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Richie had fucked up.
That much was painfully obvious to on-lookers who watched Bev as she escorted him from the party. She flashed her brightest smile whilst moving her newfound responsibility by the collar of his Hawaiian shirt through the throngs of people. Her cheeks were a stark red, a harmonious gradient from her cherry lips to her fiery locks.
She shot a quick look back to where her friends stood, mere feet away from the incident. Eddie and Ben were watching the pair storm away, concern plastered all over their faces. Meanwhile, Bill, Stan, and Mike clearly had a handle on damage control, talking Bowers and Co. down from rushing at Richie. Who, by the way, was just asking to get choke-slammed through a coffee table at this point. The punch across the face was an appropriate escalation.
“Take a picture, it’ll last longer!” Richie shouts bitterly, before throwing his empty beer can in their general direction. Bev picks up her pace and tightens her grip.
Despite how it feels as if this crowded college party is never ending, the pair finally make it to the front door. Somehow, Stan had managed to follow the pair through the crowd and put a comforting hand on her shoulder. It didn’t fix anything but, the gesture reminded her to inhale, in addition to exhaling. Imagine that. Richie opted to sit on the front porch while he waited for his roommate.
“He’s messy tonight,” Beverly grumbles, running her hands across her face and up into her hair.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Stanley observes, head cocked, eyes following Richie as he begins to spit excess blood and saliva onto the ground, “He looks normal enough to me,” this elicits a soft, tired chuckle from Beverly and Stan cracks a smile, “Seriously, though, do you want any help with him?”
“No, no, Stan the Man, you’re good. He’s just gonna make it his goal to bother you the entire time anyway.”
“Fair,” he pulls Bev into a side hug, as they stand in the doorway, watching Richie hock a glob of blood and spit on the pavement once again, “And hey, if you make it through the night, tomorrow we’ll get breakfast on me.” She hummed her appreciation of his proposal, giving his side one last squeeze before stepping into the threshold of Trashmouth Wrangling.
“Bevvie!” Richie cheered as she stormed past him and towards the car, “We should stop at the store!” He caught up to her within two strides, trying to hold her hand.
“No,” Beverly declared, knowing she was already in for a long night. Richie pouted, before spitting yet again, “Stop it. Get in the car.“
Spit.
"Don’t spit again, Richie!”
Spit.
“I swear to God! Stop! Spitting!”
Spit.
She hit her much taller friend on the back of his curly haired head, as he laughed against the cool October night. Upon impact, Richie’s glasses slid down the bridge of his nose, as crooked as the smile playing on his lips. He leaned clumsily against his friend’s dingy Ford Freestyle, the freezing touch of the vehicle cooling him down. His intoxicated laugh had echoed off into whatever residential neighborhood the pair had found themselves in this time. He looked off down the street, expectantly, as if he was waiting for someone to return his drunken call. The quirking edges of his smile faltered as he turned to beam down at the angry redhead. Her perfectly and intentionally sculpted brows arched at his childish display, “You done?”
He smiles wider, full of teeth. He spits on the pavement again before spiraling into hysterical laughter. He had no spit or blood left in his mouth at this point. Just defiance. Beverly extends both of her hands forward and shoves her friend, “How fucking old are you?!” her cry is shrill as she goes to get in the driver’s seat. Richie, knowing that he’s already pushing his luck, gets in the passenger’s seat unprompted. He even buckles his seat belt without a glare required. He leans far back in his seat, “Old enough,”
“Can you not quote Superbad at me right now? I don’t even know how to get out this fucking neighborhood!” Beverly begs, fiddling with the GPS her aunt had gifted her before the semester had begun.
“Are you mad at me?” Richie asks.
“Yeah, Rich, I’m fucking pissed,” the engine revs alive as they pull away from the curb.
“Why? I held on to your hair tie all night, like you asked,” he holds his wrist out dramatically, providing evidence. The redhead rolls her eyes, softening slightly. Slightly.
“I’m mad because you couldn’t just let that piece of shit have the last word. Just this once!” Bev lectures, “Everything was going fine! We managed to pull Mike out of the library for one Friday night! Ben was socializing while he got us drinks!”
“Bill was going to makeout with you,” Richie quips.
“You know what, Trashmouth, maybe he was!”
“He was not. Too nervous,”
“Ah! Irrelevant!” Beverly’s face had done this lovely little trick it does when dealing with intoxicated Tozier, where it fluctuates from pale to bright pink to the brink of purple, rinse and repeat, “You did enough showing off for Eddie before Bowers showed up. This didn’t do you any favors. I don’t think beaten to a pulp is exactly his type,”
This struck a nerve.
Richie fell silent in his seat, suddenly very intrigued by the rolling foliage that whipped passed the window. His hands gripped the sides of his seat, fingers picking at the torn upholstery there. Bev didn’t push it; she would remember to yell at him for that later. She glanced over at the lanky man every few minutes, looking smaller every time she did so. His busted lip was pursed into a thin line and his posture was frail, hunched. His chest rose and fell rapidly, the only part of him that was active.
Bev broke the silence, “He’s probably worried about you, ya know.”
“Why would he be?”
“Rich. I’m your roommate. I’m your friend. Do you think I don’t have eyes?” A whine escaped from his lips and he shut his eyes tight at the realization that his secret wasn’t much of a secret anymore. She gave her friend a wry smile that was practically audible, as she reached her hand across the center console to hold his, “Or a functioning gaydar?”
The duo laugh at this, Richie letting out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, “Please,” he begged, “never use that term,” despite how it had alleviated tension between them, it built up a bubble inside him, how quickly this new “quirk” about him gave her the ability to shove him into a box. Bev nods. Richie begins to fiddle with the radio. Despite being drunk off his ass, he was still too sober to be having this conversation.
“Richie…it’s not like anyone of us Losers would judge you. Eddie’s out and proud-”
“And that’s good for Eddie,” he cuts her off, wanting to change this conversation as rapidly as he’s flipping the channels.
“I just…don’t see why you don’t just come out and go for it? I have no idea if he likes you back…you’re a little polarizing like that. But what is the harm in trying?” Bev wonders, genuine support and a longing to understand in her voice.
“I don’t know if there’s anything for me to come out as,” Richie admits, leaving the radio alone, “I mean…I think Eddie’s great. Well…probably more than great. Definitely more than great,” he ignores the giggles that emit from Bev, “But…am I really…gay? I couldn’t tell you. I’ve made out with Stan’s sister enough back home-” he cuts himself off to respond to Bev’s scandalous expression, “you don’t know shit-” she throws her head back and laughs, “that there’s no way I can’t like girls. Do I even need to come out? What does that even mean? Can’t I just date who I want? Can’t I just make out with who I want at a gross college party, no questions asked?”
Bev shrugs in response, her attitude towards Richie having made a complete 180 since their car ride began, “You got me there,” she pulls his hand up to her mouth and let’s a kiss linger there until the red light turns green, “We’re almost home, Richie, just relax. We can keep talking about this and cuddle on the couch. Or not. Either way, this stays between you and me, bub,”
“What a fuckin’ sap,” he playfully teases, before turning the volume dial on the radio nearly all the way up. Through the speakers of this behemoth of a car twangs the familiar, funky chords of Sonny and Cher’s “I Got You Babe”. The two share a look. A look of love and exhaustion and understanding…of the fact that they were about to scream-sing this song until the very last note. This song was a promise. Melodramatic and disco-based. But a promise nonetheless.