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The first sign that Eddie is entering another rebellious phase comes when the losers are sitting around his hospital bed, playing cards. Go Fish is the most complicated of a game they can maintain with seven of them in the room and their resulting inability to focus for long periods of time. While Stan considers his next turn, Eddie says, all in a rush, like he’s been thinking of it for a while (and he probably has; he’s had precious little else to do besides lay in bed and eat Jell-O): “I was thinking we should all get a group tattoo. Like, we killed a demon space clown—twice, sort of—and that’s something worth commemorating, right? I haven’t given it much thought but maybe all of our initials would be good… or something.”

In the following beat of silence, Stan says, “Bev, do you have any threes?” and Richie says, “You want to get a tattoo?”

The rest of the losers put their cards down—face up, the game is probably over now, anyway—and move on to the more interesting conversation topic that’s just risen.

Eddie grabs a pen and the Get Well Soon card from his probably very confused New York insurance firm coworkers, and prints on the back: EBBMSRB. “Something like that.”

Richie leans in to squint at it, and reads, “Eb-muh-serb?”

Eddie scowls. “No, it’s just the initials. Forget it.”

“And you put yourself first?”

Eddie crosses his arms and pouts, hiding the card from view. “Never mind. Just an idea.”

“No, it’s a good idea,” Bev says, shooting Richie a look. “With the right style it could look cool. And the order of the letters is something we should think about.”

“It should be al-alphabetical,” Bill interjects, and reaches to grab the card and pen. He writes: BBBEMRS. “It’s the most objective way to do it.”

“Bemers,” Richie mutters. “Or, actually, Buh-buh-bemers. Perfect for you, Bill.”

“Got any better ideas, Trashmouth?” Eddie snaps, starting to seem genuinely ticked off, which is always great fun.

“Maybe instead we should get the number seven,” Mike says. “For the seven of us.”

Ignoring Mike’s sensible input, Richie says, “Yeah, give me that,” and begins to write on the back of the card. When he presents his work a moment later, he says, “Ranked from most attractive to least attractive. Hottest to nottest, if you will.”

The losers all stand up from their seats, eager to take a look: BMBRSEB. Once it sinks in, a few things happen at once.

One, Eddie fucking loses it. “I’m the second ugliest? Are you fucking kidding me, Rich? And you put yourself above Stan and I, when you can’t even be bothered to shave your sideburns? I mean, really, who do you think you are with those things? Did you sign the Declaration of Independence earlier today?”

Two, Ben blinks his dumb long-eyelashed puppy-dog eyes and says, “Am I the least attractive?” Richie starts and reaches to pat his shoulder— before sliding his hand to rest around his bicep. (You take what you can get sometimes.) He says, “Oh, honey, no. You’re the first B.” Bill and Bev exchange a look and then crack up.

Three, Stan snorts, predictably unamused.

Four, Mike says, again, “Just the number seven would be cool, though. Small, subtle.” And everyone ignores him again.

When the initial outburst dies down, Stan says, “That looks like ‘bomber-seb.’ I’m not putting that, or anything, on my body permanently.”

Richie rolls his eyes. “Sheesh, okay, your body’s a temple, we get it Stannis.”

Eddie’s specific proposal is dropped in favor of a more general discussion-slash-argument about the merits of tattoos. Bev has a couple already, small and tasteful and tucked into her ankle and inside wrist and behind an ear. Richie has one, a meaningless band around his arm, just above the elbow, that he thought looked cool— and in college, it kind of did. Bill reveals that he has one, a quote from some book that apparently inspired him, in a scripty font on the inside of his left forearm.

The rest of the losers don’t take it too seriously until Eddie brings it up again, a few days later, when he’s finally discharged from the hospital. Apparently he has made an appointment at a tattoo and piercing shop in downtown Derry— for that afternoon. “I’m doing it, and if anyone wants to come with, you’re welcome to, but I don’t give a shit.”

Everyone can tell that he kind of gives a shit.

This isn’t the first time something like this has happened. Eddie seems to be something of a pendulum. One day he’s leading a sheltered life, cautious and premeditated, and the next he’s swinging in a wild over-correction, impulsive and rash. After narrowly surviving a near-death experience and filing for divorce, it’s no surprise the pendulum is swinging.

His first big rebellious phase was twenty-seven years ago, after they first defeated It and Eddie simultaneously shook off his mother’s influence, at least for a while. His first move then was to go to Richie’s house, along with Bill and Stan, and line up everything he had been told he was either allergic or intolerant or “sensitive” to (an EpiPen laid out on the table next to him) and then eat it all. It wasn’t particularly exciting, at first. He ate a hard-boiled egg and waited ten minutes. Nothing. A spoonful of peanut butter right from the jar, a treat he had always particularly envied. Nothing. Some cereal the Toziers had on hand that “contains soy.” Nothing. Richie and Stan and Bill watched him, snacking away on the common-allergen buffet. It wasn’t a particularly fun hang-out—Eddie was quite a bit angry, fuming between bites about how he could have been eating Reese’s his entire life—but their bar for fun was maybe lower than other kids’.

It was all uneventful until, with a determined glint in his eye, Eddie ate a cashew. Barely a minute later his throat was closing up. Richie and Bill and Stan panicked, but this was far from Eddie’s first rodeo. He uncapped the EpiPen and stuck his own thigh without any hesitance. His wheezing breaths slowed and evened shortly after. Richie’s dad, lured downstairs by the commotion, drove him to the emergency room. On the way there, Eddie and Richie both tried to talk him out of calling Eddie’s mom but of course he didn’t have much of a choice. When Mrs. K. arrived at the hospital and laid into Richie and his dad for “almost killing Eddie,” Eddie yelled right back, his lung capacity apparently not damaged from the near-anaphylaxis.

That incident did not slow his roll. If anything, he was more determined than ever to experience what he’d been missing, even if his motivation was pure spite. So, the last weekend before school would be back in session, the losers (sans Bev, who had already moved away) went to the public pool at the Y. Stan and Ben used to swim there often, but Eddie had never been allowed. While the quarry never bothered him too much—the water looked clear, at least, and it wasn’t full of questionably potty-trained toddlers—the things his mother told him about public pools sunk in.

So, when Eddie arrived at the pool, his arm cast wrapped up in a plastic bag and sporting swimming goggles and swim shoes—he’s not about to get warts—he would have felt brave just for dipping a toe in. But he did much more than that. He marched right over to the high diving board and walked the plank to the end. His five friends watched as he tested the springiness once, twice, then plugged his nose and took the plunge. When he surfaced, water rushing around him, he felt the chlorine burn at the back of his throat and realized he must have got some water in his mouth. He gagged a bit, spit in the water, and then shot a smile and a thumbs-up to his cheering friends.

The shallower end of the pool was warm, which was gross when Eddie thought about it and soon that was all he could think about. It didn’t help that Richie picked up on his aversion to getting the water on his face and began splashing and dunking him at every opportunity. After a couple half-laughing Stop it, Richie’s, Eddie gave him a shove and a forceful, “Knock it off!” before storming out of the pool. “Nice going, Rich,” Stan muttered. “What’d I do?” Richie asked, wide-eyed.

When school started, Eddie was still roiling with reckless energy and he funneled that into trying out for track. But it turned out that getting doctor’s notes in place of attending gym class for a few years doesn’t do wonders for one’s fitness. And wearing a heavy arm cast doesn’t do wonders for one’s sense of balance. He promptly tripped over a hurdle and skinned his knees and elbow.

Eddie calmed for a while after that, finding a happy medium. His friends were relieved; it turns out Eddie is less exhausting when he’s rattling off safety statistics than when he’s trying to prove something to himself.

But they know by now there’s no use in trying to talk Eddie down when he’s like this. So, they follow Eddie to the tattoo shop. Everyone but Stan is seriously considering the 7 tattoo now, and they discuss possible placements while Eddie grills the artist about sanitation. Eddie’s still going with the initials—EBBMSRB—because he is nothing if not stubborn. After a few pointed looks from the staff, they realize that they’re quite a crowd for one tattoo, so everyone but Richie and Bev leave for the cafe next door.

Richie and Bev wait for Eddie to back out, and can’t decide whether they want him to or not. But he doesn’t. He sits in the chair and rolls up his sleeve and approves a font—some serif lettering that makes the whole thing look worse—and soon the first three letters are emblazoned on his shoulder. Richie doesn’t dare make eye contact with Bev for fear he’ll burst into laughter, and he doesn’t need to laugh at Eddie right now, not when they’re in a shop full of sharp instruments.

Then—then—Eddie does back out. Three letters in, he says, “Stop, I want to stop.” And the tattoo artist looks alarmed as he pulls back.

“Need a break?”

“No, no, I’m done, I don’t… wanna finish it.”

After an excruciating few seconds of silence, Bev says, “Eddie, you’re already halfway done…”

“Yeah, you can’t stop now, it just says EBB,” Richie blurts.

Eddie rolls his sleeve back down, covering it, and begins to stand up; the tattoo artist hisses. “Don’t—”

“Oh.” Eddie settles back down to let himself be salved and wrapped up. “I mean, ebb’s a thing. Ebb and flow.”

Bev slaps a hand to her mouth and it’s not clear if she’s stifling a laugh or something else.

“Just ‘ebb’ is not a thing, Eddie,” Richie says. He rakes his hands through his hair, feeling like he’s going insane. “People are gonna think you tried to get your own name on your arm and fucked up.”

Eddie shrugs and the tattoo artist asks him to please be still. Somehow, Richie realizes, Eddie has managed to do something even more impulsive than getting a stupid tattoo: stopping halfway through getting said stupid tattoo.

When the three of them join the rest of the losers in the coffee shop next door, Mike and Ben cheer and ask excitedly to see the tattoo. Then Bev and Richie get to enjoy watching the wheels in their heads turn as Eddie tries to explain what happened. It’s Stan who fails to not laugh first. His head drops to the table, shoulders shaking; Eddie’s mouth twitches.

“I’m sorry,” Stan chokes out, removing his glasses to wipe his eyes. “But that’s just so stupid.”

Richie disguises his snort of laughter with a cough.

“You guys fucking suck,” Eddie says, tugging his sleeve back down. “I’m glad I stopped. Now it’s only my real friends.”

The three B’s exchange glances before Ben ventures, “Which two of us…?” and Mike protests, “What did I do?”

Mike and Ben still want to get the 7 tattoo, but Bev ushers them out of there, saying, “We can’t show our faces in there again.”

During their first year of high school, Bill initiated a weekly movie night, a way of keeping them together as they get busier. Around first semester finals, Eddie seemed stressed out. His bickering with Richie lacked a certain spark, and an inhaler was back in the picture, after a few months where he went without. He didn’t say anything about it, and none of the other losers commented. But maybe his backslide led him into another little phase of rebellion. Their usual fare for movie night was more in the wheelhouse of Back to the Future and Ghostbusters, but one night at the Toziers, Eddie selected a VHS of Scarface.

“You wanna watch that?” Stan said.

“You wanna watch that?” Richie said.

Eddie huffed and popped it in the VCR. It was… fine. Richie’s dad came down at a certain point to grab a beer from the fridge and he said, “What are you boys watching? Oh. Why are you watching that?” Then he chuckled and went back upstairs. Richie’s mom was not as amused. “Rich, really? Why can’t you watch E.T. again?”

And all of them would have preferred to watch E.T. again but it was too late for that. They started the movie and they had to see it through, no matter how much they flinched at every spray of blood or groaned when there was a sexual innuendo that set Richie off, cracking more jokes.

Eddie was never allowed to watch anything so there was something thrilling about it, even if certain parts might keep him up that night. When it was over, Richie kept repeating, "Say 'ello to my leetle friend," in an increasingly bad accent, then when he grew bored of that, he produced a half-empty box of cigarettes from his pocket. "Swiped this from my dad's office. Any takers?"

He had three cigarettes left and he expected only Bill and Ben would say yes, or maybe only Bill, but to his surprise Eddie nodded. "Yeah, sure."

Richie withdrew his hand. "But with your asthma…?"

"I don't have asthma," Eddie said. "The inhaler was just a placebo, remember?'

"But…" Richie looked down at Eddie's pocket, where he kept the thing now, after ditching both his fanny packs. Then he thought better of it. "Okay. Come along, lads, outside."

Bill and Ben came with, leaving Stan alone in the living room. They sat on the front steps, arms crossed fiercely against the cold winter night, and Richie distributed his goods. "I only have three," he explained and then to Eddie: "Splitsies?"

"Sure."

Richie's stomach gave an excited flip and he tried to tamp that down. He lit his cigarette then held the lit match out to Ben, who leaned in, hand on Richie's to steady them. Bill, in what had become something of an inside joke, leaned in as if to light his own cigarette and then blew the thing out with a puff instead.

As Bill laughed, Richie grumbled, "You absolute dickhead. I know you just can't resist blowing me, but come on." He tossed the box of matches to Bill. His problem now. Then he passed his cigarette to Eddie, watching as he brought it to his lips and gingerly breathed in. He puffed out smoke a second later—God, he looked cool, maybe a young James Dean if James Dean wore polo shirts and had asthma or anxiety or whatever, but—

"Did you inhale?"

Eddie looked at him as he passed the cigarette back. "What? Yeah."

"I don't think you did. You gotta—" Richie demonstrated. His lungs burned and he swallowed once or twice, a trick Bev had showed him. Then he breathed out his nose, hoping he looked cool.

"Oh." Eddie grabbed the cigarette back and took a longer drag, and if it wasn't clear whether he succeeded in inhaling this time— he broke into a sputtering coughing fit. Head between his knees, he gasped for air.

Richie rubbed between his shoulder blades. "That's it."

Eddie fumbled out his inhaler, shook it, put it to his lips and pulled the trigger. His coughing stopped after that and he plucked the cigarette from between Richie's lips. (Richie's mind went blank except for a chant of oh shit oh fuck oh shit.) As Eddie took another, shallower drag, Richie coaxed the inhaler from his grip. Eddie gave him a funny look but didn't protest as Richie brought it to his mouth and took a hit. The water spray and medicine taste coated the back of his throat. When he was done he slipped it back into Eddie's sweatshirt pocket.

Eddie sighed and held the cigarette back toward Richie. "I know it's bullshit," he said quietly. "But it helps."

Richie hummed his understanding. He could never begrudge Eddie that.

Over the next two days, everyone flies out of Derry and back to their old lives or off to new ones. Bill back to L.A., Stan to Atlanta. Ben and Bev strike off for Chicago together, and Mike for Florida. Richie has nothing pulling him back to L.A.—not counting the dozen voicemails and twice as many emails from his agent. Besides, he's not quite ready to let Eddie out of his sight yet, the memory of his warm weight as they dragged him through the sewers and out of the collapsing house still all too clear. So he accompanies Eddie back to New York to sort out things with his soon-to-be ex-wife.

It goes… fine. Richie isn’t there for most of it. He hangs out in their AirBnB and does touristy shit by himself while Eddie meets with a lawyer. He helps Eddie move his things into a U-Haul. He proofreads Eddie’s resignation letter. Myra is there when Richie helps him pack. She’s civil, lurking to make sure that Eddie doesn’t forget anything important. When they leave, Eddie offers some soft apologies at the door and she tries not to cry. Richie keeps his eyes fixed on the floor and wonders if he could disappear into the wallpaper if he really made an effort.

It’s a long couple days, and at the end of each, Eddie is vibrating with energy. “Do you wanna go for a run?” he asks Richie.

“Uh,” Richie says.

Eddie shakes out his arms, bounces a little on his feet. “I just have a lot of— nervous energy— I need to expel, you know? Kinda wanna run.”

“Do you run?”

Eddie considers it. “Not really. But I can start, right?”

Richie supposes an evening run is one of the healthier outlets for Eddie’s current mood, so he agrees. Only a few blocks in, he realizes his mistake. Eddie’s decently in shape, somehow. And Richie is decidedly not. Amazing how you don’t realize you aren’t in shape until you actually run. He gets a side-ache immediately. Eddie has running shorts and shoes and a Fitbit bought with good intentions and never really used. When they’ve run a mile, Richie is ready to flop on the nearest park bench but Eddie makes him keep walking and stretching as a cool-down. Richie folds his hands on top of his head, stretching his lungs and drawing in painful breaths. “Maybe I was the one with asthma, all along.”

As they walk a few more blocks, Eddie rattles on about how he wants to start doing 5k’s, how he’s always thought he could enjoy running if he put some effort into it. Richie, nodding along but still—embarrassingly—too breathless to contribute much, gravitates toward a hot dog stand. “Want anything?”

Eddie wrinkles his nose at the flies buzzing around the crusty condiment bottles. But he says, “Sure.”

As they continue the cool-down walk, heading back in the direction of the AirBnB, they wolf down two hot dogs, replete with sauerkraut and onions. Richie says, “I could get used to working out if it ends like this."

The spring of their first year of high school, Eddie got it into his head that he wanted to try skateboarding. Ben had started riding a skateboard, scrambling after the rest of his bike-riding friends, clad in a helmet and elbow and knee pads. One day after school, when Richie didn’t have rehearsal for the school play, he hung out with Ben and Eddie at the skatepark. As Richie used a pocket knife to etch graffiti onto the ramp, Eddie got dressed in Ben’s safety gear. Ben adjusted his footing and then told him he was ready to go.

“Shouldn’t he start with something easier?” Richie said, not enjoying that he was the one who had to bring up safety concerns. But Eddie said no, he wanted to do this, and Ben said he’d be fine, so he sat back in silence.

Eddie kicked off, brought his back foot onto the board, and went barreling down the slope of the halfpipe. Richie and Ben held their breath as he went up the other side. When he reached the crest and his momentum reversed, his arms began to cartwheel and he shouted and fell forward, tumbling across concrete as the board clattered downhill behind him.

Richie and Ben yelled and slid down the edge of the halfpipe on their butts to run to Eddie. When they reached him, he was laying on his back, laughing hard enough that tears squeezed from his eyes. The heels of his hands were skinned, bits of dirt ground into the pink skin, but he assured them he was fine. “I wanna go again.”

Eddie rents a condo on Long Island and Richie goes back to L.A. They don’t see each other for a few months. In the interim, Richie meets Bill for lunch a couple times—they live in the same city, after all—and when he ends up in Orlando for a show, he gets drinks with Mike. Beyond that, the losers keep up to date with each other via social media and the group chat. It’s a lot of photos of Ben and Bev’s Lake Michigan sailing adventures and their new dog, a rescue German Shepherd named Knight. Eddie shares that he’s running 5k’s and considering a half-marathon. Richie runs some new bits by them; a lot of his material is focused on his childhood and Derry because what a never-ending fount of comedy that is.

For New Year’s, Ben invites them all to his Jackson Hole cabin for a reunion and ski trip. Stan brings his wife, Patricia, so it’s the entire loser’s club plus one. By 'cabin,' Ben must have meant 'luxury home with four bedrooms' because there’s plenty of room for the eight of them. The two happy couples each get a bedroom, and the four single guys are left to divvy up the remaining beds and couch. Richie and Eddie end up sharing a room with twin beds. Bill takes the couch and Mike claims the last bedroom.

The first night, Ben reveals that he has a hot tub on the deck. “I didn’t bring a suit,” Bill says, disappointed, before Bev says, “When has that ever stopped us before?”

So the losers end up bonding with Patricia, whom they’ve just met, in their underwear. It’s a tight fit with the eight of them, legs and shoulders bumping. Knight, Ben and Bev’s dog, paces nervously along the deck, whining now and then, until Ben reaches out to scratch behind his ears. Richie makes a few untoward comments about everyone's bodies—nothing mean, more in the wheelhouse of 'wouldn't be opposed to an orgy'—until that stops getting him attention. The air is cold and dry, steam rising. Each of them hold either a bottle of beer or a glass of wine in their hands. Eddie sits on the edge of the hot tub for a while, with just his legs in, insisting he's not cold. (“Your nips say otherwise, bub,” Richie says and immediately regrets doing so.)

Richie sits next to Eddie, submerged up to his ears, his whole body weightless, and his heartbeat feels slightly arrhythmic (maybe Eddie was right about some of the health risks associated with long hot-tub soaks). Patricia answers questions about her upbringing and how she met Stan; she's doing well holding her own among the losers. She's similar to Stan: not easily frazzled and packing a fiery wit that hits you when you least expect it. Not to be outshined, Richie periodically lifts his head from the water to interject some embarrassing facts about Stan.

“He wet the bed at summer camp one year. And we were, like, ten,” he says, only to get kicked hard in the shin. “Ow? Patty, be a dear and control your husband.”

“I think you need someone to control you, Trashmouth,” Stan grumbles.

Richie winces as the microscope turns to him. “Yeah,” Bev says, reaching to nudge him with her foot. “Or are you too committed to your confirmed bachelor lifestyle?”

“Why’re you singling me out?” Richie says, his face burning from more than just the one-hundred-degree water. “Mike’s never been married, either, and Eddie and Bill are fresh off divorces.”

“So defensive,” Ben teases. “You’re a catch, man.”

Bev waggles her eyebrows. “Maybe he gets too much comedy groupie tail to want to settle down.”

Richie grimaces as the losers share a scandalized laugh. “Please, Bev. I would never fuck anyone who likes my comedy. I have standards.”

That gets a bigger laugh, but doesn’t completely succeed in diverting the conversation topic.

Bill takes a swig of his beer and says, “Is that why you st-stood up that actress I tried to set you up with? Because she was a fan of yours?”

Richie grimaces as the eyes turn on him again. Mike mutters something about “Bill Denbrough’s matchmaking service.”

“No, dude, that was because she was an actress.” They all laugh again, but Richie thinks they’re not quite picking up what he’s laying down. So, he takes a deep breath and says, “If you know any hot actors, on the other hand…” In the beat of silence that follows, Richie might panic a little. “Like, you know, male… men. Not necessarily actors, like the profession, but specifically… yeah, dudes. Uh. Yeah.”

Richie takes a harsh swallow of his own beer; it’s starting to get warm from the steam from the hot tub so it’s actually kind of gross.

Then he feels no fewer than three feet pat his leg and everyone’s looking at him with some kind of soft pride that makes him want to vomit. Mike reaches to jostle his shoulder. Bev says, “Thanks for telling us, Richie.”

Richie shrugs off the comforting touches. “Don’t make it into a thing, Jesus, I just want Bill to knock it off.”

Bill raises his hand in a solemn vow. “I will hereby knock it off.”

Richie groans. “Hey, Ben, can you tell us about how Frank Lloyd Wright influenced you again, or something?”

Before Ben can launch into the spiel, Bill interrupts: “Did you know the woman he was having an affair with died in this weird, horrific axe murder?”

("Ben?" Eddie mutters, eyebrows furrowed. When Richie snorts, he says, "Oh, Frank Lloyd Wright.”)

“Of course Bill knows about this,” Stan says dryly.

As Bill recounts the tale, gory details and all, Eddie slides into the hot tub next to Richie, but only up to his waist. Water laps at the scar just below his ribs, and the EBB tattoo is visible as he throws an arm not quite around Richie’s shoulders but around the edge of the hot tub, at least.

“No longer worried about getting legionnaire’s or your heart stopping?” Richie comments, quietly enough to not interrupt Bill’s story. He lolls his head to the side so his wet hair brushes against Eddie’s arm.

“You know, drinking in here is not particularly wise,” Eddie responds, although he is cradling a glass of chardonnay, “and we should probably get out every ten, fifteen minutes.”

“Okay, Dr. K.,” Richie says, rolling his eyes affectionately.

The next time that Eddie slips out of the water to cool off, everyone needs a refill anyway. As Ben starts collecting empties, ever the good host, Bev says, “Hey, guys, wanna go jump in the snow?”

There’s an immediate split between of course and of course not, but the latter camp caves to the peer pressure in under a minute. Bev leads the way across the deck and down the stairs, Knight bounding after her, and then she throws herself headlong into a pile of fluffy snow. Never to be outdone, the rest of the losers follow suit, shrieking. Patricia and Stan tumble in together, laughing. After the initial shock passes and before the cold really hits, they all lay around in the snow for a moment. Ben makes a snow angel. The snow's too dry to clump, but Mike and Bill attempt to make a snowman anyway. Then Eddie reaches toward Richie’s face—he freezes—and pulls off his glasses with one hand. “What—?” Richie begins, before Eddie smooshes a handful of snow directly into his face.

Laughing, Richie shoves back, blind due to the melting snow in his eyes and lack of glasses; his cold hands land splayed on Eddie’s bare chest, pushing him back. From there, it descends into a snow fight—mostly grappling and yelping, Knight barking on the sidelines, and someone pulls a dirty trick by shoving some snow into Ben's boxers—until all the losers are blue-lipped and shivering.

“Where are my glasses?” Richie asks through chattering teeth.

Eddie pats around in the snow. “Fuck. I don’t know.”

Richie groans. “Are you serious? You lost my glasses?”

“Well, you pushed me!”

Before they can descend much further into bickering, Mike pulls the glasses out of nowhere. “Found ‘em.”

“Thanks, Mikey.” Once they’re back on his face, he can see how cold everyone else looks— rubbing their goosebumped arms together and hopping from one foot to the other. “Hot tub time?”

It sounds like a good idea, but turns out getting back into the hot tub sends shooting pains up their cold-numbed legs, so instead they wrap up in towels and huddle around the fireplace in the living room. Knight curls up between them, basking in the eight sets of hands that pet him.

The rest of the evening is a more subdued affair, a downward slide to bedtime. Soon, Richie and Eddie head to their bedroom downstairs, picking up their littered clothes from where they left them in the living room. Eddie claims the guest bathroom first, but he's quick, coming out soon in flannel pajamas; his hair is still damp, sticking up in tufts like he toweled it off.

Richie lets out a fond laugh at the sight of him. To Richie, it's fond, but Eddie bristles. "You're adorable," he clarifies, which only gets Eddie more defensive.

"Just pajamas, Rich. What do you sleep in?"

Richie has changed from his wet hot tub-snow fight boxers into a fresh pair and thrown on the same t-shirt he was wearing earlier. "This. Having designated pajamas is a waste."

Eddie pulls back the sheet to his bed and arranges the pillows, fluffs them. "Whatever you say, but I'm fucking cozy."

They meet each other's eyes for a second and both burst into sleepy giggles. Richie falls into his own bed, still laughing. He doesn't know if it's Ben or Bev's doing but each bed has no fewer than seven pillows. He tosses all but two to the floor. "Goodnight, Eds. Fair warning, I've been told I snore."

"Of course you do. Can't even shut up in your sleep." Eddie flicks the lamp at that moment, robbing Richie the chance to shoot him an offended expression.

So instead Richie gasps indignantly and says, "I resent that."

"Goodnight, Richie."

Eddie was the last of the losers to get his driver’s license. His mother insisted he wasn’t ready and kept signing him up for more driver’s ed classes and behind the wheel lessons. By the summer after their junior year, he was sure he would have to wait until college to get his license. Richie kept suggesting he go and take the exam by himself, but Eddie always frowned and brought up some excuse. Whatever. It wasn’t like he was going to get a car any time soon, anyway.

The thing is, Eddie actually liked driving. It didn’t stress him out nearly as much as he thought it would. He didn’t necessarily trust other drivers, but he trusted himself. And he liked it; he liked the freedom, he liked experiencing Derry that way and hopefully, soon, other places. He could find his way around town easily, always able to picture where he was in relation to the river, or downtown, or other landmarks.

For all these reasons, it drove him crazy that whenever they drove somewhere, he had to sit in the passenger seat. Richie got his dad’s old sedan for his sixteenth birthday, so he became the unofficial chauffeur for most of their high school years. It’s not that Richie was a bad driver; in retrospect, he was just a sixteen-year-old, and a particularly scatterbrained one at that. But Eddie had to often remind him of stop signs and alert him of pedestrians and he always had to give him directions. And then Richie would talk over the directions or forget them and then ask Eddie why he didn’t give him directions.

At a point, it just wasn’t sustainable. One night, driving back from a movie theater the next town over, Richie pulled over on the shoulder. “Why don’t you just drive?”

“I can’t.”

“Sure, you can. You have your permit.” Richie got out of the car and opened the passenger side door. “Besides, I can’t take your bitching anymore.”

“Fine.” Eddie snatched the keys and got into the driver’s side. He adjusted the seat and mirrors and turned down the radio volume—that was another thing, Richie always had the music on so loud you couldn’t hear yourself think—and put the car into drive.

He was a little nervous. Legally, he was only allowed to drive with a licensed driver over the age of twenty-one in the passenger seat. This did not fit the bill. But, as he assured himself, out loud, as long as he broke no traffic laws—which he wouldn’t—he had nothing to worry about.

His nerves turned to panic when a police car pulled up behind them.

“Shit.” Richie sunk down farther in his seat, as if his mere presence was incriminating. “Just keep driving normally.”

Eddie gripped the steering wheel harder and cursed out Richie like his life depended on it while he crawled along at five to ten under the posted speed limit.

“Go faster than that!” Richie hissed. “It’s more suspicious that you’re going so slow!”

“I hate you so fucking much.”

After a few more nerve-wracking miles, the cop car turned onto another road. Eddie breathed a sigh of relief and pulled onto the shoulder so they could switch back.

“Eddie Kaspbrak, you’re a genuine outlaw,” Richie said as he settled in behind the wheel again. “How do you feel after your first low-speed car chase?”

Richie wakes up at seven the next morning when Eddie shakes his shoulder and says his name. He snorts and sits up. “What?”

“It’s morning. Get up.” Eddie is already dressed in a black Underarmour shirt and long-underwear, a towel slung around his shoulders.

Richie grapples for his phone, but his momentary panic at having overslept passes when he see the time. “It’s seven. How early are we going?”

“We’re leaving here at eight so we can hit the slopes by nine.”

“‘Hit the slopes,’” Richie repeats. He drags himself out of bed, knowing his hair is a mess. “I think we have incompatible ideas of what a vacation is. I don’t love the idea of waking up early and paying, like, a hundred dollars to go outside in the cold and exercise.”

Eddie fixes him with an unamused look. “Seven is early to you?”

Yes, Richie thinks. He says, “We were up until almost two last night!”

But Richie quits his whining and goes to take a shower. After, he comes upstairs to find an impressive breakfast spread, and gravitates toward the full coffee pot. When Eddie sees him, he says, “Is that what you’re wearing?”

Richie looks down at his t-shirt and sweatpants. “Yeah. Plus, like, a coat and snow-pants. Hat.”

“You can’t wear cotton as your underlayer. It’s gonna get soaked in sweat and then freeze. You need a wicking layer.” Eddie plucks his own fitted black long-sleeve that clings to his chest and arms in a way Richie could have gone the rest of his life without seeing.

“It’s true,” Ben says with a shrug. He’s dressed similarly, and Richie can’t bring himself to look directly at him.

“Maybe if I was a stud like you, I’d enjoy wearing athletic clothes, too. But as it is, it only draws unwelcome attention to my dad bod.” Richie pats his tummy as he pours a cup of coffee.

“Dad bods are in right now,” Bev says.

“Yeah, I’m sure.” Richie rolls his eyes. “Well, look, you guys never told me what I needed to pack.”

“This is basic winter stuff, Richie,” Eddie says, aiming his fork at him. “You should know this. We grew up in Maine, dipshit.”

That gets a good laugh from around the table, but Richie can take it as well as he can dish it out so he grins, too. “Yeah, and I never wore a winter coat because I wanted to look cool.”

Eddie lets out a long-suffering sigh. “Yeah, I know. I fucking remember.”

Between Ben and Mike, the closest to Richie in clothing size, they provide him some proper winter clothes.

Later that morning at gear rental, Bill and Mike both decide to try snowboarding. The rest of the visitors are outfitted in the proper size skis and boots and Ben strongly encourages them all to rent helmets as well. Then they hit the slopes. Well, a gondola first.

“This is so fucking bougey,” Richie mutters as they start the ascent. “I’m glad no one can recognize me with these goggles on, this could be real bad for my brand.”

“Your brand?” Stan repeats, his mouth turning in distaste. “Masturbation and marijuana jokes?”

“Yeah,” Richie says, unruffled. “It’s a subtle satire on the ‘dudebro’ comedy genre. It goes over a lot of peoples’ heads, so don’t worry about it.”

“Really fucking subtle,” Stan mutters.

“You want bougey maybe we’ll hit up Vail next winter,” Bev says, then elbows Ben, her eyes bright. “Or the Alps?”

“Who would’ve guessed,” Richie says. “Little Bevvie Marsh has a taste for the finer things in life.”

Bev holds up her mittened hand. “You can’t see it, but I’m flicking you off.”

“You didn’t have to spell that one out for me, love.”

The skiing goes well at first. Bill and Mike struggle on the beginner hills with their snowboards for a while, bent half over and taking more than a few falls, but laughing every time. Patricia and Stan have apparently skied before and they’re competent enough, and soon take off by themselves. Richie and Eddie get a mini lesson from Ben and are soon confident at snow-plowing down the hills at least.

It’s before lunch when Eddie gets injured. He and Richie follow Ben and Bev for a while, and at some point stop by the side of the main slope, where some packed-down paths lead through the trees. “Now, this is fun,” Ben says. “Just follow me but go slow.” He doesn’t take his own advice, as he slips over the edge and starts expertly cutting around trees.

“Show-off,” Bev says affectionately. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to. It’s kind of tricky.”

“No, no, I got it,” Eddie says, and he shoves off with both poles. He has far too much speed and in another moment he’s crying out in pain and falling backward into a couple feet of snow.

“Shit.” Bev takes off after him and Richie follows.

Eddie’s ski had caught under a buried tree branch and he twisted his ankle pretty bad. Now he’s struggling in the powder, one ski still trapped, and both poles flopping unhelpfully from his wrists. “I can’t fucking stand up!”

“Hey, hey,” Bev says in a soothing tone as she reaches to release his skis. She and Richie give him a hand to stand up and Eddie grimaces, avoids putting weight on his right foot.

“Are you okay to ski down?” Richie asks, wrapping one arm around his waist.

“No, ahh—” Eddie hops on his left foot. “I think it’s— it might be sprained.”

“Okay, well.” Bev chews her lower lip and shoots a glance at Richie. “Do you want me to go get ski patrol, or…?”

“Maybe we can help you ski down the rest of the way?” Richie offers.

“I don’t know, I don’t know,” Eddie says, shaking his head rapidly. “I’m fucking pissed at Ben.”

“I’ll go kick his ass,” Bev says, and maybe she means it. She steps into her skis again. Then she looks at Richie. “He’s probably wondering where we are at this point…”

“Yeah, yeah, go.” He waves her on. Then he looks down at Eddie’s pinched face. “So, ski patrol is gonna come and wrap you up in one of those little sleds and take you for a joy ride, sound good?”

“Don’t talk to me like I’m a fucking child,” he spits, but the anger is quick to evaporate. “This sucks, I really wanted to ski.”

“You did ski,” Richie says, adjusting his grip around his waist. Eddie clutches back, around his shoulder. “You just skied directly into a tree.”

Eddie barks a laugh and there’s no fire in his voice when he says, “Fuck you.”

Their senior year of high school, Eddie had another phase, set off by—if the losers had to guess—college applications. Eddie applied to exclusively in-state schools. Nothing wrong with that—so did Mike—but everyone had good reason to get out of Derry, and Eddie started talking about living at home and commuting, to save money. Richie tried to convince him he could get a summer job and pay his own way and Eddie looked at him like he was crazy.

He was resigned to the choice, but the pendulum swung.

They visited Bev in Portland one weekend, lumped in with a college tour. Eddie had somehow garnered permission to stay the night and he was ready to blow off some steam. After the uneventful tour of USM’s campus, the losers (sans Stan) reunited with Beverly. Her aunt, it turned out, was one of those cool adults that would rather kids goof off in the safety of her home than sneak around. So, sitting in the half-unfinished basement of her aunt’s house, the losers were well-stocked with booze and a small bag of weed.

“I see you’ve graduated in your smoking habits,” Richie says to Bev as she packs a bowl.

“My aunt’s a total hippie.” She took the first puff before passing the bowl and lighter onto Bill. He struggled with the lighter for a few seconds, muttering to himself, before Bev intervened. “There. Now hold your finger here. Breathe in… Release and—”

Her instructions were cut off when Bill started hacking coughs, eyes red and burning. Ben and Mike didn’t do much better for their first try. Richie, up next, had a little more experience so he managed to at least not embarrass himself. Then he passed the bowl to Eddie and said, “It’s still rolling.”

With that familiar determined glint in his eyes, Eddie brought it to his lips and—maybe this should have been a surprise to no one—took a hit like an absolute pro. Maybe a bit too long—Bev said, “Oh,” when he kept going—and he did cough once or twice after exhaling, but his success must have been owed to all his experience inhaling shit.

“You’re a fucking natural, Eds,” Richie said, grinning broadly. Eddie might have blushed under the praise, or maybe he was just flushed from smoking; it got harder to tell as the night went on. Bill did a lot of singing, Ben and Mike became uncontrollably giggly, Richie and Bev just laid back on the floor, eyes lidded. Eddie was something else. He seemed to not notice that everyone was tuning him out and he paced back and forth in the basement, stepping over his friends’ arms and legs and heads, occasionally emphasizing his words with a slap of his hands.

“I thought weed is supposed to chill people out,” Richie said to Bev, twisting to face her.

She hummed and sat up halfway to take another hit from the bowl. Then she leaned over Richie, like she was going to kiss him—the room got very quiet—but instead, she exhaled smoke right into his open mouth and then laughed, dropping her head to his chest. Richie laughed too, sitting up on his elbows and taking the bowl and lighter from her.

“Hey, Eddie, shut up for a second,” Richie said before taking a long drag. He stood up and placed his hands on Eddie’s shoulders, stilling him. Looked down at his face and nodded meaningfully until Eddie opened his mouth. Then he leaned in, closer than they’ve ever been but not touching, and exhaled. Eddie breathed it in, swallowed, his throat bobbing. He looked up at Richie with round eyes.

In the following silence, Bill said, “What kind of a weird start to a porno is this?” and they all fell to the floor laughing. Eddie stopped his pacing and monologuing after that. In another hour or two, he was laying on the floor, flat on his back, his head on Richie’s lap. Richie, his own head resting on Bev’s shoulder, ran his fingers through Eddie’s hair, lightly massaging his scalp.

An hour later, Eddie is back at the cabin, laid up on the couch and icing his ankle, Richie sat beside him. Ben looks downright sick as he chews his lip, still in his ski boots. “Again, I am so sorry.”

“It’s fine, it’s fine. Can't take a tumble like I used to," Eddie says, waving his hand. His response was not so gracious for the first few apologies. “Get back out there, you’re burning daylight.”

“Are you sure?”

Richie answers for them, having already volunteered to keep Eddie company. “Yeah, you got Netflix and beer, right? We’ll be fine. We’ll take care of Knight.”

The dog lifts his head off the floor and wags his tail in response.

“Okay.” Ben frowns, looking so much like a kicked puppy. “Text me if you need anything. Hope you feel better. And, Richie, if you want to switch out—”

“I don’t need a babysitter,” Eddie says, at the same time Richie says, “I’m not crazy about skiing anyway.”

Ben leaves. The door hasn’t been closed for long when Richie leaves the couch to get something from his suitcase downstairs. When he returns to the living room, he holds up a little Ziploc bag to Eddie. “So, I didn’t float this last night because I needed to feel out the crowd but…”

It takes a second for understanding to cross Eddie’s face. “Is that pot?”

“Pot? What are you, forty? The kids call it weed.”

“Richie. We are forty. Literally. Didn’t you just turn forty-one?”

“Do you want some or not?”

He does. But they can’t smoke in the house, obviously, and Richie suggests the hot tub, but Eddie’s fucked up ankle can’t go in the hot tub, so that becomes a whole discussion. Finally, Richie is back in his boxers, fully submerged, and Eddie in his rolled-up long-underwear, one leg in the water, and the other perched up on the side, bag of ice still on his ankle. Knight sits inside and watches them through the glass door with curious eyes. They carefully pass the bowl back and forth, and Richie says, “Maybe this will help your ankle. Medicinal and shit.”

Eddie quirks an eyebrow. “Medicinal and shit? That what your L.A. doctor told you?”

“It does actually help me,” Richie says and then throws up a goofy hang-ten, contrasting his deadpan expression. “Anxiety.”

“You don’t have anxiety.”

“Oh, thanks for that, I’ll call my therapist, tell her I’m cured.”

Eddie appraises him, still doubtful. “Are you serious?”

“Yeah, dude, the stage fright is what really got the party started, but then when I was trying to get drugs for that, it turned out I’ve always had anxiety issues. Fun, right?”

“I mean. Same.” Eddie takes the bowl from him and puts it to his lips. “Not the stage fright specifically, obviously, but, uh. Yeah.”

As Richie watches him, he says, as meaningfully as he can, “So, how are you? Like, really? A lot of changes recently.”

Eddie shrugs. “Well, you know. I think I get restless if everything’s the same for too long. I was stuck in a rut for a while there.”

“Nothing like a clown murder spree to light a fire under your ass.”

“But, really, a lot of it was remembering my childhood and everything that happened in Derry. Suddenly I could see this clear pattern of my entire life where I always did the safe thing, the smart choice, you know, for all the big decisions. But I’d find these stupid little ways to rebel so I could tell myself I wasn’t just doing what I was supposed to do, you know? That I was making my own choices.”

Richie stares at him for a second before saying the first joke that comes to mind. “Shit, he’s becoming self-aware.”

Eddie bristles, not amused in the slightest. “Hey, fuck you. How would you have liked it if when you came out to us last night we all said, yeah, Richie, we already know you’re a flaming homo.”

“Would’ve been better than some kinda kumbaya love-fest.” Richie’s quiet for a moment while he relights the bowl and hands it to Eddie. “Did you? Know?”

Eddie buys himself some time by taking another drag. Then he says, “No. I didn’t. Can’t speak for the others, but I didn’t.”

“Score,” Richie says, pumping a fist. “My deep repression and overcompensation worked.”

Eddie barks a laugh, which is jarring at first. He apologizes, but when he meets Richie’s eyes they both chuckle. Then from there it grows into semi-hysterical laughter, Eddie doubled over and Richie wiping tears from under his steam-fogged glasses.

“Why’re we laughing?” Eddie manages to ask.

“I dunno,” Richie says. “Childhood trauma’s a fucking riot.”

Within a week of Eddie’s mother’s funeral, he quit his job and moved from Bangor to New York. He signed a lease before he had a job lined up and the apartment was not nice, but it was the first one that called him back. He spent his first few days doing the usual touristy shit. Statue of Liberty, Empire State Building, Central Park, a blur of museums. Eating bagels, hot dogs, pizza. It was freeing, being in this city, not knowing anyone, not having any real responsibilities.

Then he started getting serious, writing cover letters and making calls. Within a week, he was starting as an actuary at a regional insurance company. He liked the work. It’s what he went to school for, and he liked it a hell of a lot better than some other jobs he had had—a particularly traumatizing summer taking customer service calls stood out—and he got to know his coworkers and he liked them, too. He was comfortable and competent and that’s worth a lot; in some ways, he fundamentally disagreed with the notion that one should always push past their comfort zone. (Can you imagine what the world would be like if everyone did jobs outside their comfort zone? he might have said to a bartender at some point during all this. It would be a fucking disaster. Nothing would get done.)

But some gnawing part of his mind told him that it was a surrender.

The next day is New Year’s Eve. Eddie and Richie spend the whole day lazing around Ben’s cabin, watching movies, playing with Knight, smoking the rest of Richie's weed. At some point, Richie lets himself be talked into performing his new set for Eddie. He paces the living room, holding up a banana like a microphone, and acting like there's a whole theater in front of him, even getting in an imagined one-sided exchange with a heckler in the front row.

Richie always liked attention, obviously, but making people laugh brings a warmth to his chest, and a confidence and clarity like nothing else. Eddie was always a tough crowd, but a fair one; he wasn't too proud to never laugh, like, say, Stan was. Still, seeing Eddie cracking up on the couch, snorting and slapping his knee, is a better rush than killing it at a New York comedy club. Part of the rush is the vulnerability; Richie's new stuff is personal, and it's easier to tell a bunch of strangers about his first few disastrous sexual experiences than it is to tell a childhood friend. (And, well, Eddie. Those feelings aren't far below the surface.) But that's why he does it, too. Ripping himself open, on stage, then bandaging the wound with comedy. Somehow, it's the only way he knows how to do it.

When he's done, Eddie claps, even wolf-whistles (which causes Knight to whine), as Richie takes a few deep bows, blows kisses to the cheap seats.

Richie flops down on the couch next to him. "So, how was that? Any notes?"

"Pretty fucking funny," Eddie admits, his voice a bit hoarse. "I know I give you shit all the time and you deserve it, but you're talented, man."

"Did you hear that?" Richie calls to no one. "Edward Kaspbrak thinks Rich Tozier is funny."

By dark—which is before five this time of year—the rest of the losers are back, ruddy-cheeked and exhausted. Bev fixes the two with a look, probably knowing what they've been up to all day, but she doesn't say anything. After cleaning up and changing, they go out to eat at the chalet.

"How's the snowboarding going, guys?" Richie asks Mike and Bill after they've ordered drinks.

The two exchange a look and laugh. Bill says, "Let's just say we've spent as much time drinking beer in the chalet as we have actually s-snowboarding."

"You know," Ben says, "they say skiing is easy to learn, difficult to master, and snowboarding is hard to learn but easy to master."

"Well, I'll be a master in no time," Mike says.

"Yeah, lots of opportunities to practice in Florida," Bev says. "How's that going, by the way?"

Mike explains for a while; he has a cousin who lives near Orlando, who he stayed with for a few weeks. Then he landed a gig as a research librarian at Florida State.

"Ah, the panhandle," Stan says knowingly. "You heard that saying about Florida? The more north you go, the more south it gets?"

"We're not that far away," Patricia says. "You should come to my parents' beach house sometime." The rest of the losers get on her case about not inviting them, and she just doubles down. “Nope, only Mike allowed.”

When their drinks arrive, they toast to the New Year's.

Richie takes a big gulp of his beer and then says, "You remember in 2011 when you thought ah, they're finally gonna have to stop making those big sunglasses for every New Year's, but then they didn't?"

"Maybe in 2111 they'll finally stop," Stan suggests.

They're back to Ben's cabin with a few hours to midnight and that's when the real partying begins. Richie breaks into the champagne at ten, and Ben complains that he was saving it for midnight and Eddie, who might be a little belligerently drunk at this point, says, "Oh you were saving it? You were saving your special champagne?"

At eleven, Bev pulls Richie aside and says, "So, you wanna share?"

"What?"

"You know what," she says meaningfully.

"Oh, Eds and I smoked it all already."

"You bitches!" she says, too loudly, and everyone turns to look for a moment until they lose interest.

Ten minutes to midnight they turn on NBC in time for the countdown. They shout along with the televised crowd: ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one…

“Happy New Year!”

The two couples turn to each other and kiss as the confetti sprays on TV. The four single guys all take a synchronized sip of their champagne. After an awkward beat, Mike says, “What the hell,” and grabs Bill by the shoulders to plant a loud kiss on his forehead. All the losers laughing now, he does the same to Richie and Eddie, before kneeling down to kiss to top of Knight’s snout.

Unthinkingly following the momentum, Richie grabs Eddie’s face and kisses him square on the lips, hard and dry enough to play it off as a joke. (Some part of his brain that he should have left for dead back in Derry says, This is your only chance, only chance.) But the kiss lasts decently long, and unless his brain is playing tricks on him, Eddie presses back, and his fingers hook around Richie’s wrist.

When he pulls back, Richie turns to the TV again, not quite brave enough to meet Eddie’s eye, and says, “God, 2016 fucking sucked.”

Bev, still hanging off Ben’s shoulders, joins in. “Yeah, fuck you, 2016!”

It’s before one when Bill passes out on the couch and Mike in the recliner chair. Ben cleans up the empty bottles and glasses and Bev continues to berate Richie for bringing weed ‘into her home’ and not sharing any with her. When Bill stirs enough to tell them all to shut the fuck up (the living room is his bedroom, after all), they call it a night. Richie and Eddie head downstairs to their bedroom, Richie rambling on about how he wants to have his own Netflix comedy special by the end of the year. “I mean, they’ll give those to anybody it seems like, so why not—”

As soon as the bedroom door shuts behind them, Eddie hooks his hands around the back of Richie’s neck and kisses him. It’s not like the midnight kiss. First, there’s no audience, no pretense. Second, there’s tongue, a lot of it, and Eddie presses bodily against him.

“Whoa,” Richie manages, his hands pawing uselessly at Eddie’s shoulders and arms. “Whoa, hey.”

Eddie moves to his neck, biting, pulling at the hem of his t-shirt. “Richie…”

Hearing his own name snaps him out of his reverie. He gets a grip on Eddie’s hips, puts some distance between them. “Uh, this is no bueno. You’re really drunk. I’m really drunk.”

Eddie kisses his jaw, his ear. “I know what I want, Richie, it’s fine.”

Taking a sidestep, Richie extricates himself from the spot between the wall and Eddie. “Well, like, I don’t want this. Not like this. So…”

Eddie’s eyes are wide for a moment, his mouth hanging open. Then he says, “Shit,” and claps a hand over his mouth, and whirls out of the room toward the bathroom. A moment later, Richie hears the echoey retching. He sighs and follows him.

“Hey.” Richie eases the door the rest of the way open and steps inside.

Eddie waves his hand at him, shooing him away, head still in the toilet. “I’m fine, just go to bed.”

Richie fills a glass with tap water and sits down beside him. He reaches to pat his back and Eddie flinches at the contact.

“I’m sorry,” Eddie says miserably.

“It’s okay, really. I promise.” Richie sighs and leans his head back against the bathroom cabinet. “I wish I could say, like, oh just because I’m gay you assume I’m into you? But… turns out I’m very predictable. But if this is like your tattoo thing, I can’t do that, okay? If you’re just, you know, trying something with a dude, I can’t… be that for you.”

Eddie lifts his head, eyes round, brow creased. “I’m not. It’s not like that.”

“Oh.” Richie shifts his weight on the tile floor, lets that filter through his foggy mind. “Really? ‘Cause I spent most of my formative years in love with you and it’s not gonna take much for that to come rushing back, so I’m serious, Eddie, don’t fuck with me.”

“I’m not fucking with you,” he says and then spits into the toilet bowl, pulls a tissue to wipe his chin. “You were in love with me?”

Richie sighs again and rubs his hands over his eyes. He could pass out right here, lights on, on the hard floor. “Yeah, like, big time. Can we talk about this tomorrow?”

“Yeah.” Eddie flushes the toilet and accepts the glass of water from Richie, takes a few careful sips. “Thanks.”

“You’re gonna remember this, right?”

“Yeah,” Eddie says, not entirely confident. “But if I don’t, tell me.”

“You’ll react well?”

“Yeah. Promise.” He holds up his right hand, scarred palm flat.

“Okay. But please remember this, just make it easy on me.”

“I’ll try.”

Richie gives his shoulder a jostle and Eddie winces. “Good to go to bed? Or is talking about feelings gonna make you puke more?”

Eddie slowly nods, eyes closed.

“Yes, you’re gonna blow more chunks?”

“Yes, I’m good.”

“Okay. To bed, then.” Richie helps him up by an elbow.

“I need to brush my teeth first,” Eddie says, reaching for his toothbrush by the side of the sink.

Eddie had been married to Myra for a year the first time he cheated. He wasn’t planning on it and it wasn’t even particularly enjoyable. All he got out of it was the inability to look his coworker Greg in the eyes for a month. That, and confirmation that this was indeed a problem. A fucking crisis, to be more exact. He’d had a couple fumbling and inconclusive experiences in college, but this was not so easy to write off.

He’d considered going to therapy. Not in a ‘pray the gay away’ kind of way, but in a ‘what the fuck is wrong with me, I’m not the type of person who cheats on his wife’ kind of way.

Instead, he surprised Myra with a Caribbean cruise for her birthday.

In the morning, Richie wakes up first. Eddie is laying on his back, mouth open, snoring slightly. It’s a little before eight, probably the latest he’s slept in years. Richie goes to take a shower and get dressed, shaved. When he comes back to the bedroom, Eddie is sitting up on the edge of the bed. He frowns at his phone, dark circles under his eyes and slumped shoulders.

“Hey…” Richie says slowly, sitting down on the other bed across from him. “How are you feeling?”

“Like shit.” Eddie puts his phone down and crosses his arms. “Some way to ring in the new.”

“Eh, we’ll get some coffee in you, you’ll be fine in no time.” Richie pauses, hoping Eddie will be the first to say something. But he doesn’t. “So, you… remember… right?”

Eddie nods. “Listen, I’m really sorry about all that, it’s so fucking embarrassing…”

Richie holds up his hands and leans forward a bit. “No, no, don’t apologize. Under different circumstances, I would’ve been, like, super into it. I just wanna… not fuck this up.”

“Yeah, thanks for that.” Eddie looks down and stretches one leg out. “I think my ankle is a lot better today.”

Richie blinks a few times; that wasn’t the conversational turn he was hoping for. “So, are we gonna talk about it?”

“Yeah, sorry, can I take a shower first?”

“Of course, go ahead.”

Eddie spends long enough in the bathroom that Richie gives up waiting and goes upstairs for breakfast. The rest of the losers are cradling coffee cups and speaking in soft voices, in a similar hungover state. Mike pours himself a glass of orange juice and downs it in a few chugs, then pours another.

“He lives,” Bev comments when Richie sidles up to the kitchen island. “Did we lose one?”

“He’s in the shower,” Richie explains. Maybe he’s paranoid but he feels like they know. Ben places a full coffee mug in front of him and Richie nods his thanks.

“I think my New Year’s resolution is to not drink that much, ever again,” Bill says, and a few others echo their agreement.

When Eddie emerges from the basement a few minutes later, Bev says, “We thought we lost you,” and Eddie smiles tightly back. He throws a quick glance at Richie before focusing on making toast and unpeeling a banana.

Richie doesn’t get him alone until two hours later. Eddie feels up to skiing a bit on their last day, so they trek to gear rental and then to the gondola, and then they do a few runs with the rest of the group, and finally there’s a two-person chairlift and Richie grabs Eddie by the hood of his jacket and all but drags him into line.

“Where are we…?”

And they’re alone, a few dozen feet in the air, cables creaking overhead. Richie realizes he’s slightly afraid of heights and the two-seater feels more vulnerable than the gondola or the massive high-speed lifts, but he’s more afraid of what he’s about to do.

“Eddie. You’re avoiding me.”

“I’m not, I’m just…” He clicks his skis together, knocking excess snow off.

“If you did or said anything you didn’t mean last night, just tell me rather than this fucking bullshit.”

“I meant it,” he says quietly. “I’m just, like, processing. Are we gonna do this?” He gestures back and forth between them. “Tomorrow you’re going back to L.A., and I’m going back to New York…”

“Well, let’s talk about it, then,” Richie says, his tone sharp with frustration. “I don’t need to be in L.A. I travel a lot, anyway, or I can split my time.”

Eddie fixes him with a nervous glance. “You’re serious about this?”

“Yeah!” Richie nearly shouts and Eddie shushes him. “You said you ‘know what you want,’ like... I know it’s a big thing, but at this point, could you live with yourself if you didn’t try?”

Eddie huffs a laugh. “You’re your own best hype man.”

“I’m an entertainer, it’s my job to talk myself up.”

A couple skiers swish by under their feet, sending snow scattering across the steep slope.

“You could split your time?” Eddie asks.

Richie nods fervently. “Absolutely.”

“Starting when?”

Richie grins. “Well, if I can change my flight for tomorrow…”

A few months later, Eddie is sitting at the kitchen table in his condo when he hears the lock click. “Hey,” he calls absently, as Richie walks in, a bag of groceries slung on his arm.

“Oh, you’re back early.”

“Yeah, I had a lunch meeting in Huntington so I just came home afterward. Hey, check this out.” He gestures toward his laptop screen and Richie walks up behind him, lets his hands rest on his shoulders. “It’s near Pat’s family’s beach house.”

Richie squints at the website. “You wanna go skydiving?”

“Yeah, I mean, could be fun to do as a group. We’re gonna have a whole week.”

“And lounging on the beach is not enough for you?” Richie turns away to start putting groceries away. “You know I’m afraid of heights, there’s no fucking way.”

“I’ve heard that it’s, like, so high that people’s fear doesn’t even kick in.”

“In what way is that comforting?”

“Well, I’m gonna email everyone a link.”

“Why can’t you just, like, adopt a dog instead?”

Eddie closes his laptop screen, a look in his eyes that says he’s ready to pick a friendly fight. “A dog is a living thing and you shouldn’t adopt one on a whim if you’re not ready to commit. Besides, we travel too much.”

“I don’t think people should jump out of airplanes on whims, but call me crazy.”

Eddie gets up and starts pulling plates and glasses out of the cupboard. “It’s not a whim, I’ve been thinking about it for a while.”

“Like, an hour?”

“Yeah…”