Chapter Text
“Meet me at the Barrens at 5pm.” That was all the note (neatly taped to Richie Tozier’s locker) said. No mention of who it was from but that was unnecessary. The handwriting, which had ironically always reminded Richie of a doctor’s scrawl, could have only belonged to Eddie Kaspbrak. That left one question unanswered though, and that was why? Why would Eddie want to see him on his last day in Derry when they hadn’t talked properly for months?
As he mulled this over, the bell signalling the end of school rang. He almost didn’t hear it at first – it wasn’t until some eighth grader shoved into him, knocking his books to the floor, that he snapped back to reality. “Hey! Come back here, asshole!”
There was no reply. The eighth grader had disappeared into the crowd and Richie was left bracing himself against his locker door to avoid being crushed. At least, he thought to himself, he didn’t have to look out for Henry Bowers any more. That was a blessing.
And, speaking of a blessing, there was Eddie across the hall. He was slouched against the water fountain (not touching it – it was a breeding ground for germs) clutching his aspirator in one hand and his bag in the other. The usual worried expression was plastered across his face and Richie felt a swell of affection. “EDS! EDDIE!”
Eddie looked up, startled. He was slightly red (well, it was hot, Richie reasoned to himself) and he clutched his aspirator tighter, as if dropping it meant certain death. “DON’T CALL ME EDS, RICHIE! YOU KNOW I DON’T LIKE THAT!”
“SORRY!”
But Eddie was already gone. Richie didn’t blame Eddie for not talking to him. It had been two years since It but he got the uneasy feeling It would never truly leave. He’d wake up in a cold sweat some nights, heart racing as he relived the events of summer 1958. The funny thing was, Richie supposed, the shared trauma was what both united and disbanded the Losers Club. How could you stand to look at one another when what you were really seeing was It?
Waiting for 5pm was torturous. Eddie regretted the note as soon as he’d seen Richie in the halls (he was grinning! was that a sign?) and he’d regretted it even more on the walk home.
The graffiti on the wall was what really did it. “DERRY FAGGOTS MUST DIE” it proclaimed, in bright red paint. Eddie’s chest tightened and his pulse began to race. He’d never considered the fact he was one of Them – the queers and fags that everybody seemed to hate so much – and the thought of it terrified him beyond belief. There had to be something wrong with him. Normal boys didn’t get crushes on other boys. Even if Richie was funny and cute and – what was he thinking? It was wrong and nasty and disgusting.
Still, he couldn’t leave Richie waiting at the Barrens. He’d go along and pretend everything was normal – throw in some talk about flirting with Bev or someone – and give him a decent goodbye. It was simple, really. No confessions about crushes, no writing haikus about how wonderfully Richie’s glasses sparkled in the sunlight or how terrible but endearing his Voices were, and absolutely no crying.
As Eddie was coming face-to-face with the idea of Sexuality, so was Richie.
He’d been running the contents of the note over and over in his head as he packed. Meet me at the Barrens at 5pm. What did it mean (aside from the obvious)? Was it just a goodbye? The thought of just a goodbye – nothing more than that, just a “well it’s been nice knowing ya!” – filled him with inexplicable disappointment. To put it plainly, he liked Eddie. He liked Eddie the way Ben liked Bev. The way Bill liked Bev. The way that pretty much everyone in the Losers Club (except maybe Mike, who was too busy reading, and Stan, who seemed to be more interested in grackles than girls) liked Bev. That wasn’t much of a problem. The problem was – he liked girls too. And as far as Richie Tozier knew, that wasn’t a thing that happened. You liked one or the other, no half-measures. He could deal with liking boys (if only because he knew that Henry Bowers used to be against it, and if you were something the old Bowers disliked then it meant you were pretty good) but girls and boys? That was a little too much.
He’d briefly contemplated not going to the Barrens to save himself the disappointment, but he didn’t want to hurt Eddie’s feelings. The way he saw it, if he and Eds had a couple of chucks on his last day in Derry (even if it didn’t end as romantically as he was hoping) then it would still make for a decent send-off.
Eddie’s second regret of the day was not choosing a better place to meet. The Barrens was such a good place to go to say goodbye to one of your closest friends (so close, Eddie thought bitterly, that he’d made the stupid choice of ignoring him because of his own messed up feelings). Try and forget the fact that you’re standing above the burial place of most of Its victims, Eds! Try and forget the fact that if you kiss Richie (and you won’t because that’s sinful) you’ll be kissing Richie riiiight above where Victor Criss and Belch Huggins died horrifically!
He’d arrived early, before he lost his nerve. His mother had been against him going out – she called Richie Tozier a “no good motormouth who’ll only corrupt you, Eddie!” Eddie thought it was a bit late to be corrupted by him, if he was leaving tomorrow, but he’d realised his mom wasn’t the most logical lady. It was only after he’d packed his bag with five types of multivitamins, his antihistamines, his aspirator, his spare aspirator, the names and addresses of all the medical practitioners in a five-mile radius, and promised to wear four layers (vest, shirt, overshirt, coat) to prevent flu and/or pneumonia (never mind the fact it was the summer) that she even considered letting him go out.
“Eds!” Eddie turned, red in the face (a 2-in-1 combo of blush and the fact he was overheating), and tried to remain composed.
“You’re early, Richie.”
“You’re early too, Eds!” Richie pushed his coke-bottle glasses up his nose and grinned lopsidedly. “Anyway, what’s this about?”
Eddie sat down, trying not to think about all the germs and diseases festering in the grass. He rummaged through his bag for his aspirator and clutched in one white-knuckled hand. “I have a confession to make.” And there was Regret #3 for Eddie Kaspbrak.
“A confession, huh?” Richie remained standing, hands in pockets, staring out over at the Kenduskeag. “You confessing your undying love for me or something?”
Eddie’s chest tightened. He barely managed to say “Beep-beep, Richie!” before his asthma (no, not asthma!) took over. His vision blurred and it was as if he’d forgotten how to breathe. He felt as if he was dying and he couldn’t reach his aspirator and-
And there was Richie, gently tugging Eddie’s coat off to make it easier for him to breathe. There was Richie, passing him his aspirator. There was Richie reassuring him. Slowly the world came back into focus. “I’m so goddamn sorry, Eds,” Richie was saying, although to Eddie it felt somewhat faraway. He was too focused on the fact Richie’s arm was around his shoulder. “I should learn to keep my trap shut.”
“No, it’s- it’s okay.” Eddie tried for a smile. “I have something to say to you. You can say yes, or you can say no, and you can leave after I’ve said it, or you can stay. But please,” Eddie’s voice dropped to a whisper and he looked away, “if you say no, don’t tell anyone what I said. Okay?”
“Okay. Gotcha, old pal.”
“Richie, I… I think I’m in love with you.”