Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Richie doesn’t mean to walk toward the Barrens, his feet just take him there.

The path is worn in from years of bike tires and sneakers cutting the same trail through the brush, and even though he tells himself he’s just killing time, just wandering, he doesn’t turn around when the trees start to thin and the sound of running water carries through the humid air.

The Barrens look smaller now or maybe it just feels that way when it’s one person and not a group of seven.

The dam is still there, half-rotted boards bleached by sun and river spray. The grass where they used to sprawl and argue and laugh is flattened in patches that haven’t quite sprung back up. It’s quiet in a way it never used to be. No Ben hunched over a book. No Beverly combing her fingers through the water. No Bill pacing and thinking out loud.

Richie stops at the edge of the clearing, but he doesn’t step into it. It feels like trespassing. For a second he can almost see them the way they were a few weeks ago — Eddie perched on a rock, complaining about bacteria levels; Bill crouched over his stupid map; Stan rolling his eyes; Mike steady and quiet; Beverly smirking at something Richie said.

Eddie’s cast catches the light in the memory, too bright, too white.

Richie swallows and looks away. He hasn’t been back here since the fight. He hasn’t really been anywhere they might be. If he sees Bill, he doesn’t know what he’ll do. If he sees Ben, he doesn’t know what he’ll say. If he sees Beverly, he’s not sure he could stand the look she’d give him, not angry probably just disappointed. And Eddie—

Richie hasn’t gone to see Eddie.

He tells himself it’s because Eddie needs rest. Because Mrs. Kaspbrak would never let him in the house anyway. Because he doesn’t want to make things worse. The truth sits heavier. He doesn’t know if Eddie would slam the door in his face. The thought of that lands somewhere deep and sore.

Richie shifts his weight, staring at the water. It moves steadily over the rocks, like nothing in Derry has changed, like houses don’t breathe and clowns don’t crawl out of refrigerators and arms don’t snap in abandoned kitchens.

He sees it again when he closes his eyes. Neibolt. The smell. The sound. Eddie yelling — not even yelling, really, just that sharp cry that cut off too fast when It grabbed him. Richie’s stomach twists. He remembers the way Eddie’s body bent wrong when he hit the floor. The crack. The split second where everything inside Richie went cold because he thought—he thought that was it. Then later, at the quarry, when the words had just come out.

What if he’d died?

What if he ended up like Georgie?

Richie presses the heel of his hand into his eye until he sees stars. He knows he crossed a line. The second Georgie’s name left his mouth, he knew. He saw it in Bill’s face — the way something fragile and furious snapped at the same time. He shouldn’t have said it like that, shouldn’t had thrown it like a weapon, but he’d meant it. That’s the part that won’t settle.

He meant it.

He’d looked at Eddie in that house and seen a body on the floor, small and still and unreachable, and all he could think was not again. Not another one. Bill acts like they can win this if they just try hard enough. Like if they push far enough into the dark, it’ll give something back. Richie doesn’t believe that.

He believes It takes.

He believes It almost took Eddie and he doesn’t know how to make Bill understand that without sounding cruel.

The punch had come fast. Richie hadn’t even tried to dodge it. Maybe part of him thought he deserved it. He can still feel the dull ache in his jaw when he bites down too hard. He can still see Bill’s face, pale and shaking, saying Don’t you ever say his name like that. Richie hadn’t taken it back. Even now, standing alone at the edge of the Barrens, he doesn’t know if he could.

Because what if he’s right?

What if they go back and someone doesn’t come out?

What if next time it’s not just a broken arm?

The water keeps moving. A dragonfly skims across the surface, dipping low and then lifting again. 

Richie lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. He should go check on Eddie. He knows he should. He imagines walking up the Kaspbrak driveway. Ringing the bell. Mrs. Kaspbrak opening the door with that tight smile and narrowed eyes. He imagines Eddie behind her, thinner somehow, quieter. He imagines Eddie looking at him like… like you don’t get to be the one who’s angry. That’s what scares him.

Not the clown.

Not the house.

Not even Bill.

The idea that Eddie might not want him there anymore.

Richie shifts back a step, away from the clearing. The Barrens feel like a memory now instead of a place. He tells himself he’ll go tomorrow, tells himself he just needs to figure out what to say first, tells himself Eddie’s fine. But as he turns and walks back into the trees, the guilt walks with him, matching his pace, quiet and stubborn and impossible to outrun.

So Richie doesn’t go home. If he goes home, he’ll just lie on his bed and stare at the ceiling and think about Neibolt until the shadows start looking wrong again. So instead, when the path forks, he veers toward town. 

The sidewalks are warm under the late afternoon sun, air thick and humming with cicadas. Derry looks normal in the way it always does after something terrible happens — like it collectively agrees not to talk about it. People move in and out of shops. A car idles at a stop sign. Somewhere, someone’s radio plays tinny pop music through an open window.

Richie keeps his hands shoved in his pockets and his head down. He passes the movie theater, then the pharmacy, and he almost keeps walking past the arcade, too.

Almost.

The fluorescent OPEN sign flickers slightly in the window of Aladdin’s Castle, buzzing faintly. The sound pulls at him — that layered noise of electronic music, button mashing, the low digital explosions and victory chimes bleeding into each other.

It’s loud in there.

Loud is good.

Loud drowns things out.

He pushes the door open. The air inside smells like popcorn and old carpet and overheated wiring. The lights are dim except for the glow of screens lining the walls. A couple of older kids crowd around a racing game in the back. Someone’s hunched over Galaga near the entrance. Richie doesn’t look at anyone, just heads straight for Street Fighter.

The machine hums steadily, attract mode cycling through character sprites and looping music. Ryu throws a punch on screen and Chun-Li freezes mid-kick before the demo resets. Richie digs quarters out of his pocket. For a second, his hand hesitates. 

He used to play this with Eddie.  Not that Eddie was any good — he button-mashed like his life depended on it and yelled every time he lost — but he’d stand too close, shoulder bumping Richie’s, complaining about cheap moves and calling him a “cheating asshole” with zero real heat behind it.

Richie shoves the memory down and feeds a quarter into the slot. The machine clinks and comes alive. He picks Ken because of course he does.

The first match starts.

He plays hard. Aggressive. No finesse. Just rapid-fire combos and reckless jumps. His fingers move automatically, muscle memory carrying him through rounds. The joystick jerks under his grip.

Win.

Next opponent.

Win.

He doesn’t smile.

The screen flashes bright with each victory, announcer declaring him the winner in pixelated triumph, but it feels hollow. There’s no elbow in his ribs. No sarcastic commentary about how predictable his moves are. No one accusing him of picking the “hot one” because of the hair.

Just the machine and the noise and the press of buttons under his thumbs. Between matches, the demo music swells for half a second. In that brief lull, his mind slips.

What if he’d died?

The sound of the crack in the kitchen hits him again, sharp and wrong. Richie slams the joystick harder than he needs to. On screen, Ken takes a hit he should’ve blocked. He swears under his breath and overcorrects, wiping out the opponent in a flurry of punches that feel less like strategy and more like punishment.

He shouldn’t have said Georgie’s name like that. The thought presses in now that the noise isn’t loud enough. He replays it — the way Bill’s face went blank and then furious. The way his own voice had sounded, high and shaking even though he’d tried to make it sharp.

Take it back.

He could’ve.

He didn’t.

Because some part of him wanted Bill to feel it. To understand that this isn’t a game. That charging in blind gets people hurt, gets people killed.

The final round ends.

Victory.

The screen flashes his score and asks for initials.

R I C—

He stops, deletes it. Instead he types nothing and just lets the timer run out. The machine resets with a bright chime, indifferent. Richie steps back, rolling his shoulders like he’s shaking off a cramp. The arcade feels too small suddenly. Too hot. The air thick with noise that isn’t doing its job anymore.

He glances toward the door. He could walk a few blocks over, just to look at the Kaspbrak house. He doesn’t have to knock. He could just—the thought stalls in his chest.

What if Eddie doesn’t come to the window?

What if he does?

Richie exhales slowly. On the Street Fighter screen, the demo fight starts again. Two characters trading blows automatically, locked in a loop that always ends the same way. He watches them for a second, then he reaches into his pocket for another quarter. Not because he really wants to play, because standing still feels worse, but the arcade starts to feel smaller the longer Richie stands there.

The noise hasn’t changed, but it feels… thinner like it’s coming from farther away. He drops the quarter back into his pocket instead of feeding it into the machine. The air conditioning kicks off with a hollow thunk. For half a second, everything goes too quiet. Then the machines start up again — but out of sync. The music warps slightly, pitch bending just enough to feel wrong.

Richie rubs the back of his neck. “Yeah, okay,” he mutters to himself. “I get it. I’ll go outside.” He pushes through the arcade door into the heavy late-afternoon heat. The sunlight feels too bright after the dim interior. He squints, blinking spots out of his vision.

Derry looks normal, too normal for what the town is hiding. A car passes. A woman pushes a stroller across the street. The statue stands at the edge of the small park across from the arcade — tall, wooden, cartoonish grin carved wide into its face.

Paul Bunyan.

Richie’s gaze catches on it automatically. He doesn’t mean to stare, it’s just there, towering. Axe slung over one shoulder. Paint chipped at the edges of its boots. He’s seen it a hundred times and it’s never bothered him before. But now—it’s closer, not physically, just… closer like it’s leaning and watching.

Richie shifts his weight. “Don’t,” he says under his breath.

The street noise dulls. The wind drops. The leaves in the park trees stop moving.

Paul Bunyan’s grin looks deeper than it did a second ago. The carved grooves of the smile seem darker. The eyes — once just painted circles — appear recessed, shadowed. Richie blinks. The axe is lower, not by much, just a few inches.

He swallows. “That’s not funny,” he says, louder now.

No one reacts. A woman walks past him on the sidewalk, completely unconcerned.

Richie looks back at the statue and it’s still, exactly as it was. He laughs once, sharp and humorless. “Yeah, okay. Cool. Cool.” He takes a step backward, but the ground feels uneven under his sneakers. When he looks up again—

The statue is no longer on its pedestal, it’s standing at the edge of the park path, wood creaking softly and axe dragging slightly against the concrete with a low, splintering scrape. Richie’s breath catches. The thing’s movements aren’t fast, but they’re deliberate. Heavy wooden boots thudding once. Twice. Its painted eyes shift — no longer flat, but rounded, wet-looking. Its carved grin splits slightly wider, thin cracks running from the corners of its mouth up into the grain of the wood. The axe lifts.

Richie stumbles backward into the arcade door, fumbling for the handle, it doesn’t open. Behind him, through the glass, he can see the machines still flashing. Kids still playing. No one looking at him. 

The statue tilts its head, wood groans as it bends. Its mouth opens, not fully, but just enough for a dark seam to show inside. “You talk too much,” a voice rumbles from deep within the hollow chest. Not booming or theatrical, just close.

Richie’s heart slams against his ribs. He fumbles with the door again, panic rising sharp and electric.

The axe lifts higher. Sunlight glints off the blade, though it shouldn’t gleam like metal. It should be wood. It isn’t.

Richie shoves off the door and bolts sideways instead, sprinting across the sidewalk and into the street without looking. A horn blares. He stumbles, nearly falling. When he looks back—the statue is back on its pedestal exactly as before.

Axe resting on its shoulder.

Grin painted and harmless.

The wind picks up again, cars move normally, and the world resumes.

Richie stands in the street, chest heaving, feeling stupid and shaken and furious all at once. “Yeah,” he breathes. “Real subtle.” His hands are shaking. His jaw aches where Bill hit him. His chest is tight with something that feels like guilt and terror braided together. He grabs his bike, heading home from the square, lungs burning, knees weak from running and starts biking.

Richie doesn’t head toward the Kaspbrak house, even if that was he was planning to do before he even realized it himself.

He makes it halfway down the block before his feet slow, doubt creeping back in like a draft under a door. The street feels too open, too exposed after what just happened. The statue went back where it belongs. The world looks stitched together again, neat and harmless.

But his pulse hasn’t settled.

He drifts instead — not toward Eddie’s house, not toward the Barrens, just… away. Away from the park. Away from the pedestal and the grin and the voice that sounded like it lived inside his ribs. By the time the sun starts dipping lower, he’s near his own street. His house looks the same as it always does — slightly crooked porch step, screen door hanging a little loose on one hinge. Safe in the boring, every way that safety usually is.

He climbs the porch steps slowly, jaw still aching faintly when he shifts it. He pushes open the front door. The TV drones faintly from the living room. His parents’ voices drift in and out, arguing about something minor and unimportant. Normal. Irritating. Solid. Richie mutters a half-hearted greeting and heads down the hallway to his room without waiting for a response.

He closes the door behind him and leans against it for a second, staring at nothing. His room is a mess. Posters peeling at the corners. Comic books stacked unevenly. Clothes on the chair he keeps meaning to clean. It looks real. That should make him feel better. He crosses to the window without thinking, tugging the curtain aside to let in what’s left of the daylight. He checks the window latch twice. His hands are shaking, but he tells himself that’s just leftover adrenaline. That’s normal.

The glass reflects him faintly — dark hair, smudged glasses, the faint swelling near his jaw. For a split second, his heart jumps. He half-expects the reflection to move wrong, it doesn’t. “Get a grip,” he mutters. He laughs under his breath — thin, humorless.

He turns and it’s sitting on his bed. For a moment his brain refuses to process it. It’s just a shape. A toy. Something small and harmless. Then it tilts its head. 

It looks like him. Same messy dark hair, sculpted in cheap plastic ridges. Same glasses — slightly crooked. Same ratty T-shirt with the rip near the hem he’s been meaning to sew but never does. Same stupid face, but it isn’t right. The smile is too wide. Not a kid’s grin. Not even his exaggerated, class-clown smirk. It stretches too far, splitting the soft vinyl at the corners. And its eyes—they aren’t blinking. They’re glassy and bright and fixed on him with a focus that feels aware.

Richie doesn’t move. “Okay,” he says after a second, voice pitched artificially light. “That’s new.”

The doll’s head twitches. Not smoothly. Not like a person. Like something learning how joints work. It opens its mouth and the voice that comes out is his, perfectly his. “You push people away before they can leave.”

Richie’s stomach drops. He forces a scoff. “Wow. Deep. You come up with that all by yourself?”

The doll’s smile widens. “You pretend everything’s a joke,” it continues in Richie’s exact cadence, “so no one notices when you’re scared.”

The words land harder than they should. Richie steps back until his calves hit the desk behind him. “Shut up,” he says, but it’s automatic. Not commanding. Defensive.

The doll’s eyes never leave him. “They’re going to get tired of you.” The room feels smaller. The air thicker. “Especially him.” Richie’s jaw tightens. “You hover,” the doll says. “You cling. You wrap around people until they can’t breathe.”

“Stop,” Richie snaps.

“You’ll smother him.” The words are softer now. Almost gentle. “And you’ll watch it happen. Like you always do.” The room tilts. Georgie’s yellow raincoat flashes in his mind — not his memory, not really, but something he’s absorbed from Bill. The way grief hangs in that house like dust that never settles.

“You don’t know anything,” Richie says, but his voice cracks.

The doll’s head tilts again. “Don’t I?” It slides off the bed. Not falling, stepping. Its plastic feet hit the floor with a dull tap.

Richie’s chest locks.

“You couldn’t save him,” the doll says quietly.

Richie’s hands curl into fists.

“And you won’t save this one either.”

“Shut up!” Richie shouts.

The doll keeps coming. Up close, he can see tiny fractures in the vinyl skin around its mouth from how wide it’s smiling. Its eyes are too bright. Too wet.

He doesn’t remember crossing the room, but suddenly he’s standing over it. He reaches down and he doesn’t know why, maybe to prove it’s just plastic or maybe to prove he’s not scared. His fingers close around its shoulder. The vinyl feels warm then it splits, not along a seam, down the middle of its chest. The tear opens with a wet, stretching sound that doesn’t belong in a toy store. Inside, it isn’t hollow. Things shifts in the dark cavity — a writhing, restless movement. Not mechanical. Not fabric settling. Alive in the wrong way. Maggots.

Richie stumbles back, heart hammering against his ribs. The thing inside pulses against the torn plastic, pressing outward as if trying to see him. The doll’s head jerks toward him again, smile still fixed. “See?” it whispers in his voice. “You break everything.”

Richie grabs the nearest thing — his desk chair. He doesn’t think, he swings. The chair connects with a sharp crack. The doll’s head snaps sideways. The body crumples but doesn’t stop moving.

He hits it again.

And again.

Plastic splits. Something dark spatters the carpet — not red, not anything he wants to look at for long.

The movement inside spasms once more.

Then goes still.

The room is silent except for Richie’s ragged breathing. He waits. One second, then. Two, then nothing. He nudges the wreckage with the leg of the chair. The torn body has fallen open completely now. There’s nothing inside, just stuffing. Cheap white batting. Tangled threads. A hollow plastic shell. Like it had never been anything else.

Richie drops the chair. His hands are shaking so hard he has to press them against his sides to steady them. “It’s not real,” he whispers, but his voice doesn’t sound convinced and somewhere deep in his chest, the words the doll used echo louder than the crash ever did.

Then a soft sound taps against the window. Not loud, just enough. Richie freezes. Another tap.

He stares at the glass and there’s nothing there, but his pulse starts climbing again anyway. “Very funny,” he says, but it comes out thin. He steps closer, squinting. And then there’s movement. Not in the reflection, outside.

He flinches back so fast he nearly trips over his own sneakers. For a moment, he’s sure it’s the doll again. Or something worse. Something tall and wooden and grinning. But it’s not tall or wooden. It’s just—

Eddie. Standing awkwardly on the narrow strip of grass beneath the window, one hand shoved in his pocket, the other still in that too white cast. It looks different then the last time Richie saw it. The S in LOSER marked out with a red V instead. 

Richie blinks.

Eddie doesn’t vanish. He just stands there, squinting up at the window like he’s trying to decide if this is a bad idea.

Richie’s brain lags behind what his eyes are telling him. He opens the window halfway, leaning out cautiously. “…You’re not real,” he says automatically.

Eddie’s mouth twitches. “Wow. Great to see you too.” The voice is solid, irritated, and familiar.

Richie stares at him. “You were just—” He gestures vaguely behind himself. “There was a thing. And then a statue. And a doll. And I’m not doing this again.”

Eddie shifts his weight, clearly fighting the urge to roll his eyes. “I am not a statue.”

“That’s exactly what a hallucination would say.”

Eddie huffs out a breath, glancing up and down the street like he’s checking for witnesses. “Richie. I walked here. It took fifteen minutes. My legs hurt. I am very real.”

Richie studies him. He looks… normal. Tired, maybe. A little paler than usual, but solid. No flickering edges. No shadow pooling at his feet. “Prove it,” Richie says finally.

Eddie’s eyebrows shoot up. “Prove it?”

“Yeah. Say something only you would say.”

Eddie narrows his eyes. “You have a weird freckle behind your left ear that looks like Ohio.”

Richie’s hand flies up instinctively to the spot. “…Okay, that’s invasive.”

“And you cry during dog food commercials,” Eddie continues flatly.

“That was one time—”

“And you once tried to convince Bill that Canada was a conspiracy.”

Richie’s mouth snaps shut. Silence stretches between them. The late sunlight catches in Eddie’s hair, turning it almost gold at the edges. Richie’s chest does something strange — tight and warm and disorienting all at once. “You’re real,” he says finally, softer.

Eddie nods once. “Yeah.” There’s something different in the way he says it. Not defensive or small, just certain.

Richie swallows. “You okay?” It’s the wrong question, too simple and too loaded.

Eddie’s gaze flickers, just briefly. “I was alone,” he says instead. Not dramatic or  accusing. It’s just a fact, maybe a little hurt.

Richie’s stomach drops. “I know,” he says quietly.

Eddie nods again. “And I don’t want to be.” The words hang there between them. There’s no shame in them, no weakness, just choice.

Richie feels something inside his chest shift — something tight loosening just a little. “You could’ve called,” he says, because deflection is easier than whatever this is.

Eddie gives him a look. “Your mom answers your phone.”

“Right. Yeah. That’s fair.” Another quiet beat then Richie leans farther out the window. “Why didn’t you—” He stops. Tries again. “Why didn’t you just stay home?”

Eddie’s jaw tightens slightly, but not in the old way. Not bracing for attack. “Because I don’t want to hide,” he says. “Not from It. Not from you.”

That lands harder than anything the doll said. Richie grips the windowsill. “You think I’d hide from you?” he asks, a flicker of hurt breaking through.

Eddie hesitates. “You didn’t come.” It’s not angry, that somehow makes it worse.

Richie opens his mouth. Closes it. He doesn’t have a clever line for that. No joke or  impression. “I thought you wouldn’t want me there,” he admits finally, staring at the chipped paint on the sill instead of at Eddie.

Eddie blinks. “What?”

“I thought you’d slam the door in my face,” Richie mutters. “After the quarry.” 

A faint crease forms between Eddie’s brows. “I wasn’t mad at you for that,” he says slowly.

Richie lets out a short, humorless laugh. “You should’ve been.”

Eddie steps a little closer to the house, close enough that Richie could reach down and grab his wrist if he wanted to. “But I wasn’t,” Eddie says. Richie finally looks at him. Eddie’s expression isn’t soft, it isn’t fragile, It’s steady. “I came here,” Eddie continues, “because I didn’t want to be by myself tonight.” The honesty in that is sharp and clean. No dramatics or excuses. Just truth.

Richie feels the echo of the doll’s whisper — You’ll watch Eddie. He shakes it off. “You’re not alone,” he says quickly, almost fiercely.

Eddie holds his gaze. “I know.”

Richie doesn’t realize until that second how badly he needed to hear that. A car passes at the end of the street and somewhere, a dog barks. The world continues, ordinary and unaware. Richie steps back from the window. “Hang on,” he says. “I’ll come down.” He doesn’t question it this time. He doesn’t hesitate and because of that he just barely avoids tripping over a stack of comic books. 

Richie takes the stairs two steps at a time, nearly falling flat on his face. He yells something vague about going out into the living room about going out before either of his parents can question it and opening the door, nearly running into Eddie at the bottom.

Up close, the cast looks bigger than it did from the window. It swallows Eddie’s forearm, white and clumsy and impossible to ignore. For a second they just stand there. The street is quiet in that early-evening way, when the sky is bruising purple and porch lights flick on one by one. “You walked all the way over here?” Richie asks, because it’s easier than saying anything real.

Eddie shrugs with his good shoulder. “It’s not across the state, Rich.”

Richie nods once, then gestures vaguely down the sidewalk. “You wanna…?”

Eddie nods back and they start walking. Not toward the Barrens or anywhere specific. Just down the block, sneakers scuffing against uneven pavement. There’s a small stretch of grass between the sidewalk and the street, littered with dandelions gone to seed.

They keep a careful half-step of distance between them. Richie notices it. He also notices the way Eddie’s cast bumps lightly against his hip when he swings his arms too much, so he stiffens his own movements to avoid it. “How’s it—” Richie nods toward the cast. “You know.”

“Still broken,” Eddie says dryly. “Shockingly.”

Richie huffs out a quiet laugh. “Does it hurt?”

“Sometimes.” Eddie flexes his fingers experimentally. “Mostly when I forget it’s there.”

Richie swallows at that. Forget it’s there. Like he could ever forget. They walk past a house with a sprinkler ticking rhythmically over a front lawn. Water catches the fading light and sprays in a soft arc. For a second, the mist cools the air around them.

Richie keeps replaying the quarry in his head. The heat. The gravel. Bill’s face. “I shouldn’t have said that,” he blurts.

Eddie glances sideways. “Said what?”

“You know what.” The pebble Richie kicks skitters into the gutter. “About Georgie,” he clarifies, quieter.

Eddie’s steps don’t falter. “That wasn’t your story to use,” he says after a moment.

Richie nods, throat tight. “I know.”

They walk in silence for half a block. “But,” Eddie adds, “you weren’t wrong about being scared.”

Richie looks at him sharply. “I wasn’t trying to be right,” he says. “I just—” He cuts himself off, jaw working. “I thought you were going to die,” he finishes. The words hang there, unpolished and heavy.

Eddie doesn’t make a joke about it, doesn’t brush it off. “I know,” he says. They reach the edge of a small neighborhood park — just a rusting swing set and a bench that leans slightly to one side. The chains on the swings creak softly in the breeze. They don’t sit. They just slow down.

“I heard it,” Eddie says suddenly.

Richie’s stomach drops. “Heard what?”

“My arm.” Eddie looks down at the cast. “When it broke.”

Richie’s hands curl at his sides.

“And I thought,” Eddie continues, voice steady but thinner now, “that that was it. That’s how it happens. You’re there one second and then you’re not.”

Richie doesn’t breathe.

“But I was still there,” Eddie says.

Richie looks at him. There’s something different in his face. Not fragile. Not brittle. Grounded. “I was alone the other night,” Eddie says.

Richie’s jaw tightens. “I know.”

“And I was scared,” Eddie goes on. “Actually scared. Not just regular, my-mom-thinks-the-air-is-poison scared.”

Richie almost smiles at that, but it fades quickly.

“But I was still there,” Eddie repeats. “I didn’t disappear.” The words land slow and deliberate.

Richie nods faintly. “I didn’t come over,” he admits, staring at the worn toes of his sneakers. “I thought you wouldn’t want me there.”

Eddie stops walking.

Richie takes another step before realizing and turning back.

“Why would I not want you there?” Eddie asks.

“Because I said something I can’t take back.”

Eddie studies him for a long moment. “You were mad,” he says finally.

“I was terrified,” Richie corrects. The correction surprises them both.

Eddie’s grip tightens slightly against the cast. “You don’t get to talk like I’m already dead,” he says. Not harsh, just firm.

Richie flinches. “I know.”

“I’m not glass,” Eddie adds.

“I know that too.”

“You acted like I am.” 

Richie opens his mouth to argue — then stops because he did, right after Eddie broke his arm. He rubs the back of his neck instead. “I can’t lose someone else like that,” he says quietly. He doesn’t say Georgie again, he doesn’t have to because Eddie understands.

There’s a long pause. Then Eddie steps closer — not all the way, just enough that the space between their shoulders shrinks to almost nothing. “You didn’t,” Eddie says. Richie looks at him. “You didn’t lose me.” The certainty in his voice is quiet but unshakeable.

Richie’s chest feels tight in a way that has nothing to do with panic this time.

“I don’t want to do this alone,” Eddie says after a moment.

Richie blinks. “Do what?”

“Any of it.”

The wind rattles the swing chains again.

Richie nods slowly. “Yeah,” he says. “Okay.” It’s not a dramatic promise and it’s not a plan. It’s just agreement. They start walking again, slower now, closer. Not touching, but not keeping distance either and when Eddie’s cast bumps lightly against Richie’s arm this time, Richie doesn’t pull away.

They don’t turn back toward home right away. The park gives way to a thinner stretch of trees, the kind that line the edge of Derry like it’s trying to grow over itself. The air smells damp, like dirt that hasn’t seen sun in a while.

Eddie clears his throat. “You said something earlier,” he says, like he’s reminding Richie about homework. “About a statue.”

Richie’s shoulders go tight.

“And a doll,” Eddie adds.

Richie keeps walking. For a second Eddie thinks he won’t answer. That he’ll make a joke, maybe change the subject, then pretend it was nothing. But he doesn’t. “It was at the square,” Richie says finally. “The Paul Bunyan statue.”

Eddie frowns. “The giant lumberjack?”

“Yeah.” Richie forces a half-smile. “Our town mascot. Real comforting stuff.” They walk a few more steps. “It moved,” Richie says.

Eddie’s breath hitches almost imperceptibly.

“It just… stepped down,” Richie continues, voice flatter now. “Like it had always known how. Wood cracking. Paint splitting. It looked at me.” The memory flickers behind his eyes — the massive grin, too wide. The axe shifting in its hand.

“It talked?” Eddie asks quietly.

Richie nods once. “Sounded like it was laughing through a mouthful of splinters.” He doesn’t describe the way it swung the axe or the way the ground shook when it landed. He doesn’t describe how small he felt standing under it.

Eddie doesn’t press for details. “What did you do?” Eddie asks instead.

“Ran,” Richie says. “I’m real brave like that.”

Eddie nudges him lightly with his shoulder. “You’re alive.”

“Yeah.” Richie swallows. “For now.”

They reach the edge of the trees and stop. The light here is dimmer, shadows stretching long. “And the doll?” Eddie asks.

Richie goes quiet again. “That was later,” he says. His voice changes — softer, thinner around the edges. “I went home. Locked my door. Told myself it was over.” He laughs under his breath, humorless. “It was sitting on my bed.” Eddie’s fingers curl against his cast. “It looked like me,” Richie says. “Same stupid hair. Same shirt. Even had the same rip in the sleeve.” He stares straight ahead. “But it wasn’t right.” Eddie doesn’t interrupt. “It was smiling too wide,” Richie continues. “And its eyes—” He cuts himself off, jaw tightening. “They weren’t blinking.” A wind stirs through the trees. Leaves whisper overhead. “It started talking,” Richie says.

Eddie’s voice is barely above a whisper. “What did it say?”

Richie hesitates. “That I push people away before they can leave,” he says finally. “That I pretend everything’s a joke so no one notices when I’m scared.”

Eddie doesn’t look at him. “That’s not—” Eddie starts.

“It also said,” Richie rushes, “that you were going to get tired of me hovering. That I’d smother you until you couldn’t breathe.” The words hang between them. Eddie’s face tightens — not in anger, in hurt. “It told me I’d watch it happen,” Richie says. “Like I always do.” A long silence follows that.

“Did you touch it?” Eddie asks.

Richie nods faintly. “Yeah.”

“And?”

“It split open.”

Eddie stiffens.

“There were… things inside,” Richie says carefully. “Moving. Like it wasn’t hollow at all. Like it was alive in the wrong way.” He doesn’t give more detail than that. He doesn’t need to. The implication is enough. “I smashed it,” Richie finishes. “With a chair.”

Eddie exhales slowly.

“And then it was just stuffing,” Richie says. “And plastic. Like it had never been anything else.”

The trees creak softly around them. Eddie steps in front of Richie now, forcing him to stop walking. “That thing lies,” Eddie says firmly. 

Richie tries for a grin. “You don’t know that.”

“I do,” Eddie insists. “It doesn’t know you. Not really.”

Richie looks at him. “It knows enough,” he says.

Eddie shakes his head. “No. It knows what you’re afraid of. That’s not the same thing.” Richie’s throat works. “It’s wrong about you,” Eddie adds, voice steady. “I’m not tired of you. And you don’t smother me.” A beat. “You’re loud,” Eddie says. “And annoying. And you make really bad impressions.”

“Hey—”

“But you don’t make it hard to breathe,” Eddie finishes. Richie’s retort dies on his tongue. The last of the daylight slips lower, shadows deepening around them. “You should’ve told me sooner,” Eddie says quietly.

“I thought you had enough,” Richie admits. “After… everything.”

Eddie lifts his cast slightly. “I can handle hearing it.” Richie studies him. “You don’t have to protect me from knowing,” Eddie adds.

Something in Richie’s expression shifts — not lighter, exactly. But less alone. “Okay,” he says. It’s a small word, but it feels like a step forward instead of a usual retreat.

They’re sitting on the edge of the Barrens when Eddie finally tells him all of it.

Not just the pharmacy, not just the mirrors, all of it.

The sun has dipped low enough that the trees are shadows and the air smells like damp earth and river water. Richie’s sneakers scrape lightly against the dirt as he waits, elbows on his knees, hands laced tight like he’s bracing for impact. “You don’t know what happened after Neibolt,” Eddie says quietly.

Richie’s jaw tightens. “I know enough.”

“No,” Eddie shakes his head. His cast catches the last bit of light, bright and obvious. “You don’t.” Richie glances at it automatically, guilt flickers again — sharp and familiar. Eddie exhales slowly. “After the fight,” he says, “everything just… fractured.”

He tells him about the way the Barrens felt wrong after that. The way laughter died too fast. How Bill kept talking about sewer lines like planning could undo fear. How Bev braided grass and stared through people. How Stan watched the trees like they might move. Richie swallows. He remembers some of that, he just hadn’t let himself name it. “And you stopped coming,” Eddie says, not accusing. Just stating.

Richie looks down. “I couldn’t,” he mutters.

“I know.”

That makes him look up.

Eddie’s expression isn’t angry. It’s tired, maybe older somehow. “I was stuck at home anyway,” Eddie continues. “Mom wouldn’t let me out, not after the house.” Richie’s shoulders tense automatically at the word house. “And then,” Eddie says, voice shifting slightly, “I had another doctor’s appointment.”

Richie frowns. “Another one?”

“Different doctor.” Something in Eddie’s tone makes Richie sit up straighter. “He said my lungs were clear,” Eddie says. “Perfectly healthy.” Richie goes very still. “He said there was no record of asthma.” The world seems to narrow around them.

Richie stares at him. “What?”

“They’re placebos,” Eddie says. His voice is steady, but it’s effortful. “The pills. They’re sugar.”

Richie’s hands curl into fists again, knuckles going white. “She—” His voice cracks with anger. “She lied to you?” Eddie nods once and Richie stands abruptly, pacing a tight circle like he can’t contain the energy in his chest. “She made you think you were sick your whole life?” he demands. “She made you sit out and— and—”

“I know,” Eddie says quietly and Richie stops pacing. “I didn’t remember having attacks,” Eddie continues. “Not really. Just… being told I did.” The wind stirs the trees. “So I told her,” Eddie says. “About the doctor.”

Richie’s eyes narrow. “How’d that go.”

Eddie lets out a small, humorless breath. “She said doctors don’t know everything. That she sees what they don’t.” He stares at the dirt. “She said I’ve always been fragile.” Richie’s mouth tightens. “And then,” Eddie says, voice lowering, “the room changed.”

Richie’s gaze snaps to his face. “It started small,” Eddie continues. “The light flickering. The smell of antiseptic.” His fingers twitch slightly against his cast. “The closet opened and it wasn’t a closet anymore.” Richie doesn’t interrupt. “It was a hallway,” Eddie says. “White. Like a hospital.” Richie’s breathing gets quieter. “And the leper came out.” Richie’s jaw clenches hard. “He said I didn’t take my medicine,” Eddie says. “That I stopped my treatment.”

Richie shakes his head under his breath. “That’s cheap.”

“It wasn’t just him,” Eddie says. “It was her too.”

Richie freezes. “What?” Eddie swallows.

“Her voice kept overlapping with his,” he says. “Talking about protection. About being different. About wrong boys.” Richie goes very still. Eddie doesn’t look at him when he says it. “It knew,” he continues softly. “About… things.”

A long silence stretches.

Richie’s voice, when it comes, is rough. “What things.”

Eddie’s fingers tighten. “It said if I wasn’t sick,” he says carefully, “then I didn’t have an excuse anymore.” Richie’s chest rises and falls slowly. “It said if I wasn’t fragile,” Eddie continues, “then I had to decide who I was.” The wind moves through the trees again, louder this time. “There were mirrors,” Eddie says. “Everywhere. Different versions of me. Sick. Rotting. Alone.” His voice shakes, just slightly. “One of them was… normal. No inhaler. No cast.” Richie doesn’t realize he’s holding his breath until it hurts. “And it asked me to pick,” Eddie says.

Richie’s voice is barely audible. “Pick what.”

“Whether I was going to go back to being small,” Eddie says. “Or figure it out myself.”

A long pause.

“What did you do?” Richie asks.

Eddie looks up at him then. His eyes are still rimmed red from earlier, but there’s something steadier in them now. “I said I was scared,” Eddie answers. Richie’s expression softens instantly. “But that didn’t mean I was sick.” The words hang there and Richie steps closer without thinking. “It tried to tell me I’d lose everything,” Eddie continues quietly. “That I’d disappoint her. That I might lose…” He hesitates. Richie’s throat tightens. “People,” Eddie finishes.

Silence.

“And?” Richie asks.

“And I said maybe,” Eddie says. “But that was mine to figure out.”

The river moves softly behind them. Richie swallows hard. “You did that alone?” he asks. Eddie nods. Richie looks at him like he’s seeing him for the first time. Not fragile, breakable, or small. “You’re not alone now,” Richie says, voice low and certain.

Eddie studies him. “I know,” he says.

There’s no dramatic moment. No sudden hug. No jokes to deflect it. Just two boys sitting at the edge of something terrifying and choosing — quietly — not to step back from each other.

Richie bumps his shoulder gently against Eddie’s uninjured one. “You ever think,” Richie says softly, “that maybe it’s scared of you too?”

Eddie huffs a faint laugh. “That’s stupid.”

“Yeah,” Richie shrugs. “But you didn’t pick small.” The words settle between them, warm in a way the evening air isn’t.

Eddie looks out over the Barrens. “No,” he agrees. “I didn’t.” Richie doesn’t look at Eddie while he starts talking. They’re still sitting in the Barrens, the light thinning into blue. Crickets have started up somewhere in the grass. The river moves slow and dark behind them. It’s quiet in a way that feels earned.

Richie keeps his eyes on the dirt between his shoes. “So,” he says, voice almost normal. “Neibolt.”

Eddie glances at him. “Yeah.”

Richie shrugs like it’s nothing. “You missed some stuff.”

“I figured.” There’s no accusation in it. Just… information. That makes it worse. Richie rubs his hands together absently. The skin across his knuckles is still pink where it healed wrong. He doesn’t notice he’s doing it. “It didn’t go straight to the floor thing,” he says. “It, uh. It did this mirror thing first.”

Eddie goes very still and Richie laughs lightly. “Classic haunted house vibes, y’know? Reflective surfaces. Very on brand.”

“Richie.”

He sighs. “It split us up,” he admits. “Just for a second. Lights flickered. Hallway stretched.” He gestures vaguely. “Standard nightmare architecture.”

Eddie waits.

Richie swallows. “And then it… kinda muted me.”

Eddie’s brow furrows. “Muted you?”

“Yeah.” Richie shrugs again, smaller this time. “Like—every time someone said my name, it just… disappeared. Mid-word.” Eddie’s fingers tighten slightly around the edge of his cast. Richie forces a grin that doesn’t quite land. “House decided I talk too much, I guess.”

“That’s not funny.”

Richie doesn’t answer, he just keeps staring at the ground. “It showed me you guys,” he continues, quieter. “All of you. Like you were there. Calling for me.”

Eddie’s throat moves when he swallows. “We were.”

“Yeah, well,” Richie says, a little too fast, “not in there.” He hesitates. “It made it look like you couldn’t hear me,” he admits. “Like my name just… didn’t exist.” Eddie’s expression shifts — something soft and unsettled. Richie shrugs again, but it’s brittle. “It was dumb.”

“What else?” Eddie asks gently.

Richie’s jaw tightens. “Then It did the clone thing,” he says. “Made the other me.”

Eddie blinks, then pales like he’s remembering. “The other you.”

“Yeah. Like—better posture. Less panic sweat. Voice worked.” He huffs a short breath. “He was doing my whole routine.” Eddie doesn’t smile. “He called out to you,” Richie says before he can stop himself.

Silence settles heavy between them.

Eddie’s eyes flick up sharply. “What?”

Richie looks away immediately. “Just—like—‘Eds, over here,’” he says, trying to keep it light. “Very convincing performance, honestly.” Eddie’s face drains a little. “It made it look like he was walking towards you,” Richie continues, words coming faster now, like if he keeps them moving they won’t settle anywhere dangerous. “Like you’d picked that version.” Eddie stares at him. Richie laughs again, thin. “Which, fair, honestly. He wasn’t bleeding out and choking on his own vocal cords.”

“Richie.”

He finally looks at him and for a second, something raw flickers there.  “It said you wouldn’t notice,” Richie says. “If I was… different.”

Eddie’s brows pull together. “Different how?”

Richie hesitates. Here’s the edge. The drop-off. “It just meant,” he says quickly, “like—if I wasn’t loud. If I wasn’t cracking jokes every five seconds. If I was just—” He gestures vaguely. “Quieter.” Eddie studies him. “It asked me who I was if I wasn’t the loud one,” Richie adds, softer.

The wind shifts through the trees and Eddie’s voice is careful. “And?”

Richie shrugs, but his shoulders are tight. “I didn’t really have an answer.” That part is true, but he doesn’t say the rest. He doesn’t say how the fake version had leaned in close and whispered that once the jokes stopped, once the noise stopped, there wouldn’t be anything left worth choosing. He doesn’t say that the hallway had narrowed to coffin-width while the other him walked toward Eddie’s voice.

He doesn’t say how scared he’d been that if Eddie saw both versions—he’d pick the better one because at that point Eddie had been there, but he keeps that information locked behind his teeth.

“It tried to replace me,” Richie finishes lightly. “Didn’t work. I screamed your name. Very dramatic. Ten out of ten vocal damage.”

Eddie’s expression shifts at that. “You screamed my name?” he asks quietly.

Richie winces internally. “Yeah, well,” he says quickly, forcing a smirk. “You were the closest available audience member.” Eddie doesn’t laugh so Richie looks down again. “It hurt,” he admits. “Like—actually hurt. But it cracked the hallway. Broke the illusion.”

Eddie’s voice is softer now. “You didn’t tell anyone.”

Richie shrugs. “Didn’t seem relevant.”

There’s a long pause.

“You thought we’d forget you,” Eddie says slowly.

Richie’s breath stutters for half a second. “It showed you all walking away,” he says. “With the other one.”

Eddie shifts closer without realizing he’s doing it. “We wouldn’t,” he says.

Richie nods like he believes that, but he doesn’t quite. “It also—” Richie starts, then stops and Eddie waits. “It said I was afraid of being alone,” Richie finishes instead, choosing the safer truth.

Eddie’s eyes don’t leave his face. “Are you?” he asks.

Richie considers lying. He doesn’t. “Yeah,” he says quietly. The word hangs there.

Eddie swallows. “You’re not,” Eddie says.

Richie huffs a faint breath. “Yeah, well. Tell that to the homicidal clown.”

“I’m telling you.”

Richie looks at him again, really looks at him. There’s dirt on Eddie’s shoe, his cast is scuffed, his hair’s doing that stupid thing where it won’t stay down on one side, and he looks tired, looks real.

Richie’s chest tightens. He almost says it. Almost says that when the fake version called Eddie’s name, it wasn’t just about being replaced, it was about being replaced in a way that mattered. Instead, he smirks weakly. “Anyway,” he says. “Long story short, I win. He loses. I retain my trademark personality disorder.”

Eddie rolls his eyes, but it’s fond. “You’re an idiot,” he mutters.

“Yeah,” Richie agrees softly.

There’s a pause, then Eddie asks, quieter, “What did it make me say?”

Richie freezes, but keeps his expression loose. “Nothing important,” he lies.

Eddie’s gaze sharpens. “Richie.”

Richie shrugs. “Just generic horror-movie betrayal dialogue. Very cliché. ‘I hate you,’ blah blah blah. Two stars.”

Eddie’s face shifts — guilt, anger, something else. “It wasn’t real,” Eddie says firmly.

“I know,” Richie replies quickly, too quickly.

Eddie studies him.

Richie forces a grin. “If I believed every mean thing imaginary-you said, I’d need, like, years of therapy.”

Eddie huffs a quiet breath, but he doesn’t let it drop. “And that’s it?” Eddie asks.

Richie nods, it’s not. He doesn’t tell him about the way the fake version had said, You want them to see you. Want them to know what you really are. He doesn’t tell him how close that had cut. He doesn’t tell him how the hallway had narrowed when Pennywise used Eddie’s voice — soft and disgusted — and how that had almost broken him more than the silence did. He doesn’t tell him that the worst part wasn’t dying, it was Eddie stepping back. He buries it. Instead, he bumps his shoulder lightly against Eddie’s. “Don’t worry,” Richie says. “If there’s ever two of you, I’m picking the one with better hair.”

Eddie snorts despite himself. “Shut up.”

Richie smiles — smaller, but real. The river keeps moving behind them and after a moment, Eddie says quietly, “I wouldn’t forget you.”

Richie doesn’t answer right away, just watches the water, then, softer than usual, almost too soft— “Yeah,” he says. “I know.”

They keep talking, back into their usual rhythm like that break never happened, so much so that they didn’t notice the Barrens had gotten too quiet. Not in the obvious way or in a horror-movie way, just… wrong. The river keeps moving, the trees keep swaying, but the sound feels distant like it’s coming through walls instead of open air.

Richie notices first. He’s mid-sentence — something about Bill’s dumb sewer maps — when the air shifts. It smells faintly sweet. Cotton candy. His stomach drops. Eddie notices the change in him immediately. “Richie?”

Richie doesn’t answer because the trees across the water bend, not with wind but toward them, slowly like they’re leaning in to listen. A soft sound threads through the leaves, not laughter, not quite, but a breath. Then—

“Didn’t tell him everything.”

The voice is right beside Richie’s ear. He jerks violently, scrambling back on his hands. Eddie flinches too. “I heard that,” Eddie whispers.

Richie freezes. “You—what?”

The voice again, closer and amused. “Thought that was just for you?” Richie’s pulse slams in his throat. Across the river, something red flickers between the trees. Not fully visible, just the suggestion of a balloon drifting behind bark. “You always leave the best parts out,” the voice croons.

Eddie’s breathing sharpens. “Richie,” he says quietly. “I can see it.”

And when Richie looks at him—He believes him because Eddie isn’t staring at Richie, he’s staring at the trees, at the shape forming between them. The shadows stretch unnaturally long, pulling together like spilled ink and then It steps out. Not fully. Just enough. The white of a face between trunks, too wide a smile and eyes reflecting the last of the dying sunlight like coins at the bottom of a well.

Pennywise doesn’t move closer, It doesn’t need to. “You screamed so nicely,” It sighs.

Richie’s hands curl into fists. “Shut up,” he breathes.

Eddie’s voice is tight. “It’s talking about the house.”

“Oh, I know,” the clown says brightly and the head tilts, the smile stretching further than it should. “About the hallway,” It continues. “About the other you.” Richie’s stomach drops like a stone. “What it actually meant.”

Eddie turns slowly toward him. “What it actually meant?”

Richie doesn’t answer. Because Pennywise takes one step forward—and the ground shifts. Not physically, but visually. The dirt beneath them darkens, reflecting like glass, the surface of the Barrens becomes a mirror, and in it—there are two Richies. One sitting beside Eddie and one standing across the river. The standing one is cleaner, straighter, eyes sharper, smile smaller. “Didn’t tell him what I said,” the reflection whispers.

Eddie’s breath catches and Richie’s voice comes out strained. “It’s not real.”

“Isn’t it?” Pennywise hums.

The reflection Richie looks directly at Eddie, not mockingly, softly. “Didn’t tell you I almost let you walk away.”

The words hit like a slap and Richie’s head snaps up. “That’s not—” But the memory surges, the hallway narrowing, the fake version calling Eddie’s name and the split second where he froze, where he wondered—If Eddie would choose that one, if it would hurt less.

Eddie’s voice is very quiet. “What is it talking about?”

Pennywise beams. “Oh, he doesn’t want you to know,” It sings. “Doesn’t want you to hear how small he felt. How easy it would’ve been to let the better version stay.”

Richie’s vision tunnels. “I didn’t—”

“You hesitated,” the reflection says gently and that’s worse than an accusation because it’s true. It was half a second, but it was real.

Eddie’s fingers tighten against his cast. “You hesitated?” he asks, not angry — just trying to understand.

Richie shakes his head hard. “No. I didn’t. I—” But the memory keeps playing. The thought, hust a flicker. What if he’s better for them? What if I’m too much?

The clown steps closer, not touching, circling. “You’re terrified,” Pennywise whispers in Richie’s ear. “Not of dying.” A cold breath grazes his skin. “Of being replaced.”

Eddie hears it too, he flinches. The mirrored ground ripple and now the reflection shows something new. 

Eddie stepping back. 

Eddie choosing the other one. 

Eddie looking at Richie like he’s loud and embarrassing and too much.

Richie’s breathing turns shallow. “I know that look,” Pennywise croons. “You’ve seen it before.” The implication is surgical. 

Every eye roll.

Every exasperated sigh.

Every moment Richie joked too hard.

The clown leans in closer. “You didn’t tell him what I said with his voice.” Richie goes rigid and Eddie’s gaze snaps to him. “My voice?” Richie’s heart pounds so hard it hurts. In the mirror, the reflection Richie leans toward Eddie and mouths something, the sound doesn’t come through but Richie remembers it perfectly.

Don’t touch me.

You’re gonna make me sick.

You look at me weird.

Eddie whispers, “What did it say?”

The clown’s grin widens impossibly. “Oh, you’d hate that part.”

Richie squeezes his eyes shut. “Stop,” he says hoarsely.

The Barrens darken further, the trees bend inward, and the mirrored surface rises like                                                                                                                                                                                                                             water around their ankles. “You didn’t tell him,” Pennywise repeats softly. “You didn’t tell him you almost believed it.”

Eddie’s voice cuts through. “Richie.”

He opens his eyes and Eddie is looking at him, not the reflection, not the other one. Him. “I can see what you see,” Eddie says, breath shaking but steady. “But I don’t believe it.” The mirror flickers and Pennywise’s smile twitches.

Richie swallows hard. “It said—” His voice cracks.

The clown’s head snaps toward him sharply.

Ah.

There it is.

The crack in the wall.

Richie’s hands are shaking now. “It said you wouldn’t notice if I was different,” he forces out. The reflection glitches. Eddie’s expression softens. “And I—” Richie’s throat tightens painfully. “I froze.” The words hang there, honest and raw. The mirrored water trembles and Pennywise’s grin falters — just slightly.

“You froze,” Eddie repeats. Not angry or betrayed, just absorbing it. Richie nods once and Eddie steps forward into the rippling reflection, into the illusion. The surface shatters like glass under his shoes. “You idiot,” Eddie says quietly and Pennywise recoils half an inch. “I didn’t want a different one.” The reflection across the river flickers violently, Eddie looking directly at it. “You’re loud,” he says firmly. “And annoying. And you talk too much.” Richie’s stomach drops. “And I’d notice if you weren’t.”

The standing reflection distorts, the smile warps and the trees snap upright violently. Pennywise’s eyes narrow. Connection, mutual witnessing, truth spoken out loud. It hisses softly. The mirrored ground fractures further. “You think that’s enough?” It snarls quietly.

Eddie lifts his chin. “Yeah.” Richie exhales shakily beside him. The cotton-candy smell fades, the shadows retract, the reflection across the river collapses into darkness. 

Pennywise—Smiles again, but thinner. “Not done yet,” It whispers. Then it dissolves into the trees, the Barrens return and the dirt is dirt again, the river just water.

Richie’s knees nearly give out and Eddie steadies him automatically with his good arm. They stand there breathing hard. After a long moment Richie laughs weakly. “Well. That was emotionally violating.”

Eddie huffs, still pale. “You froze,” he says again, but there’s no heat in it.

Richie nods. “Yeah.”

Eddie looks at him. “You didn’t stay frozen.” The words settle deep. 

Richie looks back at the trees. “They’re gonna keep doing that,” he says quietly.

“Yeah,” Eddie agrees. He doesn’t let go and this time—neither does Richie.

They don’t talk about it right away, not about the mirror or the voice or the way the ground moved like it was trying to swallow the truth whole. They just… leave. The Barrens feel wrong now in a way that’s hard to explain, like staying too long would mean something notices, something follows. Richie walks a little ahead at first, then slows without thinking until Eddie’s beside him again. Not behind or separate, side by side.

Eddie doesn’t say where they’re going, he just says, “Not here.”

Richie nods once. “Yeah. Not here.” They cut through back streets, past chain-link fences and overgrown yards, the sky going from blue to that dim, heavy gray that sits in your chest more than above your head. At some point, Richie realizes where they’re heading. “My place?” he asks.

Eddie shrugs with one shoulder, cast tucked close to his chest. “You got a better idea?”

Richie doesn’t so he just says, softer, “No.”

His house is quiet, too quiet, at first. Not in the Neibolt way, not rotting or breathing or watching. Just… empty. His parents aren’t home, they’re almost never home this time of day. Something about work, something about dinners, something about not noticing when he comes and goes even though he shouted something about leaving just a few hours ago. The front door creaks a little when he opens it. “After you, my dear Eddie Spaghetti," Richie mutters automatically, stepping aside.

Eddie rolls his eyes but walks in. The air inside smells like old carpet and something faintly lemony. Clean, but not fresh, like it hasn’t been lived in properly in a while. He hesitates just inside the doorway, not fear, just… adjusting.

Richie notices. “It’s not haunted,” he says quickly. “Probably.”

Eddie gives him a look. “Great. Super reassuring.”

Richie shuts the door behind them and the click echoes a little too loud. For a second, neither of them moves. Then Richie gestures vaguely down the hall. “Uh. Living room. Or my room. Dealer’s choice.”

Eddie shifts his cast. “Living room.”

“Bold. Public spaces. I like it.”

They move together, slower now. The house creaks under their weight — normal creaks. Familiar ones. Not the warped, stretching sounds of Neibolt. Still, Richie keeps glancing at corners, just in case.

The living room is dim, lit only by the fading light through the windows. The TV sits dark and couple of magazines are scattered on the coffee table. Normal, so painfully normal.

Eddie lowers himself carefully onto the couch, wincing slightly as he adjusts his arm. Richie hovers for a second before dropping into the armchair across from him. There’s space between them now, not far but it’s noticeable. They both feel it, neither comments on it. For a while, the only sound is the hum of something electrical in the walls.

Eddie exhales slowly. “That thing,” he says after a minute, staring at the carpet, “it knew exactly what to say.”

Richie nods. “Yeah.”

“It didn’t just make stuff up,” Eddie continues. “It… twisted it.”

Richie lets out a quiet breath. “Yeah.”

Eddie glances at him. “You really thought I wouldn’t notice?”

Richie doesn’t answer right away. He leans forward, elbows on his knees, staring at his hands. “I didn’t know what you’d see,” he admits. “In there.” Eddie watches him and he swallows. “And I didn’t know if… if I was still…” He trails off.

Eddie frowns slightly. “Still what?”

Richie huffs a weak breath. “Worth picking, I guess.” The words sit heavier in the quiet room than they did outside.

Eddie stares at him. “That’s stupid,” he says.

“Yeah,” Richie agrees softly. “I know.”

Eddie shifts, leaning forward despite the awkwardness of his cast. “You think I came all the way to find you just to pick someone else?” he asks. Richie glances up. There’s something sharper in Eddie’s expression now. Not anger — something more grounded. “You think I didn’t know it was messing with you?” Eddie continues. “I saw it, Richie.”

Richie nods slightly. “Yeah, well. It was pretty convincing.”

Eddie shakes his head. “No,” he says. “It wasn’t.” Richie blinks so he gestures vaguely with his cast. “You think some… quieter version of you is better?” Richie doesn’t answer and Eddie scoffs softly. “That’s not you.”

Richie lets out a quiet laugh. “Yeah, that’s kinda the point.”

“No,” Eddie says, more firmly. “That’s exactly the point.” Richie looks at him and he meets his gaze, steady. “I didn’t go looking for someone else,” he says. “I went looking for you.” The room feels smaller. Not suffocating, just… focused.

Richie’s throat tightens. “Yeah?” he says, softer now.

Eddie nods once. “Yeah.”

There’s a pause. Then Richie, because he’s Richie, says lightly, “Wow. That was almost nice, Eds. You feeling okay? No sudden onset of kindness disease?”

Eddie rolls his eyes, but there’s a faint smile there. “Shut up.”

Richie smiles back — smaller, but real. The space between them doesn’t feel as wide anymore. Then something shifts, not big or obvious, but the overhead light flickers once. Both of them notice, but neither of them comments.

Richie leans back slowly in his chair. “Okay,” he says under his breath. “So we’re not fully off the horror ride yet.”

Eddie exhales through his nose. “No kidding.”

The TV screen reflects the room faintly. For just a second—there’s a third shape in the reflection. Standing behind them. Too tall. Too still. Then it’s gone. Richie’s eyes narrow slightly and Eddie’s fingers tighten against his cast. Neither of them turns around, not yet.

The flicker doesn’t come back right away. That almost makes it worse because for a minute, everything is normal again. The hum in the walls. The dim light. The faint smell of lemon cleaner and dust. Richie shifts in his chair, dragging a hand through his hair like he can shake the feeling off. Eddie adjusts on the couch, careful with his cast, eyes drifting around the room like he’s cataloging exits without meaning to. Neither of them says it out loud. But they both know—It followed.

Richie opens his mouth, probably to make some joke about haunted interior design—and the TV clicks on. Both of them flinch. Static fills the screen, loud and sudden. Richie half-stands. “Okay, nope, that’s—” The static cuts, silence. Then a voice, not coming from the TV, but from behind it. Soft. Familiar. “Didn’t tell him everything either.”

Eddie goes rigid.

Richie’s head snaps toward him. “Eds—?”

“I heard that,” Eddie whispers.

The voice hums, pleased. “Of course you did.” The TV screen flickers again—not with static this time, but with a warped reflection of the room. The angles are wrong. The proportions stretched. And in the reflection—the couch is empty. Eddie’s not sitting there, instead he’s standing. Closer to the TV and alone.

Eddie’s breath hitches. “Richie—”

“I see it,” Richie says quickly, already moving, stepping closer to the couch like proximity alone can anchor him there.

But the reflection doesn’t match, reflected Eddie tilts his head slightly. Not in fear, but in thought. “You left things out,” the voice continues, softer now, closer to Eddie than Richie.

Eddie’s fingers curl against his cast. “I didn’t,” he says, but it comes out thinner than he wants.

Richie shakes his head. “Don’t listen to it.”

“Oh, but he should,” the voice croons.

The TV brightens and behind the reflected Eddie—A shape forms. Not fully the clown, not yet. Just too tall. Too pale. Smiling too wide. “He told you about the mirrors,” it continues. “About the choice.” Eddie swallows hard. “Didn’t tell him what you almost chose.”

Richie freezes. “What?”

Eddie doesn’t answer. The reflection sharpens, now there are two Eddies. One on the couch and one standing. The standing one looks… smaller somehow. His shoulders are pulled in, hands clutched tight, and his cast is held like a shield. The version he’s always been. “He almost stayed that way,” the voice whispers.

Eddie’s stomach drops. “That’s not—” he starts. But the memory surges. The mirrors and the versions and the choice. Not just between sick and healthy—Between safe and unknown. Between being controlled… and being alone.

Richie’s voice cuts in, sharp. “Eddie, don’t—” But Eddie’s eyes are locked on the screen.

“He almost chose to stay small,” the voice continues gently. “To go back. To let someone else decide everything for him.” 

The reflected smaller Eddie nods, agreeing. “I didn’t,” Eddie says, but it’s quieter now.

The voice hums. “No?”

The room shifts—Subtle. The air thickens, the smell of antiseptic creeps in under the lemon cleaner. Eddie’s shoulders tense immediately. “No,” he repeats, more forcefully this time. 

But the reflection doesn’t change. The smaller version steps forward. “You were going to,” it says. Same voice, Eddie’s voice, just… stripped down. “You were scared,” it continues. “You wanted it to be easy again.”

Richie steps closer to the couch. “That’s not you.”

Eddie doesn’t look at him because it is. It’s the part he didn’t say. The part where, for one second, going back sounded easier. Letting his mom be right. Letting the pills be real. Letting someone else decide what he was. The tall shape behind the reflection leans down slightly. “You didn’t tell him that part,” Pennywise whispers.

Richie’s chest tightens. “Eddie,” he says, softer now. “You don’t have to—”

“I know,” Eddie cuts in, but his voice shakes.

The smaller version turns toward Richie in the reflection. “He doesn’t want to hear it,” it says. “He wants the version of you that chose him.”

Richie flinches. “That’s not—” he starts, but the words don’t land right.

The voice purrs. “Connection,” it mocks. “So fragile.”

The reflection flickers again. Now—Richie’s not there. The couch is empty and Eddie is alone. The smaller version stands beside him, unmoving. “You think he’d stay,” it says quietly, “if you went back?”

Eddie’s breath comes faster. “That’s not fair,” he whispers.

“Isn’t it?” The air gets colder and the smell sharper. The tall shape behind them finally becomes clearer in the screen—White face, wide grin, and eyes fixed on Eddie. “You almost chose safety over truth,” Pennywise murmurs. “Over him.”

Richie steps forward now, close enough that his knee hits the couch. “That doesn’t matter,” he says firmly. “He didn’t.” The clown’s smile twitches.

Eddie finally tears his eyes away from the screen and looks at Richie. “He’s right,” he says quietly. Richie stills and Eddie swallows. “I thought about it,” he admits. The room goes very still. “I thought about going back,” Eddie continues. “About just… being what she says I am.” 

Richie’s expression doesn’t change, but something in his eyes sharpens. Eddie braces for it—For disappointment. For distance. For that look. Instead—he shrugs, small and almost careless. “Yeah,” he says. “Course you did.”

Eddie blinks. “What?”

Richie leans against the arm of the couch, like it’s no big deal. “That’s the whole point,” he says. “It makes the easy thing look safe.” The TV flickers violently. Pennywise’s grin strains. “That doesn’t mean you wanted it,” Richie continues. “It means you were scared.” Eddie stares at him. “You still didn’t pick it,” Richie adds, quieter now.

The smaller version in the reflection distorts, cracks spiderweb across the screen. Pennywise hisses softly. “But he could,” the clown presses. “Anytime. One push. One bad day—”

“Yeah,” Richie cuts in, sharper now. “And I could run my mouth until I get us all killed. What’s your point?” The room pulses and the reflection glitches. Richie leans closer, voice lower. “We’re both messed up,” he says. “Congratulations. Real groundbreaking discovery.”

Eddie lets out a shaky breath. The smaller version of him flickers, then stutters before collapseing into static. Pennywise’s smile finally falters, just for a second. The TV cuts to black, the smell fades, and the pressure lifts. Silence crashes back into the room. Eddie’s shoulders sag slightly, like something just let go of him. Richie stays where he is, close, one hand gripping the back of the couch.

After a moment, Eddie says quietly, “I didn’t tell you because I thought it made it less real.”

Richie huffs a soft breath. “Yeah,” he says. “Same.” Eddie glances at him so he shrugs again, but it’s gentler this time. “Guess we both suck at full disclosure.” Eddie almost smiles.

The house creaks and the silence after the TV cuts out doesn’t feel empty. It feels… watched. Not in the obvious way. Not footsteps or breathing or something moving behind them. Just a pressure, like the room is listening. Richie doesn’t move away from the couch. His hand is still curled tight around the back of it, knuckles pale, like if he lets go something might slip. Eddie’s still sitting there, shoulders a little hunched, cast tucked close, breathing slower now but not steady yet.

For a second, neither of them adds to the conversation they were just having. Then Eddie speaks up. “I almost went back.”

Richie’s grip tightens. “I know,” he says.

Eddie shakes his head. “No, I mean—” He swallows. “I really thought about it. Not just for a second. It felt… easier.” The word sits heavy.

Richie nods slowly. “Yeah.”

Eddie lets out a small, humorless breath. “That’s the worst part. It wasn’t even about being scared of It. It was just—” He gestures vaguely with his cast. “Not having to figure everything out myself.”

Richie finally lets go of the couch. He shifts closer without really thinking about it, dropping onto the edge beside Eddie instead of staying across the room. The space between them closes. “Yeah,” Richie says again, softer now. “That part sucks.”

Eddie glances at him. “You didn’t say anything,” Eddie adds. “When it—when it said you hesitated.”

Richie looks down at his hands. “Didn’t think it mattered,” he mutters.

“It does,” Eddie says.

Richie huffs a quiet breath. “Why?”

Eddie hesitates because this is the same edge Richie’s been standing on, the same drop. “Because,” He starts, then stops. Richie looks up. Eddie’s expression is tight—not panicked, not overwhelmed—just… trying to say something right. “You said you didn’t know if you were still… worth picking,” He says.

Richie freezes. The words land harder the second time. “Yeah,” he says, a little too lightly. “Super cool self-esteem moment, I know.”

Eddie shakes his head. “That’s not what I meant.”

Richie’s chest tightens. “Then what did you mean?” he asks, quieter.

Eddie exhales slowly. “I mean I didn’t go looking for someone else,” he says. “I went looking for you.”

Richie’s breath catches—just slightly. “I know,” he says, but it’s softer now, less certain.

Eddie frowns. “No, I don’t think you do.” The room creaks faintly. Somewhere in the house, something shifts, neither of them looks away from each other. “You keep acting like there was another option,” Eddie continues. “Like if you were different—quieter, or whatever—that I’d just… pick that instead.”

Richie’s throat tightens. “You said it yourself,” he mutters. “I’m a lot.”

Eddie huffs softly. “Yeah. You are.” Richie almost smiles, but Eddie leans forward slightly, eyes sharper now. “And I’d notice if you weren’t,” he says again, more firmly this time. 

That lands harder than anything Pennywise said because it’s real. Richie swallows. “You say that now,” he murmurs. “But—”

“But what?”

 Richie looks away. There it is again, that edge. “I don’t know,” he says, voice quieter than it’s been all day. “What if one day you just… don’t want that anymore?”

Eddie stares at him. “That’s not how that works.”

Richie laughs faintly. “Yeah? Since when do any of us know how anything works?”

Eddie shifts closer without realizing it, his knee bumping lightly against Richie’s. “Since I came to find you,” he says. Richie goes still. “You think I did that because it was easy?” He continues. “Because it made sense?” Richie doesn’t answer and Eddie’s voice drops slightly. “I did it because I didn’t want to be alone.” The words hang there, heavy and honest.

Richie’s chest tightens painfully. “Yeah,” he says, barely above a whisper. “Me neither.”

Eddie’s gaze doesn’t waver. “Then why do you keep acting like I’d leave?” he asks.

Richie exhales shakily. “Because people do,” he says. It slips out before he can stop it and the truth of it sits between them.

Eddie’s expression softens—not pity, not even sympathy, understanding. “I’m not,” he says. Simple and certain.

Richie looks at him, really looks. The room feels smaller again—but not in a bad way. Focused, like everything outside of this moment doesn’t matter. Richie’s mouth opens, closes, then ipens again. “Eds, I—”

The lights flicker, hard, causing both of them flinch. The temperature drops like a switch flipped. And then—A voice, right between them. “Oh, that’s not fair.” They both jerk back because Pennywise is there. Not across the room or in a reflection, right behind the couch. Leaning forward between them like it’s been there the whole time. Watching. Waiting. Its grin is too wide and way too pleased. “You were going to say it,” the clown murmurs, delighted. “That’s cheating.”

Richie scrambles back off the couch, pulling Eddie with him instinctively. “Get away from him!” Richie snaps, voice sharp with something that isn’t just fear anymore.

Pennywise doesn’t move, It just tilts its head. “Why?” it asks lightly. “He already knows, doesn’t he?”

Eddie’s breath stutters. “Knows what?” he demands, even though part of him already understands.

The clown’s eyes flick between them, hungry. “You don’t even have to say it out loud,” it croons. “It’s all over you.”

Richie’s heart slams against his ribs. “Shut up,” he says. But it’s weaker this time because he was about to, he really was.

Pennywise smiles wider. “That’s the problem with you two,” it says softly. “You keep choosing each other.” The walls creak, not normal like a house settling, something deeper. “And every time you do,” the clown continues, voice dropping lower, sharper, “it gets harder for me to pull you apart.”

Eddie’s hand finds Richie’s sleeve without thinking, grips. Pennywise notices. Of course it does, its smile twists. “Disgusting,” it mutters—not loud, not dramatic—just… precise. The word lands, but it doesn’t stick the way it used to because Eddie doesn’t let go and Richie doesn’t pull away. The clown’s eyes narrow. “Say it,” it whispers suddenly.

The lights flicker again and the walls seem to lean. “Go on,” Pennywise urges, voice sliding into something closer to Richie’s. “Say it out loud. Let’s see what happens.”

Richie’s breath comes fast. Eddie looks at him, not scared of him, not pulling away, just… waiting. The same way he had in the Barrens, the same way he had just now. Richie’s throat tightens. “Eds, I—”

The house reacts, violently. A crack splits up the wall behind Pennywise with a sharp, splintering sound. The floor shudders and the TV explodes back into static. The lights strobe erratically, plunging the room in and out of darkness. Pennywise’s grin snaps wider, almost feral now. “NO,” it hisses. The word isn’t playful anymore, it’s angry.

The air turns thick—hard to breathe, like the room is closing in around the sound before it can form. Richie chokes on the rest of the sentence like something physically won’t let him say it. Pennywise straightens slowly, looming taller now. “That’s mine,” it says coldly. “You don’t get to take that away from me.”

Eddie’s grip tightens on Richie’s sleeve. Richie grabs onto him back this time—firm, grounding. Neither of them lets go. The house creaks again, louder and meaner. The moment is broken, but not gone. Pennywise watches them, something sharper behind its eyes now, not amusement, not control. Something closer to—concern. “Run,” it says softly. Not a suggestion, a promise. The floor groans under their feet and this time—it’s not waiting. The word run doesn’t echo, it lands and the house answers.

The floor bucks beneath them—hard enough that Eddie stumbles, his cast knocking awkwardly against Richie’s side. Richie catches him without thinking, one arm locking around his shoulders as the other reaches blindly for balance. “Move,” Richie says, breath sharp, already pulling him back.

The wall behind the couch splits wider with a cracking snap, plaster crumbling in jagged lines like something is trying to push through from the inside. The TV shrieks with static, then distorts—stretching the image of the room until it looks long and wrong and too narrow. Pennywise doesn’t chase them. It doesn’t have to, just watches from the center of the room, smiling. The lights strobe violently—on, off, on—and in every flicker, the clown is closer. Not walking. Not moving. Just… closer.

“Richie—” Eddie starts, voice pitching.

“I got you,” Richie cuts in, too fast, already dragging him toward the hallway. “Just—just move, okay? Don’t stop.”

The floor lurches again. A deep, groaning sound rolls through the house like something waking up beneath it. They hit the hallway just as the living room behind them collapses inward—not fully, but enough. The couch jerks sideways, the floor dipping like it’s trying to swallow the space whole. The door. Front door.

Richie aims for it automatically. “Out—” he starts. But the hallway stretches, not dramatically, just enough. Too long. Too far. The door at the end looks… wrong, smaller, further away than it should be. 

Eddie sees it too. “That wasn’t—” he breathes.

“I know,” Richie snaps. “Don’t look at it.”

A laugh ripples through the walls, not from one place, but from everywhere. “You almost had it,” Pennywise sings, voice slipping in and out of Richie’s tone. “Almost said it. Almost broke it.”

Richie grits his teeth, pulling Eddie faster. “Shut up!”

The house answers again. A door slams somewhere behind them—then another, then another, rapid-fire, like a chain reaction snapping shut. The hallway narrows and the wallpaper peels, curling inward like fingers. Eddie’s breathing picks up. “Richie, it’s—”

“I know,” Richie says, tighter now. “Just stay with me.”

They don’t make it to the front door because the floor drops, not all at once, just a sudden dip—sharp and violent enough that Richie nearly loses his footing. Eddie cries out, stumbling hard—Richie yanks him back just in time. A crack splits straight across the hallway, jagged and deep, wood splintering as something underneath pulls. They both freeze for half a second.

The crack widens, slow and deliberate, like a mouth opening. “Back,” Richie breathes, already dragging Eddie away from it. They stumble into the nearest doorway—Richie doesn’t even check which room, just away. They slam inside as the floor behind them gives, wood snapping and collapsing into darkness with a heavy, echoing crash. The door behind them slams shut on its own, hard. They both spin toward it instinctively.

Richie lunges forward, grabbing the handle—yanks. It doesn’t budge. “Locked,” he breathes.

Eddie presses back against the wall, chest heaving. “It wasn’t locked.”

“I know.”

The room is small, too small. Richie’s bedroom, but not right. The posters on the walls are there—but faded, warped. The corners curl like they’ve been there for years without being touched. The air smells faintly like dust and something sweeter underneath. Wrong. Everything’s wrong.

Richie backs away from the door slowly. “Okay,” he says, voice low, controlled in that way that means he’s trying really hard not to panic. “Okay, that’s fine. We’ll just—window.” He turns and the window is there, but the glass is black. Not dark. Not nighttime. Black. Like there’s nothing on the other side.

Eddie sees it and lets out a shaky breath. “That’s not—”

“Yeah,” Richie says quickly. “No, I got that part.”

The laugh again, closer, inside the room now. “You run so well together,” Pennywise hums. They both turn. It’s not fully visible, not like it was before. It’s just a shape in the corner. Too tall and way too still, pressed into the shadow like it belongs there, watching. Richie steps slightly in front of Eddie without thinking. The movement is automatic, protective. The clown’s head tilts. “Still trying to save him,” it murmurs. “Even now.” Richie doesn’t answer, his grip on Eddie’s arm tightens slightly. “Cute,” Pennywise adds.

The floor creaks beneath them. A new crack forms, right between their feet. They both jump back, but it’s too late. The wood splits, jagged and fast, forcing them apart by a step—just a step, but it’s enough. The crack widens and Eddie’s balance wavers—Richie lunges, grabbing him again before he can fall. “Don’t,” Richie snaps, voice sharp with something close to panic. “Don’t move away from me.”

“I’m not trying to!” Eddie shoots back, breath uneven.

The crack keeps spreading, not collapsing. Separating. Pushing them. The room stretches subtly, walls shifting just enough that everything feels off-center. Pennywise watches, patient. “Say it,” it whispers again, closer now.

Richie’s jaw clenches. “Not happening,” he mutters.

The clown smiles wider. “Then I’ll just keep you here,” it says lightly. “Until one of you breaks.” The ceiling creaks and dust sifts down, The black window ripples like water. The door behind them rattles once—hard—but doesn’t open. They’re trapped.

Richie looks around quickly, breathing fast, trying to find anything that makes sense. There isn’t anything, just shifting walls, a splitting floor, and a watching dark. Eddie’s hand tightens in his sleeve again. “Richie—” he starts.

Richie looks at him, really looks, even with everything shaking around them. “Stay with me,” Richie says, low and urgent.

Eddie nods. “I am.”

The house groans again, louder, closer, and the cracks keep spreading. Slow at first, then faster, splintering outward like a fault line running straight through the middle of the room. The wood groans under their feet, sharp and warning, the edges of the break jagged and dark like something is waiting underneath.

Richie tightens his grip on Eddie’s sleeve. “Okay,” he says, too quick, too tight. “We’re not doing this again. We’re just—gonna move. Together. Slow.”

Eddie nods, breathing uneven, his cast held close to his chest as he shifts his weight carefully. “Yeah,” he says, quieter. “Okay.”

They take one step and the floor dips. Another crack splits off from the first, cutting diagonally—separating them again, pushing them onto uneven ground.

“Richie—” Eddie starts.

“I know, I know, just—stay with me,” Richie says, reaching for him again.

Their fingers brush—The floor gives and this time it drops. Eddie yelps as the wood beneath him splinters and collapses, his footing gone in an instant as he pitches downward—

“EDDIE!” Richie lunges, grabbing his wrist just before he disappears completely. The impact jerks through Richie’s arm, slamming him hard onto his stomach as he catches him. Pain flares through his scabbed hands, but he doesn’t let go. 

Below Eddie is darkness, not a floor, not anything. Just depth. Endless, swallowing dark. Eddie’s other arm scrambles uselessly against the broken edges, his cast knocking against splintered wood as he tries to get purchase. “I— I can’t—” his voice breaks. “Richie—”

“I’ve got you!” Richie snaps, breath ragged, fingers slipping slightly from blood and dust. “I’ve got you, don’t—don’t look down!”

Eddie looks anyway and his breath hitches. The darkness moves, something shifting inside it. Waiting and watching. A soft, delighted hum rises from below. “Not again,” Pennywise whispers. The voice isn’t in the room, it’s in the space under Eddie, right where he’s about to fall. “Not like this,” it croons, almost sympathetic. “You remember, don’t you? How easy it is to slip.”

Eddie squeezes his eyes shut, panic clawing up his throat. “Richie—please—”

Richie’s grip tightens desperately. “I’m not letting you go!” he shouts, voice cracking, but his hands—They’re slipping. The wood under him creaks, threatening to give too.

Pennywise’s voice shifts, closer now, right at Richie’s ear. “You’re not strong enough.” Richie flinches—but doesn’t look away from Eddie. “You weren’t then,” the clown continues softly. “You aren’t now.”

“Shut up,” Richie breathes, but it’s thin and strained.

“You’ll drop him,” Pennywise murmurs. “Just like before.” 

Eddie feels it, the shift, the doubt. “Richie,” he says, quieter now—not panicked, just… scared. “It’s okay if you—”

“Don’t,” Richie snaps, too fast, too sharp. Eddie goes silent. Richie’s hands are shaking, not just from strain, but from everything. From the house. From the fear. From the words sitting in his throat that he hasn’t said.

Pennywise laughs softly. “There it is,” it says. “That’s the one.”

Richie squeezes his eyes shut for half a second and something clicks, not calm or confidence. Just—Understanding. This isn’t about strength. This isn’t about pulling Eddie up. This isn’t about beating it the way Bill does because Pennywise isn’t trying to take Eddie, it’s trying to make Richie believe he already lost him. To make him hesitate. To make him fail. To make him shut up.

Richie opens his eyes, locks onto Eddie, really locks on. “Hey,” Richie says, breath shaking. Eddie looks up at him. “Hey,” Richie repeats, softer now. “Don’t—don’t say that, okay? Don’t—don’t act like I’m just gonna let you go.”

Eddie swallows. “I’m not—”

“You are,” Richie says. “And you’re wrong.” The wood under him creaks again. His grip slips just slightly and Eddie gasps.

Pennywise’s voice sharpens. “See?”

Richie ignores it, for the first time he actually ignores it because it doesn’t matter. None of it matters if he doesn’t say this. “Eds,” Richie says, voice rough, urgent. “I need you to listen to me, okay?”

“Richie—now is not—”

“I know!” Richie cuts in, almost laughing—hysterical, breathless. “I know it’s not, but it’s not gonna be a good time, okay? It’s never gonna be a good time!” The floor groans and the darkness below shifts closer, waiting.

Eddie stares at him, confused, scared. “Richie, what are you—”

“I meant it,” Richie blurts. The words hit between them, raw and unfiltered.

“What?” Eddie breathes.

“When I said I didn’t know if I was worth picking,” Richie says, voice shaking harder now. “I meant it. I still mean it.”

Pennywise hisses softly. The room tightens. “Stop,” it murmurs.

Richie doesn’t. “Because you could’ve gone back,” he continues, faster now, like if he stops he won’t be able to start again. “You could’ve stayed with your mom, or just—ignored all of this, ignored me—and you didn’t.”

Eddie’s grip on Richie’s wrist tightens. “Richie—”

“And I keep thinking,” Richie pushes on, breath hitching, “that you’re gonna realize you picked wrong.”

The clown’s voice sharpens. “STOP.” The floor jolts violently.

Richie almost loses his hold, but he tightens it again, holds on. “Because I’m loud, and I’m annoying, and I say stupid stuff all the time—”

“That’s not—” Eddie starts.

“And I like you, okay?!” Richie blurts. The words tear out of him, loud, raw, and unstoppable.

The house reacts violently. The walls crack and the ceiling groans, the darkness below surges upward like it’s been struck. Pennywise shrieks—sharp, furious, wrong.

Richie keeps going because now he can’t stop. “I don’t just—like you, I really like you,” he says, voice breaking. “Like—that way, okay? And I know that’s—messed up, or whatever, and we’re in fucking Derry and fucking AIDS is going around and it’s probably the worst possible thing I could’ve picked—”

“Richie—” Eddie breathes, stunned.

“—but I did!” Richie says. “I picked you! So yeah, I’m scared you’re gonna leave, or that I’m gonna screw it up, or that you’re gonna look at me and think I’m—wrong or something—” The word wrong echoes but it doesn’t stick because Richie shakes his head hard. “But I’m not gonna pretend I don’t feel it anymore,” he says, fierce now despite the shaking. “Because that’s exactly what it wants.”

Pennywise lets out a low, furious sound. The walls close in tighter and the crack beneath them jerks trying to pull Eddie down. Richie yanks harder, refusing. “So yeah,” Richie finishes, breath ragged, eyes locked on Eddie’s. “I like you. A lot. And I’m not letting you go. Not because I have to—because I don’t want to.” 

Silence, but not complete. The house is still moving, still groaning, but something shifts. The pressure changes and Eddie is staring at him, not horrified or pulling away. Just… stunned, soft. “Richie,” he says, voice quieter than everything else.

And then—the darkness below recoils like it’s been burned. Pennywise screams, not loud or dramatic. Just—Angry. Sharp. “FINE,” it snaps. 

The floor jerks upward suddenly—violently—Eddie is thrown back onto solid ground, crashing hard into the broken wood beside Richie. Richie scrambles forward immediately, grabbing him, pulling him fully away from the crack as it seals with a splintering snap. Both of them are breathing hard, too fast, too much. Richie doesn’t let go, he doesn’t even realize he’s still holding onto Eddie until a second passes. Then two. Eddie’s hand is still gripping his sleeve. Neither of them moves.

The room is quieter now, not safe, but quieter. Pennywise is still there, in the corner watching. Its smile is tighter now, less certain. “You think that changes anything?” it asks softly. 

Richie doesn’t look at it, he’s too busy still looking at Eddie. “No,” Richie says, voice hoarse but steady. “But it stops you from using it.”

That lands and the clown’s expression flickers, just for a second and that’s enough because for the first time—It doesn’t feel in control. Not completely. Not anymore.

Eddie exhales shakily, still processing and still holding onto Richie. “You—” he starts, then stops.

Richie winces slightly. “Yeah. I—uh. Sorry. That was—bad timing.”

Eddie lets out a breath that almost turns into a laugh. “Yeah,” he says. “Kind of.” But he doesn’t let go and neither does Richie.

For a second, it feels like the house forgets how to move. Not completely—there’s still that low, shifting creak in the walls, the faint groan of something settling wrong—but it’s… distant now like it’s waiting and watching. Pennywise is still there in the corner, too tall and too still, but its smile isn’t as easy anymore. Not after that.

Richie’s still holding onto Eddie, he hasn’t let go. Doesn’t seem to realize he’s gripping a little too tight, like if he loosens even a little, everything might snap back to the way it was before. 

Eddie hasn’t pulled away, he’s just staring at him. Processing and breathing uneven. “You—” Eddie starts again, quieter this time.

Richie winces slightly, like he’s bracing for impact. “Yeah, I know,” he says quickly. “You don’t—have to say anything, I just—kinda blurted that out and—”

“You’re an idiot,” Eddie says.

Richie blinks. “…yeah,” he says after a second.

Eddie shakes his head a little, something almost disbelieving in it. “No, like—” he swallows. “You’re a huge idiot.”

Richie huffs a weak breath. “Okay, wow, thanks, that’s—super reassuring—”

“I like you too.”

The words land clean. No hesitation this time. No room for interruption. Richie goes completely still. “…what?”

Pennywise flickers, just slightly like a bad frame in a film reel. Its head tilts sharply. “No, you don’t,” it says immediately, too fast, too sharp. “You’re confused.”

Eddie doesn’t even look at it, he’s still looking at Richie. “I do,” Eddie says, firmer now, even though his voice shakes a little. “I just—didn’t say anything because I thought you didn’t.”

Richie’s brain seems to short-circuit. “Wait—what?”

Pennywise steps forward for the first time since the confession, its smile strains. “He doesn’t mean that,” it says, voice slipping, trying to settle into something familiar—gentler, more convincing. “He’s scared. He thinks he has to say it because you did.”

Eddie finally looks at it and frowns. “No,” he says. Simple and certain.

The clown’s expression tightens. “You think this makes you brave?” it presses. “You think this changes what you are?”

Eddie’s grip on Richie’s sleeve tightens slightly. “I don’t care what it makes me,” he says, voice steadier than before. “I just know it’s true.”

Pennywise flickers again, more noticeably this time like it’s struggling to hold its shape.

Richie is still staring at Eddie like he hasn’t caught up yet. “You—like—me?” he says, dumbly.

Eddie rolls his eyes a little, even though his face is still flushed, still nervous. “Yes, Richie,” he says. “I like you.” A beat. “And you’re still an idiot.”

Richie lets out a small, breathless laugh. “Okay, yeah, that tracks.”

The house creaks again—Louder, more unstable. Pennywise’s voice sharpens. “This isn’t real,” it snaps. “This is just another story you’re telling yourselves.”

Richie finally looks at it, really looks and for once he doesn’t look scared, not the same way. “Maybe,” Richie says, a little rough around the edges. “But it’s better than yours.” That lands, hard.

The clown recoils—just slightly like it felt that.

Eddie shifts closer, not away, closer. Their shoulders bump, but neither of them moves. There’s a moment. Small. Fragile. But real. Richie glances at him, suddenly awkward again. “Uh,” he starts. “So—what now?”

Eddie huffs a quiet breath. “I don’t know,” he admits. “I’ve never—done this before.”

“Yeah, me neither,” Richie says quickly. “Shocking, I know.”

Eddie gives him a look. Then, after a second—He leans in. Not smoothly or confidently, just—trying. Richie freezes for half a second before leaning in too, a little off-timing it so they almost bump noses first. “Sorry—” Richie mutters.

“Just—stop talking,” Eddie says, a little flustered.

“Okay, yeah, good plan—”

And then they kiss. It’s quick, a little awkward and a little off-center. It’s more of a press than anything else—but it’s real and it’s enough.

The reaction is immediate. Pennywise breaks. Not explodes. Not disappears dramatically. Just—Glitches. Its form flickers violently, the smile stretching too wide, then collapsing, then stretching again like it can’t decide what shape to hold. “No,” it hisses. The word cracks.

The walls shudder—Then stop. The pressure in the room drops all at once, like something has been cut loose. The black window clears, showing actual daylight bleeding through. The cracks in the floor stop spreading. The house stills.

Pennywise takes a step back. For the first time its eyes narrow, something cold and calculating slipping back into place. “This isn’t over,” it says quietly, but it sounds… thinner, less certain.

Richie doesn’t even look at it this time and neither does Eddie because they’re still close. Still processing and still a little stunned. “Okay,” Richie says after a second, voice a little dazed. “That—uh. That happened.”

Eddie lets out a shaky breath that almost turns into a laugh. “Yeah,” he says. “It did.”

They’re both still holding onto each other, not out of fear anymore, but because they want to. The room is quiet. Actually quiet this time. No whispers. No shifting. No pressure. Pennywise is gone and for the first time since they walked into the house—They can breathe, really breathe.

Richie exhales slowly, like he’s been holding it in for hours. Eddie does the same. Their shoulders are still touching and neither of them pulls away. Outside, somewhere beyond the house, the world keeps going. Normal and unaware. But inside—something has changed. Not just the house. Not just the fear. Them. And even though everything else is still waiting, the town, summer, and It. For right now—they’re not alone and that’s enough