Chapter Text
"Evening", he sang, pushing into Bill's bedroom, and throwing his school bag onto the bed, nearly hitting Mike square in the face.
"Great, Richie's here", Eddie groaned, rolling away from him on the carpet. Richie was careful to thoroughly step on him on his way to the reading chair in the corner.
"What, you want me to leave? Don't even pretend you're not thrilled to see me, sugar."
"You're going to give me fucking diabetes."
"Because I'm so sweet?"
"I hate you."
"You make no sense, Edward", Richie leaned down to tap on his nose with a finger, making Eddie's face scrunch up aggressively, “Cutie.”
"Hey, Richie, how was your aunt?", Bill smiled, leaning over to push his school bag off the bed with a thud.
Richie had come to realise that if Eddie was the object of both his affections and infuriating nicknames and wild streams of consciousness, everything was okay, they were all safe. The issue lay in Eddie retaliating. If he just huffed in annoyance and rolled his eyes or blushed angrily, everything was great. If he exploded in an impressive stream of consciousness of his own, it was fine. If he, in one way or another, jokingly flirted back, it was a disaster. If Eddie decided to be the one initiating their back and forth, it was Richie’s doom; yet every time it happened, a crushing wave of happy nerves would wash over him and he found himself holding his breath and grinning at him like a fool. He shook his head as Eddie frowned at him from the floor.
"Hello, Billy goat. 'Twas uneventful."
"That's new", said Stan from the far corner of the room, hands folded on his lap and looking like every portrait of a boyish old monarch, framed in rust and gold from the sunset streaming through the window.
"Stan the man!"
"That's not new."
"Stan the nan?"
"Naan? As in naan bread?" Asked Mike, throwing a bag of crisps in his general direction. It fell on Eddie, who Richie suddenly realised had crawled his way to the reading chair and was lying next to his feet. He gave him a little experimental kick as he reached for the crisps.
"Nan as in Stan's a fucking grandma."
"Respect the elderly, trashmouth", Eddie grabbed his foot and pulled until his disgusting old sneaker slipped off, with a little noncommittal 'hey' from the owner, and threw it under the bed, "Gross. Do you ever wash your feet? Have you ever even showered?"
"I've used your mom's shower plenty of late nights."
"Sorry, what? I don't speak sewer rat."
Richie kicked him softly in the face and Eddie squealed in disgust.
Beverly and Ben arrived a few minutes later. Eddie had made his home between Richie's legs, distractedly tying a line of knots into his shoelaces, and he was absolutely terrified to move them, feeling fidgety as he'd usually be sprawled on the bed by now, limbs in every which way.
They put on a movie. It was a horror movie that had been all the rave at school lately amongst the cool older kids, but they watched it with depersonalised apprehension that border lined on boredom. After everything they had lived that summer, horror had taken other meanings for them. Except for a scene where a slobbering decrepit zombie half eaten by flies jumped towards the camera and Richie felt Eddie's hand grasp his ankle in a death grip. It didn't move from there for the rest of the film and Richie stared at it, feeling actual tendrils of horror finally start to twist in his lower stomach. He didn't move, he didn't make noise. It was okay because it made sense . It didn't make it any less terrifying.
Later that night they all crowded onto Bill's bed. It felt oddly like a boat, and, fueled by sleep deprived sugar induced dizziness, Richie imagined them all slowly floating down a sunny stream, his and Beverly's feet paddling merrily into the cool water as Eddie voiced his hopes of him falling in all the while pulling at the back of his shirt. Cheeks flushed from the sun, skin his pretty apricot colour, mottled with freckles and stray droplets of cold river water, dark round eyes on him-
"-faggot."
Richie snapped his head towards Bill. "What?" He breathed.
"I s-said, Bower's called him a f-faggot."
"Who?"
Bill looked at him oddly and Richie felt his skin begin to scream.
"Mr T-Thomas."
"The preacher?"
"Yes, Richie. W-Where were y-you at j-j-just now, dude?"
"He can't call a preacher that", Eddie said, brow furrowed in concentration.
"Why not?" Richie glanced around at the group, hyper aware of their eyes on him.
"Why!? Because he's a preacher, Rich! He's not- he's not- that ."
"He's not what?"
Now they were all definitely staring at him.
"He's not, you know", Eddie lowered his voice nervously, "gay."
His head was swimming. There was no one holding on to the back of his shirt.
"Then why would Bower's call him a f- a- that."
"Because- because it's not nice, is it? He's trying to insult him. You know this shit, he's called you that pl-"
"Why isn't it nice, Eddie?"
"... What?" Eddie blinked slowly at him, his breathing was becoming a little shallow, a little faster, and Richie hated the thought, hated , that he might be the reason Eddie had an asthma attack right now.
"I mean, why is it an insult? If Mr Thomas liked guys."
"Because… he isn't gay", said Mike softly. Richie’s subconscious noticed how he’d said the word like it wasn’t that horrible, like having it on his tongue wouldn’t infect him, and subtly took note for later. Richie’s conscious was too busy screaming for him to shut his fucking mouth.
"Okay, but why would that matter, why not call him a fucking asshole, which he is , why call him a f- fag ."
Everyone was silent, except for Eddie's uneven breaths. Everyone was staring at him. His fucking mouth. It was a disease.
"Because. Well, Bowers is a fucking idiot, isn't he?" Beverly said. She dropped her hand onto Richie's knee, and smiled at him. Richie felt how much she knew him, felt absolutely sick with it, "Anyway, I'm gonna go smoke. Anyone wanna come with?"
That was a stupid question, Richie was the only one who smoked with her. He nodded anyway, because it was a clear invitation to run away from Eddie's unwavering stare, and he'd take it.
They clambered out the window onto the roof in silence, and Beverly offered him a cigarette. He practically bit into it as she lighted it for him. They sat there in silence for a while. Beverly looked ahead towards the town, smoke framing her thoughtful face.
"Richie, can I ask you a question?"
"Can I stop you?" He felt his hands start to shake and he pulled at his shirt with tight closed fists, moonlight carving into his trembling knuckles.
Beverly grinned, tapping a finger against her chin. She looked a little sad, somehow.
"Richie, do you like boys?"
The rooftop seemed so much steeper now. He gripped furiously in terrified breathless horror at the tiles, scrambling back, feeling himself sliding sliding sliding into the dark street below, into the sewers, into a blood red mouth glistening with row after row of broken glass teeth.
He liked boys.
"Richie, it's okay if you do. I ask because I want you to know that it's okay to tell me."
He liked boys.
"Hey, breathe. It's okay, you don't have to say anything. I won't say a word, I promise-"
"I like boys", he said. He said. He'd said it.
Beverly smiled. She was crying. He was crying too, he realised. She pulled him into a hug that felt like the first and only hug he'd ever had.
"Please don't tell, please don't tell, please-", he hiccuped. Beverly only squeezed tighter.
"I won't, Rich. I love you."
"I love you too, Bevvie", he laughed wetly, before a new torrent of tears tackled him, "It's so unfair, it's so fucking-"
"It is, it is, but it's okay. I love you. You're okay", she said softly. She didn't shush him, because she knew how that felt. How that stayed with you the next time you wanted to cry, "It's okay."
Richie gulped and gulped and gulped down gallons of the air that squatted stagnant atop Bill's roof, heavy with past childish laughter and hidden cigarette buts. He felt it filling every crevice of his infinitely hollow body. He felt it leaving him just as quickly.
"Richie, do you like Eddie?" She whispered into his shoulder.
"What?" He was drowning, he was sure of it. He suddenly knew how Eddie felt when he was trembling so badly he couldn't even trigger his inhaler. Why would she ask that? Why would she think that? Was he that obvious? They all fucking knew, he was such a fucking joke do you like Eddie do you like do you like Eddie Eddie do you like Eddie you sick fucking filthy joke do you
"Hey, hey, breathe, Rich. Breathe. I'm sorry for asking. Just breath, you're okay. I shouldn't have asked right now. You're okay", Beverly cradled him fiercely as Richie sobbed into her coppery hair.
They stayed like that till the cigarettes lost their amber hearts and Ben knocked lightly on the windowpane.
"Hey, guys- oh, um. Oh! Richie, are you okay?"
He fumbled to climb out beside them as Richie aggressively wiped his face, thankful that his breath had evened out, and Beverly leaned back until she only had an arm loosely around his neck.
"He's okay", she said.
"Are you-"
"He's okay, Ben", she smiled, reaching out a freckled hand. Ben hesitated but silently took it, pulling both of them up. They gingerly climbed their way back inside.
"Hey, fuckers, we're back", croaked Richie, quite convincingly, he thought.
Eddie scrambled off the bed and rushed at Richie, grasping his face between his hands and studying him closely.
"Uh…", he pushed him away feverishly. Richie really didn't want to have to explain why he was about to throw up all over him.
"Are you guys high right now? What the fuck?"
Eddie leaned over to squint at Bev and her equally red puffy eyes. She smiled guiltily, shrugging.
"I cannot fucking believe you right now, Richie", he pulled him towards the bed angrily, "I cannot believe you'd get high during a sleepover ."
"What, you wanted to try some, Eds?" He grinned weakly.
"I'm asthmatic, jackass", he pushed him in the chest and Richie allowed himself to fall onto the bed with a laugh.