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There were some benefits in the act of Remembering, Richie thought. Things that folded from the corners of the mind where they'd been lost after setting foot beyond Derry's borders; things that went beyond the fear that curled in the stomach and pulsed in the throat, like memories of love and friends and quiet moments that only existed in the pauses between. But most of them, he thought as he sat among those he had adored long ago, as he watched Eddie talk to Bill, could hardly be called benefits at all. In fact, they just sucked shit.
It was hard for him to tell what their body language was specifically telling him, as hazy memories still took their time to crawl from their hiding places to cement themselves in their mind (small ticks and speech patterns and a million little details that wove together to make his heart flutter because suddenly he was thirteen all over again) but he was sure he didn't like it. Sure of it on some primal level that he should, at his age, be embarrassed by. Their conversation, as he understood it from his position at the table, was about Bill's upcoming adaptation; Eddie's hand was inching ever closer to Bill's, and he was leaning towards him in a way that crept towards a little too familiar.
For his part, and as far as Richie could tell, Bill didn't seem to notice. He had a casual ease as they talked, one arm slung over the back of his chair; for a moment his gaze flickered to Eddie's hand as if he was going to acknowledge what it meant before doing nothing and glancing back up. He didn't otherwise move. Some stupid part of Richie seethed, and an even stupider part wanted to slam his hand on the table to stop the conversation dead in its tracks. But he didn't, because that would be childish and at the end of the day he knew better.
Something that was becoming evident was that not everyone in the group remembered everything at the same pace. Dynamics and long ago pasts were reluctant to crawl from the woodwork. But this he knew with an aching familiarity, a feeling that had never gone away. A horrible yearning for something he could never pinpoint until this moment, always lingering underneath the surface. Impressions of dreams and shadows that hovered at the corners of his mind until they could come screaming into light again, slamming into his chest with the full force of a freight train. That wonderful, freeing sense of adoration; that horrible, smothering feeling that it was something he could never hope to have.
All of it was enough to make him want to throw up again, chest tensing until it was a physical hurt. But he bit back the bitter feelings, as he always had before, and as always they caught like thorns all the way down.
It was only dimly, and through miles of fog that he heard Bill make a passing mention about needing glasses. It was clear as day when that heard Eddie, so strangely close to Bill and tone so strangely soft and admiring, say, "You know, I bet you look good in glasses."
Richie's breath caught in his throat, some resentment calcifying into a hard lump in the pit of his stomach with enough density to have its own gravitational pull. He couldn't take it any longer.
"Hey," he cut in, as casual as he could manage. Eyes turned to him, his voice having been a little louder than he intended but at the very least, he thought, that was expected of him. He went on, "The position of four eyed bastard in this group is already taken by yours truly." He smirked as he adjusted his glasses. At one point he had opted for contacts but circumstances, and truly abysmal eyesight at the baseline, sent him back to frames.
Eddie's mouth pulled into that frown of his that Richie felt as if he would have recognized on sight, regardless of memory loss. The kind of frown that proceeded a long winded lecture. He moved away from Bill to focus on Richie, and thank God for that.
"They're reading glasses," Bill said before Eddie had the chance to get started. "I don't always need them."
"Same," Mike jumped in, raising a glass in solidarity.
Richie barked a laugh. "You're all fakes," he said. He pointed at Mike. "I bet you really just use them to complete the hot librarian look, because God fucking damn, dude."
Mike clapped a hand over his mouth to cover a snort of laughter, while Eddie leaned towards Richie with a look that could have killed lesser beings. And there was that fluttering sensation, strange and wholly wonderful as distant memories made their wandering way home, as Eddie started off on one of his rants about something or other. And Richie, for his part, slipped into his usual role of needling contrarian that felt as familiar as breathing. While the others laughed as a "talk" (for a certain definition of the term) about presbyopia took the predictable turn into petty sniping, Richie realized that he could stay like this forever.
Or as close to forever as Derry would allow.