Chapter Text
Prologue
I
It was one of those heavy Derry summer days where the heat felt mean.
Richie Tozier had spent the last two hours sinking into the lumpy couch in his living room, trying not to think. Every time his mind wandered, it went right back to Eddie—to the crack of the floorboard in the house on Neibolt, to Eddie’s scream, to the way his body hit the ground.
To Bill’s fist connecting with Richie’s face a couple of days ago.
He deserved that, he decided.
He didn’t deserve much else.
Eddie was at home with a broken arm because of him. Because Richie didn’t stop him. Because he didn’t protect him. Because he wasn’t fast enough, smart enough, brave enough—any of the things he pretended to be.
And now Sonia Kasprak had practically barred the door with her entire body. Eddie’s mother had always been strict, but this time there was something final in it. Final like: you will never see my son again.
The thought of never being allowed near Eddie again made Richie’s stomach twist so hard he felt sick. He needed to get out of this house. Peace was rare here; today it was impossible.
He shoved his hand between the couch cushions, digging past crumbs, lint, and something he didn’t want to identify. His fingers brushed coins. Jackpot. By the time he was done scavenging, he had collected three crumpled dollar bills’ worth of change.
Enough for a few rounds at the arcade.
Enough to fund a temporary escape.
He shoved the coins into his pocket, grabbed his glasses from the coffee table, and bolted out the front door before his parents could ask where he was going—or worse, notice him.
The humidity hit him like a wall. His glasses fogged up almost instantly, but he didn’t slow down. His heart hammered in his chest as he cut across yards and sidewalks, pushing his legs to move faster, like maybe if he outran the heat, he could outrun everything else too.
The bell above the arcade door chimed when he stepped inside.
Cool air washed over him, a blessed, artificial salvation. The place buzzed with life: kids shouting over high scores, machines chiming and flashing, the clack of buttons and joysticks filling the air. The noise drowned out the echo of Eddie’s scream in his head, and for the first time since the Neibolt house, Richie felt something close to relief.
He traded his quarters for twelve tokens. The clunk of the metal hitting the tray sounded like church bells. Like heaven.
He scanned the room for a free machine and spotted Street Fighter sitting empty, waiting. Perfect. He hurried toward it, eyes already on the screen—
—and slammed hard into someone’s side.
Pain shot through his ribs.
“Shit. Sorry,” a voice said.
Richie instinctively clutched his side and looked over. A boy stood next to him—his age maybe, a little shorter, with messy blonde curls and skin dusted in sun freckles.
“What the fuck, man?” Richie complained, but there was a hint of a grin behind it. His mouth worked on autopilot even when his insides were shredded. “Tryin’ to take me out before I even get to the machine?”
The boy laughed awkwardly. “Didn’t see you, honestly. Just saw it was free and kind of… ran at it.”
“It’s fine, ya wee boy, just watch those weapons next time. Could’ve killed me.” Richie replied in a truly terrible Irish accent.
The boy’s mouth tugged into a smile. “Probably should have.” He paused, then added, “Name’s Connor.”
“Richie Tozier is the name,” Richie said, giving an overdramatic bow.
Connor laughed softly. “Adorable.”
Richie blinked at him, thrown. “…I’ve been called worse.”
He turned back to the machine, cheeks slightly warm in a way he refused to examine. He slid a token into the slot and glanced back over his shoulder.
“You wanna get your ass beat or what, Connor?” Richie asked, elbowing him lightly.
“Bring it on.”
ROUND ONE
Richie usually wiped the floor with people on this machine. Street Fighter was his game. But Connor was good. Really good.
Every move Richie threw out—Connor had an answer. Every combo, every jump, every block. Richie focused hard, leaning into the buttons like it would change the outcome. For a few minutes, nothing existed except the screen, the joystick, and Connor beside him.
He couldn’t remember seeing him around Derry before. Definitely not at the arcade.
Out of the corner of his eye, he snuck a glance: curls bouncing, freckles standing out under the neon glare. Too much.
He snapped his attention back to the fight and barely scraped out a win.
ROUND TWO
“Shit,” Richie chuckled, catching his breath.
“I play this shit all the time back in New York,” Connor said, waiting for the game to reset. “So get ready.”
Richie smirked. “Oh, so you’re a big city loser. Got it.”
The next round was even more intense. Richie pressed the buttons with calculated rhythm, fingers moving on instinct. Connor kept up—mirroring his aggression, matching his pace. Richie had never felt this wired playing before, like winning actually meant something besides bragging rights.
He kept stealing quick glances he hoped didn’t show. Every time, Connor seemed to be doing the same.
YOU WIN flashed on the screen.
“You’re fucking good,” Connor said, grinning as he stuck out his hand.
Richie shook it. “Told you. Local legend.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Connor’s grin lingered. “Well. I gotta go.”
Richie’s stomach dipped. Just like that?
His hand shot out before he could stop himself. He grabbed one of his remaining tokens and held it up.
“Hey. Uh.” He scratched the back of his neck. “How about we go again?”
Connor hesitated. For a second, it looked like he might say yes.
Then something shifted in his expression.
Before Richie could work out what, the entrance went loud.
Henry Bowers and his gang barreled in like they owned the place. They never did anything quietly. The energy in the room changed instantly—kids turning away from machines, backing off, shrinking.
Richie didn’t even need to look to recognize the sound of Henry’s boots on the tile.
Connor did. He glanced over his shoulder, went rigid, and whipped his head back toward Richie.
“Only if you want to,” Richie blurted, trying to make it casual, to save face, to save something.
Connor’s eyes were wide and panicked.
“Dude,” he snapped, too loud, too sharp. “Why are you being weird? I’m not your fucking boyfriend.”
Richie’s heart lurched into his throat.
“I—I didn’t—”
Henry’s attention snapped to them like a shark scenting blood.
He laughed, low and ugly, zeroing in on the exchange. “What the fuck is going on here?”
Connor flinched and stared straight ahead, jaw clenched. The arcade quieted around them. Richie could feel eyes on them, the air pressing in.
“You assholes didn’t tell me your town was full of little fairies,” Connor said quickly, venom in his voice that didn’t match how he’d just been smiling at Richie.
The words hit Richie in the chest like a slap.
“Richie fucking Tozier,” Henry drawled, closing in on him. “You wanna bone my little cousin?”
Richie’s stomach twisted.
Cousin?
Henry’s grin twisted. “Get out of here, faggot.”
The word landed different this time. He’d heard it thrown around by Henry’s gang before, but never pointed at him like that. Never with Connor standing right there.
Heat rushed into Richie’s face, burning under his skin. His body screamed to throw a punch, yell something back, do anything—but Henry had his goons, and Richie had no one. He knew how that fight would end. His parents couldn’t afford another pair of glasses this month.
“Move!” Henry snapped again.
Richie’s legs finally obeyed. He stumbled backward, turned, and ran out of the arcade.
He didn’t stop until his lungs burned.
Cousin.
II
Richie didn’t remember how he got from the arcade to the Paul Bunyan statue, only that it rose up in front of him, huge and stupid and impossible to miss, and he kept running anyway until his legs threatened to give out. He veered off toward the edge of the park, vision tunneling, searching desperately for shade.
He found a tree and collapsed beneath it.
“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck,” he muttered, over and over.
His heart was pounding so hard he could feel it in his throat. Was it from sprinting, or from Henry’s voice replaying in his head? The words blurred together, tangled with the sound of laughter and the crack of the arcade door. He yanked off his glasses and dropped them in the grass beside him, pulling his knees tight to his chest.
He was shaking.
It’s the run, he told himself. The heat. The adrenaline.
His body didn’t buy it.
His breath caught high in his chest, sharp and uneven. His fingers dug into the fabric of his jeans, knuckles white. He pressed his face into his knees, trying to disappear from the sun, from his thoughts, from the echo of a word that wouldn’t stop ringing in his ears. The world narrowed to the sound of his own breathing, too loud, too fast.
Panic attack, some distant, unhelpful corner of his brain supplied.
Cool. Fantastic. Add that to the list.
He tried to count his breaths. In. Out. In. Out. But every inhale dragged up more images. Henry’s grin. Connor’s voice snapping sharp and cruel. The way his face had changed, like a door slamming shut.
Richie didn’t realize he was crying until he felt the damp soak into the knees of his jeans.
He let it happen. His body had clearly decided it was done pretending to be fine, and honestly? Fair.
His thoughts slipped, like they were looking for somewhere safer to land.
Eddie.
He pictured himself at the Kasprak house instead of under this stupid tree. Sitting cross-legged on Eddie’s bed, comics spread between them. Arguing whether Marvel was better than DC. Listening to Eddie rant about continuity errors while Richie pretended to fall asleep just to hear him keep talking. Mrs. K scolding them for “roughhousing” if Richie so much as nudged Eddie’s shoulder.
Eating dinner at the cramped table like he belonged there.
Anything but this. Anything but the sick certainty that he’d broken something he might never get the chance to fix.
A miserable laugh hiccupped out of him.
For a split second, he wished he’d never walked out of Neibolt. That it had been him instead. His arm instead. His name on a missing poster.
He scrubbed at his face with the heels of his hands.
“Shit,” he whispered.
He didn’t notice the footsteps until the light shifted.
A shadow fell over him.
“Richie? Richie Tozier?”
The voice was unmistakable now.
Richie went rigid. He fumbled for his glasses, shoved them back onto his face with shaking hands, and squinted up.
Connor Bowers stood there.
Richie scrambled to his feet and backed up until his shoulders hit the tree trunk. He raised his hands, palms out, like that might stop a punch or worse.
“Please,” he said, scanning the park for Henry, for Vic, for Belch, for anyone. “Just leave me alone. I won’t bother you again. I swear.”
Connor stopped where he was. He lifted his hands too, slow and careful, mirroring him. He didn’t come any closer.
“I came alone,” Connor said quietly.
“Fantastic,” Richie shot back. “You can keep being alone somewhere else.”
Connor winced. He shoved his hands into his pockets, pulled them out again, clearly unsure what to do with them.
“Look. I’m sorry,” he said. “I just—Henry.” A humorless laugh slipped out. “You know how he is. Probably better than I do, now. I panicked. I shouldn’t have said any of that.” His words tripped over each other. “I shouldn’t have thrown you to him like that.”
Richie studied his face, searching for the telltale smirk, the setup, the sign that this was another trap. His chest stayed tight.
“…Fuck you,” Richie said at last.
Connor nodded, like he deserved it. “Yeah. Fair.”
He dragged a hand through his curls.
“I went to the arcade to get away from him,” Connor said. “He’s everywhere at the house. I thought I could get an hour where I didn’t have to watch what I say or how I stand or who I look at.” He swallowed. “Then he walked in, and I forgot how to breathe.”
Something in Richie shifted.
“I know how he is,” Connor went on, voice lower now. “My uncle’s been calling me a queer for weeks if I so much as exist wrong around him. If Henry thinks he has proof…” He shook his head. “I hate being there.”
Richie imagined it. Living under the same roof as Henry Bowers. Eating dinner across from him. Sleeping down the hall. The thought made his stomach churn.
“I’m not trying to make excuses,” Connor said quickly. “I just wanted to play some games and forget everything for a bit. Then I bump into this asshole—” he gestured weakly at Richie, “—who beats me at a game I thought I was good at.”
“Damn right I did,” Richie muttered, though the heat had gone out of it.
Connor smiled, small and real this time.
“I really would’ve liked to keep playing,” he said. “I’m leaving next week. Going back home.” His mouth twisted. “Or whatever passes for it.”
He hesitated, then looked at Richie properly. Not scared. Not angry. Just searching.
“I don’t exactly… meet people I can relax around,” he said carefully. “Not here.”
Richie swallowed. His heart thumped, slow and heavy now, in a different way.
“Yeah,” he said. “Me neither.”
The words settled between them. Not a confession. Not a promise. Just a quiet recognition, like they were standing on the same side of an invisible line.
Connor exhaled, like he’d been holding his breath the whole time.
“For what it’s worth,” he said, that familiar teasing edge returning, “I still think if we had a rematch, I’d kick your ass.”
Richie snorted. “Keep dreaming, Bowers.”
Connor’s smile lingered.
“Maybe I’ll be back before I leave,” he said, casual in tone, careful in delivery. “If you’re around.”
Richie looked away, suddenly very interested in the grass.
“Yeah,” he muttered. “Maybe.”
Connor nodded once, like that was enough.
As he turned to go, he glanced back.
“Hey, Tozier?”
Richie looked up.
“I’m glad it was you,” Connor said.
Then he was gone.
III
Richie didn’t mean to slam the door.
It just… happened. The warped wood banged against the frame, echoing through the old clubhouse like a gunshot.
“Richie, what the fuck—?”
Eddie’s voice cut through the quiet, sharp with surprise.
Richie froze halfway inside, breath still hitching, heart stuttering in his chest like it hadn’t realized the running was over. The place smelled the same. Dirt and old wood and summer rot and something familiar enough to hurt.
Eddie was there.
Curled up in the hammock with a book balanced awkwardly against his cast, like he’d been there a while. Like he’d been hiding.
Richie hadn’t seen him in days.
The realization landed harder than anything that had happened at the arcade.
“Oh,” Richie said stupidly.
Eddie stared at him. “Oh?” he repeated. “You burst in here like you’re being chased by Satan himself and all you’ve got is ‘oh’?”
Richie swallowed. His brain felt like static. He hadn’t come here to talk. He hadn’t come here to see anyone. He’d come here because this was where the noise usually stopped.
“Eds,” he muttered, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Can you just—can you give me a second?”
Eddie’s irritation flickered, replaced by something wary. He set the book aside.
“You’re crying,” Eddie said.
Richie huffed out a breath that might’ve been a laugh. “Am not.”
“You absolutely are.”
“Shut up,” Richie said weakly.
He crossed the room and collapsed onto the hammock anyway, claiming his usual side out of pure muscle memory. He curled inward, forearm over his eyes, like if he couldn’t see Eddie, none of this would be real.
He just needed a minute. Just long enough to make sense of the fact that someone had looked at him like that. That he hadn’t immediately made a joke to kill it. That Henry Bowers had put a name to something Richie had been carefully not naming for years.
Eddie climbed in beside him without asking. Because of course he did. Left side Richie, right side Eddie. Some habits survived monsters and broken bones.
Eddie studied him quietly. The way Richie’s shoulders jumped every now and then. The angry red around his eyes. The fact that he looked… smaller somehow.
That scared him.
“Richie,” Eddie said, gentler now. “What happened?”
“I said I need a second,” Richie snapped, sharper than he meant to.
Eddie flinched.
“Oh. Okay,” he said, heat creeping back into his voice. “Sorry. Didn’t realize checking on you was illegal now.”
Richie kicked his leg out in frustration, the hammock swaying. He hated this part. The part where he couldn’t explain what was wrong without opening something he didn’t have words for yet.
Eddie shifted, fingers tightening around the strap of his fanny pack until he fished out his inhaler. The tension in the room made his chest feel tight.
“Eddie,” Richie said suddenly.
Eddie looked at him, braced for another deflection. Another joke.
“I met someone today,” Richie said instead, staring up at the ceiling.
Eddie’s stomach dropped.
“…Oh,” he said, then immediately hated himself for how flat it came out. “Cool. Is that why you look like you just ran a marathon through hell? She dump you already?”
Richie shot him a look and flipped him off. “Henry Bowers has a cousin.”
Eddie’s blood went cold.
“Bowers,” he said carefully. “Girl or boy?”
Richie hesitated.
That pause said more than the answer.
“Boy,” Richie said. “Connor.”
Eddie didn’t like that. Not the name. Not the way Richie said it. Not the way his voice dipped like he was still replaying something.
Richie gave him a stripped-down version of the arcade. Left out the word boyfriend. Left out the slur. Left out the way Connor had looked at him like he was seeing something familiar.
He wasn’t ready to say those things out loud. Especially not here.
“What does he look like?” Eddie asked, trying to sound annoyed instead of… whatever this was.
Richie stalled.
He thought about curls and freckles and green eyes. About the way Connor had relaxed around him before Henry walked in. About how it felt to be looked at without expectation.
His cheeks warmed.
“Richie,” Eddie said sharply.
“Blonde,” Richie muttered. “Curly hair. Green eyes.”
Eddie’s jaw tightened. “Great,” he said. “That’ll help me avoid him.”
Richie snorted weakly. “Ay sí, señor.”
Eddie rolled his eyes, but the unease didn’t go away.
“So,” Eddie said. “He was nice until Henry showed up.”
“Yeah,” Richie said. “Then he freaked. But… he was scared too. Like, really scared. He came after me later. Kept apologizing.”
Eddie’s voice softened despite himself. “And that’s why you’re like this?”
Richie shrugged. “Part of it.”
Eddie exhaled and climbed back into the hammock fully, settling beside him, careful with his cast.
“Fine,” he muttered. “You don’t have to tell me everything.”
They lay there like they always did. Legs tangled. Shoulders touching. Facing opposite directions but held together by something unspoken.
Eddie closed his eyes.
He had snuck out despite his mother’s rules just to come here. Just to see Richie. Just to make sure he was still okay.
He hadn’t expected to find him like this.
Richie stared at the letters on Eddie’s cast.
L O S V E R
The stupid correction made something ache warmly in his chest. He hadn’t seen Eddie since the day his arm broke. He’d missed him so badly it hurt.
He let himself look at him now. The neat hair. The familiar lines of his face. No curls. No freckles. Just Eddie.
Eddie would never hand him over like that. Would never make him feel small for being himself, whatever that self turned out to be.
Richie swallowed.
I missed you, he thought. I was scared you weren’t okay.
He didn’t say it.
Instead, he shut his eyes and let the hammock rock gently.
It was absurd, really. Nearly dying to a clown in the sewers, only to be undone by feelings he didn’t know how to name.
Where was the interdimensional demon when you needed it?