Chapter Text
He didn’t think it would end this way.
Truthfully, he’d just thought he was being funny. Well, he was being funny. Hilarious, even.
His roommates, however, were unfortunately doomed in that they suffered from a lack of good humor and did not find his practical joke nearly as funny as he did. Ian, in particular. Richie Tozier, though, was burdened in the sense that he was undoubtedly the funny one in the bunch. So, he did what he could only see as his duty, and carried that burden for them. For them, he would do it all: crack the jokes and pull the pranks. It wasn’t his fault if they couldn’t take the heat... like that one quote about taking the heat in the kitchen. How’d that go again? “If you can’t take the heat, get out of the kitchen”? He’s not sure who said it first, but it must’ve been Guy Fieri. It sounds like something he would say.
Anyway, Ian could definitely not take the heat. That much was obvious as he screamed “that’s it! I’m moving back with my mom!” and waved his hands around like a madman. Richie held back a snort; of course, that clown lived with his mother. “You win Tozier,” Ian snarled, “I’m moving the fuck out of here by next fucking Monday,” Ian Bakersfield, his now ex-roommate (thank fuck), seethed as he threw his belongings into suitcases and empty boxes.
If anyone asked him, Richie would say he thought it was a gift from above. A blessing from the God he didn’t believe in. He was finally being rid of, what he thought, anyway, the worlds worst roommate. And plausibly, the world’s worst human being. Of all time. Besides like, Hitler, of course.
He really didn’t think he was to blame. Ian could’ve just laughed it off, sent an email blaming him or a hacker for the Pornhub subscription he sent to the entirety of Ian’s contact list. Besides, it was just a prank, a little jokey joke. No permanent harm was intended. Just some temporary humiliation. No one told Ian to go and get his panties in a bunch. He did that on his own, and Richie would not be held responsible for the way people reacted to the things he did.
Bill Denbrough, his best friend and at times pseudo-mother, was thoroughly unimpressed with Richie’s shenanigans. And though he could handle Richie Saran wrapping the toilet seat before Ian went to use it, switching all of his sparkling water to vodka (that he didn’t think was going to work—but Jesus, is he glad it did. He was laughing about it for a good three days), and he even handled the time Richie moved all of Ian’s furniture into the living room especially well. Richie had managed to get off with an unsatisfied eye roll. This, however—which must’ve been the last straw, according to Ian’s packed bags—sent Bill into a screaming fit. He was livid enough that he didn’t stutter as he screeched at Richie—not even once. Richie was sure he was seconds away from being murdered, and he probably would’ve been if it weren’t for Mike walking through the door. Good, gentle—“knight in shining armor, Michael Hanlon! Oh, good sir, please do save me, I’m afraid our Billy Boy is out for blood!” Richie cried in what was possibly the world’s worst cockney accent as he flung himself toward Mike, who stood still in the doorway, nonplussed.
Dramatically, because that’s the only way Richie Tozier ever did anything in life, he clung to Mike in an attempt to evade Bill’s fury. Mike, being the mediator that he is, put a hand between them and stopped Bill from what looked like attempting to rip all of Richie’s hair out.
“What the hell is going on? I leave for twenty minutes and you guys try to kill each other? Where is Ian? And why are there suitcases in the hallway?” Mike demanded. The perplexed expression on his face only intensified. He could not, for the life of him, understand what he had missed in the little time he’d been gone. When he left to get more toilet paper from the Walgreens down the street, everything had been peaceful.
Then, Ian checked his email.
It was all explained in good time. Richie admitted that he had, unknowingly, sabotaged Ian’s good name by addressing everyone in his contacts an email containing a free Pornhub subscription. He was proud of this one, he really was, even if his roommates were both glowering in his direction during the confession. Again, he plead the fifth. Ian didn’t have to react that way—screaming and flailing about as he threw his belongings together.
All over a simple email prank.
And people said Richie’s the drama queen.
—
“Come on, ’tis just a prank! Everyone gets those virus emails once in a while,” Richie defends himself the next day, waving it off.
Mike narrows his eyes. “Except it wasn’t a virus, it was you,” he frowns.
“Same fuh-fucking th-thing,” Bill grumbles from across the floor. He’s washing their dishes from the “We need to talk about what Richie did” dinner meeting they had just an hour before.
Believe it or not, it is not the first time they've had this meeting.
Richie shrugs, stands from the couch and plucks his phone from its spot on the coffee table. He has better things to do than be chided like a child, like attend the party his friend, Beverly Marsh, has invited him to later tonight. She’d been invited herself by some guy in her philosophy class, but (smartly) didn’t want to go alone. Apparently, Richie was the first person she thought of to accompany her. Admittedly, he is flattered, though not surprised. Parties are his expertise, after all. Well—parties and excellent pranks.
“Look, guys, I’m sorry, really. I didn’t think he was gonna get that upset,” he tells them with a guilty smile, and raises his palms to signify his surrender.
“Whether you did or not, it’s your responsibility to find his replacement,” Mike informs him with pursed lips and a stern expression. “Or you can pay the extra five hundred every month.”
Richie winces at that. He hardly makes a sufficient amount of money to cover his own portion of the rent every month. Working part-time at the record shop downtown and performing at the coffee place Bill works at every other weekend barely gets him enough to scrape by. Paying an additional five hundred dollars is not an option, and he knows this, but if he’s being totally honest, he isn’t too sure that he’s ready for another roommate. Ian was sent to them straight from hell, with his shiny shoes and stupid hair gel. The trust fund baby with temperament issues. The kid was a walking fucking cliché, and the experience had truly scarred Richie for the rest of his life.
Bill and Mike didn’t care for the kid either, so really, what Richie did was a public service. Honestly, he doesn't know why they aren’t at his feet, thanking him for his selfless favor. Without Ian, they can finally start doing fun things together in the comfort of their own home again. They won’t have to study at the library Mike works at just to avoid Ian squawking at them for being too loud. They won’t have to reluctantly invite him to join them on their quest to watch all eight of the Harry Potter movies when Freeform is having their monthly marathon. And never-fucking-again will they have to include him on their game nights, where he’d obnoxiously claim he knows the most about running businesses as he kicked their asses in Monopoly.
Ian Bakersfield is the fucking worst, and Richie has done everyone a favor by sending that email. Now, they can live their lives without ever having to hear his nasally voice, or see his stupid face again. He commends himself for that, even if no one else will.
Now, however, he’s stuck with the responsibility of finding a replacement to fill the empty room that Ian haphazardly left behind. The thought makes Richie beyond irritated, because if it were up to him (and if he had the money), Ian’s room would be transformed into a storage room for his guitars (he only has two, but still—they deserve better than Richie’s cramped closet), his worn music journals, and fading sheet music. It would fare much better in there, in fact, he might even be tempted to keep it clean if given the chance to make it his own. But, much to his dismay, he lives in the Real World, where he goes to school, works part-time, performs gigs now and then, and barely makes eight hundred dollars every month. So, his music room will have to wait.
He reiterates this to Beverly, who has since picked him up and is driving them to the party he is now anxiously awaiting. The burden of finding a new roommate is a heavy, uncomfortable weight on his shoulders, and he cannot wait to be rid of it for a few hours.
“Maybe it won’t be so bad, Rich,” the redhead beside him sympathizes in that soothing tone of hers, “you know, maybe you’ll find a really cool guy who, like, loves being a shithead as much as you do.” She’s teasing him, the smirk on her lips tells him so, but he pouts anyway.
“There’s only room for one shithead in the Tobrolon household, Beverly,” he rebukes with a frown and an all too serious look on his face, despite the mashup of all their names he's just made up on the spot. On any other day, he would be laughing.
Bev chokes back a laugh of her own. “Okay, okay, but I’m just saying. It could be nice,” she offers with another endearing smile. Richie curses her and her good-natured advice and soft eyes. She always knows how to calm him down, and it’s so incredibly frustrating. Sometimes he just wants to wallow in his anger and self-pity.
“You should just move in with us,” Richie tells her, “Bill loves you enough to lift his strict “no female roommates” policy, you know.”
“Aw, Rich, you know I would if I could but—”
“—Wes. Yeah, yeah,” he waves her off with a playful eye roll, “I know you’re never gonna leave that beefcake,” he recalls. She’s only told him about the guy a million or so times. They’re moving in together within the next month, and if Richie knew any better he’d think she actually loved the guy. But he doesn't have the headspace to get that analytic right now.
Beverly reaches over and gives his hand a light pat, but doesn't shake her eyes from the road. “Don’t worry, I’ll help make sure whoever you choose is half as great as me,” she giggles, and Richie does, too. He watches as she pulls up to a very newly built townhouse, and if the cars on the side of the street aren't a telltale sign of a house party gone wild, then the people streaming in and out every five seconds are.
“Alright, forget the roommate thing,” Richie breathes as she puts the car in park, “it’s time to get figgity figgity fucked up, Bevvy-lou!” He sings this as he stands from the car, stretches his long legs and pulls the petite girl toward him. Laughing, she wraps an affectionate arm around his waist and tells him to shut up as they approach the cobblestone townhouse.
—
At some point in the night—Richie isn't too sure when, considering the alarming amount of alcohol he’d consumed and weed he’d smoked—he and Bev decided that the best way to go about finding a new roommate was by posting an ad on Craigslist. In their defense, they were encouraged by Beverly’s friends, Ben Hanscom and Stanley Uris, who met them there and were just as drunk as they were. So, it was only expected that the four of them would come up with something that stupid.
And he only knows that this is exactly what they've done, because at 7:36 AM his phone rings from beside him, waking him from his drunken slumber. Begrudgingly, he slides his finger across the screen and presses the phone to his ear, answering to a very flustered Bill Denbrough.
“Ug—”
“You p-put an ad up on Craigslist, R-Richie? Fuh-fucking Craigslist?” He sputters in his ear, intensifying the pounding in Richie’s head. God, who has this much energy at 7:30 in the morning?
Groaning, Richie pulls the couch pillow over his head and tries to say “What the fuck are you talking about?” but it ends up sounding more like “Whumfuck you taffin bout?” due to the pillow he's just covered his face with.
“The a-ad on C-Craigslist f-f-for the room in our apartment? I’ve guh-gotten like, f-f-five c-calls from random dudes in the last hour, R-Rich!” Bill whines over the phone, and Richie is quick to lower the volume on his speaker—too much fucking talking, he thinks grumpily. “When M-Mike and I t-told you to f-fix it, this is not wh-what we meant,” he huffs. God, the disappointment in his voice reminds him of his father. And it is definitely too early for Richie to be thinking about his father.
“Umf,” he mutters against the warmth of the pillow and thinks of what to say next. He faintly remembers wiping tears from his eyes as he and Bev typed out the post sometime in the early hours of the morning…
Bill exhales sharply, and Richie can tell he is trying very hard to remain calm. Which is funny, because Bill is easily the most laid-back twenty-year-old he has ever met. With the exception of Mike, of course. However, there is one thing in this world that makes Bill boil over in a matter of seconds, and that just so happens to be the boy he is reprimanding on the phone at the crack of dawn. “R-Rough night?” He asks, but his tone is far from caring.
Richie sighs “umhum” into his phone and tries to ignore his raging headache. He would do anything for a burrito right about now. A groan sounds from the floor beside him, and when a pillow is chucked at his head, he knows that it’s Beverly. She’s rarely ever angry, but interrupting her sleep was sure to result in decapitation. Richie, unfortunately, knows this first hand.
“Puh-please just take it down,” Bill pleads, sounding much more relaxed about it than he did just moments before. “I r-r-really don’t want to talk to any more fuh-forty year olds,” he says, and abruptly hangs up. Oh, thank fuck, Richie thinks as he throws his phone onto the ground. Except, it doesn't sound like it hits the ground, and a muffled “ow!” emits from the floor below him.
Richie pulls the pillow from his face, and winces when he sees that he's nailed Stan in the stomach. “Sorry, Stanny,” he whispers an apology to him, to which Stan replies with a well-deserved middle finger. Stifling his giggles, he sits up on the couch, only to find that there is a girl he does not recognize using his legs as a pillow. He contemplates whether or not shaking her off would be rude, but decides that he doesn't care and does it anyway. Besides, he really has to pee. Or, maybe he has to puke. Or both. She mumbles something about him being a dick, but turns into the couch and says nothing else.
Grabbing his phone from its spot on Stan’s abdomen, Richie steps around Beverly and Ben (they’re cuddling, and Richie wonders if she’s thought about Wes at all since they stepped through the door last night) and tiptoes into the bathroom. It’s littered with red solo cups and some blonde extensions, but he’s got to pee so bad that he doesn't really care what condition the bathroom is in. Remembering what Bill said, he cringes and unlocks his phone.
“Time for damage control,” he mumbles as he taps on the Safari app and waits for it to load. When he’s done relieving himself, he flushes and sets the seat cover down so he can sit on it. He anxiously taps his foot against the liquor-stained linoleum floor and stares blankly at the screen.
He’s almost positive that Bill is overreacting, since he’s been known to do that since they were nine and Richie accidentally broke the stylist of his Nintendo DS. One second he was the calm, all-knowing and ever wise Bill he knew and love, the next he was scolding him like a parent does their child. Over the years, Richie’s come to learn that he is most definitely the child when it comes to his relationship with Bill.
The page loads a minute later—the service in the bathroom proving to be very faulty—and Richie clamps a hand over his mouth to keep himself from laughing out loud. Because there, in all its crossfaded glory, is the post that himself and Beverly had typed out just hours prior. He’s pretty sure he’s still a little fucked up because the title brings tears to his eyes.
The title of the ad reads: “Please Help: I need a roommate who can CUM FAST to my rescue. Loft Apartment in Portland, Oregon. SOS PLEASE SOMEONE HELP ME *Rihanna voice* RESPOND PRONTO. OFFER EXPIRES SOON” When Richie reads it all the way through, he can hardly contain the howling laughter that escapes his lips. The content of the post is nowhere near as ridiculous; it’s just a list of their names, and at the very bottom is Bill’s number. Probably Drunk Richie’s way of getting back at him. He snorts in spite of himself.
It’s no wonder Bill is only getting calls from what are most likely warranted pedophiles, the title is entirely provocative and nonsensical. Which is exactly the type of thing to attract the creeps of Portland. Again, Richie applauds himself—Beverly, Stan, and Ben, too. Who knew a bunch of drunk and high idiots could come together to create such a hilarious ad.
He reminds them of it when they're all sitting at a booth in Denny’s a few hours later. It’s a Sunday afternoon, and it’s bustling with hungover people like themselves and stressed waiters and waitresses. The noise makes Richie’s head explode with pain. The only thing that makes it worthwhile are the steaming pancakes on the plate in front him.
He is never partying again.
(That’s a lie.)
“Wait—let me read it,” Stan demands, reaching for Richie’s phone but not before he crinkles his nose at the shattered screen. It’s not all that surprising, Richie thinks, he’s accident prone! “Wow,” he snorts, “I really like the Rihanna lyrics.”
Beverly giggles and covers her face with her hands. “God, why haven’t you deleted that yet, Rich?” She shakes her head.
Shoveling a forkful of pancakes into his mouth, Richie chuckles and tries to say “it’s too funny to!” but ends up choking on his bite. Ben, who is sitting beside him, gives him a pat on the back and passes his water to him.
Richie gives him a thankful nod and takes a sip to help swallow the huge bite he’s failing to consume. “Too funny to,” he says finally, now that there isn't food lodged in his throat, “and look! I even found some normal guys who thought it was funny!” He gleams pridefully and shows her the few comments that are from seemingly normal people.
“Well if they don’t work out,” Stan begins but pauses to take a bite of his hash browns. He’s separated them from the rest of his food and uses a knife to cut them into little sections. Richie notes that it’s a very peculiar thing to do, especially when hungover, but finds it endearing all the same. “Our friend Eddie is looking for a place to live, now that Bev is moving in with Wes,” he suggests to Richie, though he’s looking at Bev, who is shaking her head vigorously.
Richie glances between them and narrows his eyes suspiciously. There’s something going unsaid. “Who’s Eddie? And why are you shaking your head, Miss Marsh?” He presses and points an accusatory fork full of eggs in her direction. “What, are you embarrassed of me?” He scoffs and places a hand on his chest, feigning offense.
Shooting a scowl in Stan’s direction, she takes a deep breath and turns to Richie. “No, never,” she reassures him with a soft smile, and Richie knows that she means it. “I just… don’t think you and Eddie would get along, is all.”
Suddenly, the offense he’d just faked moments ago becomes very real as it bubbles in the pit of his stomach. It’s not that Bev has done anything to hurt his feelings, because she hasn’t—not really, not on purpose. But he’s not stupid. He’s perfectly of aware of what she’s trying to say: Richie Tozier is an acquired taste—certainly not the for close-minded or easily insulted. He is crass and loud and scares most people away. This he knows all too well. It’s been the story of his life since before he can even remember. And he’s hurt by her words or lack thereof.
“Well, that might not be true,” the voice of reason, also-known-as Ben Hanscom chimes from his right. He’s wiping his hands off with his napkin and practically beaming over at Beverly. Richie wants to knock him upside the head for being so obvious, but discerns that Beverly is as oblivious as he is conspicuous. “They could. I’m honestly surprised they haven’t met, yet. Especially with how much we see Rich these days.”
Richie nods at that—he has been spending quite a lot of time with them lately. And he finds it entirely strange that they've never mentioned Eddie before now. Unless he just wasn't listening to them before. Which is definitely a possibility. He doesn't have the strongest attention span, never has. His music teacher used to tell him it was a wonder he learned to play at all, with how easily distracted he got during their private sessions. His parents were pretty sure he suffered from ADHD, but never went about getting a proper diagnosis. Figures.
Eyes wide and mouths clamped shut, Stan and Beverly glance between them again, though this time Stan is glaring at her and she is the one surrendering. Their silence is broken when Bev releases a breath of air through her nose. She’s thinking of what to say, that much is obvious. And now Richie is dying to know who this Eddie character is, and why the hell Beverly seems so convinced that they would not get along if they ever met.
“I can… maybe arrange a meeting,” she yields, “but I’m not sure…”
“It’ll be fine, Bev,” Stan interjects, and then looks to Richie with a grin. “You’re gonna love him.”
Richie blinks and settles into the leather seat. “Oh, I’m sure I will Stanny,” he smirks at Beverly, who is already giving him her signature “don’t you fucking dare, Tozier” look from across the table.
And God, is he wrong.
He does not love Eddie Kaspbrak—not one fucking bit.