dude."

"It was not thirteen!" Eddie argues back. "It was six at most."

"Yeah, six milkshakes closer to have a fucking heart attack, Eds."

"Don't call me Eds, you know I hate it."

Richie rolls his eyes, but then catches glimpse of Stan leaning against the sink, watching the two in amusement. He's holding a mug in his hand, steam billowing up from the rim.

"What?" Eddie asks, his voice still strained.

"Nothing," Stan shakes his head. "It's just funny to see that you two are right back to being annoying."

Richie chews on his bottom lip a little, his hands coming down to clench his legs. Annoying. He digs his nails into his thighs, squeezing so hard that it is bound to leave marks. Annoying. Annoying. Annoying.

"I missed it," Stan shrugs.

Eddie lets out a breathy laugh, but then says "It won't seem so cute in about five minutes when we're arguing again."

"That's not..." Richie's voice cracks embarrassingly, so he shrinks down in the chair to make himself appear smaller. "That's not all we do."

Eddie stares at him for a moment, how tense he is, and he nods. "Yeah, I know. I know, Rich. We're okay."

Richie nods in agreement, exhaling a little in relief. Hearing we're okay makes everything calm down a little bit.

"I'm not mad at you, Eddie," Stan says out of nowhere. "I was never mad at you. You piss me off, yeah, but everyone does. I just couldn't believe that you honestly thought that I didn't care about how much you were hurting."

The whiplash sends Richie whirring. He leans forward as he adjusts to the new conversation, leaning his pounding head against his hand to get some support.

He looks up, watching Eddie reply to Stan with nervous eyes. "I... That's what it felt like. Not just you, but everyone. It felt like I was being held underwater and nobody was helping."

"I tried," Stan says, "You pushed me away. Bill tried, too."

"How?" Eddie scoffs, "By sticking his tongue down Beverly's throat?"

"Well," Stan can't argue that one, but he still says "He tried acting like Richie. Wore the same clothes and listened to the same music, made more jokes."

"That's not the same," Eddie scoffs and shakes his head, "You can't just... You can't just replace him and expect me to get over it. That's not- what?" Eddie can't even fathom such an idea.

"Look, obviously it wasn't ideal, but it filled a little gap," Stan shrugs. "Made it seem less lonely."

"Not for me," Eddie scoffs, "I loved him, Stan. We were... we were intimate with one another! You can't expect me to just get over that because Bill is wearing a few new windbreakers."

"You're doing it again," Stan points at him. "Right now. You're doing it again."

Eddie backs down, sitting back in his chair as he shuts his mouth. In the light of the kitchen window, Richie watches the way Eddie's cheeks flush in embarrassment.

"Should I give you guys some, uh, privacy?" Richie asks nervously.

"No, you're fine, Rich," Stan says dismissively before turning his attention back to Eddie.

"You don't understand what it was like," Eddie says. "To be so in love and have it all ripped away."

Stan shrugs, "Maybe I don't. But you wouldn't tell me how it felt, you just raised your voice and said that you were hurting more. You wouldn't let me help you, because you said your pain was worse than mine. You wouldn't acknowledge that I lost a best friend, too."

"I lost a boyfriend," Eddie corrects him.

"Eds," Richie says slowly, not trying to put himself in the middle of this tender moment, but he needs to say something. Eddie stops squinting at Stan, instead turning to Richie with a wide expression. Richie gulps, taking a nervous breath in as he comfortingly strokes his own leg to soothe the jitters. "...Listen to what Stan is saying. You're not... You're not listening."

Eddie pulls away, as if he's offended those words left Richie mouth. Then, it passes by quickly, only to be overcome by a look of realization that maybe Richie is right. He slowly turns back to Stan, who watches expectantly.

"You lost your boyfriend, yes," Stan nods, "I understand that what you guys had was deep and important to you. But he wasn't... he wasn't just yours, Eddie. He was my best friend as well, he was Bev's, he was Ben's, he was Mike's, and he was Bill's. You shut us out because we didn't understand the romantic aspect, but all of us knew how it felt to lose your best friend. Maybe it hit me a little bit harder because nobody else in the group really knew me the way Richie did, but you didn't care. I was hurting, too."

Eddie is silent for a moment, before he mutters out a simple "Oh."

Stan nods once more, glad that he's finally getting through to the kid. "I just wanted you to be there for me the way I was for you. You remember the first few weeks? They were terrible. You couldn't stop crying, you wouldn't eat, you threw a fit basically anytime someone mentioned him. Yet I stayed with you, I packed you lunches, I walked you home. I wanted you to be there for me too, but you weren't. You were so caught up in your own misery that you didn't even bother to see if I was okay. And I wasn't. I couldn't bear the thought of knowing that kid was somewhere in a foster home with all these stupid insults I would throw at him just... rattling around in that anxious head of his - Sorry, Rich."

"It's okay," Richie nods.

Stan continues. "He was my first kiss. That may not seem like a big deal, but it was for me. I don't think I would know anything about myself had Richie not helped me find my personality. He was, and still is, one of the most important people I've ever met. That was taken from me, too. I wanted to talk to you about all of this because I thought you would understand the most, but you didn't. You didn't want to talk at all, nobody did. I realized that Richie was really the only one who ever truly listened to me. You didn't just lose your boyfriend, I lost my best friend. And I know that... maybe I wasn't his best friend, but he was mine. And that was enough for me."

Richie stands up, his head dizzy with nausea. He feels overwhelmed with all sorts of emotions, the scar tearing open to reveal the unaddressed feelings he buried down deep the second he was forced on that train. Stan looks at him in concern while Eddie just stares at the floor, so in a weak, faint voice, Richie asks "Bathroom?"

Stan points him down the hall, to which Richie blindly stumbles away from that conversation. It's too much, it's too honest. Way too raw, way too vulnerable. He feels as if he was inside Stan's mind in a way that he shouldn't be, as if he's intruding on one's darkest thoughts. He knows that he doesn't want another living soul to see what goes on in his own mind, so to be placed in someone else's is a responsibility that Richie wasn't ready for.

He breathes heavily as he locks the bathroom door, staring up at the mirror above the sink. He turns the faucet on, throwing his glasses aside as he frantically splashes water on his face.

Richie feels too faint to even stand, so he sits down on the tile and backs himself into the corner, listening to the repetitive noise of the sink. Panic creeps up uneasily, knowing he is wasting water. He was allowed five minutes in the bathrooms, and he never went over that five minute mark because it meant that Martin's five minutes got cut short for every second over that Richie remained in the bathroom.

Richie leans up and shuts the faucet off, but that only allows the silence to fill the room. So dangerous for him to be sitting in this type of quiet, something so violent about the radio silence playing fuzzy static in his ears.

He's not sure how long he's in there, time passes differently when you're panicking. Eventually, the dust settles, and his mind becomes numb with the flush of emotion draining out of him. He stands to his shaky feet, looking in the mirror in an attempt to fix himself up. There's no use, his eyes are red and puffy, his nose the same shade. His lip is bleeding from when he must have bitten down too hard, and he smears some of that blood when he tries to wipe away the wet streaks of tears forming rivers on his cheeks. He feels as if the easy laughing with Henry is just a far off, hazy memory, as if he'll never feel that normal again.

Even so, he opens the door and keeps his head down as he reenters the kitchen. Stan and Eddie seem to have made up, the two having a lighthearted conversation that softly carries down the hall for Richie to hear as he takes slow, cautious steps on unfamiliar floorboards. He's not sure which ones creak.

"Dude, why are you wearing a Christmas robe? You're like the only Jewish guy at our high school," Eddie laughs.

"What? Oh, Bill gave this to me in middle school," Stan looks down at the material. "He said he wanted to be funny. That's when we started getting each other Christmas presents."

"I never understood that," Eddie shakes his head. Richie comes into the doorframe, wobbly and leaning against the wood for some support.

"He doesn't do it anymore," Stan shrugs, "His head is too far up- Oh, hey Richie,"

Eddie turns in his seat to see Richie in the doorway, his smile instantly fading. Eddie asks, "Hey, are you okay?"

Richie hits his leg for causing alarm. Anytime someone asks if he's okay, he's caused them to worry. He's burdened them. He must punish himself to make up for it.

"Dude," Stan sees the punch at the same time as Eddie. "Don't hit yourself."

Richie hears that as a dislike, Stan clearly hates him. Stan practically just said everything about Richie is repulsive. Stan wants him dead.

He punches his leg again, this time so hard that the limb loses its footing on the floor and his tall figure wavers.

"Hey," Eddie stands up, coming over to approach Richie. "Stop that. What's going on?"

"I ruin everything..." Richie says distantly, his voice discombobulated and wary.

"What? No," Eddie shakes his head. Richie lifts his arm again, but Eddie stops it this time. The fist that Richie was clenching slowly begins to loosen up, to which Eddie fills that space with his other hand. "What did you ruin?"

"Everything," Richie's mind wanders to his parents, how their marriage was a sham and it's all because of him. He tried so hard to be a good son, he just wasn't enough. He never will be.

"Come on, big guy. Come sit down," Eddie pulls on him a little, easing Richie into the chair. "Do you need some water? You look like you're gonna throw up."

Richie takes Eddie's hands in his, squeezing them so tightly and pressing the back of the boy's hands against his feverish forehead. He hopes that this will take away some of the bad thoughts that the silence allowed in, Eddie was always so good at that. He never really needed his headphones when Eddie was around, the smaller one stopped the noise.

"Talk to me, bub," Eddie murmurs quietly, to which he gets no response. The boy looks over at Stan cluelessly, for he has no idea how to help Richie if he doesn't know what's wrong.

"Rich," Stan starts out slowly, coming over to where the two are. He gently raises his hand to touch Richie's shoulder, but Eddie quickly shakes his head and silently advises against that. So, Stan stands at a reasonable distance, and he says "Eddie and I were planning on getting everyone together to talk. You know, like the old times."

Eddie's fingers are pressed against Richie's wrists, and he can feel the boy's pulse quicken before mellowing out quite a bit. He looks to Stan and nods approvingly, so the curly headed one continues.

"We were thinking of having a party at Ben's. Your guys' basement flooded, right? Ben's got better board games anyway. Plus, his mom bought him an arcade game for Christmas last year. The whole thing! It's Mortal Kombat, you like that one, don't you? We could all go over and hang out, just like we used to."

Richie is quiet for a few moments. Then, in a feeble voice, he asks, "And Mike?"

"How could we forget Mike?" Eddie laughs, freeing his hands so that he can lift Richie's bowed head. "He's just as important as the rest of us, isn't he?"

"Arguably more important," Stan corrects Eddie with a grin.

Richie laughs, nodding his head as Eddie wipes tears away with his thumbs. "Yeah. He's important."

"You are too, you know," Eddie says softly. "We wouldn't be a Loser's Club without our trashmouth."

Richie brings his hands up to wrap around Eddie's wrists, gentle and confused, but hopeful. It's only fair; Eddie panicked while recalling his horrible three days locked in a roasting refrigerator, so it makes sense that Richie has some sort of weird breakdown to even the score.

"Are you guys okay?" Richie then asks, looking between the two.

"Us?" Eddie looks over at Stan, "Yeah, once I got off my high horse and just fuckin' apologized... Turns out, things are still kinda the same."

"He's still a freak," Stan nods.

"He's still an asshole," Eddie assures Richie.

Richie smiles a bit, and things are finally starting to fit together again. The puzzle was scattered, pieces were lost or torn or damaged, but he's starting to smooth out the edges of the corners and fit them back together again. He's not sure where he's going to fit Henry into the picture just yet, but he'll figure it out.

He's starting to feel like he has more time than he thought, as if he doesn't have to die immediately after graduation. Suicide is becoming less frequent in his mind, even when he does have these weird bouts of anxiety seemingly out of nowhere. He feels like he has time to figure it all out, and he's not as rushed as he was a week ago.

His puzzle will be whole again one day, and then he'll finally be able to enjoy the bigger picture.

Chapter Text

tw: mention of self harm. slight nsfw themes, nothing too graphic.

***

Zack and Sharon won a free weekend stay at a resort up in Bangor, so Sharon packed for the spa while Zack sat and talked to the boys about the weekend rules.

"Look, Bill, Rich," Zack sat them down at the kitchen table. Richie was shaking, his teeth grinding against one another as he prepared for the gut wrenching news.

Richie saw Sharon packing. He's was ready to hear it, he's ready to get kicked out. They made a mistake adopting him, he just knows-

"I'm not saying no parties," Zack said. This wasn't what Richie was expecting at all, so he lifted his eyes in surprise. Zack looked around, then lowered his voice. "Just keep it under control, alright? I don't want to get a call from the hospital saying one of you has alcohol poisoning."

Bill laughed, shaking his head. "Who the fuck would we invite to a party, dad?"

Richie nodded. Neither of them are popular, Bill pretty much destroyed that chance with a stutter he couldn't shake. Now, his dead brother's legacy follows him like a shadow. And Richie? Richie will never be cool. He's... well, he's Trashmouth. The trashmouth that got sent away to an orphanage and left behind his faggy boyfriend.

Zack still said "If you're gonna smoke, don't empty the bong water in your mother's porcelain sink. She'll be able to spot that residue the second she steps in the door."

Bill scoffed and then rolled his eyes, pushing on his dad's legs. "Go. Seriously. I'm not having a party, I'm gonna go to Bev's."

Zack looked over to Richie, then asking "Now what about you, crazy kid? You gonna have a rager while I'm gone?"

Richie shook his head, promising profusely "No sir. I'm going to stay home. I'll fight off any intruders."

"Atta boy," Zack reached out to ruffle Richie's hair, and for once, the boy didn't flinch. He just smiled up at the fatherly figure that makes him feel loved.

"Da- Zack?" Richie then asked, earning the attention of both Zack and Bill who heard the slip up at the same time. "Can I invite a friend over?"

Zack looked at Bill with a smile, a silent conversation between their eyes saying that he can't believe this is the infamous class clown that Bill told them all about for the two years that Richie wasn't in Derry. He knew he was going to say yes, but he still did his parental duty by asking "Which friend?"

"Eddie Kaspbrak, sir. He's a good kid, he's Sonia Kaspbrak's son," Richie nodded as if he was trying to sell the idea of Eddie to Zack. His hands twisted in his lap, but Bill could see the way that Richie was crossing his fingers. He thought that was adorable. Bill takes full advantage of his parents lax personalities, but Richie still has yet to learn that he can get away with anything as long as it's not murder.

"Oh, I know Sonia," Zack nodded, his eyes widened. He also knows Eddie, the little boy that used to come stay over in the basement with Bill more often than those other friends of his. In the midst of one of Bill's many tangents about his lost friend, he explained that Eddie and Richie were close. Closer than just friends. "Sure, bucko. Just remember..."

Richie nodded, his eyes wide and ears ready to receive any sort of instruction. He wants to follow authority as closely as possible to prove that they can trust him to do as they say. He's been trained to obey.

"...Don't be silly, wrap your willy. There's condoms in the top drawer of me and your mom's bathroom."

"Dad!" Bill spluttered out, then bursted into laughter at the obscene vulgarity.

Richie, however, turned bright red and covered his mouth with his hand. He looked at Bill for some help, but he was only met with more humiliation as Bill failed to inhale proper breaths.

"I'm just saying! There's an AID's epidemic going around, I'm trying to keep you boys safe!-"

"Oh my god, dad, get out of here!" Bill picked up a packet of sugar off the kitchen table and threw it towards his father, who put his hands up and began to back away.

"If you're gonna do it, I want it to be safe!"

Richie let the embarrassment subside, a small grin started to take over his features at the absurdity of the situation. Sure, the implication was humiliating and totally wrong, but it's still nice to know that he is accepted.

"Go call your loverboy," Bill was still laughing, then pushed on Richie's shoulder. "I've got a redhead to go wrestle."

"Do you mean wrestle literally or..." Richie trailed off, pointing his thumb in the direction of where Zack disappeared down the hall towards.

Bill wiggled his eyebrows, a smug look on his face. He shrugged, then said "If the house gets too lonely, let me know. Bev and I will come make it feel like a home again."

Richie nodded and thanked him for the offer, but he thinks he's going to be okay if Eddie does agree to come over. He is always alright wherever Eddie goes.

Now, hours have passed since Bill left, and Richie listens to the way that the radio is being tuned from down the hall. He wonders which station the boy will land on, or if he'll just give up and find a couple of tapes in Richie's room. Richie follows the noise down the hall, approaching his open bedroom door to greet the small one.

"I could only find these three," Richie says, entering his bedroom.

Eddie looks up from where he's laying on Richie's bed, his arm reached over to fumble with the knob on the boombox stereo. Richie holds out the nail polish he found in the bathroom cabinet; a red, a yellow, and then a periwinkle color. He isn't sure if they're Beverly's or Sharon's, but for tonight, they're Eddie's.

"I haven't done this in so long," Eddie says, tucking his legs beneath his body. "Which color do you think would look best?"

The alarm clock next to Richie's bed says that it's half past six. Eddie was supposed to call his mom at five, but the two were too busy watching a movie downstairs. This friendship thing is nice, they're both really content with where it's going.

Richie brings his attention back to the boy, his eyelashes fanning against those freckled cheeks. Okay, so maybe he wants to be more than friends. Maybe. Until he's entirely sure of what he does want, he's happy just picking out nail polish.

"I think red," Richie says, "It will match your coat."

"You think?" Eddie takes the red from Richie's hands, so the boy lets the other polishes drop against his bed.

"It's the color of spaghetti sauce, too," he grins, "Eddie spaghetti."

Eddie shoots him a glare, but not an angry one. An amused, I-hate-that-I-love-you-glare. He twists the cap off and says "Do you want to try?"

"Try what?"

"Painting my nails," Eddie responds. He opens up the bottle, then hands it over to Richie. "You can give it a try."

"Oh, uh," Richie looks, then holds his hands out in a cupped together sort of position. When Eddie looks at him with confusion, Richie says "Don't you need to put some hand sanitizer in my hands first? Since I'll be touching you."

"Rich, we've kissed before, I think hand germs is probably the least of my issues," Eddie jokes, setting the nail polish into Richie's outstretched hands. "I'm flattered that you remember, but I haven't made you do that since we were fifteen."

"Oh," Richie smiles, then accepts the nail polish in one hand and takes Eddie's left hand in his other. He looks up sheepishly, asking "Can I change the music?"

Eddie nods, but doesn't ask about the two songs that they're supposed to share with one another. It's been a week since they exposed themselves at the aquarium together, and now they're putting it off because they're too busy enjoying the company. Richie puts on an old mixtape he made when he was younger, welcoming the ironic song by The Beatles known as I Want To Hold Your Hand.

Richie settles back down on the bed, crossing his legs and letting his knees touch Eddie's. He lifts the nail polish bottle open, watching Eddie's steady hand spread his fingers.

"I've never done this before," Richie says cautiously.

Eddie shrugs. "Doesn't have to be pretty."

Richie smiles, nodding as he holds Eddie's fingers between his and slowly starts his first brush stroke. He inhales as he messes up and smears some polish on Eddie's finger, but Eddie lets his free hand settle over Richie's knee to let him know it's okay.

"So, what are you going to do after graduation?" Eddie asks, talking over the music.

Richie frowns, shrugging. "I don't know. Get a job, I guess."

"Yeah?" Eddie asks. "My mom won't let me get a job, even though we kinda need the money."

"Is everything okay?" Richie asks, then shakes his head. "That was personal. I'm sorry."

Eddie smiles a little bit, then shrugs. "It's whatever. She wants me to go to college some place close, but... can I tell you a secret?"

Richie looks up from where he's painting Eddie's pointer finger and says "Yeah, of course."

"Henry has been fixing up an old car for me," Eddie says excitedly, his eyes sparkling with the idea of a dream. "When I graduate, I'm gonna pack up and leave."

The rock settles in Richie's stomach faster than he'd like to admit. "You're leaving?"

He remembers waking up and noticing the house didn't smell like his father's cigars. He remembers walking downstairs to find breakfast before school, only to discover an empty kitchen. He remembers pushing his parents' bedroom door open to see an empty bed, the closet door left open.

Eddie nods. "I am. Thank fucking god. I can't stand this town, this whole place is... it's almost cursed. I hate this town and most of the people in it."

"Most?" Richie tries hard to focus on painting each nail.

"Most," Eddie rubs his hand against Richie's thigh, "Not all."

The sensation makes Richie recall the conversation about condoms and teen sex, making his face flush the same color as the nail polish coating Eddie's nails.

"S-So where are you planning on going?" Richie tries to change the subject so that his mind doesn't wander down inappropriate roads.

"Dunno. Anywhere, I guess. I want to see my friend Will, I wanna meet his friends, too," Eddie says. "Maybe California, I hear that's where all the gay action goes."

Richie smiles a bit, then shakes his head. "I hope you have fun, then. If you write to me, I promise to answer this time."

Eddie laughs. "You could come with, you know."

Richie lifts his eyes, his lips parting in shock. Eddie looks down at his left hand, notices that all nails are painted, and pulls away so that he can wave his hand through the air to make the paint dry faster.

"You mean that?" Richie leans forward a bit in anticipation. The song ends, but Just What I Needed by The Cars takes its place.

"Sure," Eddie says. "If we... If we work out, then yeah. You and me against the world, man."

With that, Richie feels like that beacon of hope he's been gravitating towards has floodlighted his senses and brightened up every corner. Hope, a promise. Future.

"I'd like that," Richie nods a bit too eagerly, reaching down to take Eddie's other hand as well. "I don't know how to drive."

"Henry and Vic are teaching me," Eddie responds. He blows on his nails, pursing his lips suggestively.

Richie paints quietly, mostly so he can focus. The music fills the room, Eddie's humming sounding more beautiful than the song itself.

"Is it weird that you and Bill kinda... switched?" Eddie asks.

"Hm?" Richie hums.

"I mean, he's wearing all the band shirts and ripped jeans now. It's like he got over his stutter and his confidence sky rocketed. Now you're shy and riding Silver, and you're a Denbrough. It's just- It's funny, isn't it?" Eddie remarks.

"Is that a bad thing?" Richie asks anxiously, "I'm not used to the last name either. I don't think I like it, but I don't like Tozier either. It's nice that I belong somewhere, though."

Eddie opens his mouth to say something, but then shuts his mouth and shakes his head. He tries again, saying something completely different. "It's not a bad thing, no."

Richie thinks it's a bad thing, though. He feels like he's not Richie anymore, and Eddie did not fall in love with Bill. He loved Richie. Does Eddie not want him anymore? Was he implying something more than just their personalities changing?

I'll never be good enough. I'm fucked up now. All he sees is Bill, he'll never love me again.

"Can we listen to our songs now?" Richie changes the subject in desperation, putting the cap on the bottle and standing off his bed.

Eddie looks up at him in surprise, but nods and begins waving his other hand as well. "Should I go first?"

Richie shakes his head, silently busying himself with the tape he set out aside from the rest of the collection he reinherited from Bill. He looks at the cover, then notices how much his hands are shaking. He feels embarrassed. So fucking pathetic.

Richie switches the tapes out and presses rewind, focusing hard on the play button instead of his tight muscles. When the tape is reset, he sits down on the edge of his bed and lets a breath out.

Eddie slides down the bed to sit beside him, watching the way Richie hunches over. "What's this song?"

"It's going to be Nocturnal Me," Richie explains, "By Echo & The Bunnymen. I figured we could listen to the whole album, but that's the song I really want you to hear. I'll tell you when it starts."

Eddie nods, letting things be silent between them for a moment. His nails dried instantaneously, but that's because Richie was too scared to go heavy on the coats. The transparent color still taints his nails a cherry color, and that red reaches over to brush against the scars on Richie's hands.

"Could you tell me about these?" Eddie asks.

Richie clenches his jaw. Signs of weakness. "There's not much to say. I broke the rules, I got disciplined."

"What? What rules were you breaking?" Eddie's touch against the scars thickens, as if he presses his fingertips down heavily.

Richie shrugs. "Does it matter? Rules are rules. I broke them."

Eddie sighs, wrapping his hand around the back of Richie's. Gently, he rolls the boy's arm over to expose his wrist. His painted fingertips brush against the circular scars pressed into the veins of Richie's inner elbows, just below his biceps.

"What about these?" Eddie's voice is hidden beneath the music, but Richie still hears it as clear as a bell.

Richie takes his arm back, looking away in shame. This isn't what Zack had in mind for the two boys, but Richie isn't sure what else he expected. Somehow Eddie always sees what Richie hides, it's like he's got some sort of X-Ray vision.

"Richie," Eddie touches the boy's cheek, pulling his head back to look Richie in the eye. "Hey. Look at me."

Richie lifts his eyes, seeing the safety in Eddie's welcoming eyes. The small one nods, encouraging Richie a little bit.

Richie reaches over his shoulder, grabbing his shirt by the back of the collar and slowly sliding it off of his shoulders. He feels his heartrate quicken with fear, nerves pulsing through his bloodstream. Richie looks a lot different than how he did when he was fifteen. He's not the same kid who stripped to his underwear and would swim in the quarry, he's grown. His body elongated, making his bones look that much more protrudent and sickly. The starving only adds shadow to the carved out ribs.

Eddie's eyes aren't on the ribs, though. Richie's full head of hair falls back into its usual mess once the shirt is off, and Eddie's eyes move down every single knot in Richie's spine. Bulging out far too much, the skeleton threatening to pierce through the thin canvas of skin.

Eddie moves around so he's sitting behind Richie, his eyes looking up and down at the deep, darkened scars lashing out all over his shoulder blades and lower back. Eddie's brows furrow as he watches, the music playing in his ears.

"Can I touch?" Eddie asks carefully.

Richie takes a deep breath in, looking over his shoulder at the boy sitting behind him. He nods, granting permission.

Eddie's fingertips feel foreign. This back has only seen the lashes of an extension cord, no love shown to the tender skin. Richie wonders if this is Eddie's first time seeing whips that cut so deep, or if the boy has seen the belt marks coating Henry's back as well. The difference is that Henry got to apply a cream that would cease the aching and burning as those wounds healed, Richie just had to sleep on his stomach for about a week until his skin was no longer infected and blistered.

"What... What happened," Eddie breathes out. Richie can feel the words fanning against the nape of his neck and his first instinct is to pull away and back himself into a corner so nobody can see the scars, but Eddie is safe.

Richie doesn't respond. He's too humiliated to speak. Each scar is proof of Richie's idiocy, how he couldn't learn to follow the rules until he watched Tim lug around a dislocated shoulder because she whipped him too hard.

"Richie," Eddie gets his attention as the song comes to an end. Richie lifts his head, but he does not turn around. "You didn't deserve this, my love. You didn't. You didn't deserve to... to hurt so much..."

Just then, Eddie's hands are flat against Richie's back. Not just his fingertips, not a gentle touch, but his whole hands spread across the raised skin as he rubs up and down with that magic touch that rearranges Richie's molecules. The touch causes goosebumps to raise all over Richie's sensitive skin, his mind whirling with panicked thoughts.

Richie lies back, his back coming down to settle in Eddie's lap, his head resting against Eddie's chest. He looks up at Eddie, blinking his big eyes behind those coke bottle lenses.

Eddie smiles at him, upside down from this angle, and he leans down just a little to press the tip of his nose against Richie's.

Richie reaches for Eddie's hands, being careful to not smudge the nail polish, and then guides him down to the scars on his flat stomach that match the ones on the inside of his arm. Not many adorn his arm, he learned quickly that he wanted to hide his misery beneath shirts at all times. Eddie looks away from Richie, noticing where the taller one is guiding his hands, and he takes a sharp breath in once he sees all the cigarette sized burns covering the kid's abdomen.

"Were these punishment too?" Eddie asks, rubbing his fingertips along the outer edge of each burn to heal those as well.

Richie nods, but then frowns. "From me, though. For messing up all the time."

Eddie shakes his head, his hands coming to a halt on Richie's skin. "You did this?"

Richie's silence answers the question.

"Can I..." Eddie trails off, his hands roaming up Richie's torso to press against the beating heart. "Can I see your thighs, Richie?"

Richie tenses in Eddie's arms, instantly shaking his head. "What? No. Why?"

"Because," Eddie says quietly. "I've never seen you burn yourself before, and they're this bad. I need to see your legs, because I know how badly you treat them."

Richie inhales sharply, his eyes beginning to water. "I don't-"

"It's not your fault," Eddie blurts out. "I don't want you to think that. I want to help, I want to see. What did you used to call me?"

Richie relaxes a little, the tension leaving his body in waves. "Dr. K."

Eddie smiles. "Let Dr. K take a look, okay?"

Richie nods, knowing that this is probably for the best. Eddie isn't going to hurt him; not now, not anymore. He makes all the hurt go away, and Richie thinks that's exactly what he needs.

"But then I'll be in my boxers," Richie says, then gains some of the courage of trashmouth. "I'm alone in my room with a cute boy who's asking me to take my pants off. What am I to think, Eds?"

Eddie laughs at this, brushing hair off of Richie's forehead delicately. "I suppose we'll both have to strip, then."

"This is just an excuse to get naked in my bed," Richie says, sitting up when Eddie taps his shoulders a little bit.

Eddie reaches for the top button of his collar, undoing each one without any real thought. He's not going slow, and he's not hurrying to frantically undress. He is comfortable, going at his own pace. "You sure Bill isn't coming home?"

Richie watches, completely enticed. He's never been this close to someone in such an intimate manner before, and to see his childhood crush be removing articles of clothing in his bed sends blood rushing to all sorts of parts of Richie's body.

Eddie looks up at him, some of his feathered hair falling in his face as he does so. It's only then that Richie remembers that he was asked a question, so he splutters and says "What? Oh, yeah. He's staying at Bev's, don't worry."

"Okay," Eddie nods, then resumes undoing the last few buttons. The part that gets Richie the most is the red painted nails, they make such a gorgeous scene as Eddie slips each button through the slit in his shirt. What a pretty show for a boy attracted to both femininity and masculinity.

Then, as Eddie is sliding the shirt off of his shoulders, Richie realizes he should probably be completing Eddie's initial request. With nervous hands, he fumbles with the belt buckle and begins to undo the zipper on his jeans. He's only worn this pair of pants twice because they fit too tightly on him. He tries to ignore the way that Eddie is wiggling out of his own pants just a foot away from him.

Then, the two of them are just in their boxers. Richie's face burns as he tries to stare up at his ceiling fan, ignoring Eddie's near naked body next to him. Eddie, however, takes no mind. His hands come down to look at the damage done, a painting that's much worse than he could have imagined it to be.

Richie's thighs are smaller than what Eddie was alluded to believe, the tiny one probably able to wrap his hands around the leg and link his fingers together. Eddie doesn't try it, he's too preoccupied with the discoloration of the skin.

Richie's pale skin hardly shows any white, his entire upper legs painted a deep burgundy shade, purple around the middles but yellowing along the edges. There are hues of red and magenta, cerulean and navy, even spots of olive green sweltering over his delicate skin. Some bruises are aging and fading, while others are fresh and hardened where the contusion has built a swollen blood clot.

Eddie leans forward a little bit, looking at the way that the spotted watercolor flower petals sprinkle down his skinny legs and seem to gather around Richie's bruised ankles. Richie is avoiding Eddie's expression, primarily out of shame, but Richie feels the knot in his stomach tighten.

"Come on," Eddie says quietly. "Lie down."

Richie looks up in confusion, watching the way Eddie crosses the room to shut Richie's bedroom door. The tape continues playing, a tiny bit of intimate energy beginning to fill the air like smog.

Eddie shuts the bedroom lights off, leaving nothing but the desk light on. It barely illuminates the room, setting the boy's' skin ablaze in orange hues. The amber glow swallows the edges of their exposed skin, outlining Eddie approaching the side of the bed.

Richie moves back on the bed to lie down like Eddie asked, carefully watching the boy's next move. His heart races in his chest, his palms sweating as he feels his fingers curl around the blanket he's above.

Eddie's eyes drag up and down Richie's body; all the bruises, all the scars, all the bones, and he thinks the boy is beautiful. He can see how sick Richie is, but he can see the potential embedded deep into him as well. He sees a hope and a belief in Richie that nobody else does, for Eddie knows that his friend is strong enough to rebuild the temple that is his body to the royal architecture it was meant to be.

Eddie's hand settles gently on Richie's knee, and in the stillness of the empty house, he breathes out "I wanna ruin our friendship."

Richie inhales sharply, his collarbones dipping in as he does so. Eddie's eyes watch the way his body changes, more vulnerable and raw, an exposed aura despite the fact they're equally naked.

"So," Richie exhales, his tongue too heavy for his mouth. He can't get the words out, his skin burning far too hot for him to even function. "So ruin it."

Eddie nods, leaning down to press his lips against the curve of Richie's kneecap. There's a swirl of colors right there, a blend so harmonious that it causes Eddie to wonder how Richie could inflict such harm on himself. Eddie moves slowly up the thighs, like a shark in water, leaving tiny little kisses all over the hemoglobins tainting such dainty porcelain skin.

Richie shutters out a gasp, his body twisting around beneath Eddie's mouth as his hands fall down to thread through the boy's hair. He tries to speak, but the words get caught on the tip of his tongue as he almost feels like he's going to have a meltdown from so much euphoric sensations.

"N-N.....nnn" he struggles to get out, taking in deep breaths. "Ed-Eddie."

Eddie looks up through his eyelashes, nuzzling his head into the hand that's now cupping his cheek. In the illumination of the lamp beside them, Richie can see the spotted skin is just as flushed as he feels. "Too much?"

Richie exhales a twitterpated sigh, embarrassed by his body's reaction to just a few kisses here and there. His thighs feel sensitive, considering nobody has ever kissed him there before.

"F-Fine..." Richie can barely get out. His breathing is erratic and heavy, his thumb grazing along the outer edge of Eddie's mouth. "Just-" he inhales, "Just not... there."

Eddie looks down at the injuries on the boy's thighs, the glistening of his lip marks shining in the dark. He nods, moving further up in the bed so that he can sink his lips down onto the burn marks littering Richie's abdomen. He feels the muscles flex and contract beneath his mouth, so he presses his lips over the hipbone next.

The song begins to play in that moment, so Richie leans down and cups Eddie's chin with his gentle hand. He lifts the boy's head up to look at him, using his other hand to tuck hair behind Eddie's ear.

"This is it, darling," Richie sighs. "Are you listening?"

Eddie lifts his head and nods, nuzzling the side of his cheek into Richie's hand. He turns and kisses Richie's palm, then takes the slender hand in his and kisses the back of it, ghosting his lips against the ugly scars covering each knuckle. Richie used to be so good at fighting, but somewhere along the line, he stopped. He stopped defending himself too, and now his body proves that he paid the price for that. Eddie is hoping that some of his embers will get beneath Richie's skin and spark up what was once there.

"Have you ever been with someone before?" Eddie asks, now hovering above Richie's bellybutton. His fingertips circle around the scars burnt into the skin, dipping to the side to follow his skinny waistline.

"Who would I be with?" Richie asks, his heart racing. His whole body shivers with pleasure, excitement running everywhere. He's not sure what exactly is going on, but he knows he likes it.

Eddie shrugs, kissing a line up Richie's torso to the center of his chest. Then, as if settling where he wants to be, he rests his head down on Richie's chest and lets his legs tangle with Richie's. "I haven't either. Nobody appeals to me enough."

"Is that what we're doing now?" Richie asks, his hands nervously coming up to stroke the back of Eddie's hair. He's not sure if he's allowed to touch, but the pressure of someone's weight on his lower half is certainly distracting. "Or going to do?"

"Do you want to?" Eddie asks, nuzzling the side of his face further into Richie's chest.

"Eventually, maybe, but like..."

"It's a little scary, isn't it?" Eddie asks. "For me at least. How does it work with two boys? Well, I mean, I know how it works, but I'm afraid I'd mess it up."

Richie feels the words circulating in his head, but he's not brave enough to say it outloud. What he wants to say is We could practice on each other, instead, what comes out is "Is it okay if I touch you?"

Eddie looks up at him, the glow of the lamp reflecting in his butterfly wing eye. He smiles, warm and summer soaked. It doesn't feel like winter whenever he's around. He says, "We're touching now, aren't we?"

"But can I touch you more," Richie tightens his grip on some of Eddie's locks of hair. He's nervous and a little sporadic, but mostly just jittery with excitement. He's never been this intimate with someone before, he wants to know what all he can do.

When Eddie hums, the whole vibration rattles through Richie's stomach. Their skin sticks together with the coating of nervous sweat clinging to the surface, and Richie feels all of it. "Mhm."

Richie gently starts out by putting his hands around the boy's back, touching the sharp shoulder blades where he's convinced that angel wings might break out. Then, once seeing that Eddie doesn't move away, he lets his hands travel down the boy's unblemished spine to touch all the soft skin that doesn't have the scars that Richie does.

The song plays on, so Eddie lifts an arm to raise the volume of the radio on the bedside table.

Whatever burns, burns eternally.
So take me in turns, internally.

Eddie starts to lift himself up, hovering himself above Richie. He stares down at the boy that he's spent years being furious with, some residual feelings of betrayal still lingering in the dark recesses of Eddie's mind. Right now, however, his dominating thought is just about how much he's wanted this since the two had their encounter in the bathroom of Curly's.

Richie smiles up at him, one of the genuine ones. Eddie sees those dimples, and all self restraint seems to snap and whither away in that very second. Eddie holds himself up above Richie, leaning down just to press his lips against the taller one's neck. Upon feeling his, Richie's hands tighten on Eddie's slim waist, his fingernails digging into sensitive untouched skin. The tiniest gasp fills the air where the music doesn't touch, so Eddie's lips work down towards Richie's collarbone.

When I'm on fire, my body will be

Eddie's nose nudges into the side of Richie's cheek as he kisses the male's jaw, working his way towards the corner of Richie's mouth. Richie isn't sure how to respond to such touches, for he hasn't had such affection in years. Even when him and Eddie were on their highest of highs, they never got this far. He does what his impulses want, and right now, that's pulling Eddie's hips down so they're pressed closer together.

Forever yours, nocturnal me.

"Eddie," Richie mumbles out, his hands coming around between them so he can push on the boy's chest. "Hey. Eds."

Eddie lifts his head, and the sight that Richie sees is one that makes it so impossibly hard to resist. The lamp contrasts against the darkness, making the boy's face red in hue with golden outlines. He blinks his sunrise eyes against those speckled cheeks, and his shiny, swollen lips ask "Yeah?"

"Why are you doing this?" Richie asks, his fingertips tracing along Eddie's shoulders.

"What do you mean?" Eddie rests his forehead against Richie's. The song comes to an end, which causes Eddie to divert his gaze towards the side where the radio is.

"This isn't exactly a pretty body," Richie remarks. "This can't be attractive to you."

Eddie shrugs. "Obviously I wish that the scars and bruises weren't there, but they are, so why wouldn't I just accept them for part of who you are? They symbolize your past, and that's all they will be. Your past. No present scars, no future bruises. Okay?" His hand slips down between them, his palm resting against the sensitive skin of Richie's injured thighs. "None of this from now on. We can figure something else out for you to do to help, but no more hurting yourself."

Richie inhales sharply, which only reminds himself of how skinny he is. He likes hearing this validation from Eddie; it's honest, and it matters to him. Call him far sighted, but Eddie's opinions seem to shine a bit brighter than other's.

"And what about..." Richie trails off. "How scrawny I am?"

Eddie shrugs again. "What about it? It's not ideal, but you're eating again, so it's not permanent. You're skinny now, though, and I think I'd have you any sort of way as long as it's just you. In sickness and in health, or whatever."

"So you don't mind that I look like this?" The insecurity is enough to fill an entire ocean.

"Like what? Rich, you're gorgeous. You always have been. Yeah, there's some aspects I'm not looking to glorify, but that only means you're going to get prettier from here on out," Eddie kisses the tip of his nose. "Your worth is not defined by what I think of your appearance. You exist so much more outside of my shadow, my dear."

That sentence strikes a bell in Richie's mind that's louder than church on Christmas Day. He feels himself smile, release the tension in his shoulders, and plummet headfirst into love. That was the restraint holding him back, the one chord that was keeping him from teetering over the edge. Now he's falling headfirst again for a second time, but this time isn't going to be cut short. They have forever this time, and Richie intends to keep it that way. Whether it be following Eddie on a road trip with no destination, or simply just staying in town to attend whatever college it is that Eddie gets accepted to, he goes where this one goes. For now, and for always.

"This friendship thing wouldn't have ever worked," Richie laughs, gaining the confidence to roll over in bed, flipping Eddie beneath him as he goes.

Eddie bursts into a wonderful laugh, his eyes squeezing shut as Richie straddles his waist. He shakes his head, hair tussled against the pillow. "No, not at all. We're too... too..."

"Too us," Richie says. His hands knead into the soft squish of Eddie's stomach, no muscles beneath the skin.

"Yeah," Eddie nods. He takes Richie's hands in his, admiring the way the red nail polish looks against Richie's fingers. He's never painted all of his fingers at once, he was always so careful to keep it contained to one finger. But with Henry being on his side now, and his hero finally coming home to him, he feels brave enough to express the femininity inside him. "No matter how hard I tried to be mad at you, I'm pretty sure it was inevitable that I would have ended up here at some point or another."

"Where, in my bed?" Richie leans down to kiss the boy's cheek, which causes Eddie to laugh and rest his hand against the side of Richie's neck.

"With you," Eddie clarifies, but then says "Which happened to lead to your bed."

Richie lets his fingers move along the edges of Eddie's face, feeling all the features he's come to be in love. It's strange how beautiful he feels, but Richie's always been so careful to not touch the art. Tonight, he breaks those rules as he traces his fingers along the outskirts of Eddie's pretty pout.

Then, Eddie completely surprises Richie entirely with his next move. Eddie parts his lips, his tongue pushing out to graze along the tip of Richie's finger. Richie nervously laughs and begins to pull back, but Eddie catches onto his wrist and brings Rich's hand back to his mouth, slowly sinking his mouth down around Richie's first two fingers. Richie inhales deeply, his heart nearly flatlining at the feeling of Eddie's mouth around him. Then, to really seal the deal, Eddie bites down on the boy's knuckles just gently enough to pull a surprised groan from the owner of the hand.

The tape ends, which causes both of them to fall out of this little world they were getting lost in. As Richie gets up to turn the radio off, he hears the bed creak.

"Think you can cook me dinner, big guy?" Eddie asks in the new silence of Richie's bedroom.

Richie opens his closet door, trying to find pajama pants he can change into just so that he can cover up these bruises. He thinks they're embarrassing to have out in the open, but he's more concerned about hiding a semi bulge in his boxers.

"What sounds good?" Richie asks back, sliding his legs into a pair of sweatpants. He finds a shirt that's a bit big on him, so he turns around and approaches Eddie sitting up in the bed now.

The flushed look hasn't really gone anywhere, and Richie notices that Eddie's pupils are bigger than usual. Despite this, he puts Eddie's head through the neck hole and begins to pull the shirt down over the squirming boy.

"You made me spaghetti the first time I ever stayed over," Eddie says, "Think you still got it?"

Richie smiles, tucking his finger under Eddie's chin as the boy slides his arms through the sleeves. Eddie can grow, but Richie's shirts are always going to be big on him and that won't ever change. Even now, the shirt drapes past the edge of his underwear and stops just above his knees.

"We can try," Richie shrugs, pulling on Eddie's arm.

The two spend an hour dancing around the kitchen like they used to, except this time there's no music. They're dancing just to dance, just to hold hands and twirl around in the spotlight one one another's attention. After an hour passes, the two order a pizza and eat it in the living room, sitting on the floor next to each other and fighting over the pieces. Eddie doesn't say it, but he's incredibly proud of Richie for reaching for a second piece without being provoked.

Bill calls around ten thirty to check in on Richie, but the boy twists the telephone cord around his fingers and assures his brother that he's doing wonderful. Bill could hear someone playing piano in the background, and when a wrong key is pressed, he hears Eddie Kaspbrak's familiar laugh through the telephone.

Around eleven, Richie holds onto Eddie's hand as he guides the tired one up the stairs. He looks over his shoulder, watching the way those slender legs spill out from the oversized shirt, and in his sleepy mind he can't help but feel like he wouldn't mind kissing those thighs just the same way Eddie did to him.

The two don't fool around much longer though, once Richie closes his door they find their natural positions in bed that seem to fit together as if not a day has passed since their days in love as fifteen year olds. Eddie's arm is stretched out for Richie to lie his head on, the curve of Richie's spine fitting into the hollow of his chest. His leg fits over Richie's hip easily, and beneath the blankets, Richie keeps his hand on Eddie's knee.

"We never listened to your song," Richie says, discarding his glasses so that he can fall asleep.

"S'fine," Eddie mumbles, leaning forward to kiss the nape of Richie's neck where messy curls don't invade. "You know the song anyway."

Richie feels the warm cocoon of admiration surrounding him, something he wouldn't mind getting lost in. For weeks upon his return, he felt like he was so entirely lost at sea and drowning in the violent current that Eddie was subjecting him to. Now, the arms wrapped around him feel like a flotation device.

He's not exactly sure how they stumbled back to this point, but it was much easier than anticipated. Richie used to lie awake reading the diary of a boy he left in Derry, his prized possession. He would imagine the future that they would have had, one that he didn't think he'd ever get to experience. Now, here he is, living it. He's going to get to see those swampland fairies kiss Eddie's skin when the twinkling sun begins to rise, just like he used to fantasize about when they were kids. So much has changed from being freshmen to now being seniors, for starters, Richie is no longer sleeping on the floor next to the bed, but rather in Eddie's tight embrace.

"What song?" Richie asks, his hand reaching up to touch the arm his head is resting on.

Eddie leans forward to kiss Richie's neck again, nuzzling his nose against the skin. He feels it too, this little bond that they've strengthened all within a night. It's hard to keep two people like them apart, especially when the universe works so hard to make their paths of fate collide over and over again.

"Love Of My Life," Eddie whispers in a sleep mumbled tone, "By your royal majesty."

Richie smiles. He knows that song, he knows the lyrics just as much.

"Bring it back, bring it back," Richie whispers in the dark room, listening to the way Eddie's breathing begins to steady and even out.

Richie squeezes the boy's knee one last gentle time, and then finally allows himself to relax because he knows it's finally, finally being brought back.

Chapter Text

Richie rolls over in the morning light, his hand reaching out to the other side of the bed just to find cold sheets.

He sits up, his heart rate accelerating as he looks around his room for signs of escape. However, he spots Eddie's jeans still on the floor, the shoes paired next to Richie's boots. Richie releases the tension in his muscles, sighing out in relief.

He fumbles around on the desk for his glasses, slipping them onto his nose as he gets out of bed. He doesn't want to walk around the house shirtless, so he picks up the first shirt that he finds on the floor and slips it over his head. A bit short, but that might be because it happens to be Eddie's shirt instead of anything that belongs in Richie's closet.

Richie stops by the bathroom, finding it empty but steam still trapped against the mirror, letting him know he's getting warmer to the location of his little fauna boy.

He descends the stairs, hearing sounds coming from the kitchen. Perhaps Eddie is cooking breakfast? God, they truly do feel like a married couple, like they're living out that life that Eddie wrote all about having in his leather bound journal.

When Richie rounds the corner, a smile on his face, he finds the company of two other people in the kitchen as well, which causes him to stop dead in his tracks.

Eddie looks up when Richie enters, a soft smile finding its way onto the boy's youthful features. Richie, however, seems to fixate on the fact that Beverly and Bill are sitting at the table sharing a pot of coffee together.

When Richie notices that he's wearing Eddie's shirt, he backs up and hides himself behind the doorframe. Eddie shakes his head, waving the boy in confidently. Eddie himself is still only in boxers and Richie's shirt, so it's not as if Richie is exposing something that the two haven't already seen on his counterpart's body.

"Oh, hey Rich!" Bill welcomes his brother in, watching the way that Richie slowly approaches the spot that Eddie's standing at.

"Hey..." Richie says quietly, leaning his back against the counter. He looks down, watching the way that Eddie spreads cream cheese on a bagel. When Eddie notices that Richie's staring, he smiles and puckers his lips out, lifting his head up for the tall one to get the hint. Richie leans down just far enough for Eddie to kiss his cheek, then the smaller one bounces back down on his feet and takes a bite of his breakfast.

"We're thinking about going down to the mall," Bill explains. He doesn't think anything of the kiss that he's just witnessed, and Beverly's far too focused on the newspaper to be paying attention in the first place. "What do you think? Sound fun?"

Richie looks over at Eddie, who turns around so he can lean against the counter as well. He waits for someone to reply, but Richie isn't sure what all has been said between the three while he was sleeping. Have they made amends? Is Eddie okay being in the same room as Beverly? How long was he even asleep for?

"I don't know," Richie says a bit quietly, "Seems like a lot of people."

"We could go to the Barrens," Eddie suggests.

"No way," Bev pipes in. She looks up for the first time all conversation, her eyes looking at Richie in particular. She raises her eyebrows, but makes no comments. "Too cold for that."

"Ben has an arcade game in his basement," Richie suggests.

Bev frowns, looking towards Bill incredulously. Richie instantly recoils, turning around to face the counter so he can busy himself with trying to wipe away the crumbs that Eddie left behind. He doesn't like seeing such blatant rejection.

"I think that's a good idea," Bill says in that voice he uses whenever he's convincing the rest of the group of something. "Ed?"

"Yeah," Eddie nods besides Richie, leaning over just the slightest so that their arms are touching. Comforting. "Stan and I are talking again, we've been talking about sort of getting the gang together again. Do you have Hanlon's phone number?"

Bill hesitates, but then says "Ah, no..."

"I do," Richie speaks up, turning around to face them again. "I know his number."

What Richie means is that he knows all of their numbers, but he won't admit that. There are some things he can't just delete from his memory, no matter how hard he tried to forget Derry.

"Then go get ready, weirdo!" Beverly exclaims, suddenly all on board with the idea. She was hesitant about seeing her ex, but the idea of seeing everyone else back together seems to outweigh that anxiety she has. "Dress warm, my car's broke down so we're walkin'."

"I could call-" Eddie starts out, but then shuts his mouth and forces a smile, excusing himself to go find his pants upstairs.

Richie watches him go, left with Beverly and Bill in the silence of the kitchen. Once they hear the stairs quit creaking and the sound of Richie's bedroom door shutting, Bill turns his attention towards Richie.

"You guys together?" Bill asks.

"Bill!" Beverly kicks his leg under the table, "You can't just ask-"

"Why not?"

"Because that's not our business!"

"It's fine," Richie speaks up, his voice wavering a bit. He shrugs uncertainly, not quite sure of how to phrase it. "We're not... dating... per se."

"Yet," Beverly points out, which earns a quick slap against the arm from Bill.

"And you call me rude?" Bill scoffs.

"I'm gonna go get dressed," Richie remarks, pushing himself away from the counter to start trekking towards the hall that Eddie disappeared through. He can hear the two squabbling like an old married couple behind him, which makes him wonder if this is how Stan sees him and Eddie.

Eddie's sitting on the bed when Richie enters, his knees tucked up to his chest and his chin resting on top of them. His legs are smooth and unblemished, nothing like Richie's at all.

"Hey," Richie says softly, shutting the door behind him. "Everything okay?"

Eddie shrugs, folding his arms over his legs as well to rest his cheek on his bicep.

Richie comes and sits next to him on the bed, unsure of how to push the attitude change without upsetting this peaceful energy they've been putting out. It's not that he's afraid of Eddie, he's just scared of fucking it up.

"We're fucking bad at communication," Richie says truthfully. He turns on the bed, his knee pressing into the side of Eddie's hip. "That's why things were fucked the first time. Let's do better. Talk to me."

Eddie glances at him in surprise, then shifts his body around until he's facing Richie. "I think I'm just a little confused about everything, like," he begins to play with the material of Richie's sweatpants to distract himself. "I guess I need clarification on where we're going. What was last night? I've never done that with anybody before... I don't think I want to, either."

"Well," Richie takes a breath in. "It can be whatever you want it to be. If it was just an accident, that's fine. I won't mind. We'll still be friends either way."

Eddie stops touching the sweatpants and instead starts prodding at Richie's thighs, gently running his hands along the legs that he knows are covered in bruises. "What do you want? It's not just up to me, this goes both ways. Are you ready for that type of relationship?"

"I don't think so," Richie shakes his head. "At least not openly, not like Bill and Bev. I don't know, Eds, it's so hard to explain everything that goes on in my brain."

Eddie nods, taking Richie's left hand in his own and tracing his thumbs along each crack and crevice in Richie's wide palms. He touches the "love" line that he's seen psychic readers on TV talk about, and he whispers "So, what, are we friends that kiss? Or what? I'm confused, I need... I need some sort of label to at least help me understand where I am in your life."

"I think you were my first love," Richie responds with ease. It's getting easier to talk these days, especially with Eddie. But that was to be expected, wasn't it? "If we do this right, you might be my only love."

Eddie smiles, "I like the sounds of that."

"Yeah?" Richie asks, letting his free hand cover Eddie's restless fingers. "So... until I get my shit together, we'll just be friends. I know it's going to be hard to go back from what happened last night, but I want to make sure all my screws in my head are tightened up so that I can be there for you, all in."

"That sounds fine," Eddie nods. "Have you considered therapy? I try to help as much as I can, but I'm just a boy. There's only so much I can do for you-"

"No, I know," Richie cuts him off, rubbing the boy's frail wrist, "I'm very grateful for what you do. I know I need other help. That's just scary."

"Well," Eddie says. "Look at us. You were scared of me for the first three weeks you were back, now we're sleeping together again. I think you're capable of more than you'd like to admit, Toz- Denbrough."

Richie smiles at the slipup, then shrugs. "Maybe. I can talk to Henry about it."

"Yeah," Eddie smiles, "He knows a lot about it, he could answer anything."

"But," Richie starts out, "That doesn't mean I'll be friends with him. None of the other losers, either. Just because he's a victim doesn't mean he's absolved of everything else he's every committed."

"Totally understandable," Eddie nods, "In fact, I think he'd kinda hate it if you gave him special treatment because of what happened."

Richie shrugs. "He's Bowers. He's always going to be an asshat. I don't have any problems with him, but I just... I want my family. That's all I want."

"We're getting there," Eddie promises him, brushing some hair behind Richie's ear. "Slowly. I'm trying really hard for you, you know."

"I know," Richie nods, "Thank you. I didn't know Bev would come over this morning."

He smiles slyly, "She'll always be like a sister to me. A fucked up, crazy, weird, murdering sister, but... we all have our flaws."

"I don't think that's how that works," Richie bursts into laughter, a sound that echoes through his chest and makes him feel so incredibly light. As if a flashlight is starting to flicker inside him, he's remembering how it feels to shine. "There's something in that list that isn't like the others, Eds."

From downstairs, as if on cue, Beverly's voice can be heard yelling throughout the house "Are you guys coming or what?!"

Richie stands, rushing to throw on clothes as quickly as possible. He notices that Eddie gets dressed as well, and doesn't hesitate to pick through Richie's closet at all. That's what friends do, though. Richie supposes that if they're getting stripped down to their underwear with one another, sharing closets isn't exactly that far out of the picture anyways.

"We'll continue this later, yeah?" Eddie promises, opening the bedroom door as Richie slips his arms through his coat sleeves.

The two stumble down the hallway to the staircase, where Richie pauses at the top and says "Okay. You're staying over again, right?"

Eddie looks up with a confident grin, one that makes Richie weak in the knees. He says, "If you're a good boy, we'll see."

Richie clambers down the stairs after him, so drunk with infatuation that he doesn't even process which stairs creak or which ones to avoid. He doesn't second guess how heavily he steps, or fear the consequences of walking too loud. He just runs down the steps because he knows he can be a good boy, he's practically already won.

Bill is standing by the door, to which Eddie rushes over to start putting on the coat he dropped by the front door yesterday night. Him and Bill talk easily, so Richie goes to join their conversation.

"Hold on there," Bev grabs him by the elbow, then quickly lets go when she remembers how skittish her former Trashmouth is.

When Richie looks back at the redhead, he watches her untie the bandana that was holding her bangs back. She reaches up slowly, palms facing up to show him she's not a threat, and then begins to tie the piece of cloth around his neck.

"You're covered in hickeys, man," she grins, "Kaspbrak's got a mouth on him, yeah?"

Richie turns bright red, instantly flushing as his mind circles frantically around the memory of Eddie leaning down to kiss his neck. He feels those spots tingle under pressure, the thought never even occurring to him at all. Richie tends to avoid mirrors, he wouldn't have noticed had Bev not pointed it out.

"I-" Richie starts to say, his face burning and completely clammy all at the same time. How is he supposed to explain this?

"Don't sweat it, dude," Bev smiles as she adjusts the knot in the bandana, smoothing it out over his chest. "Nothing to be ashamed of, I'm just covering your ass like the good ol' days."

"Th-Thanks," Richie mumbles, touching his fingers to the tight cloth around his neck. He knows that Stan would give him That Look if he were to come over covered in hickeys, and he's not exactly ready for that conversation with everyone yet. Hell, he and Eddie don't even know what the conversation would be about, they have yet to figure out what this relationship is going to actually become.

"We called Ben," Bev says a bit more openly now, looking over to where Eddie and Bill are. "He said he's got practice all day. I think he was lying, but I'm sure it's a bit disorienting for your ex to call at, like, nine in the morning."

"Some other time," Bill nudges Eddie with his elbow. "I know you just ate, kiddo, but would you be terribly burdened if we all went out for breakfast?"

"That's fine," Eddie laughs, pulling the door open. "I'll get a milkshake or something."

Richie and Beverly follow them out the door, Richie quietly speaking up "A bit early to have that much sugar."

Eddie pouts, "What, are you my dad?"

"That's-" Richie blushes. "No! Don't say that."

Eddie giggles, then reaches over and entwines his fingers with Richie's. The taller one flusters, looking down and their hands, then around the neighborhood to see if anybody is going to see them. It's just early enough that kids aren't out playing in the snow, but late enough for the morning work traffic to be over. Eddie's brave, and Richie could use some of that bravery. Richie notices that Bev and Bill don't hold hands, Beverly just links their arms together and holds onto Bill's bicep.

The four of them share a booth at a diner with no name, Eddie following through on his promise of a milkshake. Richie, however, happily eats a full meal with the words of his lover floating through his mind. If he's going to be showing more of his body to Eddie, he wants to look better. He wants to look healthy.

Richie doesn't protest the mall the second time it's suggested, and there's not that many people there. Even if there were, it wouldn't matter. Richie fixates on Eddie, who drags him into stores and tries on every pair of sunglasses and asks what Richie thinks of each one.

Every time, Richie says "You look like a superstar, Eds!"

Richie and Bill take a break in the foodcourt, to which Beverly says "Eddie, you want to help me pick out underwear?"

Eddie frowns. "Why me?"

"You're the only one here not attracted to girls, come on," she moves her head towards a lingerie store, which causes the smallest boy to blush furiously but nod anyways.

"Looks like you're getting lucky tonight," Richie laughs, "How'd she know that about Ed?"

"Because you got lucky last night," Bill points out, sipping on the smoothie he bought.

"I- I did not!" Richie scoffs, touching the bandana tied around his neck. Bill just raises his eyebrows a bit, smirking with satisfaction.

"You want us out of the house tonight, big guy?" Bill asks.

"No, that's fine man. Why would I want you out?"

"Because Eddie has been checking you out all day," Bill says casually. "You know, Rich, he's got, like, two years of you not being around to make up for. He's a late bloomer, he's just now going through puberty."

"What does that have anything to do with it?" Richie scoffs, eyeing the store that Eddie and Beverly went into so that he can keep an eye out for their other halves.

"Dude," Bill stops. "D-D-Don't make me spell it out for you."

When Richie gives him an innocent look, Bill just rolls his eyes.

"Everyone's horny during puberty, man."

Richie feels his face burn, so he reaches over and takes Bill's smoothie without asking. As he slurps down enough ice to give him a lethal amount of brain freeze, Bill bursts into laughter that causes him to double over.

"That's not fuckin' funny, Bill!" Richie leans over and punches his brother's shoulder. "Not everyone's as obsessed with sex as you and Beaverly!"

"We're 18, Rich," Bill says between wheezes, "Yes, everyone is."

Richie plays it off as casually as he can, scoffing and shaking his head. He thinks about when he first met Bill, not at the service their middle school held for Georgie Denbrough, but rather outside the haystack's basement on a bitter October night. Bill came out and argued with Richie about superheroes, ignoring the smell of cigarettes around them. Richie gave him one of his jackets that night, a kind and selfless act. Richie was so willing to give the Loser's everything he had from the moment he met them, and now it feels good to see Richie easing back into the life that Bill fought so hard to make sure Richie had. He's not sure what happened in that orphanage, but Richie's so far behind on the learning curve for kids their age that Bill is just trying to help catch Richie back up to speed. It just so happens that at their current age, there's really only one thing on their mind.

The two talk until Beverly and Eddie come out of the store, Eddie's cheeks still just as reddened as they were when he was first dragged in. Richie smiles as the two walk up, but that smile quickly falters when he glances down and sees that there's a bag dangling from the boy's wrist.

Richie's eyes move from the bag Eddie's holding over to the one that Bev's holding, meaning they made two separate purchases. Then, his gaze lifts upwards to examine their faces, noting the way that Eddie looks around with a shifty expression. Guilty, almost.

Bill seems to pick up as well, because he leans over and pats Richie on the back in a congratulatory way. "I'll be at Bev's again tonight, it looks like."

"What?" Richie says, panicked. "Wait, no-"

"Yeah!" Beverly smiles, leaning down to kiss her boyfriend. "I'm gonna make you fold all my laundry!"

"Oh, you evil woman," Bill smiles up from where he's sitting, his hands on her waist as she stands in front of him.

Eddie however shifts on his feet with a safe distance between him and Richie, his nervous eyes trained and fixated to the floor.

"Hey," Richie says softly, sticking the tip of his boot out to bump into Eddie's shoe. "Do you want me to walk you home?"

Eddie lifts his eyes up in alarm, resembling that startled deer he looks so pretty as. He shakes his head, biting his bottom lip a bit harshly. "No?"

Richie nods again, trying to force out a calm smile, but Beverly is standing beside Eddie and doing obscene gestures with her hand and her tongue pressed into the side of her cheek. Richie shakes his head, looks away, and tries to push it all out of his mind.

Later in the afternoon, after they've all burned off energy and wasted as much time as possible, Richie shuts the front door behind him and his love.

Eddie kicks his shoes off, setting his shopping bags down on the floor. He breathes a little shakily, digging around in his coat pocket to find the aspirator that he rarely needs anymore.

"Sorry we had to walk," Richie says.

"Not your fault," Eddie smiles, shrugging his coat off. Richie pauses by the door, his eyes fixated on all of Eddie's bags.

"So..." Richie says quietly. He thinks about Bill's speech about lateblooming and puberty, all those hormones that Richie had to go through. He didn't start having these thoughts until Eddie came along and kissed his thighs, now it's really the only thing on his mind. "What's in the bag?"

Eddie doesn't even ask what Richie is talking about, it's practically an elephant standing in the center of the room. He just says quietly, "I don't know. It's nice to feel pretty."

Richie nods calmly, sitting down on the couch in the living room. He asks Eddie, "Can I see it?"

"Oh," Eddie remarks. He takes a breath in, deep and full, then nods apprehensively. "Yeah. Okay."

Eddie brings the bag over to the side of the couch, sitting down next to Richie and folding his legs up on the cushion they're sharing. Richie tries to bother himself by turning the television on, a rerun of Dirty Dancing showing in technicolor.

"Bev said the red suited me," Eddie waves his hands to gesture at his nails, "So she helped pick it out."

"Okay," Richie nods, nervously fidgeting with the remote. He feels nervous, but he's not sure what for. Bill just managed to fill his head with all these crazy thoughts, and the grinding friction happening on the television certainly isn't helping.

Eddie reveals his purchase, pulling out a sheer nightgown from the bag. Lace trim floats along the bottom edge, a bit of faux red fur lining where the breasts would go. Richie inhales hard, so hard that his ribs shake, and he clumsily covers his mouth with his hand. Eddie isn't done however, he pulls out a very, very tiny bra that matches the nightie in its red hue, but a bit more opaque than the near transparent gown.

Richie watches Eddie set it down on his lap, his painted nails smoothing the fabric out with caution, and then the brown eyed beauty looks up at him curiously.

"Is it weird?" Eddie asks. Insecure.

"What? No!" Richie splutters, shaking his head. He feels something swelling in his throat, something so compulsive that he can't even control it. His mind works too fast for him to even process what he's doing, and before he knows it, a rusty old Voice is spilling out nonsense words. "Would'ya looka there! Why I reckon that there's a fine gown! I oughta get one of thems fer me old lady!"

Then, with the accent hanging onto each word, Richie's hands quickly cover his face. Eddie giggles a little, leaning over Richie's humiliated body to tug on his arms.

"Hey! I haven't heard a Voice in forever! I didn't think you had it in you anymore!" Eddie laughs so brightly, completely unaffected by what's going on or the object in his lap.

"Y-Yeah," Richie lowers his arms, taking deep breaths. It's just Eddie. Stop freaking out, you complete weirdo. "I guess I just got nervous. What do you need a nightgown for?"

"I don't know, it's just... it's cute, you know?" Eddie smiles down at the fabric, "I like being pretty. Like Freddie Mercury or Bowie."

"You don't need some lingerie to be pretty, baby," Richie says surely, but before Eddie can react, he's boldly asking "Can I see it... on?"

Eddie's face flushes completely, a shade that matches the color red he's growing to love. He nods, then shakes his head, then nods again. "Um- I-"

"Later," Richie then says to cover his own ass. "If we figure this all out, then later."

"Wow, that's-" Eddie cuts himself off. "For your birthday?"

Richie nods with a smile, though his whole body is tingling with nerves and excitement. What does that mean? How far will they go?

"That's in March," Eddie then says, frowning. "So far away."

"A little over a month, February is pretty short," Richie shrugs, "Not that far away."

"Or," Eddie starts out, "Valentine's Day is closer. I've never gotten to celebrate that day with someone."

"Me neither," Richie responds, then asks "Are we- Is that what we're doing, then? Are we, um, going to be each other's Valentine?"

"I thought we were going slow until you were in therapy?" Eddie asks.

"We keep saying we'll just be friends, and then I end up with hickeys," Richie laughs. "We need to stop this, man."

"I know, it's like I just can't help myself around you, I don't know," Eddie shakes his head, placing the items back in his bag. "Probably sounds stupid."

"Not at all," Richie says. "I think it was smoother when we were younger just because we didn't... we didn't do things like that," Richie points towards the bag, but then says "And so now we're trying to clumsily find our way through our first times while simultaneously remember how we fit with each other. I don't know, it's a bit fun. Even if we do change our minds every six hours."

"Well," Eddie says, smiling shyly. "I guess that's true, yeah. We didn't really get intimate with each other before, so that is a bit different. But it's... it's nice. It's not just, like, mindless horniness. Like, you really care about me, and I'm glad that I'm getting to open up and experience all this weird... intimate shit with you."

"Aw, Eds, did you save your virginity just for me?" Richie asks, leaning over to press his lips to Eddie's neck, tickling the smaller boy as their bodies topple over onto to the rest of the couch.

"As if!" Eddie laughs, trying to retract his neck into his shoulders as his body thrashes around in protest. "I was just too pissed off to hook up with anybody else while you were gone."

"Hey man," Richie says, pulling away from the boy to stare down at him. "Don't get rid of all that anger, now. I read in dirty magazines when I was younger that hate se-"

"Oh my god, shut up," Eddie stops him right there, "I seriously don't even want to hear the rest of that sentence. You're disgusting, bub. This isn't even Trashmouth, this is, like, Dumpstermouth."

"Ah, you love it!" Richie giggles, leaning down to press his lips to Eddie's.

Eddie startles a bit and pushes on Richie's chest, blinking his heavenly eyes so quickly. Richie doesn't start a monologue of bad innerthoughts, he just looks down at Eddie and waits to see what the one beneath him has to say.

"What is it?" Richie asks, lifting his arm up from where he's supporting his body above Eddie's, pushing his glasses up on top of his head.

Eddie smiles at the bare face, Richie's glowing eyes and all those pretty lashes that flutter with each blink. Eddie missed those freckles, but winter has left them snowed in beneath the surface of Richie's skin. Only when summer thaws the icy cheekbones will Eddie be able to see those familiar spotted constellations embedded across the bridge of Richie's nose. He's beautiful. He always has been.

"Nothing," Eddie smiles, "It's just the third time we've kissed on the mouth."

Richie thinks for a moment, but then nods in agreement. He can't keep track of all their kisses, but he remembers the night Eddie broke his arm, and he remembers kissing in a sports field with Eddie's legs wrapped around his waist. This must be their third, and they always say that third time's a charm.

"Well get used to it," Richie remarks, his hand settling on the outside of Eddie's hip.

"And why's that?" Eddie responds challengingly.

"Because apparently I love you or something," Richie shrugs, rolling his eyes so playfully. He feels so normal, like he's just a teenager who wasn't traumatized from a young age. He doesn't feel orphaned, he doesn't feel damaged, he doesn't even feel weird that he's kissing a boy. He feels like he's in love, and that's all that he needs to keep a smile plastered onto his usually so forlorn features.

Eddie shakes his head, his own grin quadrupling in size. He rests his hand against the back of Richie's neck, pulling the boy back down for yet another kiss.

It's clumsy, it's unorganized, it's all over the place, and none of it really makes sense, but it's their relationship. They get to have one. They spent two years under the assumption they wouldn't get to ever do this, so they don't care how incoherent their wants and needs are. It doesn't matter. They're with each other, and that's what counts.

With his lips still trapped against Richie's, Eddie mumbles out a very, very muffled "I've always loved you."

Chapter Text

It isn't uncommon for Richie to be up late.

He's always been one with the moon, enjoying the peace of night when everyone else goes to sleep. He used to be terrified of being alone, but now he's not really alone. Not anymore. Bev used to aid that fear by inviting him out to the gas station every night, but now he's learned that there's a bit of comfort in isolation. He finds solace in the stillness. High school is demanding, especially when you're months away from graduation with no plans for your future. He appreciates the quiet moments as much as he can whenever he's lucky enough to have them. Sometimes, he avoids going to sleep just because it means that day would end and it would feel like a waste.

Richie hears a bit of groaning, so he lifts his head up and turns in his desk chair. The lamp on his desk barely illuminates the room, showing Eddie's sleeping figure shifting around so restlessly. Richie's fingers turn down the knob on his stereo, dulling out the station he's listening to.

These past few weeks, Eddie has been coming in through Bill's bedroom window once their parents are in bed. Bill's room is extended out above the roof of the garage, so it's easy for Eddie's tiny legs to scale the side of the building and slip in undetected. Usually, Bill will wave or stop Eddie to ask about a problem on the homework he's doing last minute before bed, but sometimes Eddie stumbles in to catch Beverly on top of him. They don't talk about those incidents, Eddie just covers his eyes and exits the bedroom in order to sneak into the room down the hall.

Richie is always so eager to see him, always welcomes him in with a hug and a kiss, and then they lie together and talk about their days until Eddie falls asleep.

Lately, he's been having the nightmares again.

They're different this time, Richie's noticed. Eddie is quiet, his fear is silent, as if he's spent years muffling it. He doesn't wake himself up in a fit of tears anymore. Richie can tell it's worse, somehow. Like... the fear became real, the dreams are rational, based off of something traumatic that can manifest more vividly than a giant spider.

Richie stands up from his desk chair, taking his tapedeck with him as he approaches the side of the bed. The tape is already set and ready to go, so Richie places the Walkman down on Eddie's hyperventilating chest and slips headphones over the other one's ears.

Eddie's eyes flutter open the way they always do, his chest exhaling the breath he was holding hostage. His hand finds Richie's, their fingers entwining together in the moonlight.

"Thank you," Eddie says softly once he's fully calmed down, furrowing his eyebrows again. "I'm sorry if I woke you up."

Richie shakes his head, looking down at their hands as he plays with Eddie's fingers. "No, it's fine. I was up anyways."

Eddie sighs and rolls into his side, his eyes glowing with the foggy reflection of the lamp in front of him. Richie can hear the music coming from the headphones, a Jimi Hendrix song that he knows all the words to. "They're getting bad again. I don't know why."

"What are they..." Richie's free hand traces along Eddie's leg. "What are they about?"

Eddie lifts his eyes to look at the boy sitting next to him, then he slips a side of the headphones off and explains "Patrick Hockstetter. I dream about being inside that fridge. What he did to Henry. What he would've done to others."

Richie's heart drops when he hears the truth, his hand squeezing Eddie's with all his might. It's hard to hear something so tragic come from the mouth of the one you love, but the only option Richie really has at this point is to try and help as much as he can. Eddie's been healing Richie's wounds, it's time Richie does the same.

"I'm sorry. He's gone now, Eddie. He's gone," he says quietly. "Does the music help?"

"I don't think it was ever really about the music," Eddie says, rubbing his eyes with exhaustion. His voice is heavy with sleep, sounding deeper than its usual pithiness. "I think it was 'cause you were around. The mixtapes didn't stop the nightmares, man, you did."

It seems to click into Richie's mind at that second, all the times that Eddie's nightmares ceased weren't because of the music he was playing, it was because Richie was always there to hold him until he fell back asleep. It was never about the music. It was about Richie.

"What time is it?" Eddie then asks, rolling onto his back.

"A little after midnight," Richie responds, his thumb rubbing against the inner elbow of Eddie's arm.

"It's Valentine's Day," Eddie remarks. He lifts his eyes, glancing over at the radio on Richie's desk. "What are you listening to? I can't hear."

"It's just a radio station down in Philadelphia," Richie explains.

Eddie is quiet, then asks "Do you miss them?"

"Like crazy," Richie smiles. He nods his head towards the radio, then gets up and turns the volume up a little. Eddie takes the headphones off so that he can hear. "It's raining. James used to hate thunderstorms, he'd always switch beds with Martin on nights that it rained because it was the furthest away from the windows."

Eddie listens to the forecast for a city that he used to resent, a city that stole his love away from him. It's not raining in Derry, the air is much too cold. Any precipitation comes in the form of a snowfall.

"Can I tell you something?" Eddie asks.

"Yeah," Richie turns back towards the bed, leaning against his desk for support. "Anything."

"You know how I met Will at summer camp? The one down in Pennsylvania?" Eddie looks up towards the ceiling, the Walkman spinning a tape that nobody is listening to.

"Yeah," Richie repeats, but this time nervously.

"Well," Eddie rolls back onto his side to look at Richie. "Camp's not that far from Philadelphia. Will and I snuck out one night and took the train into the city, and then walked twelve miles. We got to your orphanage around ten in the morning, and some girls down the street told us which house had all the 'freaky' kids."

Richie's stomach drops.

"I was terrified to go up and knock, so Will did it for me. He's brave like that, Rich. He told his momma and all his friends that he likes boys. He got kidnapped, you know, he went through so much horrible stuff. But he's still braver than me. So he knocked, and this mean old woman answered. I asked if I could see you, and she shut the door for a few minutes. Then, she came back and she said you didn't want to see anybody. I told her my name, and she said to get off her porch before she called the police. So we left. I think Will had to listen to me cry for about three hours after that, but he didn't tell me to shut up or anything. He just said that maybe it was the wrong orphanage. Maybe it was a different Richard. Maybe you were feeling ill. Maybe."

"I didn't know," Richie says quickly, shaking his head. "I didn't know about that. I didn't know about that at all, I'm so sorry. I wanted to see you so badly, Eddie. I promise I did."

"I didn't know that, though," Eddie shrugs in bed. "All I knew was that you didn't reply to any of my letters, so I stopped writing. I thought you didn't want anything to do with me. Will told me that not everybody is gay, and that sometimes they just experiment because they get confused. I thought I was that confusion, and you were just... over it."

"Well," Richie comes over to sit on the side of the bed, lying down until his head is on Eddie's stomach. He looks up and says "I don't think I'm gay. I just love love, like Freddie always says."

Eddie smiles and says "I love dicks, like Elton always says."

"You love me," Richie corrects him, his hand pushing the fabric of Eddie's shirt up so that he can press a kiss to a freckle on the boy's abdomen. "I didn't know you came to visit me."

Eddie shrugs. "I'm here, aren't I? Mr. Keene down at the corner store asked why I stopped buying stamps. The mailman asked what had happened. Everyone was so concerned for me, but not concerned enough, I guess. I came home from camp right before school started, and three weeks into the school year is when Patrick... when Patrick..."

"Shh," Richie says, "You don't have to say it. It's okay."

"Yeah," Eddie smiles. He tangles his hands through Richie's hair, so the taller one lets his eyes flutter shut as he feels serene with peace. Without any warning, a pair of headphones are being pressed against his ear, and Eddie is then asking "Doesn't this just make you feel like you're in love?"

The song is by Ricky Nelson, a familiar little tune named Sweeter Than You. It's natural for Eddie to like this song, he's always favored ballads over rock and roll. Richie likes it all, so he nods along to the words in agreement.

"It makes me feel a lot of things," Richie says.

"Like what?" Eddie pushes hair off of Richie's forehead so that he can get a better glimpse at the little sparkle that's brightening in his eyes. Richie's gaze used to be so glazed and dull, but excitement is starting to come back to the boy who used to make everyone around him smile.

"The music makes me feel alive, Eds," Richie sighs out. "So do you."

Eddie smiles and opens his mouth to respond, but Richie feels the surge of want come over him that causes him to lift himself up enough just to kiss Eddie as gently as he can.

"I love you, man," Eddie presses his lips against Richie's cheek.

"I love you too," Richie rests their foreheads together. "Let's get some sleep. I have a day planned for you tomorrow."

"Like what?" Eddie smiles, his fingers curling around the collar of Richie's shirt. "I have stuff planned for you, too."

Richie kisses Eddie's forehead, then gets up so he can shut off the radio and the lamp. "You'll see, Kaspbrak. Get some sleep."

Eddie always wakes up at five o'clock, ceasing the beeping from his watch before it can wake up Richie. His routine is simple; get dressed, sneak downstairs, leave through the backdoor. His exit tonight goes as smoothly as usual, his wrist flaring up in pain in all the cracked places that he broke it when he steps out into the cold. This doesn't stop him, though. Bill lives three streets down from Eddie, so the walk isn't that far. Richie used to live across town, so Eddie supposes it's one benefit of erasing Tozier to become a Denbrough.

Eddie is much taller than he was when he was fifteen, and now he doesn't struggle to climb in through his bedroom window. He imagines this is how easy it was for Richie all those times he'd sneak in for a "goodnight," but now Eddie's the one crawling into his friend's bed late at night. The years and tragedy and misfortune have changed these two boys so much, but the love never falters.

Richie never knows if Eddie makes it home safely, he just has to cross his fingers in the morning and hope for the best until he gets to school that day. He doesn't have a class with Eddie until fourth period, so the two have agreed that Richie takes the long way to his homeroom just so that he can pass by Henry's locker.

"Did you find a ride home today, Rich?" Beverly asks as they walk into school.

Richie listens to the tone of her voice carefully, he's started to notice that people aren't usually sick of him like his anxiety tends to make him think, they're just simply asking a question. For example, a month ago Richie would have heard this and presumed that she's trying to get rid of him because she can't stand him anymore. Now, he knows that's not the case. He just nods and answers her.

"Yeah, I'm gonna ride home with Ben. You guys still following through with your plans?" He tightens his grip on his backpack straps as he climbs the stairs to first floor.

"D-D-Damn ruh-right," Bill grins. He doesn't get as upset when he stutters now, mostly because he's explained to Richie that sometimes he just falls back into it without realizing. It's a hard habit to overcome, so Richie doesn't think anything of it when his friends twisted tongue relapses.

"You guys are crazy," Richie laughs lightly.

Beverly explained it all to Richie one night when he walked into Bill's room and was met by a cloud of smoke. Beverly is a lot clingier when she's high, so she removed herself from Bill to latch onto Richie. She told him all about how they're 18 now, so they can drive up to Bangor and go into porno shops and get crazy things. Then, they're going to check into a hotel and spend the night decimating the purity of the holiday of love.

"Like you and Eddie aren't?" Bill says. No stutter at all. It is bizarre to hear him flip back and forth, but some sentences he translates in his head better than others.

"We aren't sex shop crazy! We're normal, healthy teenagers," Richie defends himself and his own Valentine's Day plans.

"Yeah, well, don't get caught," Beverly shakes her head. "Eddie is 18, so he'll be prosecuted as an adult and be arrested as such. Could you imagine his mom getting a phone call from jail? She'd totally flip! You'd never see him again."

Richie stops at the intersected hallways, the part of their morning when they say their goodbyes until lunch. He smirks proudly, shrugging his shoulders and saying with a hint of arrogance, "Then we won't get caught."

Richie turns and started heading towards Bowers' locker, but he still hears Beverly say "He's too cocky for his own good," and he can practically imagine the way she's shaking her head.

"Hey you!" Eddie smiles, standing against the lockers next to Henry's. Henry looks up and makes eye contact with Richie, nodding a little and giving a salute. He's not much of a morning person.

"Hey," Richie gives a short, one armed hug that guys are supposed to give other guys, then ruffles Eddie's hair when he pulls away. "Happy Valentine's day."

"God, give the boy a fucking kiss, Tozier," Henry grumbles. "He's been yapping about it nonstop this morning."

"We're at- We're at school," Richie looks around at the waves of classmates flooding the hallways. Eddie reaches out and slaps Henry's chest with the back of his hand for embarrassing him.

"And?" Henry lifts his eyebrows. "Hide behind me or some shit. I'm twenty fuckin' years old, dude. Nobody in this school wants to look at me."

The two boys shift around until they're practically inside Henry's locker, the door shielding them from one side while Henry stands on the other. Then, they exchange a short kiss, one where Eddie giggles the whole time as his thumb strokes against Richie's cheek.

"I've gotta get to class," Eddie tells him, blinking those butterscotch eyes up in a way that says he doesn't want to go at all.

"Then go," Richie pokes at the boys' sides. "Go, go, go."

Eddie nods and takes off through the hall, blending in with the group of girls he meshed with.

"Thanks for that," Richie says, still watching Eddie apologize to someone he bumped into.

"For what?" Henry grabs a book out of his locker, shutting it and spinning the dial idly.

"I don't know. Protecting us. After everything we've been through, it's just nice to not be afraid of you kicking my teeth in for kissing my boyfriend," Richie shrugs. He realizes Eddie isn't technically his boyfriend, but everyone already knows.

"Yeah, well, I've loved both of you at various points in my life, so it's just nice to see both of you making each other so happy," Henry says, then coughs and punches Richie's shoulder. "Or somethin' like that. Whatever, freak. Don't make me get all stupid and sappy when we're in fuckin' public."

Richie puts his hands up and waves an imaginary white flag, saying "Alright, alright. You got any plans for Valentine's day?"

The tough demeanor does not last long, because Henry immediately blushes and shies away, trying to hide his face in his shoulder as he softly mumbles "Yeah, Vic's gonna take me to a movie."

"Oh!" Richie raises his eyebrows. "Victor Cross? Who woulda known!"

"Right?" Henry smiles excitedly. "It's great. He doesn't- He doesn't scare me. Things feel safe with him, they feel... right."

"When did that develop?" The bell rings, but neither of the two care.

"Eddie pushed him, actually. He says the little guy got him to open up about his feelings 'n' shit. Made him feel confident. Vic says he doesn't even mind that I'm still in high school," Henry's smile seems to grow. His teeth are crooked and chipped from all the fights he's been in, Richie's never really noticed until now. Henry's never smiled like this before. "He thinks I'm admirable for waitin' and finishin' high school 'n' not droppin' out like Belch did."

"Fuck Belch," Richie nods. He knows all about how Belch Huggins taunted and teased Henry when Patrick was arrested. Henry had tried opening up about what occurred between the two, disclosing their secret relationship and his own sexuality. Belch called him a faggot and said that all queers are just asking for it, so Vic punched him in the throat and kicked him out of his basement. They don't hang out anymore, but that's fine. Eddie joined the gang and showed those two boys that it's okay to be soft, and delicate. He showed them it's okay to be comfortable with your masculinity, and it's especially okay to be who you are regardless of sexual orientation.

"Eddie's a healer, I'm tellin' ya," Henry says, nodding.

"Agreed," Richie mirrors that affectionate smile now that his own love is brought into conversation.

Two of the most bruised, damaged, and psychologically fucked over people in all of Derry, giggling like school girls over the boys that they have crushes on.

"Who woulda thought there'd be so many gays in our little shit town?" Richie asks. The hallways are empty now, so the two don't bother lowering their voices.

"Did you hear that Sydney Maple is a lesbian?" Henry asks.

"The sophomore?"

"Yeah. She made out with a girl in the locker room."

"You're twenty, Hen," Richie reminds him. "Don't gossip about sixteen year olds."

Henry laughs, then shrugs again. "I cant help it! This town is just so juicy."

"You're insane," Richie shakes his head, backing away. "I'm gonna take off, man. I don't want my tardy to turn into an absence."

"Yeah, I should probably get goin' too," Henry nods, looking down at his algebra book. After a moment, he pulls out his car keys and says "Nah, fuck it. I'll try school again tomorrow."

Considering it's a holiday, the day goes by as slow as it usually does. Some guys surprise their girlfriends with flowers in class, some girls carry around teddy bears to each period. Richie hides down in the music room for lunch, where Eddie tells Stan and Ben about how he saw girls eating boxes of chocolates for lunch and nothing else.

"This holiday blows," Ben says. "I'm glad you two aren't, y'know, gross."

"What do you mean?" Richie laughs, leaning his elbow against Eddie's knee as he picks through the boy's lunch. Richie's started using his lunch money to buy snacks for everyone from the vending machines, but he still raids through Eddie's lunch to steal the fruit snacks as per usual.

"He means he saw Bev and Bill playing tonsil tennis," Stan shrugs.

"That's disgusting," Eddie remarks. He sets an arm on Richie's shoulder as the boy leans over Eddie's lap entirely, and he says "Rich, I hope your brother gets mono."

"Hey man, he drinks out of the same can as me sometimes, don't wish that!" Richie elbows Eddie in the gut.

"Because then you would get mono too," Stan points at Eddie.

"It's like playing hot potato with disease," Ben snickers, "Mike and I will be the only ones who aren't contaminated."

"What about me?" Stan scoffs.

"I don't know, man. You and Richie used to be up each other's asses, I haven't forgotten," Ben teases the two, then bursts into laughter when Stan starts throwing various fruits at him.

"Whatever, man," Richie lies back on the music room floor, appreciating the Zeppelin that's on the radio. "Don't mind those two, Ben. You're a quarterback now, dude. You could have, like, any girl you want. No need to be stuck on a little worm like Beverly."

"Thanks, Rich," Ben smiles, but then adds on. "Not sure if you've noticed this, but all the girls in this school are kind of... dumb."

"Rude!" Eddie says.

"Why are you getting offended on behalf of girls?" Stan asks. "He's right. The girls in this school are all so airheaded, and then the smart ones are stuck up. It's a tough life for Hanscom."

"There's no in between," Ben shakes his head sadly.

"That's not true," Richie points at Ben. "I hear there's a sophomore that's a lesbian."

"What's he gonna do with a lesbian, Rich?" Eddie rolls his eyes. "I swear, you and Henry both-"

"Now hold on a minute," Ben puts a hand up. "This could have potential."

"Right?" Richie asks. "Just imagine it; two girls... and you get to watch."

"You are so gross," Stan throws yet another apple over at Ben, then chucks an orange at Richie's head. "Men are pigs, aren't they Ed?"

"Agreed," Eddie pouts, pushing at Richie's legs next to him.

"Ah," Richie catches the boy's hand, tangling their fingers together. "Shut it. I'll see you after school, okay?"

"If you guys are meeting up, I could just give you both a ride to Richie's," Ben suggests. His mom has always spoiled him, and his sixteenth birthday wouldn't have been complete had he not gotten a brand new car.

"Nah," Eddie shakes his head. "My ma's real sick, I've gotta make sure she's taking her medicine before I go anywhere."

"Oh, how the tables have turned," Stan finishes putting his utensils back into his lunchbox right as the bell rings. "Kidding. You wanna walk to gym, Eddie?"

Ben covers his eyes as Eddie gives Richie a kiss on the cheek, promising to see him later. Richie smiles and cheekily slaps his hand against Eddie's rear as he exits, leaving Ben alone with Richie.

"You guys got plans for Valentine's day?" Ben then asks.

"Oh yeah," Richie nods. "We've got two years to make up for, haystack. The shit I have planned for tonight is gonna blow his mind."

"Oh god," Ben rolls his eyes. "Don't you dare get arrested."

"Everyone keeps telling me that," Richie laughs, though he knows that what he has planned is entirely against the law.

He doesn't care. Eddie is his partner in crime.

Chapter Text

nsfw warning

***

The first half of their night goes wonderfully. In fact, it goes so well that Richie almost forgets about the second half of their date that he planned.

Eddie took Richie out for Thai food, and then showed Richie his fancy new phone. Richie has Bill's old pager, so the two spend an hour testing it out to make sure that Richie will be alerted whenever Eddie calls.

"Maybe you can ask for a phone for your birthday," Eddie asks, leaning across the booth as they wait for the check to come.

"Nah," Richie shakes his head. "They've already done so much for me, I don't wanna push my luck. I think the roof over my head is enough of a gift."

Eddie smiles and shakes his head, then says "Well can I give you your gift? Let's call it a Valentine's day slash early birthday present."

"Oh, yeah, of course," Richie nods. "Although, if it's anything like that pretty little number you bought from the delicates store, I don't-"

"Shut up," Eddie rolls his eyes, laughing under his breath despite the vulgarity coming from his friend's mouth. He brings up the box that he's had resting by his leg this whole time, sliding it across the table. "It's been sitting in my room since 1988, but I think you'll still like it."

"Is this..." Richie recognizes the box from the photographs Mike Hanlon had taken and immortalized into a scrapbook as one of their worst Christmases. "Is this my Christmas present? From when I was fifteen?"

"Yeah," Eddie shrugs. "'Bout time I give it to you, right?"

"You didn't have to hold onto it," Richie shakes his head bashfully, undoing the wrapping.

Eddie just shrugs again, then watches carefully for any signs of approval on Richie's face. The taller one's slender fingers carefully lift the top off the tiny box, and he's met with two objects.

A lighter and a ring.

"Ah, no shit!" Richie picks the lighter up, examining the engraved words. It's a nice lighter, certainly one that fancy lawyer men use when they smoke cigars and drink cognac. He's only seen these types of silver lighters in mafia movies, and he has always wanted one.

Carved into the surface is a simple message, letters so tiny that Richie has to squint through his cracked glasses.

You are my good old-fashioned lover boy. EK.

"Eds," Richie smiles, flicking the top open and igniting the first spark.

Eddie shakes his head. "Don't call me that. Do you like it?"

"I fuckin' love it, dude," Richie's thumb lets go of the trigger so that it can trace along the edges of the engraved message. "Is this why you couldn't bring it to school?"

"Mhm. Look at the ring," Eddie excitedly pushes the box closer to Richie.

It's a simple silver band, but a sturdy one. It's still shiny and brand new, not well worn like the other rings that Richie used to wear. This one's pretty, but that's to be expected from the boy who likes painting his nails and wearing women's garments.

"I love it," Richie slides it onto his middle finger, then frowns at the tightness. It doesn't fit on his pointer finger either, so he cautiously puts it on his ring finger. It feels right there, like it's perfect for that finger specifically.

"We match," Eddie reaches into the collar of his shirt and untucks a chain, showing an identical silver ring dangling off of it.

"Why don't you wear yours?" Richie admires his hand, then shows Eddie.

"My hands grew," Eddie chuckles. "Believe it or not, I'm not the same size I was two years ago. They were supposed to be promise rings."

Richie feels flustered and bashful, repeating little thank yous over and over again. As he unzips his backpack, he watches the way that the ring gleams beneath the light it's catching. It looks good on his hand. Like it belongs.

"It's not much," Richie says quietly, "But I love your writing. I love your words. I love the way it all makes me feel. I know you said you don't write as much anymore, but I thought... maybe you could try again."

He places a journal on the table. It's nothing like the one that Eddie first shoved into his hands at a tension filled train station when they were kids. This journal has a hardcover, a shade of yellow that resembles mustard. Eddie gathers it up into his hands, cracking open the tough spine and looking at the blank pages waiting to be filled.

"I love it," Eddie says. He holds the book out to Richie, his eyes twinkling "Smell. Don't you love the way new books smell?"

It just smells like paper, but Eddie seems so excited about it that Richie nods. Eddie promises that he'll keep writing, and instead of accepting Richie's offer to hold the book until they're back home, Eddie just carries it close to his chest as the two leave the restaurant behind and walk further out of town and out past the Barrens.

"Where are you taking me, dude. Seriously," Eddie laughs, stepping over a log as they dive deeper into the woods. "Is this your plan to get me alone and murder me?"

"Totally," Richie nudges him, then holds a tree branch out of the way for the shorter one to pass through. "Nobody can hear you scream out here."

"Nobody can hear us moan, either," Eddie says bravely.

Richie trips at that exact second, tumbling over and down to the ground where he gets a face full of soil to cool down his hot cheeks. "Jesus fuckin' Christ, Eddie! Give a boy some warning before- before-"

Eddie giggles and kneels down beside him, helping Richie sit up so that he can press his lips against the trashy mouth. Richie doesn't hesitate to lean into the kiss, then pulls away when he remembers that's not what they're out here to do.

"Come on, let's keep going. We're almost there."

When the two end up outside the fence gating off the Derry water tower, Eddie looks over and says "Dude, no."

"Dude, yes," Richie grins, throwing his bag over the fence. "Come on."

"We're not vandalizing the fucking water tower," Eddie shakes his head as Richie begins climbing.

"Who said anything about vandalizing it?" Richie swings himself over the side, landing on his feet clumsily. "Come on, I'll catch you."

Eddie sighs in annoyance and reaches over the top of the fence to hand Richie the new journal, and then begins slowly scaling the chain link. "Remember what happened last time I climbed up something for you? My wrist broke into a million pieces and I got grounded."

"I won't let you fall this time," Richie stretches his arms out as Eddie reaches the top. "Come on. I got you."

Eddie puts one leg over the side of the fence, trying to find safe footing when Richie's long arms are reaching up and wrapping around his hips, carefully lowering him to the ground. Eddie blushes and looks away, retrieving his journal from where Richie set it down on top of his bag, stuffing it inside so that he can climb up the ladder without dropping it.

Eddie goes up first, climbing the tall ladder to the top of the water tower like Richie instructs. He's a little nervous, not because he's afraid of heights but because he knows they're breaking the law.

"Back in Philly, there was a lock on the fridge," Richie explains once they reach the top. He stands in front of the large steel door, staring at each and every padlock keeping it shut. "One of my buddies showed me how to pick that lock."

"Dude," Eddie watches Richie kneel down and begin shoving two pins into the first keyhole. "It's February. That water is going to give us pneumonia."

"Nope," Richie shakes his head. "Touch the side, my dear. It's insulated and heated so the water inside doesn't freeze."

"That's bullshit," Eddie laughs, but he still puts his hand against the warm metal anyway. Richie is right, it does feel warm. "Whatever. Do you really expect me to go swimming in the water tower? People drink this, Richie."

"You see that?" Richie nods to a large rectangle hanging off the bottom of the ledge they're standing on. He opens the fourth lock, moving on up to the fifth. "That's the filtration system. Anything we contaminate will be purified before going into any pipes, I promise."

Eddie squats down next to Richie. "How do you know all this?"

"My neighbor used to work for city government," Richie says, "When I lived with my parents, I mean. I'd ask him to tell my stories about the water and sewers because I wanted to know where poop went."

"Of course you did."

"Hey! I had a just reason!"

"Which was?"

"I was convinced that the poop was being reused and put in the school meatloaf."

"Wow, real solid theory there, Einstein."

Richie opens the last lock, pulling on the heavy handle to drag the door open. It creaks on its hinges, groaning in protest. Steam billows out like a sauna, and when Eddie looks over, the tall one is shedding his clothes off and dropping them onto the grate they're standing on.

"I don't want to get my underwear wet!" Eddie protests, "If I wear wet underwear in the middle of winter, I'll literally get frostbite on my balls and they'll fall off."

"Like you had any balls to begin with!" Richie laughs, undoing his belt as Eddie begins to join in the strip party.

"Beep fucking beep," Eddie rolls his eyes. "Maybe if my dick shrivels up in the cold it'll be as small as yours."

"Don't insult Richard's richard!" Richie huffs, but his grin says there's not truth to his faux hurt. He watches Eddie get stripped down to his underwear, the solution to the wet boxers problem just sitting on the tip of his tongue.

"What if I actually do get pneumonia," Eddie says.

"You won't."

"How can you be so sure?"

"I'm not. I don't know if you will or won't. But I know you're going to get in the water anyway."

"Yeah? How come?"

"You wouldn't have gotten undressed if you weren't," Richie raises his eyebrows, then stands in the doorway to the water tower. He looks back at Eddie, his heart pounding as his hands find the waistband of his boxers. "Do you want to watch?"

"Well," Eddie looks away. In the moonlight that's breaking through the tree leaves, Richie can see the way his face flushes. "I don't know. Maybe. Is that okay?"

"I don't see why not," Richie begins sliding his boxers down. "Unless, y'know, you're serious about this whole just friends bullshit."

"Baby, I'm waitin' for you to be ready," Eddie shakes his head, but his eyes do linger all over the newly exposed curves of Richie's body. Places he's never seen before, sharp hipbones sloping down into places he can finally spot. "There's not a single friendly thought in my head right now."

Richie feels insecure being so exposed, so he moves quickly to jump into the water. It splashes and echoes around in the circular tin ball, the boy kicking up to the surface so that he can talk to Eddie still standing outside the door. "You comin' in?"

"Yeah, yeah," Eddie snorts, stepping out of his boxers so quickly and so confidently that it takes all the breath out of Richie's lungs.

The two aren't even just naked with one another, they're vulnerable. It's a feeling that's entirely surreal. Eddie dips his toes into the water cautiously, and then comes crashing down into Richie's outstretched arms once he decides its warm enough.

"You knocked my glasses off," Richie laughs, splashing around in the water to find them and set them right outside the door they're still floating next to.

"Your dick just touched me," Eddie says.

"And?" Richie raises his eyebrows. "Weren't you the one just trying to get into my pants?"

"Well, now there's no pants at all, so am I really getting into anything?" Eddie counterstrikes so teasingly, his attitude certainly cultivated from months of putting up with Trashmouth's sarcasm.

"Wow, what a charmer," Richie says, then splashes a huge wave of water in Eddie's face.

Eddie splutters and kicks his legs so he swims towards Richie, where he shoves Richie's head underwater and holds him there for a few moments. The tall one resurfaces with a burst of laughter, wrapping his arms around Eddie's shoulders and pulling the little one in for a wet hug.

"God, I love you," Richie says. "This feels so nice. I've never been so open with someone like this before."

Eddie smiles, doing his best to stay afloat in the deep water. It's not warm and hazy like their afternoon swims in the quarry, but it's close enough. It's just them, alone together. That's what matters.

"I love you," Eddie says back, "I don't think you're told this enough, but I'm proud of you."

Richie's heart stops. "What?"

"I am. I'm proud of you, bub. You've overcome so much, you're starting to look so healthy again. I noticed no new bruises, and your waist is filling out. In a good way! You're starting to look like your proper self, and I'm so proud."

"Aw, Eds-"

"I'm not done, loser," Eddie shakes his head, little water droplets flicking off of his nose. "Not even just physically, but you've been so emotionally strong that it... it just fills me with so much gratitude and a sense of pride to be here with you and hear you laughing and making dirty jokes and doing Voices again. I know that I'm the one who put you through most of that turmoil, but you've found it in yourself to forgive me, and that's something not a lot of people can do. So thank you, Richie. Thank you, I am so proud of you and who you are right now and especially proud of who you are becoming."

"Stop it, man," Richie's hands cover his face, the silver ring reflecting with the light bouncing off the water. He sniffles a little, overwhelmed with the feeling of acceptance. He isn't sure what he can say back that would reciprocate that level of vulnerability, so he just settles for resting his head against Eddie's and hugging the boy once more.

"I mean it," Eddie kisses Richie's neck. "Nobody in this town has grown like you have. I'm so proud of you, I find new reasons to love you everyday."

Choked up, Richie says "You're seriously making me fucking cry."

"That's not my intention," Eddie chuckles, the sound bouncing off the walls. "I just wanted you to know. So when I say I love you, I really mean it."

"I do too," Richie tells him, pulling away to look at Eddie with tear filled eyes. "I really do. You forgave me, too. And not just for not writing back, but all my bad habits. You're okay with my little fuck-ups and classic Trashmouth moments. I've been so scared for so long that nobody would be able to love me the way I am because- because my parents didn't want to. But... but you did. And you still do, even after I came back years later all... all changed and different and screwed up. You still love me, and I thank you for that. I love you so much, dude. It's fuckin' unreal."

"Jesus Christ," Eddie wipes at his eyes with the back of his hand. "Okay, lets stop being gay. Just because it's Valentine's day doesn't mean we have to be complete saps."

"You love it," Richie pokes his tummy. "I know you do. You love romance, you love love, you love being in love."

"Okay, okay!" Eddie beams, "I do! I love it! You don't have to point it out, though!"

With their heavy confessions lingering in the foggy air, the pair spend hours floating around in the water with one another. They splash and have water fights, spit out waterfalls to compete with one another, and float on their backs as they entwine hands and talk about their futures.

Something else occurs in that water tower. Something a bit unexpected, and mostly very sudden, but clumsy and awkward and flustered like most teenage love things are. Richie gives his first handjob, and Eddie receives his first handjob. The water makes it easier, yet complicates things at the same time. Their positioning changes many times through the course of their intimacy, just to prevent Eddie from floating away from Richie's giving hands. It ends in a hot mess of kisses and a moan of euphoria, something that only inflates Richie's pride even further.

Eddie seems dazed the rest of the night. Even when Richie walks him home, hand in hand, his coat over Eddie's shoulders so the boy doesn't catch pneumonia, Eddie Kaspbrak still cannot form proper sentences.

"You want me to come in?" Richie asks as the two stand in a foot of snow beneath Eddie's bedroom window.

Eddie fumbles with Richie's hands, his tongue tied to match the way his organs feel. It's different than when Eddie does that sort of private stuff to himself. It's hotter. It's... It's Richie. Richie touched him everywhere in ways that diluted his common sense, and now his vocabulary is being processed through the filtration system since he apparently forgot it at the water tower.

"The- Well, morning- See- Uh, It's, actually- Bed, y'know? Like, door-" Eddie stumbles out over and over again, a hazy little look over his glossy eyes. He looks so blissed out from something so simple, Richie is sort of glad that they didn't follow through with their promises of lingerie. Eddie would combust, and Richie knows he would probably do just the same. These two idiots are going to be the death of one another. Eddie clears his throat, attempting to sort through his muddled, sexual thoughts to find the words he's looking for. In the end, he comes up with "Mom."

Richie nods in understanding, saying "Yeah, she'd flip. Alright, well, thank you for the wonderful night, my dear. I'll see you tomorrow?"

"It's-" Eddie starts, but then stops himself and takes a deep breath. He laughs in embarrassment, shying away as he shakes his head. He feels nervous and giddy around Richie, like he's got a school girl crush yet again.

Those love confessions don't mean anything now that they've had their first time together. It changes everything, sets a whole new mood to their already established relationship. It was strong before, but now the pure infatuation that Eddie is feeling for Richie and his blessed hands causes the shorter one to fall even more head over heels than he already was.

Richie smiles bashfully, nervous and embarrassed that he has that effect on someone. The sounds that were coming from Eddie's tongue were explicit and downright sinful, but Richie just hears them echoing through his head on a loop.

"Okay, okay," Richie nods, his nose feeling cold from the air. His shirt is too thin to be just standing outside like this after swimming, but Eddie looks warm in the two jackets stacked on his petite body. "I'm gonna go, then, alright?"

"Hmh," Eddie nods, looking up with his pretty big eyes. He looks like he wants to say something, and Richie is definitely sure of what he wants to say, but neither of the two dare utter it.

"You're so cute," Richie shakes his head, leaning down to peck a quick kiss to Eddie's mouth. "All flustered. Did it feel that good?"

"Mhmm," Eddie nods quickly, his hands on Richie's tightening.

"Damn, well, guess I had a lot of practice from fucking your mom," Richie tries to divert the conversation back some place safe for the two of him, mostly for his own sake. Richie didn't experience teenage hormones until tonight, and he's pretty sure the years of sexual frustration he missed out on are all being unleashed at this very second.

"Just shut the fuck up and get in my room," Eddie blurts out, turning so that he can lift himself up to the window sill.

Without hesitation, Richie reaches over his head to push the window open, helping Eddie in as he clumsily follows with frantic motion. The two don't waste any time at all, quickly undressing all the clothes they just put back on.

In the blue glow of Eddie's fishtank, Richie can see that the lingerie is set out on Eddie's bed. As if he planned for them to end up here in this position exactly.

He smiles, pulling Eddie in by the neck to press his lips against the boy he's about to consummate.

Bill was right, all 18 year olds think about the same thing.

Chapter Text

Richie is woken up from his rest by his bedroom door creaking open, the sound of heavy footsteps sending his drugged mind into a panic.

He rolls over, gets greeted by Zack, and begins to calm down.

"It's just me, champ," Zack whispers out, holding his hands up to show Richie he's no harm at all. "Just comin' in to check your fever."

"Dad..." Richie mumbles out, his eyes drooping closed as he feels the bed dip besides him.

"Yeah," he can hear the smile in Zack's voice. "Just me. Can I have you sit up a little?"

Richie groans in protest, his body stuffy with mucus and his brain practically burning in flames. He props himself up on his elbows, leaning back against his headboard. Behind the headboard is a little message written in crayon that Richie pretends isn't there. It says Georgie Denbrough forever!

Zack holds the thermometer under Richie's tongue, his hand cupping the back of his son's head to support the drowsy teenager. "I'm still baffled at how you caught such a bad cold when Bill hasn't been affected at all. Usually you guys catch these nasty things from school."

Richie sighs out, remembering two nights ago when he was out past curfew doing things he wasn't supposed to be doing with the neighbor boy that lives three streets over. His cheeks flush, but Zack just blames it on the fever.

"101," Zack states. "If it doesn't calm down by tonight, we may need to take you in to get a checkup."

"Scared," Richie rests his forehead against his father figure's shoulder.

"The doctors will help you, big guy," Zack comforts him.

"I think I..." Richie trails off slowly, his cold medicine making it hard to comprehend any sort of coherent thought process. "Need help. Like therapy? Because I don't... I don't think good things."

"Yeah?" Zack lowers his voice so gently for the delicate boy resting against him. "What's goin' on, sport?"

"Everything..." Richie takes a deep breath in. "I want my friends back to the way they were, but I know that they are only going to be hurt if I don't fix all this fucked up damage that's wrong with me. It's hard to let someone love you when you've spent years thinking you don't deserve it or you can't be loved... and I want to be my true self with them, dad, I do. They make me feel normal, and not like an orphan that got abandoned. And hurt. And is still afraid of getting hurt all the time. And I don't want you or mom to hurt me either. I like it here, I just want to be... okay again. I think the head shrink doctors can fix my crazy basket case."

"Rich, there's nothing to fix because you aren't broken," Zack rubs Richie's back, noting the way his spine protrudes. He'll have Sharon start buying the fattier meats at the deli. "There's nothing wrong with needing therapy. I think you're brave for recognizing that. You know, your mother and I were in therapy for a very, very long time. She still goes sometimes, too."

"Really?" Richie lifts his face up to look at Zack.

"Yeah. What do you think her book club meetings are?" He laughs. "After Georgie left we were... not the greatest of parents. We treated Bill like... well, we fell victim to that mindset that hurt people hurt the ones around them. You see a lot of that in this town. We wanted to change, so we started going to therapy together. Now, we're just trying to be the best parents for you kids that we can be. Especially you, Rich. You've been so scared to call us mom or dad, but you shouldn't have to feel that fear in our home. We want this to be a safe place for you, and if therapy is what you need, then I'll make an appointment as soon as you fight this cold. Sound good?"

Richie nods and opens his mouth to respond again, but the nearly lethal amount of medicine that Sharon spoonfed him this morning only causes the boy to fall asleep whilst sitting up, his head rolling back against Zack's hand.

Zack smiles and gently lies Richie back down, pulling the blanket up and over the boy's thin frame. Now that Richie isn't bundled up in layers upon layers of coats, Zack never noticed just how skinny Richie was until now, which makes a seed of guilt drip into his stomach at how he's neglected something that could be potentially a problem. He'll have to keep an eye on Richie. More than usual.

Zack slides the glasses off of Richie's face and sets them down on the bedside table beside him, exiting the room and heading downstairs. As he looks through the stack of business cards on top of the fridge, Sharon comes in with a worried look.

"How is he?" She asks.

Sharon took the day off to look after Richie while Bill was at school, but Zack came home early to make sure that things were okay. As laid back as these two are, they are still very much haunted by the PTSD and trauma of losing one son that they tend to overly worry when they run the risk of losing a second. It's just a fever for right now, but the thought of it evolving into something worse sent Zack to the breakroom to clock out and take a personal day to spend with his kid.

"His fever is worse," Zack smiles proudly. "Kid's got a nasty cold."

"Then why the hell are you smiling about it?" She gasps in exasperation.

Zack says with a fond voice, "Because he called me dad."

Richie has sweaty, restless dreams. His whole body hurts when he rolls over, but no position seems comfortable enough. He has to keep kicking his blankets off just to sit up and pull them back up to his chin a mere five minutes later. He feels delirious from the medication combating the fever itself, like everything is a fuzzy little fever dream on a static TV.

The next time that Richie is woken up, it's by Bill coming in and flopping down in Richie's squeaky desk chair so loudly that the wheels roll across the floor.

"Hey, big guy," Bill announces, kicking his legs up on the desk. "You still sick?"

Richie uncovers his head from beneath the blanket, his eyes swollen and his nose leaking. "Wuh."

"Oh, gross," Bill laughs. "Seriously, Eddie's completely fine. I don't get how you're on your deathbed when both of you dumbasses swam in the same water."

Richie lies his head back down against his pillow, blinking his bleary eyes over at his brother. Richie's curly hair plasters against his slick forehead, his skin coated in a sheen of sweat.

"So," Bill then sits forward a little bit. "We're all going out to Mike's today. We were going to push it back until you're feeling better, but this is really the only time that all of our schedules line up after school. Eddie's on his way over though! I told him I'd give him a ride."

"Ed," Richie breathes out, then smiles. "Mike?"

"Yeah, the big ol' goof. I haven't seen him in so long, I'm so excited. I've just been so busy with, you know," Bill gestures out openly as if he's trying to remember exactly what it is that he's been busy with. For some reason, he can't recall at all. To say he's been busy with his girlfriend is a lousy excuse, but Billy boy thinks he is in love. He spent a good part of his adolescence fantasizing about the girl he now calls his own, he's trying to make the most of their young love while he still can. Bill is convinced that one day she's going to realize she's too good for anybody in this town and leave the Loser's Club all behind.

"Mike," Richie breathes out again, rolling onto his back and letting his eyes shut. "Tired now. Head hurts."

"I'll bring up some water and some ibuprofen," Bill stands to his feet, reaching out to ruffle Richie's hair. When he notices how sweaty the tall one is, Bill decides against it.

He's quiet as he leaves, so quiet that Richie drifts back to sleep and doesn't even hear Bill come back in until he rolls over and notices a glass of water on his nightstand that wasn't there before. Each time Richie opens his eyes again, more and more of the water is gone. He can't recall drinking it, but he knows he's the one slurping it down. The front of his shirt is wet with dribble.

Richie opens his eyes, seeing the cup missing all together. He sits up, noticing the pills there that he forgot to take. Richie holds them in his clammy hands, staring at the little tablets that are supposed to make him feel better.

"Oh," Eddie's voice comes from the doorway. "Hey. Didn't know you were awake."

Richie looks up in a daze, seeing his friend standing in the doorway with a new glass of water in his hands. Richie smiles and lies back down, moving over in bed to make room for the one he wants to crawl between the sheets with.

"Here, drink," Eddie sits on the bed next to him, handing the water over to Richie. "You're burning up."

"I'm jus'so hot," Richie slurs his words, washing the pills back. "Actually hot. Not just sexy and irresistible."

"Alright," Eddie chuckles, resting his hands on Richie's chest and lying him back. "Lay down, big guy. You need some rest."

"I haven't seen you," Richie needily grabs at Eddie's arm, his fingers not feeling strong enough to properly hold onto the boy. "In so long. Missed you."

"Just been a few days," Eddie shakes his head.

"But," Richie's eyes start to close, so he fights very hard to stay conscious enough for Eddie. "Too long. Wanna see you everyday, like, all the time."

Eddie smiles and lies down on the bed until his head is on Richie's chest, the thump inside his ribs quickening under the pressure.

"Eddie?" Richie asks.

"Hm?"

"Do you feel alright?" Richie asks.

"What?" Eddie laughs, looking up at Richie. "You're the one with the cold."

"I mean your... your body," Richie flusters and stumbles over his words, squirming in his bedsheets. "Because we...?"

"Oh," Eddie's mouth lifts up into a little smile. "Yeah, I'm okay baby. You don't have to worry."

"I didn't hurt you?"

"If it hurt, would I have came that much?" Eddie responds, which causes Richie to start choking on the snot dripping from his sinuses.

"Oh my god. This is so not sexy," Richie whines, chugging water down to cool down his embarrassed face.

"Don't worry," Eddie shakes his head, rubbing Richie's thigh comfortingly. "In sickness and in health, right?"

That's the thing about Eddie. He can be so blunt, and so vulgar, but turn into an absolute softie within a matter of seconds. His little vessel holds so many emotions, that temper of his getting the best of him so often that he doesn't really get the chance to let the other sides of himself show. Richie sees them though, he gets to hear the sexual innuendos turn into love confessions within the same sentence. It's Eddie's best gift, a weapon that strikes Richie down each and every time.

"I think," Richie exhales, wiping some sweat off his face. "I think I'm getting into therapy soon. Then we can be a real couple soon."

From down the hall, the two hear Bill shout "Ed! Come on, I'm headin' out, dude!"

Richie begins to panic, grabbing onto Eddie's hands and squeezing tightly. He's painted his nails again, Richie didn't notice until just now. Instead of red, they're a dark purple with little specks of gold. Glitter.

"We are a real couple, Rich," Eddie leans over and presses a kiss to Richie's cheek. He smiles, rubs his thumb over Richie's hands, and says "I'll say hi to Mike for you. Maybe I'll try to talk him into filling a thermos with that famous hot chocolate so I can bring you some."

"You're coming back?" Richie asks in a clingy tone. He's not usually this openly needy, but the drugs make him delirious. He's not even sure if he's going to remember this conversation in the morning.

"Of course," Eddie scoffs, "It's gonna take a lot to drag me away from you."

Richie knows those words, but from where he isn't quite sure. His brain isn't functioning the way it typically is, so he nods and kisses the back of Eddie's hand before lying back down. He feels Eddie's hands rub his shoulder up and down, then listens to the gentle footsteps leave his room. No matter how many promises they make, it still hurts to hear him leave. Every time, it hurts.

Richie sleeps for a few more hours, but eventually drags himself downstairs when Sharon calls up that dinner's ready. He sits at the table with his comforter wrapped around his shoulders, ingesting the soup faster than his parents have ever seen him eat before.

"Do you want seconds, Rich?" Sharon asks in a confused voice when she sees him clear the bowl.

"Yes, please," Richie nods with a sniffle, then wipes some snot on his blanket to Zack's dismay.

Sharon lifts her eyebrows, but takes his bowl without second questions. She shares a look with Zack as she walks to the stove, one that says He never asks for seconds.

"Do you guys..." Richie asks, his droopy eyes staring up at the light fixture hanging above the table. "Do you guys wish I was Georgie?"

"What kinda question is that?" Zack laughs nervously.

From the kitchen, Sharon responds a little better than a ridicule like her husband. "'Course not. You're Richie, we like you the way you are."

"Even though I'm gay?"

There's a silence that falls over the room once the words are uttered, and Richie would have dove headfirst into self loathing if he wasn't so high on cough medicine. Sharon sets the bowl down in front him, and Richie begins eating as if he's not even aware of what he just said.

"You think you're gay?" Sharon asks gently.

"No," Richie shakes his head. "I like girls, too, sometimes. Not all of them. But I don't like all guys either, but it's gay to... to do stuff with boys, isn't it? So it's just easier to explain that."

"You don't have to explain anything, kiddo," Zack assures him. "Whatever you like or don't like isn't any of our business, you know? We're here to take care of you and give you what we can to make sure you're happy."

Richie nods. "I feel safe. I've never told a grownup that."

"Well there's nothing to be ashamed of," Sharon rubs the back of Richie's blanket clad shoulder. "Come on, it's the nineties! Everyone's trying everything. You know, in college, Zack and your science teacher actually-"

"Thank you, honey!" Zack interrupts her, shooting her a look. Sharon shrugs with a grin, which Zack rolls his eyes at and ignores her prods. "Well, I'm glad that you've told us, Rich. But, I do have to ask, are you seeing little Eddie?"

Richie's spoon clatters as his mind suddenly clears of all the fog that was hanging over his common sense. His eyes widen as he realizes what he's done, his hands frantically pushing the bowl of soup away from him.

"Uh, um," he stutters, his voice starting to shake. "We, uh."

"Oh, jeez, look what you've done to the poor boy," Sharon nudges Zack's shoulder.

"It's okay if you are!" Zack puts his hands up. "We love Eddie. He grew up with Bill, we know more about that kid's allergies and medications than we do Bill's. I'm not trying to invade your privacy, Rich, believe me. But this is our home and we do have rules regarding dating and bringing home girlfriends, or, boyfriends."

"Not much of a rule, really," Sharon shrugs. "Just don't let your grades slip. If you're spending too much time on dates instead of studying, you'll focus less in school. You're so close to graduating, too, so we just ask that you don't get distracted. Okay?"

"And no hooking up or staying over while me and your mother are in the house," Zack adds on. "But if we're gone... free game."

"Zachary!" Sharon scoffs, gasping at her husbands bluntness.

He shrugs, and says "What? They're teens, sweetie! You seriously expect them to partake in abstinence? It's better to talk to them about how to have safe sex rather than shelter them! Oh, God, speaking of sheltered, the Kaspbrak boy is practically the poster boy for overprotective parents."

"He, um," Richie shrugs, rubbing his finger against the wood table in hopes of getting a splinter. This conversation is humiliating for him in more than one ways, he just wants to abscond to his room and sleep the rest of this fever off. "He's not... that sheltered. Public school and all."

Both parents nod and raise their eyebrows, understanding that sentence completely.

"Well," Sharon shrugs, hooking her finger underneath Richie's chin to lift his face. She strokes the side of his face and says, "We don't care who it is you bring home, honey. That's not our decision to make. Just as long as you're happy, okay?"

"Okay," Richie nods, leaning into her hand. He's craved to know what a mother's touch feels like, but he never thought it would be this warm and comforting.

"No sleepovers," Zack adds on. "Same rules go for Bill. Jeez, him and Beverly are the reason we had to enforce those rules."

Richie nods again, but this time he adverts his guilty eyes. Eddie's been staying over for weeks and they just haven't noticed. He doesn't want to get caught, he doesn't want to disappoint these two after they've placed so much trust in Richie. They've provided him a safe, healthy, inviting home. One where he can be open about himself and he doesn't have to hide. One where they seek the help that Richie asks for. He shouldn't disobey them and the one rule they ask of him.

Richie excuses himself from the table a little bit after, heading back up to his room where he crashes on the bed and falls asleep quickly. His fever rises once more in his sleep, making him sweat through the sheets. It may be winter outside, but Richie's room feels humid and swampy. If he didn't know any better, he would assume his bed was truly on the surface of the sun.

He can hear pairs of footsteps clambering up the stairs in clumsy groups, a pace too fast for his parents. His brother's laugh rings through the hallway, so he only assumes that Eddie's back. This wakes him up, the boy fumbling around to find his glasses in his bed sheets so he can watch the door.

Turns out, Richie doesn't have to worry about being caught with Eddie, because the boy didn't come back like he promised.

Richie stands up, stumbling across his room and tripping over spare clothes as he tries to get to his door. The hallway seems much longer than usual, but he knows he's just delusional from the cold and the combined medicine. He trudges down the hall, listening for any indication that Eddie is in the house and just got lost on his way to Richie's room.

Richie knocks on his brother's door, then enters when Bill grants permission. He pushes the door open, squinting against the bright light filling the room with luminescence.

"Hey, man," Bill nods, "Feelin' better?"

"No," Richie says flatly. He looks at the person sitting on Richie's bed, looking up at him with a confused expression.

"Hey," Stan says.

"Why are you-" Richie stops himself, shaking his head. He assumes that everyone in the losers club all made up without him, and now Stan and Bill are having one of their classic sleepovers that Richie was lucky enough to experience once or twice when they were younger. He doesn't feel welcomed this time. "Sorry. I just thought you were Beverly."

"God, how strong is that shit mom's giving you?" Bill laughs, flipping his radio on.

"Where's Eddie?" Richie then asks. Sometimes, Bill gets on his nerves. Bill and Beverly both seem to be highly concerned about their own selves, and sometimes that just annoys Richie. He won't ever say that, though.

Richie grew up as a single child, he doesn't know that it's normal for brothers to get annoyed and fight like that. Richie wouldn't dare speak ill of the person who talked his parents into adopting an orphan for his birthday.

"He went home early," Bill shrugs, tuning the stations. "Or something like that?"

Another example of him being too... too caught up in his own world to take notice where Eddie went. Richie stiffens.

Luckily, Stan is fastidious. He watches and sees everything, for he's the quiet one of their friend group. He always has been. The whole make out scandal that happened was a shock to everyone, nobody saw that coming from prim and proper little Stanley Uris.

Stan says "Someone paged him and he just took off. Seemed important, though."

"Oh," Richie frowns. Who else would be paging him? Richie hasn't touched his beeper all day, and Eddie was hanging with the rest of the losers when it happened. "Was it Henry?"

"Dude, fuck that guy," Bill pipes up. He flops down on the bed next to Stan, who seems just as annoyed by Bill as Richie feels. Then again, Stan is annoyed by everyone, all the time. "He blows."

Richie bites his tongue from defending Henry, because he knows these two don't know Henry like he does. They wouldn't understand the pain that the Bowers offspring has been through, and even if Richie were to explain, Stan would certainly say that being hurt is no excuse to hurt others.

"He didn't say," Stan shakes his head.

"He promised he'd come back," Richie whines, backing up and leaning against the doorframe.

"He might," Bill points out. "Little dude could be crawling up the garage as we speak! Any second now he's gonna tumble through my window all winded and b-b-breathless."

Stan's eyes look over when he hears the stutter, but Richie doesn't notice it at all. He's too busy asking "What if he's in trouble? Or hurt? What if his- What if his mom's hurt? Oh god, what if it's his mom?"

"Good," Bill shrugs.

"What?"

"She blows too."

"That's his mother, though," Stan remarks in Richie's defense.

"She's sick, Bill," Richie says in absolute shock. Maybe he's too drugged up, but he's taken way more offense to this than probably necessary. "You know that, right? He has to give her medicine and everything. She can't take care of herself anymore."

"Look," Bill says, "We're all thinking it! She basically ruined his life, and you're defending her?"

"What the fuck," Stan frowns at Bill, "Dude, are you seriously saying you want Eddie's mom to die? That's fucked."

"No, I'm not saying-"

Richie cuts him off. His words are slurred, but the seething anger is there and very, very vivid. "Just because you've justified your girlfriend's fucked up murder as some sort of self defense because it was her deadbeat dad does not give you the right to start thinking that every shitty parent deserves to die. The fuck is wrong with you man? You're different, Bill. You're no leader."

"What, and you are?" Bill chuckles, "You don't fucking know what happened with Bev, so don't sit and preach to me about morals, Tozier."

Hearing Tozier hurts. Bill disowns him as a Denbrough.

"Guys," Stan interjects calmly, but Richie speaks over him.

"You're seriously delusional! She killed someone, Bill. Murder! And you just- what, it's okay because you get in her pants? Sonia is a fuckin'- she's- she didn't ruin him! He's fine. He's fine, okay? He's fine the way he is and he still loves his mom, you can't just-"

Richie gets so worked up with such a slow thought process that he struggles to find the words, but his face feels hot. Not from the fever, but in the way it does when he knows that tears are about to sting in his eyes.

"Fuck you, man," Richie curses, "Some fucking leader you are. Fucked over Ben just to get your dick wet, now you're- you're actually wishing death on someone. I don't recognize you at all."

"Come on, get it all out," Bill laughs, unbothered.

"Why the fuck are you laughing?" Richie clenches his fists. He used to be so good at fighting, but he hasn't hit someone in years. All he's had to practice was self defense. He wonders if he could still make someone bleed.

"Because you let everyone wuh-walk all over you," Bill says. "You never stand up for yourself, and look where that got you. You bottled all that shit up, now you're having some fever dream and unloading all that anger on me."

"You literally implied you wanted Eddie's mom to die," Richie says. "Don't try to minimize my anger with some bullshit explanation. Own the fuck up to the fucked up mentality that Bev's brainwashed you to have."

Richie doesn't want to make anybody bleed, especially not his brother. Even if Bill doesn't see him as a Denbrough, that's still his brother. Always.

He slams the door shut behind him, hearing Stan instantly call Bill a dumbass. He leaves the two, locking his own bedroom door and burying himself in the bed. He feels white hot with rage, but that almost seems to flush away the second he remembers what the fight was initially about.

He's not sure what made Eddie break his promise, but he hopes everything's okay. It's got to be. They've been doing so well, he can't handle losing any part of this.

Chapter Text

In the early light of Saturday morning, Richie is woken up by a knock on his door. He mumbles something close to an invitation, so he blurrily watches Bill enter the room.

"H-Hey," Bill says, shifting around in the doorway.

Richie remembers the way that Bill stood in his room that day he asked Richie to come swim down at the quarry. Beverly forced Bill to invite Richie, and Bill obeyed. He's always been under her thumb.

"What?" Richie asks.

"C-C-Can we tuh-talk?" Bill asks. His stutter sounds awful.

"We are now, aren't we?" Richie sighs, but then waves Bill in anyways.

His brother sits down in the desk chair, rolling it over to the side of the bed and touching his hand to Richie's temple. "Your f-f-fever is go-going d-d-down."

"Mhm," Richie nods, staring up at the ceiling.

"I b-b-broke up-p with B-B-B-Be- fuck, fuck," Bill brings his hands up to cover his face.

"Beverly," Richie says for him, turning his attention towards Bill. He loosens his body up, taking a more gentle approach. "What happened?"

"I f-felt bad," Bill says between his hands. "About lah-last nnn-nnight. I t-t-talked to Sss-St-Stan about it, and I th-think it was a wakeup c-call."

Richie doesn't say anything, but he reaches out and guides Bill's hands away from his face as a way to encourage him to continue.

"S-So I just- I juh-just want t-t-to say sorry," Bill says. "I c-called Eh-Eh-Ed-Eddie to ch-check on his mmmm-mom. She's okay, he said he'll c-c-come over today. I feel s-so bad, Rich. I've- I've lost family m-m-members. Brothers. I d-d-didn't want t-to lose you... not again. I really s-st-stepped back and realized... just how much... she cuh-convinced me th-that it was... okay."

Richie nods understandingly. "I don't think she meant to, Bill. You just love her, man."

"I d-do. I always have. Th-That's why... I don't know. I really f-fucked up. I was s-so ssss-sselfish. I j-just wanted her. B-B-Ben broke up with h-her, and I just," Bill waves his hands around as if to gesture towards the mess he's created.

Richie sits up in bed, shifting his pillow around to rest in his lap a bit more comfortably. "What did you tell Bev?"

"The t-truth. I s-said she... she n-n-needs to be alone f-for awhile. She's n-never really... b-b-been single before, has she?"

"Not for as long as I've known her," Richie shakes his head.

"It'd be g-g-good for her to luh-learn how t-to be on her own," Bill says, "I t-told her I'm n-n-not like m-myself. I ch-changed to be wha-what I th-thought she wanted. She understood. She wasn't m-m-mad or anything, she s-said she would b-be okay waiting if I j-just wanted space. I s-said I didn't know."

"Do you want to go back to her?" Richie asks. "Ever?"

"I really d-d-don't know," he shakes his head, then covers his face again. "I d-don't know what t-to do. I feel s-so lost."

"Hey, come on, man," Richie leans over the edge of the bed to pull Bill in for a hug, the wheels of the chair squeaking as Bill gets closer. "You'll be alright. What can't you survive, man?"

"I know," Bill says. "I know I'll b-b-be okay, I've j-j-just... I hurt all m-my fruh-friends in th-the p-process."

Richie smiles and says, "I've got a feeling that we all go together, no matter what. It'll be okay, dude. Us losers stick together, always. We're a family."

Bill nods and nuzzles into Richie's shoulder a bit more, stuttering out a pathetic "I ho-hope I d-d-don't catch your c-cold."

"I hope you do," Richie teases. "I feel like shit. The whole world must feel my pain."

"I g-g-guess we're b-both evil," Bill suggests, though Richie doesn't think either of them could truly make an evil decision even if their life depended on it. "Th-Thanks for flipping out on m-m-me."

"Sorry I made you break up with your girlfriend," Richie says, but then adds "But it was for the best so I'm not actually sorry at all. Sorry I said you weren't a leader?"

"No, you were rrrr-right. I th-think you sh-should lead until I g-geh-get my shit together," Bill pulls away from the hug to see Richie's reaction.

"Me? Leader? Not a chance, dude. I'm a nervous wreck," Richie laughs, the chuckle turning into a cough at the end to remind him of just how ill he is.

"Well, th-then who?" Bill asks.

It clicks into place at the exact same time. The only person properly capable of taking care of a whole group of chaotic assholes is someone who deserved the leader badge probably some time ago, but he was just too humble to ever think of himself so highly. Out of everyone in the group, he's always been the most natural, true leader, something Bill has been aware of since day one. Bill's got the confidence and charm needed to make all of them listen, but one loser in particular is who should really be their father figure of the group.

Both at the same time, the two blurt out "Mike."

Bill says, "M-Maybe when Ed-Eddie comes over t-to-today you guys can g-go see him if you're feeling b-b-better."

"You don't wanna come with?" Richie asks.

"No," Bill shakes his head. "I've g-gotta get th-this s-s-st-stutter under control. I th-think I'm going t-t-to eat ice cream out of th-the tub and watch Grease like g-g-girls d-do when they're s-ss-sad about a b-breakup."

"Well," Richie laughs, he uses the poshest Voice he has to say "Godspeed, good sir. May your efforts of rehabilitation and recovery be swift yet fruitful."

"The only th-thing fru-fruitful here is you," Bill teases.

Before Richie can chuck something at his head, he's up and running out of the room as laughter follows behind him, but Richie listens to the way that the laughter dies down the second Bill is out of Richie's eyesight. It must've hit Bill really hard to step back and realize the type of person he was becoming. It wasn't even necessarily Beverly's fault, which is the real kicker. Bill turned himself into that on his own accord, just to appeal to her. That isn't her responsibility to take care of, so it's quite admirable to know that Bill was the bigger man and ended things for his own sake. The leader is still buried deep, deep within him. He still has that bit of bravery that Mike never really possessed. Maybe one day when they're older, all of them will figure it out and they won't need a leader to look up to.

For now, Richie only has to worry about his own little romance going on. He pushes the sheets off and fumbles around his messy room to find his pager, beeping Eddie to let him know to call. He's downstairs moments later, drinking orange juice to Sharon's suggestion when the phone starts to ring.

"I got it," he maneuvers around her before she can answer. He holds the receiver up to his ear eagerly, asking "Hey, Denbrough residence."

"Damn," Eddie says, "I was lookin' for a Tozier."

"Well," Richie says, "I'll let it slide. You wanna come over?"

"I've been waiting all morning for you to wake up," Eddie responds. "It's noon, dude. Seriously."

"Sorry, I was recovering from the Black Plague," Richie says dramatically.

"You mock my vitamins, but who's the one that didn't get sick?" Eddie scoffs, then says "That's what I thought. I'll be over in ten."

When Richie hangs up, he smiles and turns back to the kitchen, finishing up his orange juice.

"That your boyfriend?" Sharon asks curiously. No accusatory tone in her voice, just one of a mother who can't keep up with the two teenage boys she's sheltering.

"Um, kind of," Richie smiles, setting his cup in the sink and coming up to kiss her cheek. "I'm gonna take him down to the movies today, I think. I'll be home for dinner."

Sharon smiles and nods, watching Richie bounce out of the kitchen so he can clumsily climb the stairs. He's not asking permission to go out anymore, he's just letting her know where he's going to be. He's come a long way, and she feels proud of the kid who has had the strength to overcome the fear he was ridden with when she first brought him into her home.

After getting ready, Richie meets Eddie out on their porch, where he wraps an arm around the smaller one's shoulders and kisses his cheek as a good morning greeting. They bound down the steps and start heading down the driveway, not afraid of the neighbors seeing them.

"So are you feelin' better?" Eddie asks him, looking up at the boy who was bedridden just the day before.

"Yeah," Richie smiles, his fingers fiddling with the ring on his fingers. "Musta been all the drugs ma pumped into me!"

"You were all sweaty," Eddie comments, "Yet I still kissed you. I think I deserve an award for that."

"Yeah, I'll get right on that Eds," Richie rolls his eyes, "I'll call up Mr. President and tell him to enroll you for a Medal of Honor like the other brave soldiers that fight for this country."

"You are such an ass," Eddie scoffs, but still pushes into Richie's side when a strong gust of wind blows their way.

"You love it," Richie pinches the boy's cheek. "How was Mike's?"

"Totally bleak," Eddie shakes his head. "Everyone talked about their problems with each other and what went wrong after you left. It was morbid."

"Yeah?" Richie sighs, "Sorry to miss out."

"Honestly, I wish I would've just stayed in bed with you," Eddie says. "Even if you were sick as a dog."

Richie laughs in a way that turns into a bit of a cough, so he wipes at his runny nose and ignores Eddie's disgusted looks. "You didn't come back."

"Oh," Eddie nods. "Henry had some problems with his dad. He was freakin' out."

"Is he alright?" Richie asks.

"Yeah..." Eddie shrugs. "Yeah. For the most part. You know how his dad is, man."

"Why doesn't he move out?" Richie asks.

"He's gotta take care of the property," Eddie explains. "He's inheriting it when his dad passes, so there's really no reason to go."

Richie nods for a few moments, then he asks "You still thinkin' 'bout ditching this place?"

"As soon as we graduate."

Richie nods again, staying quiet as they walk along the sidewalk out of the clusters of neighborhoods and head towards town. The snow crunches beneath their shoes, the road wet with the slush beneath the tires of each car that passes by them. The horizon is grey and monotonous, but Richie imagines how it'll look during the spring time when the two boys finish their last day of high school.

"Bill broke up with Bev," Richie then says. "I don't know if he told you that."

"Kinda," Eddie nods, "It was hard to catch through the stutter."

"He's doin' real bad again," Richie shakes his head. "I think it's for the best though. I think it's what everyone needs, really."

"He always had a crush on her," Eddie says, "For as long as I can remember. I never thought he'd give up on them."

"I don't think he gave up, he just knows it's not... he knows that it's not good for them to be together right now," Richie shrugs, "He doesn't like who he became, so he's trying to get it all sorted out. I think that's brave."

"Isn't that what you're doing?" Eddie looks up at Richie, "You're brave too, you know. Not many people can hold back the way you can."

"What- What part of Valentine's day was me holding back?" Richie chuckles. "If you say so, spaghetti head. Oh! I came out to my parents."

"What?" Eddie stops in his tracks, his eyes widening. "What'd they say?"

"Nothing, really," Richie shrugs, "They said okay, basically. And then told me you can't stay the night if we're dating."

"But- We-" Eddie laughs, "They don't have a clue that I've been coming over, do they?"

"Not at all."

"That's incredible, baby," Eddie steps forward, taking Richie's hands in his own. Even through the mittens, Richie can feel how warm Eddie's touch is. "I'm so proud of you. You're being so true to yourself."

"I'm trying," Richie nods. "For you. For us... For me."

Eddie smiles so brightly that it blinds more than the pristine snow banks behind him, but Richie doesn't look away. He loves seeing the face Eddie makes when he's proud, it makes his self esteem sky rocket.

At the movie theaters, the two boys stand in line for concessions as Richie shifts around on his feet. His eyes glance towards the bathroom, and he remembers that fight. He remembers it vividly. He remembers the way that Eddie hit him.

He also remembers the journal entries that followed. He remembers the way his tiny lover apologized profusely, the guilt that seeped between the pages, and the sorrow that bled through the ink.

He steps a little closer to Eddie.

"Hey," Eddie nudges him. "I don't mean to alarm you, but Bev and Mike are here."

"What?" Richie panics, his eyes scanning the theater lobby to find the duo. "Where?"

Sure enough, Mike and Bev are standing by the ticket booth. Beverly is twirling a bit to show off how her long dress flows by her ankles, and Mike is nodding and saying something from behind his knit scarf. It looks homemade.

"Oh, man," Richie looks down at his feet. "I don't want to talk to her. I just broke her and her boyfriend up."

"That was Bill's choice," Eddie says, moving up in line. "It would be weirder if we didn't talk to them."

"Okay," Richie whispers, his voice dying down in his throat. He doesn't try to say anything else, he just nods his head in defeat.

He doesn't want to face Bev. Things have been tough between them as it is, strained since the moment Eddie blinked those pretty eyes at Richie in the way that made him fall in love. The distance and gap that grew over the years has only sunk in depth, and Richie is afraid that this fight with Bill he had is just the final nail in the coffin that's going to make her despise him.

The line seems to move too fast now. Before Richie can even procrastinate going over to them, Eddie's already gotten their popcorn and drinks and is nudging Richie towards Mike playing a claw machine game near the photobooths.

"Hey guys!" Mike glows with sunshine. As per usual.

"Hey," Eddie smiles back, offering some of their popcorn. Beverly takes some, and seeing such sudden movements from her causes Richie to flinch back.

"Hey," Beverly says quietly, "You feeling better, Rich? Bill says you had a nasty cold."

"Y-Yeah," Richie nods, staring at the ground.

"Wow, I wonder how that could've happened," she laughs, then reaches over to jab at Eddie's sides. "Someone didn't talk him out of his idiotic water tower idea!"

"Believe me, I tried," Eddie says in his defense. "He's a stubborn guy! I can't resist that smile."

They all look at Richie as if a cue for him to present said smile, but Richie just pushes his lips together and looks to the side a bit uncomfortably. He missed that group bonding moment, but he's not sure if he even needed to be with them to heal anyways. They broke up without him around, why would they need him back in order to heal?

"What movie are you guys seeing?" Mike changes the subject. "We've got about 40 minutes to kill before our movie."

"This one talked me into seeing The Silence of the Lambs," Eddie scoffs, shifting the bucket of popcorn around in his arms. "We should probably go. I don't want to miss the trailers."

"Right, no problem," Mike nods, turning to pat Richie's arm. "You lovebirds have fun. Rich, my man, you gotta stop by more!"

"Will do," Richie eases up a little. Mike never makes him anxious, it's against his nature. What comes next, however, makes the remaining anxiety quadruple and skyrocket.

"Rich?" Beverly tucks some hair behind her ear, showing off her speckled face. "Can we hang out tonight? Same place like the good ol' days."

Back when he didn't love anything the way he loved her. Richie didn't have friends, she was it. He had a companionship in her that he thought was irreplaceable, then he met Eddie. And Stan. And Mike. And Ben. And Bill. And suddenly, Beverly wasn't so vital anymore.

"Okay," he says nervously, voice cracking as if he's not finished with puberty. "I'll see if I can sneak out."

"Thank you," she smiles sadly, then turns back to the claw machine and pretends to be busy with the handle.

Eddie kisses Richie's shoulder as a bit of reassurance, then nods his head towards the concierge waiting to take their tickets. Richie nods and tries to relax, but through the whole movie his mind is racing with the possibilities of what could happen.

What does she want? To yell at Richie? To blame him for everything that's gone wrong in their lives? To rub salt in every healing wound?

Richie thinks of their spot across from the gas station where their bikes would lie dormant as they pigged out inside the gas station. Dark, isolated, empty.

A darker thought reaches his mind, one that pairs well with the gruesome murders happening on the big screen before him. He takes Eddie's hand in his, squeezing it anxiously. Eddie smiles a little and assumes that Richie is just scared of the movie, not knowing what morbid thought is really consuming his mind.

What if she just wants to kill me?

Chapter Text

The wind trembles around him, blowing flurries of snow off of the drifting banks plowed off to the sides of the roads.

He doesn't want to be here. He really doesn't. Richie nearly threw up as he snuck out of the house through the backdoor, sliding on the ice that's frozen over the pathway around front. He panicked the whole way here, and now he continues to panic, just more quietly.

He burrows himself deeper into his coat, hiding his nose behind the scarf that Eddie left in his room. He doesn't want to be here, yet he is.

"Is your watch broken?" Beverly's voice drifts through the wind, more delicate than the snowflakes frosting against Richie's cracked lenses.

Richie looks up and sees her sitting there, crumpled up against the curb like a used napkin. She's hardly dressed for the weather, but that's Beverly for you. The girl will look fashionable even if it costs her frostbite.

A wave of deja vu washes over him, the feeling of familiarity surrounding him like a warm beach during the summer. There's no sun, though. No sun, no shore, no sand, just Beverly and the blistering cold they're bearing through right now.

Richie just shrugs. He doesn't have a snarky comeback, no classic one-liner to come out of the trashmouth, he just shrugs and stares at the slush pushed up against the curb that's turned black beneath all the tires it's been under.

"Come on, let's get inside," Beverly reaches out to touch his arm, but Richie takes a cautious step back just out of reach. She looks at him for a moment, hurt and betrayed, but then swallows her grief and leads the way in towards the gas station.

Richie doesn't pick up any snacks or drinks, he stands behind her with his hands in his pockets and his eyes on the ground. It's easy to be quiet, he's had years of practicing being invisible to know exactly how to go about unnoticed. She offers him some of his favorite candies, but he shakes his head each time.

The two sit down at their familiar table in the laundromat, the sounds of dryers rotating clothes and fluorescent lights humming almost seem to swallow up all the silence, but then Beverly starts unwrapping a candy bar that seems deafening in comparison to the lack of noise around them.

"You seem happier," she says after a long while.

Richie nods, looking up towards the ceiling tiles. There's a brown, mysterious stain leaking through them, and part of him always wonders if it's blood. "I am," he says. "Didn't think I ever would be, but yeah, I am."

"That's good, I'm glad," she says in the way that sounds like she's not very glad at all. It's hard to be happy for other people when you're miserable, and Richie understands that.

"And you?" He asks, finally meeting her eye. She has these deep, crystallized ocean blue eyes. He thinks all that water is finally catching up to her, because he can see her drowning beneath the foam of the sea.

"I've been better," she laughs, a hint of sarcasm edging along her words.

Richie nods in agreement because, yeah, she has been better. Or has she? Has she always been this way and he was just too blinded to notice? Too desperate to care? Richie used to make up a lot of excuses for Henry's behavior when they were kids too, just because Henry was his only friend and he didn't want to be alone. Did Richie make up excuses for Bev just so he wouldn't be alone?

Now, he's not alone. He's not. He's got a brother, a true love, and all the best friends he could ask for. There's no need for Beverly's mind games anymore, yet he's still here giving her a second chance.

"I didn't want for any of it to happen," Beverly sighs out. "My dad. I didn't want that. I didn't want him to touch me, and I didn't want to be scared, and I didn't want to be hurt, and I didn't want to hurt him. I didn't want to. I still don't. I have- It keeps me up at night, I can hardly sleep. All I see is him on the floor, just... just.... bleeding."

Richie tries not to imagine it. "That's no excuse to be treating everyone like this, Bev."

She sighs weakly, covering her face with her slender hands. Her nails are painted a dark blue, chipping and uneven. "You let Henry get away with being a fucking asshole."

"You're not the only one with a bad father," he says slowly, but then, "I don't let him get away with anything. He's in therapy now, he's trying to better himself. Can you say the same?"

Beverly peeks between her spread fingers, not expecting that type of response. Henry Bowers in therapy? It seems almost unreasonable.

"Why do you feel the need to have everyone underneath you?" Richie asks quietly. "Why do you have to be so- so adored?"

Beverly is quiet for a few minutes, folding her hands on the table between them. After careful consideration, her tiny voice says "The truth is, I feel so helpless all the time that it's just easy to be worth something if I've got people looking up to me. I feel so out of control, like my dad took everything away from me. If I have control over you guys... it just hurts less. The truth is, I'm scared of being alone."

"We all are," Richie sighs, "That's why we're all friends in the first place. You think Mike liked being out on that farm by himself for years? Nobody visiting? You think Ben likes sitting in the library by himself because he doesn't have anybody else to talk to?"

"Well, no, but-" she stops herself, then shakes her head. "I know it's not right, Richie. It just makes me feel like I'm worth more than daddy's little girl. Sometimes I'm so afraid of letting men have power over me that I'll do anything to control them. I know it's not right, but I'm scared."

"I get that, I do, but Bill? You seriously think Bill would ever hurt you?" Richie scoffs. "Kid's a fucking marshmallow. He was so in love with you, and you took advantage of that. You don't need to have control over him, Beverly. That's just fucked up, and you ruined a perfectly good relationship."

"I know, I know!" She covers her ears in frustration, squeezing her eyes shut. "Same thing happened with Ben."

Richie pauses. "Ben said-"

"I know what Ben said," she sighs, "He'll tell everyone that lie before he admits what actually happened. We were kissing and I got scared, so I pushed him off and screamed at him to never come near me again. So he didn't. He blames himself, I know he does, but how am I supposed to tell him it's because all I could feel was my father touching me? I couldn't bear it."

Richie processes the new information for a few seconds, rewriting what was already told in his brain. Ben's lie was believable, but just to protect Beverly. He didn't want others to know about her PTSD, so he spun something else that painted him as the bad guy for breaking up with a girl who was in pain. Classic Hanscom, though. Always the hero.

"That's something you should talk to him about," Richie says. "He needs that closure, Beverly. Aren't you tired of things being like this? Aren't you tired of hurting people? Start with Ben. Give him the closure he deserves."

"I don't think that will make up for everything I've put these boys through," she says quietly, followed by "It won't make up for anything."

"It's a start," Richie says. "You can try to be better, and that's all you can do. Just show that you're actively trying to change. For fuck's sake, Bowers is trying, man. He's all kinds of different. So if he can, I know you can. You're so much stronger than this, Bev."

"You don't hate me?" She asks, tucking hair behind her ears. Richie still isn't used to her longer hair, he's expecting her to chop it all off any day now.

"Why would I?" he asks. He shrugs, clenches his teeth a little, then looks over at the dryer rotating clothes in a small cycle. "Whatever, man. Aren't you tired of just... all this complicated shit? I want things to be easy. We're practically adults, you know, there's no point in dragging shit out for so long. We learn, we heal, we grow."

After him and Beverly talk for a few more hours about the pains of being single, Richie claims that he has to get back home and explains that he can't be sneaking out anymore. She understands his desire to obey, especially after she sees the way he rubs his scarred hands when he talks about his parents' wishes.

The two stand up from the table, gathering all the trash that's accumulated and throwing it away in the proper bins. As they stand outside beneath the flickering streetlight, Beverly reaches out to take ahold of his damaged hands. He doesn't flinch away, but he doesn't grip her back the way he once would have.

Beverly traces her thumbs all along the jagged, raised scars. In a quiet, wavering voice, she whispers "We learn, we heal, we grow."

Richie gives her a kiss on the cheek when they hug goodbye, but he doesn't look back after he starts to walk away. She waits there for a few moments expecting him to turn around and give one last wave, but Richie turns the corner without looking back.

Muscle memory never really goes away. It's like riding a bike, or playing an instrument. You practice something for so long that it becomes impossible to forget. Sometimes, you'll do it without even realizing what it is that you're doing. Richie supposes that's how bad habits form, such as his old inclination to smoke down sticks of nicotine without even thinking about it. It was second nature to him, a comforting routine.

Richie's muscle memory causes his legs to walk down the wrong street, down the wrong block, and through the wrong neighborhood. He's not even aware of it, not until he's standing next to a mailbox that used to have his former name on it.

Richie looks up in shock, surprised at his own actions. He didn't realize where he was walking, his brain was set on autopilot and headed straight for home. Now, here he stands, facing the very house he was abandoned in alone for weeks.

There's a new car in the driveway. Richie stares at it, his eyes reading the license plate and glancing at the bumperstickers plastered in the rear window. Then, he brings his attention to the porch. They changed the shutters to a burgundy color. It matches the exterior better than the eggshell white his mother insisted on.

Richie walks around the mailbox, noting the outlines of where six stickers used to spell TOZIER. Now, the mailbox doesn't say anything, but those sunbleached outlines are still prominent enough in his memory.

He approaches the side of the house, his eyes moving over the area where a garden used to be. It's filled with pebbles and cobblestones now, a path that leads out to the back patio. There's no trellis with vines crawling up it anymore, no overgrown weeds to be taken care of. No sickening rose smell.

Richie looks down in the snow and remembers the way Eddie's body fell through, his arm softening the blow but crumbling in the process. A hectic night. One he never forgave himself for.

Richie realizes that his own footprints are now in the yard of a stranger's home, and if he goes any further, it might be considered trespassing. He shakes his head and starts to back up, fleeing from the blackened spot that takes up most of his memories. This house is a hell hole, or at least that's how he feels about it. Too many bad memories. Too much silence.

Richie runs home to burn off the calories he ate from dinner that night. His heart burns in his chest, bile rising in his throat, but he keeps running. He tastes tangy iron on the back of his tongue. He keeps running.

He doesn't stop until he's unlocking the back door to his new home, his real home. He shuts the door behind him, his chest heaving as if he just outran a murderer instead of his own past. He felt like that house would swallow him whole if he didn't outrun it, and now the Denbrough residence is the only place of safety he can find.

Once the boy catches his breath, he notices how empty and quiet the house is. He begins to panic, growing wary and afraid of every tired creak the house echoes in the pitch black silence. He feels alone. He feels as if he did get swallowed whole. Richie's biggest fear used to be going missing, but now he thinks it might be waking up as a 15 year old and having to relive that abandonment over and over again.

Richie tiptoes down the hallway, through the dining room, through the den, and to the secluded area where Zack and Sharon's bedroom is. The two converted Zack's office into a bedroom sometime after Bill's 16th birthday in order to give the kid the upstairs to himself, but Bill tells Richie that they only did it so that they can have sex without waking Bill up.

Richie prays that tonight isn't one of those nights. His hand hesitates above the doorknob, afraid of what he's going to see on the other side. He has vivid memories bubble up to the surface, the images of an empty bed and hollow closet haunting his mind. He's not afraid of what he'll find on the other side of this door, he's more afraid of finding nothing.

Even so, Richie's anxiety simply won't let him walk away if he doesn't make sure that his parents are still here. He needs to know if he got lost in the shell of his old home.

He pushes the door open, the hinges whining instead of creaking. He sees two sleeping figures illuminated by the slots of moonlight coming in through the large picture window parallel to their bed, so he lets out a sigh of relief and closes the door behind him.

Richie goes upstairs and turns right instead of left, heading towards Bill's room instead of his own. He stops outside the door when he hears shuffling coming from inside, but Richie is a pro at silent crying. He recognizes those muffled whimpers, and he knows how hard it is to force that pain down your dry throat. He can imagine the way Bill might be crying into a pillow to mask the sounds of his pain, only because it's a position that Richie is so unfortunately familiar with. He takes a step back, figuring that he better not interrupt something so private and vulnerable. Bill ended a two year relationship despite not wanting to, Richie knows his brother is going to need space. Which is fine. As long as Richie knows he's there, Richie feels safe. He feels less alone.

He finally pushes his own door open, not at all surprised by the lump curled up in his bed. This isn't surprising in the slightest bit, but it is unplanned for. After Beverly invited Richie out at the movies, Eddie had promised to not stop by that night since Richie wasn't going to be home. Yet, here the tiny one sleeps, curled up in Richie's sheets with a balled up sweater in his arms.

Richie finally exhales, feeling entirely safe. He starts to unzip his coat when he notices the journal sitting on his desk. Out of place, sitting in plain sight after Richie has been very specific about keeping it hidden up on his bookshelf.

Richie shrugs the jacket off, throwing it over the back of his chair as he approaches the desk. There's a pen jammed between the pages, marking a spot that's been freshly written in. As Richie opens the cover to read the new words, he hears bedsheets shuffling to the left of him.

"Hey," Eddie's sleepy voice calls out. "How was Bev?"

"Fine," Richie shrugs, shutting the journal and turning his attention back towards the one that feels more like a home than the house he's standing in. "Nothing really groundbreaking, but I'm tired now."

He hopes Eddie doesn't ask why Richie is sweaty, or why his breathing still isn't quite steady. He doesn't want to talk about his obsessive exercise, because then Eddie will get all concerned in that way that he does. Richie doesn't need to worry the boy any further than he already has. He's tired because of how hard he pushes himself, that's all.

"Then come here," Eddie lifts up the blanket up, closing his eyes again.

Accepting the invitation, Richie unbuttons his pants and slips out of them quickly before climbing in bed next to his loved one. It feels safe and familiar. It might've been the only thing that made his old house feel less like a prison.

Eddie's been there through it all, and Richie has a feeling he's always going to be here. They have that funny sort of way of always coming back to one another, no matter what happens.

He hopes Bill will find someone like that, because Richie feels nothing but guilt drench over him when he realizes he's falling asleep next to his significant other while his brother is down the hall, crying and alone.

Chapter Text

As graduation grows closer and closer, it seems like the only thing anybody can talk about is how excited they are to go to college.

The snow starts to melt sometime around late March. Richie's birthday passes by without any interruptions, and it seems to be the last time that all of his friends gather in one room.

Richie has settled and come to terms with the fact that things won't ever be the same way that they used to. Not that he really minds, mostly because he's so happy with the way they are now. Some days, he spends an afternoon at Stan's house watching comedy special reruns on the Uris television while Stan folds origami birds to send home with Richie. Other times, Ben and Mike will invite Richie out to play a game of football in the pastures Mike owns. Richie still doesn't know how to play, but he finds it exciting anyways. On days he doesn't feel like going outside, he sits in Bill's bedroom and they talk about the music they share, the universe, and the fashion that Freddie Mercury wears. He doesn't think the losers club will ever be playing DnD like they once would, but they're all grown up now. Issues have been resolved, problems have been taken care of. Now, everyone is just peaceful. Richie doesn't want it to be disrupted, no more waves in his ocean.

Most of his days are spent wherever Eddie is, and more often than not, that's out at the Bowers residence. Richie doesn't mind much now that the weather is warmer, except the April showers are certainly preparing to bring May flowers.

Richie looks up from where he's sheltered under the garage door, watching the two boys bending over the hood of a beat up car and point a flashlight at something that seems to be the root of their issues. Henry's hands grind a wrench against the part while Eddie keeps the flashlight steady, car grease smeared on his cheek.

Richie looks back down at the pamphlet he's reading, a collection of motivational poetry that his therapist has given him. That's another thing that's changed, but perhaps this change was for the better. Richie and Henry see different therapists, but their methods are practically the same. Talk about your feelings, identify what's stressing you out, explain why you don't feel worthy of love.

Richie thinks the poetry is bullshit, but he must admit that the sessions are helping him organize everything in his brain. He didn't fully realize just how much he's had to go through, but now he's getting his life back on track. His therapist tells him that he's a "survivor" and that Richie has this natural instinct to kick his legs and swim upwards whenever someone tries to hold him under water.

"Hey, whatcha readin'?" Eddie's voice interrupts the river of thoughts flowing through Richie's mind.

The boy looks up at his eternal love and feels a smile come on, shaking his head and folding up the pamphlet he was given at his last session. "Nothing, nothing. You guys get it started?"

"Henry says the alternator is shot so he's gonna go scavenge some from the junk yard," Eddie shrugs. "I can't go with him."

Richie opens his mouth to ask why not, but then he catches sight of the slight tension in Eddie's shoulders. The one that builds right before his temper gets the best of him. It's not necessarily even a temper, it's more so just his uncontrollable thoughts and feelings all bubbling up and boiling over the edge.

The junkyard. He knows why Eddie can't go there, probably for the same reason Richie can't go back down his old street. Seeing new owners in a house full of sad memories just fills him with some sort of grief that makes his lungs shake. He assumes it feels worse for Eddie.

"Wanna go get somethin' to eat, hot stuff?" Richie asks instead, changing the subject entirely.

"Yeah," Eddie holds his hand out for Richie to take. "Hen can give us a ride."

Richie blinks a few times when he hears the familiar nickname for old Bowers, but he almost smiles at the irony of it. Eddie used to hate that Richie had sort of a pet name for Bowers. Now, he's using it.

Up front, Eddie and Henry fight over the stereo while Richie sits in the back and pens down his own poems on the blank side of a receipt he found on the seat next to him. He's thinking of maybe using his talent for Voices to his advantage one day, maybe he can use one of them to create something worth listening to. He's not sure, he doesn't think a scared kid from Maine could ever be a legend like Freddie or Bowie.

When the car stops, Richie watches the way that Henry reaches over to jiggle the door handle for Eddie to get out. It's been getting stuck ever since Vic spilled a slushee inside, apparently. As he stretches, his shirt sleeve rides up his arm and shows ugly lashes imbedded deep into his skin. Not healed over, but not fresh. Maybe a week or two old. Richie looks down at his own hands, comparing the healed white scars to the sweltering red blisters on Henry's arm.

Henry looks back at Richie, tugging his sleeve down and frowning. Richie tucks some hair behind his ear and starts to unbuckle his seatbelt, fumbling nervously in discomfort. He's not sure how to talk to Henry about it, he knows that he doesn't like people asking about his own scars, why should he ask someone else about theirs?

"See you," Richie exhales, getting out of the car as Eddie shuts his door and leans back in through the window. They discuss their study sessions, Henry can't afford to be held back another year. He'd already be flunking out if it weren't for Eddie.

They walk down the streets of town, trying to find a new restaurant that isn't the same two diners they go to every day. Eddie talks his ear off about the opera music he's falling in love with, but Richie's mind wanders. It tends to do that sometimes. He wonders what Henry would be like if he had grown up with supportive friends the way they all did. All the losers struggle in some way or another, none of them have model parents. They cope by finding comfort within each other, but Henry never got that. Instead, he got Patrick and Belch. Sure, maybe Vic wasn't the best influence, but he's stuck around for Henry so that redeems all vices he's committed. Maybe if Richie had brought him to the losers sooner, Henry wouldn't have as many therapy bills.

Later after their lunch, Richie stands at the counter of Blue's and fills out an application with the same pen that was used to write the broken poems crumpled in his pocket.

Eddie reads over his shoulder. "You didn't fill out the name part."

Richie keeps writing his date of birth, responding "I know. It just feels weird writing Denbrough."

"So change it," Eddie shrugs. "You're 18 now, you can go back to Tozier if you want."

"I don't," Richie shakes his head. "I don't want to carry the weight of that name."

There's a silence for a few moments, Eddie resting his hand on the counter so that his pinky touches Richie's knuckle. They can't touch that much in public, but Eddie finds his ways.

After a few moments, the little one speaks up. "So change it to Kaspbrak."

"What?" Richie steps away, looking at Eddie in confusion. "Wh- Are you serious?"

Eddie shrugs, suddenly feeling nervous. He fiddles with a few CD's to distract himself, mumbling the following; "Maybe. If you want to, that is. It could save us some time later on, you know."

Richie tries to process what he's being told, when he finally says "We're not even dating."

"Aren't we though?" Eddie responds. "We do everything couples do. We just don't have labels yet."

"Then go out with me," Richie says. He realizes his mouth has gotten away from him, run too quick for him to catch it, but he doesn't regret the words he's said. He just expected to have a better plan for asking this question.

Eddie stares at him in pure fondness, smiling warmly. He doesn't say anything for awhile, just smiling in a way that makes his eyes narrow yet sparkle at the same time. Blush is imbedded into his skin, the stars lost in his endless eyes.

"You mean it?" Eddie finally breaks the spell.

Richie surprisingly isn't nervous. This doesn't bring him anxiety at all, in fact, his rocky ocean is eerily calm at this moment.

"Mhm," he nods, "I think I'm ready."

Eddie opens his mouth to respond, but then his eyes flash with a bit of hurt as he looks back down at the job application. "But we'll be apart."

Richie and Eddie talked about their futures and what it all means for them. Richie doesn't want to hold Eddie back from his road trip, but Richie can't leave Derry. Not again. He spent years separated from this town, and he never thought he would want to stay in such a cursed place. But... he's got a family now. A family he doesn't want to lose. What if they forget about Richie if he goes roadtripping across the country? He's not sure he'd be able to handle the rejection of not being recognized if he were to come home after months of adventure.

"You can send me post cards," Richie says quietly. "You have a phone. You can call me."

"You don't mind the distance?" Eddie asks, then lowers his voice, "You won't find someone else?"

Richie cups the older one's cheek, brushing his thumb against those flourishing freckles. "Are you an idiot? I seriously think you're stupid sometimes, Eddie. What part of 'I love you' don't you understand?"

"Alright, alright," Eddie rolls his eyes and scoffs, "Tone it down, smartass. I could totally reject you right now."

"But you won't," Richie shakes his head arrogantly.

"Won't I?" Eddie challenges him.

"No," Richie scoffs, "You've been wanting this for too long. You don't have the guts to turn me down."

Eddie slowly frowns, then begins to pout in embarrassment. "Whatever! Fine! I'll go out with you!"

"That's what I thought," Richie chuckles, pinching his boyfriend's cheek and turning back to his job application.

Neither of the two mind the distance. It's nothing they haven't done before. If any of these past couple years have taught them anything, it's that these two will find a way back to one another no matter how far apart they stray. The cosmos fight for a love like that.

Richie decides to not tell Bill that he's got a boyfriend now. Bill hasn't recovered as quickly as he thought he would, so any symbols of love quickly set him off. Later that night when Eddie and Richie finally say their goodbyes for the evening, Richie bounds up the steps and stops at the very top of the staircase. He pauses, hand on the railing, watching his brother's door.

It's cracked open, the light pouring through into the hallway. Mike's voice carries down the hall, so Richie exhales and heads to his own room so he doesn't disturb the two.

Richie has a normal routine before bed now. Not one spent in a cramped bathroom, rushing to brush his teeth before his next orphaned brother could come in. This routine is much more peaceful. Richie sits on the edge of his bed, pulling out the zippo lighter that he was gifted. The candle he goes to light is an exact replica of the one in Eddie's room a few streets over. The boys picked out candles together on Richie's birthday, that way they can still smell the same thing every night even if they don't spend it together.

Once lit, the aroma of the wax gives him comfort and Richie slips a vinyl onto his new record player. He insisted against it, begging Sharon and Zach he absolutely could not accept such a nice gift, but the two coaxed the boy into finally giving in and allowing the record player to reside in his room. Richie's been collecting old, rickety vinyls from thrift shops with Bev. She always knows where the good music is.

Richie puts on an Elton John album that's got a bad scratch on the B-side. He doesn't mind, for his favorite song is on the opposite side.

Goodbye Yellow Brick Road fills his room, the kind of sound vibrations that pull him beneath the tide and drown him in the ocean foam. He feels his chest swelling with love for the music, the lyrics, the notes, all of it. His main source of comfort for so long. His longest companion. Richie used to use the music to escape room of confined safety, but now it's the opposite of that. It's his freedom.

He dances freely. Richie's got these long limbs, but he doesn't care. He closes his eyes, spinning amongst the creaky floorboards as his arms wrap tightly around himself. He feels the music dancing with him, the vocals holding him close as he waves his wrists about like a composer.

Once his waltz comes to an end, the record keeps spinning, but Richie's mind wanders somewhere else. He shuffles through his desk to find a journal from school, opening it up to the first blank page.

Eddie's going to be going away after graduation, and Richie wants to give him one last mixtape before he leaves. They started with a tape, and he sure as hell wants them to end with one too. They took nearly four years to get their shit together, finally giving in to all odds and just allowing each other to be together. It was something they already knew, but it's nice to have the title of "boyfriend" be confirmed.

Richie writes calmly, his blood coursing with the adrenaline from such a lovely song. He pens these words carefully, making sure to phrase it so that it doesn't sound like a goodbye. Eddie will come back to him, he knows that. But he wants to give Eddie a piece of himself to take with, so that the shorter boy doesn't miss his clumsy trashmouth too much.

TO EDDIE KASPBRAK; MY YELLOW BRICK ROAD. MY FUTURE LIES WITH YOU.

Chapter Text

"Hungry Eyes is my favorite," Eddie tells him.

Richie smiles, stocking the shelves with cans. His boyfriend sits on the step ladder to his left, but Richie doesn't need it anyways. His legs are long enough to allow him to reach the top shelf on his own.

Eddie reads the back of the mixtape cover for the seventeenth time in the past ten minutes, memorizing the tracklisting. "There are a few I don't know."

"So go home and listen, you dweeb," Richie laughs. He continues stocking cans, his new part time job at the market filling his pockets with money he has no idea what to do with.

Eddie looks up, his eyes more visible beneath his new haircut. His hair is still feathered and messy, but now his face is clearer. The freckles are coming forth with summer approaching. His skin is going to bloom.

"What? No. I haven't seen you in, like, three days. I wanna hang out for a bit," Eddie says.

"I get off at four," Richie promises, putting the cans down to approach the sitting boy. He ghosts his hand along the outside of Eddie's cheek, his fingertips trailing down his neck to touch the necklace his ring is on. He remembers this beaded chain, he remembers the way it hung from Henry's throat with an arcade golden band slipping off of it.

"That sucks," Eddie scoffs. "I wish you got the job at Blue's. We should kick Bev's ass for stealing that from you."

Richie smiles and shrugs. "She didn't steal anything. Bevvie was the one who showed me Blue's in the first place, she should have it."

"But still..." Eddie mumbles under his breath. "I'm leaving next week, Rich. I want to spend some time together before I go."

The road trip.

Richie sighs, turning back to the shelves as he resumes working. They're not kids anymore. Richie's got a job, he's in therapy, and he talks to Wendy once a month about volunteering down at the youth center to help troubled kids. Eddie's gotten into the university up in Bangor. Him and Bill start in the fall, so this is their last summer to just go wild. Henry got Eddie's car working, so the plan came together pretty quickly after that. Eddie and Bill leave next Thursday. Richie's been counting the days down in his head, a silent death sentence looming in the back of his mind.

"You won't be alone," Eddie says. He knows what's on Richie's mind, he can practically read his other half like a well described novel. "Stan and Mike are losers and will always want to hang out, and Ben will come check on you when he's not at practice. I don't know about Beverly, though."

Richie shrugs again. Since the breakup, Beverly has been distant. She's "reflecting" and "looking inside herself" to "make a change". Richie feels as if she's too embarrassed to show her face around the boys again, or maybe it's her pride that she just can't swallow down. Either way, she's focused on her studies more than ever. She doesn't have time for anybody these days.

"It just feels... empty. You and Bill will be gone, and that's just... it'll feel weird."

Eddie reaches out to take one of Richie's limp wrists, bringing it up to kiss the boy's ugly, scarred knuckles. "You know what day I'm coming home?"

"July 28th," Richie reassures himself.

"There we go. Just repeat that in your head, over and over," Eddie tells him, promises to return embedded in his skin wherever Eddie's lips touch.

It's hard to believe anybody when they tell him things like that. Richie doesn't believe in things like "I'll be right back." If someone leaves him, he assumes it's permanent. He's got too much trauma to just blindly trust like that nowadays.

"Maybe I'll keep Hen and Vic out of trouble," Richie mumbles another idea.

Eddie smiles, though it's a bit forced. Henry got a job working down at the construction company on the west side of the river. His days are going to be spent breaking up concrete while Victor scoops ice cream at the parlor. Nobody really has time for Richie anymore, but Eddie doesn't want the boy to feel like he needs to be babysat.

"You'll be fine," Eddie promises. "I still think you should come with."

Richie gestures his arms around at the food aisle they're in, cheesy disco music playing on the overhead speakers. "Can't leave here. Besides, Sharon would definitely get empty nest syndrome and go crazy or something."

"Yeah," Eddie laughs, "My mom's going to flip out. She'll go insane and call my aunties and everything. You better be prepared to be apart of the search party lookin' for me... again."

"I'll be front of the line," Richie chuckles, but then drops the act when he sees his manager pass by the aisle.

Eddie notices too, very aware of how frustrated the bald man gets whenever Richie slacks off for too long. The tiny boy stands up and picks a can of peas off the shelf, mumbling a thank you to the very nice employee who helped him locate it. Richie tries to hold back a smile as he nods and sends Eddie up to the register. Not exactly their best performance, but they're just teenagers, not actors.

As the manager walks away, Eddie runs back and presses his hand right against the front of Richie's lap. "I'll see you later. And I'll definitely see you later."

Richie flusters, pushing on Eddie's shoulders. "Do not talk to my dick in public, you freak," he says in a hushed voice, but he can't help the grin he gets when it comes to Eddie's idiocy.

Once Eddie is gone, his smiles fade and the monotony of his life resumes. This is what he's got to get used to, for his days will lack the tiny smiles that keep him company on his shifts. All he'll have are scattered phone calls from various payphones across the country paired with the postcards he's bound to collect. He won't have Eddie pushing him forward anymore, he'll have to rely solely on himself. The thought of being independent terrifies him.

Richie was independent once. Fed himself, did his own laundry, faked his mother's signatures while nobody else was home. It's a terrifyingly lonely feeling, he doesn't want that anymore. Not when he's found the one.

Richie clocks out at four o'clock sharp, then walks home to his suburban safe haven. He can't leave Derry, not with a home like this. His biggest fear is that it won't be standing here much longer if he were to look away from it for too long. He doesn't want these floorboards to forget the creak of his footsteps.

"Hey-o, champ!" Zack greets Richie as he comes in. "I just got home myself, how was work?"

"It was fine," Richie shrugs the windbreaker off his shoulders, sighing heavily.

"Go say hello to your mother and then make sure to wash up," Zack advises, then takes his seat in the recliner chair he'll inevitably fall asleep in.

To get to the kitchen, you need to pass through the dining room. While doing so, Richie pauses briefly to greet Eddie sitting at the table. Eddie is fumbling with a Walkman, rewinding to specific part. Richie stops, presses a kiss to the top of Eddie's head, and then sets forth to the kitchen to find his mom.

"Oh, there you are!" Sharon looks up from where she was whittling a piece of wood above the sink. Richie eyes the sharp knife in her hands, taking cautious steps forward. She looks down and blushes, dropping her items off and holding her hands out to him. "I've got a couple college brochures for you to look at, dear!"

"Ahh..." Richie trails off, spinning on his heel to duck out of this conversation before it can begin. "Maybe later, ma. Eddie and I are going to head upstairs and work on some homework."

Eddie lifts his head at the mention of his name, smiling brightly to cue himself into the conversation.

"Yeah, right, 'doing homework' my ass," Zack scoffs from down the hall. "Wear a condom, boys! I don't care if there's no uterus!"

Richie groans in embarrassment while Eddie giggles, so Richie gathers up his boyfriend and shoves him up the flight of stairs. Richie heads right, while Eddie goes left.

"I'll only be a moment," Richie whispers, nodding his head towards Bill's room.

Eddie glances towards the door and hears the sad synthesizer of Cyndi Lauper spilling out from beneath the frame, so he nods and says "Give him my best wishes."

Richie knocks on the door and waits for a few moments before entering. Bill is lying in bed, his geology textbook hanging on his stomach. Richie fidgets on his feet for a bit before taking his seat next to his depressed brother.

"You wanna come hang out and listen to records with me and Eds?" Richie asks. He doesn't make a joke, he doesn't do a funny voice. He simply invites someone who is feeling more alone than ever.

"No," Bill scoffs. "Don't want to watch you two be in love."

"We're not... that bad," Richie rolls his eyes. "I'll keep the handholding to a minimum."

Bill is silent after that, so Richie moves the book off of his brother and lies his head down on the male's tummy. It's flat, sure, but there's still some squish to it. Richie only just recently started regaining his own squish, and it's moment like these that remind him that it's normal for his body to have fat in extra places.

"I don't know what to do," Bill sighs. "S-S-She was all I wanted. What now?"

"You find something else to want. You heal. You learn from this. You grow. You move on," Richie says. "Whether she comes back or not... you can't control that. If it's going to happen, it'll happen. If it doesn't, it doesn't. You can't control that outcome so there's no point in listening to You Give Love A Bad Name on repeat, dude. You don't have to forget her, you just have to remember how to live without her."

"Without her..." Bill trails off, brushing some hair off of Richie's forehead. "I guess you've gone through this before with Eddie, huh?"

"Just a lil'," Richie smiles. He sits up and asks "You gonna be okay, big guy?"

"Probably. I feel like... I feel like I broke the losers up. I gave Mike the leadership right as it was all crumbling down."

"We'll always be losers," Richie says. "We can make a pact later, but for now, you've gotta smoke up."

"I went through all my-" Bill is cut off by Richie tossing a pack of smokes towards him that he swiped from his coworker in the break room. Bill's eyes light up, and Richie supposes it's just the little things getting his brother through the day. "Thank you, Rich. Oh... and try not to be so loud?"

"I'm not-"

"Eddie is," Bill says, then glances away. "I still don't even know how that... works... like... do you just rub-"

"God, Bill, gross," Richie scrunches his face up. "Don't ask me that kinda shit. It's weird. You're my brother."

Bill rolls his eyes and Richie quickly leaves out of embarrassment, their sibling dynamic being as true to biological brothers as possibly could be. Richie pushes his own door open, spotting his boyfriend sitting on the bed with a book in his hands.

"Hey," he says when he looks up.

"He'll live another day," Richie brushes off the inevitable question about Bill before he can even ask.

"He just needs to get out of here," Eddie shakes his head and returns to the book he's reading. "This town makes people crazy. It'll be good for us once we leave."

That fucking roadtrip.

Richie's thought process has time to cycle through the pity party it usually throws when he imagines his boyfriend leaving. Once he pushes those feelings aside, he grows frustrated with the idea of not being able to touch what's his.

He crawls onto the bed, grabbing the book out of Eddie's hands and throwing it over his shoulder. Eddie looks up in surprise, his face flustering as Richie moves to pin him down against the mattress.

"I... I got something new," Eddie says in a quiet, feeble voice.

"Yeah?" Richie leans down to kiss against Eddie's neck, his hands holding the boy down by the shoulders. "What's that?"

Eddie's small hands push on Richie's chest just to separate them for a bit, but they quickly find the bottom of his knit sweater and start to lift the fabric up to expose his tummy.

Richie's eyes widen when he sees the new lingerie piece adorning his boyfriend's chest, so he breaks into a bashful smile and starts undoing the top button of his work uniform with fast hands. "Oh, you're gorgeous."

"Nuh uh," Eddie smacks Richie's hand away, flipping them over with all of his force so that he can straddle Rich. "You got to go last time. It's my turn now."

Richie rolls his eyes as Eddie unbuttons his shirt, the taller one reluctantly giving in and saying "Yeah, yeah, okay. But keep it down, Bill's giving me shit for how loud you moan."

"Oh, I can't help it!" Eddie laughs, lifting Richie up to slide the shirt off of his broad shoulders.

And that's how most of his afternoons go. He's not sure if he's ever "healed" or "reached enlightenment" or whatever it is that his therapist is always talking about. What he does know is that his loose ends are tied, or... the important ones are. He's not sure where his real parents went or if they ever think about him the way he does, but he doesn't really care to find out. He's got parents now, ones that care about him. Ones that aren't going to leave him in the middle of the night. He's got friends that aren't going to call him annoying, and he's forgiven his childhood bully for loving him in a way he couldn't return. Everything is just... peaceful. The way he wants them to be.

But Eddie is leaving next week, and as he takes it over and over from the boy he loves so very much, all he can think of is how this might be their last time. He's not sure what could happen to Eddie out on that open road. What if Henry's repairs backfire and the car explodes? What if a little thing like him gets kidnapped and sold into sex trafficking? What if some weird shit happens in Indiana? His friend Will always has crazy stuff going on, Richie doesn't want Eddie becoming a casualty in that drama. There are so many possibilities that end in Eddie being taken away from him for a second time. They all make him feel the same way he felt when he was standing in that train station all those years ago, watching the quivering boy shove a journal into his own shaking hands.

Richie doesn't think he went to that foster home a scared little boy and came out of it as a matured man, all cynical and hardened in the tough way that men are supposed to be. It wasn't a life lesson for him. Those two years alone didn't teach him anything about surviving without Eddie.

He thinks he went into that foster home as a boy, and he never came out of it. He still hasn't.

Chapter Text

The rain weighs heavily, drenching those who seek to drown in it. From the porch, Richie watches them run towards the barn with their jackets held high over their heads to protect their laughter from the bullets of raindrops hailing down on them.

It seems like they could be here forever if the clouds never lift, the storm never parts, and the thunder never says goodbye.

"You're moping again," a voice calls from the porch door.

Richie lifts his head, glancing over his shoulder at Mike Hanlon carrying out drinks for the rest of his friends. Richie leans against the porch's support beam, being careful to not mind the woodrotten spots that have been weakened by termites.

Richie shrugs, lifting up the beer he came inside to get before it started raining. The bonfire they created to burn all of their remaining school assignments crackles and simmers down. The flame is being extinguished, the embers falling asleep beneath crisping logs.

"It just feels so... so bittersweet, you know?" Richie asks. From here, he can see the entrance of the barn lit up from here. He can hear the overwhelming laughter gathering up in swells to burst through the sheets of rain blanketing the Hanlon farm. "It's hard to enjoy everything when I know it's our last."

"Who said anything about last?" Mike scoffs. "You know we'll always be together... all of us. Nothing can change that. Even Bev is here."

Bev's entrance was chilling. She noticed it, Richie noticed it, everyone noticed it. Ben and Bill had been arm wrestling to prove who was stronger, laughing and emptying their wallets to place bets. Beverly arrived by the fire, her hair burning brighter than the flames before her, but her voice as timid as the rain softening the blaze. She said hello to everyone, tucking strands of her hair behind her ears. Bill stopped smiling as much, and he let Ben win the bet.

"Yeah but... at what cost?" Richie asks, turning to his loyal friend. "It's hard, Mike. You have to admit. Everyone is growing up and moving on and getting out of Derry and I feel like I'm just stuck here. It's hard to wrap my head around any of it. I feel like... I feel like I'm lost, or I'm losing, or I am about to lose. I feel like I'm fifteen again."

"No fifteen year old tips back beers like that," Mike laughs.

Richie glances down at the bottle in his hand and chuckles, shrugging again. Wendy told him that other kids wouldn't be able to connect to him whenever he got existential, the trauma aged and matured him far beyond his own peers. That's just something that he has to deal with. While everyone gets drunk and buzzes with the idea of graduation tomorrow morning, all Richie can think of is what next?

Richie helps Mike take all the drinks out to the barn, earning a few excited yells from everyone. The losers are there with a few other classmates they've grown acquainted with, mostly Ben's football friends and a few cheerleaders that are fawning over little Eddie and his painted nails. Mike eases into easy conversation with Beverly and a few other guys Richie only sort of recognizes.

Stan Uris is sitting at a makeshift table with two people he didn't expect to see here, so he grabs a few beers and heads over.

"Like this?" Vic asks. He folds a tiny sheet of paper and then peers at Stan's origami creation and begins to unfold the work he's done. Stan smiles and helps him, showing him very patiently which flap is supposed to make the paper wings.

Henry is sitting next to them, uninvolved in their conversation. He looks up when Richie approaches, a smile touching his mouth as his eyes light up in that way that they always do. Richie tosses a beer in his lap, which he catches with grace.

"Hey, stranger," Henry chuckles, using the bottle opener off of his keychain to pop the tab off his cold one. "First time I've seen you out of that work uniform in weeks, dude."

"Yeah," Richie scoffs, rolling his eyes as he sets the spare beer down in front of Vic. "What brings you two here? Didn't think you were on good terms with Hanlon."

"Tell him what you learned in therapy, dear," Vic says without lifting his head. He is focused on folding with the same precision that OCD Stanley has, a pipe dream of perfect origami that Vic will never achieve.

Henry blushes at the affection, elbowing his partner and blowing out a huff of air. "...Turns out that racism is a learned behavior. The old man told me all kind'sa shit about the Hanlons that just ain't true. So I started comin' out during the week to help the guy take care of the farm. Not a bad kid, none of you losers are."

At that second, Beverly passes by behind them, waving her hand at Vic and Henry with a kind smile. Richie raises his eyebrows but doesn't question it, he's heard lots of rumors about Beverly selling some of that magic that makes Blue's smell like skunk. Henry is her target demographic.

"Wow, you're makin' real progress, Hen," Richie says honestly. "Impressive. Can we talk for a sec?"

Henry glances up in concern, then rubs Vic's back and promises he'll be right back. As Richie leads him out of the barn, Henry lights up a sparking lighter, guiding it towards the cigarette caught between his teeth.

"You wanna smoke?" Henry offers him, and this time, Richie doesn't decline. The party continues on inside, but that can't be helped. Life goes on, that's how the world spins.

"Graduation, huh?" Richie isn't sure where to start. Henry will understand, Richie just isn't sure how to explain what's digging into him in the first place.

"Finally," Henry scoffs. They lean beneath a tree to hide from the rain, but this trunk doesn't have their initials carved in it. "Feel like I was gonna lose my mind if I flunked out again."

"I don't even think they'd let you enroll again, you're too old, dude," Richie chuckles and teases his older friend. The laugh is hollow and painful, so terribly forced. Henry hears this, his ears picking up on the tune through the echo of the ricocheting rain.

"Hey, what's goin' on?" Henry touches Richie's elbow. "You and the little guy doin' okay?"

"Huh? Yeah. Oh yeah. So good... but that's the problem, isn't it?" Richie sighs. "We're good. Why is he leaving? We're doing so good."

"It's not forever, man," Henry says. "He's comin' back for sure. He just wants to get out for a little while... y'know, live a little. He's spent all his childhood in that crackden with a crackhead mother. The kid deserves a bit of freedom."

Richie nods, agreeing with the sentiment. He knows more than anybody how much Eddie deserves this, Richie just wishes he could swallow the truth instead of being so afraid.

From the barn door, Richie can hear the soft voice louder than any other sound bubbling up from the crowd of teenagers. He's learned to pick this voice out from a crowd, his ears are finely tuned to distinguish Eddie from everybody else.

The voice says, "Hey, has anybody seen Richie?... Bill, have you seen Rich? No? Okay, thank you... Hey, Vic, do you know where Richie is?"

There's a pause, and then Eddie appears in the large doorway of the barn, his eyes scanning the property to search for his boyfriend. When he locks onto Henry and Richie huddled beneath the tree, he waves and begins to take a step outwards, but then decides against it when he realizes how much it's pouring now.

"Hey," Eddie calls out, waving the two boys inside. "You're missing all the fun!"

It's as if the clouds have parted and allowed a ray of sunshine to fall through, glowing around his gloomy atmosphere. He creates a path of light for Richie to follow, so without hesitation, Richie elbows Henry and drops his cigarette to begin wading through the high waters to get to land. He doesn't want to drown anymore.

"You're missing the party!" Eddie smooths down the front of Richie's shirt, wrapping his hand around the taller one's narrow waist. "Everything okay?"

"Yeah," Richie nods. He looks at Eddie and all he sees are those wide, curious eyes. It would be selfish of him to deny this sort of experience to the one who's been trapped under his mother's care for so long. Eddie deserves to get out, he really does. The world belongs to this heavenly angel, and Richie shouldn't hold him back from that. He swallows, and the lump in his throat that has been building for weeks finally passes through and hits the bottom of his stomach like a sinking rock. He can finally breathe again. "Yeah, everything's okay. I love you."

Eddie's eyes gleam like bright, vibrant sunflowers, the only life not dampened by the storm they're stuck in. Richie holds onto that little one, he never knows when he might need a floatation device.

"Let's have fun! It's our last night together!" Eddie tells him, pulling him into the barn to socialize and get drunk off cheap beer with people he doesn't really know. But that's what high school is all about, isn't it? He imagines this is what prom would have felt like too if they had decided to go. Two boys slow dancing together wouldn't have exactly gone over well, but Ben took a cheerleader and he says that the losers didn't really miss much at all.

Sometime later, Mike drags out a boom box from inside his house, plugging it into the empty barn and turning it on to the top40 station. Eddie grows excited by all the synthpop songs playing, dancing and spinning around without a care in the world. Richie sits back and watches, though he knows that if he were 15 again, he would be up there clumsily dancing with his sweet love.

Instead, he sits next to Bill, and the two get piss drunk with each other and talk shit about the other kids there that they don't know. Bill tells him stories about how Sandy got caught sleeping with her boyfriend's dad but they didn't break up, how Nelson eats frozen TV dinners, and a particularly long rant about how Mark thinks Zeppelin sucks.

After a few hours, the crowd begins to trickle down. People claim they have to be home for their graduation dinners, or to try their caps and gowns on. Richie stands to leave once Beverly takes a seat next to Bill, understanding that those two have more to talk about than anybody else here.

"Remember when we went and saw that movie down at the Aladdin?" Ben asks. He's vodka drunk and flushed red, his tolerance for alcohol surprisingly low for his muscle composition.

"Oh, yeah," Stan laughs. "I was terrified. Why'd you guys pick a horror film?"

Richie remembers the sting in his eyes as Eddie's closed fists pummeled his chest. He remembers the words written down in the journal the next day, too.

Henry is passed out on the dirt floor next to Richie, a can of beer still clutched to his chest from where he shotgunned the whole thing. Richie leans on him for a bit of support, his own head swimming with alcohol. Stan might be the only sober one, even Eddie is getting a tipsy makeover from a few girls on the varsity squad.

"Do you remember Bev's birthday party?" Richie asks them.

"Oh, god, that seems like so long ago," Ben reminisces. "Stan was such a dick to you."

"Oh, please," Stan scoffs. "I'm a dick to everybody."

"You just thought I was hot," Richie nudges Stan with his leg, his knee pressing into the boy's warm coat.

"Whatever," Stan scoffs.

"I seriously don't know how you do it, man," Ben slurs. "Graduating... a virgin!"

"So?" Stan stiffens up. "I don't want that. Why don't you assholes ever understand?"

"We're jus' teasin'," Richie comforts his friend, ruffling the Jewish boy's curls as he stands up. "Haystack is plastered, don't mind him."

Richie approaches the girls applying lipstick to Eddie's drunken face, and he chooses to save his boyfriend from the torture of being their Barbie. He says "Ladies, I'm gonna have to steal this one."

Eddie smiles and begins to hum as he holds his hands out for Richie to take, the little one spinning to a waltz in his head. They walk further back in the barn to find a quiet spot, Eddie stumbling over his tripping feet.

"M'Drunk," Eddie sighs.

"I know," Richie smiles. They sit behind a bale of hay, hidden from view. Free to do whatever they want. "I am too."

"Really?" Eddie gasps, widening his eyes. "You don't look drunk!"

"Just because I'm not a total idiot like you are doesn't mean I'm not wasted," Richie laughs. His hand settles down on the inside of Eddie's thigh, asking "Can we mess around?"

"In... a barn?" Eddie scrunches his nose up. "It's filthy in here."

"I know, I know, but..." Richie squeezes his leg through his jeans, then leans forward to start working his mouth against Eddie's neck. "It's our last night together. You're leaving tomorrow."

Eddie pulls away, resting his forehead against Richie's. "It's not forever, baby. We don't have to do the whole goodbye sex thing. We can just be together like this, isn't this nice too?"

"Yeah," Richie sighs, craving intimacy. "Yeah, you're right. I'm sorry."

"It's okay! We'll blame it on the alcohol," Eddie giggles.

Richie knows he's doing better because his mind doesn't whirl with depression after being rejected. He just swallows it and moves on. Maybe the therapy really is working.

"Look at them..." Eddie mumbles, peeking over the bale to view his friends. "We made it."

Richie looks at Ben helping Vic stand Henry up, Stan and Mike starting to collect the debris of empty bottles and cans from around their passed out classmates. Bill is outside the entrance, holding back Beverly's hair as she pukes her guts out. Their lives all seem to continue, the world keeps spinning, earth keeps revolving. Nothing stops just because Eddie and Rich aren't there.

Richie nods, then feels overwhelmed with nostalgia. He sits back down, staring at the rows of gardening tools hanging on the wall in front of them. "I'm just not ready for everything to change. I've had enough change, I just want it to stay the same for once. I'm happy, and I'm comfortable. Why can't you just stay?"

It's been weighing on his mind for weeks now, but the truth finally comes out. He needs Eddie here, he can't bear the idea of his life shifting in even the slightest way. Everyone's going off to college or getting jobs, he just wants to stay kids and make up for all the lost time he missed out on.

Eddie is quiet for a moment, and then he asks "Why won't you come with?"

Richie opens his mouth to respond, but then he promptly shuts it. The ring on his finger feels heavy, his knuckle threatening to break. No reason seems good enough, they all just tell Eddie that there are other things more important than their relationship. That's not something Richie wants to vocalize.

Eddie rests his head against Richie's shoulder. He whispers, "You know, the story will continue even after the chapter ends."

Richie's stomach feels tight with anxiety. "This is real life, though. We aren't a book."

Eddie looks at him, his eyes sparkling like the champagne he drank tonight with the girls who used to bully him in math class everyday. That's the thing about graduation, it doesn't matter what your social status was, who you were friends with, how much money you had, or who you did or didn't hook up with. At the end of the four years, you're all a family. You're saying goodbye to people you've known since kindergarten, people you barely thought about, and it's all so painfully bittersweet. His face is stained with the makeup that was passed around in the girls' locker room, no more vicious taunts about being a girly boy. A simple embrace of what he was known for as he's emerging into adulthood. He only wishes that Richie could embrace his vices as well.

Eddie asks him, "Then why do you think everything is coming to an end?"

Chapter Text

As soon as the dawn breaks over the horizon, Richie is woken with the morning calls of every farm animal in the surrounding barns. The warmth of early July basks over his skin, heavy arms thrown over his waist.

He squints his eyes against the bleary hangover clouding his vision, trying to discern his surroundings and who he's with.

Stan is sitting up, picking the dirt out from under his nails. He notices Richie moving around, his attention diverting towards the male he's sitting next to. Stanley smiles softly, brushing some hair back out of Richie's eyes.

"Today's the day, man."

With those words, Richie sits up abruptly. His heart slams against his rib cage, desperately attempting to escape and run away from the inevitable break it's going to endure today.

"Oh, God," Richie breathes out.

Upon inspection, the barn consists of his friends. No, his family. A group of misfit teenagers who took him in when he had nothing and gave him everything. Bill is sleeping near Beverly, her ankle overlapping his legs in a way that shows hope and a quiet promise to grow and change. Mike is using Ben's thigh as a pillow, and Eddie was curled around Richie. He remembers sleepovers in Ben's basement, quietly touching and whispering in the dark. He remembers truth or dare at Bill's, high stress and rampant emotions. Now, they're leaving high school today. The end of an era. Everything is changing, and Richie can't stand it.

"Why can't we stay kids forever?" Richie whispers, mostly to himself.

"Because," Stan says quietly. He rubs his knuckles against the back of Richie's arm, then strokes the boy's back up and down. Less spine, he's been gaining weight. "We've gotta grow into people that are nothing like our parents."

Richie looks back at his curly haired friend, his eyes watering with nostalgia and the sickening bittersweet ghost of Stan's mouth on his own when he was just a confused teenager. "I want to stay still."

Stan quietly tells him, "But he won't. If you stop moving with him, you guys will lose each other to the sea."

Richie looks down at Eddie, so peacefully asleep. It almost shocks Richie to see him like this, he was expecting the babyfaced germophobe from freshman year. Instead, he fully realizes just how much older Eddie looks. Sharp cheekbones, thicker eyebrows, a straighter nose. He's growing, and Richie cannot stop that. He has no choice but to grow with him.

The graduation ceremony itself is blurry. He sits in a line of students he's never talked to before, but some recognize him from the party last night and give him friendly waves and smiles. He feels like it's a little too late in their high school life to finally be making friends, but he smiles back anyways.

The clothes under his gown itch uncomfortably. None of the losers had time to get ready once they realized they all slept in late, so they scrambled into cars and drove straight to the high school going 55 in a 35 zone. That whole car ride was bad for Richie, he kept disconnecting the whole time. The radio was on, and Eddie was pressed against him and giggling with Ben about something he didn't quite hear. Richie was floating off, drifting from himself and this world around him. He doesn't want to do this. He doesn't want to. If he graduates, then Eddie leaves. Two months is a long time away from someone, what if they forget how to feel about one another? They went years apart and Eddie grew to hate Richie in that time, how fast will it take this time?

Now, he sits where he was told to, waiting for his name to be called next. He feels like this is nothing but a death sentence waiting for him, the trepidation sneaking up on him.

When Bowers is called, nobody claps. Not a single soul. Not even his own father, who is sitting in the bleachers with the rest of the student family members. Richie lifts his head for a brief moment, a second of clarity, and he calls from the very back rows "Bowers rules!"

The people around him look at Richie strangely, but it doesn't matter. The former Tozier has already shut back down, tuning everything else out except for the names being called in alphabetical order. The people in his row start to get up one by one, and soon enough, Richie is standing up on his own. His legs shake. His world is changing.

He doesn't remember much else. He remembers the roar that came from his friends when Bill was called, and then the equally loud roar when Richie follows him up the stage right after. The two brothers walk off stage side by side, exiting the crowd to go find their parents waiting by the bleachers.

Sharon approaches Richie first, ignoring her own son to cup Richie's cheeks and tell him "You made it!"

Richie smiles weakly and says "Sure."

They don't stay to see the rest of their friends graduate. Zack and Sharon take the boys out to lunch, Richie silent the entire time. He still eats, but only to not raise suspicion. Zack tells Bill all about the sights that he has to stop and see on his road trip, so that pushes Richie further into reclusion.

This day will go by easier if Richie just shifts into autopilot. He knows that Eddie is going to come pick Bill up, and he knows he's going to have to say goodbye to both of them at the same time. Losing his brother is going to hurt so badly, but what hurts more is that his lover is the one taking Bill away. It stings in a painful way, as if they're taking part of Richie's heart with them.

Before he knows it, Richie is sitting up in his bedroom and gripping his diploma tightly. This damned piece of paper. It's ruining him. It's ruining his friends.

He can hear Stan and Henry in the back of his mind telling him that he's got to let Eddie go, he can't keep doing this anymore. But it's hard. It's so hard.

He pushes his window open to get some fresh air, his bedroom feeling like a prison. The walls are closing in, but he knows he's just going crazy. He's imagining things. Therapy this week is going to be a fun session, so much to unpack.

Richie can hear the rusted out muffler of Eddie's new car pulling into the driveway, so as an attempt to distract himself, he begins folding clothes. Something to keep his hands busy, anything to keep his mind focused.

He listens as Bill climbs up and down the stairs, making several trips to carry his bags down. Zack can be heard in the front lawn, helping Eddie pack them all in the trunk. Eddie keeps glancing up towards Richie's open window, yet Richie has given up on folding clothes and sits beneath the window sill. He listens to them all laugh, laugh and talk, laugh and say goodbye. So happy. So happy.

"Bill, hurry up!" Eddie starts his car, the radio turning on to play a faint song that Richie can barely hear. A distinct memory. He lifts his head up, trying to distinguish where he's heard that song before. Perhaps in a dream?

"I'm coming!" Bill's voice travels as he clambers down the porch stairs quickly.

"Is he..." Eddie whispers, "Is he going to come say goodbye?"

There's a lull, allowing Richie to hear a bit more of the song. He stands up, fumbling with the radio on his desk to tune the radio to whatever station is playing in Eddie's car.

"I don't know," Bill says. "He's been weird all day, I think this is really rough on him."

It's Eddie, of course it's going to be on the Billboard pop station. Richie rolls his eyes at his drama queen of a boyfriend and finds the exact station that's playing the quiet song in Eddie's car.

"Should I go up to him?" Eddie asks. "I cant just leave without saying anything to him."

"I don't know," Bill says honestly, leaning on the car. Eddie is sitting in the driver's seat, leaning out the window to look up at his Juliet's bedroom window. "He doesn't handle goodbyes very well."

Richie can hear the song. No, he can feel it. It's one of the songs that resonates within your very veins with its bass vibrations. It reminds him of falling in love, staying in love, and remembering how to love years later. It reminds him of taking a bus up to Bangor in the midst of winter, of sneaking into bedroom windows for late night kisses, of bathroom stall fights, of tear streaked diary entries, of dancing in the kitchen, of climbing rose trellises and breaking bones, of hot shower steam and coconut shampoo, of sharing camping tents and making s'mores, of being teenagers who can't wait to grow up. Now... now they're grown, and Richie still has all of that love at his fingertips.

Eddie hasn't left yet.

He can hear the song even when he opens his bedroom door, and as he trips and stumbles down the staircase in a frantic flurry, he can hear the words in his head. He runs past Sharon, his mind on an anxiety loop of get to Eddie get to Eddie get to Eddie.

It's always like that, isn't it? It's always Eddie, Eddie, Eddie. He thinks that's got to count for something, definitive proof that they must be soulmates.

When Richie slams the front door open, Bill steps aside to give Eddie a clear view of his clumsy boyfriend barreling down the stairs. Eddie smiles, leaning out the window with his tiny hands held out.

Richie accepts them graciously, leaning in to kiss Eddie's face all over, pressing his lips over the countless memories bubbling to the froth of Eddie's foamy skin. Richie has spent all his life being held underwater, and now he's finally washing up on shore.

"It's gonna take a lot to drag me away from you," Richie says in time with the song. He doesn't know the name, can't remember the artist, but he feels the words. He feels them so deeply, as if this song was written for his high school sweetheart only.

"Get in the car, Richie," Eddie asks one last time, holding his grip on his boyfriends hands tightly.

"I haven't packed," Richie shakes his head.

Eddie says, definitively, "I've collected half your wardrobe over the last few months anyways, you'll be fine."

Richie opens his mouth to object, but things align. The fog lifts. The bones settle into place. The grave has grass growing over it. He was meant to be here with Eddie, just like Bill was meant to adopt him, like Richie was meant to back up into that kid's nose in the drugstore aisle, like Sonya was meant to move to Derry after her husband passed, like Maggie and Went were meant to meet at their high school prom. All of it has led up to this moment, and the fork in the road they're standing at depends on the next thing that Richie says.

Careful, Rich. You're fifteen again. Your shoes are planted against the windowsill, and everything you've known your whole life remains in the bedroom behind you. The unknown waits for you at the bottom, an alluring whisper calling for you.

Jump, jump, jump.

And he jumps.

"Okay," Richie nods, coming around the side of the car to get into the passenger seat beside his smiling boyfriend. Everything is healed. Every scar has faded. Every word has been forgiven.

Eddie leans over and kisses Richie on the mouth. Bill can be heard climbing in the backseat, but everything is drowned out by their song playing on the radio. This is the start of their future. This is what everything's been leading up to.

They are here. They are in love. Their story keeps going even after this chapter has ended.

the end