Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Life is short. Especially if you drink and smoke as much as I do.”

A chorus of laughter rippled through the crowd.

Richie Tozier waited, microphone clenched tightly in his hand as he took several steps across the brightly-lit stage. 

He focused on a spot in the middle-distance, a shape slightly to the left of the glaring spotlight, and took a deep breath, shoving down the nerves swimming in the depths of his stomach. 

You’re Trashmouth, not pukemouth, Tozier. Keep it together. 

The familiar voice rang in the back of his mind, forcing him to swallow down the bile creeping up his throat with a grimace. 

“I learned just how short life is only last year. When...when my childhood friend died.”

His voice was quieter than he would have liked, but not as quiet as the silence that met those words. 

He waved a hand, trying and failing for dismissive, “Don’t worry, this is still stand-up comedy, not sit-down depression.”

A beat. 

“I know, I know, not my best, but give me a break, I’ve had a rough year.”

He snorted a little, taking a couple of more steps, gaze focused out into the crowd that he could barely see. 

That’s not a surprise, four eyes. 

“This friend, he was such an annoying little turd,” Richie rolled his eyes for affect, knowing that the cameras were broadcasting his ugly mug up on the giant, high definition TV monitors above him.

“He was this tiny motherfucker, like if Marty McFly had even less of a growth spurt and even more of a desire to bang his mom.”

Louder chuckles washed like a wave toward him as he switched his microphone to his other hand. 

“I mean, this kid had more issues than The Walking Dead ,” Richie winked, clicking his fingers toward the audience, “and that was my token joke for the millennials in the room.”

Another chorus of laughs at that. 

He cupped his hand to the side of his mouth and stage-whispered into the mic, “Seriously though, Kirkman, if you’re watching this, from one professional to another, call it a day, man. Zombies just aren’t scary anymore. Gormless idiots with body-odor issues and questionable eating habits? Fuck, that’s just described every hipster in L.A.”

The answering laughter was the loudest yet. 

He shrugged, “But anyway, my friend, he was this itty-bitty rage machine. Like what didn’t get this kid riled up was shorter than Donald Trump’s wang. So, naturally, me being...well, me,” he winked conspiratorially, “I relished in pushing all the little shit’s buttons like he was my favourite game at the arcade.” 

He paused, as if in afterthought, “My actual favourite videogame was Street Fighter, by the way. Top of the leaderboard from ‘87 to ‘89, three summers in a row. And my streak probably woulda continued had I not moved out of my shitty hometown. And you know...not discovered there was something a hell of a lot more interesting I could’ve been doing with my right hand. Cheaper too.” 

A booming laugh from somewhere in the front row made him smirk. 

“That guy knows what I’m talkin’ about.” 

He paused.

“Darts.”

The same booming laugh only grew louder, dozens of others joining it.

“What?” Richie asked, all faux-innocence, “What were you guys thinking? I’ll have you know, you’re looking at Cali’s Youngest Darts Champ—” he snorted, his shoulders shaking with mirth, “Nah, sorry. Even I don’t believe me. Yeah, fine, I meant jerking off. The five knuckle shuffle. Milking the monster. Boppin’ the one-eyed weasel—what, you really thought you’d get through a Richie Tozier gig without at least one joke about my penchant for waxin’ the carrot?”

He snorted as the laughter only kept getting louder, “I’m full of these, folks. Burpin’ kojak, jackin’ the beanstalk, jerkin’ the gerkin, and my personal favourite...punchin’ the clown upside down.”

Richie basked in the jovial sounds of the audience for a moment, eyes lowering to the floor.

“Fuckin’ clowns, man. Always hated ‘em. Eddie did too.”

He paused as the laughter died down, running a hand through his hair. 

“That’s my friend. Eddie. The short kid with a shorter fuse who I loved riling up more than anything,” he smiled gently, “Well, almost anything.”

His hand tightened on the microphone, his palm slick with nerves as he tried to continue, his throat noticeably dryer. 

That’s what the water’s for, dumbass. 

He reached out and clasped the glass in his free hand, taking a sip, willing his forehead to not break out in beads of sweat under the hot stage lights. 

Can’t look like you just got done fuckin’ my mom on your big Netflix show, Rich.

His smile came back as he lowered the glass back down onto the stool, forcing his eyes back out into the theatre. 

“I loved him most.”

The words felt like they rang throughout the room, but deep down he knew that they didn’t. Not any more than the rest of his routine did, anyway. Still, admitting that, out loud, for the first time to more than himself, felt giant. Momentous. Something his thirteen year old self could never even dream of lest he thought it was Pennywise fucking with him. 

But now...admitting what he felt for Eddie Kapsbrak for nearly thirty years, even when he couldn’t remember him, was one of the easiest things in the world. 

Ain’t life a bitch?

“Yeah, I adored that little shithead, right up until the day he died, still do,” the words fell from his lips like a waterfall now, “But we lost touch, me, Eds, and the rest of our group, over the years. But last year—last year, we were brought back together, in a way that if I were more of a hippie and less of a cynical fuck, I would say could only have been by fate.”

He could feel hundreds of pairs of eyes on him, watching his every move. 

Well what else would they be doing, fuckwad? Flying kites?

“And suddenly, there he was. Little Eddie Spaghetti from middle school. Still a shortass, short-fused, hypochondriac, just how I remembered. And it didn’t take us long to fall back into old habits,” Richie paused, scratching his chin, “namely me annoying the shit out of him and him trying not to blow a gasket. Needless to say, we both failed. Miserably.” 

Chuckles melded together in a pretty sweet harmony. One Richie felt like he could listen to forever. 

Gettin’ soft in your old age, Trashmouth? And here I thought you were always rock hard.

“He died a few days later.”

The chuckles abruptly stopped, a silence echoing throughout the room. 

Richie took a breath, gaze more intent on the crowd, seeking out the four familiar faces that he knew were silently cheering him on.

His hand began to shake.

He gripped the microphone tighter until it stopped.

“After nearly thirty years of ‘I fucked your mom’ jokes, and ‘isn’t it hard being a straight, white man in middle America’ jokes, and shitty ‘I got caught masturbating to my girlfriend’s friend’s Facebook page’ jokes, I was reunited with the love of my pathetic fucking life, only for him to die less than a week later. Never knowing how I—”

Richie broke off, eyes stinging even after a year as he gasped in a breath of air, winded from the stream of words that he had kept bottled up for who the fuck knew how long. But he wasn’t done. Its like they say, in for a pennywise—

Pretty sure that’s not how that phrase goes, asshat. 

“And yeah, you heard me right. When I say love, I’m not talkin’ a ‘no homo, I love you man, bromance’ kinda thing. I’m talkin’ full homo. Gayer than RuPaul fucking Elton John on a unicorn made of rainbows kinda homo.”

A surprised burst of laughter followed that, the audience clearly having recovered from the initial shock of one of America’s most ‘everyman’ comedians outing himself to an gathering of nearly a thousand people, while being filmed for a streaming service. 

Richie's heart hammered in his chest, his ears ringing as he continued, a little quieter, “So, yeah. In...in case it wasn’t clear. I’m queer,” he held up his hands, “Sorry, sorry, I could never resist a rhyme. I’m only human. A gay one. Just so we’re all on the same page.”

And there it was. Out for the whole world (or those with a Netflix subscription, anyway) to see. 

His oldest secret. 

It was never dirty, though. 

Nothing about how he felt about Eddie, could ever be. 

I’d never allow it. 

His heart was no longer racing, his palms no longer sweating. 

He felt lighter than he had in years. 

Like my mom stopped sitting on your chest?

“Eddie was the one who gave me my nickname,” Richie smirked with a shake of his head, trying not to let himself get overwhelmed by what he just admitted, “Richie ‘Trashmouth’ Tozier. I hadn’t heard it over two decades, before I got a phone call from an old friend and it all came flooding back.”

He chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck, “I threw up that night. Right at the start of my show, I’m sure you guys remember, some of you were probably there. If so, sorry.  Never mix bourbon and childhood trauma—anyway, it was all over TMZ...‘Tozier blows chunks nearly as hard as he does his show.’ Not their most clever title, if I’m honest. But they’re hardly going for a Pulitzer.”

Murmurs of agreement flitted through the crowd. 

“So we all met up, me, Eddie, and the rest of middle school gang. And these fuckers, I swear, talk about giving a guy a complex. One of them, is like a super successful novelist, who writes shit I couldn’t even dream of; another looks like a fucking GQ model and Jay Ryan had a baby that has a talent for building skyscrapers; another is this jacked as shit genius who reads more books in a week than I have my entire life; another is a gorgeous designer with more style in her pinky than I have in my entire body—and then there was Stan, the empty seat at our table.”

He sighed, “Even though he couldn’t be with us, I knew he was still the best. The best friend, confidant, and yeah—I’m dangerously close to Golden Girls territory here, I know, but yeah. That was us. The Losers Club. That's what we called ourselves. ‘Embracing our place on the fringes of society in small town America’ or whatever the fuck we told ourselves back then. Not the most original, I know, but hey,” Richie shrugged, throwing up his hands, “I never was.”

You had your moments. 

He took a shaky breath, “It’s true, though. I never was original. I...I didn’t write my own material. Something Eddie found out pretty fucking quickly. And that—he knowing that, almost scared me as much as him finding out I had a 27 year old, heart-boner the size of Texas for him.”

Richie leaned a little of his weight on the stool, practically feeling his new agent boring holes into the side of his skull from backstage. He had to fight hard to keep that little admission into the show. His unorginality, not his homosexuality. 

Wonders never cease.

“So,” he stood up a little straighter, leveling his gaze back outward, fighting the urge to fold his arms, “when he got in an accident and died a few days later, I made a promise. To him. And to myself.”

He could practically taste the anticipation in the room. Knew that somewhere, out there, was Bill, Ben, Bev and Mike, they the only ones in the know. He thought of killer clowns and R + E and things left unsaid. 

It’s time, Richie.

He stopped at the edge of the stage, stared out over the crowd, blinking against the bright spotlight, and in that moment, he could almost swear his saw a familiar figure in the distance, watching on, seeming so much larger than life than his 5’9” height ever truly showed.

Richie spoke out, loud and clear, hand steady on the microphone, “I promised no more secrets. No more hiding who I am. No more letting others speak for me. So here I am,” he rolled his shoulders, tilting his head, “I’m gay. I didn’t used to write my own material, but I do now. It took a reunion, a death, and a hell of a lot of talkin’ trash, but I’m finally living the life I wanna live.”

Thanks, Eds. For everything.

He took a deep breath, feeling every eye, both human and mechanical on him, the soft presence of pretend-Eddie, that had been a constant, snarky companion since he started this tour, lingering somewhere in the back of his mind, mingled with his own voice, battling it at any given opportunity. Just like he always did.

“So, if you can accept that, can accept Richie ‘Trashmouth’ Tozier and his zany, weird and sometimes sad shit, then I just have one thing to say to you—”

He waited a beat. Then two. 

Overdramatic as always, Rich.

“Welcome to The Losers Club, assholes.”

Come cry with me on Tumblr. Also, I just posted another more cheery Reddie fic here.

Chapter Text

“Welcome to The Losers Club, assholes.”

A thunderous chorus of applause, laughter and cheering followed those words. 

Richie briefly closed his eyes, letting the warmth, the acceptance from the crowd wash over him. He wished, not for the first time, that he could transport himself back to 1988 and tell his younger self that, as cliche as it sounded, it does get better. Even if it takes thirty years, killer clowns and nearly being mauled to death by a mutant Pomeranian. 

Henry Bowers and all the other fuckwads in Derry could never take this away from him. 

Or Eddie.

“Full disclosure - he didn’t stay dead.”

The audience quietened down as Richie took a breath, shifting his weight from foot to foot, trying not to wince as memories of the worst few weeks in his life, tried to assault him.

“He flatlined on the operating table. Twice. Almost gave me a heart attack, three times, and bitched me out about how unsanitary eating a breakfast burrito at his bedside was about a dozen fucking times - but he didn’t stay dead. Trust Eds to defy the laws of medical science and survive being skewered like a shishkebab through sheer stubbornness.” 

Don’t call me Eds, dickhead. 

He could practically feel Eddie screaming at him from just off-stage, standing where he had stood every night of Richie’s rehearsal, watching more intently than any pageant mom in existence. 

“So yeah, sorry for the emotional rollercoaster, but good news - he’s my biggest fan, now. Not that he’ll ever admit it. And not that he has much choice, considering he gets the bolder, longer and uncut version of this,” Richie gestured lewdly at his body, “every night for free.”

Snickers reached his ears as he turned on the spot, finally meeting those dark eyes that proved more of a calming presence than any bourbon money could buy - that gaze speaking volumes. 

Focus, asshole. You’ve got a job to do. 

Shaking his head, Richie winked at him before he turned back to the audience, “Unlike you unlucky fuckers. Paying sixty bucks to stare at my giant forehead for eighty straight minutes? Sorry, eighty gay minutes. Gotta plug that at every given opportunity if I don’t want my publicist to have a meltdown Monday morning.”

He snorted, waving his hand, “So, yeah, that’s all she wrote. Or, all I wrote, I guess. Gotta plug that more too. Writing my own jokes now. Genital warts and all. So, be gentle. I’m more fragile than Putin’s masculinity.”

He took one last step forward, basking in the wave of laughter before taking a short bow. 

“L.A. you’ve been amazing. Thank you and goodnight!”

“Your ending needs work.”

“Oh really, Billy boy? You’re one to talk! Didn’t your first book end with radioactive eggs—”

“I think you should have done an encore.”

“Et tu, Benjamin? Engaged life has changed you.”

They were all sat around a circular table, one reminiscent of The Jade of the Orient the night that changed all their lives, again, sixteen months ago. Minus the haunted fortune cookies, thankfully. They still went with Italian cuisine this time though, just to be safe. 

“I thought the show went great, Rich. Almost worth the increase in Netflix prices.”

“High praise Beverly, thank you.”

“Almost worth me remembering Bev’s Netflix password.”

“I’m touched, Michael. Thank you.”

The O.G. Losers Club erupted into laughter, each pair of eyes settling on the only member of the group that had yet to say anything - Eddie Kaspbrak. 

Richie felt the tell-tale itch at the back of his neck as their eyes met. The very same one he would get as a kid when he told a joke and waited to see how it landed, his gaze always drawn to Eddie first, his opinion the one that mattered most. 

Guess that’s just another thing that never changed. 

Eddie tilted his head, nudging Richie with his elbow, “Did you have to keep in the shishkebab line? The official story is a car accident, asshole. Who gets skewered in a car accident?”

“You do,” the Losers all replied in unison, not even looking up from their food. 

A slow smile spread across Richie’s face, “Yes, Eduardo, I had to keep in that line. How else am I supposed to work out my deep, emotional trauma?” 

“Therapy! Like a normal person!”

“Aw, but Eds, you’ve been reminding me that I’m not normal since we were thirteen.”

The rest of the Losers snickered as Eddie gaped at him, an indescribable expression on his face. 

Richie pressed on, “Ooh, I could look into getting an emotional support animal—“

“Or a guide dog,” Eddie rolled his eyes, “You are nearly blind.”

“Do you think there are any Pomeranian service animals? Pennywise the Pom just has such a good ring—“

“We are not naming our dog Pennywise, asshole!”

“But Eddie ! We can’t name it ‘IT.’ ‘IT the Pom’ just doesn’t sound—”

“We’re not naming it ‘IT’, either. We’re giving it a nice, normal dog name.” 

“Cujo it is, then!”

“I hate you.”

“You really don’t.”

“I missed this,” Bev piped up over Richie and Eddie’s highly entertaining bickering, “It's like an after-show show.” 

“I’m always tempted to record them,” Mike smirked. 

“Ooh Mikey, you kinky sonofabitch,” Richie threw a bread roll across the table at him, winking, “Want a signed copy of our sex tape?”

“Beep, beep, Richie,” they all groaned in response, Eddie included, his cheeks an adorable rosy-hue. 

Richie held up his hands, “Hey, if Kim K can create a billion dollar empire off hers, I’m sure mine would—”

“Nobody wants to see your pale ass, Rich,” Eddie cut across him, taking a sip of his wine, their thighs pressing together as he leaned further into him. 

“Except for you, right Eds?”

The rosy-hue turned crimson. 

“You wish, dickwa—”

“Excuse me?”

The entire table froze as a new voice quietly called out over them. 

With wide eyes, Richie turned to the voice, seeing a young boy of about fourteen, standing at his side, nervously shuffling his weight from one foot to the other. The Losers exchanged weighted glances, all vividly remembering what happened the last time a fan approached Richie. 

“Yeah, kid?” He forced himself to reply, hoping his voice sounded somewhat normal as he braced himself for the worst case scenario. 

Which, after all they had been through, would probably be Pennywise popping up to throw his two cents in on their dog name ideas. 

“I, uh...sorry, I don’t wanna interrupt your dinner,” the kid cleared his throat, rubbing the back of his neck, “I just wanted to say that...um. I saw your show tonight and—and...it meant a lot to me.”

A beat of silence fell around the table as everyone digested his words. 

“I um...I’ve been a big fan for awhile now and uh...seeing you come out like that...knowing that you’re happy and successful, it means a...a lot to someone like me,” he finished, clearly embarrassed at his rambling explanation. 

Richie meanwhile, was busy trying not to cry, his throat tight. The kid, while blond and blue-eyed and not cursed with coke-bottle glasses, in that moment, could have been him at fourteen. All gangly-limbed and awkward, clearly scared out of his mind, and yet, went up to a group of strangers and said out loud who he was, his voice quiet, but never unsure. 

He was braver than Richie ever was. 

Richie reached out to shake the kid’s hand. 

“It…” he swallowed down the lump in his throat, emotion stinging his eyes, “It means a lot to me for you to say that, kid. Thank you.”

The boy nodded, a small smile spreading across his face as their hands dropped. 

“You uh…” Richie glanced around the table for a second, “You want a picture?”

The kid’s smile grew larger, his blue eyes shining brightly. 

“Hell yeah!”

The whole table laughed as he held out his cellphone, Eddie dutifully taking it and holding it up as Richie leaned in closer, he and the kid smiling for the camera. 

Once they heard the camera shutter click, Eddie handed the phone back, his eyes catching Richie’s and holding his gaze for a moment, his expression saying a thousand words that Richie knew him well enough to hear. 

The boy excitedly clutched his phone, gushing, “Thanks so much, Richie. Enjoy the rest of your dinner,” he nodded at the rest of the table before turning on his heel and racing back over to a woman who must have been his mother. 

“Hey kid,” Richie called out after him, “What’s your name?”

The boy turned, grin matching his mother’s as he called back, “Henry!”

A silence fell over the Losers. 

Richie looked to Eddie, eyes tracing the faint scar that marred his left cheek. 

Guess some things do change. 

He turned back to the kid, soft smile on his face. 

“Nice to meet you, Henry.”

If you had told Richie ‘Trashmouth’ Tozier sixteen months ago that in the near-future, he would be writing his own critically-acclaimed material, just finished filming a new show with Netflix that added a few more zeros to his bank account, and was proudly and openly sharing his home with the love of his life, he would have said you were nuttier than one of Dumbo’s shits. 

Then again, stranger things have happened. 

To Richie and his merry band of misfits more than most. 

Namely, said love of his life, dying right in front of him, only to return several weeks later, reanimated by some ancient ritual bullshit called forth by the murdered victims of a sadistic parasite masquerading as a psychotic killer clown. 

Say that ten times fast. 

“Bill didn’t ask about Georgie this time.” 

That same love had been staring into space for a worryingly long while since they returned from the Italian restaurant after dropping their friends off at their hotel. 

Richie sighed as he sank down next to Eddie on the couch, their shoulders brushing before Richie lifted his arm up to press against the back of Eddie’s neck, his fingers lacing themselves in his hair. 

“I think he knows that there’s nothing else to say, Eds.”

Eddie leaned against him, tilting his head onto Richie’s shoulder with an answering sigh. 

“It—I only saw him that one time. When...when I died. Next thing I knew I was washing up in the sewers, being found by a bunch of kids and shoved into the back of an ambulance. But God, I wish I could see him again, Rich. Just so I could have something, anything , to tell Bill.” 

Richie shifted a little, pressing his face into Eddie’s hair and taking a deep breath. 

“No offense to you or Big Bill, Eds, but I don’t.”

Eddie made a noise of protest, so Richie hurriedly continued, “I get it, I do. But...but if you ever see Georgie in that...place again, it means only one thing. That you’re dead. And I—I can’t go through that. Not again.”

A beat of silence passed between them. 

“I hate to break it to ya, Rich, but I am gonna die someday. For good this time.” 

Richie peppered kisses into his hair, “Yeah, but hopefully by then we’ll both be well into our nineties, shitting our pants and trying to figure out how to turn on the hologram projector that streams Matlock directly into our brains.” 

Eddie snorted out a laugh, turning his face to press more firmly against Richie’s neck.

The comedian failed to suppress a shudder as lips brushed against his skin, mumbled words causing goosebumps to rise in their dozens. 

“I’m proud of you, you know. I—I didn’t get a chance to tell you earlier.”

“Uh, dude, you had ample opportunity in front of the Lose—”

Eddie’s hand caught his, squeezing it gently, cutting him off. 

“You’re braver than you think.”

Richie’s heart raced in his chest at those familiar words. 

He winced, “If I—if I hadn’t said that, Eds, you wouldn’t have gone all Gerard Butler in 300 and—”

“And the deadlights would have killed you,” Eddie interjected, reciting his side of the well-worn argument, lifting his head up to look Richie directly in the eye, “and no way in hell was I letting that happen.”

Richie knew his face was doing something soft, something stupid, but he couldn’t help it.

“My hero.”

Eddie snorted, murmuring, “Okay, Bonnie Tyler,” before closing the space between them and pecking his lips in a chaste kiss that Richie very quickly turned into something deeper, tracing his tongue against his bottom lip and pushing Eddie back to lie on the couch, covering his body with his. 

God, he would never tire of this. Touching Eddie, breathing Eddie, hearing Eddie, tasting—

“You know I never meant it, right?”

Richie stared down at him, breathing labored, his mouth agape in confusion as to why the very enjoyable kissing was suddenly halted. 

“That I’m Bonnie Tyler? Uh, yeah Eds, I—”

“No, Rich,” Eddie brought a hand up to the side of his face, his dark eyes shining brightly as he stared up at him, a pained expression marring his handsome face, “You know I never meant it when I said you weren’t normal, or called you weird or...any of the other shit I used to say to you. I was just a dumb kid, I lashed out when you got under my skin. I just...I can’t bear the idea that I ever made you feel like those dickwads did back—”

Richie leaned down and kissed him gently, once, twice, before pulling back, sweeping his thumb across Eddie’s jaw.

“You never made me feel like that, Eds. It was never...it was never you that made me feel like a freak, creep, weirdo, or any other Radiohead lyric,” he ran a hand through his hair as Eddie gripped his hip tightly.

“You made me feel...good about myself. Every time you’d laugh at one of my jokes or roll your eyes at me, I felt...amazing. You were my first proper fan, dude. Even if you’d never admit it.” 

A small smile, a little watery, spread out on Eddie’s face as he rested his head on the armrest of the couch, staring up at Richie, still a little conflicted. 

“But that summer, at the arcade when Bowers—”

“Bowers was a homophobic dickhole. And his cousin doth protest too much, methinks. Being gay in a shitty, small town like Derry, surrounded by small minds and smaller dicks - it sucked, yeah. I was terrified, sure.” 

He cupped Eddie’s face in his hands, leaning down and pressing their foreheads together as he whispered. 

“But it was never because of you, Eddie. It was never your fault. I...I loved you. Some bigots throwing slurs wasn’t gonna change that. And I immortalized that the very same day.”

R+E carved into the Kissing Bridge.

It still brought a smile to Eddie’s face every time he thought of it, and how Richie had been so nervous to show it to him when they finally began getting their collective shit together after Eddie’s recovery and subsequent divorce. 

“I love you, Eddie. I did then and I do now. All that’s different is my feelings are now being streamed onto every TV, phone and tablet in North America, instead of hidden away on some bridge that almost nobody crosses anymore.”

He punctuated that with another kiss, the gentlest so far. 

Just as he went to pull away, Eddie surprised him by pulling him down further onto him, forcing his knees either side of his waist lest he topple gracelessly off the couch altogether. 

“Fuck, Eds,” he gasped as Eddie caught his earlobe between his teeth, his fingers digging into Richie’s hips tightly. 

“I’m still your biggest fan,” he breathed right into Richie’s ear causing him to shiver so hard his glasses slipped down his nose. 

“Yeah ya are. The biggest .”

Eddie groaned at Richie’s suggestive tone, capturing his lips again before gasping against them.

“And I may not have some fancy stand-up to prove it, but I love you too. I always have. Back when you were a lanky, four-eyed, hammock-hogger and when I was a shortass, short-fused hypochondriac.”

“ Was ?”

Eddie shoved him off him, Richie landing on the floor with a laugh, arms and legs akimbo. He lay on the floor and stared up at those eyes that he never could quite forget, even when spooky magic kinda made him. 

“Didn’t you promise me a drink like an hour ago?” Eddie asked him from where he still lay on the couch, slightly leaned over it to regard him with an unimpressed look.

Richie winked, putting his hands behind his head, “Nightcap before sex, huh? You’re living on the edge, Kaspbrak.”

A small smile, soft and private, graced Eddie’s face, then. 

“Might as well. If I’ve learned anything over the last year, it’s that life is short.”

Richie hummed, “Yeah, almost as short as you.”

“Fuck you.”

“Fuck me yourself.”

Eddie was up and off the couch, hauling Richie off the floor with a strength that never failed to mesmerize him, before either of them could blink. 

He shoved Richie against the living room wall, leaning up into his space, his eyes almost black as he breathed back, “Only if you ask nicely, Trashmouth.”

Richie let out a groan, eyes practically rolling back into his skull as Eddie pressed their bodies flush together. 

“Just one question, though,” Eddie murmured against his neck as his short and slender fingers deftly undid the buttons on Richie’s loud Hawaiian shirt. 

“W-What?” Richie barely had the semblance of mind to ask as those talented fingers started roaming across his chest. 

“What do we call the sex tape we’ll give to Mike?”