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It starts with the thrum of a beat, the dark, molasses groan of an old song playing through the ceiling. It starts with a boy with the red outline of a slap engraved on his cheek, with freckles, with a mouth that snaps and chars the words as they fall from his tongue. It starts with Eddie Kaspbrak.
Maggie and Richie are lying on his bed, side by side, staring at the ceiling. They're both still wearing their shoes - old, clunky combat boots and old, yellow chucks. Their hair sprawls across the comforter, a curly black-brown mass next to a grey and white and brown one. Richie's glasses are somewhere near his left hand and Maggie's long feather earrings with them, remnants. His t-shirt, laundry-soft, advertises the White Stripes with two people back to back, their arms crossed. Their jackets are pooled around their shoulders, tucked uncomfortably beneath them, tugging at their shirts. His jean jacket is huge and light and covered in patches, mismatched and random, everything from pink and red flowers down one sleeve to a bisexual pride flag stretching across his shoulder blades to a tube of lipstick on his breast pocket. Her jacket is old, worn, buttery brown corduroy and grey suede elbow patches. It's hideous in a fashionable kind of way. It's Eddie's, and it smells like his raspberry shampoo.
Maggie smells like flowers, from the florist's and her fingers are stained green with chlorophyl. He smells like cigarettes and the new, kinda honey cologne he's been wearing.
She taps her fingers against her stomach. She bunches the fabric of her black blouse, absently fiddles with the buttons. The tension is easing, crackling with Richie scrambling to find the right words.
She's coming in 1230 flight, the moonlight wings reflect the stars that guide me toward salvation
He sighs and scrubs his hands down his face.
I bless the rains down in Africa, gonna take some time to do the things we never have
"Ma?"
She keeps her gaze on the ceiling. "Yeah, Rich?"
"I have something to tell you."
"What is it?"
"I think I'm bi."
There's a beat of silence, before she's smothering her laughter with her palm, snorting. His rumbly laugh follows just after, and he elbows her in the side, trying to quench his giggles.
They fall quiet and then start laughing again, rinse and repeat, three or four times, before she finally says, "So now that we've established you're just as queer as your lovely mother - are you gonna tell me what's wrong?" Her voice is a little sharp. He's been smoking more, nearly two packs a day, sitting on his window ledge, one leg dangling just outside, listening to her crackling vinyl. He cracks fewer jokes and he doesn't complain when she asks for help at the florist's or with the dishes.
He shifts. "It's Eddie."
She rolls her eyes and resists the urge to slap him upside the head. "No fucking way, Rich, really? I had no idea."
He huffs. "Fuck off, ma."
She elbows him. "So? What the fuck's going on with the two of you? The first day Eddie got here you two were all over each other, what fucking changed?"
Richie squirms. He pulls a lighter and a pack of Camels from his jacket. She takes the offered cigarette, already lit, and tilts her head back as she takes a drag. The smell will stick to her fingers and her mouth, and Eddie will scrunch his nose later. Stan will clean the dishes silently, raising an unimpressed eyebrow when she tries to help. She smokes when she's stressed. He'll sit her down after the others have gone to bed, one or two in the morning, and pour her a raspberry cider. He'll drink a cheap beer - Bill's. He'll wait until she's ready to talk, and then listen and offer suggestions when she asks for them. She doesn't want Stan to worry, but Richie needs someone next to him.
"Rich, c'mon," She says. She's pushing.
He blows smoke in a column above him and somehow makes it looks like a gesture soaked in irritation. "Eds has got a lot of..." He waves his hands vaguely. His mouth moves around his words but he doesn't let any sound out.
She takes a drag. "Words, Rich."
"Remember when we went to The Blacklight last week?"
"In New York?" She wrinkles her nose. "Not all of it, but mostly, yeah."
"Eds - Eddie picked someone up. A guy."
Maggie turns her head to look at him. Her eyes flit over his features - crooked nose, clunky glasses, big mouth, a disaster of curly hair. She forgets how much he looks like her, some days. Today is not one of those days.
"Does it bother you?"
"No!" Richie says. He digs his forefinger and thumb into his tear ducts and takes another drag. "I mean, it's his body, ma, he can do what he likes with it."
She nods, sips at the filter of her cigarette. "He's hot, smart and feisty - why wouldn't he want to have sex with someone at a club?"
Richie clears his throat. "Right." His voice is barely there, choked off.
"It bothers you that someone else was with Eddie because..."
Richie sighs, a harsh, sad thing out his nose. "Ma."
"Oh, don't pretend you're not half in love with them. He's a badass who likes to argue and who's almost as smart as you, and who doesn't put up with your bullshit. He's gorgeous, loud and tiny. He's gay as fuck." Her mouth is wrapped around a cigarette and a laugh, and her eyes are bright with bemusement. "Oh, yeah, Eddie's not your type at all."
Richie groans, smiling. "Fuck off, ma!"
I'm gonna love ya until you hate me and I'm gonna show ya what's really crazy you shoulda known better than to mess me with me harder
Maggie freezes. "Is he listening to Iggy Azalea?" She snorts. "So much blackmail material."
Richie smiles. "Apparently it's what was playing the first time he won a fight."
She makes a noise in the back of her throat, a little question, take another drag.
"He went to his first club when he was fifteen and some guy grabbed his ass after Eddie said he wasn't interested and he decked him and broke his nose."
Maggie cackles, tossing her head back, hacking through the smoke filtering through her mouth and nose. Richie grins.
"I love our little firecracker." She grins.
"Me too," Richie says, soft. He looks tilts his head back to stare at the ceiling.
She almost groans, irritated with her son's angst. He's twenty-three, he should know how to deal with boys and feelings, already, but no.
"I still don't understand what happened with you two, Rich. You were playing some serious tonsil hockey - now you're lying on your bed with your mom, smoking two packs a day while your boy listens to Iggy Azalea and Toto."
"Ma," Richie whines, draws the syllables out for too long. Maggie sits up and pokes him with her shoe, leaning against his headboard. He shifts away from her foot. She follows, poking him harder.
"Richard Michael Tozier--"
"I'm a virgin!" Richie snaps, sitting up and fixing his mother with a glare, his cheeks pink. He flicks the cigarette butt onto the ground and fishes for another.
She nods to the ash and paper on the floor. "I'm going to give you shit about that later." She pauses. "Who cares you're a virgin, Rich? I can't believe that the reason you haven't been dating Eddie is 'cause you're chicken. Get up there."
"Ma--"
"Quit 'ma-ing' me and go upstairs before Eddie's playlist restarts and we get stuck with more Rihanna." Richie doesn't move. "Go."
She shoves him out of bed with big hands, and snatches his two packs of cigarettes. She rattles them, and lays back on his bed, her hair a waterfall and a halo.
He stares at her.
He looks at her hands - broad, nearly the size of his, stained with green, splattered with ink. Those hands have held him, high fived him, fed him. They've left bruises and blood on his father, on her husband. Those hands have raised him and adopted six others, held their hands and wiped their tears and asked them if they're alright, pushed them when they needed pushing.
He looks at her smile, lazy, round. She doesn't look forty, even with the silver and white that streak her hair and the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes. She doesn't have a mother's wide hips. She's built just like him - tall and thin and strong.
She wears high-waisted skinny jeans and white blouses and other people's clothes and commands everything she does - from divorce to raising children to living as her own.
He looks at her wide green eyes, their only varying feature, and knows that she'll always be next to her when he needs.
"Thanks, ma."
She winks at him and unfurls headphones from her pockets. "Maybe put some music on up there."
He flushes and flips her off, disappears through his door and up their wooden stairs. He toes his boots off just outside Eddie's door and raises his hand to knock.
The door swings open.
He blinks. Eddie is standing there in a pair of grey girl briefs that cling to his thighs and a pink hoodie, sleep soft. His hair is messed and his cheeks are flushed. His chest heaves a little. Richie swallows. Eddie's eyes track the showy movement of his throat, heavy.
Eddie raises an eyebrow and crosses his arms over his chest, leans his hip into the doorframe. "I thought we weren't talking, Richard."
Richie looks at his feet. His throat is filled, filled to the breaking with his heart and his stomach and all the words he wants to say. A small hand brushes his curls away from his forehead, trails down his cheeks to hold his chin and jaw.
"Why did you run?"
He tugs his lower lip into his mouth, chews on it until the iron and sugar taste of blood fills his mouth. Richie raises his eyes, catches Eddie's. His eyes are so dark like this. Blood drips onto his chin.
"Eds," He says.
The other boy shakes his head and pulls on Richie's chin, tugs him closer. "Tell me." He traces the blush that spreads over sharp, freckled cheeks.
"I've never--" He falters, voice cracking.
Eddie smirks. Richie hears his lips peel from his gums and his teeth. "Never?"
Richie shakes his head.
"Not even with a girl?" Eddie murmurs, his thumb brushing through the blood on Richie's lip. Richie shivers.
"No," He says, soft soft soft.
"You better come in, then, 'Chee."
Eddie leaves him in his doorway, in jeans and a t-shirt and a jean jacket, his glasses crooked, his cheeks flushed, blood dripping from his lip to his chin. Richie watches his ass and his thighs as he walks towards his speaker, as he bends over to change the song. His mouth goes dry and he looks away. Something quiet starts off, a woman's voice, filters through the speakers.
Driver, roll up the partition, please
"I--"
Eddie looks at him. "Close the door and come here."
Richie does, stumbles forward a bit, until he's six inches from Eddie, whose head is tilted back to look him in the eye.
"Sit down."
Richie does, sinks into the bed, looks up at Eddie. Fingers curl in his hair and tug him back until his throat strains and it aches not to move. A mouth grazes over the corner of his mouth, down to his jaw, to nip at his ear. Richie gasps and feels a smile press into his neck, until there's a sharp sting of teeth and a suction and he moans.
"Eds--"
"Shh, Rich," Eddie says, presses a kiss to the hollow of his throat.
He pulls on dark hair and Richie whines, his hands coming up to hold Eddie's hips. Eddie sinks into his lap, his knees on either side of his thighs, caging him in, presses them together. They're both half hard in their jeans and Eddie surges forward, licks into Richie's mouth, slow and deep, wet. He knots Richie's hair and sucks on his tongue, licks over his teeth and the roof of his mouth until his body, lean and long, goes soft. Eddie smiles. He drags his nose along Richie's jaw, and grinds his hips down, slow circles.
"Fuck, Eds."
Eddie doesn’t say anything, just pulls at Richie’s jacket until he can drop it onto the floor, and then does the same to his shirt. He mouths at his collarbone, down to his nipple to catch it between his teeth and tug. Richie whines. He pushes at Richie’s shoulders, settles him back into the bed, himself onto Richie’s hips.
Take all of me, I just wanna be the kinda girl you like
Richie sits up on his elbows, presses his mouth onto Eddie's, bites into his lower lip and pulls, hard. The low beat thrums through the room, and the warmth of Eddie's lamp is the only light in the room, casting them both in yellow.
"Eds."
"Hush, 'Chee. Lemme take care of you."
Richie whimpers and tilts his head back as Eddie dragged his mouth from his cheek to his jaw to his throat and chest.
Eddie reached for his belt buckle and grins as Richie moans.
It had only taken the echoing thrum of Partition filtering through the ceiling for Maggie to switch from Richie's room to downstairs. If Beyoncé is anything, she's an artist made for marathon sex, and the absolute, very last thing Maggie wanted to hear paired with the slam of a headboard against a wall, especially if her son was involved.
Stan sits at the kitchen table, a textbook open in front of him. He hums every few moments, and straightens his pencils. Maggie reaches for a mug, flicking on the coffee pot. She pauses, and looks at the mugs. They've been straightened, every handle pointing to the right - for easy access - except for one row, which was pointed to the left - for Bill, who was left handed. They're sorted in a colour gradient of white through grey through black, to the miscellaneous ones collected by Richie and Ben on trips. Four precise rows. Maggie looks at Stan. Four pencils in front of him, four pieces of paper beneath the lined paper his pencil skirts across.
tap tap tap tap
tap tap
tap tap tap tap
Four taps, two taps, four taps - even numbers. Maggie leans her hip against the counter and flicks the coffee marker off and on four times. She puts her coffee beneath it (slam) and presses start (click), knocks her knuckles against the counter twice (knock). She's seen Stan this anxious before, his obsessive 'checker' habits playing out in everyday things, but it's rare, and last time, they didn't know each other well enough for him to be comfortable explaining it to her. Knocking her knuckles against the counter again, she times them with the taps of his pencil against the page.
He pauses in the movement of his pencil, and places it parallel to the other three. He shifts his textbook an inch to the right before he closes it.
He stands. He looks at her, standing and mirroring her position against the counter. His gaze flickers to the cupboard, now missing a mug. His fingers tap against the counter.
She's read somewhere that you're not supposed to encourage a loved one's obsessive-compulsive symptoms, but he's so anxious and so consumed by the rituals that she needs an in. She raises an eyebrow.
He nods, slowly, four precise movements of his chin up and down. He's wearing white and grey, with black socks.
"What can I do?" She asks.
slurp, dribble, clink
She pulls her cup from the coffee maker and blows on it. Stan wordlessly opens the fridge and hands her the creamer. She pulls the honey off the top shelf, standing up on her tiptoes and sets it carefully on the counter. He hands her a spoon and nods when she says, "Thank you."
Lifting the coffee to her mouth, she watches him watch the movement of her hands.
"I take Zoloft, to help."
Maggie nods. She picks it up for him the days he can't.
"It took years to find the right dose - and my dad was always convinced that I was just a clean kid, extra organized." He picks up her coffee and takes a sip, cradles it against his chest and taps it. "I - I was wondering if I could start cee-bee-tee."
It takes her a moment to recognize what he means. "Oh, cognitive behavioural training, right?"
He nods. "I know it can be expensive, but--"
She steals her coffee back and takes a hasty sip before pressing it back into his hands. "None of that, Stanley."
He ducks his head. "Thank you, Ma--"
Fuck! Rich!
There's a beat of silence, Stan and Maggie's gazes fixed on the ceiling. He takes a long sip of coffee. "I had the urge to sort everyone's socks, earlier," Stan says mildly, "Richie has seventeen pairs, with only three that match. I hope he has the decency to put one of them on his doorknob."
Maggie snorts. "Unlikely."
Stan tilts his head to drain her coffee. "Indeed. Want to come count how many teenagers with inappropriate sideboob there are at the café?"
"Stanley!" Maggie laughs, putting the mug in the dishwasher. "I'd like nothing more."
He smiles and goes to grab their coats from the front hall.
As they head out the door, Stan looks back at the kitchen table and the organized sprawl of papers and pencils and textbooks. He exhales out his nose and follows Maggie to the car. He unlocks and locks the front door twice, and doesn't ask Maggie to double-check that her seatbelt is fastened.
He rests his hand on hers while she shifts gears, squeezes once, and pulls away.
She smiles.