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Richie remembers so clearly his sixteenth birthday, the day his mark appeared–the thin line around his left wrist that held the promise of a thousand late night kisses and whispered promises. Of course, he didn’t say that to anyone. When he saw the losers at school that morning, he held out his wrist proudly,“One step closer to finding the lucky girl to give the ride of her life,” he said, grinning.
The losers crowded around, and Eddie grabbed his wrist, sending tiny sparks of excitement up Richie’s arm. “Wha–You’ve already met them!” He exclaimed, looking up at Richie in shock with those damn brown doe eyes. Richie pulled his hand back, saluting the losers.
“Well, Tally ho goodfellas,” He said in a terrible impression of a british accent, “I have a soulmate to find! They’re calling to my wang.”
“Beep Beep, Richie,” He heard Bev laugh as he set off towards class. He walked fast, so that Eddie wouldn’t be able to keep up with his disgustingly cute shorter legs. He hightailed it towards the school bathrooms, dodging past teenagers sucking face against lockers. Once in the bathrooms, he slammed a stall door shut behind him, and sank to the floor, back against the wall and knees pulled up to his chest.
He groaned, his head dropping back against the wall. Why, why why did stupid Eddie have to be so fucking… Eddie?! Why did he have to wear a fanny pack to school, and yell at Richie whenever he burped, or wear those distractingly short red pants? Why did he have to look at Richie with those chocolate brown doe eyes, and why did he have to be Richie’s fucking soulmate.
Richie wasn’t dumb, or naive–he might’ve been a complete trashmouth, but he knew what he was feeling. He had been in love with Eddie since he was thirteen, when the clown that had terrorized them that summer was leering at Eddie, and Richie had felt like his whole world was about to come crashing down. He’d felt his whole world stop, and pivot so that the boy with the broken arm and fanny pack was at the centre of Richie’s everything.
He’d tried to stifle his feelings–or at least wank them away–but nothing had cured the feeling he got when Eddie laughed at one of his jokes, or rolled his eyes at him while trying not to smile. It had been a painful summer for more reasons than just the killer clown.
After Richie grudgingly conceded that Eddie Kaspbrak was his soulmate, that he would never, never love anyone else the way he loved all paranoid, stubborn 5 feet and 3 inches of Eddie, he had felt almost excited. His soulmate was his best friend! Didn’t people literally say you should marry your best friend? But then Richie had learnt about unrequited bonds–the way your line could fade after your fifteenth birthday if your soulmate rejected your bond–and the first seed of doubt had been planted. Still, he flirted with Eddie shamelessly, in his own, weird, “Your mom” type style. He was sure Eddie would reciprocate his flirting at some point. They were soulmates–they were made for eachother. But year after year, Eddie continued to roll his eyes, and groan “Shut up, Trashmouth,” in response to Richie’s lingering touches and suggestive comments. For a long time, Richie had held onto the hope that Eddie simply hadn’t realised his feelings yet; people in Derry weren’t exactly known for being open minded–maybe he was just in denial that he liked a boy. But, as the months of longing dragged on, Richie came to the world shattering, heart crushing realisation that he was one of the poor fuckers with an unrequited soulbond, destined to love his adorable, germaphobic best friend from afar.
This morning only confirmed this; he had already met his soulmate. There was no chance for someone else to swoop in and save him from his doomed love.
He whacked his head against the bathroom wall, with a thud. Of course he was the one to have a stupid obsession with sinful red shorts. Fucking hell.
Richie still had to figure out what to tell his friends–they losers were probably expecting him to come to lunch pulling some girl along with him, boasting about how he was finally going to give someone the joy of the Tozier wang. He couldn’t tell them it was Eddie that his heart (and wang) truly wanted. They didn’t even know he liked boys, and there was no point telling them now.
This dilemma followed Richie as he dragged himself to class, where he sat at the back with Beverly, their feet kicked up on their desks as Richie tried to sneak a smoke beneath Mrs Roberts beady gaze. Usually he wouldn’t be quite that brazen, but seeing as today's revelations had solidified a lifetime's worth of unrequited love, he thought he deserved it.
Bev threw a rolled up piece of paper at his head, and he turned to glare at her, throwing it right back. “I’m always up for a smoke, Richie, but in class? Really?” She whispered.
Richie grinned at her, leaning back in his chair so the front legs lifted off the ground.
“What can I say? I’m celebrating my soulmate.” He said the last bit with an unnecessary amount of sarcasm, and Bev raised her eyebrows at him.
“Um, okay, what was that?”
“What was what? That impossibly long–”
“I’m not talking about your wang Richie, which is probably tiny. What was that tone?”
Richie stared back at her, contemplating whether to brush the comment off with some classic trashmouth humour, or tell her what was really bothering him. When it came to Richie, it was never much of a question.
“You mean the tone Eddie’s mum was talking to me with last night? When she was moaning–”
“Fuck off.” Beverly rolled her eyes, “It’s impossible to have proper conversation with you.”
“I try,” Richie laughed, taking the best bow he could while leaning precariously back on his chair.
Days turned into weeks, until it was one month later, the night before Eddie’s sixteenth birthday. Richie and Eddie were in the hammock in the clubhouse–the other Losers had all already left, leaving the two boys jostling for space in the hammock they were rapidly outgrowing.
“Shove over, Richie. Your long fucking legs are taking up the whole hammock,” Eddie grumbled, swatting Richie’s feet away from where they had been obnoxiously close to his head. “You know, there’s really not room for both of us in here–and shut up! That is not what my mum told you last night.”
Richie cackled, “But she did say that! Right before she sucked my–oomph.” Eddie whacked Richie with his foot, huffing and crossing his arms.
The boys descended into comfortable silence, and Richie took in the sight before him. This was the last time he would see Eddie without that stupid, stupid soul mark on his wrist. Without the promise of someone else etched into his perfect skin. The last time he could look into those eyes and pretend they were looking back at him with the same want, and love, and need with which he looked at them.
“What if it's not there?” Eddie blurted out, looking up at Richie.
Richie startled, and looked away quickly, trying to pretend he hadn’t been staring at his best friend with obvious heart eyes. “Huh?”
Eddie seemed to have startled himself by speaking, and he continued in a much quieter, more tentative voice, “What if my soul mark’s not there tomorrow? What if my soulmate’s…given up on me? Or doesn’t want me, or–”
Richie’s heart tugged, and his nails dug into his palms. He didn’t know who Eddie’s soulmate was, but he could guess; some girl, or guy, with neat hair, who never told dirty jokes, who never smoked, or spent way too much time at the arcade. Some neat, clean, absolute bastard. And the idea of someone having the absolute privilege of the universe gifting them Eddie, and then rejecting the bond–rejecting the very thing Richie would quite literally burn down the world for–made his skin crawl. The thought of Eddie waking up, only to see a faded line around his wrist, of adorable, feisty, sarcastic Eddie having to suffer through the same turmoil Richie had been suffering through for months…He’d kill whatever prick made Eddie feel that way.
“Don’t be such a muppet, Eddie Spaghetti, they’d have to be even more of a prick than fucking Pennywise to do that.”
“Don’t say his name!” Eddie squeaked, but Richie caught the small smile that played on his lips.
〜
As soon as Eddie woke on the morning of his sixteenth birthday, his stomach was filled with not butterflies, but what felt like killer, nuclear wasps. He was pretty certain he already knew who his soulmate was–Trashmouth Tozier. Hell, he’d been in love with him since they were thirteen–surviving three years of Richie’s joking flirting had been torture; like Richie was dangling the thing Eddie wanted most in the world right in front of him, except Eddie couldn’t really have it. On Richie’s birthday, when he had shown the Loser’s his colourful, glowing soul mark, Eddie’s belief had been confirmed. They were soulmates, he was sure of it.
Eddie was also fairly sure that Richie knew they were soulmates–he had to at least know that Eddie was in love with him. Richie was the only person Eddie really touched, the only person he would cuddle with in the hammock (They might have called it wrestling, or fighting, but essentially, they were cuddling–and Eddie loved it). And surely Richie saw the way Eddie blushed when Richie made one of his flirty comments, the way Eddie sometimes caught himself looking at the asshole when he did something unexpectedly nice.
Eddie took a deep breath, and sat up in bed. He was nervous. What if his soul mark wasn’t glowing and golden? What if Richie wasn’t his soulmate? Eddie didn’t want to belong with anyone else. He wanted Richie and his stupid “Your mom” jokes and clunky glasses.
He swallowed, reaching for his inhaler, and took a deep breath, calming himself down. He squeezed his eyes shut, crossed his fingers, and looked down at his wrists.
He felt as if someone had hit him with a sledgehammer.
He had met his soulmate. It must be Richie. There, on his right wrist, was the unmistakable, golden soul mark; everything he had been hoping for…except. It was fraying at the edges, some parts totally faded out. It was withering–like his fucking heart.
Eddie felt a tear drip down his cheek. Another one tracked its way down his nose, hanging on the end before dropping to the floor. He curled in on himself, shoulders heaving. Richie was his soulmate, but he didn’t want Eddie. He had rejected their bond.
Why?
Was it because Eddie was a boy? Because he wasn’t curvy or beautiful? Or worse … because he was Eddie, the germaphobic, fanny pack obsessed inhaler wielder.
Eddie sobbed, breathing heavily through his tears, and scratching at his fading soul mark. If he could just get it off, if he could just get rid of it, maybe Richie could still want him.
As hard as he scratched, the mark stayed in place, his own personal reminder that Richie didn’t love him back.
When Eddie met the rest of the Losers’ at school that morning, Beverly let out an excited shout and came hurtling towards him, enveloping him in a hug. Eddie stiffened–he didn’t usually like hugs; all the close touching and sharing of germs made him anxious. Beverly seemed to remember this and pulled away, her hands still on his shoulders.
The rest of the Losers came running over, and Eddie noticed Richie walking slightly behind them, dragging his feet. I wonder if he feels guilty? Eddie wondered. He should. Dickhead.
“Well,” said Beverly, looking at him expectantly as Stan, Ben, Mike and Bill crowded around them. Eddie stood still, fiddling anxiously with his long sleeves, and fighting the urge to reach for his inhaler.
“Well what?” He asked, though of course he knew exactly what she was talking about.
Bev rolled her eyes, “Come on, Eddie! Show us your mark! Is it colourful?”
Eddie noticed Richie, who was standing slightly back, flinch.
“Um…I–It’s colourful.” He tugged his sleeve down and wriggled out of Bev’s grip.
“That's great!” Ben grinned, patting Eddie on the back. Eddie forced a smile, his eyes drifting over to where Richie had his hands in his pockets, kicking the ground.
“Aren’t you gonna tell me happy birthday, Trashmouth?”
The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them, and he cringed inwardly at the accusatory bite in his voice. Richie grinned at him, and ruffled his hair–something he did all the time to annoy Eddie since his growth spurt in freshman year.
“Happy Birthday, Eddie Spaghetti.”
〜
Richie Tozier had kissed girls before he fell hopelessly in love with his hypochondriac best friend. Kind of. Well, not girls, plural. He had kissed one girl. Admittedly the kiss had been with Bev in a game of spin the bottle, and had more been a case of awkward fumbling than anything else, but still. He had liked it. He was sure he had. He liked how soft her lips were, even if her cherry chapstick had tasted too sweet, and too wrong.
The point was, Richie was sure if he just tried hard enough, he could enjoy kissing a girl. He may have given up on Eddie loving him back, but there was no way in hell he had managed to give up on loving him. Which was why I was standing behind the school with a girl from his class, her long blonde hair tickling his cheek as they awkwardly fumbled against each other's bodies. She wasn’t the first girl he had met up with here, either; for the last few months since Eddie’s birthday, Richie had been slutting it up behind the school with an array of different girls. If he could just find the right girl, maybe–maybe –there was a chance he could finally move on.
The girl kissed sloppily down his neck, and he tried to suppress a shudder. People really enjoyed this shit?
“What the fuck.” He heard someone say, and he sighed in relief when the girl–Allen? Ellie? – jumped back from him, swiping a hand over her smudged lip gloss.
Richie turned towards his saviour, and froze. His heart skipped a beat.
For a reason unbeknownst to Richie, Eddie has been avoiding him ever since his birthday. He still hung out with the Losers, but the two hadn’t been alone together in months–gone were the days of fighting over space in the hammock and late nights in the arcade. And now, Eddie was standing right in front of him, arms folded like some sort of short, angry, elf.
God damn it, why did he have to be so fucking cute?
Richie laughed awkwardly, adjusting his glasses.
“Um, hey, Eds. Didn’t see you there.”
Eddie snorted and rolled his eyes, “Obviously.”
Richie stood there awkwardly, painfully aware that Allen or Ellie or whatever her name was was looking at him with a sultry gaze, her lip gloss stained on his neck. His throat was dry, and he couldn’t take his gaze off Eddie, who was looking at him like he had just strangled a puppy–or maybe thrown one of his fanny packs in a lake.
Eddie let out a huff, and scowled.
“Bev wanted me to tell you we’re meeting at Bill’s tomorrow, but I guess you might be busy.”
He sent the girl a scathing look, and turned on his heel.
〜
“Fuck him.” Eddie grumbled to himself as he walked the beaten path to the clubhouse, angrily whacking a tree branch out of the way. He couldn’t decide who he was pretending it was; Richie, or the girl he had been kissing.
“Fucking stupid Trashmouth.”
Eddie was done. He had tried acting like everything was normal, he had tried avoiding Richie, he had tried thinking about other people. He had even tried an unhealthy amount of wanking to finally get over him. Nothing had worked. And what's worse, until today–until he had seen Richie kissing someone else with his very own eyes–he had held on to the tiny sliver of hope that maybe could love him back, eventually. That maybe Richie could learn to want Eddie like Eddie wanted him.
Well, not anymore. He had felt the impending mental breakdown since he had witnessed that kiss, which was why he was making his way through the Derry woods, in the dark, to the clubhouse. He would be alone there, and free to cry without his mother bursting into his room to check his pulse and shove those stupid placebos down his throat.
Something rustled to his left, and he jumped, terrified. He reached for his inhaler, taking two puffs. Fuck. Maybe this wasn’t the greatest idea…he wasn’t exactly known for his bravery.
Something rustled again, and he whimpered, taking off down the track, scrabbling past overgrown shrubs and roots. The trapdoor came into sight, and he threw it open, scrambling down the ladder as fast as his annoyingly short legs could carry him.
He missed a step, and tumbled down the last few rungs, landing in a disgruntled heap on the dim clubhouse floor–then froze.
There was someone, no, two people in the hammock. He stumbled backwards–I’m going to be fucking kidnapped, or murdered–screaming at the top of his lungs, hands flailing, trying to find the ladder behind him, as he faced the shadowy figures in the hammock, who sprung up, startled, and–
Eddie froze, again. “You have got to be fucking kidding me.”
There, tangled up in the hammock, was Richie, with some girl who had her hand splayed possessively on his chest. They had obviously been making out, and god knows what else.
Eddie’s breath caught in his throat.
No. No, no, no, this isn’t real.
He felt his eyes fill with tears, and he cursed himself for being such a sissy.
“You have got to be kidding me.” He repeated, his voice trembling with disbelief as he stared at Richie.
Richie practically fell out of the hammock in his haste to untangle himself from the girl, who looked disgruntled. He adjusted his glasses, and stepped cautiously towards Eddie.
“Eds, are you okay?”
He said it with so much care, and love, that it caused Eddie’s tears to finally spill over. He took a step back from Richie, and rolled his eyes, hastily swiping a hand across his tear stained cheeks.
“Don’t act like you care, Richie.”
Richie recoiled, and looked at Eddie in shock. He shook his head, and opened his mouth to say something, but was interrupted by the girl. She climbed out of the hammock with quick, clumsy movements, and practically ran to the ladder.
“I’m gonna go..” She said, looking at Richie.
He just nodded, not taking his eyes off Eddie. The girl just rolled her eyes and scoffed, before climbing up the ladder, leaving the boys in deafening, loaded silence.
“I can’t believe you bought a girl here.” Eddie said angrily, twisting his face into something he hoped resembled a sneer.
Richie took a step closer to Eddie, and Eddie took another step back, his back hitting the clubhouse wall. Richie took another step towards him, and another, his brown eyes filled with so much sadness and concern Eddie could almost fool himself into believing Richie hadn’t cast him aside. Almost.
Richie was so close to him now. Eddie could have reached out and touched him.
Instead, he looked up at Richie, his eyes filled with tears he kept angrily wiping away.
“I mean, I get you don’t want me, but you don’t need to bring your weekly conquests here to–”
His voice cracked, and he looked away, “... to hurt me even more.”
He heard Richie’s breath hitch, and looked up at him. He tried to smile, the anger subsiding out of him and being replaced with sadness.
“Speechless for once, Trashmouth?”
Richie flinched like the words had physically hurt him, and Eddie could see his jaw working, but still, no words left his mouth.
Eddie laughed, but it came out wrong–it sounded more like he was drowning than anything else. He shuffled out from where Richie had him caged against the wall, and sniffed, turning towards the ladder.
“Forget it,” he muttered, “I don’t even know why I decided to come here.”
Richie caught his wrist before he could reach for the first rung, and Eddie turned around slowly to face Richie. He could feel his breath against his face, it was so close.
Richie’s voice was barely above a whisper. “Eds, show me your soulmark.”
Eddie frowned, and pulled his wrist out of Richie’s hand, tugging down the long sleeves that he had taken to wearing.
“Why? It’s not like you don’t already know what it shows.”
Richie’s eyes widened, “I don’t–”
Eddie sighed, “It’s okay, Richie. You don’t have to lie. I’ve pretty much gotten over it–”
Richie lunged towards Eddie and grabbed his right wrist before Eddie could stop him, pulling up his sleeve and staring in shock at the golden line etched into his soft skin that was faded and fraying, barely visible in some places.
“Oh my god…” He whispered, looking up at Eddie, his eyes filled with so much pain and regret, and yet…a sparkle of something else. Hope, maybe?
Eddie self consciously tried to pull his arm back, embarrassed at the obvious display of Richie’s rejection, but Richie didn’t let him, holding Eddie's hand to his chest and stepping forward so there was only mere inches of space between them.
“Is it…Is it me?” He whispered, looking down at Eddie.
Eddie stared up at him, confused. What did he mean? Obviously he was Eddie’s soulmate.
“What?” He whispered. Why did Richie want to rehash all of this? Why did he want to bring up all these painful feelings of rejection and unrequited love Eddie had been trying so hard to bury.
“I’m…Am I your soulmate, Eds?” Richie asked. Somewhere in the back of his mind Eddie noted this was probably the longest conversation they’d had without Richie mentioning either his wang or Eddie’s mother.
“Yeah–Obviously.” Eddie whispered, reaching up to wipe a tear off his face.
Richie held up his own wrist next to Eddies’, and there, against his skin was a perfect, glowing golden soul mark.
“You love me.” Richie whispered in wonder, staring at their two soul marks.
Eddie rolled his eyes, and looked away. Fresh tears streaming down his face at the reminder of the feelings that wished Richie could reciprocate.
“Fucking hell,” Richie shouted, startling Eddie who looked back up at him through his tears.
“What, Richie? Jesus Christ.” He sniffled, trying to pull away, but Richie was grinning, and holding on his wrists tightly.
“Fuck, Eddie, I’m so–I’m so fucking sorry. You love me,” he laughed, almost hysterically, and his hands came up to Eddie’s waist, tugging him even closer. Eddie gaped up at Richie, completely lost at this sudden change of emotion.
Richie grinned down at him, and one of his hands came up to cradle Eddie’s cheek. Eddie could have died right then and there.
“Fuck, Eddie Spaghetti, I love you too.”
He leaned down slowly, as if giving Eddie a chance to pull away. He didn’t. He couldn’t–he was rooted to the spot, his heart thundering so loudly in his ears that it blocked out everything other than the words Richie had just spoken.
And then Richie kissed him.
His lips were soft against Eddie’s and his hands were strong around Eddie’s waist and cheek. Eddie’s hand flew up to grip Richie’s shoulders, and Richie’s hands moved to fist the back of Eddie’s shirt, like he was scared Eddie would vanish if he let him go.
A noise like a whimper sounded somewhere in Eddie’s throat, and Richie pulled him closer still, deepening the kiss, his hands sliding down to grip Eddie’s waist. Eddie’s knees buckled as Richie tilted his head, trying to get closer, always closer, and Richie stumbled forward until Eddie’s back was pushed up against the clubhouse wall.
Richie’s tongue brushed against Eddie’s bottom lip, and he made a small, involuntary sound, letting Richie’s tongue stroke into his mouth.
“Fuck,” Eddie breathed against his mouth, “You’re a good kisser, Trashmouth.”
Richie broke away for a second to grin at him. He liked Eddie like this, panting and flushed while staring up at him.
“Learned from your mom.”