Chapter Text
JULY 25TH, 2016
“Do you have enough room in your car, honey?” Bev asks as she meets Richie at the bottom of the stairs, surrounded by luggage. Only one suitcase is his, the other two and the massive duffle bag were Eddie’s.
“I’ll find a way to make it all fit,” Richie answers, staring ahead at the door, “Hey, you’re not leaving until tomorrow, right?”
Bev shakes her head, “Our flight takes off early tomorrow morning.”
“Well, I, um, I found this,” He digs his hand around in his pocket and pulls out a plain, silver wedding band, “It was on Eddie’s nightstand. I don’t know why he took it off, but it’s probably something Myra will want to have. Could you send it to her?”
She takes it from him, putting it into her own pocket with a frown. Her face is drawn tight, worried. He can’t say he blames her, he’s not deaf, he can hear the way his voice sounds. He’s sure if he was standing in front of a mirror right now, he could see how awful his face looks. Bloodshot eyes, greasy hair, overgrown facial hair.
“Yeah, I’ll send it to her. Can you text me his address from the luggage tags?” He only nods in response. She squints up at him for a long moment until her face finally collapses and she sighs, “Promise you’ll call when you get back home.”
“I promise,” He says, but the look she gives him tells him she doesn’t believe a word out of his mouth. They exchange hugs and he slowly loads his and Eddie’s bags into his car. A few tears drip down his face when he thinks of how differently this could have ended- Eddie coming home with him, loading his own luggage in the car, and bitching at Richie all the while. He’s kidding himself, he knows he is, but Eddie isn’t here to protest it.
-
The way his heart rate picks up when he parks on the kissing bridge is similar to muscle memory. When he was a kid, he used to walk or bike past this spot just to see his carving, just to nonchalantly stare at the letters. He came by so often it was a wonder nobody ever connected the dots and realized what R+E stood for.
It’s such a faded memory that part of him wonders if it ever happened. Maybe it was only a daydream he used to have, something he never actually had the balls to do. But when he opens his car door and walks the few feet down the bridge, it’s still there clear as day. It’s worn with time, not as fresh as some of the others there, but it’s still legible. It hits him in the chest and new tears- which, he feels like his body shouldn’t be capable of producing anymore- spring up into his eyes. Breathe in and out. In and out. Just like he used to do with Eddie when he was having an asthma attack as a kid.
He kneels down, pulls the knife out of his back pocket, and whittles away.
The sun shines down on him and he can’t help but feel angry at it. It should be raining, the whole fucking world should be mourning the loss of Eddie Kaspbrak. He wants to punch the sky and the demonic space clown and Mike, too, for good measure.
But when he finishes the carving and leans back, he smiles. Because now, after all these years, he finally gets to say it. Really say it. ‘I love Eddie Kaspbrak, always have and always will’. And everything settles inside of him for the first time since it happened. He’s certain he’s going to go home and mope around for months, but right now, it feels like he gained a little piece of him back.
He looks down the length of the fence, gaze falling between the slats into the water below. It’s a steady stream, but has no real girth or push to it. He remembers playing in it with the Losers all those years ago. He almost leaves when his eyes catch on a creature- a turtle, standing in the stream, looking up at him. If Richie didn’t know better, he’d say it was looking directly at him. He stares back, feels something tug in his heart, then dorkily raises a hand and waves at the turtle like he would a toddler. Of course, the turtle just stares, then continues on its path downstream. When he goes to stand, his vision shakes and his ears thrum with blood flow. It takes an unusual amount of strain to stand up. ‘Trashmouth is getting old’, he thinks. He wouldn’t have thought anything more of it if it weren’t for the kid crouched in front of him, right where he just was, carving something into the wooden fence. Which is impossible. He was just there. Richie can only see the back of him, but he could recognize the fuzzy black hair and ugly shirt anywhere. His heart lurches and he stumbles back, causing wild eyes behind thick lenses to look up at him.
“Who the fuck are you?” Young Richie asks, hands moving to cover up what he had been carving moments before. He realizes with a sinking stomach what it must have been.
“What the fuck?” Is all he can really manage to say, because honestly- what the fuck? What is happening? Where is he? How is 13-year-old him standing right here, in front of him, like it’s 1989 all over again?
“I wasn’t doing anything!” Young Richie shouts, standing up and whirling around. He backs up until his ass hits the fence, effectively blocking Richie’s eyes from the carving. He looks terrified, and despite Richie’s confusion, he feels a pang in his chest.
“Relax, you’re not in trouble,” He tells himself, and god, what the fuck is going on? “What year is it?”
“What is this, Back to the Future?” Young Richie asks, not budging from his spot on the fence.
“I’m starting to think it might be. Just, answer the question, kid,” He looks down the road then, back to his car, and realizes with a start that it’s missing. It’s completely vanished, replaced by the black bike he rode everywhere when he was a kid. Oh shit.
“It’s 1989 you fucking weirdo,” Young Richie answers, brows furrowing, “Who are you, anyway?”
“Oh my god, I should’ve left Derry while I had the chance,” He grumbles, before realization slaps him in the face, “Woah, wait. It’s 1989. That means…” He trails off, and the dumb kid in front of him huffs in annoyance.
“You’re weird and you look like a pedophile, so I’m outta here,” He starts toward his bike, but Richie grabs onto his arm and pulls him back, “Hey! Leave me alone you fuckin’ creep!”
“Richie, listen.”
“How do you know my name?” His eyes widen behind his glasses.
“Because I’m you, from the future. Don’t look at me like that, I don’t know what’s going on either,” Young Richie stares at him defiantly.
“If you’re me, prove it,” He says, tugging his wrist away from Richie’s hand and crossing his arms over his chest. Richie looks back over his shoulder at the carving Young Richie hadn’t quite finished yet. He’d only written ‘R+’.
“You were going to finish that carving with an E,” He states, knowing that’s more than enough information for Young Richie to believe him.
Young Richie only quirks an eyebrow, “Lucky guess,” he says coolly.
“The E stands for Eddie, your best friend who you are madly in love with but too afraid to tell because you’re growing up in this shitty, homophobic town,” That’s all it takes for the kid in front of him to turn into the equivalent of a puppy with his tail tucked between his legs. His eyes grow even wider behind his glasses, bottom lip sticking out suspiciously. As ridiculous as he looks, Richie suddenly feels more love for himself as a kid than he ever did before.
“So I end up looking like you? Great. How old are you, 50?” Young Richie rolls his eyes, desperately trying to cover up the fear that rolls off him in waves.
“Hey, asshat. I just turned 40,” Young Richie giggles at the insult, looking his future self up and down with pursed lips.
“So, why are you here? How did you get here?”
“I don’t really know,” Richie says, looking around for some form of explanation and finding nothing, “But I do have one question for you- you haven’t made up with Bill yet, have you?”
“No, we haven’t spoken since he gave me this,” Young Richie points to the small split in his lip, scabbed over, “Dumb asshole.”
“So you haven’t gone back into the house on Neibolt yet?”
“No! I’m never going back there!”
“Oh yes, you are,” Richie shoots a glare at him, “Because you and I have the chance to fix everything .”