Archive of Our Own ^beta

It was almost a nightly occurrence now, a regular one since that summer ended, with days turning to weeks and weeks to months. Months turned to years, but it was somehow always there. Some months were better than others, Richie would find. But without fail, things would inevitably get bad again at some point.

It always seemed to ramp up both in intensity and frequency as summertime grew closer. Something, something, anniversary effect, or whatever the shrinks liked to pull outta their asses. Richie seriously doubted that any school counselor could really be any help to him. After all, they never fought a shapeshifting demon clown and won.

In retrospect, Richie supposed it was a sort of morbid grace that his mind extended to him by waiting till summer to get all fucked up again. If things were half as bad as they got during the summer while school was in session, he’d be sleeping through a lot more classes than he already did.

Sleep paralysis, his ninth-grade counselor had called it, while he sat opposite her with raised eyebrows and crossed arms. He didn’t care what name the shrink society collectively decided to use for it. All he wanted was a goddamn good night’s sleep, so his mom would stop nagging the living shit outta him for looking half-dead all the time.

Ms. Roberts had gone on and on about how he’d experienced trauma when he was younger, some event suppressed from his memories that was at the very root of his issue. An event which, with time, may come to the surface or perhaps never would. Little did she know that the piece of shit clown that liked to hang from his ceiling at night—smiling inhumanely wide at him with its sharp teeth, keeping his body pinned in place on his mattress with fear—was precisely the so-called trauma that he remembered all too well. But well, she’d definitely label him a schizo and throw him into the nearest insane asylum if he gave her the true rundown.

They say time can heal all wounds, and Richie supposed that was somewhat true. But it was less a question of healing and more of learning to cope. And if there was one thing Richard Tozier was good at, besides making the best your mom jokes ever, it was coping with all the bullshit life threw his way.

* * *

Richie adjusted his glasses where they’d begun to slip down his nose, his view of Bill’s front door speckled with the raindrops that had fallen onto the lenses during his bike ride over. He didn’t bother cleaning them, as his soaked-through rain jacket sleeves would hardly do him any good anyway. The rain was still ruthlessly falling, with the overhang of Bill’s porch scarcely covering him from the onslaught of water. That didn’t matter much though when his socks were already completely waterlogged.

Groaning at the disturbing sensation, he raised his fist to pound on the door again. “Sir Billiam, I swear to God, if you don’t open this fucking door—”

He was abruptly cut off as the door swung open, revealing six guilty-looking Losers, all barely attempting to hide their giggles from his view.

“Dude, what the fuck?” Richie exclaimed, looking directly at Bill, the guiltiest, before shoving past them all and into the house.

Richie wasted no time, yanking his sopping wet raincoat up and over his head, knocking his glasses askew again before balling it up and tossing it into the corner. He shook his head like a dog, fully aware that all the water droplets from his curly mane were hitting the faces of the Losers unfortunate enough to be in the splash zone.

“Ugh, that’s disgusting, Rich,” Stanley bemoaned, wiping his face with his plaid sleeve.

“Yeah, what the hell? Don’t you know that rainwater contains brain-eating amoebas? That might not be a concern for you with little to no brains to eat, but I for one would like to keep mine,” Eddie piped up, shooting him a death glare as he frantically wiped off the water.

“S-s-sorry Richie, they t-told me to do i-it,” Bill admitted, reaching out to pat him on the shoulder, before promptly pulling his hand away, wiping it on the back of his jeans. “Y-you’re s-so wet!”

“Just like your mom was for me last night,” Richie quickly quipped, fixing his glasses again.

Beverly let out a snort, shaking her head. “You walked right into that one, Bill.”

Richie flashed them all a shit-eating grin, before grabbing a bowl of popcorn from the counter and heading into the living room nearby. He plopped down onto his favorite armchair of all time—a brown La-Z-Boy that had a permanent imprint of Bill’s dad’s ass in it.

Digging into the bowl of popcorn now precariously balanced on his lap, he pulled out a handful and shoved it into his mouth. “Wharre we wachin?” he asked, mouth still full of popcorn, quirking his head in the direction of the television.

The other Losers began to file into the room after him, taking their respective places. The largest sofa on Richie’s left was where Stan, Bill, and Mike squeezed in together. It had been plenty of space when they were younger, but four years of growth spurts had made it a bit tighter than was comfortable. It was tradition, though, at least since Ben and Bill switched places.

“Dunno yet,” Stan answered, accidentally elbowing Bill in the stomach as he tried to adjust his shirt from where it was tucked into his khakis.

The other, smaller sofa to Richie’s right was reserved for the honorary lovebirds of the group, who took their place soon after the trio. Richie watched as Ben and Bev cuddled up together, shooting each other sappy and lovestruck smiles. He was about ready to gag on his mouthful of popcorn.

“Hey, move over a bit, dickwad,” Eddie said, moving to stand in front of him with his hands on his hips.

Richie swallowed his popcorn and smiled, somewhat happy that Eddie was now blocking his view of Ben and Bev. “With pleasure, assface.”

He scooted over a bit, allowing Eddie to climb into the little space beside him. Eddie was lucky he was still so small and Richie was so skinny; otherwise one of them would’ve been relegated to the dirty, disgusting carpet as the other boy called it—and Richie was prepared to fight to the death for his favorite armchair in the world.

Once Eddie was settled, his elbow and thigh pressing up against Richie’s, he offered over the popcorn bowl, wiggling his eyebrows at him. “Fancy some, good sir?”

“Ugh no,” Eddie replied, shoving it away. “It’s probably all filled up with your germs and shit.”

“Come on, Eds, I haven’t even double-dipped yet!” Richie insisted, shoving it back his space.

“Fuck off. And don’t call me that,” Eddie said and elbowed him in the side for emphasis.

Richie sighed dramatically, moving the bowl back into his own lap before digging his paws inside for another handful. “Suit yourself, Spaghetti head.”

“W-w-we should v-vote on t-the movie,” Bill suddenly said, successfully gaining the attention of the other Losers.

“Um, wasn’t it my turn to pick?” Mike began hesitantly, causing Stan on the other side to abruptly sit up.

“Pretty sure it was my turn, actually,” Stan said with a disgruntled look in his direction.

“You guys never let me pick!” Eddie protested from beside Richie.

Count on the Losers to descend into chaos when it came to picking a movie. No matter how strong their bond was, it was every man for themselves come this time during movie nights.

“Ladies, ladies, please restrain yourselves,” Richie quickly interjected, throwing a couple pieces of popcorn in Stan’s direction to get him to stop bitching at Mike. “As Sir Billiam the fifth has so thoughtfully decreed, we are a democracy. Let us vote on the movie, rather than bickering like a bunch of tavern wenches! I vote we watch Misery, that crazy chick makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside… reminds me so much of Eddie’s mom—”  

“Shut up, Richie,” Eddie cut him off, elbowing him again. One of these days he would get Eddie back. After all, Richie was the gangly, bony one with elbows of justice.

“S-s-so a-all in f-f-favor of w-watching Misery, raise y-your hands,” Bill said, trying desperately to restore order.

To absolutely no one’s surprise except Richie, he was the only one to raise his hand beside Ben. But Ben raised his hand for everyone’s choice.

“Typical. I’m the only one here with taste,” Richie grumbled to himself. “Besides Ben, of course. Thanks, buddy,” he added, seeing the boy’s face fall, before shoveling some more popcorn into his mouth.

They eventually narrowed it down to Terminator, much to Richie’s devastation. He was all for Bev’s second-place choice, Silence of the Lambs. Plus, he’d watched Terminator like a trillion bajillion times, and it never got any less boring to him.

“Democracy is a sham,” Richie announced with a shake of his head, some of his still-damp curls whacking Eddie in the face.

“Ugh, your hair smells like wet dog,” Eddie complained, shoving him with his shoulder.

“And yours smells like your mom’s shampoo—petunias and roses. It’s getting me hard,” Richie shot back, watching intently as Bill bent down to insert the VHS tape into the player. He sneakily moved a hand onto Eddie’s thigh, which was immediately slapped away.

Richie smirked and tore his eyes from Bill to face the boy beside him. “Feisty tonight, are we? You keep hitting me, and well, I like it rough.”

“You’re disgusting, Richie,” Stan said from the couch, and Richie gave him a quick wink and blew him a kiss.

Eddie, surprisingly, didn’t reprimand him for that last comment, but only sighed. All the fight was seemingly drained from him now. Instead, he slowly, gently reached over and removed Richie’s glasses from his face, effectively blinding him.

Richie watched as Eddie carefully used the hem of his polo shirt to clean the thick lenses of smudges, his tongue peeking out of the corner of his mouth slightly in concentration.

Wordlessly, he placed them back on Richie’s face when he was satisfied, and Richie could see like ten times clearer at least.

“Better?”

Richie nodded, giving him a small smile, before leaning his head onto Eddie’s shoulder. Suddenly, he was feeling a bit tired.

“You’re gonna make my shirt all wet,” Eddie complained, but there was no bite evident in his voice.

“Don’t even say it,” Stan warned, before Richie could open his mouth and retort with another dirty joke.

Bill flipped off the light switch, and suddenly the room was bathed in darkness, save for the illumination of the television, where an anti-piracy warning was now showing. All Richie, notorious for his pirate jokes as a close contender to his your mom jokes, could think, though, was so, so sleepy. 

* * *

Richie’s eyes fluttered open, his brain gradually regaining consciousness as the fog of sleep began to lift away. It always started like this, soft and slow, lulling him into partial awareness as the sheer horror of what he was opening his eyes to caught up to him. There was scarcely any light to see in the room, besides the fuzziness of the television screen, and hardly any noise, except for the soft static it emitted and his breathing, growing more panicked as the seconds ticked on.

He could feel it, that oppressive force holding him in place, forcing him to see It, to acknowledge It hovering there, yellow animalistic eyes baring into his own rapidly blinking ones. His eyes were the only part of him he could still control, though he could feel that slipping steadily away.

It was smiling at him, as It usually did, ever so gleeful to see the mighty Tozier so powerless and so, so scared. Richie knew that it was not truly the It that he’d faced down with a baseball bat alongside his best friends all those years ago, but sometimes it was difficult to comprehend how something solely conjured up by his mind could seemingly receive such delight in his suffering. Surely his brain wasn’t that masochistic? 

The smile, which only seemed to grow wider as more seconds passed by, was dripping and the feeling of the hot saliva spilling down that thing’s mouth and plopping onto his cheeks was scarily realistic. The fucked-up part was that Richie couldn’t even move his hands to wipe it off. Fucking fuckface drooling clown.

Richie could hear his breathing still quickening, louder now than the static was. He was whimpering too, like a goddamn puppy or something, and it was mortifying but involuntary. It drew ever closer, the rows of sharp, knife-like teeth only multiplying as the smile grew wider and wider. He tried desperately to move something, anything to end the episode, focusing all his energy into his pinky finger, only for it not to budge.

He registered movement beside him suddenly, something warm, something solid shifting beside him. And he realized that he wasn’t alone—well, unless It was actually there and he wasn’t hallucinating after all. In his periphery, he could see tufts of brown hair sticking up each and every way. He could hear soft grumbling, the stirrings of someone clearly in the process of waking up.

“Richie?” Eddie’s voice came after a while, whispering and confused.

All Richie could answer with was a frantic glance in Eddie’s direction and his own continued whimpers.

“Richie, what’s going on?” Eddie asked, concern clear in the sound of his voice and the look in his eyes.

Another plop, this time directly into Richie’s mouth, and he could hear himself gasp out. He realized from the taste that the drool was a tear. His own tears. Well, that was embarrassing.

Eddie sat up in the armchair, looking around the darkened room, clearly searching for someone else to help him with Richie. But apparently all the other Losers had abandoned them to sleep in Bill’s room at some point during the night.

It was reassuring, at least, that Eddie was quite pointedly freaking out about Richie and not the hypothetical clown floating above their bodies. Maybe it was all in Richie’s head, after all, like all those counselors had claimed it was.

“Richie, please, can you say something? What’s wrong?” Eddie whispered urgently, his big brown eyes starting to water in that telltale way when he was nervous or overwhelmed. Great, now they were both gonna be crying like little babies.

Richie tried moving his pinky again, thinking about how much he didn’t want to make Eddie cry right now. At first it was just a twitch, barely there, before he could feel the weight lifting up slightly, enough to let him wiggle his pinky more emphatically.

Eddie noticed, his face still screwed up in confusion mixed with concern. Hesitantly, he reached out, smoothing his hand across Richie’s. Richie could faintly feel the warmth of Eddie’s soft fingertips, dull but undeniable, and he waggled his pinky more erratically in response.

With a barely concealed sniffle, Eddie took Richie’s hand into his own, holding it impossibly tight. “It’s okay, Rich. You’re okay. I’m here. Nothing can hurt you.”

The words, while admittedly sweet, did little to help Richie’s predicament, but boy, did Eddie’s touch. He could feel the warmth all over, the sensation of skin touching his skin, holding on just a little too strongly. He used that feeling, that tangible physical sensation to slowly ground himself, to focus on the movement he so desperately wanted to regain. And eventually, that veil of oppressive fear fell away as it always did, but with a little extra help.

As soon as he was able to, Richie gave Eddie’s hand a little squeeze, a subtle way of showing that he was okay, if Eddie couldn’t already tell by the slowing down of his breathing and the ceasing of his whimpers. Still, Eddie waited for him, holding his hand tightly.

“You know, I still have nightmares,” Eddie spoke, at last, when Richie finally stopped shaking. “My mom says they’re called ‘night terrors,’ and it means my brain has some kind of disease. She made me start taking these new pills, but they’re probably gazebos too, to be honest.”

Richie chuckled lightly at that, his voice a little hoarse. “Shit. Well, if having nightmares means you’ve got a brain disease, I must have, like, stage five terminal brain cancer.”

“Aren’t there usually only four stages?”

“Yep. Means I’m ultra fucked.”

Eddie tried his hardest not to, but he smiled a bit anyway. He was quiet for a while before he turned to face Richie. “So, what was all that, exactly? Is it something new?”

Richie sighed, letting go of Eddie’s hand so he could push his glasses further up his nose. He really didn’t want to talk about this. Not to Eddie. Not to the Losers. Not to anyone he remotely gave a shit about.

“No, it’s not new. It’s just been bad, lately. I was kind of worried it’d happen tonight.”

Eddie fixed his gaze on his own lap, fidgeting a bit where he sat. “Has this been going on since… you know…?”

“Sure has. It’s something like a thoughtful parting gift from It truly.”

Looking up in alarm, Eddie’s eyes went all wide, his bottom lip starting to tremble ever so slightly. Even the mere mention was enough to unsettle just about any of the Losers, and for this reason, they explicitly avoided talking at all about that summer.

“My mom made me see a bunch of people at school for it. Apparently, it can start up as a sort of trauma response, so nothing supernatural there, my dearest Eds,” Richie tried to reassure the other boy quickly, keeping his tone purposefully light, as if to not only convince Eddie, but himself as well.

Eddie bit his trembling lip, looking conflicted. “Richie, it… it looked like you suddenly went all limp on me. Fuck, it scared me so much. I wasn’t sure if you were gonna go back to normal. I was thinking, what if you’d had a stroke in your sleep or some shit and it, like, fucked up your brain permanently.” He squeezed his eyes shut, shaking his head, as if to clear the mental image from his brain.

“Hey, that wouldn’t be so bad, after all. I could make you all my servants, you know. Have you guys wait on me hand and foot. Sounds pretty sick to me,” Richie retorted, still trying to lighten the mood with some good old-fashioned dark humor.

Instead of a lightened mood, however, he received a rather harsh slap to his thigh. And there wasn’t nearly enough meat on his leg to cushion the blow. “Ow!”

“Beep-beep, Richie. That’s a really fucked up thing to say,” Eddie said with a glare, but at least he’d stopped trembling.   

“Jeez, violence must run in the Kaspbrak family. Reminds me of the time your mom and I tried out BDSM for the first time while you were at school.”

Eddie, purposefully ignoring the comment, continued, “What is it exactly, then? If it’s not nightmares or night terrors?”

Sighing, Richie leaned back fully against the armchair, lifting his hand to run through tangled, wild curls. For possibly the first time in his young life, he had no clue what to say, where to begin, or how to verbalize the thing he’d lived with for most of his adolescence but scarcely named aloud. Eddie had nightmares, sure, but everyone had those. What Richie dealt with wasn’t normal. It wasn’t something he’d ever heard another person describe themselves experiencing. Just another thing to set him apart as a freak.

Richie let his hand drop from his hair, landing palm side up in his lap. Gently, Eddie moved to touch it again with his own, before ultimately grabbing ahold of it, squeezing in reassurance.

“I guess you could say it’s like being under a spell of some sort, or being tied down to a bed, just without any rope. Kinky,” Richie began, giving the other boy a half-hearted smile. Eddie rolled his eyes but didn’t let go of his hand. “And while I’m all tied down, I see things. I see It.”

Eddie audibly gasped, and Richie could swear his hand was starting to get all clammy. “So, that… thing… was here? Just now?”

Richie nodded, though technically, it was only half-true. Silently, he pointed up at the ceiling with his free hand.

“Jesus,” Eddie muttered, shaking his head. “No wonder you were crying.”

“You’re not gonna tell anyone about that, right Eds? ‘Cuz I’ll have you know that I’ve got tons of dirt on you from your mom. She’s a real gossip when we’re pillow talking.”

Eddie let out an exaggerated groan, squeezing Richie’s hand in a way that was far from comforting now. “Just for that, I’m gonna tell everyone.”

“You wouldn’t dare…”

“I wouldn’t,” Eddie confessed simply, and Richie felt something in his chest get all tight.

Clearing his throat, Richie adjusted his glasses again, though they hadn’t moved an inch since the last time he fixed them. “Thanks, man.”

“Are you sure you’re okay, Rich?”

Richie shot him an incredulous look. “Uh yeah? Why wouldn’t I be?”

With a half-hearted shrug, Eddie shifted a little in his seat, before slowly lowering his head down onto Richie’s shoulder. It was probably uncomfortable, Richie thought to himself, given that he was all skin and bones. But Eddie was so warm, and he smelled so nice, so Richie wasn’t about to say anything and ruin the moment.

* * *

Richie was the first one that summer to suggest they all take a trip down to the quarry.

When he’d brought it up out of the blue one day, they’d all turned to him, eyes wide, looking at him like he’d said something insane. He really didn’t understand why it was so shocking that he’d bring it up. It was their yearly tradition, and someone had to mention it first, so why couldn’t he take a turn? There was only so much more he could take, beating all his own high scores on every machine at the arcade.

Nevertheless, as soon as the other Losers recovered from their collective shock, they’d all agreed quite enthusiastically. Minus Stanley and Eddie, of course, but count on those two to have a stick up their asses.

So, Richie found himself stepping out of his house unusually bright and early—to avoid the inevitable afternoon storms, Bill had insisted—collecting his bike from where it leaned, half-falling over, against the side of his house. In his efforts, he took notice of his next-door neighbor out watering his already oversaturated grass. The man was a balding and crabby middle-aged type who Richie thought probably didn’t get enough action from his wife and hated his children, so he had to take it out on everybody else.

Richie gave him his most charming smile, waving in his direction. “Hey Mr. D, you’re up early!”

Mr. D shot him an unamused glare, looking at Richie like he was the crusted-over gum under his ugly brown loafers.

Turning away, Richie continued wrestling with his bike, dragging it across the grass to the concrete of his driveway. “Asshole,” he whispered under his breath, as soon as he was out of Mr. Dick’s earshot. So much for trying to be more polite, like his parents always nagged at him to be.

He struggled to climb onto his bike, once again reminded that he was really starting to outgrow the thing. But, truthfully, the chances of him getting a new one before Christmas were zero to none, anyway.

Wasting no more time, Richie set off down the block, pedaling quickly in the direction of the town center. He was tasked with collecting Miss Beverly Marsh herself, who had to sneak out the window of her shitty apartment and ride on the handlebars of one of the chosen Losers to the quarry, since her piece of shit dad had thrown her bike away at the beginning of their last school year.

It had been a whole thing, one which Bev most certainly didn’t like to talk about, but Richie at least knew it all stemmed from him finding out she was using it to meet up for dates with Ben. As if losing a bike would be enough to keep those lovebirds apart. It was laughable. 

Making it to Beverly’s place in record time, Richie quickly scrambled off his bike and let it fall to the ground. He scooped up a couple of small pebbles, weighing them all in his palm before picking out one to chuck at the window he immediately recognized as Bev’s. It sailed smoothly across the air, making contact with the glass with an audible thunk. A few years ago, he might’ve missed his mark the first couple of times, but he’d had plenty of practice with this exact thing all those times he snuck into Eddie’s bedroom when his mom had put him on bedrest for a minor cold.

A few pebbles later, Richie could make out Bev’s silhouette appearing in the window, before she tugged it open and peered out and down at him.

Richie grinned, tossing the pebbles back onto the gravel road beneath him. “Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair!” he called up to her, cupping his hands around his mouth. “Oh, wait, you cut it all off again!”

Bev gave him the finger but still smiled down at him in what seemed a bit like relief. “Hey, dickhead, try being a little louder so daddy dearest can hear too.”

With a dramatic show of a courtly bow, Richie then stretched out his arms up to her. “I’ll catch you, your highness, I swear it!”

“I wasn’t planning on ending my life just yet, actually, so I think I’ll pass,” she retorted with a roll of her eyes, bracing her hands on the window frame as she began to climb out. Deftly, she maneuvered herself out of it, and onto the fire escape staircase nearby. It’d almost be impressive if Richie hadn’t already seen her do it a million times.

Bev skillfully made her way down the rest of the stairs, skipping every third step, until she landed gracefully in front of Richie, her red Converse crunching the gravel underfoot. It was still so weird how he was taller than her now. He wasn’t sure if he’d ever get used to it, looking down at her like this—looking down at all the Losers for that matter, besides Eddie who’d always been short for his age—since his body had suddenly decided to shoot up to six feet tall.

Richie adjusted his glasses, making his facial expression all serious as he looked left and right, as if surveying their surroundings. “You got the goods?”

Bev smiled, mischief twinkling in her bright blue eyes as she retrieved two cigarettes from the back pocket of her overalls. She held them out before reaching forward and slipping one into the front pocket of Richie’s Hawaiian-themed overshirt.

“Attagirl,” he praised her, swiftly pulling out the proffered contraband along with his dad’s fancy Zippo lighter, which he’d nabbed from his discarded jeans on the laundry room floor just that morning. In a practiced motion, he put the cigarette in his mouth, flicking open the lighter with a satisfying snap and lighting it up, before doing the same for Bev.

They moved to lean against the concrete wall of Bev’s apartment building, quiet in between drags. Moments like these were precisely why he loved drawing the short straw to be Bev’s designated chauffeur. None of the other Losers were nearly as cool as her, there was no doubt in his mind about that. And Ben was just a bit too much of a goody-two-shoes to share a smoke with Bev, so Richie suspected she liked having him here too.

“Bill’s gonna kill us for being late, you know,” Bev started, giving Richie a faintly conspiratorial glance.

Richie chuckled, flicking some ash to the ground with his fingers. “Yep. And Eddie’s immediately gonna bitch at me again for smelling like smoke, so we can’t even try to make an excuse.”

“Oh, Eddie… that sweet, sweet, summer child,” Bev replied with a shake of her head, taking one last long drag of her cigarette before letting it drop to the grass.

Richie moved his foot and stomped it out for her without looking. “That’s one way of describing Eds.”

“You’ve gotta admit, it’s endearing. He nags at you like you’ve been married for ten years, sure, but it’s all in the name of love.”

“Love, my ass. He wouldn’t touch me with a ten-foot-pole, let alone be married to me for ten years,” Richie retorted, putting his cigarette out on the wall beside him before flicking it into the grass beside Bev’s crushed one.

“Lies. You guys were straight up cuddling the last time we stayed at Bill’s. It was so fuckin’ sweet, I almost threw up. His arms were wrapped around you so tight, like he couldn’t bear to part even asleep. And you, you were nuzzled up into him like he was your goddamn pillow,” Bev waggled her eyebrows, smirking at him, because she knew it would get a rise out of him.

Richie furrowed his own eyebrows, pushing off the wall and walking to retrieve his bike where it lay feet away. “The only Kaspbrak I’d ever be caught dead canoodling with is Mrs. K, so I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Bev trailed after him a bit before halting, letting him drag his bike upright again. She stood, arms clasped behind her back, rocking onto the balls of her feet. “You know, it’s okay. You don’t have to hide it from me.”

Nearly dropping his bike again, Richie’s head snapped towards her, a defensive frown already forming on his face. “The fuck am I hiding from you?”

Her face fell just a little at his expression, lips twitching as if she was conflicted, but she continued after a brief pause. “Well, I don’t know, it just seems like… like there’s something going on between you guys. It reminds me of Ben and I sometimes, before, I mean.”

Richie turned his head from her, from her eyes. They were too bright, too intense, too all-seeing. “Again, dunno what you’re talking about,” he replied simply, before climbing onto his bike. “I’m not a goddamn queer, if that’s what you’re implying.”

“Richie,” Bev reprimanded, her voice uncharacteristically stern. “You just look stressed, lately. I thought maybe you were struggling with something, and well, you two have always been weird about each other. That’s all,” she finished with a shrug, before climbing up onto the handlebars of his bike.

“There’s nothing going on between us,” Richie quickly said, and his tone was final. If Bev had things she didn’t like to talk about—all the shit with her dad—then surely, he had the right to keep some things to himself, too.

* * *

Beverly was right—at least about Bill’s murderous intent—as soon as they arrived at the quarry, fashionably late. “R-Richie, I f-fucking told y-y-you!” he immediately exclaimed, hands on his hips, and Richie could only shrug sheepishly, at least until Bill suddenly ordered Mike and Stan to seize him. They quickly made their way over, grabbing him tightly by each shoulder and dragging him kicking and screaming to the quarry’s edge before dangling him over it.

Faced with his impending demise, Richie yelled out a series of unspeakable profanities between his cries of uncle. Bill was swayed by neither and fully content to let him sweat it out, only until Bev admitted she was the real reason they were late, as the sole contraband provider.

Begrudgingly, Bill gave the orders for Richie to be released, thankfully back onto his own feet and not into the water below.

Richie turned to give Mike a betrayed look, pointedly ignoring Stan, since he’d probably come up with the idea in the first place and whispered it slyly in Bill’s ear.

“I trusted you, man,” Richie said, but Mike was utterly unfazed.

“Captain’s orders.”

A snort that sounded suspiciously like Eddie’s came from somewhere in the distance, and Richie followed the sound to where said boy was sitting, cross-legged on a towel. His fanny pack lay inches from him, stuffed to the brim with what Richie guessed were six different types of sunscreen and countless emergency first-aid kits.

“Something funny, Kaspbrak?” Richie quipped, marching over to stand directly in front of Eddie, his silhouette casting a shadow on Eddie’s body.

“Fucking hilarious, actually. Sure you didn’t shit yourself up there, Rich?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know, Eddie Spaghetti,” Richie replied, before plopping down beside him on the grass, grabbing his fanny pack to inspect the contents inside. His guess turned out to be pretty accurate, after all. He pulled out a tube of 100 SPF, turning it over in his hands, perplexed because he didn’t even know sunscreen so strong even existed.

“Ugh, dude, you smell like smoke. So nasty,” Eddie grumbled and snatched the sunscreen out of Richie’s hands, keeping it safe in his lap.

Some of the other Losers were chatting amongst themselves now, most notably Ben, who had made a beeline for his beloved Bev. They’d been apart for approximately a day and a half too long, and he was more than ready to make up for it. Mike was observing the water with Stan, who was pointing out any and all of the birds he could spot in the nearby trees.

Bill approached Eddie and Richie where they sat, his arms crossed and face stern. “Y-you g-got lucky this t-t-time, Richie.”

Richie scoffed. He couldn’t believe Bill was still acting all pissy about this, even after making an attempt on his life. “You heard the lovely lady, it was all her fault. I didn’t do jack. But, anyways, why does it matter so much if I’m a few minutes late?”

“You’re always fucking late,” Eddie pointed out.

“Well, in my defense, it’s kinda difficult to be on time when your mother keeps begging me not to leave her all on her lonesome. One of these days, I swear, she’s gonna chain me to the bedpost.”

“Yeah, and I bet you’d love that,” Stan called out, walking up to stand beside Bill.

Richie gave him a crooked grin, nodding enthusiastically. “You know me so well, Stan.”

Stan rolled his eyes, turning to Bill. “We should get in the water.”

“Y-yeah,” Bill agreed and then tugged his shirt off, tossing it aside, before wiggling out of his pants. Long gone were the days of tighty-whites, they wore boxer briefs like respectable men.

“Ooh la la, giving us a show and everything!” Richie exclaimed, getting to his feet and ripping off his obnoxiously patterned overshirt, throwing it directly into Eddie’s face.

The rest of the Losers, seeing that the undressing had begun, immediately got to work, stripping down to their underwear and tossing clothing onto their respective towels. Bev still cared little about the fact that she was surrounded by a bunch of pubescent teenage boys, wholly unfazed by the occasional wandering eye.

And wander Richie’s eyes did. Never disrespectfully, but always curiously. Bev had always been pretty, no one could deny that, but she was looking more and more like a woman these days. Delicate curves met neat lines in all the right places, sure, but most eye-catchingly was the way she held herself. A graceful sort of ferocity that never faltered, no matter how many of the girls at school tried to tear her down with their vile rumors, no matter how many men whistled at her while she was walking home, calling her a bitch when she refused to give them the time of day. She was so fucking strong, and Richie wondered sometimes how it was possible for someone to hold their head up so high still, after enduring everything she did.

Richie tore his gaze away, realizing he was staring a little bit too long, turning to see that Eddie was still fully dressed and sitting on the ground. Their eyes met, and Richie was surprised to find that Eddie had already been looking at him. Richie raised his eyebrows before offering a hand down to help him up.

Eddie blinked, looking strangely guilty, but ultimately reached up and accepted the hand, letting Richie pull him up to his feet.

As soon as he was steady, Richie let go of Eddie’s hand and tugged playfully on the hem of his shirt, smirking. “Hurry up and get naked, Eds.”

Eddie’s face morphed into that of disgust, but his cheeks faintly reddened at the words. He quickly slapped Richie’s hand away, wrenching his shirt up and over his head. “Fuck off.”

Beyond amused at his reaction, Richie turned his efforts back to himself, unbuttoning his jeans and slipping out of them. In his periphery, he could see skin. So much skin. Pale and smooth skin.

Eddie was growing into himself too, albeit a bit more slowly than the other Losers. With time, his shoulders had become relatively broad, perhaps a little broader than Richie’s and arguably a great place for resting heads. His chest emerged, too, strong and solid—no longer the wimpy, slightly pudgy form of days past. Richie could see it in the way the old polo shirts his mother still bought him were a little too form-fitting sometimes. And his legs, still mostly hairless to Eddie’s dismay, were growing longer and longer, never as long as Richie’s, but often accentuated by those short, tight athletic shorts he still insisted on wearing. Sure, he still had a little baby fat on him, a perfectly plump ass Richie loved to tease him about, but he couldn’t deny that Eddie Kaspbrak was transforming into a handsome young man.

Richie followed after some of the other Losers who were gathering at the edge of the quarry and looking out at the water beneath with bated breaths. Jumping in signified the official start of summer, the culmination of suffering through long months of arduous schoolwork, and it was never to be taken lightly.

Beverly, as usual, stole the show from them all, using a running start, shoving past some of the boys, and leaping off the edge without a moment’s hesitation. Ben would follow soon after, no longer the timid, repressed little boy he’d once been. She’d lit the fire inside him from the moment she’d finally confessed that no, it wasn’t Bill that she had loved all this time. It was Ben. It was always Ben, and it would always be.

Bill, though devastated in the beginning, was now easily able to muster up the courage to jump in after them because now he knew that loss was just an inevitable part of his life. He’d lost Georgie, he’d lost his parents to their subsequent grief, and he’d lost Bev’s flame to keep him warm and safe, but he would always be okay in the end. And naturally, where Bill was to go, Stanley and Mike were sure to follow, with a shared glance and a smile, because they both knew that he would never lead them down a path of peril.

And Richie, well, he was never one to be left out, so he trudged up to the edge, looking down on everyone in the water already splashing around together. But making that final plunge was not as easy as watching.  

Richie stood still, hardly moving an inch, as he peered down. He was so preoccupied with the process of egging himself on to join the others that he gasped aloud, as he felt a slightly sticky hand encircle his bony wrist and tug him backward.

Wheeling around abruptly, he was faced with a considerably whiter-looking Eddie, since apparently 100 SPF sunscreen wasn’t the easiest to blend in. “Jesus, Eds. Don’t you know it’s rude to sneak up on a man while he’s contemplating jumping off a fucking cliff?”

“Don’t call me that,” Eddie retorted, more on instinct than anything else, and tugged Richie further away from the edge and closer to himself, before releasing his wrist. He reared up onto his tiptoes, bracing himself with one hand on Richie’s left shoulder. With his free one, he reached up, taking ahold of Richie’s glasses carefully.

Richie could just barely make it out as the smaller boy sank back down onto his heels, gently folded up the stolen spectacles, and then retreated to the rows of towels and piles of discarded clothing. He bent down, setting the glasses down on top of a blob that Richie assumed was probably his fanny pack.

Eddie made his way back over, a blur of colors as far as Richie’s vision was concerned, but Eddie all the same.

“Last one in the water’s a virgin,” he said, shoving Richie aside, plugging his nose, and leaping off the edge before Richie could beat him to it.

Well, Richie supposed it wasn’t exactly untrue, once he’d finally hit the surface of the water and was the last to join the other Losers.

* * *

It stormed that afternoon at the quarry, just like Bill had said it would, and Richie was even more convinced that arriving an extra fifteen minutes earlier with Bev wouldn’t have made any difference whatsoever. But with that rain, of course, came the inevitable house arrest of one Eddie Kaspbrak—another summer tradition, at this point.

Richie could easily picture how it probably went down, with Eddie coming in, his hair dripping water all over Mrs. K’s sanitized carpet, his clothing soaked-through as his little body trembled visibly inside them. He would’ve apologized emphatically for making her worry with a “Sorry, Mommy” and a cheek kiss, but little could prevent her subsequent reign of terror. From there, even the smallest sniffle could land Eddie on permanent bedrest for the week.

And, evidently, Eddie had actually gotten a cold. Richie found out when he’d showed up at his house for the third day in a row. His mom was out, probably picking up some more medication from the pharmacy or something, so Eddie had been able to slip downstairs in his pajamas and answer the door, nose red and leaking as he explained what happened.

Richie could cope with Eddie’s absence for the first couple of days. After all, this was somewhat of a regular occurrence. Sonia took any opportunity she found to keep him stuck at home with her and away from his dirty, degenerate group of friends. But Eddie was getting older, and perhaps that fact made her cling to him even harder, insisting that his “condition” was only worsening, his body growing weaker, making it unsafe for him to spend all summer out in the wilderness, or whatever manipulative bullshit lies she spun.

Things were fine at first because Richie could make do with Stanley’s eyerolls and sassy comebacks in Eddie’s stead, but he was really starting to miss the little guy and all his playful and not-so-playful hits and slaps by day five. It probably didn’t help that Richie had consistently been getting around three to four hours of sleep per night, and the exhaustion had him irritable and on edge in a way that the other Losers didn’t really know how to handle.

On day six, Stan, of all people, made a surprise visit to Richie’s humble abode. When Richie heard the initial knock, he’d admittedly gotten his hopes up, rushing downstairs to quickly answer the door. He didn’t mean for it to happen, but his face must’ve somewhat fallen at the sight of his other friend.

“Don’t look so disappointed to see me,” Stan commented with a scoff.

It turned out that the Losers had all met up behind his back and conspired against him, drawing straws to determine who’d cheer him up with an impromptu arcade date. Richie didn’t know if he should be grateful or offended by the prospect, but he let Stan tug him along to his favorite place and pay for his tokens, all the same.

Stan wasn’t particularly good at the arcade games and certainly not the biggest fan of them either, but Richie could still appreciate his patience and restraint, given how relentlessly he rubbed his countless victories in the other boy’s face. Once they ran out of coins, they decided to get some milkshakes at a nearby burger joint, something Richie knew Stan would enjoy far more than the loud and overstimulating lights and sounds of the arcade. Truly, he was a grouchy old man inhabiting the body of a 17-year-old boy.

They ordered milkshakes, not bothering to share. Vanilla for Stan and half-vanilla, half-chocolate with a shit ton of Hershey’s chocolate sauce drizzled all over for Richie, since he liked to keep the servers on their toes.

Richie sipped on his milkshake thoughtfully. Maybe he’d overdone it a little with the chocolate.

“So… when do you think Eddie will be back?” Stan started awkwardly, and Richie had to bite back a groan. Why couldn’t they just shoot the shit together like normal people their age? He didn’t want to talk about his feelings, or whatever gay shit Stan was clearly aiming for.  

“How the hell should I know?” Richie retorted, sounding more defensive than he really intended.

“Gee, Rich, I don’t know. I guess I just assumed that you’d have a better idea than any of the rest of us, since according to you, you’re the one who spends the most time with Eddie’s mom besides Eddie himself.”

Richie snorted inappropriately loudly, a little whipped cream going up his nose in the process.

“Dude, you’re so gross,” Stan commented with a grimace. “Anyway, I was just curious if you knew. No need to get your panties in a twist.”

Clearing his throat, Richie gave an emphatic sniff and a wriggle of his nose. “Well, Mrs. K and I are taking a break right now, so I’ve got no clue. I haven’t seen Eds since Tuesday.”

Stan took a slow, measured sip of his milkshake, which was still about a quarter fuller than Richie’s. “Why don’t you just sneak into his room like you usually do?”

It was a perfectly fair, perfectly reasonable question, Richie knew that well, but something about it made his chest a little tighter, his breathing a little more constricted. Richie wasn’t one to let Eddie’s confinement keep them apart for too long, true enough, yet for some reason he’d not yet thought to do so. It felt different, somehow, this time, picturing them huddled up under Eddie’s comforter, speaking in excited but hushed voices as they used a flashlight to read through one of the comics from the bundle Richie usually brought along with him. Half were for them to enjoy together, and the other half to keep Eddie occupied after Richie was forced to take his leave.

“You know, he’s probably wondering where the hell you are.”

“I think he’ll live with a couple Tozier-free days,” Richie replied with a roll of his eyes.

Raising his eyebrows, Stan gave him a skeptical look. “You sure about that?”

“Positive.”

Stan eventually dropped the topic entirely, sensing that Richie wasn’t gonna budge. They talked for a while afterwards about boring, stupid stuff, but at least those things didn’t make Richie’s pulse quicken. The other boy left not long after, claiming that his dad wanted him home early that night, since there was some event at the synagogue taking place early in the morning. It could’ve been an excuse, sure, but Richie wasn’t about to pry.

As soon as Stan was gone, the bell at the front door jingling and signaling his departure, Richie rose from the booth they’d chosen in the corner of the restaurant and calmly approached the rows of barstools nearby.

The lady behind the bar was wiping it off with a dirty-looking rag, apparently too absorbed in her work to address Richie’s sudden appearance in front of her, at least until he’d cleared his throat about three times in a row.

“What do you want, kid?” she asked, not bothering to look up at him as she continued the futile wiping.

“One chocolate milkshake, please. To go,” Richie quickly replied and dropped a couple bills onto the slightly damp surface of the bar. The woman sighed and slapped the nasty ass rag down, collecting the crumbled-up cash and pocketing it without a word.

* * *

The first thing Richie noticed as he rolled up on his bike to the Kaspbrak residence was the absence of Sonia’s light brown sedan in the driveway. He was more than happy to see it, knowing it meant he didn’t have to scale up the walls of the house in the back to get to Eddie, but he knew he should probably act fast since Eddie’s mom never left him at home alone for too long.

Stashing his bike in the neighbor’s bushes, Richie quickly made his way up to the front door, still holding on to the milkshake that was probably more than a little soupy at this point. Once he reached the door, he wasted no time knocking rhythmically on it before moving his hand to adjust his glasses on his nose. Strangely enough, Richie could feel his heartbeat starting to speed up, but he figured it had something to do with the possibility of his plans being foiled by Mrs. K’s untimely return home before he’d gotten inside.

Apparently Eddie had decided to fuck with him a little, taking his sweet time to get the door, so after a few moments, Richie raised his fist to knock again, this time more emphatically. He could faintly make out a voice afterward yelling “Coming!” in a familiar agitated tone, and it brought a small smile to his lips.

For extra measure, he rang the doorbell repeatedly, until a frustrated groan could be heard, closer this time, and the door was yanked open.

Eddie stood there, still dressed in his matching Batman pajamas despite it being three o’clock in the afternoon. He’d had those pajamas for years but was starting to outgrow them in the way that the pants barely covered up his ankles and the shirt rose up whenever he stretched, revealing a strip of skin on his lower stomach. His hair was messy, though it looked clean—not like Richie’s whenever he was stuck in bed sick for days on end. His nose and cheeks were still visibly red, but his complexion at least appeared healthier than Richie had seen days prior.

“Eds!” Richie exclaimed after a beat of slightly laden silence stretched between them.

Eddie’s eyes drifted to the Styrofoam cup in his hand. “What’s that?”

“Oh, this? It’s for you.”

“Yeah, no shit Sherlock. But what’s inside?”

“Milkshake,” Richie replied simply, and gently pushed past where Eddie was standing in the doorframe, entering the house. There was scarcely a thing out of place inside, the air carrying a distinct medicinal scent that he normally only smelled at hospitals or at the doctor’s office. Richie had no clue how Eddie could stand living in a place that constantly smelled like rubbing alcohol.

Without waiting for permission, Richie headed towards the stairs he knew led up to Eddie’s bedroom. Though he usually didn’t come in this way when he snuck over, he remembered the house’s layout from the years before Eddie’s mom had banned him from coming over.

“You know, you’re not supposed to have milk when you’re sick. I can’t drink that,” Eddie pointed out, as he closed the front door and hurried after Richie, seemingly unfazed by his barging in.

“That’s probably just some horseshit your mom made up.”

“Nuh-uh,” Eddie caught up to him on the steps, elbowing past to lead the rest of the way to his bedroom. “Pretty sure it’s, like, a written fact in medical textbooks and shit.”

“Well, those medical textbook writers need to get laid,” Richie retorted, and Eddie couldn’t hide a chuckle this time.

Once they made it up to the top, Richie could pick up on the sounds of a car approaching from outside, pulling up to the house and idling briefly in the driveway. He turned to Eddie, eyes widening in alarm.

“Shit,” the other boy muttered, tugging Richie into his nearby bedroom. “Get under the bed, she’s definitely gonna come upstairs and check on me.”

Richie nodded in understanding, setting the milkshake down on a dresser and hiding it from view of the bedroom door using a picture frame. He hurriedly dropped down onto the carpeted floor, rolling his way underneath Eddie’s bed. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d had to hide there.

The sound of the front door opening and practically slamming shut reached his ears, the force of the action rattling the floor under Richie. If he had to guess, he’d say Eddie’s mom wasn’t in the best of moods—though the woman was hardly a bundle of joy even on her good days.

Richie felt Eddie clambering onto the bed above him and heard the subsequent rustle of covers, as he probably pulled them up to his chin. A smart move, no doubt, as Mrs. K was not above tucking her teenage son into bed if she deemed the bed sheets inadequately shielding his body from the elements.

After a few moments, Richie could hear her thunderous footsteps up the stairs, her breathing growing more labored the higher she climbed.

“Eddie-bear?” she called from down the hall.

“Yes, Mommy?” Eddie responded, a subtle quiver in his voice that Richie prayed she didn’t notice.

Richie soon saw a pair of ugly-looking slippers appear in the doorway of Eddie’s room and put a hand over his mouth to ensure he could muffle any laughter that threatened to slip out and blow his cover.

“Did you remember to take your afternoon pills?”

“Yes, Mommy,” Eddie reassured, nodding so emphatically that the bed above Richie creaked ever so slightly.

“Good, good,” Sonia said, before going quiet. Richie worried for a moment that she somehow knew something was up, and it suddenly got a whole lot harder to breathe.

“I-is something wrong?” Eddie’s voice came, small and thin in a way it never was.

“Of course not, baby. I was just worried about you while I was gone.”

Richie couldn’t resist rolling his eyes at that statement. It wasn’t like she’d see it anyway. The woman probably hadn’t been out of the house for more than twenty minutes, how worried could she possibly have been?

“Oh, well, I’m okay. Just, uh, a little sleepy,” Eddie said, pausing as if to consider his next words before continuing. “Um, do you think when you go, you could close my door? I-I can hear the TV from downstairs… and it’s been hard to get some rest.”

Sonia didn’t answer immediately, and Richie knew the boy above him must be on the verge of a nervous breakdown. He had to give credit where it was due, though, Eddie was getting better and better at lying to his mother.

“Of course I can. Just… if something is wrong, make sure you yell for me, okay?”

“Alright, Mommy. I promise I will. Love you,” Eddie answered, saying the magic words.

“I love you too, Eddie-bear,” she replied, pausing briefly in the doorway, before Richie finally saw her slippers disappear and heard the door click as she shut it behind herself.

Eddie gave it a few seconds, then hopped down from his bed and tiptoed to the door, leaning his ear against the wood. As soon as the coast was clear, he walked back towards his bed and bent down, peering beneath it and making eye contact with Richie where he lay.

Richie removed his hand from his mouth to flash a toothy grin. “All good?”

“Yeah, dickwad. Time to get out from under there.”

“What’s the rush? Scared I’ll find your porn mags?”

Eddie rolled his eyes and extended his hand to Richie, who immediately took it and used it as leverage to maneuver himself out from underneath the bed.

As soon as Richie was back on his feet, he made a beeline for Eddie’s dresser, reclaiming the melted milkshake Eddie had so rudely rejected. He could certainly afford his own milkshake off the minuscule allowance his parents gave him every two weeks for doing absolutely nothing, but two in one day was pushing it. And the soupy milkshake and subpar flavor aside, he’d be damned if he was going to waste his hard-earned money.

He took a sip, immediately kind of regretting his prior commitment to making the most of his money. But Richie was nothing, if not a man of his word, even if that word was solely to himself.

“Hey, what the fuck?” Eddie suddenly said, stalking over to him and snatching the cup right out of his hands, mid-disgusting-sip. “I thought this was for me?”

“And I thought you didn’t want it?” Richie replied, raising his eyebrows. “All the ‘no drinking milk’ shit from earlier ring a bell?”

“Well, I do want it. So, it’s mine,” Eddie retorted, and then—to Richie’s absolute astonishment—took a sip from it, and therefore the exact same straw Richie’s mouth had just been sucking out of a second ago.

Despite all his initial bravado, Eddie’s face quickly morphed into a grimace. Richie could see him struggling to swallow before he carefully set the cup back on the dresser. “Thanks, by the way.”

Richie, still in a state of shock, simply nodded. He then watched as Eddie returned to his bedside, making like he was about to get back on it, before promptly sinking to the floor on his hands and knees, twisting his body to reach underneath it. Richie quite pointedly turned his head away, at least until Eddie was done rummaging around under there and back onto his feet.

Inching closer out of curiosity, Richie noticed that Eddie now had a black shoebox cradled in his arms. “Holy shit, there actually were porn mags under there.”

Eddie shot him a dirty look, shaking his head, before taking a seat on the edge of his bed with the box carefully balanced atop his lap. Richie followed, sitting beside him, his gaze focused on the box as Eddie began to open it, finally revealing the contents.

The first thing he could see was Eddie’s inhaler, an old friend that Richie hadn’t seen for a good couple of years. He still wondered about how Eddie had been able to convince his mom that he didn’t actually need to keep carrying it around everywhere, but he wasn’t about to ask now. Underneath the inhaler, though, he could see a bundle of comic books, which looked very familiar.

Wordlessly, Eddie set aside the old inhaler on his bed and took out the comics, all in varying stages of wear. Some Richie could tell were more read-through than others, but Eddie had clearly tried his best to keep them all in good shape.

“Are those…?”

Nodding, Eddie sorted through the pile, specifically setting aside all the Captain America volumes onto Richie’s lap. Those were some of the more worn ones, with their corners bent and covers slightly dulled with age. Richie couldn’t recall bringing over anything from that series within the last three years, since his interests had somewhat shifted to other, newer things.

Once Eddie had successfully rifled through all the comics, he carefully tucked them back inside the slightly dusty shoebox, neatly setting his inhaler back on top. Richie, all the while, kept a hold of the issues Eddie had handed to him, keeping them safe as Eddie got off the bed and returned the box to its hiding place.

“You know, I thought for sure all of these were goners when I brought them over,” Richie commented lightly, starting to arrange the volumes in his hands in numerical order.

Eddie clambered back onto the bed, moving past Richie where he was seated and rolling over to the other side to lay against the pillow. He looked up at the ceiling, clasping his hands over his chest. “My mom hates them.”

Richie hummed in understanding, momentarily pausing his organizing to maneuver himself back onto the pillow beside Eddie. He propped himself up by the elbows, already resuming his task. “So, you hid them?”

With a nod, Eddie reached over and took one of the earlier installments.

“How naughty of you, Eds.”

“Don’t fucking call me that.”

They settled into a comfortable, easy kind of quiet, developing a sort of mechanical rhythm. Richie started with the most recent issues in the collection, while Eddie started with the oldest. Richie was in charge of holding the stack of comics together and keeping them in the correct order, with Eddie simply having to tap his arm whenever he’d finished one, and Richie would fork over the next in line and swap it for the one just completed—not stopping until they’d met in the middle.

He had initially envisioned that reading backwards would be a fun challenge, but it was admittedly more difficult than he’d expected to follow a narrative in reverse. This was only made harder by the fact that he barely remembered anything from the series at all.

At some point during this process Richie had begun zoning out. He read the words, looked at the artwork on the page, and never really absorbing any of it. He even began to nod off after a while, his sudden fatigue only exacerbated by the rapidly dwindling light from Eddie’s bedroom window.

Eddie apparently took notice of this, once he’d tapped his arm for the next installment and received no response. He shifted closer, and Richie could feel the warm brush of skin, even in his half-conscious state as he leaned over him to reach the lamp on the bedside table, his arm crossing Richie’s chest as he fumbled for the dangling cord. As soon as the light clicked on, Eddie was already pulling back away, and Richie’s eyes were fluttering back open.

Richie blinked the haze of sleep away, shifting his body up on the pillow from where he’d begun to slip down. He then quickly retrieved his comic, flipping back to the last page he remembered seeing, before reaching up and adjusting his glasses. In his peripheral vision, he could see Eddie turning a page of his own comic, eyes already focused back on the panels.

“So, you and Bev are hanging out a lot lately,” Eddie said, not raising his head.

Richie glanced over at him, lowering his comic. “I guess you could say that. My dad’s been trying to quit smoking since, like, March, so where else am I supposed to get an ice-cold ciggy if I can’t steal his anymore?”

Eddie shook his head, finally looking up, his expression contorting with disgust. “Ugh, I still can’t fucking believe you smoke that shit. Your lungs are probably all black and crusty already.”

“Like I always say, I’m here for a good time, not a long one.”

“Beep-beep, Richie,” Eddie retorted, slowly lowering his comic onto the bed to angle his body towards Richie. “I just mean, it’s kind of obvious.”

Richie raised his eyebrows. “What’s obvious? That I’m gonna get lung cancer?”

Eddie snorted, reaching over to smack his arm lightly. “No, dumbass. Obvious as in you having a thing for Bev.”

“Huh? No, dude. She’s just Bev.”

The other boy paused for a moment, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth, before continuing. “Exactly. It’s Bev. Most guys would.”

Richie gave a half-hearted shrug. “I mean… yeah. She’s the coolest gal I know.”

“Yeah,” Eddie agreed, and then turned back to his comic, apparently shutting the door on that conversation.

Frowning, Richie picked his own up again and attempted to dive back into the story. Admittedly, he had absolutely no idea whatsoever what was going on in the world of Captain America, so mostly he was just looking at the pretty pictures to try and occupy himself. He could faintly start to detect some noise from downstairs, the clattering of pots and pans that he assumed was Sonia starting dinner. Even with the door shut, the absolute silence of Eddie’s room only amplified the noises from outside.

Eddie glanced up briefly at the sound, but relaxed after a moment, looking back at his comic. He turned another page, then began to cough, bringing a hand quickly up to his mouth to muffle the sound. Richie didn’t think much of it, turning a page of his own comic. But then Eddie coughed again, louder this time, and Richie’s head immediately swiveled in his direction.

His brows knitting together in concern, Richie watched as Eddie tried unsuccessfully to force another cough down by clearing his throat. But it slipped out anyway and was sharper this time. Eddie turned away slightly, pressing his fist to his mouth.

“Eddie,” Richie started, sitting up straight in alarm. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Eddie snapped, another small cough following his words, before he glanced at the door. “Um, maybe you should go.”

Richie hesitated, eyes flicking briefly in the same direction. From downstairs came the unmistakable clatter of something being set down too hard on the counter. “Yeah, probably.”

He carefully laid down the installment he was holding atop the pile that sat between them, feeling slightly remorseful they’d yet to meet in the middle like planned. But if Eddie was on the verge of an uncontrollable coughing fit, there was no way they could continue like this uninterrupted. Sonia would surely overhear it at some point and barge in, all frantic and frazzled. And there would certainly be no closed bedroom doors after that.

Eddie swiftly got off the bed, clearing his throat repeatedly in an almost humorous fashion, as he made his way over to the window. Richie took the hint and hurried to join him there, already beginning the mental preparation for the arduous task of fitting his lanky, uncoordinated, and unflexible body through it and scaling down the walls.

Seeing the apprehension on his face, Eddie clasped his shoulder lightly, giving him a few reassuring pats before removing his hand to muffle another cough. “Sorry,” he said, as soon as he was able to.

“No worries, Eddie Spaghetti, this ain’t my first rodeo. You know how many times I’ve had to sneak out of your mom’s bedroom window while you were sleeping?”

Eddie rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth turned up ever so slightly. He moved to carefully unlatch the window and slowly slid it open.

Richie gave him a final salute, accepting his fate, and climbed out. The last thing he saw before dropping down onto the grass below was the Styrofoam cup on Eddie’s dresser, the straw still awkwardly bent the way they’d left it.

* * *

For the first time in his entire life, Richie ended up arriving to something early. It certainly wasn’t intentional, and it definitely wasn’t because of Bill’s recent nagging on him to be more considerate with his time. Rather, it was something that just sort of happened. He had woken up that day around two o’clock in the afternoon, beyond grateful that he could finally sleep in—though he’d only been able to fall asleep when the sun came up in the first place.

The house was unusually quiet and empty when Richie trudged down the stairs, which came as no surprise. What did surprise him, however, was the fact that his parents hadn’t even bothered to say goodbye to him before leaving for their trip. Well, screw them, he needed all the sleep he could get anyways.

Richie had grown pretty antsy after eating breakfast and getting ready, eager to get on with the festivities that nighttime promised, as the Losers had agreed to celebrate the Fourth of July together. This time, Stanley had been chosen to pick up Beverly, much to Richie’s disappointment since he could’ve really used a cigarette. That meant, however, that he could take his sweet time lazing around until heading to the clubhouse.

He’d had every intention of doing just that, but in the final hour, the wait had quickly grown excruciating. He was left with nothing but a soundless, motionless house and his thoughts. Pacing around and blasting music from his brand-new CD player helped for a little bit, sure, but nothing could truly calm the restlessness coursing through his body. So, at around six-thirty, he decided to just make his way over.

It really dawned on him just how early he was, once he descended the rickety ladder leading down to their little underground base. There he found the only other Losers present were Ben, who’d apparently already called first dibs on Richie’s hammock, and Mike, seated on a nearby dusty sofa, engaged in a riveting conversation.

Mike’s gaze flicked over towards the ladder, widening when he took in the newcomer. “Do my eyes deceive me?” he said, cutting Ben off as he blabbered on about some new Derry history he’d uncovered in the town archives.

Richie grinned, putting his hands on hips and tilting his chin up. “No, good sir. It is I, Richard T. Tozier,” he announced with a dramatic bow. “Here to bless you with my early appearance.”

“That’s one way of putting it,” Mike replied, unmoved by his display, but happy to see him, nonetheless.

“Hey, Richie,” Ben piped up, smiling sweetly up at him.

Richie hummed, settling into the spot on the couch beside Mike. “Hi, Ben. I see you’ve made yourself nice and comfortable in my hammock.”

“It’s not yours, Richie,” Mike quickly reminded, but Richie ignored him, giving Ben the stink eye.

“I know what you’re up to, young man,” Richie continued. “Trying to canoodle on it with Bev, I bet.”

Ben chuckled, not at all offended, his cheeks faintly taking on a pink hue. “Is it that obvious?”

“Yes,” both Mike and Richie answered together, and Ben’s face only grew redder.

Their attention was stolen not long after by the arrival of another Loser, who Richie could immediately guess as being Beverly from the telltale red Converse. Once she’d made it about halfway down, another pair of shoes appeared at the top of the ladder, which had to belong to Stan, considering he’d picked her up.

Once Bev was fully down the stairs and on her feet, Richie noticed the backpack she had slung around one shoulder, and his interest was immediately piqued. He decided, though, that he’d give Bev the opportunity to bring it up herself rather than interrogate her about the contents he suspected were inside.

She turned to face them, gaze naturally falling on Ben first. Even from where he sat a few feet away, Richie could see the way her eyes lit up once they rested on her boyfriend, only dimming slightly when they shifted towards Richie. “You’re here early,” she commented, before moving to take her seat beside Ben on the hammock.

“Apparently not early enough,” he remarked, bitter at seeing his special spot being tainted by their gross, lovey-dovey cooties.

Stan finally made his full descent down the ladder, just as a pair of beat-up Vans made their appearance at the top. Richie was admittedly a little bummed that Bill wasn’t the last to arrive after all, since that would just be so perfectly ironic.

“Oh, good. Bill was worried you’d be late again,” Stan said as he approached the couch Richie and Mike were sharing, surprisingly deciding to sit beside Richie by his own volition.

“I’ve been trying to tell you guys. I’ve got loads more free time since me and Eddie’s mom broke things off.”

Mike groaned from beside him; Bev and Ben went out of their way to completely ignore him; and Stan, well Stan just rolled his eyes like he always did.

Bill hopped down from the ladder soon after, immediately looking directly at Richie with his mouth slightly agape.

“Yeah, yeah, you’re shocked. Spare me the details and tell me how proud of me you are already.”

“N-n-not p-proud, just s-surprised,” Bill corrected, but Richie could tell he was secretly pleased with him. Little did he know there was, like, a zero-to-nonexistent chance of this ever happening again.

Bill surveyed the room, checking that every Loser was in their respective space. He frowned slightly when he looked beside Richie and saw Stan, but seemed to shrug it off, heading towards an empty sofa nearby to sit by himself.

“So, when do the fireworks start?” Richie began, not intending the question for anyone in particular. “Not that it really matters, ‘cuz, you know, we can’t fuckin’ see them from all the way down here. Which one of you jokers came up with the bright idea that we should hang out underground on the Fourth of fucking July, again?”

“Fireworks are overrated,” Stan quipped back, because clearly, it had been his idea.

“You’re welcome to leave and go watch them with the local moms and dads in the town square,” Bev pointed out.

“Maybe I should. Gotta find myself a new smoking hot babe to replace the Mrs. K-sized hole in my heart,” Richie said with a remorseful sigh, propping his chin up on his palm.

“W-where is Eddie, a-a-anyway?” Bill asked, concern clear in the way his brows furrowed.

For a moment, no one responded. The question lingered in the air, unanswered, stretching long enough to feel awkward. Then, there was a sound from above, the slightest creak of wood.

“Do you guys ever think about this thing collapsing on us and killing us? Because I think about it a lot. No offense Ben, it’s just that you kinda built it when you were, like, twelve,” Richie suddenly said, breaking the silence.

Mike sat up a little straighter beside Richie, squinting up in the direction of the ladder. “Talking like that, you’re gonna jinx it.”

Ben shifted beside Bev in the hammock, the ropes groaning in response. “You don’t have to worry, Rich. I check it every time I come by.”

Richie shrugged a bit, not entirely comforted by the words. “I’m just saying, if this thing went down, I don’t think it would necessarily be an instant death. Maybe for some of us, but some unlucky bastard would probably be trapped under a beam for, like, nineteen hours before finally kicking the bucket.”

There was another creak from above, this time louder.

Bev’s head shot up, eyes darting to the ladder, where a pair of pristine-looking sneakers came into view at the top, hesitating for a bit before the owner began their climb down.

Richie didn’t notice, still flapping his lips like there was no tomorrow. “And you know what, that unlucky bastard would most likely be me, since God’s definitely got it out for me now after defiling all those—”

Eddie reached the bottom and stepped off the ladder, clearing his throat softly. “Beep-beep, Richie.”

Only then did Richie finally see him, his mouth immediately pressing closed as they made eye contact. Without thinking, Richie reached up and nudged his glasses back into place.

“E-Eddie!” Bill exclaimed, standing up abruptly and walking over to give Eddie a side hug. “I-I w-was worried y-y-your mom w-wouldn’t l-let you c-come.”

“Good to see you, man,” Mike greeted with an affectionate smile, which Eddie returned.

Bill led Eddie towards the couch he’d just gotten up from, an arm thrown around his shoulders.

It had been a couple of weeks since Eddie’s house arrest had ended, but since then, it’d been harder and harder to see the boy. His mom, claiming he was extra vulnerable since he’d gotten sick, had only been permitting him to go outside during the daytime and never for longer than a few hours at a time. Some hangouts he’d had to skip entirely, with Sonia claiming he wasn’t spending enough time working on summer homework. As if anyone even glanced at that shit any time before the final few days of summer.

Eddie let Bill tug him down next to him, grinning all the while. “I thought I wouldn’t be able to come either. But I convinced her.”

Richie scoffed, shaking his head. “Can’t imagine how you ever managed that. I’m sure she’s just terrified her little Eddie-bear is somehow gonna get a couple fingers blown off by a firework.”

“Well, I’m glad you’re here, dude,” Bev cut in from the hammock, sending Richie a disapproving glare. She then made a big show of picking up her backpack from where she’d set it on the ground, and it clearly wasn’t light, considering the struggle written all over her face as she lifted it up into her lap.

“But now that everyone’s here, I think it’s the perfect time… for these,” she continued, unzipping her backpack slowly to reveal several cans of beer shoved inside.

“Holy shit, Bev,” Richie exclaimed, immediately darting to his feet and making his way over to grab a can for himself. “You’re the best.”

“Oh, hell no,” Stan began incredulously. “We are not drinking those.”

“Uh, hell yes we are,” Richie retorted before cracking open a can and immediately downing about a quarter of the liquid inside.

“Holy fuck, this is, like, so fucking illegal,” Eddie groaned.

Bev gave everyone a deceptively angelic smile, pushing over one can into Ben’s slightly reluctant hands, before standing to pass out some more to the rest of the Losers, regardless of whether they wanted to drink or not.

Mike was the first to open his can up after Richie, taking an intrigued sniff before shrugging and taking a sip. Bill, eyeing him warily, was the next to follow, immediately gagging as soon as the liquid touched his tongue. Ben, without making a fuss, opened his can and drank a little from it before setting it down on the ground nearby, actively trying to hide the subsequent look of disgust on his face. Bev, naturally, wasted no time opening her own can as soon as she’d finished passing them out, making a satisfied sound after her first sip, as this was certainly not the first time she’d tried it.

That left Eddie and Stanley, who were both looking at theirs like it was some kind of poison. Richie was entirely convinced that those two would outright refuse to give in to peer pressure, and if they did happen to open their cans, it would be to dump out the entirety of the contents and waste perfectly good alcohol. But then, to his amazement, both boys gave each other a hesitant look and then took a taste of their own.

Richie’s lips stretched out into a wide grin at the sight, immediately knowing that that night was going to go down in Loser history, whooping loudly and pumping his fist into the air before taking another sip.

* * *

Richie collapsed onto his hammock victoriously, smirking as he watched Bev and Ben make their walk of shame—though, not as shamefully as he would’ve liked to see—to a nearby couch. Stan was already hanging off the side of one of its armrests, snoring softly, while Mike sat silently beside him, staring up at the ceiling with his mouth slightly agape. A little further away, Bill was sprawled across the floor, giggling maniacally at something Eddie had said to him moments prior.

He could faintly make out the rumbles of distant fireworks from above, but it was mostly overshadowed by the old boombox blasting whatever shitty pop music mixtape Stan had brought from his house. It didn’t really matter what was playing, though, anything was better than it being quiet.

Sighing softly, Richie leaned his head back, some of his hair dangling off the hammock that swayed lightly with his movement. He tipped back the can he’d been mostly nursing. It was only his second of the night, but he could already vaguely feel the lightness of a buzz settling in. He decided it was a pleasant feeling. Maybe becoming an alcoholic in the future wouldn’t be so bad after all.

Richie was about ten seconds away from joining Stan in dreamland when the hammock suddenly dipped beneath him, the ropes groaning as he dimly registered the press of a warm body against his. There was hardly an inch left that belonged solely to him—shoulder to shoulder, knee to knee, legs dangling together over the side.

Turning his head and squinting awake, Richie found Eddie lying there beside him, already looking back. His eyes somehow seemed even darker brown than usual, glinting where they caught the light from the messily strung lanterns overhead. 

“Hi,” Eddie said softly, a gentle smile crossing his features.

“Hi,” Richie replied, blinking slowly.

“Bill is so fucking drunk,” Eddie murmured, his eyes momentarily leaving Richie’s to glance at Bill where he was still lying on the floor, now cackling to himself.

Richie made a low, amused sound in the back of his throat. “Good for him. Not everyone gets to be a happy drunk.”

“And are you?” Eddie asked, raising an eyebrow.

“I’m happy to have my hammock back,” Richie retorted. “Sir Benjamin should’ve known better than to challenge me in a battle of wits.”

Eddie scoffed, shaking his head. “Truth or dare is hardly a ‘battle of wits,’ Rich.”

“Well, you know what they say. Play stupid games, win stupid prizes.”

“I’m not sure that means what you think it does,” Eddie said with a light chuckle, his hand drifting from where it had been clasped in his lap to Richie’s temple, absentmindedly nudging a stray curl out from behind the frame of his glasses. 

Richie tensed slightly at the touch, automatically reaching up to adjust where his glasses sat on his nose, before relaxing. “Whatever, Eddie Spaghetti.”

Eddie didn’t respond at first, his hand lingering, not quite retreating to his lap yet. Instead, he brushed more of Richie’s hair out of his face, fingers catching lightly in the strands in the process. He gave one small, curious tug, watching it spring back, before his fingers slipped into Richie’s hair and stayed there. “Have you been sleeping okay?”

Richie’s breath hitched softly, as he tilted his head up into Eddie’s hand without thinking. He swallowed, his throat tightening briefly before he spoke. “Depends on what you classify as ‘okay,’ I guess. Are we talking four hours of sleep per night or twelve?”

Fingers settling into Richie’s curls, Eddie gave him a soft, slightly concerned smile. “Neither of those is really what I’d call okay.”

“Well, I beg to differ,” Richie grumbled with a shrug of his shoulders, a faint shudder passing through him as Eddie idly began to play with his hair again, fingertips brushing lightly over his scalp. “I’m doin’ just fine.”

He lifted the nearly empty can in his hand, fully intent on finishing it off at last, but then paused as movement from nearby caught his eye.

There, on the couch just a few feet away, Bev and Ben were leaning close to each other, speaking in hushed tones with the occasional chuckle slipping out. Bev’s hand came to rest on Ben’s shoulder as she moved closer, tilting her head to whisper something in his ear that had him turning red all over. Then, she was moving again, closing the distance between their faces and kissing him. It was a quick, natural thing, something that didn’t require any thinking.

Grimacing, Richie quickly tore his eyes away from the offending sight, his gaze landing instead on Eddie beside him. They were closer than he’d realized like this, close enough that Eddie’s hand, still tangled in his hair, held his head tipped toward him. All on their own, Richie’s eyes drifted, sliding lower and lower, until they settled on Eddie’s lips.

Richie’s breath caught in his throat, a sudden heat unfurling from within him and climbing up to his cheeks. It wasn’t the alcohol.

Gently, Eddie tucked a curl behind Richie’s ear, before his hand slowly retreated back to his lap.

Turning his head away, Richie brought his can of beer back up to his lips, tilting out the remainder of its contents. The liquid burned its way down his throat, leaving behind a bitter taste on his tongue, until there was nothing left. He crumpled the can up in his hands, tossing it off the side of the hammock before closing his eyes and leaning back.

Eddie’s voice came, hesitant. “Did your parents leave yet?”

“Yep,” Richie replied simply, peeking one eye open to look at him. “Left without a word this morning.”

Eddie nodded once, his gaze focused on something above them. “Okay.”

Richie opened both eyes, propping himself up a little more as he realized Eddie wasn’t continuing. “Okay?”

Eddie glanced back down at him, his face unreadable. “I told my mom I was spending the night at Bill’s.”

“Oh,” Richie said, reaching up to fix his glasses. “Cool.”

Eddie’s shoulders loosened, and he gave a soft, almost relieved smile. “Cool.”

The hammock swayed gently beneath them as a series of fireworks went off in the distance, rapid and overlapping. Somewhere above them, Derry’s grand finale was unfolding, completely unseen.

* * *

Something was very wrong, Richie knew, as soon as he opened his eyes. He’d jolted awake in a silent, dark room, and it took him longer than normal to fully come to. He felt the wrongness first in his chest, in the way it seemed utterly compressed, tight and restricted. Every breath he could force out was labored and thin.

He tried to shift on the mattress, to force himself upright, but his limbs wouldn’t work. His eyes snapped to the dark outline of the body sleeping beside him, and he thought about opening his mouth, calling out to Eddie for help, but his lips wouldn’t move. Nothing would. Just his eyes—useless as they were. The realization that he was having another episode sent his breathing sharper and faster.

The sensation of being trapped wasn’t a new one, not by any stretch, but it had never been quite so hard to catch his breath in this state. Richie tried to draw in a deeper breath, but failed, a choked, audible gasp escaping instead. His breathing stuttered again, the next inhale cutting off halfway through. Then he could feel it, a foreign pressure coming to rest atop his mouth, before it tightened, clamping around the bottom of his face.

Richie tried to yell out, for anyone, but the sound came out muffled and wrong, strangled in his throat. The pressure over his mouth didn’t let up for a moment. If anything, it only pressed harder, sealing against him more firmly. His chest locked tight, a burning ache blooming beneath his ribs as panic surged.

His mind raced, grasping for control of a body that refused to listen. His eyes fluttered rapidly, trying to blink away the black pressing in from the corners of his vision. As it closed in, the pressure seemed to fade with him, only faintly registering as the dark of his eyelids overtook everything.

As fast as he’d slipped away, though, everything came rushing back. His eyes snapped open and finally he saw the gloved hand. He saw the filthy, disgusting fingertips closed around his mouth, talon-like nails pressing so harshly against his jaw they could’ve drawn blood. He saw It, crouched close over his pinned body, not quite smiling this time but appraising the struggle on Richie’s face.

“Richie.” A voice came from beside him, not Its, but low and still thick with sleep. Richie looked to his right, finding Eddie sitting up, his eyes locked on him.

At the sight, Richie felt his chest jerk, an involuntary movement as he chased a breath that simply wouldn’t come. His gaze fixed desperately on Eddie, wide and pleading. 

Eddie was there in a second, crowding into Richie’s space, blocking his view of It. His hands came down hard on Richie’s shoulders, firm and real enough to break through the panic. “Hey, Rich.” His voice was measured and steady. “Stay with me.”

Richie seized with a sharp, reflexive gasp, his eyes flicking once past Eddie’s shoulder, just enough to register that something still lingered there.

“Richie,” Eddie repeated, louder this time. His hands lifted from Richie’s shoulders, only long enough to come up and cup his face, firm but careful, thumbs settling along his jaw. “Look at me.”

His focus snapped back to Eddie, and then, there was nothing else but him.

“Breathe with me,” Eddie said, his thumbs moving slowly along Richie’s jaw. He drew in a measured breath through his nose, loud enough for Richie to hear, paused just long enough to steady himself, before exhaling through his mouth, slow and controlled.

Richie watched him, his focus slipping in and out as the warmth of Eddie’s exhale brushed faintly against his face. He tried to replicate it, matching Eddie’s rhythm briefly, only for his efforts to be cut off with a hitch. He broke into a series of short, broken stutters, his chest refusing to settle yet.

“With me,” Eddie murmured softly, drawing in another slow, measured inhale before letting it out again.

Richie followed this time, managing it all the way through, the effort leaving him shaky but intact. He became aware of the trembling in his body only as it began to ease, a faint tingling that lingered in his fingertips through the aftershocks. He kept his focus on mirroring Eddie’s example, while testing for movement in his pinky finger.

“Good. That’s it,” Eddie said, his hands loosening slightly at the sides of Richie’s face, but he stayed close.

Richie kept following the rhythm Eddie set, until it faded into the background of his focus. He concentrated instead on his pinky.

When the weight over him finally broke and he could wiggle it with purpose, that focus spread. From finger to hand, from hand to the rest of his body. His control returned slowly, but with it, breathing also became easier, instinctive once more.

Eddie stayed where he was, holding him still through it all. One hand lingered at his cheek before drifting up, fingers threading lightly into Richie’s hair and easing it back from his face. “It’s okay.”

Richie didn’t move from where he lay, his breathing slowly evening out to a normal, steady pace. He leaned lightly into Eddie’s touch, still not speaking. His brows furrowed slightly, jaw tightening as he squeezed his eyes shut. The panic had left, but with its departure, a bone-deep exhaustion settled in place. Before he could stop it, a tear slipped free, traveling down his face and dampening Eddie’s hand where it rested.

He bit his lip, swallowing past the tightness in his throat, before forcing his eyes back open again and setting his expression back into place.

Eddie went very still. His hands remained at the sides of Richie’s face, unmoving now, their earlier gentleness gone rigid. He didn’t say anything. His gaze stayed on Richie, unblinking, as his lips pressed together. Eddie’s tears came, sudden and silent, spilling down his face before he seemed to register them. His expression twisted, not with panic, but with something raw and contained, before he moved forward, tucking his face into Richie’s neck as if to hide himself.

The warm air pressed into the hollow of Richie’s neck turned shallow, coming out in uneven bursts. Eddie’s hold around his body tightened, and Richie felt the dampness at his collar where Eddie was pressed against him. He moved slowly, lifting a hand to trail it up the back of Eddie’s shirt until it cradled the back of his neck. His fingers curled instinctively into the soft hair there, holding him in place as Richie closed his eyes.

The moment stretched—no words spoken—the room filled only with the soft rise and fall between them, mingling until it was hard to tell where one ended and the other began. Eventually, Eddie shifted against him, his face moving slightly at Richie’s neck, his lips brushing the skin there as he drew in a shaky breath.

Richie opened his mouth. His lips trembled as he spoke, his voice hoarse and thin. “It’s been getting worse,” he said simply, because there was no better proof of that than what had just happened. “I’m so tired, Eds.”

Eddie didn’t respond at first, but his tears fell faster. His arms tightened around Richie as he tucked his face deeper into the curve of his neck. Richie could feel the vibration of Eddie’s voice against his neck, as he tried to say something, then swallowed it back with a sob. Richie’s fingers curled more firmly into his hair, holding him there.

They stayed like that, Richie listening as Eddie’s breathing slowly evened out, the dampness at his collar faded as the tears finally slowed. Eddie sniffled once, then again, before lifting his head fully, his cheeks flushed and tear-streaked, his lower lip trembling with the effort of holding himself together. Something warm and full stirred in Richie’s chest at the sight, a small smile tugging on his mouth before he could stop it.

Eddie noticed and looked away quickly, a bashful heat creeping in as he realized he was being watched. But he didn’t look away for long, his eyes returning to Richie’s, blinking the last of the tears away.

“You’re such an ugly crier,” Richie said softly. His hands left Eddie’s hair only long enough to brush away the last dampness at the corners of his eyes, before smoothing his fringe back from where it clung to his face and tucking it gently behind his ear. His hand lingered there, warm against Eddie’s cheek.

Eddie surged forward before Richie could react. Richie felt it, the faint, barely-there flutter of lips against the corner of his mouth, off by just enough to miss. And then, just as quickly, Eddie was pulling back, a sharp gasp escaping him as his eyes went wide with sudden realization. His body grew taut, coiled and alert, like he might bolt at any second.

But Richie didn’t let him get far. He caught Eddie’s hand in his own, using the leverage to pull himself upright and close the distance between their faces, chasing Eddie’s mouth and finally pressing their lips together fully. He’d never done it before, but it felt so easy, so simple to kiss him like this.

Eddie exhaled softly against Richie’s lips before pressing back in response, kissing him harder, like it was something he’d been holding back for a long time. His hands came up to rest around Richie’s shoulders, drawing their faces even closer. Richie tilted his head instinctively, his hand moving from Eddie’s wrist to cup the side of his face, his thumb stroking the soft skin of his cheek.

When Richie pulled back just slightly, only to catch his breath, Eddie followed him this time, leaning in quickly and reclaiming his lips without hesitation. His hands shifted, one of them slipping up to thread gently into Richie’s curls, holding there as if to ground himself. Richie let the kiss deepen naturally, learning as he went, a quiet satisfaction settling in his chest when Eddie made a soft, encouraging sound against his mouth.

He could have stayed like that forever, and Eddie probably would have let him. But the closeness grew dizzying, heat and pressure building until Richie finally broke the kiss, pulling back to look at Eddie as they both panted. Eddie’s cheeks were flushed a warm pink, his lips slightly swollen and damp with the evidence of what they’d just shared.

Richie stayed where he was, watching him, committing the sight of Eddie’s face to memory while it was still close, still flushed from their kiss. His pupils were blown wide, dark enough that they nearly swallowed the brown of his irises, his mouth parted like he hadn’t quite caught up to what had happened yet.

Something in Richie softened at the sight. He leaned forward without thinking, his body folding into Eddie’s as his arms wrapped around him. His face settled into the curve of Eddie’s neck. He drew in a single, steady breath there, then pressed his lips faintly against the skin there.

“I love you,” Richie whispered.

He pulled back slowly, just enough to see Eddie’s reaction. His eyes went wide, glassy almost immediately, his mouth opening on a breath that didn’t quite come. He squeezed his eyes shut instead, biting down on his lip, before leaning in and pressing their foreheads together.

Barely audible, Eddie murmured, “It’s always been you, Richie.”

Their foreheads stayed pressed together.