Chapter Text
Maybe, you may love me too,
oh, my darling, if you do
why haven't you told me?
i.
“Your friend is here.”
Richie looks up from the sandwich bags that he’s been stamping and sees Eddie through the front door, kicking snow off his shoes outside. A grin spreads over his face and he watches as Eddie pushes into the cafe, already pulling off his mittens, his bag shouldered. Even though he uses Frontier to study pretty often, Richie still feels a warm thrill spread through his chest knowing that Eddie has sought him out.
“Get a load of this guy!” Richie calls, obnoxiously loud in the silent cafe. Pat raises her eyebrows at him from the cash, and Eddie looks up, surprised. After a moment his expression shifts into a solidly exasperated look, but Richie can see a smile underneath it.
The place is empty except for one regular, a student Richie knows well enough, sitting at his favourite table in the far corner. He glances up from his laptop and sketches when Richie’s holler rings through the cafe, smiling in Eddie’s direction. Eddie smiles back, polite, as he sheds his jacket and bag. His hair is damp and flecked with snow, and he's wearing one of his thickest sweaters. It’s a sweater he’s owned since Derry, blue and huge. Richie knows that it used to belong to his father.
Eddie greets Pat before joining Richie at the back bar.
“Busy day?” He says, nodding at the bags.
“Oh yeah, very important stuff going on here. We have an order for four hundred empty sandwich bags due in one hour, I really don’t think I’ll have time to socialize with you at all today.”
He belies his words by abandoning the task immediately to lean against the counter and grin more at Eddie, who smile back. There is a single stool at the end of the bar, onto which he hops up and settles.
“Probably the weather,” he says, nodding to the emptiness of the cafe. “It’s still fucking miserable out there.”
It's been snowing for almost a week straight, turning the New York streets into laneways of slush which freeze into ice overnight then turn to slush again each afternoon. Richie and the other baristas at Frontier Coffee Roasters have been mopping more or less every two hours since the initial blizzard, and yet the floor is still mercilessly covered in salt. It’s ugly weather for the first week of November, cold and blustering in the way that drives people straight indoors and keeps them there throughout their lunch breaks, when they might otherwise patron a coffee shop.
After a brief respite in the morning, the wind had picked up again an hour or so ago. Richie has been waiting to see if the sandwich board outside would blow over or not - the most entertaining part of his day so far, until Eddie showed up.
“You just missed Kennedy,” Richie says, about the quiet Australian who roasts the coffee beans that his boss, Trevor, sources. They’re one of Eddie’s favourite people, because Eddie likes listening to their accent. “They had the Toper on all day, so it's nice and toasty in here.”
He leans over the counter and presses the back of his fingers to Eddie’s rosy pink cheek, expecting him to pull away, possibly to swat at him like when they were kids. Instead Eddie accepts the touch, humming a little.
“Toasty,” he confirms, moving Richie’s hand to his other cheek for a moment before dropping it.
Richie pulls back and picks up the stamp again, just to keep it moving. In his stomach there is a familiar swirling sensation which passes through resolutely ignored.
“You come to study?” He asks, stamping another bag and then flicking it away.
“Not really.” Eddie begins shuffling Richie’s wild piles of bags into orderly stacks, lining them up along the edge of the counter. “I might do some reading, though. I just figured it was easier to come meet you here and go to Bev’s together, rather than go all the way home and come back when you finish.”
Richie remembers only as Eddie tells him - they had agreed to help Beverly unpack boxes in her new apartment. A commitment made in Richie's kitchen two nights ago, when Bev had excitedly announced that she would officially no longer be crashing on he and Stan’s couch. A commitment made under the influence of substantive quantities of cannabis, like most of the commitments he and Bev made to one another.
Her aunt had finally packed up and moved out of the city that summer, after threatening it for years. Aunt Lena, or just Lena, as she was known to most of the Losers, had retired to a nice house upstate. She’d packed up and left the city for good in mid July, leaving Beverly behind to apartment hunt through the summer and fall, because Beverly had no intention of ever living outside the metropolitan area ever again. After much painstaking searching, she had finally secured a place on the cheap in late October, and she’d finally moved in yesterday when her aunt had driven her all her boxes down.
“Right,” Richie says, as though he hadn’t completely forgotten. “Well, dope. Nice to see you, buddy. You want coffee?”
“Tea today, I think,” Eddie says, vague as always. He never seems to know what he wants from the Frontier menu, never having been much of a coffee drinker before Richie started working in the industry. Left to his own devices, Eddie wakes up in the morning with a glass of water , something Richie has always found profoundly weird.
He sets about mixing a special blend of cinnamon rooibos tea with ginger spice, then stirs a tablespoon of honey, and adds a little lemon to ward off the cold. Eddie smiles at him as he sets it down with a little flourish and a bad French Voice.
“Voila, monsieur, one tea beverage.”
“Thanks, Rich.”
While his tea cools, Eddie moves along the bar to engage Pat in the routine struggle of hey-don’t-worry-about-it; no-I-insist until she shoos him vehemently away with the novel in her hand. Still trying to argue, Eddie drops four dollars in the tip cup, and at the sound of money hitting the ceramic bowl, Richie’s head snaps up from the sandwich bags once more. He makes a displeased sound, waving an aggrieved hand that communicates what he’s told Eddie a thousand times - No Tipping!
“She won’t take my money! I’m just paying you for your services!” Eddie protests, pulling his sweater sleeves over his hands as he waves them defensively.
“What am I, a cheap whore? Just sit down and drink your tea!”
Across the room Ben the Regular laughs behind his hand, and Richie tips him a wink in response. Pat glances between Eddie and Richie, looking for a second like she’s going to interject on the payment issue. Then she seems to think better of it and picks up her book again instead.
Eddie doesn’t end up getting much reading done, himself. He hangs around the bar, swivelling lightly on the stool and shooting the shit with Richie, completely ignoring his bag full of schoolwork. Richie, enjoying his company but wary of being perceived as slacking off due to his presence, stamps cups to the point of excess, then fills extra bags of coffee beans for retail, and then makes vanilla syrup even though they don’t really need any, all while they rip apart the most recent episode of Bill’s new show. He’s about to start an equally unnecessary batch of basil pesto before Pat tells him to go home.
“I’ll be fine,” she says. “It’s not gonna pick up today, not with the weather like this.”
It’s an hour still before Richie is technically done, which he points out, but Pat insists that he and Eddie have an energy that is unsuitable for such a miserable afternoon, and that it’s impeding her ability to read Dracula in peace.
“Maybe if you chose to read something a little more stimulating , you wouldn’t find it so hard to focus!” Richie tuts as he gathers his coat and gloves, sweater and bag from under the counter.
Eddie gives him a look. “Are you implying that Dracula isn’t interesting?”
“Are you implying that it is? ”
“It’s a classic!”
“Eds, have you even read Dracula ?”
Eddie blushes, the way he always does when Richie catches him out on one of his unfoundedly vehement opinions. “No, but I’ve seen the movie!”
Richie exaggerates an eye role as he shoves his sweater into his bag. “Okay, so you love Winona Ryder. Does that make gothic literature interesting?”
“Okay then, what would you say is a stimulating genre?”
“Does your mom’s diary count?” Richie asks, shouldering his bag and circling around to the civilians side of the bar as Eddie makes a sound halfway between a scoff and a laugh.
“Wow, funny, Richie, really funny.”
“I mean, I certainly found it stimulating ,” he wiggles his hips and Eddie pushes him back with a hand to the chest, making a disgusted face.
“You know I really thought you had grown out of your mom jokes.”
“Never, Eddie, my dear,” Richie says, despite the fact that he actually has, for the most part. When Richie turns his attention to bidding Pat farewell, she is trying to hide the fact that she is grinning.
“See you Tuesday?”
“Bright and early,” she says, then snaps her fingers twice and points at him before he can turn away. “Oh! I also wanted to ask if you were open to giving me your shift on Sunday.”
He raises his eyebrows at her, paused with the second glove halfway on, waiting for the other shoe - the trade. A reason. Pat offers none.
“Like, you just want the shift?” He asks, to confirm.
“Yeah,” she shrugs. “I just need some extra hours this week.”
“Okay, sure,” Richie says. The concept of unexpected time off makes him feel like doing a little two-step. “I’m off Monday, so it’ll be like a real weekend! Imagine. Fantastic idea.”
Pat looks satisfied. “Cool,” she says. “Thanks, Richie.”
“No, thank you, Miss Blum!”
Once Eddie is bundled up, bag secure on his back, they make their exit. Richie gives Ben a short wave as they step out into the cold. Ben smiles and waves back.
Beverly’s new place is quite close to Frontier , sitting about halfway down the block - more or less right in between the cafe and Stan and Richie’s place. Her aunt's apartment had been across the city, a hellish commute across three separate subway lines which she had to endure each time she wanted to spend time with either Stan or Richie, who she spends most of her time with, and Richie expects that she picked this neighbourhood not just for its affordability.
“So, you’re off on Sunday now?” Eddie asks as they set off, huddled together instinctively to navigate the icy sidewalk.
“Yessssssssssssss,” Richie says, drawing out the s so that his breath swirls out into the cold air.
“Do you want to go see the new Ari Aster movie? It comes out this weekend.”
“Oh, fuck yeah,” Richie says, bouncing on his feet a little. "Your Monday class isn’t until the afternoon, right? Let’s go to a bar or something after. Oh my god, it’s been so long since I’ve gotten drunk. You should stay over! We’ll make a night of it.”
Eddie cuts a glance sideways, meeting Richie’s eye for only the briefest moment before he buries his face in the collar of his ridiculously poofy jacket. Richie suspects that he is remembering why Richie doesn’t drink much, why Richie couldn’t drink, for months, after he came back from L.A. Richie bumps his elbow with his own, dislodging him from this train of thought.
“Yeah, sure,” Eddie’s voice is muffled behind the fabric of his jacket. “Um, we should get tickets before it sells out. It’s opening weekend.”
“On it, boss,” Richie says His gloves have the phone-positive fingertips on the thumbs, but it’s still a struggle to navigate the theatre’s box office site. When they turn onto Bev’s street, he opens up his texts instead.
LOSERSCLUBtm
Big Bev, Big Bill, Micycle, Rich Bitch, spaghetti, Staniel
2:02 p.m, Rich Bitch: BEV we r here let us im
2:03 p.m, Big Bev: okiee
2:05 p.m, Big Bill: Richie why in the gc
2:15 p.m, Rich Bitch: so you know we are at Bevs? and we need her to let us in?
2:16 p.m, Micycle: why would we, in Los Angeles, need to know that?
2:17 p.m, Rich Bitch: Mike! don’t u want to know that we are safe in this blizzard-like weather?
2:22 p.m, Micycle: Weather?
2:22 p.m, Micycle: I don’t even know her
2:25 p.m, Rich Bitch: you’re from florida
2:30 p.m, Micycle: and?
2:31 p.m, Rich Bitch: HURRICANES
2:48 p.m, Big Bill: Bev send pics of ur new apartment
2:51 p.m, Big Bev: *5 attachments*
2:56 p.m, Staniel: Are you going to let those goblins live on the floor permanently?
2:59 p.m, Big Bev: they are free to a good home
3:03 p.m, spaghetti: full offense. I have done nothing but be helpful and generous with my time
3:03 p.m, spaghetti: also Richie ffs stop changing my name to spaghetti
‘spaghetti’ changed their name to ‘eds’
3:04 p.m, Rich Bitch: no
‘Rich Bitch’ changed ‘eds’ to ‘spaghetti’
3:05 p.m, spaghetti: youre not funny
3:06 p.m, Big Bev: then why did you laugh?
3:06 p.m, Rich Bitch: ur mom thinks I’m funny
3:07 p.m, Micycle: fact check????
3:07 p.m, spaghetti: NO
3:09 p.m, Staniel: Eddie’s mom hates us all.
3:10 p.m, Big Bill: especially Richie, though
3:10 p.m, Rich Bitch: Bill go to your Room
3:12 p.m, Big Bill: Okay, I’m in my room and Eddie’s mom still hates you
3:13 p.m, Rich Bitch: :-(
‘spaghetti’ changed ‘Rich Bitch’ to ‘dipshit’
3:13 p.m, dipshit: :-((
3:19 p.m, Big Bev: they’re wrestling for Eddie’s phone
3:19 p.m, Big Bev: why would I invite them to organize my apartment? Stan, can you please come help me
3:20 p.m, Staniel: I have to finish my laundry before they become my problem again
3:20 p.m, Staniel: I can come tomorrow after work, though, if you need.
3:22 p.m, Big Bev: Please, I require the power of your compulsive tidiness. I have way more shit than I thought I did.
3:25 p.m, Staniel: Sure thing.
The place is… small. Bev lets them in with a flourish and gives them a “tour” by way of standing in the middle of the room and throwing her arms out. Still, it’s hers, and Richie is thrilled by it, one tiny cramped little room with a tiled kitchen space through a set of shuttered doors in one corner. There’s a table with four chairs tucked off over there, an old couch she’d salvaged across from it, a brand new bed against the wall, and a fuck-load of boxes. They set about fulfilling the purpose of their visit, but it turns out that without anywhere to put things away they can only effectively empty the boxes in the the kitchen and bathroom, which takes no time at all. Eddie unpacks Beverly’s bedding and makes her bed with impeccable deftness, hospital corners and a crisply laid duvet. Richie is positive that it is as orderly as Bev’s bed is ever going to look.
An hour or so after they run out of productive things to do, Richie is lying on the floor with his long legs stretched out beneath the table, having relegated himself there for the sake of the crispness of the duvet. He has his head tipped so he can see Eddie and Beverly on the couch, tucked into opposite corners; Bev’s attention is on her phone and Eddie is talking a mile a minute into the air about one of his T.A’s, one with whom he has deep-seeded issues. It seems that he’s been trying to ice Eddie out of their group discussions or whatever the fuck tutorials are for - a gripe that Richie has been listening to for the length of the semester, and is only half paying attention to, now.
“...but how’s it my responsibility to make sure he doesn’t just fucking ignore me all class? It’s impossible. It’s going to affect my grade! Like half the time he doesn’t even touch on the points I bring up.”
“Maybe he finds you overwhelming,” Bev suggests, without lifting her head. Richie snorts as Eddie kicks out at her leg dramatically.
“Then he should get a new fucking job! I’m hardly the most annoying grad student he’ll ever have to deal with! If he’s not prepared to handle the students he’s in the wrong field.”
Richie makes a doubtful sound and pulls a face. “You’re the most annoying grad student that I have to deal with,” he says.
Eddie makes a face back at him. “I’m the only grad student you deal with.”
“Not true. Ben from work is a grad student.”
“He doesn’t count!”
"What? Why not? Ben’s great! What’s wrong with Ben?"
"I - nothing is wrong with Ben, I think Ben is fine. But he's not your friend. He's way too put together to be your friend, have you seen his fucking peacoat? He carries a Prada portfolio case, for fucks sake!"
“Okay, it’s gay that you know the brand of his bag. Have you even actually formally met him? Why do you know that?”
“It’s a nice bag!”
“That’s gay, Eds.”
“You’re gay, man, fuck you. At least I don’t cry at car commercials.”
“Touche. Anyways, it doesn't matter if he’s my friend or not, which he is. I still deal with him on almost a daily basis, and he’s a grad student, and he’s top-notch in terms of loveliness, not annoying at all. Therefore you take the title of most annoying grad student, and my point stands.”
Eddie scoffs, loudly, and locks eyes with Richie as he raises his eyebrows in silent challenge. It shouldn’t be all it takes, but for some reason it is. Richie breaks almost immediately. He grins, unable to keep up the charade that he finds Eddie genuinely irritating at all, rolling his eyes just to save face.
“Okay, alright, Spaghetti, relax, I think you’re just as lovely as the fine sir Benjamin, with or without the Gucci bag. Does that make you happy?”
He expects a jab back, something quick, pointed at his ego and aimed to make him laugh; but Eddie says nothing. Then he smiles a particularly dulcet smile.
“It’s Prada, but yes. Thank you.”
Richie opens his mouth, then closes it again, his mind caught in the weeds, thinking how do I turn that into a joke? Joke? Hmm... When nothing occurs to him for another long moment Beverly finally looks up from her phone, glancing first at Eddie and then at Richie, who feels himself immediately begin to go red.
“Who is Ben?”
"A regular at Frontier, " Richie says. "He's going to be an architect. He carries a Prada bag."
“Yeah, I gathered,” Beverly says dryly. “I’m hungry. Do you guys want pizza or Thai?”
“Pizza,” Richie says, as Eddie says “Thai.”
Beverly sighs. “Chinese it is, then.”
Richie picks up his legs and rests his feet on one of the chairs tucked under the table, rearranging himself so that he is folded in a sitting position with his back to the floor. It’s something to do to while he avoids looking at Eddie.
On the table, Eddie’s phone makes a sound like a wind chime at the same time that Richie’s buzzes on his chest. A moment later all the phones go off again twice in quick succession, and Beverly snorts. Richie picks up his phone and checks the notification.
LOSERSCLUBtm
Big Bev, Big Bill, dipshit, Micycle, spaghetti, Staniel
3:25 p.m, Staniel: Sure thing.
7:34 p.m, Micycle: why especially Richie though
7:35 p.m, Staniel: He made Eddie gay
7:35 p.m, Big Bill: he never showered as a kid
“Oh, come on,” Richie mutters fiercely, glaring in Bev’s direction as she continues to snicker. It’s been years since they’ve rehashed this particular argument, and he knows that only means Eddie has pent-up rage waiting to be let loose. He cannot think of a worse way to spend the next 50 minutes.
“What?” Eddie looks between the two of them, the only one without his phone in his hand. “What’s funny?”
Richie groans, loud and sustained but dispassionate, as Bev hands Eddie her phone rather than explain. Richie averts his gaze to the ceiling to avoid seeing the angry flush that creeps up Eddie’s neck as he begins typing on Bev’s phone.
“Hey,” Bev snatches it back. “Get your own.”
Eddie tries to grab it back from her, fails, then throws himself off the couch and stalks over to the table - bringing himself out of Richie’s peripherals and into his direct line of sight. Richie very resolutely ignores the stifling feeling trying to claw its way out of his chest.
“Oh, fuck his stupid face,” Eddie mutters as he begins tapping furiously at his phone.
Fuck you, Stan, Richie thinks. Then he picks up his phone and types it into the group chat, locking his screen again before he has to see whatever Eddie is about to send.
The joke is that the joke is ten years old, and it never fails to send Eddie into a rage.
The first time was in sophomore year, when Eddie had told them, Bill and Stan and Richie, out loud, that he was as gay. ‘As gay as the day is long’, he’d said, and Richie had not been able to keep from laughing hysterically, despite the death glare.
The thing was, Eddie had had the unfortunate and questionable timing of revealing his secret only a few months after the entire football team spotted Richie kissing Eddie Corcoran behind the school. In the eyes of their peers, the gay train had already left the station, and Eddie Kaspbrak was merely hitching a ride. Tonnes of speculation had followed.
After The Losers had all assured Eddie that of course they didn’t care, duh, and they loved him all the same, duh, Stan had turned a funny look on Eddie and said outright that his mom would blame Richie if she ever found out, and did he know that? Eddie had turned a shade of red that Richie had never seen him turn before, and wouldn’t speak to Stan for an hour and a half - a record of sorts - then he burst into an unholy explosion of full offense taken.
The joke is that Stan was completely right, as they had collectively discovered two years later, after Sonia Kaspbrak’s cousin caught Eddie fooling around with Eddie Corcoran behind the Dairy Queen.
It had been one of the most awkward conversations Richie had ever had to have with Eddie, being told that they couldn’t hang out at the Kaspbrak house anymore because Eddie’s mom thought that the gay had somehow spread from one of them to the other, two guesses who was responsible; awkward not only because it was incredibly homophobic, but also because Richie and Eddie had never shared their gayness in any way, and had gone to lengths to avoid discussing the topic at all.
So the ‘joke’ rubs Richie the wrong way, too.
Not nearly as much as it bothers Eddie, but it definitely bothers him, has put his stomach an anxious twist every single time including the first. The implication that homosexuality is somehow catching makes him unvariably annoyed. Context made it abundantly clear to anyone that Richie had not made Eddie gay. Eddie was, and had always been, gay all on his own. Anyone with a single braincell knows perfectly well that two gay people are capable of being friends without being anything more, go watch a fucking episode of Glee or something, so Richie resents the inferences that Mike is now going to draw. As well as the tantrum that Eddie is now about to throw.
Thankfully he seems to be keeping his rage directed towards the group chat. He drops heavily into one of the chairs not occupied by Richie’s legs, huffing in aggravation, and Richie meets Bev’s eye across the room. There is something speculative in her gaze as she looks back, and he gets the eerie feeling that she is peeking behind the curtains of his mind in that weird way that she has of doing. He averts his eyes to the ceiling once more while his phone buzzes on his chest, searching for a change of subject.
“Do you wanna see a movie on Sunday, Bev?” He asks the ceiling. “New Ari Aster joint.”
Eddie stops typing for a moment, eyes snapping up to Richie. Richie ignores his narrowed gaze, tilting his head to peek at Beverly. She’s looking at her phone. When she glances up at him the speculative look has passed, and is replaced with intrigue.
“I’m down. Are you getting tickets?”
“Sure, but you owe me.”
Richie pulls up the theatre’s website once more and restarts his ticket purchase since the last one timed out. He adds a third ticket for Bev to the cart and goes through the digital checkout, pausing before purchasing as he briefly thinks of Stan. Then his phone vibrates again and he again decides fuck Stan , who in any case doesn’t like scary movies. Which is kind of Ari Aster's whole bag. There's bound to be at least one skull crushed.
Richie ignores the constant group chat notifications until he’s secured three seats in the five p.m viewing, and can ignore them no longer.
LOSERSCLUBtm
Big Bev, Big Bill, dipshit, Micycle, spaghetti, Staniel
8:34 p.m, Micycle: why especially Richie though
8:35 p.m, Staniel: He made Eddie gay
8:35 p.m, Big Bill: he never showered as a kid
8:37 p.m, dipshit: fuck you stan
8:37 p.m, spaghetti: how many FUCKING times
8:37 p.m, spaghetti: do I have to tell you
8:37 p.m, spaghetti: to FUCK OFF
8:38 p.m, Micycle: oh no
8:38 p.m, Micycle: sorry???
8:38 p.m, spaghetti: not you mike youre fine
8:38 p.m, spaghetti: STANLEY EAT SHIT FOR BREAKFAST
8:38 p.m, spaghetti: It has literally NEVER been funny and it’s not funny now
8:38 p.m, spaghetti: It’s fucking homophobic and you’re a twat
8:39 p.m, Staniel: What? How am I homophobic? All of my friends are gay
8:39 p.m, spaghetti: OHH MY GOD DON’T
8:39 p.m, spaghetti: DON’T act DUMB I WILL KILL YOU
8:39 p.m, spaghetti: Richie being gay has literally nothing to do with me being gay
8:39 p.m, spaghetti: that’s not how homosexuality works and you KNOW THIS and I know you know because I have had to listen to this joke TOO MANY TIMES
8:40 p.m, Staniel: Yes, but your mom thought it was all Richie’s fault and that’s why she hates him most of all.
8:40 p.m, Staniel: I was simply answering a question, Eddie!
8:40 p.m, Big Bev: his mom thought that you could get AIDS from a papercut too tho, so
8:40 p.m, spaghetti: fuck yourself with a lawn mower stanley
8:40 p.m, Big Bev: grain of salt.
8:40 p.m, spaghetti: ENOUGH
8:41 p.m, Big Bill: she thought our bike seats were going to give us testicular cancer remember
8:41 p.m, spaghetti: ENOUGH ENOUGH
8:41 p.m, spaghetti: NO MORE ABOUT MY MOM
8:41 p.m, Staniel: Damn. Normally that would be Richie’s cue.
8:41 p.m, spaghetti: JUST STOP TALKING STANLEY YOU’RE ON TIME OUT FOR MAKING ME MAD NOW BYE
8:42 p.m, Big Bill: Bev are they still at your house? Is Eddie frothing at the mouth
8:42 p.m, Big Bev: Scowling, deeply. Rich is dead-eyed on the floor.
8:42 p.m, Big Bev: Well done, Stan, you broke them. My night is ruined.
8:43 p.m, Big Bill: this is what Stan wanted
8:43 p.m, Micycle: I feel that I am Missing Something
8:43 p.m, Big Bill: not much. Richie was out before Eddie. Stan lives and dies by this joke. Everyone else suffers.
8:44 p.m, Staniel: One hundred thousand notifications is not what I wanted, please.
8:44 p.m, Big Bill: You knew what you were doing Stan
8:44 p.m, Big Bill: You should at least own it if you’re going to subject us to this
8:45 p.m, dipshit: @Micycle I showered a normal amount as a kid
8:45 p.m, Big Bill: he didn’t
8:45 p.m, Staniel: He did not
8:45 p.m, spaghetti: he really didn’t
8:46 p.m, dipshit: Eddie we're supposed to be on the same side
8:46 p.m, Staniel: Ha
8:46 p.m, spaghetti: stanley FUCK OFF you are still banished from the chat
8:46 p.m, dipshit: do you forget i have keys to your home?
8:47 p.m, spaghetti: he showers a normal amount now, mike
8:48 p.m, Staniel: Our Home <3
8:49 p.m, Mycicle: good to know Eddie, thanks
8:49 p.m, dipshit: Stanley don’t think being coy makes you any less murdered
8:52 p.m, Big Bill: man I miss you guys
8:55 p.m, dipshit: logging off
They end up staying the night at Bev’s. Richie is too lazy to get up and leave once their third joint is smoked, knowing that he'll be that much closer to work in the morning and not particularly wanting to head home to make good on his threat of murdering Stan.
Three separate times Eddie claims he's going to leave and then winds up complaining about the commute back to his own apartment for twenty minutes instead. He’s lived on the second floor of a house by the NYU campus since the July after highschool, when he moved out of his mother's house and into the city. Besides Beverly, he has lived in New York for the longest, adapting totally and completely in the years he’s been there. He'd been in his house for three years already when Stan had finished his accounting degree and said fuck it to Georgia and his father's wishes and moved to New York to be close to his friends once more, and to pursue his true passion: Ornithology at Cornell.
Eddie’s friends all know that he’s attached to his house, his room, his space; the first place he’s ever lived without the looming presence of his mother, so they try not to begrudge him living on the opposite end of the city on the absolute worst subway line - but the fourth time he brings up his commute, Beverly threatens to kick his ass. He decides to stay after that.
Richie starts crashing embarrassingly close to 10 p.m, his eyes drifting shut for longer and longer as he continues to lay splayed out on the floor, until he's startled awake and Bev is standing over him grinning. Giving in to his ceaseless yawns shortly afterwards he claims sharing rights to her bed, explaining that there is absolutely no way he’s going to be able to fit all six foot four of himself on the couch. Eddie only barely puts up a fight, having lived most of his life as the middle-seat-sitter and love-seat-sleeper. Richie’s out cold again before Beverly even gets into the bed.
When his alarm rings at 5:30 a.m the next morning, he spends one second hating all of existence before remembering that Bev and Eddie are sleeping in the same room as him. He shuts it off as quickly as possible but Bev stirs anyways, pulling a pillow over her head and making a funny, sleep-filled sound. Doing his best not to disturb her further, Richie eases himself up out of bed and pads into her small and incredibly beige bathroom to get ready, sending a picture of himself obviously post shower into the group chat, just nude enough to make a point.
Wearing his jeans from the day before, he slips back into the main room shirtless to quietly pick through the piles of Bev’s clothes on the floor until he finds a t-shirt that will fit him, discovering one that he’s pretty sure was actually his at some point, based on the fact that Beverly has never really liked MGMT enough to own their merchandise, but he also can’t remember owning it at any point in time. It's debatable whether she's ever listened to them besides from the mixes he's played, so he doesn't feel bad stealing it.
Eddie’s still asleep in the middle of the room. He’s curled into himself a little bit to fit on the length of the couch, and his face is slack and dopey where it is pressed into the cushions. In the dark quiet of the early morning, Richie eats a bowl of cereal and watches the rise and fall of Eddie's breathing, contemplating the way his curly hair is sticking out every which way. After he finishes he puts his bowl in the sink and crosses the room, where kneels down in front of the couch and puts his palm over Eddie’s shoulder.
“Hey, Eds.”
Eddie is warm even through the blanket covering him. He stirs a little, his brow creasing in confusion as Richie jostles him again.
“ Hmmnng ? Rich?”
“Yeah, buddy, hey. Sorry to wake you. Go sleep in the bed, I’m leaving.”
Eddie makes another sleepy sound, still blinking himself awake, and Richie feels fondness bloom in his heart. When Eddie’s eyes finally focus, Richie smiles and moves his hand from Eddie's shoulder to his bicep, tugging him gently upwards. Eddie makes a scrunched, grumpy face. “What? Where’re we going?”
“I’m going to work, you’re going to Beverly’s bed. Up you go, come on.”
Still mostly unconscious, Eddie lets Richie guide him to his feet, clutching the blanket around himself like a cape. Once upright he blinks a few more times and peers up with big bleary eyes at Richie. “You’re leaving?”
“Yeah.” Richie drops his hand. His palm is still warm. “Bed’s all yours.”
Eddie closes his eyes and doesn’t move. Then he leans forward and presses his forehead against Richie’s collarbone, a gentle pressure which Richie barely processes before he’s pulling back again and shuffling across the wooden floor to Beverly’s bed. “Okay, bye.”
Richie watches him collapse on top of the covers, hears Beverly’s surprised yelp, and lets himself out of the apartment. His phone vibrates as he hits the street.
6:02 a.m, stan the man: Are u up
6:02 a.m, rich: yep
The wind is back in full force this morning, whipping across Richie’s cheeks with a brutal, icy sting that blows right through his scarf. It’s at least an hour still until sunrise, and the streets are eerily empty, quiet except for the whistling of the wind through the buildings. Richie plugs his headphones in but keeps the music off, trying to keep the wind from blowing into his ear canals and giving him an earache.
The walk is strangely lonely without Stan by his side. They’ve walked together nearly every Saturday and Sunday morning since Richie had scored him a part-time gig at Frontier a year ago: a small favour paid in exchange for the massive favour of Stan’s roommate-ship, although Richie knows Stan has never seen it that way.
Shortly before Richie had finally decided to leave California, Stan’s roommate had abruptly decided that the lease wasn’t working out for him. Stan had been quick to offer Richie the empty room, and the fact that Richie had had no job, no prospects, and had only just barely made it out of L.A alive seemed hardly to matter to him - even when Richie highlighted these shortcomings.
The apartment was much nicer than anything Richie would have been able to find on his own in New York; a full first floor unit with two decent bedrooms and a kitchen and a common room, in a cheap neighbourhood, with only a moderate roach infestation. The offering was a mercy, plain and simple. A reminder that though Stan’s love could occasionally be barbed, there was nothing he wouldn't do for any of the Losers.
When he’d quit his retail job at a soap store a few months later, and mentioned that he needed something new on the weekends, Richie had put in a good word with Trevor.
6:03 a.m, rich: i'm just leaving bev's
6:05 a.m, stan the man: Is so cold.
They're a block away from the cafe when he catches sight of Stan, recognizing his deep green coat and leather bag up ahead only after walking behind him for five minutes.
"Stanley!"
Stan stops so short he slips on the icy sidewalk, shooting daggers at Richie over his shoulder once he regains his balance. Despite this, Richie is happy to see him.
"Richard," Stan says, voice hoarse with the early hour.
Richie nudges their elbows together as he catches up and they continue walking on in comfortable silence. The sidewalk is filled with fresh snow and slush, and Richie’s feet are more or less frozen by the time they unlock the door and step into the darkened interior of Frontier .
They set up the cafe in continued silence, falling into a well-established routine. Richie goes for the aux cord first thing, putting on an early morning playlist filled with a range from Golden Age Coldplay to Sam Cooke, all songs he knows Sleepy Stan will enjoy, then sets about doing the same things he's done every Saturday morning for the last seven months. Pastries, out. Chairs, down. Scones, in the oven for two cycles of 12 minutes. He can do it without even thinking, at this point, and Stan does his half of the workload in the same mindless way. They’ve worked the entire thing into a calculated 30 minutes, reminiscent of how they used to divide history projects or chores to save time when they were kids.
When the front door is unlocked and the espresso is dialled in, they sit at the end of the bar with their coffees and wait for the poor souls who are destined to be in a coffee shop on a miserable Saturday morning.
"How's Bev's place?" Stan asks halfway through his coffee, when his brain has come online.
"Small," Richie tells him. "Fourth floor walk-up."
"Very New York."
Richie remembers, belatedly, Stan’s little performance in the group chat the night before. He scowls, kicking out at Stan’s shoe and making an aggrieved sound. Stan's feigned ignorance would be convincing, perhaps, without a decades worth of context.
"What was that for?"
"You know what it’s for, and you know you’re not funny in the slightest. You should keep to the bird fuckery and let those of us with a funny bone do the humour. Especially when it comes to Eddie’s mom, man, leave it to the pros."
It comes across perhaps slightly too earnest, what with the early morning of it all. As quick as running water, Stan's face grows serious. He sets his mug down on the counter and turns to peer at Richie thoughtfully. Richie regrets this immediately.
"Richie, you know… I -"
They both look up at the sound of the door opening, a harried looking young person stepping in from the cold. Richie glares at Stan until he gets up to take the first order.
One harried customer turns into a slew of them, which they are informed shortly is because the subway four streets over has gone out of service, driving all the weekend commuters into the streets above. It's one of the busiest Saturday mornings since the summer, the foot traffic so heavy that Richie would go so far as to say it's out of control. They sink into a manic but manageable system, with Richie on the cash, handling the human interactions and pastries, and Stan moving through the drink orders like a well calibrated machine, their hands fully occupied for the better part of three hours. After lunch the subway resumes service and the steady flow of customers trickles off suddenly, leaving them to play catch up on an apocalyptic amount of dishes. Richie thinks to himself that the extra prep that had driven Pat crazy the day before had probably saved their asses, and he makes a mental note to tell her at some point.
By the time the next shift comes in they're about dead on their feet, and they slouch off to the office in the basement at the first opportunity to huddle over Trevor’s desk and devour some pastries. Richie feels like he's about to fall asleep on the stores old desktop.
"'M so happy I'm off tomorrow," he says, head propped on his hand. Stan looks over at him, face pressed in confusion.
"What? Since when?"
Richie grins, wickedly. "Pat picked up my shift," he says, drawing energy from the boast.
Something strange passes over Stan's face, gone in an instant as he schools his features into what Richie privately thinks of as his Poker Face. The face he wears when he is concealing what's going on behind the eyes - about 90% of the time.
"Great," Stan says, infuriatingly. "I'm so happy I’ll be able to experience working with someone besides you, for once."
"Pat runs a pretty tight ship," Richie warns. "I'd be careful with her if I were you."
Stan purses his lips. Richie suspects he is tamping down a smile.
"Patty and I get along just fine." Richie is about to jump on that , cause Patty? but unfortunately Stan continues, turning to face Richie in All Seriousness for the second time that day. "Listen, Richie. I want to apologize for saying that in the group chat last night. I should be more sensitive about stuff like that, I’m sorry. It’s a bad joke. I guess I didn’t think about the way it might actually make you feel until afterwards.”
Richie gapes at him, at a complete loss for words for once in his life. Stan is a serious guy by nature, incredibly focused and perceptive, but he usually keeps things flippant and dry for the benefit of Richie’s emotional constipation. For him to offer such a sincere apology off the cuff is deeply uncomfortable. After a long time, Richie finds his tongue and tries for a lighthearted tone.
“It’s fine, Standelion, I don’t need an apology. Eddie just gets, like, deeply upset by it, and you know he’s a wild animal, so you know it’s really annoying. And you say it on purpose to rile him up, which, and I understand this is a pot kettle situation, is also annoying.”
When they were kids Richie had a theory that Stan could somehow read his mind, accurate as he was in his intuition of Richie’s thought patterns. He’d never truly felt that theory disproved. It’s for this reason that he focuses intently on ripping apart a day-old croissant in front of him, flakes of pastry crumbing up the desk. In his peripheral vision he can see Stan still turned towards him, his lips now set into frown, eyebrows raised.
“So you’re saying it doesn’t bother you at all?”
“Not really,” Richie lies at his croissant, then shrugs. “I mean, it is homophobic to imply that being gay is contagious, but I know you only say it to make Eddie mad.”
Figuring it’s definitely more convincing if he makes eye contact Richie turns to face him, takes in his ultra-patented Bullshit Detected facial expression, and feels something uncomfortable swirl in the depths of his stomach.
“That’s not the implication I was really making, though, is it?” Stan says, dryly, after a moment. “I mean, that’s not the implication I’m apologizing for. Maybe I should be more clear. I’m sorry for implying in the group chat that you and Eddie have ever been involved. I can imagine that was uncomfortable for you, given -”
“I told you, it’s fine,” Richie says, even as he feels the heat rising into his cheeks. “Everyone knows Eddie and I are just friends, anyways. Two people can be gay in one friend group and not be involved.”
His hands are sweating a little bit, he realizes. Little pieces of croissant are sticking all over his fingers. He wipes his palms on his pants, frowning, and Stanley’s eyes track the movement.
“I suppose they can,” he says. He waits for Richie to say something, and when he gets nothing in return his expression tilts further towards annoyance. He huffs, barely audible, and gives Richie one more second of resolute silence before he continues. “But more often I think the case is that two people from one friend group who are obviously compatible will eventually develop feelings for one another.”
“Both of us being gay doesn’t automatically make us compatible, Stan, that’s exactly what’s so fucking annoying about your dumb joke. It was stupid when we were fifteen and it’s stupid now.”
Stanley rolls his eyes. “Yes, the joke is stupid. I have apologized. But I wouldn’t pair you off with any gay guy who walked past me, Richie, I was obviously talking about the wealth of personal experiences you and Eddie have shared -”
“Yeah, Stan, cause we’re friends! We all have shared personal experience! We have shared personal experience, and nobody is accusing me of trying to get in your pants. But Eddie’s gay, so it has to mean more? Are you a genuine homophobe, dude?”
“For fucks -” Stanley starts angrily, then stops himself, abrupt like. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. Richie watches him, vexxed, with only the barest hint of what’s going on inside his head. “Okay, Rich. If you don’t want to talk about this with me, that’s fine. I just wanted you to know… that I will try… to be more considerate about your feelings in the future.”
Stan speaks in such a chastised manner that Richie has a sudden recollection of a time in the seventh grade, when they had had such an explosive fight that Stanley completely snapped and shoved him right into the dirt. The school faculty had become involved and facilitated a mediated apology between the two of them, and Stan spoke with the same rigid wording then as he is now.
Richie feels a twist of anger in his stomach as a thought occurs to him.
"Did you… did Billy text you about this?"
Stan frowns and looks away, his Poker Face ultimately worth fuck all, and Richie cries out and points a finger in his face.
“What the fuck, Stanley, you son of a bitch! What the hell!? If you guys are going to talk about me behind my back -”
“ We weren’t -”
“- you could at least, at the very least, not pretend like you’re my fucking dads . What are you even doing right now?”
“I’m just trying to talk to you, Richie -”
“Do you guys ever talk about how funny I am in your little Richie-based parenting seminars? How clever or handsome? Are you proud of my macaroni pictures? Or is it strictly weird fuckin', like, jerk-off fantasy speculation about how I interact with Eddie and how convenient it would be if your gay friends boned?"
"Have you ever been funny, clever, or handsome?” Stanley deadpans with irritation. “I can't say I've noticed. And you don’t have a monopoly on being gay, Richie, that isn’t what this is about.”
Richie pulls his glasses off and tosses them on the desk, pressing his forefinger and thumb into his eyes. “Stanley, I swear to Jewish God, I’m going to put my foot so far up your ass -”
"What I have noticed is that you and Eddie are-"
" GUYS. ED AND BEV ARE HERE FOR YOU."
Trevor’s voice booms down the stairs to the basement and Stan and Richie both jump a mile out of their skin - when they settle, Richie crams his glasses back onto his face and swivels in his chair, taking Stan by the shoulders and fixing him with the most genuinely, earnestly Serious face he can manage.
“Fuck. Right. Off. Okay?”
Stan looks surprised at the force of his tone. He opens his mouth to respond and Richie cuts him off.
“No, Stan, for real. Fuck off. I don’t like your vibe. You’re way off base, and you’re actually making me uncomfortable, now. Not even because of the Eddie bit, I just - don’t discuss me behind my back. It bums me out.”
Stan closes his mouth and studies him, his expression vaguely pained. Richie holds his gaze, internally cursing Bill. After a battle of wills performed in silence, Stanley sighs and shrugs him off, gathering their dishes.
"I’m sorry for upsetting you," he says, in what Richie thinks is the most facetious tone of all time. He looks down at Richie as though deliberating something before he turns and heads towards the stairs. Richie sits in the basement for an extra minute, steeling himself for what he's about to walk into.
It’s hardly the first time someone has made speculations about his and Eddie’s relationship. It was bound to happen, given the fact that mostly everyone knew they were both gay and they hung out all the time. In high school, Bill had made a habit of making jokes about their constant bickering, often describing them as a ‘dysfunctional married couple’. Richie had never so much cared when Bill did it, cause at least there was an element of humour there, and it made Eddie swear at him which was ultimately entertaining enough to abate any discomfort Richie felt. And, unlike Stan - whose humour is bizarre and layered and occasionally unsettling in ways that Richie usually finds hilarious - Bill rarely means anything more than exactly what he’s saying, and he’s never tried to make any serious implications. Once the Losers had disbanded to separate states, he’d eased up on the teasing. Anyone who really knew them knows that it just isn’t… like that, between them. Richie and Eddie.
In his life Richie has never been much of a stickler for the rules, in general, but his own personal doctrine is rigid. There are just a few solid directives that he has collected throughout his living years which have come to form the basis of his existence. Since he’d been off coke: don’t get tempted. Since he’d been in the back of a police cruiser for the first time and Went had had to come bail him out: don’t look for trouble you can't get out of. Since he’d gotten his first job at the age of fifteen: don’t take any money from Went and Mags. But the oldest and most foundationally cardinal rule to Richie’s personal code of ethics has been around since the seventh grade, when he’d hit puberty and realized exactly what it was that excited him so much about Eddie’s running shorts: don’t look at the Losers like that.
Being young and gay and running around with Bill, Stan, and Eddie every summer his entire life meant that Richie had had to make a very clear distinction, to himself, very early on. It had always been about the Losers, for him, everything he did for every second of his life between the ages of six and eighteen, when they disbanded. Bill, Stan, Eddie, Beverly, and Richie were held together by a bond of brotherhood; a bond forged over years of living intertwined in the hellish liminal space of Derry, Maine; a bond altogether too holy to fuck around with. Sure, of course Eddie is attractive, all doe eyes and runner's legs and fiery attitude. Richie knows he's attractive because he has eyes. Four of them, in fact. But that doesn’t change the fact that they’re family first . Sure, Eddie is gay, too, but that really doesn’t mean Richie is going to do anything more about his being attractive than he would about Stan being attractive, which is a situation that has been accelerating disturbingly since high school graduation (other than the mustache, which Richie just cannot get on board with, no matter how much Stan likes it). Just because he and Eddie both like dudes doesn’t mean they have to like each other, and there are a hundred very good reasons they should never even think about it. So Richie maintains the wall in his mind between his friends and any of that, for the benefit of the structure of things.
The long and short of it is that Stanley can get fucked with a lawnmower.
He’s already joined Eddie and Beverly at a table when Richie finally ascends to the cafe, the three of them crowded into the only four-seater in the small cafe. The last open seat is, of course, across from Eddie. Richie slides in, returning Eddie’s bright smile, and deliberately steps on Stan’s foot under the table.