Chapter Text
“Each morning I get up I die a little, can barely stand on my feet. I take a look in the mirror and cry, Lord what you’re doing to me. I have spent all my years in believing you, but I just can’t get no relief, Lord. Somebody, oh somebody, can anybody find me somebody to love? I work hard every day of my life, I work ‘til I ache my bones. At the end of the day I take home my hard-earned pay all on my own. I get down on my knees and I start to pray till the tears run down from my eyes, Lord… I just gotta get out of this prison cell. Someday I’m gonna be free, Lord. Somebody, oh somebody, can anybody find me somebody to love?...”
-Queen, “Somebody To Love” (1976)
Life wasn't fair. That was something that Richie Tozier had figured out from a very early age. Some people got dealt shittier hands than others, some from birth and some from how things played out during the duration of their lives. For Richie, it was more of a combination of the two. Or more, he wasn't sure if it was one or the other. It was complicated.
From the outside, it seemed that Richie Tozier had it pretty good. He lived an average middle-class life in an average middle-class home in an average middle-class town. He had two loving parents, good grades, and a good group of friends. He wasn't black, like his friend Mike, and he wasn't a girl, like his friend Beverly. It seemed from an outside perspective that he had been born into a life that predisposed him for success.
But there was a catch.
As he grew older and matured (more physically than mentally, as his friends and family would say), he found himself feeling more and more detached from all the other boys his age. All they wanted to talk about was girls. Which girl in their grade they thought had the biggest tits, who had the prettiest face, who their crush of the week was, or who they had made out with underneath the bleachers or behind the school dumpsters. It seemed to be the only thing that the other boys would ever talk about, and the only thought that ever managed to cross their usually empty heads. Girls, girls, girls, and more girls.
The thing was, Richie never quite understood. He wished he did. He wished more than anything that he could feel what the other boys were feeling, and to think what the other boys were thinking. He just couldn't. He could look at a girl and agree that she was objectively beautiful, but beyond that? Nothing. And it scared the ever-loving shit out of him.
And what scared him even more was that how the other boys would talk about and act around girls, he felt towards boys.
Yeah, Richie Tozier may have seemed to have been dealt a pretty good hand in life, but really… he couldn't have been more terrified of the hand he'd been given.
'At least I can hide it,' he'd think to himself in yet another useless attempt to quell his fears. 'At least people can't see it from looking at me.' But it felt like they could.
He tried to ignore it, he really did. He would crack jokes about girls constantly, how many girls he had slept with, how huge his dick was, how he fucked Eddie's mom…
Eddie.
Holy fuck.
Richie may or may not have fallen head over heels for the boy. But even if he found practically everything the other boy did to be cute, and his stomach did flips every time he thought of him, and he felt his whole body tingle every time they touched, no one was to know. Especially not Eddie. Being just friends with Eddie could be excruciating at times, yes, but the thought of Eddie being disgusted by him and hating his guts? The mere thought of it made him want to puke.
Although his parents weren’t necessarily the most devout of Christians, they still regularly attended church on Sundays just like everyone else in the small town of Derry, Maine (except for their small Jewish population, who were obviously given shit for not following the Christian faith like everyone else). For Richie, Sundays were a day that only served to consume him with confusion, self-hatred, and dread. The priest would tell them that in God's eyes, boys like Richie were disgusting. They were perverts and an abomination to God. They were choosing to live a perverted life style and would not be forgiven unless they changed their ways. They were sick. They were bad. They were different.
Richie had never been a firm believer. Sure, he had gone to church every Sunday since before he could remember and he could recite practically every Bible story by heart, but ever since he started being able to form his own thoughts and opinions, he wasn't too sure about this whole God thing. But once he started to realize his feelings towards other boys, he would pray every Sunday like there was no tomorrow. He just wanted for God to make him normal. He didn't want to see the disgusted looks on people's faces if they were to ever find out about his secret. He didn't want to see his father's look of rage and his mother's look of despair. He didn't want to see his friends abandon him, to call him names and never want to talk to him again.
He knew that if his secret was to ever come to light, he would be done for. He lived in Derry, for crying out loud. Derry, where hate crimes were justified, everyone still held the same views that were common in the 1930's, and no one wanted anything to do with a queer boy who was just a little too sweet on his best friend. Hell, he wouldn't be surprised if he was killed for it, knowing some of the people in his town. He knew somewhere in the back of his mind that once he was able to leave Derry things might be easier for him, but that thought didn't help much currently. Because at the moment he was 13, almost 14, and nowhere near being able to leave the shithole of a town that he was forced to call home.
The only time that he felt any sort of relief was when he was hanging out with his friends, who had deemed themselves the "Loser’s Club". They spent almost everyday after school together and had a group sleepover practically every Saturday night (usually switching between Richie, Ben, and Bill's houses). The seven of them were as close as friends could get, and Richie would do literally anything for them. But he would never tell them this, of course. He didn't want their egos getting too big, after all. So he showed his affection through the only way he knew how: shitty jokes and insults.
"Whatcha thinkin' about, Rich?" he heard Bev call to him, startling him back into the present. It was a cool autumn day, and the seven of them were riding their bikes down the leaf-covered, suburban streets of Bill's neighborhood as they headed towards the Barrens to hang out in the underground clubhouse that Ben had built.
"Nothin' much, just thinkin' about how I'm gonna do Eddie's mom later!" he responded immediately. Classic Richie.
"You're a dickwad, and if I could hit you right now I would," he heard Eddie call from where he was riding his bike behind him, obviously irritated. Classic Eddie.
The others liked to say that the two of them bickered like an old married couple. Oh, if they only knew… Richie shook his head. He laughed. Although he couldn’t see Eddie’s face, he knew for a fact that he was pouting.
"Do it, coward!" he shouted back, to which Eddie responded with a yell of “You’re a piece of shit, Tozier!”
Richie just gave a hearty laugh, knowing that there really wasn't any malice behind Eddie's words. They bickered like this all the time. It was a staple of their friendship, and they wouldn't have it any other way (much to the annoyance of Mrs. Tozier, who had to put up with them far too often).
The others just rolled their eyes at their antics. They were far too used to it at this point. In all the years that the group had been friends (Richie, Bill, Eddie, and Stan longer than Mike, Ben, and Bev of course), this had always been how the relationship between Richie and Eddie was, and how they assumed it would always be. Despite their bickering, their friends knew deep down that the two shared a strong bond, possibly stronger than what they had with any of the other Losers.
Soon enough the group had biked all the way to the Kissing Bridge, where they would get off their bikes, stow them under the bridge, and head down a small trail, almost concealed completely with vegetation, that led into the forest and to the clubhouse. Laughing and chattering away, they dismounted their bikes and stashed them in their usual spot. But Richie hesitated, though just momentarily.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw the place where he had painstakingly carved the initials "R+E" into the wooden siding of the bridge. It had only been a month or so ago when he had done that, and only around three days after the run-in with Henry Bowers at the arcade.
Bowers' words still haunted him, stinging like salt on an open wound whenever he thought of them, and making him want nothing more than to shrivel up and die on the spot.
'...You assholes didn't tell me that your town was full of a bunch of fairies…’
'...Richie fucking Tozier? A fairy?...'
'...Get out of here faggot!...'
'...Fucking MOVE!...'
"Richie, dude, you c-c-coming?" Bill's voice came from below. He had just finished securing his bike so that it wouldn't tumble into the fast-moving creek that ran under the bridge. The others had already started down the trail, with Eddie chatting animatedly with Beverly, his eyes glowing happily and his smile beaming.
Damn, Richie really was whipped, huh.
Pulling himself back, he nodded and flashed his friend a grin. "Sure thing Big Bill!" he called back, hauling his bike down the steep but short path from the road to the creek. Bill smiled good-naturedly in return and began up the trail with Richie once he was done dealing with his bike, both of them jogging to catch up with their friends.
Soon enough they were all settled in at the clubhouse. Of course, settled in by Richie and Eddie's standards meant fighting over the hammock until they each relented and laid uncomfortably squashed in it together. They were all wearing the brightly colored shower caps that Stan had brought, besides Richie, stating that he "wasn't a pussy"... Meaning that Eddie wasn't wearing a showercap either.
Conversation flowed from one topic from another, Richie giving his input practically every 5 seconds (“Do you ever shut up, Richie?”) while leafing through one of the old comic books that he had brought down a while ago. However, he wasn't really all too focused on its contents. He was more preoccupied with the boy sitting practically on top of him, how warm he was, how his face looked when he laughed and how his eyes sparkled when he glanced over at Richie.
"Richieeeee," he whined, smacking the other boy's face with his socked foot. Richie slapped his foot away playfully.
"Yes, m'lady?" he replied in his awful imitation of a British accent. Eddie glared at him in equal playfulness and smacked him with his foot again, earning a faint "what did I do?" from the other.
"You're closer to my fanny-pack," Eddie told him, his laughter subsiding. Richie looked over his shoulder to see Eddie's small fanny-pack sitting on the ground where it had been flung during their battle over the hammock. Richie smirked.
"What, you want me to give it to you?" he asked innocently. Eddie groaned. He knew this would happen.
"Dude, just give my my fucking fanny-pack, I need my pills," he insisted irritatedly. Richie just smirked.
"You're gonna have to say the magic words, Eddie Bear," he cooed in his best imitation of Mrs. Kaspbrak.
"Oh my god Richie, shut up-" And they were off again. Soon enough, they were in a full-fledged tickle fight, with Eddie writhing underneath Richie in a fit of giggles, almost flinging them both out of the rather small hammock with every jerk.
"Stop it!" Eddie shouted in between bouts of joyful laughter.
"Never!" Richie declared, laughing as well. The others had moved on with conversation, giving the pair affectionate eye rolls and even a flip of the finger (courtesy of Stanley). After being around the two for so many years, they had learned how to tune them out when they needed.
'Don't touch the other boys, Richie.'
Richie froze. A voice, sounding eerily like the clown that the seven of them had fought just over a month earlier, taunted softly in his mind, almost as if it were being whispered in his ear.
'Don't touch him, or he'll know. He'll know and he'll hate you, Richie, him and everyone else.'
"Chee?" Eddie started apprehensively, his eyes suddenly full of concern for his friend. "You okay there?" Shaking his head hastily, he shifted on the hammock so that he wasn't lying directly on top of the other. Looking around, he saw that the others were giving him quizzical, concerned looks as well. He laughed, trying to ease the tension.
"Oh yeah, sorry Eds," he said, a tad louder than he intended, flashing his friend a trademark Richie Tozier grin. "Just got a cramp in my side, had to take a breather. I can't be out of commission for your mom, she's expecting me tonight." This earned him an exasperated kick in the side from the other, both for the usage of the nickname "Eds" and for the mention of fucking his mother.
Richie knew that it was a flimsy excuse, but it was the best that he could come up with on the spot. Suppressing his feelings had only become increasingly difficult with the passing of time, especially over the past few months. Not only were his hormones going absolutely batshit bonkers, he had also indulged himself in his guilt-ridden secret more than he knew he should have. He had let himself find any acceptable reason to touch Eddie, he had let himself lie awake at night fantasizing about him, hell, he had even carved their initials into the fucking Kissing Bridge for christ's sake!
He was so whipped. And so fucked.
Richie lay in bed that night with a heavy heart. This had become common enough by that point though. His turmoil, his guilt, his fear, and his anger all lingered in the back of his mind during the day, not quite something he dwelled on but never something that left him, never something that let him have peace of mind. But at night, there were no distractions. It was him and his thoughts against the world, or more accurately, the world and his thoughts against himself.
Rolling over onto his side with a heavy sigh, he stared aimlessly at the wall opposite his bed. His poster of The Clash that hung there looked like nothing more than a blurry splotch from the darkness that shrouded his room and the fact that his glasses were lying uselessly on his bedside table. He knew that it must have been the early hours of the morning at this point, perhaps 2 a.m., but he couldn't for the life of him will himself to fall asleep. This was also a common occurrence. Falling asleep meant dreaming, and dreaming meant either A: reliving the horrors that they all endured with It, B: having nightmares about horrible things happening to him when everyone finds out about his secret and the shit hits the fan, or C: having… interesting… dreams about Eddie that he'd rather not think about or discuss (these dreams riddled him with guilt and disgust, of course). So no, he put off falling asleep for as long as he possibly could.
But even avoiding sleep would do no good. Lying in bed, he could only think about what his parents would think, what the town would think, what his friends would think, and most importantly, what Eddie would think. Would his parents kick him out? Would the town shun him? Would his friends hate him? Would Eddie be revolted by him? Would he get beat up with even more vigor? Hell, would he be killed? He didn't know and he was terrified. People would think he was a pervert, they would say that he was going to get "that gay disease" ("if he doesn't have it already"). They would tease him mercilessly. He would lose everything.
He would never let anyone know. He would keep it to himself until the day he died. He was determined to do so. He would marry a nice girl, maybe have a kid or two. He had to. He didn't want to, but he had to. It didn't matter that he could care less about the curves of a girl’s body or the pitch of her voice or anything else that the other boys couldn't seem to shut up about. It didn't matter that he would catch himself far too often staring at the toned stomachs of other boys, and not just in admiration. It didn't matter that he thought that their defined jaw lines were to die for, or that he had a few rather risque magazine cut-out images of River Phoenix hidden under his mattress.
It didn't matter that whenever he was asked about his "dream girl" he could only manage to think of his best friend, his bright smile, dark hair, petite stature, and witty comebacks.
He used to try to force himself to be normal, to convince himself to like girls. He was far past that point by now. He was resigned to the fact that he was somehow defective and there was nothing he could do about it, nothing his parents could do about it, and hell, maybe even nothing God could do about it. He hadn't exactly gotten back to Richie on his ceaseless praying yet.
No one was going to know.
R+E stood for Rachel and Ethan, or Ricky and Emily. Not the names of two boys.
Eddie was going to stay an unattainable fantasy, a fantasy that Eddie was never going to know about.
Never.
Never ever.
Well, the shit finally hit the fan around 3 and a half years after this particular night that Richie Tozier lay awake hating the world and hating himself, and it did so in a way that he could never have imagined.