Archive of Our Own

“I asked Myra to marry me.”

There is a deafening silence around Stanley’s dinner table as Eddie drops this news, as if everyone has misheard him.

“Y-you what?” Bill asks, always the first to speak up.

“I asked Myra to marry me,” Eddie repeats, “and she said yes.”

Eddie sounds serious enough, but he doesn’t look happy. His mouth is set in a hard line, and he stares at his untouched dinner plate. Beverly exchanges an uncomfortable glance with Ben and then offers him a small, hesitant smile.

“That’s great, Eddie,” she says, warmth coating her voice without excitement, “Congratulations. When did you ask her?”

Eddie clears his voice and folds his hands on the table, looking more like an interrogation subject than a man in love gushing about his future wife. “Yesterday. I took her to dinner and asked her.”

It goes unsaid, but is thought by all of them, that it seems odd that Eddie is spending the day after his new engagement with them rather than with his new fiancée.

“Congrats, man,” Mike nods, “We’re happy for you.”

The group nods their heads, and Stan clears his throat.

“Did you have a time frame in mind?” He asks, “I know it’s so early, but…” he trails off, and Eddie nods stiffly.

“Yeah, actually,” he says, tone as stiff as his nod, “She wants to get married as soon as possible, so we were thinking April. Early April, probably.” Stan blinks at that and meets Bill’s eyes before looking back to Eddie.

“Oh, that’s—“

“Four months away,” Ben interrupts, and turns pink when Beverly gently kicks him under the table. “But, uh, when you know you know, I guess,” he recovers, shooting Eddie a quick smile, but Eddie is still staring at his plate.

They all look up at the sound of chattering silverware and a chair scraping backward, and Richie leaves the dining room with heavy footsteps without saying a word.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Beverly demands over the phone as Richie fishes his third beer out of his fridge. She had called him four times before he finally picked up, knowing that she wouldn’t stop calling him until he answered.

“Nothing,” he answers, cracking it open with irritation, “nothing is fucking wrong with me.”

“Richie,” she admonishes, sounding exasperated, “you walked out of dinner. And not only that, you walked out after Eddie announced his engagement.” Richie physically cringes at those words, and takes a long sip of his drink as Bev continues, “Eddie was very upset that you left, and especially the way you did.”

“Was he more upset that I left or more upset that he’s engaged?” Richie counters, and he hears Beverly sigh. “He looked fucking miserable, Bev, you expect me to be happy for him?” He can hear Ben saying something to her in the background, and she answers him off the phone before coming back onto the line.

“Richie,” she says, voice going soft, and it makes his stomach twist in the worst way, “I get that you’re upset. I know this is unexpected—“

“Bev, about three weeks ago he was thinking about leaving her!” Richie interrupts, and he knows he’s being louder than he should be, but he doesn’t care. “What the fuck happened, huh?”

“Honey, I know you don’t like her,” she says, unperturbed by his outburst, “but you’ve got to be there for Eddie.”

“No I don’t,” he counters quickly, and he knows he’s being petty and mean and childish, “I don’t like her, I don’t like this situation, and I don’t have to be there for shit.”

Beverly sighs again, and there’s a long pause during which Richie gulps down another long sip of his beer before she finally says, “Then tell him the truth.”

Now it’s Richie’s turn to get quiet. He feels anxiety prickling at the back of his neck, turning her words over in his head. “Truth about what?” he asks lamely.

“About how you feel, Richie,” she answers, and this time her tone is bordering on sympathy. Richie can’t stand it, and feels his skin start to crawl.

“I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about,” he says, and he knows Beverly doesn’t deserve this right now. She’s being a great friend, the way she always is, trying to help Richie work through his shit and be supportive. It’s more than Richie deserves, but he can’t bring himself to vocalize what she’s talking about.

I’m in love with Eddie Kaspbrak.

“I think you do,” she says softly, “because you wouldn’t have stormed out of dinner otherwise.”

“I have no clue what you mean,” he says stubbornly, and he’s sure he’s driving Bev to an early grave with this attitude.

“Alright,” she says, backing down, “if you don’t want to tell Eddie the truth, you better come up with a good fucking lie to explain why you stormed out of dinner. And you also need to call Stan and apologize.” She sounds tired, and although it’s late, Richie knows that this conversation is true reason for it.

“Fine. I will.”

“Okay,” she says, “You better do it tomorrow or I’m going to be upset.”

“I will,” he says shortly, and finishes his beer. “I will call Stanley and Eddie tomorrow and apologize.”

“Okay,” she says, “Goodnight, Richie.”

Richie hangs up without saying goodbye. He crumples the empty can in his hands, grits his teeth, and hurls it angrily at the wall above his trash can.

Richie thinks it’s a good thing that men usually don’t wear engagement rings because he isn’t sure he’d be able to stomach being around Eddie if he wore one.

The early January night air bites harshly at his cheeks outside of the bar they’ve all convened at, but Richie doesn’t know how much longer he wants to stay. Eddie had asked ahead of time if he could bring Myra, and while the group had agreed and told him he could, Richie wishes he had been bold (or maybe ignorant) enough to say no. He takes a drag of the cigarette in his hand, a habit that he and Bev had picked up as teenagers, and exhales painfully. Winter in Derry was always unbearably cold, and Richie thinks he’ll never get used to it.

The cold night air beats having to watch her run her hands up and down Eddie’s arm, flashing the diamond on her hand at every chance, smirking almost predatorily every time she looks at him.

“You gonna smoke all night?”

Richie looks over at Eddie, bundled appropriately for the weather, and thinks he looks adorable. He’s wearing a black puffer jacket that nearly swallows him over a dark red sweater, and a white scarf is wrapped around his neck. Compared to Richie’s worn winter jacket, he supposes Eddie’s got the right idea. Richie looks down at his feet to try and hide his thoughts, knowing that his expression almost always betrays how he feels.

“I was considering it,” he says, and takes another drag to emphasize, “it's more fun than what’s happening inside.”

Eddie snorts at that and shakes his head, coming and standing close to Richie, who switches his cigarette to the hand not closest to Eddie.

“That’s because you’re always the life of the fucking party, right?” he teases, and Richie can’t fight the smile that blooms on his face, “the party goes where you go.”

“Exactly,” he says, “you wish you could be as electric as me.” The banter between them is always so natural, so easy, and Richie wishes more than anything that he could be on a constant loop with Eddie.

“Sometimes, yeah,” Eddie admits, and it takes Richie aback, “you’ve always been great at getting the attention of a room. It’s one of the things I’ve always liked about you.”

“Tell me about them all,” Richie asks with a grin, and Eddie rolls his eyes with an easy smile. Richie thinks it’s the first time all night he’s looked truly happy.

“I’m not here to flatter you, asshole,” he laughs, moving even closer to Richie, “I actually wanted to ask you something.”

Richie takes a final drag of his cigarette before letting it fall to the ground and stubs it out with his foot. “What is it?”

He watches as Eddie hesitates for a moment, chewing his bottom lip, and Richie thinks for the ten thousandth time that he wants to kiss Eddie for all he’s worth.

“About the wedding,” Eddie starts, and for the faintest moment Richie has hope he’s about to tell him that he’s called it off.

“What about it?” Richie asks, still staring at Eddie’s lips. Talk of the impending wedding always puts him in a sour mood, but Eddie’s lips are distracting him in the best way.

“I wanted to ask you if you’d be my best man.”

Richie blinks, taking in the words, and the weight of what he’s being asked settles uncomfortably in his stomach. Eddie is looking at him so earnestly, smiling like he’s watching Richie unwrap a late Christmas gift. It makes Richie want to throw up.

“No,” he says after a moment, and looks down at his shoes. He can see the smile disappear off Eddie’s face out of the corner of his eye.

“No?” he parrots, and Richie can hear the hurt in his voice.

“Come on, man,” Richie says quickly, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets, “why would you want some idiot like me up there with you? Stan and Bill are way more responsible. You should ask one of them.”

“I wouldn’t want anyone but you up there,” Eddie says earnestly, and it makes Richie’s heart hurt. He wants to be with Eddie, too; just not in the way he’s thinking.

“I don’t think I could do it,” Richie shakes his head, knowing that he really couldn’t, “I think you deserve someone who will take it really seriously and who won’t lose your ring.”

“I don’t think you’d lose my ring,” Eddie scoffs, and Richie looks at him with a somber expression.

“I do,” he says seriously, and maybe there’s a hint of jealousy in his voice. Enough to make Eddie’s brows furrow and really look at Richie. It makes Richie feel exposed, and he almost wishes he could take the words back.

“Is it because of Myra?” Eddie asks after a beat, and Richie’s silence is confirmation enough. His mouth sets in a hard line and he nods a little, as if he understands. Richie wishes desperately that Eddie could understand, could even begin to fathom how Richie feels. “I know you’re not her biggest fan,” and Richie can’t stop the scoff that escapes him, “but I think if you just tried talking—“

“Why?” Richie cuts in, turning to face Eddie fully.

“I think if you actually talked to her then you’d—“

“No,” Richie interrupts again, “why the fuck did you ask her to marry you, Eddie?” Eddie blinks, clearly surprised, and raises an eyebrow. “She’s horrible,” Richie continues, not waiting for an answer, “she makes you fucking miserable, man, and I just don’t fucking understand why you’d ask her to marry you when you clearly don’t want to marry her. You deserve so much better, Eddie, and I—“

Richie cuts himself off and feels his face flame red with embarrassment, and is suddenly very thankful that the bitter cold had tinted his cheeks pink ahead of time. He lets unspoken words settle between them, Eddie staring at him and waiting to see if he’ll continue.

I could give you so much more. I could make you happier. I love you.

The silence is deafening, and Richie thinks he might go crazy if neither of them says anything. He’s considering exposing himself to Eddie, letting a confession tumble out of him just to fill the space between them, and then Eddie opens his mouth to speak.

“I don’t know,” he admits, and Richie can feel an expression of confusion growing on his face that mirrors Eddie’s own, “it just seemed like the right thing to do.”

“You don’t have to do this,” Richie says earnestly, almost desperately, “you could call it off, Eddie, you don’t have to marry her.”

“No,” Eddie shakes his head, “it’s the right thing to do.” The way he says it makes Richie think he’s trying to convince himself that this is the truth, rather than telling Richie that this is truly what he believes.

“The right thing to do is what will make you happy, not what will appease your mother and the woman you don’t love,” Richie says acidly, and regrets the words instantly as Eddie shoots him an angry look.

“Fuck you, dude, maybe this will make me happy.”

Richie stares at Eddie for what feels like an hour and then finally scoffs, tongue poking the inside of his cheek. He turns and starts walking away, giving Eddie a short wave over his shoulder.

“Rich, wait—“

“Tell the others I said bye,” he says icily, stalking off to where he’d parked a few blocks down.

Richie wants to burn the invitation when he receives it in the mail.

Sunday, April 1st, 2018. Richie feels like the universe is playing the ultimate joke on him as he throws out the envelope it was mailed in. With shaking hands, he checks off the “accept with pleasure” option and sticks it in the return envelope provided.

He considers not mailing it at all, considers blocking all contact with everyone, considers running away to the west coast and leaving his feelings behind.

“Don’t be so fucking dramatic,” he scolds himself as he drops the envelope into the nearest post office box, “it’s not the end of the world.” He doesn’t trust himself to put it in his own mailbox for the postman to take, because he isn’t sure that he won’t take it out and rip it into tiny pieces.

It feels like it is as Richie stalks away from the box, and when he gets home he holds the invitation over the burner of his stove and watches as the paper curls and turns to black ash. It doesn’t make him feel any better.

Richie watches a salesman smooth down the front of Eddie’s navy suit jacket and wishes he were anywhere in the world but here. Eddie had called and asked him earlier in the week if he’d come help him pick out his suit for the wedding. Everything inside Richie had screamed at him to say no, but he felt guilty for turning down Eddie’s request to be his best man, so he agreed. He felt immeasurable relief when Eddie told him that Mike would be joining them because, truthfully, Richie doesn’t think he’d be able to handle this alone.

Eddie stands on a small podium, looking himself over in the mirror, and the salesman gives him a small nod.

“You look good, Eddie,” Mike, sitting next to Richie on a dark client couch, says with a smile. Eddie gives Mike a hesitant smile in the mirror.

“You think so?” he asks, and Mike nods.

“Yeah, man, you really pull it off. It looks good on you,” he praises, and Richie can’t stop himself from looking away.

Eddie does look good, looks handsome as fuck with his big brown eyes and smooth navy jacket. It makes his heart hurt, and he knows he’s unreasonably jealous that Eddie is picking out this suit for his wedding to someone else, but it doesn’t stop the dull ache in his chest.

“Richie?” Eddie asks, and he turns to meet Eddie’s eyes in the mirror, “What do you think?”

I think you should cancel this fucking wedding and run away with me.

Richie clears his throat and nods, “Yeah, it looks good.” He knows he sounds detached, and he knows he’s being a terrible friend, but he can’t muster the energy to sound like he cares. Eddie chews his lip and holds Richie’s gaze, maybe for a second too long, but before Richie can really think about it his eyes dart back to his own reflection.

“I’ll go with this one,” he says to the salesman with a polite smile, and Richie closes his eyes. He can feel Mike’s hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently, and he turns to his friend and is met with an expression of sympathy.

“You’ll be alright,” Mike says, and suddenly his hand feels heavy and Richie feels his skin starting to crawl, “If you want to talk, you can always call me.”

Richie stands suddenly and shoves his hands in his pockets. Eddie turns and looks at him with surprise, and Mike instantly looks full of regret.

“I gotta go,” Richie says quickly, “I just remembered…” he trails off and doesn’t finish, and instead turns and walks with a purpose towards the shop door.

“Rich!” He hears Eddie call, “Wait, Richie!” but he doesn’t stop, pushes open the door and walks as fast as he can down the street, away from the shop, away from Mike’s guilty stare, away from Eddie’s future that doesn’t involve him.

“Y-you’ve got to t-tell him, Rich,” Bill says to him over the phone one Thursday morning in early March. Richie can hear him typing away furiously in the background, and guesses he has a deadline coming up.

“Tell who what?” he asks with a mouthful of dry toast, sitting at his kitchen table in pajamas.

“Eddie,” Bill says impatiently, “y-you need to t-tell him how you f-feel.”

“Already did,” Richie sighs, stretching back in his chair, “and it didn’t change his mind.” Richie can hear Bill stop typing, and there is nothing but silence between them for thirty seconds. “Hello?” he asks, “Bill?”

“You told him you love him and he’s still marrying her?”

Richie chokes on his toast, coughing violently into his hand. “What,” he gasps, “no, Jesus fucking Christ, Bill, what are you talking about?” He coughs again and can feel tears springing into his eyes.

“Oh, g-good,” Bill sounds so relieved, “You had me w-wo-worried for a second.”

“I had you worried?” Richie challenges, annoyance prevalent in his tone, “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“You do l-love Eddie, right?” Bill asks, and Richie feels his face flame red.

“That’s not— what are you trying to say?” he fumbles, taking off his glasses and rubbing at his eyes.

“R-Rich, l-listen to me,” Bill says, sounding weary, “I’m gonna sound like a f-fucking asshole here, but s-someone needs to say it.” Richie doubts very much Bill will sound like an asshole, because Bill has this way of wording things so nicely while still getting his point across. Richie credits this trait of Bill’s to be the reason he’s such a great writer.

“I’m listening,” Richie says, staring at his kitchen table.

“You are entitled to y-your feelings, n-negative or not, about this wedding. W-what you are n-not entitled to is to act like you’ve been wronged.” Richie can feels his brows furrowing and cheeks going pink as Bill continues, “D-don’t try to t-tell me that you haven’t been acting wronged, b-because you have been. Y-you’ve been acting petty and m-mean towards Eddie, and it’s n-not fair. Everyone can see it. Y-you’re not allowed to act like that w-without having done anything to earn that feeling.”

“What the fuck are you—“

“I’m not finished, Rich,” Bill continues, and his tone is sharp and scolding, and if Bill’s intention is to make Richie feel like a fucking child he’s certainly succeeding, “you’ve n-never told Eddie how you feel, n-not once. Not once! Not only that, but it’s s-so obvious how you feel. Everyone has b-been waiting for you to m-make a move for years. You n-never did, so Eddie m-made his. S-so what do you think g-gives you the right to be so petty about all this?”

Richie doesn’t answer, curls his free hand into a fist so tight that he nearly breaks skin on his palm. He’s pissed that Bill is able to read him like this, pissed that he’s right. He’s pissed that he’s lost Eddie because he was too much of a coward to make a move. He’s pissed that in less than a month he has to watch him exchange rings and belong to a woman that he hates. He’s pissed that it’s too late to say or do anything about it, even though every time he sees Eddie he can feel the words clawing up his throat.

He doesn’t say anything, and he knows Bill is right.

“Richie?” he hears Bill say, regret in his tone, “I’m sor—“

“Fuck you,” Richie snaps, and hangs up his phone.

Richie is very drunk.

He’s not so drunk that he isn’t aware of what’s happening around him. He knows his name is Richard Tozier, he knows that it’s 2018, he knows he’s on his fifth drink of the evening, and he knows that Eddie is getting married in eight days.

The reality of the last fact is what’s keeping Richie from enjoying what would otherwise be a very fun gathering of the losers.

They’re at Eddie’s bachelor party, and Richie thinks it’s ridiculous that they’re at a local bar because Eddie doesn’t really drink. He guesses that’s exactly why they’re here, because he knows she would throw a fit if they went somewhere exciting, like Florida, or a casino, or a strip club.

Richie snorts at the idea of himself in a strip club, thinking he’d be more at home jumping on the stage and making an ass of himself for his friends than allowing a naked girl to give him a lap dance.

“You look drunk,” Stan says matter-of-factly, sitting next to Richie at the bar with a glass of red wine in hand. Richie glances at Stan and then turns and looks where the rest of their friends are huddled in the middle of the bar. Ben and Beverly are dancing, grinning and giggly and adorably in love. Bill and Mike are watching them, both grinning and buzzed, each holding a half empty beer bottle. Eddie is grinning, holding a glass of white wine that Richie is almost certain is the same one he ordered at the beginning of the night.

When he turns and meets Richie’s gaze, Richie has to turn away.

“Very,” he answers Stan, sipping at his bourbon. Stan watches him idly for a moment, swirling his glass, and then turns to look at their friends.

“Is that why you’re sitting here alone instead of standing with us?” he asks, and Richie closes his eyes because he already knows where Stan is going to go with this.

“Yep,” he answers shortly, letting out a breath through his nose.

Stan doesn’t say anything for a moment, and Richie opens his eyes and looks down at his nearly empty glass. The amber liquid stares back at him, and he picks up the glass and finishes it. Despite knowing he should cut himself off, he motions for the bartender to pour him another glass. Richie can feel Stan looking at him, but he doesn’t care. There’s a lot he doesn’t care about anymore.

“Richie,” Stan starts, and Richie rubs at his forehead to try and ease his growing headache, “You are the most masochistic person I have ever met.” Richie turns slowly and blinks at Stan, trying to comprehend what it is he’s just heard.

“What?” he asks dumbly, and Stan shakes his head.

“I think you’re doing this on purpose,” he says, gesturing with his glass towards Eddie, “dancing around him the way you are.”

“Shut up, Stan,” Richie grits out, jaw setting hard.

“I can’t think of any other explanation for why you’re acting like a fucking idiot,” Stan says scathingly, “because we all know that you’re in love with Eddie, and we all know that Eddie is definitely in love with you back, and we all know that you’re both going to be miserable if you don’t make a fucking move before April first.”

“I don’t have to fucking listen to this,” Richie bites back, clumsily reaching for his wallet. He gulps down his fresh glass of bourbon, fishes out some bills from his wallet, and slaps them angrily onto the bar top. “Why do I have to make the move, huh? If Eddie is so in love with me then why did he ask her to marry him?”

Stan doesn’t answer him and instead shakes his head, pointedly looking away from Richie and frowning deeply, and Richie shoves his wallet back into his pocket. “That’s what I fucking thought,” he snaps, feeling vindicated, “I’m going home.”

Richie stumbles away from the bar and stands still, trying to keep his balance. He knows he’s still drunk, and he knows he should probably ask for help, but there’s no way he’s turning around and asking any of the losers for help. Especially not if it means another lecture on how he needs to confess his feelings to Eddie.

He reaches the front door after an embarrassingly long amount of time, and before he can push it open he feels a warm hand on his shoulder. When he turns with the most annoyed expression he can muster, he’s met with Eddie’s kind brown eyes and a small, sad smile.

“I hope you’re not planning on driving home,” he says, and Richie blinks.

“No,” he says lamely, “I was gonna… uber, or whatever.” Walk, really, because Richie isn’t sure he could use his phone correctly right now, and he’s sure as shit not going to drive. Eddie clearly isn’t buying it, and just pats his shoulder.

“Let me take you home, Rich,” he says, and Richie freezes.

“No, Eddie, your— your bachelor party,” Richie points back to where their friends are staring at the two of them, and he can feel his face and neck flush red.

“It’s fine, Richie, I can come back,” Eddie says, and Richie knows that he won’t be able to convince Eddie not to take him home. He looks away from Eddie, considers shouldering him off and walking home, which would be fucking stupid since it’s cold and windy out and it would probably take him well over an hour in the state he’s in. But it would serve him right, because he’s been nothing but cold and stupid for the past four months.

“Okay,” he relents quietly, and lets himself be guided by Eddie outside.

He lets Eddie guide him, and maybe it’s selfish to let Eddie think he’s much drunker than he is, and that he needs to be handled gently, but Richie doesn’t care. He’ll be selfish with Eddie for one more week before the wedding.

He leans his forehead on the passenger side window as Eddie drives, hands on two and ten, radio off.

“Can I ask you something?” Eddie asks, and Richie nods.

“Whatever you want, and I’ll tell you the truth,” Richie says honestly. He hopes Eddie will ask him if he’s secretly in love with him, if he wants to drive away from this town and run away with him, if he wants to live the rest of their lives together.

Eddie hesitates, eyes glued to the road, and finally asks, “Are you mad at me?”

“No, I’m not,” Richie says, and that is technically the truth.

“So then why are you avoiding me?”

Richie doesn’t answer right away. He wouldn’t say he’s avoiding Eddie, he’s just… well. Yeah. He probably is avoiding Eddie.

“I don’t want you to get married,” Richie shifts, the seatbelt suddenly feeling too tight, “so I guess that’s why. I’m sorry.”

Eddie is quiet as he drives, and it just makes Richie feel worse. Normally Eddie is animated when he drives, pushing speed limits and ignoring general rules of traffic, but he’s going unusually slow and steady.

“I’m sorry,” Richie repeats, just to fill the space between them.

“Why?” Eddie asks, and there’s no malice in his voice, just curiosity.

“Why am I sorry or why don’t I want you to get married?” Richie asks, keeping his gaze out the window.

“Both, I guess,” Eddie shrugs.

Because I’m in love with you.

“I don’t like her,” Richie says, as if it’s that simple.

“Myra?” Eddie asks.

“Yeah.”

“Yeah, I knew that,” Eddie puts on his blinker and turns a corner, and Richie chews on the inside of his cheek, “but most people who don’t like their friends future spouses don’t ignore their friend. So I’m guessing there’s something else you’re not telling me.”

Richie feels like he’s in slow motion as he turns and looks at Eddie, but he doesn’t meet his look. Eddie keeps his gaze pointedly forward, driving, and Richie thinks he’s driving even slower than before. And then it occurs to him, almost like an epiphany, that Eddie is acting… weird. He’s being gentle with Richie, almost awkward, and he’s not loud or cursing or behaving anywhere close to the realm of normal Eddie Kaspbrak behavior. He knows he’s still drunk, so thinking is harder than it normally is, but the more he starts thinking the more he realizes that Eddie has been acting this way with him for months.

Richie looks back towards the road, and suddenly the car is way too small.

Eddie doesn’t say anything, and Richie realizes he’s waiting for an answer. All he can do is clear his throat, readjust himself in his seat, and try to keep his breathing rate from spiking. Richie is sure as shit not going to speak, especially because he’s pretty sure now that Eddie knows.

Fuck you and your first moves, he thinks bitterly of his friends.

“Why don’t you like Myra?” Eddie asks finally, evidently getting tired of the silence.

“Because she makes you miserable,” Richie says automatically, “she’s just like your fucking mother and I don’t know how you don’t see that. Controlling, and rude, and manipulative. And I’m pretty sure she hates all of us? So. Yeah. That a good enough answer for you?”

Eddie holds up one finger in the air and Richie can feel his brows tug down in confusion.

“Only one, actually,” Eddie says.

“I’m sorry?” Richie asks, blinking as his mind tries to keep up.

“She only hates one of my friends,” Eddie specifies, looking at Richie out of the corner of his eye.

“Who?” Richie asks, but he already knows what Eddie is going to say.

“You.”

“Oh.”

Silence falls between them again, and Richie drums his fingers on the door.

“You don’t sound surprised,” Eddie says finally.

“Well, what the fuck do you want me to say? You want me to be upset? I’m not. I don’t care why she hates me because I hate her, too, and that’s never gonna fucking change,” Richie can feel himself start to ramble, and he knows he needs to shut the fuck up immediately but he just can’t, he’s too drunk and too far gone now to care, “God, Eddie, just— why? You could have so much better, you could have someone who actually cares for you, someone who makes you laugh, someone like—“

“You?”

Richie stops breathing, stops moving, and knows that he looks horrified and exposed as he stares out of the front of the car. Eddie says nothing, lets the word settle over the both of them, and Richie feels like he needs to throw up.

“Take me home,” is all he can manage, and Eddie squeezes the wheel tightly and nods with his mouth set in a hard line.

Richie hasn’t spoken to Eddie for a week.

Realistically, he knows that he should reach out to Eddie and apologize. He knows he should explain that he was so fucking drunk, and Eddie knows how he gets when he’s drunk, knows that he can’t shut up and stop saying stupid shit. He knows Eddie will probably laugh, call him a fucking idiot, and then they will both go on living their lives like normal.

Except Richie doesn’t think he could ever live life normally again, because now he knows that Eddie knows.

It’s the worst case scenario. Richie had convinced himself that he could live with Eddie being married, pining uselessly for the rest of his life. It would be easy once Eddie was officially off the market. Now? Now it will be impossible. Because Eddie knows that Richie is ridiculously, hopelessly, head over heels in love with him.

Tomorrow is April 1st. He’s sitting on his couch, not watching the news, but he can’t stand the silence of his home, so the television is staying on. The weather forecast for tomorrow is in the 40s, a typical early spring temperature for Derry. He hopes, meanly, that the temperature takes a nosedive overnight and that a freak snowstorm brews and forces the wedding to be cancelled.

The sound of his phone ringing stirs him from his thoughts, and he panics for a moment before seeing that it’s just Ben.

“Hello?” he asks, tone flat.

“Hey, Rich” Ben says, sounding as friendly as ever, “How are you feeling?”

Richie feels like shit. His heart aches, he can’t sleep, and he hasn’t eaten a real meal in weeks.

“Don’t,” is all he can muster, having lost all the fight in him, “I’ve heard it from everyone else already. I don’t want another lecture.”

“A lecture?” Ben repeats, and Richie curses under his breath and rubs at his face, “No, man, I was just calling to see if you were still coming tomorrow?” Richie looks at the clock, sees that it’s going on seven, and wonders how many drinks it would take to get him fucked up beyond comprehension but still leave him sober enough with minimal hangover to go to the wedding tomorrow.

“Yeah,” he says lamely, “I’m still going.”

“Oh, good,” Ben says, “We haven’t heard from you so we were just wondering.”

“I’ll be there. Bright eyed and bushy tailed.” There’s a beat of silence between them. “Is that all you wanted to know?”

“Can I ask you something?” Ben asks, and his tone is so caring and concerned it makes Richie nearly tear up.

“Sure,” he says passively, preemptively wiping under his eyes.

“How are you really feeling, Rich?” He asks, and Richie is definitely tearing up now. “I should have reached out sooner, and I’m sorry I haven’t, but I’ve really been thinking about you these past four months.” Ben is too good of a friend, and Richie doesn’t deserve this. He deserves to be yelled at for being an idiot, and he deserves to be lectured and told that he’s lost his chance, but he doesn’t deserve the genuine kindness Ben is offering him right now. It’s moments like these that make it so obvious why Beverly loves him.

“I feel horrible,” Richie says honestly, and he’s ashamed at how his voice cracks.

“Oh, Rich,” Ben’s voice is soft and full of sympathy, “I’m so sorry, man.”

“Thanks,” Richie says lamely, and then he has to put his phone down because he starts to cry. He puts his face in his hands and cries, ugly shuddering sobs of grief and heartbreak. He doesn’t even deserve to be able to cry like this, because like Bill had said weeks ago he never made a move. He never made it obvious to Eddie, never took the risk. He never gave any outright hints, always made sure to pretend he was joking when his touch or gaze lingered too long, always used the pretense of teasing when he got too close. He was so, so careful to not let his feelings slip through the cracks.

He thinks back to when Stan scolded him, thinks back to how he had angrily asked why he had to make the first move, and it dawns on him with sickening clarity that he needed to make the first move because he had never given Eddie any indication about how he truly felt. It was a well known fact among all of them that Eddie always played it safe and never took risks. So if Eddie truly felt the same way, the way the other losers insisted that he did, there was no way he would make the first move if he wasn’t sure. And Richie made it a priority that Eddie would never know.

This was all his fault.

Richie mourns his heartbreak, mourns the love he never got the chance to share, mourns the future that he could have had if he hadn’t been such a coward.

Richie stares at himself in his bathroom mirror and thinks he’s never looked more pathetic in his life.

He’s got stubble growing on his cheeks and neck, rough and sharp. His hair is a mess, greasy and sticking out in all different directions, and he’s pretty sure he hasn’t brushed his teeth in three days. He knows he should hop in the shower, shave, brush his hair, and put on the suit that is hanging in his closet. He knows he should get into his car, drive to the church, and attend Eddie’s wedding.

But he just can’t.

He can’t work up the motivation to move, to do anything he needs to, because that means accepting his new reality. Richie has been trying to prepare himself for this day, trying to get into the headspace that this is happening and that he can’t change that, and that he needs to start getting used to seeing Eddie with a ring on his finger that was put there by someone who is not Richie.

He runs his hands down his face and thinks, not for the first time, that he’s an idiot.

He hears his phone ping, alerting him to a text, and he goes into his bedroom to retrieve it off the nightstand. He sees its from Beverly, and opens it up.

Don’t get cold feet today. Call me if you need a ride or an ear! Otherwise I’ll see you there.

Richie exhales heavily, runs a hand through his hair, and then calls Beverly. She picks up almost immediately.

“Hey honey,” she says, and her voice is warm and supportive, “what’s up?”

“Can you motivate me to get in the shower?” he asks, and he knows he sounds so pathetic. He feels absolutely pathetic.

“You probably look gross,” she teases, and Richie knows she’s trying to cheer him up, but he can’t even manage a smile for her.

“I look fucking disgusting,” he grumbles.

“Do you want me to come over?” she asks.

“No, Bev, I do not want you to see me in my natural habitat right now,” he says quickly. The last thing he needs is for her to mother him.

“Okay, okay,” she laughs, “I won’t come over. But seriously, take a shower. It will make you feel better.” Richie knows she’s right, and he rubs the side of his face.

“I don’t want to go,” he admits quietly to her, and gets annoyed with himself when he can feel tears pricking at his eyes again.

“I know,” she says softly, “but you need to go. Even if you only go to the ceremony and skip the reception, it’ll mean a lot to Eddie.”

“I don’t know if I can do it, Bev,” and Richie knows he sounds like he’s on the verge of tears.

“I know it’s hard, Richie, but you have to come. Please? You can even sit next to me,” she tries to console him, and she’s being a great friend like usual, but it isn’t making Richie feel any better.

“You have Ben,” Richie laments, and he knows this isn’t a fair comparison to make.

“I do have Ben,” she agrees, “but I want you to trust me and believe me when I say that you can still have Eddie.”

Richie scoffs, taking his phone away from his ear to press his face into his free hand. He’s baffled as to why she’s still pressing this, and it motivates him even more to just stay home.

“Richie?” He hears her ask, “You still there?”

“Yeah,” he sighs, bringing the phone back up, “I’m here.”

“Good,” she says, “Now promise me you’ll get in the shower and get ready? Please, Richie?”

Richie chews his lip, weighs his options, and nods heavily.

“Alright,” he agrees, if only because he knows she’d never forgive him if he missed this.

“Do you want us to pick you up?” she offers.

“No, I’ll get there on my own,” he stands up from his bed and walks heavily to the bathroom.

“Okay. I’ll see you soon, Richie,” she says, and Richie hangs up without saying goodbye. He stares at himself in his mirror, taking in his appearance again, and then finally walks over to his shower and turns it on.

Richie shows up on time with clean hair and brushed teeth, but unshaven stubble.

The lone black suit in his closet still fit despite the hope that maybe he had outgrown it, and he could have used the excuse that he had nothing to wear and skipped the wedding entirely. He’d brought a simple black tie, though it hung loose around his neck, and he knows he needs to tie it before he goes inside. Lingering in the back of the parking lot, cold air stinging his face, he lights up a cigarette and sloppily starts to fix his tie.

“Richie!” He hears Beverly’s voice call his name, and he looks up to see her and Ben walking to him, both looking a mix of relieved and happy to see him. Bev looks lovely, wearing a lilac dress and a white jacket, Ben beside her in a grey suit and tie. He offers them a small wave and pulls the cigarette from his mouth.

“Want a puff?” he offers her, mostly joking, and she tuts and shakes her head.

“Don’t tempt me,” she glances at the church over her shoulder and then looks back to Richie, “let me help you with your tie.”

He lets her without complaint, watching without interest as she nimbly straightens his tie and then smooths down his jacket.

“There,” she smiles up at him, which Richie can’t return, “you look very handsome.”

Richie takes another hit of his cigarette and then points to Ben, “You hear that? She says I’m handsome. Watch out before I swoop in.”

They both laugh, and Ben puts an arm around her shoulder and kisses the top of her head. Richie watches them with envy, and looks down, knowing he’s being unfair.

“You ready to go in?” Ben asks, and Richie sighs and stubs out his cigarette.

“Ready as I’ll ever be,” he mutters, and the three of them make their way towards the entrance to the church.

Inside the small vestibule of the church are various people, who Richie assumes are mostly friends and family of the brides, mingling and chatting quietly. There are already some people seated, flipping through thin programs that Richie guesses are in the pews. He stands awkwardly with Beverly and Ben and shoves his hands into his pants pockets, and then he turns and sees his friends standing to the side. Mike, Stan, and Bill are all groomsmen, dressed in neat navy suits similar to the one Eddie had gotten in late February.

Richie catches Mike’s eye first, and the smile that blooms onto his face is infectious. He breaks from the small group and strides over to Richie quickly, enveloping him in a hug that takes him by surprise but that Richie really should have seen coming.

“I’m so glad you’re here,” he grins, “we were worried that you wouldn’t come.”

“Here I am,” Richie smiles, and it’s small but genuine. Mike pulls back and puts a firm hand on his shoulder, squeezing it supportively.

“Eddie’s going to be thrilled,” he gushes, and just as easily as it came the smile on Richie’s face fades.

“Yeah,” he says tightly, “where is he?”

A door opens just beside where Stan and Bill are standing and, as if summoned, Eddie walks out. The sight of him takes Richie’s breath away. The navy suit was such a good choice, he thinks, the color looking good against Eddie’s skin tone and his dark eyes. His hair is combed neatly back, and his face is freshly shaven. He’s got a small white flower pinned to his jacket, and while Mike, Stan, and Bill have solid navy ties, Eddie’s is navy with small white polka dots. It’s such an endearing choice, and it makes Richie’s heart twist.

When Eddie turns and sees Richie, he beams and grins.

“Rich!” he exclaims excitedly, and quickly comes over to him, “Oh, shit, you came! I didn’t think…”

He stops in front of Richie, and it’s not missed that there is more space between them than usual. The night from a week ago starts flashing in his mind, and Richie offers Eddie a tight and pained smile. Eddie clears his throat and keeps his distance.

“I’m here,” is all Richie can say before he feels his throat start to tighten up again. He’s glad his hands are still in his pockets so that nobody can see the tight fists he’s forming, nails digging into his palms because he is not going to do this right here. He is not going to break down in front of Eddie, in front of his friends, in front of her, wherever the fuck she is.

“It means a lot to me,” Eddie says slowly, watching Richie a little too intensely for his liking, “that you’re here. I hope you know that.”

Richie nods stiffly, and he can feel Beverly’s hand on his back, gently guiding him away from Eddie, away from the group, and suddenly he’s sitting down on a small toilet in an impossibly small church bathroom and Beverly is locking the door behind her.

It’s only then that he becomes truly aware that he’s crying.

Beverly leans over and hugs him, presses his face to her chest, and he wraps his arms around her and sobs. He’s sure his grip is too tight, probably hurting her, but her hold on him doesn’t waiver. She gently runs a hand through his hair, hushing and soothing him the best that she can.

“It’s okay,” she murmurs gently, “it’s okay, Richie, it’s going to be okay.”

He can’t believe that, he doesn’t, because there is no way he will ever be any semblance of okay ever again. He shakes his head and tries to tell her as much, but she continues to pet his head and hush him.

When he starts to hiccup he forces himself to stop crying, letting go of Bev and rubbing his face with his hands. He pulls back and sees that there is a damp spot on her dress, probably from a mix of tears and spit, but she doesn’t pay any mind to it. Instead, she hands him several paper towels and watches him a look of concern he doesn’t deserve.

“Breath, Richie,” she instructs, and he breathes in, deep and fast, and lets it out with a huff. “Slowly, Rich,” she makes him breath slowly with her, and Richie remembers how being mothered by her was the last thing he had wanted earlier today, and now it’s the only thing keeping him from having a total breakdown.

“I can’t go back out there,” he shudders, wiping at his damp face with the rough paper towels.

“Yes you can,” she gingerly takes the damp towel from him and then kneels in front of him and holds his hands, squeezing them tightly, “you can do this, Richie, because you are the bravest person I know. Showing up here today took so much bravery and courage, and I don’t know anyone else who could do that.”

“You had to make me come,” he points out, sniffling again.

“I didn’t make you do anything, Richie,” she insists, “I encouraged you, yes, but you made the decision to come today. Nobody made that choice for you. That makes you brave.”

He doesn’t believe her, but he doesn’t try to argue. He stares down at his lap, embarrassed that he lost it in front of his friends, in front of Eddie, in front of strangers who are probably whispering about him right now.

“I can’t go back out there,” he repeats softly, “not looking like this.”

Beverly hums a little and lets go of his hands, gently tilting Richie’s chin up to look at her. She pulls off his glasses, wipes them down, and then puts them straight back onto his face. Then she stands and runs her hands through his hair again, pushing stray hairs back into place. She straightens his tie, again, and smooths his jacket down with caring hands.

“There,” she smiles, “you look good.” Richie is sure his eyes are red as anything, and that he does not look good right now, but he doesn’t have any fight left in him.

“Thanks,” he manages dryly, and Beverly leans forward and puts her hands on his shoulders.

“Listen to me,” she says seriously, “I know that you’ve given up, but I want you to know that we haven’t.”

“We who?” Richie asks, feeling his stomach curl, “Given up on what?”

“Bill, Ben, Mike, Stan,” she lists as if it was obvious, “and we haven’t given up on you getting Eddie.” Richie stares at her for a beat and then shakes his head and looks down at his lap.

“It’s too late,” he laments, and he can feel tears pricking again, “it’s too fucking late.”

“No it’s not,” she says, “you’ve got one more chance, Richie, and none of us want you to blow it.”

“I don’t,” Richie shakes his head, frowning deeply at her, “I lost him.”

“What do you feel for Eddie?” She challenges, and Richie blinks.

“I love him.”

“Then speak now,” Beverly squeezes his shoulders, and Richie doesn’t think he’s ever seen her look so determined, “and tell him so.”

Speak now.

He thinks about what she’s saying, and her point dawns on him with stunning clarity. He thinks about the look on Eddie’s face when he drove Richie home, the tight grip of the steering wheel. His face in the mirror when he was getting the suit he’s wearing today, how their eyes met for just a fraction too long. How close Eddie stood next to him outside of the bar back in January when he asked Richie to be his best man. He thinks of all the losers trying to tell him that Eddie loves him, and he feels a rush of adrenaline spike through him.

If Eddie truly loves him, then all Richie has to do is tell him how he feels, and everything will be alright.

She stands back up and smiles at him, and Richie lets her words turn over in his head a few times before nodding.

“Okay,” he agrees, “I will.”

Beverly grins at him, and he manages to find a smile for her.

“I’m going to go sit with Ben,” she says, “don’t take too long, okay?”

Richie nods and watches as she slips from the bathroom and leaves him alone. He stands from the toilet and looks at himself in the mirror. His eyes are still a little red, but otherwise he looks fine. His suit is smoothed out, his hair looks fine, and his tie is straight. He makes a few expressions in the bathroom mirror, tries to calm himself down, and then shakes his hands out.

“You’re gonna be okay, Rich,” he tells himself, “you’re going to tell Eddie you love him, and Eddie is going to love you back, and everything will be fine.”

The sound of organ music playing catches his attention, and he curses as he quickly unlocks the bathroom door and walks into the vestibule.

He comes to a quick stop when he sees, preparing to walk down the aisle, her.

It’s like time slows down for Richie as he stares at Myra. Her wedding gown is in the style of a ball gown, and her skirt is huge, almost comically so. Richie wonders how she even managed to get inside the church wearing it. Her bouquet is also huge, a tacky over abundance of red roses and white carnations. Her veil is long, rivaled only by her train, and Richie has a very quick, vivid thought of stepping on it just to see what would happen. She looks proud as a peacock as the organ music plays, each of her bridesmaids going before her.

Then she turns her head, as if she is suddenly aware that he’s standing there, and meets Richie’s eyes.

Richie feels his blood freeze over, and if looks could kill he’d be a dead man, because he is almost certain Myra is glaring at him through her veil. He can feel his own expression morph into that of confusion, because while he certainly hates the woman standing in front of him, he’d never go out of his way to be publicly rude to her, despite his intense desire to do so. She continues to glare, almost staring him down, and Richie frowns back at her. If she wanted a showdown, two could play at that game.

Her last bridesmaid began to step forward, and Myra takes two steps towards the entrance of the sanctuary, not taking her eyes off of Richie. He can feel his skin begin to crawl, and he starts to think she’s crazy for staring him down when everyone else is staring at her, waiting for her to make her way down the aisle. Then, the music starts to get louder, more animated, and Richie knows this is her cue to move. Strangely, she waits a beat, still staring at Richie, and Richie thinks about pushing her out of the way and walking down the damn aisle himself when she finally makes a move.

She sticks her chin up, still staring at Richie, and smirks.

It makes Richie’s jaw drop, and he watches her as she serenely turns her head forward and begins what Richie interprets as a march of triumph.

It’s clear to him then that she knows, and he feels chilled to the bone. She clearly knows that he’s in love with Eddie, and she views this as a conquest, and that she’s won. It’s those actions, that smirk, that expression that seemed to say I’ve beaten you, the feeling of victory radiating from her steps, that confirms to Richie that he hates her more than anything on this earth.

He watches as she walks down the aisle, going slow on purpose, he’s sure, down to where Eddie is waiting. He’s watching her with a tight jaw and it strikes Richie how tired he looks. Eddie looks past Myra, past the watching crowd, and locks eyes with Richie. He flashes him the saddest smile Richie has ever seen. Richie watches him, feels his hands twitch, feels like he needs to do something, anything, to rescue Eddie from this.

Speak Now.

Richie watches as Eddie lifts Myra’s veil, and she looks at Eddie so possessively, almost hungrily, that he has to look away. The fact that she clearly views him as an object makes his stomach churn, like a child with a toy that they only want because it means someone else cannot have it.

He hears the priest begin to speak, and he knows at this point he’s stuck in the vestibule. He feels awkward, feels the need to pace, knowing that he probably looks like an uninvited guest. The priests voice carries high and bold, going on about how everyone has gathered to witness the union of two people in love. Richie snorts, thinking how that couldn’t be further from the truth. Neither of them love each other, and it would almost be tragic if Myra weren’t such an awful person.

“A good and balanced relationship,” the priest drawls out slowly, “is one in which neither person is overpowered or absorbed by the other. One in which neither person is possessive of the other, in which both parties give their love freely and without jealousy.”

Richie turns back towards the sanctuary at these words and feels the lump in his throat return. He can see Stan shifting his weight between his feet where he stands in between Bill and Mike, and for a brief moment his eyes flicker back to where Richie is standing, and they share the thought that never has a marriage been more of a sham. Stan, for his part, quickly schools his expression and looks back at Eddie, but Richie doesn’t even try to hide his look of horror because he knows if he does he’ll start to cry again. Mike and Bill watch Eddie, unwavering, and while Mike has an expression of cool neutrality, Bill looks troubled, like he has an itch he can’t reach.

“Today, you enter this church as individuals,” the priest continues, “but you will leave as husband and wife. A combined unit forever more, blending your lives wholly, and taking on life together.”

Richie doesn’t think he will be able to stomach any more of this. He turns towards the door of the church, thinks maybe if he gets some air he can calm down, right himself and fix this. He hears the priest continuing to speak but the words don’t register. Air sounds so good right now, and maybe he can smoke another cigarette, get his thoughts together so he knows what to say to Eddie.

As Richie lays a shaking hand on the door, he hears the priest say, loud and clear, “If any person here in attendance has any reason that these two should not be wed, then speak now, or forever hold your peace.”

Richie freezes up, can’t breathe, can’t think suddenly. He thought he had more time, he thought this part came later in the ceremony, thought that he could prepare some half assed speech to give so he didn’t look like a total fool.

He looks over his shoulder, hand still on the door, and he looks into the pews, and he sees Beverly, looking at him over her shoulder, and she mouths something that he can’t understand.

Then he looks toward the altar, vision blurring a little, and he sees Eddie, watching him with his mouth set in a hard line and his eyes soft and sad.

Richie takes in a gulping, shuddering breath, pulls his hand back from the door, steps into the sanctuary, and walks down the aisle.

“Yeah,” his voice shakes out loudly, “I have a reason.”

Instantly there is chattering and murmuring among the pews, people whispering harshly, gasping and pointing, and Richie can feel his ears turn red. Myra looks at him, half shock and fury, openly glaring disdainfully at him. Bill and Mike are all staring at him with mixed expressions of shock and hope, and Stan is openly grinning at him. The priest, though obviously surprised, is looking at Richie with raised eyebrows and a pensive expression. Clearly, he is going to allow Richie to speak, despite what everyone around him might be thinking.

And Eddie, the man he is about to risk everything for, is gaping at him with his big brown eyes and parted lips. He looks handsome and beautiful at the same time, and Richie thinks that even if he fails right now, it will be worth it to have Eddie’s full attention in this moment.

“Richie—“ Eddie starts, taking a single step towards him, but Richie shakes his head.

“I love you,” he says simply, “I love you, Eddie, I’m so deeply in love with you that it’s probably pathetic. I’m probably making a fucking ass of myself,” he hears soft exclaiming as he curses, “but I don’t care. I need you to know, before you marry her, before you say yes, before you do whatever the fuck you want to do, that I love you. I have been in love with you for so fucking long, and I’m sorry that I never said anything, I’m sorry that I’m ruining your day by saying this, but it’s the truth. I have to make sure that you know, because if you don’t, then I won’t be able to live with myself.”

Eddie’s mouth opens and closes several times, and not once does he look away from Richie. His gaze is searing, intense and serious, and Richie thinks that on another day it might make him melt into the ground, but he doesn’t waver in his stance. He needs Eddie to know that he’s serious, that he’s in love with him, that he would probably die for him at this very moment.

“I love you,” he repeats, “and that’s all I have to fucking say.”

The church is silent, so fucking quiet that you could hear a pin drop, and Richie can feel himself losing his bravery.

And then she snorts, a loud, ugly sound, and Richie feels his heart twist in pain as she turns to look back to Eddie.

Except, Eddie isn’t standing next to her anymore. He’s walking, full force, to meet Richie halfway down the aisle. His mouth is set in a determined, hard line, his brows are furrowed, and Richie braces himself, closes his eyes as Eddie thrusts his hands at his face, and he prepares for the impact of being punched, and makes a soft noise of pain when he feels his nose being smashed in.

And then lips are on his.

Richie blinks, going cross eyed and glasses skewing, because Eddie is kissing him, kissing him so fiercely that their noses are painfully pushed together.

Richie blinks again, because Eddie is kissing him.

Eddie pulls back and stares at him with fire in his eyes, still cradling his face, mouth set back in that familiar hard line. He lets go of Richie’s face and holds his shoulders, squeezes them so tightly it almost hurts, but Richie desperately doesn’t want him to let go.

“I know you’re a procrastinator,” Eddie chides, “but that was fucking ridiculous. Never make me wait that long again.”

Richie hears whooping and turns, stunned, to see Ben standing and grinning, fists pumped into the air. Beverly is grinning as she sits next to him, hands clasped in front of her face. He looks back at Eddie with wide eyes and he thinks his brain has gone offline because he can’t comprehend what is happening. He’s just confessed that he loves Eddie, desperately so, and he has left her at the altar and is now standing in front of him after kissing him for all he’s worth.

Richie blinks again, dumbly, because he isn’t convinced that this is not a dream.

“Come on,” Eddie says, grinning so brightly, and takes Richie’s hand and starts pulling him towards the church doors.

He hears exclaiming then, hears the church erupting into noisy confusion and chaos. He can hear Ben whooping again, and can hear Mike and Bill cheering as well. Stan calls out behind them, “Took you fucking long enough!” but he sounds absolutely thrilled. He thinks he hears Myra calling after Eddie, but Eddie’s grip on Richie’s hand only tightens and he pulls him faster. Richie can feel a grin spreading across his face, because he realizes that this is real, this is happening, they’re running away from Eddie’s wedding.

He lets out a laugh, the loudest and brightest he’s laughed in months, and follows Eddie willingly.

Eddie pulls them out into the cold spring day, and though the sun is hidden by clouds and the wind is chilly and biting, Richie feels nothing but bursting warmth inside his chest. They gallop down the church steps, hands clasped tightly, and they rush into the church parking lot, past a very confused limo driver who is waiting at the curb. Richie over takes him at this point, starts leading Eddie towards his car, and when they reach it they stop and stare at each other.

Both of them burst into laughter then, clear and joyful, and Richie can feel tears blurring his vision again. This time, he lets them come, doesn’t fight them, because he’s never been happier in his life.

“I can’t believe…” he starts, and then trails off, shaking his head.

“You’re an idiot,” Eddie grins, teeth bared, and Richie laughs again. He touches Eddie’s face, holds his cheeks in his hands, admires him intensely, and doesn’t want to let go.

“I am an idiot,” he breathes out, “I’m a fucking idiot. I am so sorry. I’m so sorry I didn’t say anything, I’m sorry I didn’t—”

He’s cut off by Eddie standing up onto his tiptoes and kissing him deeply, and Richie immediately shuts up and kisses him back. It’s so good, fucking perfect, better than any of his fantasies and dreams because this is real. When they pull away Richie wants to kiss him again, and again, and never stop.

“I love you,” Eddie says, and it sounds so sweet and beautiful. Richie starts to cry then, and Eddie scoffs and wipes at his face.

“I love you, too,” he babbles, and Eddie kisses him again.

“Hey!”

They both look up and see, running towards them, all of their friends.

They’re all grinning and whooping, and Richie and Eddie hold open their arms and suddenly it’s a mess of hugging, limbs squeezing each other, and flowing tears.

“I knew you had it in you,” Mike grins, hand clasping Richie’s shoulder, and he shakes his head.

“That was amazing!” Ben praises, and his eyes are bright and excited. Beverly hugs the two of them and then kisses them both on the cheeks, leaving lipstick prints that neither of them care to wipe away.

“I’m so happy for you two,” she gushes warmly, and Richie is amazed he hasn’t run out of tears yet. Bill throws an arm around Eddie’s shoulder and pats his chest, and Eddie hugs his side in return.

“F-fucking finally,” he exclaims happily, and the group laughs, “we’ve been waiting for this f-forever!”

Richie feels like he’s been waiting forever, too, but seeing the look on Eddie’s face, happy and in love, makes everything worth it.

“So,” Stan says, stepping between them and clapping them both on the shoulders, “I say we get the fuck out of here and go celebrate.”

Richie thinks it’s the best idea he’s heard all day.

They’re at their third bar, hopping between their favorite establishments on main street, and Richie hasn’t stopped touching Eddie all night.

He’s currently draped over him, a goofy grin plastered on his face, and Eddie is lovingly tolerating it. He’s been good tonight, limiting the drinks he’s getting, because he wants to remember every detail of this day that he can.

Ben and Beverly are singing karaoke, both with a beer in hand, arms wrapped around each other. It’s hilariously bad, and they keep giggling and muddling the words, but everyone is clapping and laughing along. Stan is smiling affectionately, red wine in hand, and Mike and Bill are shaking their heads and singing the chorus from their seats while finishing off their beers.

Eddie is cheering and whooping, and Richie raises his glass and tips it towards them before draining it.

“I love you,” he says, for the hundredth time that night, and Eddie kisses his cheek with a loud smack.

“I love you, too,” he grins, and Richie can’t help the childish giggle that escapes. He thinks he’ll be giddy every time Eddie says it.

The song ends, and Bev and Ben bow and then come back to the table that they’ve claimed.

“Encore!” Bill cheers, and they all laugh together.

“I’d love to,” Beverly giggles, “but unfortunately, I think we have to get going soon.”

Richie pouts at that, and she imitates his face, and it sends everyone into another round of laughter.

Mike holds up his beer, nearly finished, and the rest of them quickly raise theirs.

“To Richie and Eddie,” he grins, and the rest of them shout it back.

Richie and Eddie. It’s going to be that way for the rest of their lives, and Richie can’t believe that he gets to say that. He looks at his friends around the table, laughing like family, and he feels impossibly warm inside.

They each pay their tabs, and Bev and Ben wave goodbye and leave with his arm slung around her shoulder and hers around his waist. Richie watches them and knows that he and Eddie will be leaving soon in the same way — hands touching each other, claiming each other, letting the world know that they belong together.

“I’m really happy for you,” Richie hears Stan say, and when he looks Stan is beaming. “You made one hell of a move.”

Richie just grins and hugs him, and Stan returns it easily, clapping Richie on the back.

“Thank you,” he says genuinely, “for everything.”

Stan leaves then, followed shortly by Mike who gives them each a crushing hug before he goes. Bill is the last, and he congratulates them again and again before leaving to make his way home.

Richie takes Eddie’s hand and pulls him into the middle of the bar as a slow song starts to play, and Eddie laughs when he realizes what Richie is doing and comes willingly.

He holds one of Richie’s hands tightly, the other resting on his shoulder, and Richie wraps an arm around Eddie’s waist and marvels at how wonderfully he fits against him. They don’t say anything, just look at each other adoringly, and sway slowly to the music. It feels so perfect, so right, and Richie thinks nothing else has been so sweet in his entire life.

And then Eddie rests his head on Richie’s shoulder, and he thinks immediately that he was wrong.

“I love you,” he says, as easy as breathing.

“I love you, too,” Eddie says back, squeezing Richie’s hands with the words.

“You’re my person, you know?” Richie beams down at Eddie, who giggles at that.

“You’re a fucking sap,” he looks up at Richie and shakes his head, but he’s smiling. Richie thinks that they haven’t stopped smiling all night. He doubts he’ll ever stop smiling.

The song comes to an end, and they kiss each other chastely. Richie thinks of all the ways he’s kissed Eddie today, and wonders how many more ways they can accomplish by the end of the night.

He really doesn’t want to leave the bar, wants to stay in this moment with Eddie until the end of time, but he knows they need to leave. They drift over to the bartender and pay up their tab, leaving a hefty tip behind, and leave with their fingers intertwined.

It’s cold, the wind picking up and whipping past them, but Richie feels nothing but warmth and love as they walk the nearly empty road of Derry’s main street. They’re heading back to the church where Richie had parked earlier, where Richie was braver than he ever has been in his life, and Richie squeezes Eddie’s hand impossibly tight. He feels like he will be forever in his friends debt, because if they hadn’t given him the shit he deserved these past few months, he wouldn’t be here right now. He’d be at home, drowning his sorrows, instead of here with the love of his life.

“How do you feel?” Eddie asks, pulling him out of his thoughts.

“I feel like I’m on top of the fucking world,” Richie grins, and lets go of Eddie’s hand to wrap his arm around his shoulder and pull him flush against him. Eddie comes willingly, putting his arm around Richie’s waist the same way Bev had hers around Ben’s.

“Me, too,” he agrees easily, “I feel so fucking lucky that you love me enough to have done that. Not many people have that kind of nerve, you know?” he looks up at Richie, and Richie swears there are stars in Eddie’s eyes with how brightly they shine at him. “But you do. You always have.”

Richie has to grin at that and almost laughs because he supposes that Eddie is right. It did take nerve, and it took bravery he didn’t know he had.

“You’re brave, too,” Richie insists, “for leaving with me like that. It was fucking awesome.”

Eddie laughs and stops walking to give Richie another kiss, which he happily accepts.

When they reach his car, they get in quickly, and Richie sticks his keys into the ignition and starts it up. He looks over at Eddie, beaming at him from the passenger's seat, and thinks that he can’t wait for them to take a thousand more drives together.

“Where to?” he asks, and Eddie leans over and kisses underneath his ear.

“Take me home,” Eddie says into his ear, and Richie realizes that he’s been proven wrong yet again, because that is, without a doubt, the best idea he’s heard all day.

Grinning, he shifts gears, and he drives out of the parking lot and heads home.