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Transcript of the official taping for Richie Tozier's third Netflix special, Weirdos, Clowns, and Bozos . Reproducing or selling this content by anyone other than permitted parties is prohibited by law or whatever. You wouldn't download a car, so why would you download a middle-aged sloppy twunk-bear? Sounds homophobic, a little, but what do I know, I'm just the warning at the beginning of a movie that everyone ignores anyway.

The taping opens up with the camera zooming through the Hollywood Palladium theater’s backstage. It almost seems to fly through the air, narrowly missing workers and leftover stage debris alike. Finally, it arrives at a slightly ajar door with a piece of paper with RICHIE TOZIER written in neat, black block letters taped at eye level. Below this, in scratchy, barely legible red, as if a crayon has been used, 'AKA DUDE LOVE AKA CACTUS JACK AKA SCORPION JOE' has been scribbled.

The camera pauses here, mimes heaving as if catching its breath, and then pushes the door open. Inside is a modestly sized, sparsely furnished dressing room; directly in front of the doorway is a couch and a coffee table, both of which are relatively neat save for two jackets, one a tired, old-but-comfy looking hoodie, and the other a smooth leather bomber jacket, both hanging over the couch and, strangely enough, a high-quality closeup picture of Hugh Jackman's completely expressionless face with some hearts drawn on and around it and even a lipstick-smooch, also seemingly in red crayon. To the left of the doorway is a rack of clothing. Squeezed between pieces of otherwise nondescript black clothing are what appear to be several different styles of clown costumes.

The camera continues its journey by swinging to the right, where the man of the hour sits. Well, 'sitting' might be an overstatement -- it almost looks like, rather than sitting down in a chair like the average Joe might, Richie Tozier had been thrown into it by a WWE wrestler several hours ago and has only managed to move his broken body just enough to sit in what looks like a highly uncomfortable slouch.

He appears to be sitting in his seat nearly sideways. Upon closer examination, his rear is almost entirely off the chair, with his upper back and shoulders being the only part of his body actually touching the back of the chair. His left leg seems to be the only thing propping him up, sitting comfortably(???) on the bottom rung of the chair. Meanwhile, his right leg is so far up and onto the vanity that it's slightly bent at the knee so as to not hit the wall behind it.

Richie is furiously scribbling into a notebook that he snaps closed as soon as he notices the camera. He slams the notebook onto the vanity table and sits straight up in a flash, turning to face the camera while trying to hide the notebook from its view. (It doesn't work very well. In the reflection cast by the mirror,  the cover is obvious. It is a child's diary, complete with a sparkly unicorn on the front and the words Dreams Do Come True! in sparkly letters below it and a cheap, fragile lock attached to the side. Written in bold letters above the unicorn's head are the words 'RICHIE'S JOKEBOOK DO NOT TOUCH!!! CONTAINS YAOI LEMON. DON'T LIKE DON'T READ.' in handwriting eerily similar to the previously seen crayon scribbles, except this time it's in thick black letters.

"Shit, is it that time already?" Richie says as the camera comes around so that he can face it comfortably without straining his neck (although, based on his previous sitting position, it doesn't seem like that's a major concern for him). The camera mimics an exaggerated nod. Richie is wearing a graphic tee shirt with the Kool Aid man in the centre, the words ‘THE FRUIT’ on the top with an arrow pointing to his face, and the words ‘THE PUNCH’ on the bottom with an arrow pointing to the crotch of his pants.

"Oh, god. No matter how many times I do these I always get a little shaky and nervous right before. I actually called my manager earlier because this time it feels way more real. I basically said, 'hey, everything's fine, but what if I've forgotten all of my jokes and I just start yelling about all the conspiracy theories I currently favour, like that Big Foot is just that blurry naturally or that contractually the people who edited the most recent Superman flick had to edit Henry Cavill's bulge so it looked slightly bigger to capture the coveted audience overlap of both middle aged mothers and gay nerds? Like, theoretically. If that happened. Would that be okay?" He says this all rhetorically but then pauses long enough that the camera seems to -- almost awkwardly -- tilt to the side as if hesitantly saying ' I mean… '.

"Okay, cool, that's what Steve said too. I'm sure the audience will love that." Richie says. "Actually, all of the material I've been working on lately veers toward that kind of vibe." He pauses.

"Hm, on second thought, I don't think I worked in any jokes. How do you think the audience will feel if all I do is go on stage and tell them my favourite conspiracy theories for an hour?"

The camera says nothing because it is polite, but also because it is a camera and, therefore, incapable of any kind of speech. Richie seems to find his answer by gazing into the lens, however, and shrugs nonchalantly. He opens his mouth to say something else, but outside, his introduction music starts up.

"Oh well. Whether they like it or not, I already have their money."

CUT TO TITLE SCREEN

LIVE AT HOLLYWOOD PALLADIUM: RICHIE TOZIER: WEIRDOS, CLOWNS, AND BOZOS

"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the stage, Richie Tozier!"

Richie Tozier strolls onto the stage to the dulcet tones of the Wiggles performing their hit song Fruit Salad . As he takes the stage, he shoots finger guns into the crowd in several directions. It is unclear if this is ironic or not.

"Thank you, thank you, guys. How are we doing tonight?" Richie says into the mic with practised ease, slumping into his signature sleazeball slouch, and with it, into his stage persona as well. The crowd cheers and whoops, and he allows it to die down before continuing. "Good, good. I think it's great that we can communicate like this, you know. This is the only social situation in which someone will ask you a question where the only appropriate response is 'WOOHOO!!! I LOVE YOU RICHIE TOZIER!!!', which is cool. I wish more people in my life would say that when I start a conversation with them -- I think it'd make my daily life much easier."

"Honestly, that would probably be the least strange aspect of my day-to-day life lately. Now, stay with me for a moment, because I might sound like the fame has finally gone to my head, but I have a point, I swear. I know people tend to romanticise and mysticise the idea of being rich and famous, because it sounds so glamorous and luxurious -- and it definitely is both of those things, trust me," He pauses for laughter, "But it's also very.. Weird. I think over the last year or so, I've kind of become a bigger name- again, stay with me- so I get recognised on the street way more than I used to be. Which is great because I love meeting fans, you guys are great," A pause, and then his face does a weird half-scrunch-half-grimace momentarily as the crowd cheers before he continues, "Well. Okay. Mostly great. I would prefer to go to the bathroom without having someone waiting outside the entire time to ask me to sign something -- it's happened a concerning amount of times." The crowd laughs, and Richie smiles easily.

"As long as I don't have anywhere I'm urgently needed -- which unfortunately is very often because I'm always late to everything -- I love to chat with fans. But other than that, it just feels... Eerie, to be walking down the street and suddenly realise several people are staring at you like your shirt AND pants are both inside out and you've just spilled a hotdog all over yourself -- which. The two times that happened, okay, fair, I get it, egg on MY face, Los Angeles, but still -- when you're just casually walking to the Jamba Juice two blocks from your friend's house, about to order the grossest smoothie known to man because you lost a bet over whether or not Mark Harmon starred in Baywatch -- sue me, a guy can dream -- and as you look up from your phone you realise everyone passing you is looking at you like you're Veronica Cartwright and they're Donald Sutherland in the end of Invasion of the Bodysnatchers, it’s hard to know how to react, you know?” Richie pauses to take the first sip of his water to the sound of the audience's laughter.

"And that's not even mentioning the paparazzi. Did you know they're still a thing? I honestly didn't; I just assumed they had died in the 2000s along with the obsession with bedazzling everything humanly possible on planet earth." Richie shrugs his shoulders in a 'what can you do' fashion. "But no, even though nobody told me, because nobody tells me ANYTHING, they're still alive and kicking. They’ve been a real pain in my ass these days -- it’s hard to go out without one of them trying to hound me about something or the other. ‘Oh, Richie, what’s your next special like?’, ‘Trashmouth, are you really best friends with Ana De Armas and Hugh Jackman?’ ‘Excuse me sir, you sat on a piece of chocolate cake and now it looks like you have poop on your pants’ -- I mean, it’s neverending. Just like bedazzling, which I had the misfortune of finding out after my friend broke into my apartment and bedazzled a fuckton of my stuff while I was out on tour," Applause breaks out at the mention of the tour, which is technically still going on -- although this taping is the final show.

"That's right. It was the most dastardly, villainous thing she's ever done, and that's saying something. I have known this woman since we were thirteen and nothing can even come close to this, not even that one time when she sold me a bag of flour for forty bucks and told me it was cocaine when we were in the tenth grade — and I almost died guys, it was real bad. Even now I'm not fully convinced flour is fit for human consumption if that's what it does to your nose. And to this day she still hasn't even given me my money back! But I digress — this is all even worse because not only is she a fashion person — and CEO of a clothing company to boot — but my own boyfriend was the one who gave her the key. Talk about betrayal, am I right?" Instead of laughing, the crowd oohs.

"Oh yeah, I forgot about that. New development in my life, folks! And you get to hear about it the same way the rest of my relatives will: via this special, or, more likely, via the reports that will come out after this special. Well, technically, he's not my boyfriend anymore." Richie pauses and looks down at the ground forlornly in a pregnant pause. "He's actually my fiancé! That's right, ladies and gentlemen. This modern reimagining of Bert from Sesame Street as a human is taken !" As he exclaims, Richie shows off his shiny engagement ring as flashily and flamboyantly as possible. The ring itself is actually quite modest, but while the diamond is understated, both it and the ring are clearly bespoke and eye-wateringly expensive.

"I'm not gonna lie, I was really surprised when he popped the question — which, yes, he did, because he wears the pants in the relationship, although I doubt anyone questioned that for a second, especially people who actually know the both of us — I was kind of just like 'obviously my answer is yes, but like.. are you sure?'" The crowd laughs again.

"Seriously. I know you guys really enjoy me getting up on the stage to talk at you for an hour, and I'm sure you all have noticed how funny, charismatic, smart, handsome, and endlessly charming I am, but like… that's only because I'm on stage, guys. This," A flourishing gesture of his hand toward the crowd and back to himself, "only works because the expectations for tonight are very clear. You all are expecting me to stand up here for an hour and tell funny jokes that you can laugh at, which, you're welcome," Another pause for a peal of laughter from the audience, "with me AND at me. I think people tend to assume that this is some kind of persona that I put on for a crowd, or that it's all just an act — and sure, to some extent it is — guys, I swear I'm way less pathetic in real life, that story about walking around with my clothes inside out and a hotdog spilled all over me only happened once, I just exaggerated for comedic effect — but... Seriously. However cool and suave you think I am in real life — which, to be fair, is valid, I did manage to bag a smoking hot piece of meat for myself, AND I am super hot and all myself, but—" Here, Richie is cut off by the crowd's roaring laughter, and it seems to genuinely throw him off his rhythm.

He pauses to let the laughter die down before starting again, "Wow. Way to let a man down easy, guys. Here I am being vulnerable with all of you, sharing how hard it is looking like a more attractive Ryan Reynolds," Richie actually has to cut himself off for a moment so he doesn't laugh into the mic. Only the beginning of his smirk is shown before he turns his head to the side to chuckle a little. He only takes a moment in a show of true professionalism. "And you guys are just so ready to believe that I'm not this perfect and cool all the time? Really hurts." Richie pouts as the audience continues laughing.

"Anyways. Where was I? Oh, yeah. So she breaks into my apartment, aided by my traitor of a fiancé, and bedazzled a metric shitton of my stuff. Like, not even just some clothing, which honestly was a huge improvement, but I came home to motherfucking bedazzled bananas . Guys, this is real psychological warfare shit we're talking about. I  remember it like it was yesterday, because it literally fucking was.”

“I got home at like four a.m. because I had a late flight, and then I didn't want to turn the lights on and disturb my loving fiancé like the gentleman I am. So there I am, in the kitchen, tired as shit, with only my phone flashlight to guide me, trying to find the quietest snack I can, and I turn my phone toward the fruit basket -- guys. I'm not even exaggerating when I say I shrieked a little." The crowd laughs, and Richie takes another sip of water.

"Okay, maybe more than a little. But in my defence, bedazzled fucking bananas ! Like what the shit, right? Who the fuck is expecting that. Especially since it was so early, I was sleep deprived as hell. I think at first glance I honestly thought it was a bunch of spiders, which, sorry gay community but I'm part of the reason we have a bad reputation for being squeamish." Richie gives a sheepish shrug.

"So there I am, right? Four in the morning, my fiancé is dead asleep, and sure, he knows about this prank, but he has no clue that I'm going to be such a baby and shriek, so he comes charging out of our bedroom with a Thundercats Excalibur, of all fucking things, ready to swing at me," Richie mimes the swing to the delight of the crowd, also making a woosh sound effect. "And instead of, I don't know, the ninjas he assumed had broken in, against whom he was prepared to defend our PS4 and the LEGO Millennium Falcon set that really brings the room together with his life I guess, he just sees me. His loving traveling party clown of a fiancé, shrieking like a child at a fucking banana." The crowd goes wild, and Richie turns his face over his shoulder again to laugh a little as well.

After a moment, Richie continues, "So there you have it, guys. If you ever thought it was all glitz and glamour being this famous, think again. I get scared by bedazzled bananas in the middle of the night just like you, and I get made fun of at four a.m. by my fiancé just like you. When you think about it, we're not so different." He smiles sleazily before it breaks into a genuine grin.

"Anyways. What was I talking about again? Oh, yeah. My fiancé. Fuck, I love saying that. It sounds so much nicer than 'my boyfriend', which I've never really liked because it makes me sound like I'm twelve again and salivating over the mere thought of a relationship, which, okay, now that I think about it, is actually pretty accurate," Richie shrugs nonchalantly here. "But seriously, guys, I don't think it's even possible to overstate how head over heels in love I am with this guy. It's actually a little bit disgusting, or at least that's what my friends tell me," He sighs exaggeratedly.

"He's the one though, you guys, for real. He doesn't even care when I leave my clothes all over or when I leave food in the bathroom," Richie pauses here at the disgusted groan the crowd gives, "Hey, wait, wait, wait! Don't turn on me, it's not that gross, I swear. I just like eating Doritos in the bath. That's a fun fact for the uninitiated among you; pretty much any old chip bag is buoyant as hell. Take that information and do with it what you will. My gift to you." His right arm makes a flamboyant flourishing movement as if to say, 'There you go, you're welcome'. "I just end up forgetting about them because I also like to drink in the bath, and I usually end them off getting out in super deep focus so I don't like, brain myself on the sink."

"Okay, okay, where was I? Oh yeah, my fiancé. Yeah, he doesn't give a shit about me being messy, which is really surprising, considering how fucking neurotic he is about germs and shit most of the time. But as he's passionately explained to me many, many, many times before, I'm not dirty , I'm just unorganised . So he doesn't give a fuck as long as I pick my shit up eventually, which I usually remember to do, because I don't have a nine to five job, so I mainly just sit around the apartment and do fuck all. Well, okay, sometimes I play Fortnite and yell at children, but that's more of a passion project than a job."

"Okay, sorry, I'm off track again. So, my fiancé, he has a normal job. He works as a," A pause for Richie to shift his mic so that he can do finger quotes with both hands, "Risks analyst. Do you guys know what that means?" A pregnant pause from the crowd. "No, seriously, I'm honestly asking, because I have no fucking idea. Genuinely-- if anyone knows what the fuck that means, meet me after the show and fill me in."

The crowd laughs, and Richie waits for it to mostly die down before continuing, "Don't worry, he won't see this. I remember the day I went to him to ask for his permission to include him in my act. He said that I could, with very little hesitation -- which, by the way, very brave, even if all you know me from is my standup, but brave to the point of stupidity, or maybe even insanity, if you actually know me personally -- but after I said, okay, cool, sucker , and got up to go, he grabs my arm -- very drama protagonist, this one, I know. I almost swooned right into his arms, except he's like eight inches shorter than me and that would probably not end well -- he grabs my arm, he looks into my eyes, and he says, 'Just so you know, I've never seen even a second of one of your shows, and I don't plan to in the future, even now that we're dating.'" He seems not to expect the laughter this brings.

"I know, right?! Bam, straight through the heart." Richie mimics the movement of an arrow shooting through the air and hitting the left of the centre of his chest. "Ice fucking cold, he is. The man of my fucking dreams; it's like he came from a lab, custom made for me by gay scientists." He pauses to sip water and then continues, "So, yeah. If anyone was wondering whether the fame had gotten to my head, or if I needed humbling at all, fret no longer. I've got a man at home who routinely cuts me down to size for free, for fun, and also, presumably, out of love. Try not to get too jealous, ladies."

"Fuck, sorry, I'm getting off topic. Where was I? So I don't know what the fuck he does for work, all I know is that he gets up bright and early, at like five am or some other ungodly hour that humans were never meant to experience, to go for a run. A fucking run , guys. Like, he puts on a running outfit and everything."

Richie pauses here and takes a moment to run his hand down his face. "Okay, can we pause here and just. I need to process this every time I think about it because it's so surreal how crazy hot he is when he does this. Like, he's always crazy hot, like, I walk around with hearts in my eyes stumbling into everything in a lustful haze 24/7 when he's around, and I'm pretty sure the first time I saw his dick my jaw dropped to the ground like a fucking cartoon character while my eyes popped out of my head." The crowd roars with laughter here, "Okay, maybe that's an exaggeration, but I definitely said 'boi-oi-oing' out loud, and I definitely got punched in the stomach for it." Richie puts his palm out to the crowd and shrugs in a 'what can you do' motion, "And sure, maybe I still say 'boi-oi-oing when I see it now, but I think that's more about who I am as a person."

"But you wouldn't blame me, is what I'm saying, if you guys actually saw him instead of just hearing my crusty old ass describe him." Richie sighs wistfully, "He's such an energetic little dalmatian of a man, for real. Like, you would not believe the energy he has in the mornings when he gets up at ass o'clock. There I am, groaning like a zombie that's been run over several times and is effectively now just a head and a hand grasping at the air, flat in bed like I've been steam pressed into the sheets, and there he is, tight little body in these tight little shorts and this tight little tank top, oh my god you guys, it's unbelievable, drinking like, some sort of protein shake with god knows what in it, wide awake like I could only get years ago when I was still writing for SNL and probably on coke about 90% of the time. And he likes me, you guys! Well, at least I think he does. I asked him the other day if he like-liked me, and he just kind of gave me a dead-eyed stare, called me a dumbass, kissed me on the cheek, and socked me in the shoulder before wandering away to do whatever the hottest man on earth does in his spare time. So the jury's still out."

"Shit, okay, I forgot what I was talking about. Let's see… my fiancé is really hot…  he wakes up early in the morning -- oh yeah, okay, I remember where I am now. So he wakes up at fuck o'clock every morning, goes on one of his sexy little runs, and then comes back to get ready for the day. Now, by this point, I'm usually in the process of peeling myself up off of the bed like a sticker off of a nonstick pan, which is to say, very slowly, and not very successfully." Richie pauses again to drink water while the crowd laughs.

"So he's getting ready, which means that he has to shower. And guys, I wish I could say that this is where I spring out of bed like a functional, normal human ready to take on the day, but if you know anything about me, then you know that couldn't be farther from the truth. So I'm lying there in bed, feeling like I'm about to pass away, choking down a death rattle, and he's just dancing around like a human sized twinkerbell. Twinkerbell? Tinkerbell, fuck. That's like, a Freudian slip or something. He's not even a twink, it's just a funny word, especially if you spent approximately the first thirty something years of your life terrified of the possibility that you could be gay and are now for the first time allowed to say words like twink without sounding like a weirdo. Well, okay, maybe without sounding like that much of a weirdo." Richie pauses as if trying to remember what his point was.

"Anyways, fuck, let me get back on track. So, he's getting ready, he's out of the shower and putting on his suit. A fucking suit. Can you believe it? Like, with fucking cufflinks and everything. Fucking. Amazing. I never liked suits that much before, thought they were scratchy and uncomfortable, although maybe that's my fault for still wearing the same suit I bought for junior prom like twenty years ago, but if I spend a whole fifty bucks on something, I'm gonna get some good use out of it, okay? But the suits he wears, oh man. I'm going to censor myself here because otherwise it'll just get gross. So he wears a suit, right, and he goes in to work, and he, I don't know, yells at other people over the phone for eight hours and commits tax fraud or something.”

“Meanwhile, on a good day, I wrench myself out of the bed around the time he leaves for work, and I.. fuck, what do I even do. I usually just wander around aimlessly for at least like half an hour like a chihuahua with separation anxiety hoping he maybe forgot something so I can take it to him without looking too pathetic. The rest of the day, I just write material with varied levels of success, or at least, that's what I tell my manager I'm doing — if you guys have seen how active I am on Twitter, that's a pretty good litmus test for how well writing is actually going. Other than that, I just wait for him to get home, I guess. Well, okay, that's a lie, I'm not that pathetic, guys, I swear. I also have hobbies -- recently I've been getting into low stakes conspiracy theories, and I'm kind of obsessed. Like, for instance, the fact that people still believe birds are real is crazy to me when you look at the proof..."

Review: Richie ‘Trashmouth’ Tozier: Turning ‘Clown College Dropout’ into ‘Professional Clown’

Richie ‘Trashmouth’ Tozier’s newest Netflix Special, Weirdos, Clowns, and Bozos, is the newest (and, in the author’s opinion, most refined) addition to his growing collection of filmed shows.

Review at a glance: ★★★★☆

If you saw Richie Tozier on the street without knowing who he was, your first reaction would probably be one of mild concern. To the naked eye, ‘Trashmouth’, as Tozier has been known to refer to himself, reads visibly as more of an awkward uncle at a family function, with his penchant for graphic tee shirts that are as amusing as they are inappropriate and a propensity for jokes that would make a sailor blush,  often composed of seemingly more profanity than actual content.

To the trained eye, however, or perhaps even just one with a healthy knowledge of the contemporary comedy scene, Richie Tozier is instantly recognisable as one of standup comedy’s most beloved darlings, although it feels weird referring to a forty-something-year-old man as a darling .

Nowadays, Tozier is well known and respected as a standup comedian -- for a good reason, seeing as his now trilogy of specials has broken records with each successive release. Previously, however, Tozier worked for a brief stint as a writer for Saturday Night Live in the late 2000s, and, for an even briefer stint, as a voice actor on the highly unpopular surrealist animated show Coked Up Weirdo . Tozier also had bit roles in well-loved movies such as The Hangover (2009), 21 Jump Street (2012), and Horrible Bosses (2011), among others.

The latest addition to this series of Netflix specials is Richie Tozier: Weirdos, Clowns, and Bozos . In it, Tozier demonstrates quite clearly what makes him so popular in the live comedy sphere: while his stage persona needs no assistance in getting the crowd excited, the assistance of (admittedly, slightly off) voices, robust gesturing ability, and crowd work that would make even the boldest of hecklers think twice create an exciting and entertaining hour of laughs.

Tozier stands on stage in his signature slump, in a green graphic tee shirt that says “THE FRUIT” with an arrow pointing at his face situated above a picture of the Kool-Aid Man (At one point, during the show, Tozier interrupts himself to seemingly offhandedly mention his deep fear of giant sentient jugs of sugary drink before looking down at his shirt and screaming) which itself is situated above the words “THE PUNCH” with an arrow pointing down toward his brown cargo pants.

Despite looking like he walked on stage directly from solving mysteries with the rest of the Scooby Doo crew, Tozier’s jokes impress from minute one. Although the fact that nearly twenty minutes of the set was composed almost entirely of jokes relating to his recent engagement which at times dragged on for anyone who wasn’t inexplicably also in love with Tozier’s fiancé, the remaining forty minutes are incredibly entertaining and very enjoyable.

In this special, Tozier explores his recent fame, the aforementioned engagement, his nearly twenty years of experience in Hollywood and the entertainment industry at large, his irrational fear of clowns, and even dips a little into his new favourite pastime: low-stakes conspiracy theories.

You can watch Weirdos, Clowns, and Bozos on Netflix , along with his first two specials, A Little Levity and Highly Paid Personality Hire .

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At the end of the hour, once again to the sweet siren song of Fruit Salad by the Wiggles, Richie walks off stage. He smiles at all the stagehands and workers he passes, high-fiving and fist-bumping the ones who initiate. Some ask for selfies or signatures, and Richie obliges without a second thought, always wanting to do as much as he can for his fans. Richie always tries to give any fan the time of day and the best experience possible -- he, of all people, knows how much he owes to them.

(Eddie thinks he feels too indebted to his fans; says that while it is in partial thanks to their support, the majority of the reason for Richie's enduring success is Richie's skill, motivation, and general likability. Richie thinks that Eddie is a sap; he's not allowed to call him a soyboy anymore -- the one time he had said it to Eddie's face, Eddie had slugged him in the arm and it had really hurt, and on top of that, Eddie had bitched at him on and off for at least an hour, stalking in and out of Richie's office in their apartment where Richie was writing to say "And another thing --" But alas; Richie digresses.)

He spends around two hours or so with fans with backstage passes. It was initially meant to be only one hour, but as always, Richie gets carried away chatting with everyone- he really is fortunate to have such cool fans.

Although it was a fun two hours, Richie is now feeling the fatigue from the show, the interactions, and the tour overall begin to set in.

Richie has been touring since January, and while, in the grand scheme of things, four months wasn't longer than previous tours he had done, nor was it even on the long end of what international tours usually ran for, this one was unique in that it was Richie's first after he had well and truly blown up last year following him hosting Saturday Night Live (He had been invited back while promoting his previous Netflix special, and his performances had unexpectedly blown up, leading to him being widely considered one of the best hosts of the year, if not of the decade.). Because of that appearance, his fanbase had skyrocketed almost overnight into what it is now and continues to grow steadily.

While this tour has been absolutely amazing, like a dream come true -- something Richie has been hoping and wishing for since he was old enough to answer 'comedian' when asked what he wanted to do when he grew up -- Richie will also be the first to admit that it has been extremely tiring.

Richie finally comes to his dressing room door. He opens and shuts it quickly before resting his back on it with all of his weight, taking a deep breath and sighing it out in one whoosh. Richie rubs heavily at his eyes under his glasses, all the fatigue from performing at 100% under bright lights in front of thousands of people for an hour suddenly coming to him all at once.

He's not as young as he used to be, and anyway, compared to previous tours, the biggest difference is that he now has someone to come home to.

Said someone clears his throat, and Richie's eyes snap open, wide grin splitting his lips immediately.

"You know, when I pictured you doing bits about me onstage, I figured you would tell people about what an asshole I am." Are the first words out of Eddie's mouth. He's sitting on the couch, in the same spot he was five hours ago, with his snazzy bomber jacket already on over his button-up shirt and dress pants, a book that he must have been reading already set to the side in favor of smiling softly at Richie. "Or maybe at least about how much we bicker. I don't think that in a million years my first guess would have been that you would be just as sappy in your routine as you are in real- oof," Eddie is interrupted by a Richie-sized heat-seeking missile barreling into him and attempting to climb on top of him as best he can.

"Eds!" Richie says, nuzzling into Eddie's neck and inhaling his cologne like it's crack (although if you ask Richie, he would say it's honest to god so much better). "I knew you were exaggerating when you said you'd never watch any of my shows." Richie gloats into Eddie's ear as he manages to get his legs on either side of Eddie's lap, exhaustion disappearing in an instant as Eddie's hands immediately come up to rest on his hips. "I've never known for sure until now, because my memory is so shit that I forget if a joke you're referencing is just one that I previously told you and then immediately forgot about, but this is definite proof. I knew you couldn't avoid the love of your life, the maven of the modern standup scene, the genius of the gag, the master of the laugh, the king of the clowns, oh god, please shut me up," Richie babbles, pulling back to look at Eddie, who lifts his hands to push Richie's cheeks together.

"Of course I watch your standup, dumbass." Eddie snorts a little, and Richie feels like a child experiencing wonder again. "The only reason I didn't was because at first, I was absolutely terrified that you were secretly fucking awful and I was worried that you actually went out and bombed every single set you did. And then, after we started dating and you asked me permission to include me in your bits, I figured it would just piss me off to hear you tell the crowd about your bitchy uptight boyfriend or whatever the fuck. I don't think I ever expected you to instead refer to me as 'Hugh Jackman but hotter and sexier in every way', which, by the way, not only are you the first person to refer to me as, but also, you're probably the first person to even utter that sentence."

"Eddie, my love, the light of my life, the fire in my loins, how could you ever think so little of me?" The words come out a little rounded, with Eddie's hands still squishing Richie's cheeks. Richie feigns offense, right hand coming up to his forehead as if to say, 'Oh dearie me, I seem to have caught a case of the vapors'. "Only boring, untalented comedians need to stoop to such a low level. Me, though, I just need to spend a single day in your delightful, pleasant, humorous, buff, handsome, aromatic presence." Just as quickly as it came up to his forehead, Richie's hand drops back down to rest around Eddie's shoulders.

"Well, I won't lie to you and say that I'm pleased you're out there every night telling thousands of strangers about my 'tight little body', but it's definitely pleasantly surprising that you're going the 'I love my malewife' route rather than the 'I hate my bitch of a wife' one." Eddie says. Rather than deigning to respond, Richie goes the cheap route and peppers Eddie's face with kisses until Eddie laughs, "Okay, okay, why don't we get out of here and grab some food?"

Richie nods enthusiastically, now almost jittery from all the pent-up energy and adrenaline. "Yeah, I'm starving!" He says, jumping up to shrug on his jacket, grabbing his joke book and phone as well, double-checking that he hasn't forgotten anything before heading to the door.

After a show, Richie is generally absolutely ravenous. The problem is, his shows are typically late into the evening, which usually means that the only places that are open are (in Eddie's opinion) harmful dens of unhealthy crap fast food. While Richie has been taking full advantage of the late hours to eat some of the most horrendous foods known to humans on tour, Eddie would never be caught dead in one.

Most of the time, at least. For right now, though, it's almost midnight, and Eddie is willing to compromise.

(From experience, Eddie knows that, while Richie always gets this keyed up after shows, he'll crash in an hour or two and sleep like the dead for at least twelve hours. No matter how many he does, performances, especially big shows like this, will inevitably make Richie anxious as all hell in the day or two before he performs, leading to him not eating or sleeping very well and often having a headache to boot.

Then, after a performance, Richie's body will react one of two ways: either A, it'll all but collapse the second he's somewhere comfortable and away from people, or B, it'll ride on the high of performing so much that it makes it impossible for Richie to rest or eat for several hours.

Luckily, option A, the more common of the two, usually means that he at least gets some good rest, but that Richie will feel ravenous the next day. Unfortunately, option B, while not as common, entails a bout of insomnia and nausea that leaves Richie laid up in bed, feeling sick and anxious, unable to do much outside of watching crappy daytime TV  shows all day, messaging Eddie about how guilty he feels for not doing anything. It always makes Eddie feel really bad for him, even more so because he hadn't been able to get the time off of work to go with Richie for more than two weeks in the beginning because it was a really busy time at work. Especially today, because this was not only his last show of the tour but also the night of the taping for his new Netflix special; the adrenaline means that he'll be bouncing off the walls.)

The nearest Denny's is only a short walk away, just around the corner really, and Eddie's current goal is not to force healthy food down Richie's throat but instead just to make sure he gets something in his stomach before he passes out for half a day, so they head there. Unfortunately, Richie always experiences a lot of anxiety the day or two before a show, so he tends not to eat a lot. The whole way, Richie is chatting animatedly in Eddie's ear, who responds in kind but much calmer.

After over a year and a half of practice, Eddie is now an expert at calming Richie down enough that the aftermath won't be so grim. The trick is to treat him like a dog, or perhaps a very small toddler: speak to him in calm tones, placate him with food, listen to his rambling, and before Richie knows it, Eddie's gotten him into bed, showered, teeth brushed, alarm set for noon.

They're seated quickly in the Denny's; luckily, even though it's super close to the theatre, it doesn't seem like many fans came here -- or maybe they had, and it's been so long since the show that everyone's cleared out already. Luckily, the few fans who seem to be occasionally sneaking glances over at their table are respectful enough to keep their distance (although, honestly, Eddie could do without the glances as well).

Eddie orders without Richie even noticing that the waiter has come and gone; he often gets this tunnel vision-focused when Eddie is talking him down from the mountain of adrenaline he's currently riding. Eddie's not even entirely sure that Richie has looked away from his face once.

Richie is telling Eddie a story that had happened on tour while Eddie stuffs bitesize (for a baby, perhaps-- they're small enough that Richie won't choke on them, just in case) pieces of waffle in Richie's mouth; Eddie doesn't have the heart to tell him that he's already heard this story before (had been texted it live while it was happening, to boot) because Richie is always so cute when he's telling a funny story. Richie cracks a cheap joke, and Eddie laughs a little, where he might usually respond back in kind. He temporarily halts the bites of waffle to nudge Richie's milkshake into his hand; Richie pauses and looks down at the cup.

Instead of inhaling it like he usually would, Richie's rambling stops in its tracks. This alone concerns Eddie, but the concern only grows as Richie's wide grin crumples into a wry smile. In the blink of an eye, Richie has shrunken down in his chair like a dog that just got caught eating its owner's slippers.

"Ahh, probably shouldn't, Eds. I kinda gained a lot of weight on the tour, eating all the shit I did. I know my face has retained my charming good looks perfectly, but the same cannot be said for what’s going on under this hoodie." Richie says, much softer than previously, turned slightly away and into himself. Immediately, Richie tries to change the subject, almost nervously launching into a segue: "Have you ever had poutine? I did, while we were in Montreal; you would not expect something that gross-looking to taste so damn good. I must have had like a pound of cheese curds alone while we were there." Richie laughs nervously.

"Rich. Hey, look at me, dude," Eddie says, scowl forming on his face as he gently tugs on Richie's arm, "First of all, who cares if you gained weight? You're allowed to do whatever you want with your body; it's YOURS," Eddie says sternly, hand sliding up to rest on Richie's shoulder. "And second of all, I think you're hot as hell regardless of what you look like or think you look like, because you’re YOU. Your love handles are super cute, and I love your hairy butt, even if it's somehow smaller than mine."

That last bit gets a laugh out of Richie, and every tense muscle in his body relaxes at once. The smile stays on his face now, and his body language opens up like a flower in bloom. Internally, Eddie breathes a sigh of relief -- Richie isn't usually so forthcoming with his body image issues, and usually just ends up quietly feeling bad, so Eddie is just glad he was able to say something this time around.

Richie looks down at the milkshake and only hesitates for half a second before picking it up and sucking it down like he was dying of thirst. Once he puts it down, he bounces back like nothing had happened, starting in on a story about something dumb he did in London ("I swear, the police, they call them 'bobbies', Eds, they were looking at me so suspiciously, I thought they were going to be like, 'Oi bruv, wheas yor walking loicence', it was the scariest moment of my entire life"), and Eddie is supremely relieved.

Shortly after, Richie finishes both the waffles and the milkshake and goes to the bathroom as Eddie pays and heads out to the car to wait for him.

(Usually, Richie would be falling over himself to pay for everything possible, and it's at the point that it's developed into a competition where the only reward is bragging rights. To most people, that wouldn't sound like it was worth it, but to the couple, it was more than. Eddie has the official counter somewhere on his phone, although Richie argues that he'd need to go before a judge and that both of them must be under oath to have it considered legally binding.)

On the drive home, Richie is already dozing on and off in the passenger seat.

With Richie's arm over his shoulders (and maybe some drool getting on them as well, but that's for no one to know but Eddie), Eddie manages to get Richie into bed. Glancing at the clock and wincing, he sets his alarm for two pm and gets himself ready for bed too.

Now that the tour is over, for all intents and purposes, Richie is a free man. In the old days, this would mean that after a show, he would go to the nearest bar and drink himself under the table before dragging himself into a taxi and back to whatever shitty hotel Steve put him up in for the night to sleep the day away and do it all again the next night.

As a recently engaged man, however, this means waking up extra early (the alarm is set extra quiet not to wake Eddie up; Richie swears the man is like a barn owl, or maybe a new mother—the quietest of noises can wake him from even the deepest of sleep) to treat his loving fiancé (and god, Richie doesn't know if he'll ever get used to how giddy saying that makes him feel) to some lovely breakfast tacos.

(Eddie had been trying to teach Richie to cook in the few months right before the tour, mainly because, and Richie quotes, 'You're not as young as you used to be, dumbass. Your cholesterol is like, double mine, and the reason is mainly because I've never even seen you eat a single vegetable that wasn't part of something I've made or hidden in your meals. I'm honestly surprised that you don't have scurvy.'

Terminally clumsy, Richie had not been so good at the time. He had even started the tour with a few nicks on his fingers that had been diligently tended to in the two weeks Eddie had been able to get off from work to go on the first leg of the tour with him, and as a result, they had healed rather quickly. However, during the tour, Richie had been diligently practising a variety of dishes-for-dummies courtesy of Ben and Beverly, and he was now pretty (well, somewhat) confident in his ability to make a smattering of meals for, you guessed it, his fiancé.)

Richie springs out of bed at the first sound of his alarm, shutting it off immediately. He's been planning this for over a week and wants it to go well. He doesn't bother changing out of his heart boxers or Earth Girls are Easy sleep shirt, not wanting to risk waking Eddie.

Richie tiptoes out of the bedroom, shutting the door quietly. Still tiptoeing, he makes it to the kitchen while pulling up the recipe Ben had sent him. In preparation, Richie takes off his shiny new engagement ring and puts it on the ring holder (it's a Gallimimus from Jurassic Park; the ring sits on its neck) to wash his hands.

He makes quick work of the breakfast tacos (and pats himself on the back for all the times he practised over the past week or so). By the time Eddie wanders into their living room, scratching his stomach under his All I Need to Know about Life I Learned from Star Trek shirt and yawning so hard his eyes prick with tears, breakfast is all but ready.

Richie is finishing up by cooking the bacon, so he only spares Eddie a quick (but loving) look, pushing his lips together to make a smooch sound that Eddie replies to with one of his own, eyes still glued shut by sleep. Richie looks back down at the bacon quickly (bacon is a tricky bitch of a mistress, and Richie has been burned by errant bacon grease too many times to let her get the best of him) before remarking, "Morning, sleepyhead. Tacos for breakfast." Richie keeps his focus on the bacon (see previous remark) and is pleasantly surprised by the press of a (tight, lean, hot) body into his back as a nose digs into his neck and arms wind around his middle.

Eddie doesn't say anything for a long moment, and Richie is half convinced that he's dozed off again until he mumbles into Richie's neck, "Smells good," before planting a soft kiss against Richie's shoulder. His voice is scratchy in the best possible way.

Richie blushes. Like, for real. He can feel his face get red. Before he can get too into his reverie of Fuck, I'm so gay, like what the fuck, I love men so much, scratch that, I love EDDIE so much, I'm going to spend the rest of my life with him, Eddie rubs his nose against Richie's neck before sauntering off to sit in one of the barstools at their island counter. Richie watches him go (definitely not in a lovesick way, Richie is a grown man and not a teenager) and continues staring (not in a creepy way at all!! In a loving, adult way!!) as Eddie settles in the seat, one elbow on the counter so he can rest his head on one hand. The other hand rubs at Eddie's eyes, and he yawns again. Richie thinks he's beautiful.

(He would never admit that to a third party. Eddie is handsome, sure, sexy, obviously, hot like flaming Cheetos, of course, but beautiful, while it suits Eddie to a T, is just… a very heartfelt term that Richie would never in a million years be able to live down.)

(Eddie is beautiful, though. He may not think it himself, with how often he frowns when he looks in the mirror, how much time he spends scrutinizing every wrinkle. But to Richie, Eddie is… hard to put into words. If he spent some time on it (read: more than he already does thinking about Eddie every single day), Richie might pinpoint words such as alluring, bewitching, mesmerizing, as being the closest way to describe how Richie feels about Eddie.)

(To Richie, Eddie is impossible to put into any sort of box that using words to define him might unintentionally create. If Richie still read as much as he had when he was at college trying to ignore his feelings for the other man, the word vivacious might spring to mind as the best possible match. Other people tend to view Eddie as either a fragile little flower that needs protection or an asshole whose only lot in life is pissing other people off. Richie, however, is lucky enough to be a part of Eddie's life, able to observe and even interact with him on a daily basis (and his inner 12-year-old is foaming at the mouth just thinking about it), able to view Eddie through a lens other people couldn't even dream of.)

(And there are so many things Richie left out of his monologue in his standup about how much he loves Eddie, so many things only Richie will ever be privy to, that he selfishly wants to keep to himself.)

(Nine times out of ten, when Eddie goes on his morning jogs before heading in to work, he will take a bag of frozen peas, sliced grapes, or oats with him to feed the ducks and other birds who live in the park near their apartment. One time, when they were walking together through the same park, Richie tried to give the ducks that crowded around Eddie like he was a Disney prince some of his popcorn, only to get thoroughly bitched out for even thinking of ruining the poor birds' diets. Eddie has also regaled Richie with glee every time he's confronted some jackass feeding them unhealthy, disgusting, processed junk food that they can barely even digest Rich; I had no choice.)

(Pretty much ever since Richie has known Eddie, the latter has always been obsessed with litter. When they were kids, Eddie would either shove whatever garbage he had picked up in his backpack or pockets or, if neither was available, would deign to just hold it in his hand completely raw, to every single Loser's shock (and in some cases, horror) until he could dispose of it properly.

Nowadays, he's graduated to a proper garbage bag and a trash grabber, but his zealous attitude has not dissipated in the slightest. Whenever they go on walks, which is most evenings as long as they're both free, Eddie brings both tools and watches their surroundings like a hawk.)

(Eddie's drive, his passion, more than anything else, is why Eddie is so captivating to him. Eddie is like a force of nature, driven only by himself, decisive and rarely hesitant. Where Richie might pause, might second-guess himself, Eddie moves forward, forward, forward. Richie loves him so damn much.)

In the middle of Richie monologuing while he stares lovingly (read: dopily) at Eddie, some bacon grease jumps out of the pan and hits his forearm.

"Ow! Fuck!" Richie hisses under his breath, trying to keep the volume to a minimum.

Nonetheless, Eddie (and his superhuman bloodhound hearing) snaps his eyes open in immediate concern. Eddie jumps off the barstool and hurries over, but no real damage has been done.

Eddie realizes this after a moment, hand sliding down Richie's forearm to lace itself with Richie's. Eddie looks up at Richie, who is currently thanking every deity ever conceptualized for their height difference. Richie, struck dumb by the reminder that this ethereal beauty loves him, enough to want to marry him no less, just stares. (Not in a weird way, though. In a completely normal way.)

"Bacon's done," Eddie says after glancing at the pan, breaking the quiet. His voice is still scratchy; he clears his throat before raising the hand not holding Richie's to scratch at his Adam's apple a little.

Richie jumps into action, albeit not as quickly as usual, because he refuses to relinquish Eddie's hand under any circumstances. He turns the heat off and is about to stretch his arm as far as his limbs will allow him to grab a paper towel, but Eddie realizes what Richie is doing before he can execute this flawless plan.

(Step one: stretch your hairy, lanky arm towards the paper towels. Step two: grab the paper towels, either with your bony ass skeleton man hand or perhaps with your arm hair, if it has magically gained the ability to act as a velcro. Step three: ???. Step four: profit.)

Eddie laughs and lets go of his hand. Richie pouts.

"Coffee's ready in the pot," Richie says as he tears a paper towel square off of the roll and grabs a plate from the cupboard for the bacon to sit on. In response, Eddie presses a quick peck to the shoulder of Richie's sleep shirt before tottering over to the coffee machine and pouring himself a cup of coffee.

(If Richie's heart skips a beat at the peck, it's because his heart is trying to prepare itself emotionally for the assault of saturated fats it's about to receive and nothing else.)

Before too long, they're sat next to each other at the counter, chowing down on their breakfast tacos, jostling the other playfully, knocking knees together in a ploy to reduce the time they have to be separated.

Eddie has to go back to work on Wednesday, but for now, they have four full days to chill together, and they both plan on getting as much rest and relaxation as possible.

It's the Tuesday after his final show, and Richie is in the middle of some very important business (read: making a mashed potato castle, complete with toothpicks to hold the structure up — he's had a lot of practice in this arena and it tells him this is the best way to go — as well as olives for decoration, AND a butter moat — he's really outdoing himself this time around). He's determined to make the most of his free time while he has it, especially since he's under strict orders from Steve not to leave the house -- the paparazzi are really on Richie's case right now, for whatever reason.

It's mid-afternoon, and Eddie is busying himself putting their laundry away in their bedroom (Richie was shooed away about half an hour ago so that Eddie didn't have to, quote, "look at your stupid puppy eyes or hear your stupid dog breath while you sit in a corner drooling and staring at me like a fucking Saint Bernard," unquote.). He's definitely not sulking, not about being on house arrest nor about being kicked out of the love of his life's presence -- Richie is a grown man, thank you very much -- but he is definitely bored. Not only is Castle Kaspbrak-Tozier nearing completion, but the sculpture of Eddie's face (Richie is calling it Mashed Poteddie, and he's going to submit it to the Met) has been completed so long that it's air drying. So Richie is sitting alone in the dining room. And working on his mashed potato sculpting skills. And not sulking. In the slightest.

Richie is just about to place the pièce de résistance — a carrot that he's carefully shaved down to a point on one end — on top of the highest point of the roof of the castle when his phone starts ringing next to him on the dining room table, and Bananaphone by Raffi starts playing loudly. Richie, always one to startle very easily, jerks away from where he was this close to finishing his sculpture, and bangs his knee hard against the table leg — which causes the mashed potato sculpture to collapse in a second.

Richie curses loudly at the mashed potato mess that now covers the table. Oh well, at least Mashed Poteddie is safe, having been constructed a foot away from Castle Kaspbrak-Tozier. Richie quickly wipes the remaining mashed potato on his hand off onto the hoodie he's wearing before grabbing his phone and answering the call.

"Big Ben! To what do I owe the pleasure?" Richie says, positioning his phone between his ear and shoulder. He leaves the sobering ruins of Castle Kaspbrak-Tozier where they are, for now, getting out of his chair and rubbing at the knee he bonked on the table.

"Richie, hi!" Ben starts, a smile audible in his voice. It's been a while since they've talked, and Richie has really missed his friend's voice. Plus, right before Ben left on his trip to New York, they started watching Love It or List It from season one together. Richie has a lot of thoughts about the design choices in the episode they had left off — the Modern Farmhouse decor was just.. not it. Richie needs to know that Ben agrees with him on how insane it looked, especially since it clashed so much with the house itself, which was a beautiful Victorian townhome. "I finally got time to sit down and watch the new special! It was amazing as always."

"Thank you, thank you. I'll accept more praise in the form of money or cash order." Richie says, puffing his chest out.

Ben just laughs, which. Rude. Richie was 100% serious, thank you very much. They chat for a couple of minutes, but when Richie is about to start in on his critique of Hilary Farr's decorating skills, words on his tongue just waiting to burst out. He puts his phone on speaker in preparation while scrolling frantically through his notes app to find his list of complaints, but just as he's about to list them off, Ben changes the topic. "Oh, I almost forgot to tell you! I fly back to California tomorrow!"

"Oh wow, no way!" Unfortunately, it worked out that Ben had to be in New York for an architectural conference and then, after that, a consultation on a project. And then after that, to speak to a class of 50 third-year architecture students — (Ben is too nice for his own good, and much too chatty, in Richie's opinion. The man could go just about anywhere and make ten new good friends. No, Richie's not jealous.) what was intended to be only a week-long trip had turned into two and a half. "It's been ages since we've hung out, dude." Richie bemoans, transferring his phone to sit in the crook of his neck and shoulder, arms stretching out in an excellent impression of a spider monkey.

"I know, right?" Ben says dolefully. "We should definitely go out for a bite to eat soon."

"For sure!" Richie exclaims, wandering towards the bedroom where Eddie is now ironing his suit jacket with the precision of a surgeon performing open heart surgery. Eddie does not look up immediately, deigning instead to finish his handiwork. Once he does, however, Richie mouths 'Ben', to which Eddie nods in understanding. Eddie carefully hangs his suit jacket up and moves onto his trousers while Richie collapses onto their bed like he's been shot. He's back at work tomorrow — tax fraud waits for no one, apparently. "Hey, what about Friday night? We can go to Bestia, I know you love their agnolotti."

"Heck yeah!" Ben exclaims. (He's the only person Richie knows at his advanced age who refuses to curse. Ben always says that if you can say it with a curse word, you can say it more tactfully and politely. Richie always says, blech, with his tongue out and finger pointing to the back of his throat. Tomato tomato.) "It's a date."

"Fuck yeah it is," Richie says, grinning. "Okay, I'll book us in for six pm. I'm expecting you to pick me up in a tuxedo with a bouquet of roses though, or else I'll tell everyone at school all about how that hard, buff exterior just hides the softie that you truly are inside. Don't think I didn't hear you crying when we talked about the episode of Love it or List it where the family had fallen on hard times, Hanscom. Your reputation will be ruined and no one will pick you for their basketball team EVER again."

It's a solid testament to Richie's character that Eddie (towards whom Richie has been batting his eyelashes and making kissy faces for the past few minutes) doesn't even raise an eyebrow when Richie is finished with his spiel. Ben, too, just laughs a little and says, "Okay, okay, I'll make sure I'm in my Sunday best, but that means you should be too. I'll keep driving if you're not wearing your tophat and cape and twirling your cane."

"Fine, fine. But I expect wooing to the nth degree, Haystack. I'm a lady, and I deserve to be treated like one." Richie huffs.

Plans made, Richie is finally able to fully launch into his scathing takedown of Hilary Farr and David Visentin's choices while Ben agrees vehemently, mainly interjecting with his actual Professional Opinion™ when needed. Eddie finishes his ironing soon after and heads off to his study to work on the newest addition to his collection of model trains.

Ben arrives at Richie and Eddie's apartment at five o'clock on the dot. He sits on their Chesterfield sofa while Richie finishes getting ready in record time (really just putting his clothes on; Richie had taken an extended catnap earlier and had only remembered that he had his catch-up with Ben about ten minutes ago; he answered the door in boxers and one single sock hanging off his foot). They're out the door less than ten minutes later, and their chitchat doesn't stop even as they call a cab, pausing only momentarily to tell the driver where to go.

They continue like this, chattering on and on until the taxi drops them off at the curb.

(Where Richie's perpetual back-and-forth with Eddie generally tends toward bickering, each usually attempting to wind the other up more and more, and Richie and Bev's relationship skews toward a banter of a flavor that Bev likes to call "haha but what if"-isms that they use to fuel their creative drives, Richie's rapport with Ben consisted of an interminable stream of conversation that neither could remember the start of exactly -- Richie's working theory is that it started when they met the first day of ninth grade, having been seated next to each other in biology. Ben took one look at Richie's X-men: Wolverine tee shirt and said, "I think Cyclops is a better character, actually," and every conversation since then has been Richie trying to prove him wrong.)

They arrive five minutes early, to Richie's surprise and Ben's slight discomfort.

(Ben has always aimed to arrive everywhere he's expected at least ten minutes early. If you ask Richie, it almost feels like the neuroticism Eddie was born with has rubbed off on Ben over the years, but the reality is that Ben has always been a worrier, he's just slightly less insane and more polite about it than Eddie is.)

They're led to their usual table, but before Ben can sit, Richie puts his best puppy eyes on full blast and insists that he and Ben sit on the same side as Richie in the booth, right next to each other. Ben gives in with minimal convincing (success, Richie crows to himself). Their orders are taken almost immediately -- they've been to Bestia so many times that, at this point, they only glance at the menu for cocktails. This time, Richie orders the Cheap Sunglasses, while Ben goes for the Suffer No Fool.

Richie and Ben are both such familiar faces at this point that the waiter brings their cocktails over posthaste (mainly because they're well-known here for how much they tip, particularly when they're drunk).

Their meals (a ribeye for Richie and white corn agnolotti pasta for Ben) arrive with their second drinks.

They waste no time digging in. The ribeye (as always, Richie orders it 'as rare as you're legally allowed to give me') was delicious as usual, and so was Ben's agnolotti — Richie can speak on this personally too, seeing as how Ben practically shoves it down his throat in his quest to feed Richie nearly half of what's on his plate.

Richie isn't complaining, though; he hasn't actually really eaten anything today, and even aside from that, he's always ravenous when drunk. He accepts the bites of agnolotti freely, leaning into Ben's warmth (Ben always runs as hot as a furnace, the lucky fuck. Richie is consistently two degrees away from becoming a block of ice, even in the Los Angeles heat.) as they chat in between bites.

"By the way," Ben starts, putting his (fourth? Fifth?) glass down after sipping some, "Are the paparazzi still all up in your business? I know you were joking about it in the special, but you sounded really annoyed with them when we were texting the other day."

Richie groans around his mouthful of (delicious, perfect, excellent) agnolotti, rolling his eyes exaggeratedly before swallowing. "Yeah. It's fucking ridonkulous, man. Like, I can't even go on a walk with Eddie without them creeping around like vampires with social anxiety." Richie bemoans, slugging back the last of his current cocktail before clumsily wiping at his lips with the sleeve of his jacket. "I'm currently on strict orders from Steve to stay home as much as possible, it fucking sucks. This is the first time I've been outside since Friday."

"Ouch, I didn't realize it was that bad." Ben says, hissing air through clenched teeth. His arm lifts to sit heavily around Richie's shoulders, pulling him in for a commiserating hug.

"Yeah…" Richie sighs, nuzzling into Ben's warmth a little more before stabbing at another piece of steak with his fork and shoving it in his mouth, "I haven't sheen any here tonight at leasht," Richie manages through the bite, swallowing before he continues. "Now that I think about it, of all the places I've been papped, I don't think they've caught on to the fact that we come here like three times a month."

"Well, I've never noticed anything like that," Ben hums, spearing another agnolotti, although this one he eats himself rather than forcing it upon Richie. "It's weird enough for me just hearing about it; I can't imagine what it's like to live it." As Ben speaks, a waiter arrives with their (fifth?? sixth??) cocktails.

Richie groans. "You can't imagine. In all my wildest daydreams of making it big, I never even stopped to consider the fact that I wouldn't be able to go to the grocery store without my picture being taken a billion times. Even worse, I can't even go down to the corner store and buy condoms like a regular red-blooded American. I'm pretty sure this is like, a violation of my third amendment rights." Richie gripes, picking up his new drink and sipping it.

Ben makes a face, although it's unclear if it's in reaction to what Richie has just said or how strong his new drink is. "Isn't the third amendment like, the right to not have to quarter soldiers?"

"Whatever, dude, that's just your opinion." Richie says. His phone lights up before he can continue his lament, which makes him notice the time. "Shit, dude, it's hella late."

Ben glances at his watch. "Oh man, yeah it is. Let's finish up soon, yeah? I promised Beverly I would be home before eleven so that we could watch Turner and Hooch together. Can you believe she's never seen it?" Ben knocks back his drink, draining it in seconds.

"No, I can't, but I also couldn't believe that Eddie hadn't seen a single Clint Eastwood flick other than Dirty Harry." Richie comments, taking a long drink of his own cocktail. "How did we end up with such square significant others? Who the fuck hasn't seen A Few Dollars More?"

"She hadn't even seen Overboard before we started dating," Ben bemoans, stuffing some agnolotti in Richie's mouth before Richie can respond. "Can you believe it? That movie changed my life."

Richie swallows the pasta before taking his wallet out, and Ben does the same. Their waiter brings over the bill without having to be alerted. The bill isn't too bad this time around considering how much they usually order; neither bats an eye as they both pay for their half of the bill before each putting two crisp $100 bills under the leather folio that holds the check.

Ben stands and adjusts his suit jacket. Richie tries to do the same but can't.

"Ben." Richie whines, puppy eyes once again on full blast.

"Hm?" Ben says, looking up from his phone.

"I can't stand."

"You can't… stand?"

"I think if I tried I would fall on the ground like a newborn giraffe. Why do I have to be so fucking tall, Benny? Who needs to be this tall?" Richie moans dramatically.

Ben shushes him before taking a moment to think. "What if I carry you?"

Richie snorts before realizing how serious Ben is being. "Wait, for real?"

"Yeah, why not. I bench double your weight two times a week anyways."

"Holy shit."

Ben just shrugs. "C'mon, I really want to show Bev the magic of Turner and Hooch."

Richie only hesitates for a second before hurrying to the end of the booth. Ben wastes no time in picking him up.

Richie categorically does not screech, but he definitely squeaks a tiny little bit. It feels valid, though, because who the fuck can pick up a grown man while drunk as shit? What kind of Superman bullshit is this? Also, how did Richie not already know about this? "If we weren't already previously involved, I think this would make me fall in love with you," Richie says, voice filled with wonder.

Ben just chuckles slightly as he skillfully maneuvers — how much fucking practice has he had doing this, what the hell? Is he training to be a firefighter or some shit? — them out of the restaurant, placing Richie on his feet so that he can hail a cab.

(Beverly loves Turner and Hooch, but she loves the fact that her husband is a cuddly drunk even more.

Eddie doesn't mind A Fistful of Dollars, but that's probably more to do with the fact that Richie passes out in Eddie's lap about half an hour into the runtime.)

TMZ EXCLUSIVE! RICHIE TOZIER CAUGHT RED-HANDED: SPOTTED AT INTIMATE DINNER WITH MYSTERY MAN

It looks like Richie Tozier might have some explaining to do!

The comedian was spotted last night at an upscale restaurant in the Arts District of Los Angeles, enjoying what appeared to be a cozy, intimate dinner with a mystery man—definitely not his fiancé. Eyewitnesses at the restaurant described the pair as being "completely engrossed in each other," with one source telling TMZ they seemed like "way more than just friends."

All this comes only days after TMZ received a report of an apparent public argument with his fiancé after the last show of Richie's tour on Friday.

A Night Out… or Something More?

The scandalous dinner, pictured here, went down at Bestia, a hotspot for celebs looking for a discreet night out — but it looks like Richie couldn't fly under the radar this time. Paparazzi snapped photos of him arriving with the unidentified man, who was dressed to impress in a sleek Marsh & Co. suit. Richie and his paramour were seated in a corner booth, setting the perfect scene for a secretive rendezvous. One eyewitness even noted that Richie’s bespoke Cartier ring was conspicuously missing!

One source at the restaurant says the chemistry was undeniable. "They were sitting on the same side of the table, laughing, leaning in close. They definitely looked like more than just friends," the insider spills. "At one point, the mystery man even fed Richie some of the restaurant's ravioli by hand," the insider emphasizes.

While the dinner might've been meant to be a private affair, they weren't exactly hiding their affection for one another. According to another onlooker, as the night dragged on and the couple got drunker, his inamorato picked Richie Tozier up bridal style before they slipped out of the restaurant around midnight.

Trouble in Paradise?

These two shocking sightings, only days apart, have fans wondering: What's going on with Richie Tozier and his fiancé? The two have reportedly been together for over a year and engaged for around six months. Moreover, readers who have read our article covering Richie Tozier's new special will remember that as recently as this last Friday, Richie was content to brag for almost half of the runtime about his engagement ring and the fact that he loves his fiancé.

Although Richie Tozier's fiancé is not in the limelight, he certainly isn't an unknown to TMZ. Despite never officially declaring their relationship, the couple has been spotted together in public many times over the past year, looking like absolute couple goals.

However, in a shocking turn of events, late last Friday night, after the taping for his new special was finished, Richie and his fiancé were spotted in a heated argument in a nearby Denny's. Eyewitnesses say the couple, known for their seemingly picture-perfect romance, raised eyebrows as tensions escalated over their late-night meal. "His fiancé was yelling at him, and you could see how much it was affecting Richie," one onlooker revealed, "Richie looked like he was two seconds away from crying." The altercation drew the attention of several other patrons, one of whom snapped the pic below. After a few tense minutes, the couple left separately, with Richie's fiancé storming out first, leaving fans wondering if this was just a fleeting spat or a sign of deeper issues.

This public altercation can be discounted as a lover's quarrel by itself. However, coupled with the public display of affection for this mystery man, this journalist is unsure what to make of Richie's future with his fiancé.

So, Who's the Mystery Man?

So, who is the mystery man in question? That's the million-dollar question, and right now, no one seems to have any idea. TMZ is working overtime to uncover his identity, but nothing concrete has been revealed so far.

Some fans are already speculating that he could be an actor tied to one of the projects Richie is currently writing for, based on his rumored hunky stature and charming good looks. Others think he might be a new love interest who's managed to stay under the radar until now.

Whatever the case, one thing's clear: this wasn't just a casual dinner between friends.

What's next for Richie ‘Trashmouth’ Tozier and his fiancé?

As of now, neither Richie Tozier nor his fiancé has commented on the situation, but the internet is buzzing with reactions. Fans are taking to social media in droves, with some defending Richie while others are calling him out for what they're calling a "total betrayal."

It remains to be seen whether this will be the nail in the coffin for Richie's engagement or if the couple will work things out. But one thing is certain — this scandal has everyone talking.

Keep your eyes on TMZ for the latest updates on this developing story. We're digging deep to find out who this mystery man is, and whether this scandalous dinner was a one-time thing or the start of something new.

BREAKING NEWS: TMZ has identified Richie's paramour as none other than Benjamin Hanscom, a renowned architect who is known to live in the Greater Los Angeles area. What's more, Hanscom is also married! The plot thickens…

Chapter Text

"Well, on the bright side, it was only a matter of time before someone thought you two were secret gay lovers. You're not exactly the most heterosexually presenting best bros."

Richie barely hears Bev's musings over the sound of his longest, loudest groan. He's lying on the cold tiling of the frankly exorbitantly lavish kitchen in Ben and Beverly's Encino apartment, has been since he arrived this morning.

Thank fuck Eddie's so chronically offline -- in fact, if Eddie had it his way, he probably wouldn't even have a smartphone, would have one of those flip phones that all their eighty-year-old neighbors have been raving about. Alas, it's a requirement at Eddie's firm for whatever reason (not to mention that Richie refuses to walk around with someone if he can't show them assorted Borat and Anchorman clips), but that doesn't mean that he has a state of the art phone.

Somehow, Eddie managed to find a pristine Galaxy Note 3 a year or two ago and steadfastly refuses to give it up or upgrade in any way -- I manage just fine with this thing, jackass; I don't need some fancy shit that's gonna break in a year -- so while he's an avid participant in the losers group chat, he doesn't exactly open up the TMZ website every day, or if he even knows TMZ has one.

Richie's lucky in that aspect, at least -- the angry, hour-long tirade Eddie was sure to go on once he found out about all of this is delayed until one of the assholes in the group chat comes up with a joke to crack at Richie's expense.

(They all already know about it -- when Richie woke up this morning with an awful hangover, his phone had been blowing up with, frankly, rude or otherwise unkind messages from his friends.

Richie'd begged each of them individually to not say anything to Eddie before he could explain what was going on -- although, to be completely honest, because we're all friends here, Richie has no plans to actually tell Eddie any time soon.

In fact, if Richie had it his way, he would never have to tell Eddie about the article or the controversy.

Which, okay, Richie knows how it sounds, and at first glance, he can understandable how it might seem unrealistic, but honestly, it cannot be overstated how little Eddie follows pop culture.

Seriously. Eddie still, to this day, conflates Matthew McConaughey and Bradley Cooper. What kind of gay man is he?

Also, it, of course, helps to live in delusion like Richie does.)

So. Here Richie is. No freeze frame, no record scratch, no you're probably wondering how I got here, no nothing.

Just pain and suffering, plain and simple. Trials and tribulations. Death and dying. Etcetera.

Richie rolls over onto his stomach to feel the cold tile on his cheek. The heat has been unbearable this week, so he soaks the coolness up as best he can. Never mind the fact that he's still in his pajamas, which consist of fluffy socks, deep blue sweatpants covered in dogs riding bicycles and a white tank top that says, "My main goal is to blow up and act like I don't know nobody" in the bright green Monster energy drink font.

The tea kettle whistles, and Richie can't see it, but he can hear Bev making them drinks.

She sets a cup down on the floor next to where Richie is all but family-guy-death-posing on her poor, innocent tiling, and Richie shifts his head toward it, halting his incessant groans to inspect the offering, sniffing at it suspiciously. When he realizes it's hot chocolate, Richie changes his position so that he can sit like a self-pitying Sméagol and gulp it down.

The hot chocolate's too hot, so Richie dribbles it back into the cup and breathes steam like the lamest dragon ever for a few moments. As if summoned by his half-hungover, half-self-deprecating patheticness, Ben wanders into the kitchen, shirtless and freshly showered, towelling his hair off and making his (freakishly large) biceps flex as he goes.

Unlike Richie, who looks like he got mauled by a bear before getting hit by a bus, Ben looks like some kind of (freakishly muscly) Greek god, completely untouched by last night's drinking. Richie isn't jealous of Ben's looks or anything, really, he's made his peace with looking like the fresh corpse of a late-night talk show host someone dug up out of the ground, but he would give up all his fame and riches in a second if it meant that he could recover from hangovers half as well as Ben does.

(Eddie thinks he's cute, and that's all Richie really needs at the end of the day. Everyone else can go fuck themselves, as far as Richie's concerned.)

Richie curls his hands around the warm mug of hot cocoa and stares into space. Ben disappears from his peripheral vision for a second, and when he comes back, he drops one of their throw blankets on Richie's head. Richie pulls it around his shoulders gratefully.

"I mean, would it really be the end of the world if people thought we were together?" Ben tries, grinning like the cat that got the canary. "I'm quite the catch, aren't I?"

Just like that, Richie's groaning starts up again in full force.

Bev glares at Ben, although it's clearly lightheartedly.

"Richie, look. The internet has a frighteningly short attention span," Bev says, setting her cup of tea on the counter to squat down in front of Richie like he's a child in the middle of a tantrum, "Steve'll figure out a boring apology for you to post on Twitter, and then everyone'll forget about this within a week. It's not like there's any truth to the rumors anyways, so TMZ and everyone else haven't got a leg to stand on."

Richie switches from his longest, loudest groan to his longest, most mawkish sigh.

Bev responds by nudging the mug in Richie's hands toward his mouth. Richie dutifully takes a sip and finds that it's now the perfect temperature — he wastes no time slurping the hot chocolate down as fast as he can.

The opening chords to Eddie My Love by the Chordettes suddenly ring out at max volume in the otherwise quiet apartment, and the only reason Richie's not suddenly covered in hot cocoa from the fright is because he's already drunk it all.

Richie scrambles up off of the floor, fluffy socks meaning he Scooby Doos it for a solid five seconds and almost brains himself on the counter until he manages to find traction and practically flies toward the couch his phone is on in the living room.

"Eddie! Hi." Richie says, trying to conceal his breathlessness by just shutting up for once instead of his usual rambling greeting of Hello the love of my life, do you believe in love at first sound or should I keep talking? Did you fall from heaven because you've got some dust on your wings? Are you from Tennessee because you're the only Ten-I-See? Do you work at a grocery store, because I need a clean up in aisle: my pants?. He hopes it's not too suspicious.

"What happened." Eddie says flatly.

"Wow, rude, no 'hello'? No 'how are you doing, Richie, because I care so much about you and am always interested in what's going on with you?' What, now that you've bagged me, you don't feel the need to show me love? I see how it is." Richie complains, hoping to distract Eddie from his question.

"Richie," Eddie says warningly. "You rush out of the house the second I take a shower, earlier than you've woken up in at least a decade, all without even a text?" Richie gulps, but Eddie continues, "What the hell is going on with you?"

While Richie is spluttering, trying to come up with something to say, his phone buzzes four times in a row, and he can hear Ben and Bev's phones do so too.

Ben chokes while Bev snorts out a laugh. Eddie is silent on the line.

Slowly, as if he's just heard the telltale chatter of a rattlesnake's rattle, Richie lowers his phone from his ear and taps on the notification from the losers' group chat. His heart sinks as he sees what Stan has sent.

(09:29) Stan: (link sent)

(09:30) Stan: Can't believe Richie's finally graduated from sleeping with our moms to sleeping with our significant others

(09:30) Stan: If so, I just want to remind Richie that I am 100% straight, so my ass is off limits

(09:30) Stan: Also, Patty says she's flattered, but I'm the only man for her, so don't even think about it

Eddie remains silent.

Richie tries to think of something, anything to say but comes up empty. He glances toward where Ben and Bev were a moment ago, but they've disappeared into thin air. As he's struggling, Eddie finally speaks.

"Seriously? This is what you were panicking about? Just because some paparazzi finally got some photo evidence of what we've been saying for years?" Eddie says incredulously, "Richie, get real. Every single one of us has been telling you how gay your straight bro friendship with Ben is for as long as we've all known each other. Did you seriously think I was going to be upset over this?"

Crickets.

"Rich," Eddie says gently after a long moment, "I'm not upset, alright? This is the kind of shit I knew I would have to expect when we started dating. Honestly, I'm actually impressed at how unproblematic you are, if this is the only dirt they can scrape up on you."

Richie deflates like a balloon overfilled with helium. His skeleton feels much too big for his body, and his brain too big for his skull. Suddenly, he's hit with the intense need to go home.

Eddie interprets his silence with the expertise of someone well-versed in this arena.

"Come home now, okay? I'm sure Steve is hard at work planning out your next move; it's what you pay him for. How about we just have a nice relaxing rest of our day, yeah?"

Richie nods numbly even though they're just on a phone call and heads out the door without saying goodbye, shoving his feet into his shoes and driving straight home on autopilot, Eddie on speakerphone narrating the things they can do once Richie's home without breaking a sweat.

After about a half hour of sitting with his face buried in Eddie's lap while Eddie pets his hair and watches The Walking Dead (technically, they're both watching it because they're in the middle of a rewatch).

They're silent for the most part, other than the occasional apology Richie tries to get out before Eddie shuts him up.

(Despite refusing to accept Richie’s numerous apologies, Eddie does accept Richie's offer to buy him some I'm Sorry presents, including a nifty new polo that Eddie's been eyeing and a rare and expensive part for the car Eddie's currently working on, though.

Well, Eddie had actually said no pretty emphatically, but that was after a split second of hesitation, so Richie counts that as assent.

For Richie, there's nothing more enjoyable in life than buying his boyfriend everything he could possibly want.)

Abruptly, the soothing tone of Peanut Butter Jelly Time sounds through the air, and Richie shoots up off of Eddie's lap to grab his phone and answer the call while Eddie pauses the show.

Almost immediately, Richie has to hold the phone six inches away from his ear to avoid permanent hearing damage from how loud Steve is being.

(Steve is usually a really nice manager, honestly -- Richie couldn't have asked for better. But he's understandably stressed out by all of this, especially since Richie has never been overly problematic despite his pre-coming-out comedy material.

Before this, Richie's pretty sure the worst controversy he's ever been in was when he said that he thought that Bert from The Muppets was way hotter and way more his speed than Henry Cavill, but even that had smoothed over relatively quickly.

He'd hired Steve the second he got his first big paycheck from The Hangover, and before that, Steve had only worked for one or two already washed-up actors. Neither of them expected Richie to get even half as big as he was now, and he's still climbing, so this is all very new to the both of them.)

The game plan is this: tomorrow morning, once the tumult has died down slightly and after Steve and the publicity manager he's hired solely for this crisis have had a chance to write a foolproof statement, Richie will post it on his Twitter without comment, and they'll see from the response it garners what the next step will be.

(Really, if Richie weren't so horrified by this entire ideal, he'd be supremely confused more than anything about how much this has been blown out of proportion.

What, just because he and Ben are very close best bros and have been for years, suddenly that's gay? And just because people don't know Eddie, they see one cute little scrunched look (Richie has seen the photos, of course he has. To him, it was a very clear concerned-worried-loving look, so obvious that Richie is in utter disbelief at how hard TMZ had to reach to think of it as angry) on his face and assume that he was yelling at Richie?)

So, translation from manager-speak to standard English: have a day off, Richie, and don't do anything to get yourself into deeper shit than you're already in. Hopefully, the apology will be ready to post by tomorrow morning, and then it might even blow over by next week.

Richie says his goodbyes and hangs up after about an hour of straight of discussion. He beelines for where Eddie sits on their patio, reading a book and going straight in for a hug.

He doesn't say a word, but he doesn't have to -- Eddie accepts him into his arms regardless.

They decide to go to bed early.

Well, 'going to bed' might be the wrong way to phrase it -- they get in bed, sure, but instead of actually going to sleep, they play Mario Kart until Richie can hardly keep his eyes open and Eddie is yawning so hard that he has to rub away the tears in his eyes.

Eddie goes to the bathroom, and when he comes back, Richie is passed out, still upright, glasses slightly askew and mouth open so wide it's nearly unhinged, some drool escaping from the side he's leaning on.

Eddie snorts and pats his pockets for his phone to take a picture (to send to Richie later to clown on him) before realizing it's not there -- probably in the kitchen on charge. He grabs Richie's phone from where it's sitting on the nightstand instead, snapping a quick picture.

As he does, Eddie notices the banner for a Twitter notification. Out of curiosity, and to gauge the public's reaction to the bombshell TMZ article, Eddie taps on it, assuming everyone else on this planet with half a brain has figured out, at the very least, that Richie isn't some kind of scumbag cheater.

He's supremely disappointed (among other feelings), though. Richie hasn't posted anything since the promo for his last show last Friday, so under a thin layer of positive replies is a thick and ugly heap of hate comments.

Big surprise the guy who joked about cheating on his girlfriends for like two decades also cheats on his boyfriend

Honestly, Richie's boyfriend is way hotter than him, so the audacity to cheat on someone so out of your league is kinda crazy

Why is it always the ugly guys with no redeeming qualities who cheat lmfaoo

Am I the only one who never thought he was funny? Like, his old jokes were just bored and sexist, but now they're just boring and gay

The further Eddie scrolls, the more he can feel the anger bubbling up inside of him. Before he can do anything, though, Richie snorts in his sleep, startling Eddie and making him lose his train of thought.

Eddie sighs, setting Richie’s phone down and putting it on charge before maneuvering Richie into a more comfortable sleeping position, going off to do his skincare routine and brush his teeth. Before getting into bed though, he makes a quick detour to the kitchen to grab his phone.

When he's finally back in bed, Eddie lies on his back, glaring at his phone like it owes him money. As he does, Richie rolls over toward him in his sleep and butts his head against Eddie's bicep, and, when Eddie lifts up his arm, wastes no time attaching himself to Eddie like a particularly enterprising barnacle.

He sits there for a moment, trying to figure out his next action, until Richie nuzzles into his pectoral muscle and murmurs 'Love you' in his sleep.

Eddie rubs Richie's back idly with one hand while the other grasps his phone with a renewed sense of ire.

Before he can give it a second thought, Eddie opens the newly redownloaded Twitter app and starts typing.

Edward K @EdwardK030976

Hey assholes.

[Alt Text for photo attached: Famous comedian Richie Tozier can be seen with his eyes closed, drooling on the right pectoral muscle of his beau, Edward K, who is glaring at the camera while pressing a kiss to Richie's hair and also flipping it off with the arm that curls around Richie's shoulder.]

[Community Notes: This is, in fact, Richie Tozier and his fiancé, Edward Kaspbrak. Tozier's team has since verified that this photo is not generative AI.]