Chapter Text
Eddie was alone. But even so, the boisterous city never stopped moving to spare him a glance. Would it have been absurd to do so? Yes. Yes, it would have. The city had too much to do.
It's a gritty night.
He would have assumed New York was the busiest during the day time if he didn't live here. But the day is coming to an end soon, and the city is flourishing just like before.
And Eddie doesn't quite remember what started him off today, or what ended his night last night because he doesn't think he remembers sleeping. Or waking up, at all. For all he knows, he could be still asleep, walking on hideous rooftop tiles, clouds tugging on his coat, so high up in the sky, every whimsical thought that enters his mind pulled out with tweezers by the dark city. And he'd never know whether it would have been a dream, or if he is sleepwalking. His mother told him once he sleep-walked to the door. Eddie can't blame himself because he can't imagine his 10-year-old self not eager to escape the walls of Sonia's house, that slowly inched closer and closer with every year that swam by. On this night, Eddie feels sorry for his former self.
The streets are bulging like fisheye lenses, bulging out of their picture frames, bulging out into the scrimmage Eddie calls the world.
His funny nose sniveling, he sniffs and wipes it with his sleeve.
The breeze seemed to slowly allay into a sweet lullaby upon his arrival to the neighbourhood. Yet it still swam steadily across each face of the city, smothering their eyes in crumbs of concrete dust and reaching behind their eye sockets to give them a small tickle. It lingered in cracks between sets of condensed buildings; it danced—with ease— upon every neon sign and illuminated billboard, crossing under the Hudson River. The wind spiraled and twisted like a dainty China teacup and came tumbling right back into his face, where it started initially.
Eddie didn't realise he was static in his place. The faint blue tones of the sky pranced above his head, away from him in huge wreaths, which slowly, as they grew darker and darker, intermixed with the plush, fading clouds, and transmitted its soft radiance onto the ground beneath him. He was deep in thought, yet he wasn't particularly in his head. He wondered what the place had looked like 60 years prior. He remembered the story his great-grandmother told him one night and instead, imagined himself in her place. In his head, somewhere, floated a man with a stack of flyers and a Transatlantic accent, who would have asked him if he'd like to attend the circus this Monday. He can imagine him saying something silly.
"Ah say, boy, wouldn't it be a fantastic night!? You, yourself, look like a swell boy who likes fun and the circus. Wouldn't miss a chance, would'ya ?"
"No thank you, sir." He would reply.
"Baloney! Oh, you must! We have balloons and popcorn! Acrobats, lions, you name it!"
"I'm not so sure I am able to. Pardon me, sir."
The man would tilt his head forwards, an inviting stare that, quite directly, questioned: "Oh, really?"
"Oh well, fine." Eddie would give in and smile at the man in his abnormal top hat and a white moustache.
" Attaboy !" The man would reply, who would then smile back and allow a few chuckles to escape his lips.
The recollection—that was the fading bubbling of old laughter— snapped Eddie back into his world, pondering why and how someone else's memory became his own, despite his calendar at home reading September 8th, 1981, not 1920. The troublesome thought of somebody observing his strangeness did not seem to hassle him and he let the epiphany float away.
He brushed a wispy lock from his eyes and walked on. There was a warmth Eddie's chestnut hair brought to his features, a simple frame for that smile and eyes, that held more softness than he would ever admit to. The hue altered as the strands curled and moved, as free as autumn leaves playing in the day shine. Shades of hickory on his head were accompanied by a blanket of soft brown flecks on his nose and cheeks, and deep dimples adorned his face whenever he smiled. His lips were a pink blush, the bottom one slightly thick and the top one a little thinner. Too feminine, too girly, his mother would grumble under her breath. But he grew to like it.
Betty Ripsom isn't bad at all. She's lovely, her heart's full of kindness, and her hair's full of colourful rubber bands. She used to eat toast with raspberry jam and margarine, which Eddie thought was rather odd. And she's never been out past Manhattan. Something about attachment issues to her hometown. Yes, Eddie knew quite a few things about her, but it's almost as if he was obliged to because they were going out. She was beautiful, no doubt about that. Her eyes granted grand invitations, welcoming and warm in their own sense. Betty was clever and her laugh sounded like the chime of the most enchanting bell. Almost as if she was...perfect. And that's why Eddie thought she was right for him. She wasn't, of course, but the fool didn't know, did he? He couldn't know. He was blinded. By what? No, not her beauty. Not her intelligence. But because she was a girl. Eddie was conflicted. He knew he didn't love her but why? Why so? He doesn't think he is so ready to answer that quite yet. Eddie dismissed the topic several times throughout their relationship. But one day though, he knew he couldn't let her stare at him in pure awe and admiration whilst he looked at her with hollow and empty eyes. He couldn't let her fall more in love with him each day whilst he knew there wasn't a second when he started to do the same.
He didn't know his own inner layers to tell somebody who he was. Who was he? His mother told him he was an angel. A very well-behaved boy.
"Do you have a crush on any of the girls, Eddie, angel?" She said at the gates of Eddie's elementary school on the first day.
"No, mama."
No, he didn't. But his mother just thought he was a secretive and mysterious boy. One time though, and he didn't know why exactly, but he thinks it's because he kissed the hand of another boy at school that day, she dragged him into the naughty corner, after smacking his hands with his father's belt, whilst Eddie didn't know what went so wrong, her teeth gritting together and her cheeks blotching a burgundy shade as if it was a Sunday and she was getting ready, applying blusher to go to church and make confessions like the good Christians do. She'd dress Eddie up in a lacy shirt and black shorts. She would comb his hair to the side even though he's always liked his fringe to be to the front. He didn't like the gel. Or the comb. It ruined his curls. He didn't like his mother's fingers that touched his locks. It felt dirty. She is dirty. A bitch. She would coat Eddie's hair in her own dosage of unforgiving, sinful filth. Such filth that not even church can help him wash it off. And she would touch his face, patting his cheek and kissing his forehead.
Her grip was deathly and overfilling with venom.
"That's it! You wretched boy!" She screams as Eddie tries to wriggle out of her grasp, lachrymose, fretful eyes like morning mist, hands stinging, broken, red skin, blood on his fingernails.
Yes, yes. This is it. Eddie can't hear her. His head isn't on his shoulders, it's fallen off and rolling around the East Broadway streets. It's rolling, and rolling, and rolling. Until someone picks it up and throws it back into the Kaspbrak house, and it re-attaches itself back onto his neck and Eddie jolts. He can't feel her hands. He feels thick, syrup air twist his limbs. But he screams though he doesn't know he does. He screams and screams.
"Disgusting, you are!"
"Let me go!" He's crying.
"Don't you talk, Edward!"
Eddie looks at his hands. Eddie is walking down the streets. He hopes to drink a whole lot tonight. To maybe forget his problems. Though his secondary problem is long gone. Betty is on the train to her apartment. But his repressed feelings about himself, are in fact, still there. And for some reason, they're his main issue. Why couldn't Betty take them with her?
He's okay, though. Eddie isn't ruined. He's not weak or dysfunctional like his mother told him. He has working legs and arms. He has white, strong teeth and bones. He can run. He can kick a ball. His intestines aren't falling out. His brain is in place.
The lights contort around each bend of the street, distorting into shambolic formations under Eddie's gaze and he travels, his legs fast in front of him, to the nicest looking pub he can find.
The dark sky looks a little like a sheet of dark blue velvet, gold chunks sprinkled on top. A sultan's wish to have the sky painted that way.
Eddie is in his thoughts, and he doesn't see himself already passing several decent pubs. He looks straight ahead and if he looked down, he'd fall far and plummet to his comically phony death, though such a thought did not trouble him, and anyways he cannot see why it should. The possibility of a sink didn't prompt to confuse him as to why his thoughts decided to take such a course. But still, his mind was temporarily deferred and he didn't really know why instead, he chose to shut his eyes, tongue-tied if he claimed the thought didn't bother him so much.
He wasn't in his head. Reality was not subsequent. However, to Eddie, it was quite sentimental. Partly because the saccharine notion was sometimes something so impossible for him to wrap his wonky head around, that oftentimes he didn't bother and let himself float. And the idea that some people might be observing his strangeness like he's at a vigil whilst he floated off, causes him to feel uncertain because he didn't know if he should be unsettled, or embarrassed. Because, again, he wasn't in his head. Because, again, he was floating.
It would be like staring at a hollow, carved out China doll.
He paused and turned his body to the right. There it read: 'The Cusp' and Eddie decided to walk in, regretting it a little as soon as the bell chimed at the top of the door, signaling his arrival.
He trotted over to the counter, ordering whatever alcohol was a good deal today. He didn't know what it was. Other than the fact that it had vodka in it.
"How old are ya, boy?" The bartender asks.
"Uh, 21?"
"You're not." The dark-skinned man had a welcoming, warm gaze and a mischievous grin. "How old are you really, kid?" There was something kind behind his eyes, and on the surface too, like if you get just slightly behind his exterior, you will be welcomed with the same kind gaze. And Eddie appreciated that. Because it's more often than not, that he had the pleasure of encountering a middle-aged lady late to her work, or a hungry, angry homeless man, pushing through the crowds. New York was always an adventure; you never know what type of angry you'll be destined to meet.
"19," Eddie says, tracing his hand across the splintering cracks of the counter, his finger picking up on the occasional prickling sensation.
"You new here? 21 is the legal drinking age." He says, without the intention to tell Eddie off.
"I'm, no, I'm not new. But-" Eddie was thinking over what to say. "Wouldn't you have someone at the door if you were so strict about it?"
"You're very right. We aren't strict about it. Just as long as you're 18, you're good."
"Isn't that illegal? Shouldn't you be abiding by the law?"
"Maybe. But the owner of this place is 20, it was passed down by his father a couple of months back. Bill, very nice lad. I'm Mike, by the way. I don't usually give out names first time 'round meeting a fella, but you look like a nice one."
"Eddie."
"Nice to meet ya, Eddie. I'll make your drink and get our waitress, Patty, to bring it back to your table in a second."
"Can I have 3 of whatever I ordered?"
"Rough night?"
"You could say that."
Eddie sighed, sitting down at a table near a mini stage. He guesses someone is going to be playing tonight. Most probably some old, croaky- voiced man with his country music. That's what he always assumed about pubs whenever he walked past them, though he never really heard who played inside and what they played.
A few moments later, a young woman with bright blonde hair, comes within Eddie's sight and places his drinks on the table. She's very pretty and her eyes seem soft. Does everyone here have kind eyes?
"Here are your drinks. Enjoy!" She says with joy. "The band is playing tonight, hope you enjoy that, too!" She smiles wide.
"Thank you," Eddie replies and smiles back.
Eddie brings the drink to his lips and lets the liquid swivel around his throat. Despite the burn, the drink itself is pleasant. Mike is good.
The night is using him. Amorphous, blind, prescient. She's using him to slow the time. Because it's 11 PM and the seconds don't feel so short ever since Eddie walked through the door. The room around him is brown and smells faintly like sandalwood, quite antique and vintage, he thinks. Somewhat addicting. Dark wood engravings plastered the walls beside him, faint specks of lighter wood peaking from the outer layer, probably from how old the place was. The aroma circles him in a cloud of archaic dust and he might consider falling through the cloud, maybe try to clutch into it. When he brings his drink to his mouth, the bottom of it seems to be never-ending. If it's never-ending, would he die of alcohol poisoning? If he keeps drinking and drinking.
He's got colour in his cheeks and wind from the outside in his teeth.
He's got someone's eyes on him but he doesn't know.
The man makes his way onto the stage, three others following him.
"Evening, ladies and germs!"
Eddie's head snaps to the stage and he's torn from his thoughts to the source of the loud, vivid voice and he is quite fascinated. The man stands tall, a solid 6'1, perhaps. His hair is raven and curly and his cheeks are covered in dusty pink, with a minimal amount of freckles plastered on top like shards of coffee beans. He has an emerald aura surrounding him that Eddie cannot capture even if he tried; it seems like he could force the Sun to obey him with the wave of his finger. Curls of imaginary smoke wend around his hair, the gooey scent lingering between each strand, topsy-turvy dreams float around him in clouds in strong doses. His appearance seems mysterious but open, a wave of dominance escaping his glance. The air he breathes out is sweet like pears and tangles you up like willow. The man is dressed in a pair of slightly baggy jeans that are cuffed at the bottom and his shirt is tucked into his jeans. He has a nose ring, a few tattoos going up his arms and Eddie really likes them.
"The most enchanting Richie Tozier here today performing with tha' vocals and rhythm guitar! Along with Stan the Man on the drums, my favourite Red here on the lead guitar and Ben Handsome on bass." He says into the microphone and then laughs, waving a dismissive hand. "Just kidding! It's Ben Hanscome!"
The man's eyes fix on Eddie and they grow a little darker. He leans into the microphone. "Enjoy the show tonight, folks." He says lastly, in a husky voice, and Eddie feels a slight shiver run down his legs. A few people holler and most clap, he sees the woman from before (was Patricia her name? Patty?) at a table, placing drinks down and she whoops, so does Mike behind the counter.
Stan's drums start the song, followed by Richie's guitar, and Eddie assumes it's going to be a lively, rock one.
"Have you got colour in your cheeks?" Richie sings and Eddie doesn't recognise the tune. Must be an original. Could be. Or just a song he hasn't heard before. His voice raspy but it's sickeningly sweet. It's satisfying. It flows smoothly like silk and satin and Eddie wouldn't mind getting tangled in it. He doesn't listen to the lyrics or any chatter in the pub. He listens to the tone of Richie's voice and he watches him, tenderly. What Richie is singing is unimportant, the importance lays upon how bewitching it sounds.
He leers at Eddie, his gaze digging tunnels. He stares as if insomnia befogged his eyes and he can't help but stay awake. They bore into Eddie, and his body stills, slightly nervous.
Eddie listens with utter focus until the song is over. And the next song, and the next, and the next few that tumble through his ears. It feels a little odd. Like a nostalgic sentiment. But why's it nostalgic? He feels at peace. The atmosphere distorts just for him and he feels like all air has left his lungs. He could levitate above the skyline and graze the surface of the cosmos. Dip his fingers in and feel the stars wrapping around, clinging to his hand like liquid icing. He doesn't want to drop back down. He won't. Unless someone pulls him down.
And they do.
"Darlin'?" The someone asks. "I asked for your name. You seem to be wallowing in thought. And alcohol." He chuckles lightly.
Eddie is startled and jumps a little. He transfers his gaze towards the person that is currently opposite him. And to Eddie's surprise, it's the man who was on the stage not so long ago. Are they not playing anymore? Eddie was lost. He swore he could still hear the song in the back of his head, his skull prancing around, dancing, disconnected from the body.
"Huh? Aren't you playing?" Eddie asks, somewhat dumbfounded and maybe slightly embarrassed.
"Oh, I was playing alright." He said in a British accent so ambiguous Eddie can't tell if he's from London or if maybe he grew up in Bristol. "I'm on a break. Instead of going out for a smoke, I came sat here."
Eddie doesn't know what to think, he's, in all honesty, caught off guard. "Oh. Uh-"
"Richie." He says without Eddie asking and extends his hand. Eddie takes it.
He looks out of the window. Multitudes of tourists sauntered across the road, each speaking in a different language than the previous one, as heaps of cars did the same, their engines loud and roaring like the dull sound of a veritable cacophony of bells tolling in the distance. The air outside smelled of dust, Eddie knew this, and every stone and building seemed to take on the dreary black of the sky above. But despite the black, some faint, watercolour-like tones of blue started to loom over the city, flourishing like flowering meadows, too serene to be touched. The sky was a canvas: a canvas where such iridescent beams of light danced hand in hand with rich tones of silver moonlight, drowning in mellowness and glory, all way too dreamy; too sublime to behold. He turns back to Richie.
"I know."
"You do? How?!" Richie exclaims, too overly surprised that Eddie can't imagine he's being serious. But now, to his surprise, he apparently is. Bad memory, he supposes.
"You said it yourself. Remember? The enchanting Richie Tozier?"
"Oh of course!" He laughs a bubbly, infectious laugh and the corners of Eddie's lips turn upwards slightly. Richie looks at the 1 empty glass and two full ones.
Eddie is trying his hardest to not divert his gaze towards the lips of the man opposite him. But, it's getting harder and harder each time Richie moves his lips, their curve so alluring, almost like a red string pulling him in, twisting around his wrists and not letting him go. Eddie doesn't know why the string would be red, but he assumes that that would be Richie's favourite colour, if they ever got to that stage.
"What's a boy like yourself doing indulging in nasty, nasty habits, trynna gain liver failure? Drinking away your sorrows, huh?"
"I guess so. My girlfriend and I broke up."
He doesn't know why he's telling a stranger this. He doesn't suppose he cares anyway. He could just gone with a simple "Yes". But this man had a welcoming presence, one that shouted "Let me in! Tell me everything!" Someone who you wouldn't mind telling about your everlasting trauma-filled life, or what you were doing in New York, or what socks you wore today.
"Oh. I'm sorry about that, kid."
"Don't be. I never loved her. Never even liked her, I don't think." Eddie huffs and says, "Don't call me that. Why does everyone call me kid? It's fucking annoying." He absentmindedly traces the number 8 on the surface beneath him, and he wonders what would happen if the table beneath him was jelly.
"You look awfully young. 18? So if I shouldn't feel sorry for you why are you drinking?"
"19, actually. And none of your business." He says, responding to both questions. "How old are you?" Eddie asks skeptically, narrowing his eyes. He doesn't suppose that is any of his business either, but the man himself decided to initiate the prod at private matters. Who's he anyway, to be asking Eddie these questions?
"19, huh? How about...You give me your name and I'll tell you my own age. How does that sound, sweetheart?" He grins and lowers his chin.
"Did I say I'm here to propose deals?" Eddie says, lifting an eyebrow. "Or agree to them, for that matter?"
Smirking, Richie crosses his arms, and this time Eddie can't help but drag his eyes across them. And he's foolish for thinking Richie wouldn't notice. "You are fiery." He says and grins. Does this man ever stop smiling? Don't his cheeks hurt by now?
"How about you tell me your age, and maybe, after, I'll think about telling you my name? How old's the enchanting Tozier?"
"24"." He simply says, and leans back in the chair opposite Eddie, placing his arms atop the table, only to then, grab a sip of Eddie's untouched drink.
"Uh, really?" Eddie asks, quite baffled that Richie even initiated a conversation with someone almost 5 years younger than him. He was also a little surprised because, quite frankly, Richie didn't seem to be this old.
"Why, I got a babyface?" He smiles.
"You are a baby," Eddie says and pinches his thigh for how stupid that sounded, because, truly, he didn't mean for it to sound this dumb, he was just trying to tell Richie that he is—
"Immature. I meant you don't seem very mature, you know 'cuz babies—"
Richie laughs, and says "I get ya, Eds."
And Eddie hopes he does not sound like a child, because it was not a strong move to make fun of Richie being immature when Eddie was probably the youngest person there. Eddie wonders if Richie will ask to see his baby teeth or pour him a glass of orange juice that he despises too much. His willingness to leave this place came in a bottle with a twist-off cap but he couldn't open it. Because he is a kid. Barely an adult. And thank god, because he certainly doesn't want to leave now.
They stare at each other for precisely 20 seconds.
"So, uh, can I help you? I mean, you said you were gonna go smoke, but came here. And I just, not that I mind your company, but did you want something?" He felt awkward moving his mouth, Richie staring at him like an ancient apparition, as if there was a jukebox, playing loudly, honey- encrusted coins jingling from some corner in the room, and jazz music filling up his sleeves. What exactly has he been drinking? Because his thoughts didn't quite make sense to him, and he hopes he hasn't said anything he doesn't remember anymore. But he makes himself believe that he is, indeed, sober. He doesn't remember if it was vodka or tequila. Or maybe it was juice?
"No." Richie smiles, and rests his chin on his hand, his glasses reflecting a moonlight that is the dim lights, but sure do look like a celestial silhouette. The reflections look like teardrops, and Eddie wonders what it's like to cry the hottest tears of your life, your throat filled with sweat and short gasps, and sheets gathered in your fists, and a loving someone, everywhere you breathe, every inch of your mind.
"No?" asks Eddie, wrapping his lips around the scruff of the glass, the drink swimming in itself, his gaze low and calculating. His mind is screaming that he doesn't know what he's doing and that liquid truth is all dried up, and he replies in his head that he does not care.
"No. Not at all." Richie mimics the stare, something hot splashing behind his glasses. Hot. Hot, hot hot. Those same hot tears Eddie thinks about again. Eddie is fucking hot. He's burning up and his skin is boiling to the touch, a divine ambiance enveloping his blotchy red face. Something hot is suffocating him and he can't place what exactly it is. But he might be having some speculations.
"Nothing?"
Slowly dropping his eyelids, he feels someone whispering something in his ear.
"Come home with me."
He lifts his eyelids, they're heavy with ardour, lazy and fluttering. Certain thoughts float to the front of his mind, clouding any objections and as he's about to answer—
"Hey Rich, we're back on." Someone says.
Eddie no longer feels a warm presence near his ear, and the atmosphere is now cold; he now feels the tequila in his stomach, all numbness is gone, he's pulled down again, like before, but this time, not by who he wants.
"Coming right up, Bee. I'll see you after, kid. We can talk later, yeah?" He says, standing up, taking a swig of Eddie's drink and pushing the chair in, grainy to the touch.
"Yeah," Eddie answers, but it comes out as a husky whisper like he hasn't spoken in hours.
I want to stay with you, my love.
And he doesn't know why he wants this stranger so bad.
His thoughts are prodding at Richie. How did he come to place his admiration in an entity that is so ephemeral—all vapor and crystal? He can't recall the glow of Richie's low beams anymore, though the man himself is 3 meters away from him, glancing up to meet his gaze sometimes, mindlessly talking with a redhead, and Eddie, oh, he just hopes the redhead is not his girlfriend.
His ears drown in unfamiliar parlance; unfamiliar voices. He allows himself to hang onto the faint remnants of Richie's glowing presence that was by his face not so long ago. Eddie's fingers creep towards the glass, and with a shaky hand, he picks it up, takes a sip, places it back where it was. His fingers itch to be picked at, and he picks at his thumb like they're encaustic delineations and flakes are bunched up in a pile on the table. Piling up and up and up, until they're mountain-high and falling onto Eddie; he's falling through the pile, grabbing collapsing lianas of the wax jungle, and oh my god, it's so hot in this pub that he's considering walking outside to swallow some cold air. He can't though, Richie'll think he's leaving. That he's leaving forever and ever and never coming back.
Richie is suddenly back on the stage, watching Eddie with his eyes. They are glossy; shiny like nameless streetlights, coated in silver dust from the moon. They inspect Eddie and Eddie inspects back. Eddie's eyes graze over the jacket placed on a chair near Richie. He makes a mental note to urge Richie to sew another button to his jacket.
He, once again, listens to the nauseating, sweet sound that is Richie's voice, his ears hold the sound as two palms do. For once, he does not revel in slender silence but bathes in golden music, washing himself of any impurity that often immersed his body. He sways, and his fingers tap on the table. He watches Richie's calloused hands pluck the strings, gentle and sunny. He watches the clock. 00:27. Where did the hours go? Time whispers something to him, maybe asking for his name, maybe asking what time his mother wants him home. But she's not here. He's on his own. No one wants him in, he can do whatever he wants. So he does. He stays.
Once the band's set is over, Eddie's drinks are still stood on the table, one full and the other obtaining slightly less liquid from Richie's swigs. His eyelids are sticking together, but shoot wide open when he sees Richie walking towards him.
"Would you like me to walk you home?" He takes his jacket from the seat and offers Eddie a hand.
"Oh, I don' think-" Eddie looks at him, and Richie seems to look so incredibly doe-eyed, eyelashes like hands of a clock, so then he says: "Sure, Richie," takes the hand and glances at Richie's jacket.
"You ought to get an extra button sewn on that coat of yours." He points with his finger, poking at the denim material. Richie says goodbye to his friends, waves to Mike and looks at Eddie.
"You think?"
"Uh-huh." The bell at the top chimes, signaling the end of his night here. The wind moves retrograde, pulling on his hair, making his teeth colder than before. "I thought you wanted me to come home with you."
"It's late. Maybe another time. Maybe come over to listen to us again?" Richie says and they both know Eddie won't come back to the pub to just listen to the music but to hoard the glances Richie grants him without a fee.
"Yeah. 'Course," He says and stuffs his hands in his pockets as they burn from coldness.
"You live here long?" Richie asks.
"Almost 2 years. I'm here for college. You?"
"Since I was 18. I was here for college too, y'know? Not much to do in shitty ole' Plymouth. Now I'm out and I don't really know what to do with a Theatre degree." He pulls a cigarette out of his jacket pocket, and as he's about to light it, he asks: "You mind?"
He shakes his head. "But this is New York, Richie. Broadway, they film huge films here. You can sing. There are so many opportunities. I'd be expecting someone who actually lives in Plymouth to say this."
Richie at times does imagine himself on a stage. Lights burning him up, his body melting, oozing into a puddle whilst people watch. Sounds so amplified he can sense them sending strokes of oscillating vibrations through his eardrums, travelling to his mind and sweeping all thoughts down a tunnel, the tunnel a bottomless hollow pool. He'd like to have people listen to him. He'd like to recite a soliloquy, a bittersweet tragedy on his tongue. But he would also be completely alright to dance in clown makeup, insanity prancing hand in hand with him. Piano notes floating in the air, evil violin cutting him, concise words on a page that tell thousands of different variations of different stories with different people and different—just different everything. He would just love to do it.
"There are thousands of people like me here, kid. And they all want the same thing." He says, the wavering flame contrasting against his pallid complexion. "Well, what are you doing in college? You look like an arts person."
"I am. How'd you know?"
"Pure luck, lovebug."
"You got any family here?" Eddie asks, wind tapping on his teeth.
"No. I think it's getting late for you, kid. We better get a move on. How long 'till casa de Edward?"
Eddie wonders why the topic was dismissed so quickly. But it's okay.
"It's pretty long. I'll be fine from here, thank you." He replies and then catches onto what Richie said previously. "Hey! I don't have a curfew!"
"Sure, Eds. Well. As they say in England, Ta-ra mate!" Richie signals a farewell and grins with all his teeth.
"They don't really say that, do they?" Smiles Eddie.
Richie still grinning, shakes his head. "Fuck off, do they. Maybe in the 1700s, they did. My nan said "Ta-ra lovely!" to me once. But she was pretty old. Fuck knows."
Eddie is still smiling.
"See you later, Eddie." He says, words tumbling into the open, the atmosphere waxen. Richie feels the air touch his hands, he feels it touch his lips, poking like needles. He feels madness tickle his vessels.
Eddie waves and the night finishes. The moon flashes a yellowed smile.
Richie is alone.