Chapter Text
The air in Vittorio’s was thick—not just with the smell of over-garlicked marinara, but with the suffocating weight of Richie Tozier’s boredom. I could see it in the way he was tapping his steak knife against the glass, a rhythmic tink-tink-tink that made my teeth ache. I was busy. I had my travel-sized bottle of hand sanitizer on the table, meticulously cleaning my hands after touching the communal breadbasket (which I hadn't even eaten from; gluten still scares me, even after I knew it was safe).
"Eds," Richie whispered. He leaned in so close his glasses nearly knocked into mine. I could smell the peppermint of his gum and the faint, underlying scent of the expensive cigarettes he swore he’d quit smoking.
"Don’t call me that. And get out of my personal space, Richie. You’re breathing directly into my face."
"Look at what they’re drinking," he ignored me, gesturing with a sharp chin toward a couple at the next table. They were sipping on two vibrant blue cocktails with umbrellas sticking out of them. "The ‘Blueberry Bliss.’ It’s on the house for ‘special occasions.’ And look at that guy—he’s got a plate of calamari the size of your head, and he didn't pay a cent for it because he told the waiter it was their anniversary."
"Good for him," I muttered, tucked my sanitizer away, and adjusted my napkin. "He can enjoy his free grease and the inevitable food poisoning that comes with unwashed shellfish."
Richie’s eyes gleamed behind his thick lenses. This was the look. The 'Trashmouth' look. "We could get the good stuff, Eds. The top-shelf scotch. The molten lava cake that takes twenty minutes to prep. We could get it all if you just looked like you liked me for five minutes."
My heart did a weird, uncomfortable flip-flop. "No. Absolutely not. That is fraud, Richie. It’s unethical. It’s a violation of the social contract. What if they ask for ID? What if they have a registry? And besides, the germs on a shared 'celebratory' plate—"
"The world is a stage, Eddie my love," Richie interrupted, his voice already shifting into a low, theatrical croon. "And we are but humble actors providing dinner theater in exchange for a service fee. Think of the dessert as our commission for a stellar performance."
"We’ll be banned! Or blacklisted!" I hissed, but Richie was already moving.
He didn't wait for my consent, just flagged down the hostess, a girl who looked like she was nineteen and already exhausted by life. Suddenly, Richie’s posture slumped. His lip began to tremble. It was the "Puppy Dog" routine, the one he used to use on his mom to get out of detention.
"Excuse me," he said, his voice cracking with a manufactured vulnerability that made my skin crawl with secondhand embarrassment. "I’m sorry to bother you, it’s just... it’s my fiancé’s birthday. We’ve had a really hard year. We survived... a lot. Medical bills, family drama... you know how it is. And tonight is the night I’ve been planning to finally, well..."
He trailed off, looking at me with a gaze so heavy with fake devotion it felt like a physical weight. The hostess’s face softened instantly. She looked at me—sweating, clutching my napkin, probably looking like a man on the verge of a cardiac event—and saw a tragic romantic lead.
"Oh, wow," she whispered. "Let me go talk to the manager."
"Richie, I am going to murder you," I whispered through gritted teeth the second she was out of earshot. "I am going to strangle you with your own designer scarf."
"Shh, Eds. Deep breaths. Think of the lava cake. We’ve spent a fortune on bandages and therapy since we left Derry. The world owes us a brownie. It’s basic mathematics."
The staff began to swarm. They replaced our water with sparkling cider. They brought out a "sampler" of appetizers. I was sweating through my button-down, my pulse thundering in my ears. Every time a waiter walked by, I thought: This is it. This is the moment they realize I’m just a guy with an inhaler and he’s just a loudmouth from Los Angeles.
Then, at the height of the dinner rush, Richie stood up. The restaurant went quiet as he dropped to one knee.
"Eddie Kaspbrak," he announced, his voice carrying to every corner of the room. "We survived the darkness. We came back from the edge of the world. I don't want to spend another day not being yours. Will you make me the happiest man in this mid-priced Italian establishment?"
The crowd erupted. "Awwws" rippled through the room. I sat there, paralyzed. For a split second, looking into Richie’s eyes, I forgot it was a bit. I saw the way his pupils were blown wide, the way he was actually shaking slightly. Then I saw the tiny, mischievous wink.
"I’m going to kill you," I whispered.
The crowd took my whispered threat and my horrified expression for a tearful "I love you." Richie pulled me up into a crushing hug. I buried my face in his shoulder, partly to hide from the fifty strangers clapping for us, and partly because... well, he smelled like peppermint and safety.
We got the penthouse-level service for the rest of the night. But as I sat there, eating a free molten lava cake, my heart wouldn't slow down. It felt less like a scam and more like a heart attack I didn't want to recover from.