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In the summer of 1993, every afternoon in Derry looked the same. Somewhere, a gang of kids threw bang snaps at squirrels. Somewhere, a housewife boiled hot dogs and dreamt of grad school. In Richie Tozier’s room, two guys listened to the radio and pined.
Today (like every day) Richie slouched against his headboard, half-deaf from the blaring radio on the nightstand, a pinched joint between needy lips. His left leg dangled off the bed and every few minutes brushed the old Rolling Stone in Eddie Kaspbrak’s hands. From the bed, Richie pined and smoked. From the floor, Eddie pined and coughed. And coughed again. He hit Richie’s leg with the back of his hand.
“Go open a window asshole, you’re slowly killing me.”
Richie grinned as he brought the joint back to his lips. “No can do spaghetti man, gotta leave proof I was here so your mom knows exactly where to find me tonight.”
“It’ll be hard to find you when you’re in juvie for attempted murder.”
Eddie slipped the magazine he’d been skimming back to the Playboy and MAD graveyard under Richie’s bed and pulled himself up. Stepping through a maze of beer cans and discarded clothes, he pushed his way to the window and hated himself for wasting another afternoon obsessing over the worst guy alive. Sure, Eddie would give him some credit—sometimes Richie would make the slight effort of at least stuffing his boxers into the closet. But the forgotten pack of barbecue corn nuts on the windowsill was a sinister reminder that Eddie’s feelings were spiraling way out of his control. Some other Eddie in some other world was spending the afternoon with someone neat, sexy, transparent. So why was this Eddie gasping for air out of a grimy window and praying that Richie Tozier was at least checking out his ass?
As Eddie pouted and pined and coughed a little less, Richie switched the station on his pocket radio and laughed as some groovy opening riff spilled out of the speaker.
“Oh fuck yeah. An oldie but always a goodie,” Richie said as he bobbed his head in time and turned up the volume. Without missing a beat, he started to sing along, in a voice that was low, raspy, and (god, Eddie hated to admit it) surprisingly sexy. Sure his talk was rough, but even Eddie wouldn’t deny it— the trash mouth could carry a tune. Eddie might have listened all the way through if Richie hadn’t tried to change the chorus, belting out, “Eddie, you’re a fine guy, what a good wife you would be.”
Richie wiggled his eyebrows and with a pleasant smile, Eddie chucked a corn nut at him, nailing him right in his left lens.
“You piece of shit,” Richie laughed, wiping his dusty glasses on the corner of his flannel. Eddie slipped onto the bed, arms resting loosely on his knees and back pressed to the wall, and turned his head to face Richie.
“Hey,” he said, with that lopsided smile and mischievous twinkle in his eye, voice a little breathy. Was it from the singing? The smoking? The fact that they were so close they could be kissing in half a second, if someone just made the move (maybe that last one was wishful thinking).
“I think you should start that band,” Eddie said, slowly, as though it was some sort of revelation, although it was something he’d definitely thought about before.
Richie looked surprised for a second before settling into a stupidly serious face that Eddie knew all to well, pressing his lips together to hold back a cocky smirk.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” Eddie nodded. “You’re not half bad. And I dunno, you get this stuff, all this music stuff. You’re good at it.”
Richie batted his eyelashes and put on some screechy, pseudo-feminine jersey accent. “Ah honey, ya makin’ me blush.”
“Just try to remember me when you’re washed up at 37,” Eddie said as he rolled his eyes.
“How could I forget my number one groupie?” Richie winked, taking one more puff before popping the roach in an old Altoids tin on the nightstand. It was quiet for a second as the song and the smoke faded away. There was something in Richie’s eyes, something Eddie had seen before (and missed before) and couldn’t even start to describe. But before Eddie could ask what it was, a high whistling sound accosted Eddie’s ears and Mariah Carey’s so-called “song of the summer” flooded the room in all its cheesy pop glory.
Richie’s face lit up, and as the radio played a song he would never have let Ben get away with listening too, he sighed, “God I love this song.”
“I take it all back, you know nothing about music,” Eddie said, and reached over Richie’s body to flip the station. Richie pushed back with full force, shoving him toward the wall and as far from the radio as possible. Eddie let out an exasperated laugh and was about to fight back when he realized Richie’s body was pressed up against his, their faces inches apart.
Hair flopping into his eyes and grin bright, Richie said, “What, not gonna fight—“ before he processed the situation and let his words fall. His eyes flickered down to Eddie’s lips and back up, and he breathed in sharply.
“Hey,” Eddie said softly.
“Hey yourself.” Richie said back, but this time his smile was loose, his voice as thick as when he’d been singing.
“Do you want to...?” Eddie let the question hang in the hot air for a second, and prayed that it wasn’t going to ruin his afternoon, his summer, his life.
“So badly,” Richie breathed, and it was over. The first attempt was too desperate, with bumped noses, knocked teeth, glasses thrown sideways. After a second of readjustment, in which the glasses were lost, they tried again. Round two was a success: soft kisses, ruffled hair, lost flannel. Passionate, perfect, and so worth the wait—until Eddie pulled back.
“Hey Richie,” Eddie whispered, his hand pressed softly against Richie’s chest. Richie‘s eyes were half-lidded and his thick hair stuck entirely up on one side as he tried to look at Eddie through a haze of confusion, lust, and truly terrible vision.
“We’re not making out to Mariah fucking Carey.” Eddie clicked off the radio and leaned back in. With a small smile, Richie complied.
In the summer of 1993, every afternoon in Derry looked the same. But not in Richie Tozier’s room.