Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Richie getting a car was simultaneously the best and worst thing that had ever happened to the losers club, murderous space clowns included. 

His rusted old pickup was a gift from Went for his 17th birthday, since he hadn't learned to drive until after his 16th. It was a hunk of scrap metal in the nicest of terms, an '89 Toyota Tacoma with only one bench of seats in the cab and chipped blue paint covering the body. It was a stick shift, and Richie hadn't shut up for weeks bragging that he knew how to drive stick- "I'm an absolute panty dropper, Eds!"- and no one else in the losers club did. Mike had promptly learned how to drive his grandpa's old farm truck just to shut him up, and Richie had pouted for a week afterwards. Eddie hated that beat up truck. It was loud, the seats were full of holes, the seatbelts definitely weren't up to code. It was a deathtrap, and every time his mother saw it she about had a heart attack. 

The worst thing about the stupid truck is that it's currently parked in front of Eddie's house. 

"Eduardo!" Richie calls through the window as he honked the horn repeatedly, "Road trip time, let's go! Ándale!" 

Eddie rolls his eyes as he tugs his bag further up on his shoulder, turning to where his mother is seated behind him.

"I really wish you wouldn't go with that Tozier boy, Eddie-bear, what if you get hurt? He can't help you at all, he doesn't know anything!" She laments from her chair, face neutral despite the worried lilt of her voice, "Those trucks are so easy to flip, and what if the fireworks malfunction? You could get hurt, you could get set on fire ! You should stay here with me, we can watch all those soaps you like-" 

"Ma, we'll be fine ," Eddie cut off firmly, patience wearing thin from Richie's continued ruckus outside, "We won't even be at the park, Richie's a great driver, I'm going now, love you," He rambles as he rushes to get the door closed before she could sink her claws any deeper, jogging out to the truck and chucking his bag at Richie as soon as he wrenched the door open. 

"Finally, my lover doth arrive!" Richie cheers dramatically as he lays the back of his hand across his forehead and slumps slightly in his chair, accent treading just on the wrong side of a Voice, "I was beginning to fret that the voluptuous Mrs. K had fallen on you, crushing you under her ample bosom and killing you instantly," He wails, squealing when a pointed elbow digs harshly into his side. 

"Shut the fuck up Richie," Eddie hisses as he slams the door, "Bosom doesn't even mean ass you fucking idiot, you're just using buzzwords," He jerkily buckles himself to the middle of the bench directly next to Richie, knowing that as soon as the others got into the car he'd be pushed there anyway to make more room. Richie laughs and pulls out of the driveway, swinging his arm around Eddie's shoulders on the seat bench as he turns to look behind him. 

They're on the way to Bill's to meet the rest of the losers to finalize plans and divide into cars before they all head to Bangor for the Fourth of July fireworks show they always hold in the park. Everyone knows the fireworks display there was far better than any meak show they might try to put on in Derry, and the losers had decided to take their first ever road trip together to go cause chaos in a new setting for once. It had been quite the task to convince his mom to let him go- especially when she found out that Richie would be the one driving him there- but after several days of placating her incessant worrying and a little bit of just straight up lying, he'd managed to secure her hesitant permission. 

"Maybe so, but that doesn't make me any less right about your mom's juicy fuckin' as-"

"If you finish that sentence I'm gonna choke you while you drive, and then we'll both die in this fuckin’ car," Eddie interjects with a glare as Richie accidentally jerks the truck forward a little too aggressively in the direction of Bill's house. 

"Ooh, kinky," Richie cackles, glancing at Eddie through the corner of his eyes, "Is that a promise, sugar?" He purrs as he waggles his eyebrows and nudges Eddie's shoulder, struggling to keep his eyes on the road in favor of watching Eddie's nose scrunch in distaste. 

"Eugh, you wish, you fuckin' creep," Eddie crosses his arms and rolls his eyes, fighting down the blush that threatens to crown the tops of his cheekbones.

"Mm, keep talkin' like that baby, I'm close," Richie moans with a grin, barking out a laugh when Eddie punches him in the shoulder even as his cheeks flame red. 

"Beep beep Richie, you're so fucking gross," He snipps as he looks away from Richie's tongue poking out between his too-big front teeth, "And don't call me baby." 

"I won't allow kink shaming in my truck Eds, this is a safe space."

"You're insufferable."

"And yet you suffer me anyways," Richie quips as he pulls up along the sidewalk in front of Bill's house, killing the engine and tugging the keys from the ignition. Eddie rolls his eyes and struggles with his seat belt, scooting toward the door the second he's free. 

"That's it, I'm riding with Billy, I've already had enough of you for the day," He calls back as he hops down from the truck, ignoring Richie's whines of protest as he saunters over to where the rest of the group is gathered around the porch. 

"Hey Eddie," Mike calls with his award winning grin as he is the first to notice the other boy's arrival, dropping his arm from its place around Bill's shoulders to squeeze Eddie into his side. 

The rest of the losers give their welcomes as Richie jogs up to them, immediately draping himself over Bev's back with a crooked grin. 

"Alright chaps, what's the plan of action?" He beams in his British Guy Voice, pouting when Bev shakes him off her shoulders and turns, raising an eyebrow as she appraises his outfit. 

"Oh dear God, what are you wearing?" She sighs as she takes a good look at him. It's not really a question so much as it is a defeated statement, the type of resigned disappointment usually reserved for parents watching their toddler happily traipse into the house covered in mud. This is completely warranted, however, because Richie is wearing yet another completely atrocious outfit. 

All things considered, today's outfit is pretty tame. He wears a tank top patterned like an American flag, with the words 'American Girl' written in frilly cursive across the chest. Of course, over the tank top he's got an open white button up with splatters of color across it that Eddie thinks are supposed to be fireworks. His dark curls stick out harshly from underneath a bright red baseball cap with "Make Kanye 2006 Again" stitched in white lettering across the front, and every time he wears it, it garners excessive teasing from the rest of the losers (except for Bill, who he knows secretly loves it). This outfit is topped off by mid-thigh black boardshorts, with “God’s not dead,” written on his right thigh. 

“Why I’m so glad you asked, dearest Beverly,” Richie continues in the Voice, “This is what I call my liberty lover outfit, I’ve been planning it for days,” He does a twirl for his audience, wiggling his hips to draw attention to the bold white text on the ass of his shorts simply reading “Yet.” 

“Are you seriously indirectly threatening God through your fucking outfit?” Stan asks with a quirk of his brow, leaning against the pillar of the porch.

“Oh it’s not a threat, Stanny, it’s a promise,” Richie grins, tugging on the collar of the firework shirt and rocking back and forth on his heels.

Richie had gone through many evolutions throughout his three years of highschool, both physically and in his sense of fashion, if one could call it that. Sometime during freshman year he'd shot up well past the rest of them in height, Mike being the only one in the group who was still taller than him. His round cheeks had given way to a sharp jaw and collapsed to reveal much more defined cheekbones, and he'd somehow grown into his aquiline nose and wide mouth. He'd traded his coke bottle glasses in for more modern frames, though the lenses themselves were still thick enough to magnify his eyes. The new frames are thin copper colored wire, and the first time Eddie had seen them he'd told Richie he looked like "a bad impersonation of that Ross Lynch Jeffery Dahmer movie." Richie shot back with some admittedly weak insult, and whined about it on the phone with Bev later that night. 

Richie's never had any specific aesthetic, but whatever the hell he's adopted as of recently certainly fits his personality more than any of the others had. One day in the last three months of their Junior year, Richie had sat down at their usual lunch table to declare that his new aesthetic was 'Thrift Shop Nightmare,' as he'd so lovingly called it. He made it his personal goal to put together the worst outfit he could possibly conjure up, with the aid of every oddly specific t-shirt from Goodwill he could find and hand-me-down windbreakers his parents relinquished. 

“Alright, now that we’re done giving Richie his daily dose of attention,” Bev cuts in, leaning into Ben’s side as he blushes, “Can we please finish planning this shit out and get a goddamn move on?” 

“I second that,” Eddie chimes in, tugging at the strap of his overalls impatiently, “Show starts in like an hour and a half and I wanted to go to Walmart before we find a place to park.”

“That’s probably a good idea, I didn’t pack any snacks,” Mike admits.

“Mikey,” Richie gasps dramatically, “You’re supposed to be the prepared one.”

“You’re literally the most unprepared person I’ve ever met in my life Rich,” Eddie interjects.

“Ah, but I’m always prepared where it matters darlin’,” He drawls in response as he slithers toward the smaller boy, laughing when Eddie pushes him away with a hand on his face. 

“There’s a Walmart right off the highway when you enter Bangor, we can stop there to load up on snacks n’ stuff,” Ben continues on despite Richie and Eddie’s tangent, arm now wrapped loosely around Bev’s waist. 

“Sounds good to m-me,” Bill decides, the rest of the group humming their ascent, “Last o-order of buh-business: who has to ride with R-Richie and Eddie.”

There’s a beat of silence as the rest of the group looks at each other and Richie and Eddie gape in offense, before four hands simultaneously raise to their noses. Bev is slower on the uptake than the rest, leaving her the only one in the group with her hand still down. 

“Oh come on,” She whines with a pout, “You guys suck.”

“I’m just wondering why none of our best friends want to ride with us,” Eddie frowns angrily, crossing his arms and cocking out his hip.

“You know exactly why,” Stan glares, and okay, fair point. 

“Don’t worry Bev, I can come with too,” Ben offers softly, squeezing her hip gently as she smiles up at him. 

They say a few more words before they all separate into the cars, Bill having borrowed his mom’s jeep to more comfortably fit his friends and the cooler, blankets, and other miscellaneous items he stuffed in the trunk. Bangor is only a twenty minute drive from Derry at most, though with the way both Richie and Bill drive it’s closer to fifteen. Richie lets Eddie control the music on the ride there, proud to show off the new stereo system he and Wentworth had installed in the truck. It is by far the nicest thing about the pickup, not that that's a particularly hard standard to surpass. 

Eddie is crushed up between Richie and Bev in the cab even with Beverly practically sitting in Ben's lap, because the truck is definitely only meant for three people at most. He's trying to engage in the conversation they're having- he thinks that Bev and Richie are arguing about something involving Madonna, but he's not sure what- but he's a little distracted to say the least. 

It's just that Richie looks really good in this golden hour sunlight. His boney porcelain hands look oddly beautiful against the stark black of the steering wheel and the clutch, and Eddie's a little mad that Richie was definitely right about it being weirdly hot to be able to drive stick. The white button up is starting to slip off his right shoulder, revealing freckled skin that Eddie rarely ever gets to see. And the shorts , God he's kinda angry that they're driving him crazy. Richie never wears shorts unless he's swimming, and Eddie doesn't really know why. Sure his legs are a little scrawny just like the rest of him, but they're strong and they go on for miles , and no one needs to know if Eddie's memorizing the way his thigh flexes every time he scoots around in his seat. 

In the end, it's a (mercifully) short car ride.

The Walmart is packed when they arrive but that just adds to the fun as the seven teens barrel into the store and scatter to find snacks. They stick relatively close to one another, always in the same section of the store as they move as a disjointed pack. After a brief pitstop in the pool accessories aisle to stop Richie and Bill from duking it out with pool noodles, Eddie loads up on every sugar packed, over-salted snack his mother would never allow him to have under her supervision. He grabs a few drinks too of course, because even though Bill's cooler is loaded with soda, he's never liked the way carbonation feels on his teeth all that much anyways. 

They ultimately decide to park in the lot of a small grocery store that's closed for the day, a few blocks away from the park where nearly everyone goes to watch the fireworks. They all agreed when they made the plans to not even bother with the park, considering trying to find a parking spot would be a nightmare and they'd probably just be surrounded by screaming toddlers anyways. Richie pulls into the lot first, parking in the far back with the bed of the truck facing the park. Bill pulls up next to them as the four clamber out of the cab. 

"Alright bitches, let's get this party started," Richie grins when all seven of them are gathered again, slamming open the bed of the truck and patting it as Bill unloads the supplies from his car. Mike, Bill, Richie, and Ben get to work setting everything up, while Eddie, Bev, and Stan simply watch them struggle. 

Richie and Bill start bickering almost immediately. 

"-Makes no fucking s-s-sense! Why would we put the chairs in the f-fucking bed when we have a blanket!" 

"For the view , Billiam! Use your fuckin' brain!"

"How many braincells do you think they all have, like, combined?" Bev asks as she tilts her head, leaning back against Bill’s jeep. 

“I don't know, five at most? Maybe six, if we’re being generous,” Stan decides, crossing his arms and raising a brow as Mike nearly drops the cooler and Ben stands off to the side holding a lawn chair in each arm, lost as Bill and Richie continue to argue on their placement.

“I think a better question is ‘who’s got the most brain cells,’ which personally I’m gonna argue is Mike,” Eddie wagers. Beverly scoffs.

“How dare you, obviously Ben has the most out of the four of them,” She argues, lovingly watching as Ben just shakes his head and starts setting the lawn chairs up around the truck. 

“You’re just biased because you’re dating him,” Stan scolds, “I think Richie and Bill both have one, and Ben and Mike both have two. They’re on the same level.”

“Now you’re giving Richie way too much credit,” Eddie shakes his head, counting off on his fingers as he continues, “Richie has half a brain cell, Bill has one, Ben has one and a half, and Mike has the other two.”

“Fair enough I guess,” Bev concedes as the boys finish setting everything up. 

The final setup has four lawn chairs with two on each side of Richie’s open truck bed, with the blanket covering the floor of the bed and the cooler resting on the ground near one of the chairs. Richie’s driver side door is propped open so that the music playing inside the cab can be heard. His phone is inside hooked up to the aux and playing Play That Funky Music by Wild Cherry, because he thinks he’s funny. 

Shortly after that Richie makes Eddie take a video of him standing on the top of the truck, dancing around to a Front Bottoms song and jumping off the roof. The video cuts off with Eddie yelling at him for his reckless stunt, and Richie loves it so much that he puts it on his instagram story. 

The sun starts to go down and the losers settle into a comfortable chaos while they wait for the fireworks show to start. Eddie sits on Richie’s tailgate with his legs hanging off, Ben and Beverly sitting next to him in all their grossly-cute-couple glory. Richie and Bill are sparring a little too aggressively, and Mike and Stan are standing near them with hilariously stressed out expressions. 

Eddie’s always felt content around the losers- that was kind of the point of their group in the first place- but as he watches Bill lunge at Richie as the other boy cackles, he feels especially at peace. He’s never been able to spend the Fourth of July with his friends, has never had the confidence to ask, but the losers give him the courage he needs to stand up to his mother more and more. It had been Beverly and Richie who were there for him when he found out that all his medicine was fake, and Bill who promises him he isn’t weak when he feels guilty for still occasionally needing his inhaler. It's Stan and Ben who calm him down with logic and facts when his hypochondria has his mind racing, and Mike who slowly coaxes him out of his comfort zone by cooking him new kinds of food whenever they hang out at the farm. His friends make him a better person, and he's incredibly grateful for that. 

Eddie feels himself blush as Richie catches him staring in his direction and throws him a wink before returning to his battle with Bill. He can’t help the shame that almost immediately follows the butterflies in his stomach, and he looks away with a frown. He plays with his phone instead, waiting for his face to return to its regular tanned complexion. Boys shouldn't look at other boys like that, Eddie-bear, it's not natural , the voice in his head that sounds oddly like his mother scolds. He squeezes his eyes shut as Beverly laughs beside him, bumping shoulders with him and causing him to look up at her expectantly.

“I’d ask you if you heard what I just said, but you’re definitely too busy making heart eyes at Richie to pay attention,” She giggles, leaning back against Ben’s side and gazing at him knowingly. Eddie’s breath hitches, the redness in his features returning for a vastly different reason.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” He grumbles, “I’m staring at him because he’s acting like a dumbass. I’m not making heart eyes.”

“Sure you aren’t, Eddie,” Ben laughs good naturedly, completely unaware of the way it shoots arrows through Eddie’s chest.

He knows it’s dumb, but he’s not out to the losers yet. He knows they’d support him, hell, Mike and Bill have been dating for going on four months. And Beverly and Ben are making it quite clear at the moment that they know and they’re okay with it. That’s not necessarily the problem, though. He may be able to admit to himself in his thoughts that he’s gay, but that doesn’t mean he can say it out loud yet. He had cried when he finally realized it, showered for over an hour desperately scrubbing at his skin until he was red and raw all over. He’d spent his entire life raised by a woman who conflated being gay with having AIDS, and at the already confusing age of fourteen he suddenly was the type of person he’d been taught to avoid at all costs. Even three years later he still has a hard time breaking down the mental connection of gay equalling dirty . Besides, Derry is not the type of town you can be gay in. What's left of Bowers' gang still torments him constantly, calling him every variation of faggot and flamer under the sun. He shivers to think about what they'd do if they knew they were right. He wouldn't be safe.

And then there’s the problem of Richie. He knows that Richie would support him if he were to come out, knows that Richie would be the first person to tell him there’s nothing wrong with him if he needed him to. But there’s a difference between accepting your best friend who’s gay, and accepting your best friend who’s gay and in love with you . Richie would be uncomfortable, hell he might even get angry. He might call Eddie disgusting, tell him he never has and never will love him that way. He’d splinter off from Eddie, distance himself until Eddie stops showing his face around his friends and eventually moves away all alone and never speaks to the losers agai-

His spiralling thoughts are interrupted by a loud bang and the sound of Bill gasping. Eddie’s head whips around at the sound, seeing Richie on the ground against Bill’s car with Stan kneeling next to him and Mike and Bill standing above them. There’s a relatively sizable dent in the trunk door of his mom’s car right above where Richie’s sitting on the ground.

“Richie, what the f-f-fuck,” Bill breathes as he stares at the dent, shaking Mike’s comforting hand off his shoulder, “My mom’s gonna k-kill m-me.”

“You’re the one who pushed me so fuckin’ hard,” Richie bites back as he stands, dusting dirt off his legs with scratched palms. 

“You de-dented my mom’s fucking c-car! She’s gonna b-be p-pis-pissed!” Bill yells back, hands angrily flailing to emphasize his point. Richie goes to reply as he takes a step forward, but he’s stopped by Stan’s hand on his chest. Eddie, Beverly, and Ben have hopped off Richie's tailgate by now and are standing closer, Eddie reaching out for Richie’s hand to check the scrapes on his palm, "Why are you a-always the one who f-fucks stuff up?" Bill continues despite Stan's obvious attempt to intervene. 

“Guys, just take a breath for a second. I’m sure we can figure out a way to fix it,” Stan reasons as Eddie retrieves peroxide wipes from his bag to wipe down Richie’s hands. 

“How the fuck are we gonna fix a dent, Stan?” Richie snarls, hissing as the peroxide seeps into a particularly rough patch of his hand. His shoulders are tight and his brow is low, but he doesn’t push Eddie off, patiently letting him fret over his friend’s minor injuries. 

“Actually, I think I know a way we could fix it. We’d just need some hot water and like, a plunger,” Mike interjects, stepping closer to Bill and smiling gently when his boyfriend leans back against his chest slightly. Eddie doesn't miss the way Richie's eyes linger on the two of them, something deep in his irises sparking for a split second before being swallowed once again.

“We might need a screwdriver or something to seperate the panels on the door, but that could work,” Ben adds, moving to take a closer look at the dent.  

“Looks like we’re going back to Walmart,” Stan sighs, “Who wants to stay here and watch all our stuff?”

“Eddie and I can stay, God knows we’re the most responsible,” Bev volunteers, shooting Eddie an innocent smile when he raises a brow at her in confusion. Something a little duller than dread settles in his stomach.

The five boys climb into Sharon Denbrough’s now-dented jeep, and Bev and Eddie settle back into their original spots on the tailgate as the fireworks hiss and pop in the distance. The vibrant colors look brilliant bleeding against the inky black canvas of the sky around them, but the reds and blues do nothing to soothe the feeling in Eddie’s stomach that’s making him feel a little bit sick. 

Beverly is quiet for all of five minutes before she bluntly confirms Eddie’s suspicions.

“So,” She starts with a toothy grin aimed in his direction, “When are you gonna tell him you like him?”

Eddie sputters and tries to calm his drumming heart. His ribcage isn't big enough to hold the anxiety inflating his chest cavity. 

“I don’t fucking like Richie,” He mutters, hugging his torso as a protection from the slight breeze raising the hairs on his arms. Bev hums.

“I never said it was Richie, hun,” She chuckles, expression softening when she notices Eddie’s panic. 

“It was implied and you know it. Can we please just fucking drop it?” Eddie bites angrily, face warmed by all the blood settled in his cheeks, “I don’t have a fucking crush on Richie, and even if I did, it’s none of your business.” 

He knows he’s being too snappy with her, and he knows that she’s just trying to help, but all she’s doing is backing him into a corner and forcing him to bare his teeth in hopes to ward her off. He doesn't want to talk about his feelings for Richie, because talking about it makes it real. He can make up all the excuses in the world for the way his heart stutters when Richie smiles at him, and beats in time with his laughter. He can think of other reasons why he can feel his lungs shrivel up when Richie's not paying attention to him, and the way his mouth goes dry every time he catches Richie chewing on his chapped lips. He can ignore the way he feels so much for Richie that it's sometimes overwhelming, but if he says it out loud, he can't pretend anymore. It'll be real. And it absolutely cannot be real. It just can't be. 

"Alright, alright, maybe I was wrong," Bev says in a way that means she knows she's not, "Can I just ask you one thing?"

"Go ahead," He allows with little enthusiasm, watching her from the corner of his eye. 

"Why don't you want to tell him?" She asks a moment later, carefully watching Eddie with an expression he can't quite make out. He heaves a sigh and looks forward towards the fireworks display, closing his eyes against the blue heart shaped explosion that illuminates his warm features in cool tones.

"There's nothing to tell."

The boys come back half an hour later with everything they need: a plunger, a cheap tool kit, and a cup of hot water from McDonald's. Turns out the dent is a pretty easy fix when they set to it, though not every part of it comes out. It's much smaller than it was in the beginning though, so it's cause for celebration. Bill high-fives the other boys, and even though Richie smiles through it, Eddie sees the way his shoulders haven't relaxed and the muscles in his jaw are strained. But Richie doesn't say anything, so neither does Eddie. 

They stay to watch the fireworks for another hour or so after that, making easy conversation in the occasional light of the display. Bill somehow managed to sneak an entire case of beer from his parents and hands one out to each of the losers, excluding himself and Richie since they're the ones driving. Eddie takes one sip of his and gags immediately, handing the beer back to Bill as Richie cackles. He decides he hates beer. Richie stays oddly quiet for the rest of the night whenever someone isn't talking to him, leaned back in the lawn chair closest to Eddie. Eddie gently kicks his shoulder every once in a while to let him know he's there, but Richie only ever looks up at him with a tired smile and returns to what he was doing before. 

They decide to leave before the fireworks show is over to get out ahead of traffic, but it's a debate whether they want to call it a night or not since it's not even eleven o'clock yet. Eddie texts his mom that he's on his way home, because he knows that she's asleep by now and she won't see it til morning. She has no way to prove that he's not, and it buys him infinitely more time as well as brownie points for "coming home" early. 

"Do you guys remember that dinosaur playset thing that used to be at the park when we were little?" Stan asks as they try to figure out something else to do, Bill and Mike beginning to pack away the chairs. The losers all make noises of acknowledgement save for Eddie and Ben, who don't know what playground they're talking about. Ben's only lived in Derry for a few years, and Eddie's mom didn't let him go around playgrounds after his dad died. They were too dangerous. 

"Holy shit, yeah! One of the slides looked like a stegosaurus," Bev chimes in excitedly, bouncing on her heels and gently shaking Richie by the arm. He doesn't react much, "Whatever happened to that thing?" 

"I know where it is, actually. It's not too far from here, we could go there," Stan suggests, smiling when the rest of the group agrees.  

"I pushed Bill off that slide once," Richie reminisces with a fond smile, "Ah, the memories."

"Y-yeah, you've always been a d-dick," Bill chides as he puts away the cooler and slams the trunk door, swinging the keys in the other hand, "Alright, all r-ready to go.

They climb back into their original spots in the two cars, Bill's window open so he can talk to them before they go. 

"Just f-follow us and try not to get l-lost," He instructs Richie, leaning out of his window and accidentally revving the gas. 

"Lead the way Billy boy," Richie calls back before he rolls up the window. 

It's only about a ten minute drive out to the small synagogue where the park equipment has been moved. The building is no longer in use since they built the new one in town, but Stan tells them that he remembers when they moved the dinosaur playset there when he was younger. Richie controls the music during the drive, and Eddie notices the way he anxiously drums along to the songs with one hand while the other grips so hard at the wheel that his already pale knuckles are turning white. He doesn't sing along to the songs or make obnoxious jokes, and he doesn't headbang the way he normally would if he were really into the song. He doesn't even hum. He just drives. Eddie decides not to bring it up for the moment and continues talking to Bev and Ben. 

As soon as they park Richie, Bill, Stan, and Mike set to exploring the old equipment that they're still somehow able to fit on- though it is pretty cramped- and Eddie and Beverly take up the only two spots on the swing set. Ben is on the ground near the other boys anxiously reminding them that the park's structural integrity definitely can't handle all their weight at once, but it doesn't really seem like they're listening. The fireworks show can still be heard and seen in the distance, and with how much bigger the fireworks are now than they were an hour ago, they're most likely building up to the finale.

"I'm gonna be honest," Eddie starts quietly, watching the boys hop from one set to another, "I don't remember this playground at all." 

"Really?" Bev asks as she begins to gently swing back and forth. Eddie follows her lead. 

"I didn't get to go on the playgrounds when I was little. My mom even called the school to make sure the teacher knew not to let me go on the playset. I came home with a scrape once from when I went down the slide too fast and she kept me home for a week afterwards," He sighs, tearing his gaze away from Richie's lackluster playing to look down at his feet kicking at the gravel. 

"Yeah well, she's crazy. That why you don't talk about her that often?" Bev replies, and the more he looks back on it, the more he realizes that he doesn't talk to Bev about his mom. Bev had seen a glimpse of Sonia the day Eddie broke his arm, but he never really told stories about her. The only people he vented to about his mom were Richie, Bill, and Stan because they already knew what she was like. He didn't have to catch them up, and explaining a lifetime of his mom's excessive hovering seemed like an exhausting task. He hears a hard crunch in the gravel and looks over to see Richie lying face down on the ground, Mike and Bill laughing as Richie simply holds up a thumb to signal he's okay. 

"She's why I don't talk about a lot of things," He admits after a pause, gaze still stuck on Richie. He thinks Bev gets what he means. 

She does. 

He looks away. 

"Well maybe if you started talking about certain things more, you'd feel better about them," She says it like she's leading him down a specific path, and he's following right along, "Like, maybe start with telling someone you're comfortable with. Like Richie. Or Bill, or Stan maybe," Bill and Stan are added in a rush as an afterthought, but there's no need. He knows what she's saying and he doesn't like it either way. 

"I don't think I'm ready," He replies as quiet as a mouse, tugging on the neckline of the yellow shirt he wears beneath his overalls. 

"You're never gonna feel ready, sweetpea. You just gotta take the dive and trust they'll catch you," Eddie watches Bev's soft smile as she stares lovingly at Ben while she speaks. His brows pinch subconsciously.

He looks back over to where Richie had fallen to find that the boy is still laying in the gravel. Eddie sees the out he's being given and readily jumps on it. He drags his feet in the gravel to bring the swing to a stop. The sound of it feels far too loud in the weighted air settled around him. 

"I'm gonna check on Rich," He mutters as he stands, walking over to his fallen friend without a glance back at Bev. 

He nudges Richie in the side with the toe of his shoe when he makes it over to him. The other boy does nothing but grunt noncommittally, so Eddie moves to sit cross legged right beside him in the rocks.

"You alright, Rich?" He asks gently, suddenly overcome with the urge to run his hands through the back of Richie's nappy curls. His fists tighten in his lap. 

"I'm fine," Richie mumbles, his already quiet voice muffled by how his face is pressed into the crook of one arm. Richie looks up and Eddie realizes he's been crying, tear stains tracking ruddy red marks through the gravel dust on his freckled cheeks, "I'm not in any pain, promise. Sometimes you just need an excuse to cry."

Eddie doesn't have a good reply to that, so he just nods and sits beside Richie in silent company while the others buzz with energy around them. The atmosphere feels heavy but somehow private in the open air of the playground, as though the other losers have vanished and only he and Richie remain, suspended in their own world. As though they've found a liminal space in their own little corner of the playground. 

Richie sniffles, and Eddie can't stop his fingers from carding through the hair at the nape of his neck.

Somewhere in the distance, the finale of the fireworks show paints the dark sky in technicolor with a deafening pop!

Richie drops Eddie off last, as he always does. 

They pull into his driveway sometime after midnight, and Richie must know the drill by now, because he doesn't waste time- or gas- letting the truck idle. He just turns off the headlights and kills the engine, leaning his head back and closing his eyes with a long, exhausted sigh. The music is still playing quietly from where his phone is hooked up to the radio, a playlist Richie has specifically for when he drives at night. It's gonna kill his battery some day, but for now it's a welcome break from the silence between them that has Eddie's ears ringing.

He knows what's coming, he can feel it already cracking at his ribs. Part of him wants to get out of the car before it can happen, already stretched thin from being around his friends for a solid five hours. But he doesn't move from his spot in the passenger seat, having moved into the full sized seat as soon as they'd dropped off Bev and Ben. He tugs at the hem of his overall shorts and shifts in his seat uncomfortably, waiting for Richie to speak.

He doesn't know what it is about his driveway that makes Richie want to pour his heart out, but it happens every time. Maybe it's the private feeling of the car, how it can feel like nothing exists past the scratched windows and sturdy metal doors. Or it might be the fact that there's nothing to stare at besides the garage door, nothing to distract him from his quietest yet most persistent thoughts, nothing to hide behind. 

"So are you gonna tell me what happened tonight or are we just gonna pretend you're good?"

Or maybe it's Eddie's bad habit of never knowing when to leave well enough alone. Richie opens his eyes and sits up, gripping the bottom of the steering wheel too tightly.

"Well since you're being so gracious as to give me options, I'm gonna have to go with the second one, spaghetti," Richie parry's quickly, but his heart's not in it. 

Eddie's chest tightens down. Richie's is still covered in gravel dust. 

"Rich," He scolds mildly, "Don't bullshit me, you've been off all night. You were fine when we left, what happened?" 

"Just say that I ruined the fucking night for you and drop it already, Eds. Fuck," Richie spits suddenly, taking his hat off to throw it on the dashboard and run his hand through his hair, tugging it at the crown. Eddie flinches back, watching Richie's stiff profile.

"Chee, that's not what I meant," Eddie says quieter, gentler. Richie sighs, hands falling to his lap again as he shakes his head. His hands rest at the bottom of the wheel again, fingernails picking at the peeling leather in a way that makes Eddie shudder. 

"That's what Bill said, isn't it? That I fuck everything up?" He mutters bitterly, scratching at the wheel. Eddie's eyes zero in on the way the muscle in Richie's jaw flutters. The already angular features of his face look harsher in the darkness of the car, the only light coming from the dim bulb on the wall above the garage door. It's an inappropriate time for him to think about how pretty Richie is. In his defense, it's an inappropriate time for Richie to look so pretty. 

"He didn't mean that, Rich, he was just stressed," Eddie frowns when his words don't seem to melt any of the tension from his friend's frame, "Was that what put you off for the night?"

The song changes, and Eddie thinks it must be a new addition to the playlist because it's not one he's heard. He does his best to listen. He thinks he sees Richie flinch when he hears the light guitar of the intro, but it's probably just shadows playing tricks on his eyes. 

Well, maybe I'm a crook for stealing your heart away

Yeah, maybe I'm a crook for not caring for it

"Yes? Maybe? Fuck, I don't know. I felt like such a dumbass after that, and Bill was so fuckin' mad. I just kind of… spiraled, I guess," Richie admits, and Eddie knows he's not telling the full story. 

Yeah, maybe I'm a bad, bad, bad

Bad person

"Why'd you need an excuse to cry?" Eddie asks after a moment, unsure if that was the right question to be asking. Richie lets out a breath like he's trying to laugh, but there's no humor in it. 

Well baby, I know

"I don't know- I just…" He pauses, squeezing his eyes shut for a second before shaking his head and turning away to look out his window, "Do you think I'm a bad person?"

And these fingertips will never run through your skin

And those bright blue eyes can only meet mine

"Wh- Wait what? Of course not, where's this coming from?" Eddie splutters, desperately trying to piece together the rails Richie's train of thought has suddenly turned down.

Across the room filled with people that are 

Less important than you

Richie sighs as though he's taken over for Atlas, grown tired of holding the weight of the world on his shoulders. 

All cause you love, love, love when you know I can't love

"I don't- I-, fuck, this is so dumb, I should just shut up," Richie back tracks shakily, fumbling with his keys like he's about to start the truck and tell Eddie to get out. Eddie moves quickly to grab at his hand, fingertips brushing the scraped skin of his palm as Richie stops and looks up at him. Eddie thinks he can still see the fireworks reflecting deep in his irises. 

You love, love, love you when you know I can't love

"I can promise you that whatever you wanna say isn't gonna be dumber than 90% of the shit you say to me," Eddie whispers without breaking eye contact, heart fluttering when the corner of Richie's lips ticks upward. He blows a sharp breath through his nose, gently prying his hand away to tear at a hole in the seat. For a brief moment, the only sound between them is their breath mingling and the airy, gentle melody of the song and it's singer. 

You love, love, love when you know I can't love you

"Yeah I guess you're right," He concedes, no longer looking at Eddie beside him, "I don't know it just… feels like I'm such a shitty friend and person, you know? Like I think I'm just bad at being a person or some shit. I never shut up and I'm always pissing you guys off," He runs his hand through his hair once more, opening his mouth a few times before closing it again. He clearly wants to say something else, so Eddie sits quietly and waits. Richie rubs at his eyes and heaves a sigh like his lungs will never fill again. 

So I think it's best that we both forget

Before we dwell on it

"You know, I've never had a crush on any girls. Even Bev, fuck I think all the losers but me have had a crush on her at some point," Eddie has a million thoughts going through his head as Richie speaks, but the main two are I never liked Bev, and holy shit is he coming out to me right now? He tries not to get his hopes up, but his heart has never been any good at listening to him anyways. 

The way you held me so tight all through the night

"That- that doesn't make you a bad person, Rich," God I hope not, He thinks, "I've, uh, I've never had crushes on girls either," It comes out shakey because he's trembling, clutching his backpack and trying desperately not to reach for the inhaler he doesn't need. Richie gives him a quick look that Eddie doesn't have the capacity to decipher. 

Til it was near morning 

"Really? Not even Bev?" 

Cause you love, love, love when you know I can't love

"Not even Bev," Eddie repeats quietly, steeling himself and remembering what Bev said earlier, you're never gonna feel ready , "I've actually been, um, meaning to tell you this for a while," Richie doesn't respond, just watches him attentively and waits for him to finish, so he does, "I'm- I- uh," Deep breaths, Kaspbrak, "I'm gay," He strains out with his eyes closed like he's waiting to be hit, like he's waiting for Richie to tell him to get out of the car even though every rational part of him knows Richie would never. His heart feels like it's about to crawl up his throat and wither in Richie's hands, and Eddie can't tell if he's about to cradle it to his own chest or squeeze until it pops like a balloon. He shudders at the thought.

  You love, love, love when you know I can't love

"Well then, I'll tell Mags to keep an eye on old Went there," Richie smiles at him, tugging Eddie close with an arm around his shoulder and his fist ruffling the smaller boy's hair, and for a moment, his heart soars "I'm proud of you, Spagheds," He says warmly, though there's a hint of hesitation in his voice like his hand's about to clamp down anyways, "But, uh. That's not what I meant. I- I don't think I've ever had a crush on anyone ."

You love, love, love when you know I can't love you

"Oh," Eddie breathes like the wind's been knocked out of him and his heart has come crashing down into the pit of his stomach, head spinning as he tries to process the whirlwind of emotions he's been put through in the last two minutes. He's never had whiplash before but he thinks it'd feel something like this, like the phantom ache in his spine and the dull way his chest caves in, "Um, never?" He squeaks, pulling away from Richie's hold to be closer to the door like he's ready to bolt. 

All cause you love, love, love when you know I can't love

"I mean, shit, I don't think so? And it makes me feel so shit, like, I've never been in love. I don't know if I- if I can be in love. Like, I don't know if I'm capable of that? I've never thought of… of anyone that way," Richie wraps his arms around himself like he's cold, and Eddie does the same because he's scared it's the only way he can hold himself together in the moment, "Does that make me a bad person?"

You love, love, love when you know I can't love

"No," Eddie whispers, throat too dry and tongue too big in his mouth, "Maybe you just haven't found the right person yet? We're not even seniors yet, you've got time, right?" You've got time to learn to love me, right?

You love, love, love when you know I can't love you.

"Yeah, I guess," It's a non-answer, but Eddie can tell Richie's drained, his social battery dry and hollow. The song fades out like the wind chimes hanging from Eddie's back porch, and the music stops altogether. The air feels too thick in the silence, viscous like he's trying to pull honey into his lungs and glean oxygen from it. It tastes more bitter than honey, like he's dipped his tongue in lemon juice, but it's just as syrupy as it goes down, coating his throat and sticking the walls closed. He resists the urge to scratch at his neck and grasp for his inhaler, because he doesn't need it, and he knows he doesn't. He grips the handle of the door like it'll save him from drowning on the lemon honey flooding his lungs.

"I should, uh, should get inside," Eddie suggests stiffly, hoping Richie's too out of it to notice, "I'll talk to you later."

"Yeah I'll text you when I get home, Eds," Richie replies absently, staring ahead out the windshield like he's barely even there. Eddie nods. 

"Night, Rich," He slips out of the truck before Richie could reply, if he were ever going to, and trudges up to his room in silence. Richie waits until he's inside to start the truck and back out of the driveway.

Eddie makes it to his room and strips off his overalls and undershirt, pulling on a hoodie he knows is big enough to cover him to his mid thigh. He ignores the fact that it's Richie's  Nirvana hoodie and crawls into bed, numbly staring up at the no-longer-glow-in-the-dark stars he and Richie had stuck to his ceiling when they were ten. There are no thoughts racing through his head, no anxieties about getting into bed without showering and brushing his teeth first. He feels exhausted in a way that soaks his bone marrow, weighs him down like a stone dug in the dirt in the bed of a river. All he can do is watch the water run past above him, trapped in the mud as the world carries on without him.

He sits up to look around for the snacks he bought at Walmart early in the night, deciding he needs a drink of something acidic, something strong enough to cut through the thickness in his throat. 

It's when he finally realizes that he left his snacks in Richie's car that he breaks down. 

The tears that have been stinging his eyes since he walked inside finally spill over, the salt water burning tracks down his cheeks and over his lips as he hunches over. He sobs until he chokes on it, coughing and curling further into Richie's torn hoodie. He'll say later that he doesn't know why he cried over forgotten snacks, that he was just tired and being dramatic, that it was just a long night. But in reality, he knows what this is, knows so well the sharp pain in his chest where his heart used to beat. He knows, in the purest truth, that this isn't about the snacks at all. 

Sometimes you just need an excuse to cry.