Archive of Our Own ^beta

Not his Bev, though. She'd come out hopping mad and swinging, and since Tom wasn't around to defend himself — and Richie privately thought the clown had done something right at least, there — she was on the move. Her marriage dissolved, his assets liquidated and his brand name sold to his board of directors, and Beverly Marsh was a free woman once again.

Much like the rest of them. Six months had meant big changes for the Losers, himself included.

“You know I love Italy but I think they can do without you for a week or two,” Richie grumped.

He can hear her laughter even through the spotty connection. “Yeah, well, you're just gonna have to find someone else. Did you try the escort service I recommended?”

“Beverly Marsh, I'm a good Christian Trashmouth!” he mock-gasped. He slipped into his Southern debutante drawl, coquettish and mincing. “I'm not about to soil my new reputation.”

“Please,” she said, and he can hear the smile in her voice. “Tell that one to Stan.”

“He already thinks I'm gross. Thankfully, Patty has better taste than he does.”

“You should just rent a date and go,” she says. “Or go stag.”

“I'd rather not,” he huffs. “Not for popping my awards cherry.”

“Richie—”

“No, no, I get it. It just...means a lot? I've never gotten an award for this shit before. Lots of money, yeah, but it's nice to be recognized.”

It was why he was in this current mess. Turned out, he really was as funny as he thought he was, and he was up for a comedy nod for his new Netflix special. Even though Stan had booed his choice of titles, even he had to admit that the Clown Killer tour was Richie at his new best. Turns out, writing your own material is easier when you don't have the fear of failure holding you back.

And he was supposed to bring a plus-one to this.

Harder than it looked when you used your new special to talk about how closeted you were for over thirty years, how scary it is coming out and kicking the old nasty 'Trashmouth' persona to the curb. He's a new man, it felt like, like he stepped out of the sewer and got to start his life at last.

“I’d just...really like you all here with me,” he said after a moment, wondering if it was more weakness bleeding out of him to admit it.

“Oh, Richie.” There was warmth in her voice that definitely made the sting of not having them close easier to bear. “I promise, I absolutely would hang off your arm if it was possible for me to break away.”

“I know.” He smiled for her, because it really wasn’t the end of the world. “But you also have other biceps to hang off of, or whatever you kids get up to these days—”

“Beep-beep,” she said, laughing. “Why not see if Bill’s free? I’m sure he’d come with you.”

“There’s an idea,” he said, rubbing his chin. “Big Bill is always down for free food.”

“There’s a quip there about a starving artist,” she laughed.

“You said it, I didn’t.”

Big Bill, the absolute traitor, was not down for free food, at least not this time.

“I’m sorry, Rich.” He didn’t sound sorry either, but maybe that was Richie’s own disappointment projecting. “Audra has a thing in New York, and I can’t b-b-break away from that.”

Even Bill’s stutter was fading, barely there now. Richie was more sulky about the can’t help you out, Richie part, though.

“Well, damn, Bill. Way to leave my ass swinging in the wind here,” he said. “Who’m I supposed to bug to bring me to this thing?”

“Why not Eddie?” Bill suggested, and Richie immediately regretted spilling his guts to Bill about the whole thing while Eddie was laid up in the hospital with a sliced up arm. 

He’d managed to yank them both out of the way when Eddie pulled him from the Deadlights; it was still a grievous injury that had required lots of stitches. The clown’s claw had sliced through the arm of Eddie’s jacket, missing the vein by inches.

Richie didn’t like to think about what might have happened, shown to him in the Deadlights.

Instead, he focused on the here and now, which meant focusing on how Bill Denbrough was a fucking narc.

“You’re a sick puppy, Billiam Denbrough.” Richie pursed his lips at the screen of his phone. “Torturing a guy for his own amusement.”

“It’s gonna come up eventually,” Bill said, and Richie can hear him laughing at him, the bastard. “You should tell him. It’s the least of his worries, I think.”

“Bill, I say this with all sincerity, fuck you.”

“We’ll watch your awards show, man.”

Richie sighed and hung up. Well. Maybe Mike was still game.

Mike was not game, and Richie frowned as he hung up the phone. Stan and Patty had also turned down his offer of a ménage à trois—and yes, he probably shouldn’t have phrased it that way but he was still laughing even as Stan hung up. Richie stared at his phone in disbelief.

The only person left was Eddie.

His guts churned like he was thirteen again, watching Eddie leap off the quarry wall and into the water below. There was no way he could let this beat him, let this scare him into submission.

It wasn’t a dirty little secret anymore, even though he felt the revulsion crawl up out of his guts like filthy hands from a sewer pipe. His hand shook as he held the phone, the tremor racing up his arm and reminding him that he was still human, still vulnerable.

He could still ruin this, all on his own. No evil phenomena at all. Just Richie Tozier’s brand of being a Fuck-Up, he could destroy something he just got back, something he just—

He dialed Eddie’s number before he could psych himself out of it.

“Richie?” Eddie answered the phone. He sounded drowsy.

“Shit, did I wake you? Goddamn time zones, sorry, Eds.”

“Don’t call me that,” Eddie replied, and while it was sleepy, it was still automatic enough to make Richie smile. “What’s wrong?”

“I just...I needed a favor,” Richie said, suddenly fidgety. He needed to stand, so he did, long legs carrying him across the room and back. “I’ve got this thing, and it’s an award, but I need to bring a plus one and it’s not a—I can’t bring an escort to this, you know? It’s classy. Also I wanna...not be that guy, Trashmouth for two seconds and—”

“What do you need, Richie?” Eddie asked. For once, Richie’s rambling hadn’t ramped him up, he seemed to be seriously listening. Richie squeezed his eyes shut, then realized that was a bad idea as he careened off the corner of his hallway wall.

“Fuck,” Richie grunted.

“You okay?” Eddie sounded much more alert now.

“Ow, yeah, yeah, just clumsy. Will you go with me?” he asked, sucking in a breath. “Just...as a favor. As a friend. You’re my best friend.”

“We all know that’s Bill,” Eddie reminded him.

“Well, Bill said no.”

“Oh, you already asked,” Eddie said, softly, a note there that Richie couldn’t place. It sounded like disappointment, but Eddie always got mad, rather than upset. At least, that’s how Richie remembered it.

There was always yelling when Eddie was disappointed.

“I...yeah, I did. I just...didn’t wanna bother you, I know you’ve got shit going on, but I’ll fly you out, we’ll have some laughs, do the thing, and visit with Bill when it’s over?” Richie squeezed his hand into a fist against the wall, for support.

“When is this?” Eddie asked.

“Uh, two weeks from now? Is that too soon, or—”

“My schedule’s clear, I’m just booking the time so I can work remotely,” Eddie said, and the confidence in Eddie’s voice did things to Richie’s knees that make him have to sit, so he did, sliding to the hall floor in his pajama pants. “What’s the dress code for this?”

“Uh, fancy,” Richie said. “Think formal party.”

“If you show up in a baby blue suit with ruffles, I’ll release your yearbook photos into the wild,” Eddie said.

“How’d you guess, you wanna go matchies?” Richie said, the grin audible in his voice.

“You’re disgusting,” Eddie said, laughing. “The nineties called, they want their shit fashion back.”

“You’re just lucky my hair was too much of a mess to do frosted tips.”

“Thank god,” Eddie said.

“Rude,” Richie said, but it was true. He’d barely been able to get a comb through his curls most days, much less bleach to frost the tips. Never had the patience.

“I’m gonna make Bev dress you,” Eddie said.

“Wow, you don’t trust my impeccable dress sense?”

“Am I having an actual conversation with Richie Tozier or—?”

“Wow, wow.” Richie grinned, letting his head thump against the wall. “Seriously, though, thanks for going with me.”

“Thanks for asking,” Eddie’s voice was soft. Richie remembered the tone, the way he got when it was something he really liked, and wasn’t just playing along. Like when Richie would share his comic haul the first day, or—

He had to shake himself out of it. It wasn’t like that. It was just a favor.

“Okay, so I’ll pick you up at the airport this weekend, we have some bonding time, annoy Bill because he’s ditching me, and then we do this thing, yeah?” Were his hands shaking? Oh, they were definitely shaking. It wasn’t a thing. It wasn’t. He just had to get through the week.

“Yeah, sounds good.” Eddie gave an audible yawn. “I’m goin’ back to bed. Get some sleep, will you?”

“Yeah, okay, all right,” Richie said, softening his voice. “G’night, Eds.”

“Don’t call me Eds, fuckface,” Eddie said, fondly.

The week leading up to Eddie’s arrival was a flurry of cleaning. Richie didn’t think he’d had cleaners in since his ma had visited last time, and that had been six months ago; usually he just went to their place in Yuma. It made it easier on them both to pretend that he wasn’t living like a slob when he visited under her roof.

Still, it paid to have cleaners in when they got all the little crevasses and creases, mopped out the bathroom and left it sparkling by the time he was home from his meetings with the network. His house smelled woody and clean, the slight astringency of the bathroom the only mark that the cleaners had been there.

While they did a good job, Richie took on the little things they didn’t do, knowing it would make Eddie feel better; he scrubbed out the fridge, threw out all his old food, and stocked up on fresh fruits and veggies for later. He didn’t often cook for himself these days, but he still could, and he remembered a couple of Eddie’s favorites from childhood.

If nothing else, delivery was still an option. 

You’re not trying to impress a boyfriend, he told himself, but it was far too late. Eddie had already agreed to fly out and stay with him, and Richie couldn’t help but fantasize about all the nice domestic things he’d only ever really dreamed about.

Dinners at home, movies, shopping for groceries on the weekends. Curling up into bed with—

He shook his head violently, squeezing his eyes shut. He just got divorced and is painfully straight, dumbass. He’s going with you in support. Stop it.

It would be over in a couple of days, and then they could go back to real life.

If only it weren’t so nice to pretend. That was the issue, wasn’t it?

There was a manic sort of urgency in which Richie prepped his apartment. The guest bedroom had fresh sheets and there was a brand new, washed and dried set of towels and face cloths for Eddie folded neatly on the bed. Richie himself had cleaned his own room, in anticipation of—

Of what, exactly?

He told himself it was easier to just pick up everything than dwell on it, and besides, if Eddie saw it, it would be one more thing he could tease Richie about.

Richie had it bad. He knew he did. It had never gone away, not really. Even when he’d forgotten, there had still been holes, all Loser-shaped, in his life. The biggest had been Eddie’s, and it had slotted into place the second he’d seen him at the Orient. His world had clicked into focus, the fuzzy-soft of his life going to sharp reality, and Richie would not return to oblivion for anything.

He craved it, that slight shift under the surface where he lived in a world with Eddie Kaspbrak, and that was just fine by him. He could spend his whole life loving him from afar, being in his orbit, and that would be just fine for him. He told himself it was enough. It had to be.

He wouldn’t find anyone else. He was tired of settling, but what he wanted, well, he couldn’t have it. 

To distract from that, Richie stood and surveyed his living room. Nicely furnished, it had been done for him when he hit it big in early 2005, but the furniture was cozy and the place looked lived-in, even when clean. A soft, cushy sofa with a built in ottoman, a big screen TV, various vintage posters of movies Richie had loved as a kid.

What would Eddie see, he wondered? Would he see the gangly, thin boy he’d been as a kid, too afraid of brushing their hands together and distracting with his bigass mouth? He didn’t know anymore. It made him crazy, especially since this was the first time he’d be seeing Eddie in person since...well.

Since Derry.

Richie had thrown himself into work, into therapy, into life with a gusto that seemed to surprise everyone, but really, it felt like he was alive for the first time. Whatever hold Pennywise had on them was gone now, and like a plant given sunlight, soil, and a blast of fertilizer, the Losers had been growing out of control.

They’d all been changing rapidly, and yet, they were still the Losers.

Richie wondered if Eddie would see any difference.

Not that it would matter. Surely.

“God, I fucking hate airports,” Eddie said, shoving his messenger bag to the side as he tried to navigate both suitcases. Richie remembered them, along with his case of toiletries. Eddie seemed ready to move in rather than stay for a week.

“You need a hand there, Eds?” Richie said, scooping one of the rolling suitcases out of his hands. Eddie looked a little disgruntled, but let him take it. “You pack the whole house, or did ya leave the sink at home?”

“Hey, fuck you, I packed appropriately for a week’s stay,” Eddie said, having a much easier time navigating with just the one. Richie wondered to himself how he’d made it to the airport with both.

“If you say so, usually I just need a duffel for that.”

“And I bet you buy whatever you forget when you get there.”

Oh, ouch.

“Maybe so,” Richie conceded with a grin, leading Eddie to the car. The Mercedes had enough trunk room, which seemed to surprise Eddie as Richie loaded his bags into the back of the sports car. “But then again, it’s not so bad. It’s part of the trip, the adventure.”

“No, it fucking is not,” Eddie said, jabbing a finger at Richie and climbing into the passenger seat after setting his messenger bag carefully in the back. His laptop, Richie assumed. “It’s wasteful.”

“Not so much, I buy half sizes of everything if I can and ziploc baggie the rest and take it home.”

“How are you like this, I don’t understand. You—”

The bickering, while strenuous, was nowhere near mean as they wound each other up on the way home. He could tell Eddie was just as entertained as he was, by the way the other was waving a hand to punctuate his sentence, a quirk of a smile hiding in his snappy comebacks.

It made the miles pass and the traffic fade away around them as they jabbed back and forth, talking in a language that was understandable by the rest of the Losers but felt like their own specific secret code. They’d somehow worked their way into the elevator without pausing their discussion, getting into the intricacies of single use plastics and what can be done to protect the environment.

“Listen, Eds, what I’m saying is that individual consumers can’t be held responsible if there’s no other packaging available. You can’t even recycle half this shit. It’s up to companies to make sure it’s all recyclable by making them responsible for the disposal of the trash.”

“Yeah, but it’s up to us to support sustainable corporations—”

“No, dude, you’re not getting it.” Richie opened his apartment with his keys, maneuvering the bags into the entryway. “You can’t expect anyone to make any changes without sweeping governmental regulations, they simply won’t—what?”

He glanced over at Eddie, who was standing just inside the door, looking around.

“Did you clean?”

“Maybe. Seems like the thing to do when someone comes to stay.” Richie, suddenly self-conscious, rubbed the back of his neck. “I know how you feel about hotels, dude, I didn’t want you to have to do that.”

“...thanks, Rich.”

The nickname made him feel warm, and he tried to shake off the pleased smile that curled his mouth.

“It’s all good, Eddie, you’re doing me a real solid by going with me. I, uh, I called Steve and told him and he wants to swing by and go over some stuff with us, just to be on the safe side.”

“Your manager?” Eddie looked skeptical. “We’re just going as friends, what’s the issue?”

“It’s...well, celebrity shit,” Richie sighed.

“Clue me in here, Rich,” Eddie said, folding his arms and frowning.

“Look. I’m a recently out celebrity, and all eyes are gonna be on me, looking for weakness. This is just a ‘hey, we’re avoiding these subjects’ talk, I’m thinking. He always gets nervous on red carpet shit,” Richie says, running a hand through his hair. “Steve’s a good guy.”

Like defending an ex to a new boyfriend, is the uncanny thought, but neither of them had dated? Richie wanted to shake his head to clear it, much like an Etch-a-Sketch.

“It’s fine, Richie. I just...I don’t want this to be rougher on you than it likely already is,” Eddie said. He reached out, patting his elbow. “This is your show, remember? I’m just here to help you out.”

“Yeah,” Richie said.

Easier said than done, when Eddie was so close and warm and alive. He still dreamt of the Standpipe, the cistern deep beneath the town where the clown spent Its ageless dreaming. He hated those dreams, the color drained from them, jerky like a strobe light.

Eddie nearly died because he nearly didn’t move. Yanking him down next to him had been a split second decision, but it was one he never regretted. He remembered what he saw, there in the orange-yellow light that had caught Bev too.

If he hadn’t believed Bev then, he did now, she’d seen something. So had he, and what he’d seen had been too terrible to bear. It was Inevitable, the vision said. Eddie would die, and it would be his fault.

But Richie had acted. Had pulled him out of the way, sent the claw screaming over their heads to thud into the rock with the spitting hiss of pebble fragments. Richie’s old pair of glasses rested on his dresser, cracked and chipped. A reminder.

They were alive. They made it out. Lucky seven.

Just having Eddie here eased that, but Richie couldn’t depend on him to remain. He knew it.

This was a temporary fix.

The knock on the door interrupted them, and Richie jumped.

“Steve?” Eddie asked, a concerned look on his face. He had, after all, just flown in.

Richie shook his head. “He said tomorrow around lunch time.”

Richie peered outside through the privacy peephole. There stood an olive-skinned man, dressed in a suit with a small leather case in his hand. Dark brown eyes looked at the peephole curiously. 

“Hello?”

“Yes, sir, I’ve been sent by Ms. Marsh? She said you were in need of some measurements? I showed my credentials...”

“Oh, fuck, right,” Richie said, opening the door. “I told the doorman to let you up, I completely forgot. I’m sorry.”

“It’s of no concern, sir,” the man said with a smile. “Shall we get started?”

“Well, if you’re gonna be touching my inseam I at least need a name, if not dinner,” Richie said. Eddie barked a noise that sounded suspiciously like a laugh and hurried his bags down the hall. “Guest room is the first door on the left, Eds!”

Eddie waved a hand at him.

He grinned at the man who was steadily unpacking his bag, spreading a measuring tape, a small notebook, and a small case of pins over the counter.

“You need his too?” he asked.

“No, sir,” he said. “Mister Kaspbrak was able to get his tailor to send us his measurements.”

Richie let out a low whistle. “Damn, I’m the only one who doesn’t think about that shit, I guess.”

“Sometimes it does slip the mind, sir,” he said. “My name is Piers, by the way. I oversee Ms. Marsh’s bespoke line here in Los Angeles.”

“Piers, buddy, I think you might’ve just become my new bestie. Don’t tell Eddie.”

Piers’s lips quirked as he pulled out a measuring tape and a small notebook. “I wouldn’t dream of it. This can take about forty minutes, so get comfortable as possible.”

“Good luck getting him to stand still for ten,” Eddie called, bustling to the bathroom across the hall with his toiletries.

Richie made a gesture like ‘do you see what I have to put up with?’

Piers only smiled.

Piers was a master craftsman, apparently; he took thirty minutes and was out the door with a promise to return on Friday with both of their suits for the shindig on Saturday. Richie had faith that Bev was making color choices and he’d told her hideous — and Beverly, bless her gremlin heart, would do right by him.

He would be nothing if not eye-searing.

Meanwhile, his stomach growled; he hadn’t eaten breakfast due to his nervousness that the man currently hanging his shirts in Richie’s spare closet would find some reason to stay in a hotel. The sight was nice, domestic in ways that pinged at the back of Richie’s lizard brain.

The only way it could be more right would be if Eddie were hanging his shirts in Richie’s actual closet, taking up the space that he himself had occupied until just recently. Richie liked to joke that he was still finding old Christmas presents, but really, the relief he felt at blurting it out on Conan O’Brien only cemented the idea that this was the correct course of his life, rather than the haze of alcohol and partying that had accompanied his rising career.

Eddie finally noticed him, glancing at him from the corner of his eye as he hung up the last of the shirts he’d brought, a dark slash of his brow rising as he took in Richie leaning on the door jamb.

“That why you called me out here, so you could stand there like a weirdo and stare at me?” There was a quirk to his mouth that made Richie’s insides sing. He felt twelve years old again, trading insults and sharing comic books, playing chicken in the green-black water of the old quarry.

“Nah, just hungry,” Richie said, shrugging. “You’re a growing boy, Eds, thought you might wanna go to town on some California fare.”

“I’m five-ten, that’s a respectable height, you sasquatch,” Eddie said, baring his teeth at Richie in a mock-grimace. “But yeah, I’m starving. What’d you have in mind?”

“Well, you’re also jet-lagged to hell, so I was thinking burgers?”

“Are you dragging me to In-N-Out so you can crow about how the west coast does their burgers better?”

“They do.”

“That’s literal thousand island dressing, asshole, who does that to burgers? Also, you’re from Maine.”

“And I haven’t had a lobster roll since I was eighteen,” Richie says, elongating the consonants in the word so it drawled out like their home state’s accent; lobstah roll.

“We are not having this conversation on an empty stomach. Come on.” Eddie grabbed his wallet off the dresser, shoved it in his pocket, and practically dragged Richie to the door, only stopping to step into his shoes.

Richie had never felt more whole in his life.

Lunch the next day was just as greasy, to Richie’s surprise. Eddie had agreed to the idea of ordering pizza with gusto, and was currently chewing on a slice of local takeout while they waited on Steve to make an appearance. He remembered how Eddie had to be prodded very little to actually eat garbage; he, like all normal kids, wanted the sugar and grease and bad-for-you treats, but fear implanted from his mother had kept his mouth moving long after his eyes had locked on whatever he wanted.

Now, Eddie was cleaning his plate with relish, greasy pepperoni and cheese making him eat like it was the best thing he’d encountered all week. Maybe it had been, Richie had no idea of knowing, but it was a little bit like seeing the kids they’d been mirrored in the adults they were now.

Eddie’s phone rang, and he glanced at the caller ID, paling when he saw who it was.

“I have to take this,” he said, wiping his hands and face on a paper towel. He snatched up his phone, striding out to the balcony and shutting it behind him. Richie was both thankful and not for the soundproofing on the sliding glass door. Instead, he peeled a pepperoni from his slice and ate it, trying not to lip read.

Thankfully, Eddie turned to the view of LA and Richie lost the temptation. He finished his slice of pizza and was packing up the box when his doorbell buzzed.

“Yeah?” he called through the intercom.

“Let me up,” Steve said, and Richie buzzed him in the private entrance that he himself preferred. He stepped over to the glass sliding door, trying not to listen in, but—

“—no, I’m not coming back,” Eddie said, his shoulders tensed and whiplashed, wound tight like a watchspring. “Yes, you know why—”

Richie thumped on the glass door, and Eddie swore, gripping his cell in white knuckles.

“Be there in a minute—” Richie lifted his hand in understanding and backed off the door so he could let Steve in. 

“Hey,” Steve said, mopping his brow. LA was warm in the spring, the sun glinting off the metal hoods of cars and making the whole town smell like asphalt and exhaust already. Richie let him past, then shut and locked the door. “Mind if I grab a drink?”

“Knock yourself out, dude,” Richie said, Steve wandered into the kitchen while Richie plopped down on his comfortable, worn in sectional. Eddie slid open the glass door to the balcony a couple of minutes later, wiping his own brow and heading into the kitchen for a drink. 

Steve emerged beside him, and while they said their hellos and made perfunctory small talk, Richie had the vaguest sense of his world shuddering on its axis. Steve and Eddie standing side by side had an eerie doppelganger effect, like he was staring at a slightly off-kilter funhouse mirror.

Steve was the not-quite-right reflection of Eddie; same height, same general build, though Steve was starting to lose his hair in a high widow’s peak. Steve’s face was more hang-dog, and lacked the severe expression that Eddie wore when he was stressed out. Eddie’s face was more defined, sharper, where Steve’s was soft and round.

The resemblance was still uncanny.

This explains so much, Richie thought with an almost wild giggle that he managed to stuff down into a cough as the other two made pleasantries and got settled. Once Steve was satisfied he’d schmoozed enough (giving a rather bemused Eddie his card), he folded his hands on his lap and looked at them both.

“Okay, so, I’m just gonna say this, and it probably makes me sound like an asshole, but just remember, the paps will be worse.” He glanced between them. “Are you two dating?”

“What? Jesus, Steve, no.” Richie tunneled his hands through his hair, giving it a tug. “Eddie’s a friend from my hometown, we grew up together.”

“That doesn’t answer my question,” Steve said. “This wouldn’t be the first time you dragged someone home you intended on making an honest man outta you. I remember Sandy.”

“Sandy?” Eddie asked, his brows lifting.

“She was the one live-in girlfriend I had,” Richie explained.

“Yeah, because she was trying to get pregnant and make you take care of her for the rest of her life,” Steve groused. “She wasn’t even subtle about it.”

“I mean, it wasn’t like she was gonna get lucky, I’d had that vasectomy years and years back,” Richie reminded him.

“And then the doc said it reversed itself almost immediately,” Steve shot back. “You’re lucky you don’t owe child support.”

Not lucky, and yet lucky. It was...strange to think about. None of them had had children, had been allowed to see their lineage go on for the singular reason that It didn’t like to lose. There hadn’t been time, or they’d just never had luck — or It had wanted to end their line right there. There was no real telling for sure.

Richie and Eddie shared an uneasy glance.

“Well, I now know more about your dick than I ever wanted to know.” Eddie broke the ice, and Richie gave a hoot of laughter.

“Oh that’s hardly true,” Richie giggled. “Most people pay extra for the front row.”

“Shut up,” Eddie laughed, his smile making its way onto his face despite himself.

“See, they’re going to feed into that, too,” Steve said, gesturing between the two.

“Feed into what?” Eddie asked, from where he was shoving at Richie’s knee with a socked food while Richie made faces at him.

“This mess. The horseplay. It’s like you two are joined at the hip, in a non-gross way. A lot of people are going to have Opinions.”

“A lot of people can take a flying fuck at a rolling donut,” Richie replied easily. “It’s not their business who I’m dating.”

“Well, it kind of is, if you want to keep being popular,” Steve said. He gestured at Eddie. “You think the crowd wouldn’t eat up the idea of you with a childhood sweetheart you’re brave enough to be with after all these years?”

It was almost funny, how close Steve was to the truth. Richie tightened his knuckles on his knees. “We’re not dating.”

“Well, maybe you should say you are, if they ask,” Steve said.

Richie gave him a Look, but it was Eddie who interjected.

“We’re not doing that,” he said, and Richie was glad for him to shut it down, it saved him the embarrassment. It also made him feel some sort of way, but in the way that he was explicitly Not Going to Think About That.

Eddie was just keeping things in line.

“All right, well, remember what’s off limits,” Steve said.

Richie ticked off on his fingers. “Don’t fuck with the bread and butter, no spoilers, and no hitting on Chris Evans, even if he is a remarkably good sport about the Stefon bit.”

“Jesus Christ,” Eddie said, hiding his smile behind his hand.

[You’re trying to kill me, Cherry Bomb.]

[Who, me?]

[Yes, you.]

[Oh, did Piers get Eddie his suit? Pictures!]

[Trashmouth xoxo has sent aaaaaaaaa.jpg]

[Oh, Piers is getting a raise.]

[Yeah, I got his raise right here.]

[Richie!! Beep-beep!]

[I’m going to die, Bev.]

In truth, Richie wasn’t sure he was gonna be able to survive this. The fitting had been something else entirely, revealing their suits with the small matching touches Piers had provided — Eddie’s suit was a smooth, deep red, almost wine-colored and Richie’s had been the powder blue he threatened. Richie’s had a small pocket square that was the deep red of Eddie’s suit, and Eddie’s suit lining had stripes of white and powder blue criss-crossing in a diamond pattern on the inside of the jacket.

Eddie’s fit like a dream, slender in the waist and wide at the shoulders, his pants just fit enough to show off the legs that years of morning runs had sculpted into hard muscle (and Richie was painfully aware of that after just a few mornings of waking up to Eddie coming in wearing tiny running shorts.) Dark shoes, socks, and pocket square completed the look, and Richie had to marvel at the fit, mostly because he kept sneaking looks.

Eddie was a dream, and even Richie didn’t look half-bad in his own suit, because it was tailored to his long arms and legs, and managed to make him look somewhat less like a stubbly cryptid. Eddie scowled at him as he emerged, and Richie grinned at him, showing off the embroidery at the cuffs of the trousers and sleeves.

Richie had, as a countermeasure, already released goofy shots of his high school yearbook on Twitter before Eddie could see the suit — the changing room still had cell service, after all.

Okay, maybe that was unfair, but it was still a good contrast. Richie was big, would draw the eye, and Eddie was small, dark and utterly devastating with his big dark eyes accented and made chocolatey by the deep red of the suit. Richie had no doubt that Eddie would be the hit of the whole shindig, even as big and loud as he was.

Richie was gonna have dreams about that suit long after Eddie had flown back. But that was neither here nor there, because tonight was the night. All he had to do was get through the night, and then it would be done with. He could stop worrying about slipping up in public with Eddie, worried about how he saw him.

Maybe that was why he’d avoided asking for so long. It was going to be hard, avoiding staring at Eddie because someone, a pap or even just a regular photographer, would catch the look of utter adoration that Richie wore whenever Eddie was in the vicinity, and then...Eddie would know.

Eddie, the married straight man and his gay best friend with a crush on him. Like a shitty sitcom.

“Hey, Rich, I’m gonna hit the shower,” Eddie called out.

“Go ahead! Lemme know when you’re out.”

Richie sighed and got up from where he’d been lying, scrolling through his phone since his nap earlier that day. He shuffled into the en suite as Eddie rustled about in the other bathroom down the hall.

It was almost time. He pulled off his shirt, tossing it in the direction of the hamper, and studied his reflection in the mirror as he brushed his teeth and rinsed with mouthwash.

He wondered if he ever grew into his looks like he’d asked Bev at the quarry that day. It didn’t feel like it, sometimes floating outside his own body, unable to break through some invisible barrier. Isolated.

It had faded somewhat, in the Jade. Now, though, it felt like it was back in full force, like if he stared hard enough, he could make it appear and break through it.

“All yours, Rich,” Eddie called. Richie didn’t remember hearing the water running. Had he been staring at himself that hard? The decorative clock over the broad mirror said that he had, twenty minutes passed by like it was nothing.

Richie showered and shaved, dressing quickly afterwards. The suit made him feel a little better. Like he was armoring up in something as loud as he was, ready to fight another battle.

Let’s kill this fucking clown.

Except the clown was dead, and all Richie had to show for it was an award for being glib about it. He didn’t feel any different, even being out. He still felt like he was missing something. Like he just had to reach out and grab it.

He scrubbed his damp hair from his face and tried to get it into some semblance of order.

“Richie,” Eddie said, knocking on the door and making Richie jump. He finished tying his shoe and stood up, grabbing his wallet, phone and keys.

Eddie was waiting outside the door. “The driver just buzzed. You ready?”

“Not nearly,” Richie said. 

“It’s just an awards show, dude,” Eddie said.

“Yeah, but I’ve never been up for anything but Razzies in my whole career,” Richie said.

Eddie reached up and adjusted Richie’s bowtie. It was a strangely intimate gesture, one that made Richie swallow hard as Eddie’s fingers fiddled with the fabric.

“So don’t worry about it,” Eddie said, smoothing his own tie down his front. “If you don’t get it, it’ll be par for the course. If you do win it, you’ll actually know you’re as funny as we say you are.”

“You fuckers never thought I was funny. You just put up with me.”

“Is that what you think?” Eddie asked. He fixed Richie with a challenging stare. “Really?”

“Yeah.”

“Richie, you used to make me laugh so hard I almost passed out. The others, too.” Eddie reached up and patted his face, an almost mockery of the sewers, where he’d clumsily tried to comfort Eddie and popped him in his cheek wound. “You’re funny, dude, and looks aren’t everything, but stop shitting on my best friend, ok? It gets old to hear when I know it isn’t the truth.”

Richie loved Eddie. It had been a part of him all through his teenage years, and it was hard not to let it spill out when Eddie pulled something like that, threatening to flip Richie ass over teakettle.

He felt like his damn head was about to pop off his shoulders.

There was a buzz from the intercom and they both jumped. Eddie pulled away, leaving Richie feeling bereft and warm where his hands had been.

“Shit, the driver,” Eddie said. “You got everything?”

“Yeah,” Richie said. “Let’s go.”

Red carpets and award shows were easier when you were only semi-famous, Richie realized. Now that he was flavor of the month, he spent a lot more time talking to people on the carpet before he went in. He never knew what to do with his hands, for one. For another, it always made him feel self-conscious, even as something in him had never been sated by the attention.

It wasn’t until his return to Derry that he realized what it was; it wasn’t the right peoples’ attention. He could have gone on all day with a group of Losers around him, but these were strangers, asking invasive questions and prodding him this way and that.

“So what’s your love life like now that you’re out?” a pretty blonde reporter asked.

“Same way it did before I came out,” Richie said, plastering a big smile on his face. “Nonexistent. I’m not really in the market for something like that right now.”

“Oh. Well, we’re all dying to know who your date is, then,” she said, smiling brightly for the camera.

“Oh, he’s a childhood friend of mine. He said he’d come and bail me out if I fucked up my speech,” Richie says, trying to keep the mood light. “Hey, Eddie!”

Eddie turned from where he was chatting with a few people, giving Richie a little quirk of his mouth. He wandered over, a shy smile for the camera.

“Tell ‘em,” Richie said, his smile big and goofy. “We’ve been friends since we were little kids.”

“There was never anything little about you, Rich, you always had a big mouth.” Eddie laughed, and it was like the cameras could smell prey, because the reporter turned her attention to him.

“You’ve known each other that long?” Eddie nodded. “Surely you’d be dating by now?”

“Do you date your high school friends?” Eddie asked, eyebrow savagely raising as he questioned her. “Why is his love life so important to you?”

“Well, it’s my job to ask the tough questions—”

“Bullshit, if you were asking the tough questions, you’d be asking how he felt about Clown Killer grossing highest on the Netflix charts for six weeks running,” Eddie snapped. “You’re fishing for gossip that may or may not be true.”

His hand snapped out, chopping through the air as he made his point. Richie felt the smile begin to form, realizing that while Steve had rules in place for Richie, well…

He’d never met Eddie Kaspbrak on a tear.

“Well, Eddie, was it?” she asked, a little nervously now. “The viewers just want to know the truth!”

“That’s also bullshit,” Eddie said. “If they wanted to know the truth, he wouldn’t have had to wait until forty to come out, and we could have all done without three or four of those scummy National Lampoon movies, trust me. You want to know the truth? Richie’s a good guy, he’s got a big heart, and his friends love him very much. Anyone would be lucky to have him.”

“And you?” she asked. There was a curious glint in her eye, like she’d scented blood.

“What about me?” Eddie asked, folding his arms.

“Do you consider yourself lucky?”

“Lady, you have no idea,” Eddie said. He unfolded his arms, grabbed Richie’s hand, and tugged. “Come on, let’s go inside. I think we’re done here.”

Richie blinked, but allowed himself to be tugged away with a wave to the paps. They slipped into the entrance and Eddie didn’t let go of Richie’s hand as they got into the air conditioned interior and found a dark corner to collect themselves. Richie wasn’t about to remind him, either. Instead he opened his mouth to put his foot in it.

“What was that about?” he asked.

“What was what about?” Eddie huffed, straightening his jacket. “Do you deal with that shit all the time?”

“Yeah, that’s kind of the deal when you’re single in Hollywood. They’ll move on once they get a non-answer.” Richie rubbed at his jaw. “You didn’t have to say all of that—”

“I did, though,” Eddie said. Richie’s gaze snapped to his face. Eddie’s eyes were huge, sheened with an emotion Richie couldn’t pinpoint. Maybe he’d been angrier than he bargained for. “You put yourself out there and they tear you apart for it? Fuck them, they don’t deserve any of you. Why does it matter if you’re not dating anyone right now, it’s okay to wait.”

“Wait for what?” Richie asked softly. “Eddie, I’m not exactly drowning in options here.”

Eddie gave another frustrated huff, like he was arguing with himself over something. Richie rarely saw Eddie this genuinely agitated.

“Hey,” he said, gently, but Eddie shook off the hand on his shoulder.

“No, not this time, Rich,” Eddie said. “I got my pep talk in the Standpipe, this is yours. Okay?”

Richie, dumbfounded, snapped his mouth shut and nodded.

“Anyone would be lucky to have you, you know? You’re my best friend in the whole world, and the Losers wouldn’t be the same without you, man. Lucky seven. I think I finally get what that means.”

“What?” Richie asked, feeling like they were having a conversation on two completely different tracks.

“I know you carried me out,” Eddie said.

Richie froze. He’d begged Mike not to tell Eddie. The others, too.

“Who told you?” he asked.

“No one. I remember a little of it. I passed out for good when you guys were hauling me up the well.” Eddie swallowed, his throat working. “I just. I feel.”

“What?” Richie asked, because he knew that look. Despite not having one anymore, Eddie looked like he was on the verge of scrabbling his inhaler from his pocket and huffing it to open his lungs again.

“You make me feel safe, Richie,” Eddie said. “And I’d be a shit person if I didn’t try to do the same for you. I want to. I want to do that for you.”

“Okay,” Richie said. Something hovered between them, a ghost of the summer of ‘89, tangled limbs in a hammock.

Richie felt his skin prickle.

“I should tell you—” he said, but he was interrupted by a tap on his shoulder. An usher, he realized, wearing the uniform of the theater.

“Mister Tozier?” The usher looked apologetic. “We’re about to start. We need you in makeup briefly and then we’ll get you to your seat.”

The moment ruined, Richie nodded. “Yeah. Yeah. Okay.”

He scrubbed a hand over his face, and Eddie smiled at him.

“You’re gonna knock ‘em dead.”

“Maybe,” Richie conceded, before they were separated.

The theater was dim when Richie rejoined Eddie at their seats. He slid into place next to Eddie, who nudged him with his elbow.

“Your buddy stopped by to say hi,” he said.

“Which one?” Richie asked, craning his neck.

“The one that acts like Stan’s kid brother.” Eddie gave a little laugh. “John something.”

“Oh!” Richie spotted him a couple rows over with his wife and waved. “Yeah, he’s one of the good ones.”

Eddie’s hand settled on his forearm, and Richie glanced at him.

“You okay?” Eddie asked him.

“Never better,” Richie said, and the hand squeezed.

“I got you, Rich,” he said. “You’re gonna do great.”

Richie was seized by the kindness of this moment. Eddie could be soft, and caring, behind the shell of what his fears had made him. The Losers saw it the most often, and Richie never discounted that as part of the reason he was still head over heels, even thirty years later.

The lights came up, and the cameras started rolling. Patton Oswalt stepped up onto the stage, fitted with a belt mic.

“—welcome to this special revival of the American Comedy Awards—”

The sound faded in and out for Richie, his attention drawn to the stage as he and Eddie were swept into the whole spectacle of the thing. Eddie kept him grounded, his hand on his arm sliding to Richie’s hand and giving him a squeeze as they watched them roll through the categories.

“Tough competition?” Eddie asked.

“Always are. Big names, lots of clout,” Richie murmured back.

Patton Oswalt stepped up to the mic, smiling. “And now, for the Comedy Special of the Year for 2017. We’ve had a lot of breakout talent this year, and yet the old bastards all seemed to take the brass ring.”

Scattered laughter through the audience sounded, Richie included. He knew he was getting to be one of those staples, but Clown Killer had really been something special. He knew it, and so did his manager. So, apparently, did Hollywood, if they were tossing him a bone with the nod.

“Still, we have a good run of contenders this year,” Patton continued, turning to the stage. “First up, we have Hasan Minhaj, with Homecoming King.”

A short clip from the standup played, to laughter. Richie nodded. He saw that one coming, the guy was consistently funny and had the chops to push boundaries.

“Next, we have Sarah Silverman, for A Speck of Dust.” The clip played, with applause by Richie. He’d always admired her pacing, she definitely was a strong contender.

“Next, Michelle Wolf, with Nice Lady.” Richie was nodding by that point. She had an iron grip on her delivery, she was funny as hell while still being topical.

“And last, but certainly not least, we have Richie Tozier, with Clown Killer.”

Richie’s throat tightened at his name being announced. Everything snapped into focus then, something about it making sweat bead at his temples and he swallowed.

He saw himself up on the big screen, no less sweaty but definitely less nervous, talking about growing up in a place like Derry.

“You know, I went back to my hometown, and that’s where I had this revelation,” he says, leaning on the mic stand, the mic in his other hand. Casual, cool, he’s chatting with the Losers. They know. They grew up with him. He’s telling them this story. “I don’t know if you’ve ever been to rural Maine, but it’s hard being a little gay kid out there. There’s nothing but fucking homophobes and lobster. Like, I went stag to prom.”

He waits a beat, for the giggles to die down.

A ripple of laughter echoes through the audience.

It’s mirrored by the ripple of laughter that echoed through the audience in real time, making Richie’s chest feel light. Eddie is laughing, too, his smile wide behind his hand, big brown eyes sparkling.

Oh, that’s all he needed. He only ever wanted Eddie to laugh at his jokes.

The lights had come up again, and Patton pulled the envelope open.

“And the winner for the 2017 Comedy Special of the Year is—”

“Silverman, for sure,” Richie murmured to Eddie.

“Richie Tozier, for Clown Killer!”

There was a whoop, and Richie was grabbed as Eddie ruffled his hair and planted a smacking kiss on his cheek. Richie couldn’t feel his knees as he got up to lope to the stage to get his little statuette.

He could still feel Eddie’s lips on his cheek.

He stepped up to the mic, shook Patton’s hand, got a clap on the back for it. He felt like he had cottonmouth, but he swallowed past it and got his mouth working again.

“Hey, so thanks for this,” he said, to titters that rippled through the audience. “I mean it. This year and the last have been a real roller coaster for me. I got my head on straight, well as straight as it gets anyway, reconnected with people I never thought I’d see again. And then I came and told all of you about it. I’m really glad you all liked it, really. It’s been real nice to try and branch out to something that feels way truer than it did when I started out.”

The producer waved him off stage, and Richie loped back to his seat, still feeling like he was having an out of body experience.

“Holy shit,” Eddie whispered at him, excitement dancing on his face. He tugged on Richie's arm in his eagerness. “I told you, man!”

Richie grinned back at him. “I guess you did.”

There was a brief interview at the end of the night, but soon Richie and Eddie tumbled out of the side doors of the theater, heading for the pickup spot. He was happy, soaking in the high of the win and how tight Eddie had been clinging to him for the rest of the show. Now, they slipped through the back alley toward where the limo said it would meet them.

“I can’t believe I fucking won, what the fuck,” Richie blurted.

“You kidding me? I knew you would,” Eddie said, almost swaggering next to him, like he’d orchestrated the whole thing himself. “They love you, Trashmouth.”

Richie giggled, the sound bubbling up in his chest. “Listen, I never would have done it without the Losers. I’d have come back here, to my sad comedy specials about masturbation, and how my nonexistent girlfriend hates me. At least now I can have a nonexistent boyfriend.”

Eddie slapped at his arm. “Shut up. You’re doing great.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Richie said, slinging an arm around Eddie’s waist, sending them both careening toward the mouth of the alley with laughter. The car was waiting, they just had to get inside.

“I mean it.” Eddie ducked out from underneath his arm. “I’m really proud of you.”

Richie flushed, but smiled at Eddie. “Come on, you know that’ll never get me to shut up.”

“Yeah,” Eddie said. “I know. I planned for it.”

Eddie’s hands grabbed him by his lapels, tugging him down. Richie, already overbalanced by the shoving, went with very little resistance until Eddie’s lips met his own. Brief, sweet and soft, his whole body jolted with the idea and was frankly counting on a repeat to check that it wasn’t a junk signal.

“Eddie—” Richie broke away, tugging him into the car. Flashes clicked all around them as they bundled into the car and sped away, the paps alerted by the waiting limo. “What the hell, they’re gonna have that all over TMZ in fifteen minutes.”

“Let them,” Eddie said. He reached out and grabbed his hand. “You were already brave. It was my turn.”

Richie looked down at their linked fingers. “What…”

“I’ve been looking for places out here,” Eddie said. His hand squeezing Richie’s trembled, and Richie realized that Eddie was just as terrified as he would be. “I got my transfer two weeks ago. I told the others to be busy, if...if the rumor Bill heard was true and that you were up for the award. I wanted to go.”

“You—” Richie goggled at him. “You little turd, you could have just asked—”

“Really?” Eddie fixed him with a look. “Or would you have bolted to your room the second I said something. You have to be convinced people love you, Rich. But I have. Since I was at least ten. I just wasn’t brave enough until you were. You carried me out. You stayed. It was always you.”

Eddie released his hand, rubbing at his forearm, as though a phantom of the break was plaguing him.

Look at me, Eddie. Look at me. I swear I’m not gonna let It get you, look at me!

“Do you want me to find somewhere else to stay?” Eddie asked. Richie realized he hadn’t said anything in such a long time, Eddie must think of it as rejection. “I know, we don’t really know each other anymore, I just—”

“The only place you’re moving is to the master instead of the guest bedroom,” Richie said, blurting the words out. “Eddie, I’ve been head over heels for you since we were kids. If you want this, so do I.”

Eddie stopped, midsentence, and then wiped at his eyes. “You shitbird, you scared the hell out of me.”

“You scared the hell out of me!” Richie squawked back. But he sobered, taking Eddie’s hand again. “Do you mean it?”

“Of course I do,” Eddie said. “I love you to pieces, Richie Tozier.”

It’s everything he needed to hear. Richie pulled Eddie close, even as the phone in his pocket started to buzz with notifications.

“Oh, Steve’s gonna be pissed,” Richie laughed into Eddie’s temple. “He told me not to fuck this up.”

“Rules for you, not for me,” Eddie sing-songed. “Better that we cause a scene now, so they can’t say we were hiding anything.”

“Fuck, I love you,” Richie blurted, realizing it’s okay to say now.

“Good,” Eddie said, curling into his side as the car took them home. “The feeling’s mutual.”