Archive of Our Own

System in our hands, you only had it before.

Exactly twelve years after his birth, Richie Tozier gained a semblance of a brain, or at least what seems like it- for all Richie knows it could be some nerve controlling amoeba, curling its way around the stems of flowers exploding their way out of his ears. Point is, he got some brain, Richie nods in agreement to the voice in his head saying, ‘Hey, c’mere! Look at this brain that just won't die!’

And that semblance pulled up its pants and tied its laces and stomped all over every thought Richie Tozier had ever had, leaving exactly one sector- guarded and top secret, access card needed-, that was Richie Tozier, on a molecular level. See, that little bargain bin of brain was where Richie came home every night, changing shifts, captain. His mother would tell him he had a screw loose, and he'd tense up his arms, swing one out to the side and say, ‘it's actually a short circuit, Maggie.’ 

It's where his jelly feelings and brow scrunching lived, white picket fence, the whole nine yards. You sure are in Kansas now, Audrey.

For the next six years Richie Tozier would coast by on his best River Phoenix, his worst Tootsie and an absolutely devastating crush on Eddie Kaspbrak.

“Check the yella pages, doll. Find a real good John, there.”

Eddie stops rummaging through his bag, shooting Richie a glare, “Shut up Richie, you know you're seriously no help right now.” 

“You’re no fun. I have goo eyes and you're being mean to me, little boy goo eyes.”

Richie swipes the edge of his sleeve over his eyes, his gooey eyes, does a wet sniff, swipes under his nose, and watches the snot stretch from his upper lip off onto the sleeve. With the least decorum of any person on the planet, Richie wipes his snotty, gooey, wet sleeve off on Eddie's thigh. For good luck. 

“Richie, are you fucking serious?” Richie watches Eddie scramble to grab a very squished packet of antibacterial wipes kept on his desk, or maybe that's the one he took from his bag. Either way, Eddie's shirt rides up as he stretches for them, and Richie has a very hard time corralling the horses in his skull back into their pen. ‘Git, boy,’ he tells them, one skirts by the fence and kicks up the dust into Richie's face. ‘I oughta put a real spot a’ colour right on your kisser, acting like the biggest grody idiot ever, ’ one says. Richie did not know they could talk, granted usually they’re other Richie’s. Not horses. He tells them their slang is about twenty years out of date. The grey one, which had previously been scritching at the walking pole out of spite, scoffs and tells Richie all horses can talk, they just don't talk to him because he's little boy goo eyes. ‘Like you're one to talk’, Richie shoots back before wrangling them back though the fence posts, only losing three teeth in the process. 

“Are you even listening? I swear to god, Richie!” 

Richie leaves the picture playing in his head, to see Eddie, with a very red raw thigh, kneeling in front of him with dry tissues and a nasal spray. “You’re so fucking gross, dude.”

Cameron Frye, Richie thinks. Something about two sticks of coal. “I’m a soldier on the field here, attacked from all angles, Eds.”

Eddie sighs, and moves to wipe at Richie's snotty nose himself, considering Richie's arms seem glued to his thighs. “Should’ve let you die out there,” he mumbles.

Richie frowns, “A mind is a terrible thing to waste, Eds.” Richie grabs his chin and jaw and pretends to try and pull his skin off.

Eddie swats his hands away, “Stop that. You're in the way.”

Richie makes a face, to quell away the smile trying to crawl its way onto his skin. “Small soldiers, nineteen ninety-three,” he says. 

So on his checklist of- something- Eddie would rather he keep his x-chip. Well, Sergeant, that'll do. A thrill runs down Richie's spine, tugging at his shoulders and landing anvil-like on his tailbone. “I’ll tell ya,” Richie leaps forward, grabbing Eddie's wrists and leaving them hovering in the air by the side of his head. “There’s remarkable work being done by the bugs in your brain.” At that, Richie grabs the tissues from Eddie's hand and blows a chunk of boogers out, maybe some brain too. Be still my dying brain, Richie thinks.

“By the way, my truck’s fixed- no, I promise it's fixed this time.” Richie rubs the clean side of the booger-brain ridden tissue into the corners of his eyes, squishing all the goo leaving the tissue wet. “Scouts honour,” he says and smiles at Eddie. 

Eddie squints at him, like he's a little fly in a jar- Richie shivers at that, keep me in here! I'll stay with you forever, promise! I'll be your little pet, put me in your pocket, “Sure. Just get rid of the cigarette smell, too. Those things'll kill you, Rich.” Rich. Rich, he says. Like it's nothing. Like it's not pianos falling and birds spinning and get the damn stars, Tozier!

Richie sniffs up the spray from the bottle on the floor, scrunches up his nose, and falls back with his arms splayed. Eddie’s ceiling is not very interesting. “Everything’ll kill me, Eds.”

“Shut up. Don't call me that.”

Eddie always says that, tells him to shut up when Richie says something that upsets him. And it's almost funny that most of the time when he does- it's about Richie's own welfare. About Richie dunking himself in a bucket of ice cold water, letting out all his air and allowing the dense liquid to cover his senses. Metaphorically. In reality it's Richie joking but not really joking about dying. Like now. Which actually does make Richie feel bad, because he knows it's not just surface level, Eddie called it OCD. He had explained it in aggravating detail when he'd found out. A lot of long words, a lot of long eyelashes fluttering along Eddie's cheek bone, a lot of wishing more than anything that he could take it all from Eddie and give it to himself. 

“Sorry, Eds.” Richie rolls onto his side, watching Eddie, who's still rummaging in his bag. Probably trying to find the most efficient way to pack everything. Richie never packs anything. 

Richie tugs at the carpet. Eddie's window is open, the thin white curtain blowing past the air. Eddie's grass is freshly cut. So is his neighbor Mrs. Fletcher’s. Everyone is cutting their grass and Richie is laying on Eddie's carpet with sour tasting spray in his nostrils and sticky eyelids and all he can think to do is watch Eddie's face as he mumbles to himself about pollen and pesticides. Richie would roll face down in the grass all day long if Eddie asked. All he has to do is ask.

Being with Eddie is the only time the tiny self-titled part of his brain ever really shows, apart from when he's alone. Richie likes to think that whatever brain eating amoeba he has, is the same as Eddie’s. That maybe they're from the same planet. Came down to earth and crawled in both their ears on the same day, walkie talkie-ing each other about how work is going, ‘Slow day here, the mothers a piece of work, I’ll tell ya that’ Eddie’s would say, Richie’s kick their feet up on the desk, ‘I’m still tryin ta’ get past the damn glasses’, Richie’s would reply. Richie would argue he doesn't need them, ‘I’m giving you a choice, either put these damn glasses on or start eating that trash can!’, and Richie would laugh and tell his little brain amoeba that no one gets to be Nada but him.

Being with Eddie, he thinks, is like when Nada first finds those sunglasses, and suddenly everything about his world shifts and everything is different. He sees things for the first time in their true form and it makes his stomach twist and his lungs squeeze and he just can't help it. He'd sooner chuck up all over his shoes than give up any of it really. Eddie is the scariest thing Richie has ever encountered, and he hopes to god he stays afraid.

“You know we don’t have to go to the Barrens, we could just tell the others to go to the Quarry instead. Since you're all mucked up.” Eddie leans down into Richie's view, some of the light curls in his hair fall forward in front of his face. “No one wants Germs McGee running around.”

“Germs McGee is only prowling around for you. Germs McGee only targets little weirdos.”

Eddie flicks Richie in the forehead. “Then get up. Bill mentioned grabbing pop rocks and I don’t want Bev eating all the cherry ones.”

“Yessir.”

Stanley ‘bitmaster’ Uris meets the two of them near the Throw-Up Field. 

Richie gave Stanley that nickname last month, after he’d joined in on Richie's bit about Harry Caul. Richie had snorted so hard his soda went up his nose and he had to spend ten minutes scrubbing it off Stan's art deco living room rug while Mrs. Uris scolded Stan, who despite being in trouble at the hands of Richie, was smirking straight at him. 

Richie did not give the field that nickname. It's just one of those spots around town that everyone knows, like, hey! That's Throw-Up Field. Next to the Kissing Bridge. Down past the Town Hall and through the alley next to Mr. Elgers candy store is the Bombsite, which is actually just a rarely used dumping ground for old cars.

So Stan meets them at Throw-Up Field, and Richie keeps his eyes on the back of Stan’s head in front of him as they cross the bridge. The bridge. Richie would make a joke, but not much is funny right now. 

Eddie does joke, he tells Stan all about little boy goo eyes Richie and how he looked like he came straight out of watching Pretty In Pink after a break up. Eddie conveniently leaves out the part that left him with a red raw thigh. But he is right, Richie thinks. In a way, not because he had gooey eyes and a gooey nose, but because when Richie looks at Eddie he feels like he just walked out of watching Pretty In Pink after a break up. When Richie looks at Eddie he feels the most devastating impending heartbreak he's ever going to feel. And he knows it as a fact. It's the most true thing anyone has ever known. When Eddie leaves for New York and Richie leaves for California and Eddie leaves his brown eyes and freckles and eyelashes and, and, and. When Richie leaves for California he leaves everything, his heart, his tongue, his soul, his air and takes absolutely nothing worth mentioning with him. 

And maybe he'll cry like that too, like he's going through a break up because that's what it'll feel like, really. He’ll hug him tight and help him put his bags in the trunk of Mrs. Kaspbrak's car (because he'd forced Eddie to spend the night one last time,) and he'll say, ‘I’ll see ya,’ and he'll watch Eddie's eyes and plead with him in his mind to just know, to just understand, to please, please get it. And Eddie will smile a sad smile and scrub his eyes and say, ‘Not if I see you first,’ and when he drives away and turns left down the block, Richie will sink to the ground and heave out sobs until Wentworth comes down the steps and grabs him under the shoulders and lets him cling to his blue button up shirt as his knees give out under him. Because Wentworth knew, and Maggie knew, and Richie never had to say a word but they knew. Because it was the most true thing anyone has ever known.

Something no one tells you about the Barrens, and the Kenduskeag by default, is that it's nearly silent. If you walk down the Kissing Bridge, up the forest hill and shuffle along the rocky edges of the clearing next to the old game keepers cabin, you'll find a hole in the wire fence. Through the hole is a field of wheat- or something akin to it, with a tread on path through the middle that zig zags down to the water stream. Near the edge of the field, the trees pop up again, leaving a loose forest floor that at least one person will inevitably stumble on and spill down the slope into the Kenduskeag itself. To the right of this slope, the Barrens opens up from its middle. 

It's loud in sight, but silent in nature. You’d need to hone in and focus- close your eyes and breathe, to hear the trickle of the water against the stones, to hear the creaking of the old bars twenty feet into the Barrens opening, to hear Richie Tozier's heart in his throat.

Richie has taken this route hundreds upon hundreds of times, with others, alone, walking, sprinting, bleeding, crying, begging. Each time feels like an escape. And when he reaches the sun bitten trees and the bright white water he knows he's okay, and safe, and this is as close to home as he'll ever feel. 

“Seriously, Rich, I told you we shouldn't have come here. You're all- you're all gross.”

Richie sniffs- clogged and wet. “Stanley’s out of earshot, Eds, you can be nice now.”

Eddie rolls his eyes, marching a few steps ahead of Richie, smacking a branch out of his way (it whips right back at him, earning a, “Fucking- fuck.”)

Richie thinks he really, really could watch Eddie all his life. “You don't know how hard it is being a man lookin’ at a woman lookin’ the way you do.” 

Eddie looks at his watch, “Do not fucking do Roger Rabbit with me right now,” he says.

“Well. Technically that was Eddie Valiant,” Richie mumbles, ducking around a leafy branch above him.

“I know,” Eddie slows to turn back to Richie, “I thought I was Eddie Valiant.”

Richie smiles, “Course you are, Eds,” Richie bumps his shoulder against Eddie as he strides past him, “but sometimes I gotta do the work for both of us.”

Richie thinks he hears Eddie mumbling about not understanding him, Richie thinks that's fair.

When he catches up to Stan, they're about two minutes away from the barrens, forest floor steepening as they go. Richie has to take smaller steps to keep in line with Stan. “So what's the verdict, Stanley?" Richie says in his most serious Gene Hackman.

“Nothin’ out here, Caul. Speak freely,” Stan smirks.

Richie laughs a small nervous thing, and fiddles with his belt loop, “I think I'm gonna do it, Ross. Walk right into that room, blood and all.”

Stan looks up at him as they both step over a fallen tree, rotten to the core but still growing small flower weeds and mushrooms. “What if it's empty, Caul?”

Richie waves a hand, looking at the bark and old crunchy leaves beneath him. “Ah, same difference, does it matter?”

“I outta think it does. It's gotta, right?”

“The missing word was ‘us’, Stanley." And Richie says his name in the Stanley Uris way, not in the Stanley Ross way. So Stan hums and leaves it at that.

“How’s your eyes- and nose?”

Richie shrugs, “Itchy. Eddie's right, I probably should've stayed home, or gone to the Quarry.”

Stan reaches out for Richie's shoulder as he stumbles over a loose rock, “The Quarry would've been just as bad.”

“Yeah,” Richie holds Stan's elbow as he rights himself, “maybe.”

Richie watches the Kenduskeag come into view, the trees thinning out. “Maybe, but I would've got an eye full of Little Miss Sunshine's nipples, though.”

“Richie, for god sake, stop calling him that. Especially when you say shit like that. Bev’ll think you're talking about her.”

A laugh tears itself from Richie's throat and he trips on the now rocky edge of the forest floor, careening down, face first into the pebbles and twigs.

“Christ, rich!” Stan hurries to flip him over, he's still laughing- it’s a very funny concept, the idea that Richie was talking about Bev, or that Bev wasn't the one who coined the nickname Little Miss Sunshine, or that anyone could look at Richie and assume he's straight, or that it's what's expected of him.

Eddie trips his way over, eyes wide and mouth hanging open, “What the fuck, dickwad?”

Eddie really is gorgeous, with the sun a halo behind him, and the trees a pattern against the sky, and his brown hair caught in the wind, just like that day, Richie thinks. Just like that day, covered in grey water and sewage and blood and sweat and tears and love and love love love love love. Just like his reflection, muddled with each of their own, wind in his hair, mouth open, relief and shock and free on his face. 

Five years later and he's still, he's still the most gorgeous boy Richie has ever seen in his life. With his freckles high on his nose, and his permanent furrowed brows, and his skin and eyes and lips and-

“Life mocks me, even in death,” Richie whispers.

Eddie crouches down, “Did you scramble your brains when you hit the ground, Richard?"

“A mind is-“

“A terrible thing to waste, yes I know, Major.” Eddie grabs at Richie's arm, groaning as he pulls Richie from the ground. Richie's glasses are… somewhere. And there's leaves on him. A lot. And Eddie's holding his bicep with both hands.

There's leaves on Richie's back, and Stan is nowhere to be seen. Richie supposes he knew Eddie would take care of it, of him. And isn't that a thing. “It’s a small world after all,” Richie says.

Eddie swipes at the leaves on Richie's back, they're all crunchy and broken and stuck to the fabric of his shirt. “Is there any Richie even left in there?”

“Only the important parts,” Richie shrugs. “Can you see my glasses?”

Eddie reaches down for them, grumbling a quiet, "I don't know, can I?”

Richie, who is usually adept at this, expects Eddie to hand him his glasses, (after fogging them up and cleaning them with the tail of his shirt), Eddie does not hand them to Richie. (He cleans them). He unfolds them fully, steps closer to Richie, looks up through his eyelashes (oh god), and slides them up onto Richie's nose. Like it's nothing. Like Richie can't feel the heat from his hands against his cheeks, like he can't smell Eddie's coconut shampoo, like he can't see the sweetest laughter in his eyes and Richie's future held in his small hands.

Eddie wipes his palms on his shorts, “You good, Rich?”

“It’ll take a lot more than some stingy branches to hurt me.”

“You were always hard to hurt, Birdy. Real losers never hurt,” Eddie smiles.

Richie stares for a moment, Eddie's always been real good at timing. And words. And knowing what the fuck he’s doing. Richie doesn’t get it at all. Richie doesn't get Eddie at all, not really. “At least they have that,” Richie says.

Eddie laughs, and tugs Richie the rest of the way down the clearing. He can hear it now, the sound of the Kenduskeag. It is, and has always been, in the form of Bill laughing his voice-broken laugh, of Stan and Mike giggling on the glass clearing on the far side of the stream, of Ben and his tape deck on the rocks. And Beverly Marsh, loud in sight, but for now, silent in nature, laying on the flat salt rocks tucked around the bend.

“Jeepers, how I’ve missed you Jessica!” Richie tumbles his way over to Beverly, shoes and ankles of his jeans getting soaked in the process. 

Beverly jolts at the sound, turning her head and peeling off her sunglasses. “Hey, rabbit,” Beverly smiles, rolling onto her stomach.

Richies laughs, jumping on the balls of his feet. Oh, how he loves this girl. He leans down to kiss her cheek before sitting cross legged next to her.

She leans on an elbow, looking up at him through her wild curls, “Is that a rabbit in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?” She points a finger towards Richie's jeans.

Richie laughs again, leaning back onto his hands for a second, he sighs, and pulls the pack of cigarettes from his pocket. They're some knock off brand, bought em in the back of the off street grocers back when he vaguely knew the teenage employee, ‘Kitty’s want’, they're called. He pulls one out, offering it to Beverly. 

She accepts it, holds it between her lips as Richie pulls out his lighter and lights it for her. “Roger, darling, I love you more than any woman’s ever loved a rabbit.”

Richie smiles at that, and stretches his legs out off the flat rock, dangling, and lays back. He turns to Beverly's legs beside his head, grabs her ankle and looks back to the sky.

“None for you?”

“No. Trying to ease up on ‘em.” 

“Courtesy of Little Miss Sunshine, I assume.”

Beverly is a comedian today apparently, Richie laughs and laughs. “Yeah. No, we were actually just talking about that.”

“That boy's got you wrapped around his finger,” she whispers, for Richie's ears only.

“Yeah.” Richie looks out to the stoney flat stream shore, Eddie talking Bill’s ear off, mindlessly tugging grass from their roots and placing them on Bill's thigh. “Yeah.”

Mike's the first to leave, wrapped in his warm skin and pink cheeks. Richie thinks not a single wrong thing should ever happen to this boy, thinks Mike deserves a life like Ren McCormack’s, full of laughter and dancing and music. Pretty girls too, he supposes. Of hard work and even better rewards. Just everything, really. Dance your ass off, Mike Hanlon. 

But he does leave, suggesting that he wants to set up the barn tonight, instead of tomorrow so they have more daylight when they all head over. Which is something Richie actually forgot about, going to Mike’s barn. 

Sometimes they do that, when the Barrens and the Quarry get too sticky, or dangerous, or familiar. Familiar in the way they all know how they met Ben, and they all know why they were there in the first place. A weird part of Richie feels like he lived another life, where the Quarry deals him his biggest heartbreak. It sends a shiver down his spine, deja vu, Stanley calls it. 

Ben and Beverly leave next, no one really needs an explanation for that. They've seen the faint hickeys littering Beverly's neck when the two go to the Aladdin’s drama double feature Thursday.

Stan and Bill leave as a pair too, Stan with an all too knowing smile and Bill with a tired too-old smile. It's only June, but the summer always reminds him that next is autumn, and autumn brings an awful wet, loud, and empty anniversary spent in the parlour, his mothers piano silent.

And now Richie is alone with Eddie, and the sun started setting a while ago when Ben had politely told Richie he would leave the tape deck with them, to be careful, and to bring it with them tomorrow. Them. Like they come as a pair. Like Ben & Beverly, or Bill & Stan. Richie doesn't know which pair it would be better to be like in the eyes of Ben. But he's sweet, and he means well. And maybe he has the knowing that Beverly has. Or maybe she just told him, boyfriend privileges.

So the sun is setting, and Richie can't deal with the silence, the silence of them. Sure there's crickets now, and bugs flying near his ears that he swats at fruitlessly, and the water is still trickling. But Eddie is sitting on the edge of the flat rock facing the sun and watching the swathes of bugs-that-make-you-itchy fly around above the maybe-wheat, and his hair part is just too far to the side, standing tall and light. And Richie watches him, with his tan legs pulled up to his chest, shorts creasing at his thighs. 

And Richie realises, this is what Jeff Buckley meant. In Grace, and Lover, and all of it really. This is what they're all singing about. Brand new Jeff Buckley and brand new Smashing Pumpkins leaving a shell shocked eighteen year old Richie laying in bed, bathed in sweat and face wet with silent tears pooling in his ears, because of Soma, because of Mayonaise. Because when I can, I will, Richie thinks.

“Eddie.”

Eddie turns to look at him, last rays of sun gliding past his cheekbones, bathing his hair in a soft glow. He's got his cheek resting on his knee, and his hands holding the bottom of his shoes. Richie's heart hurts so much.

“You-“ Richie's chest constricts, and he has to take a sharp breath in. “The love inside- you take it with you.”

Eddie scrunches his nose, which Richie knows means he's suppressing a smile. 

“Whatever.” He looks back to the sun, Richie's eyes stay on the back of his head. “Ditto.”

And Richie really does think he's about to cry, his chin wobbles and he has to look down to hide it- though Eddie's not even looking at him, and that feels like it means something too.

Because Eddie does this thing, where he'll be able to reply to Richie, in the perfect way, the perfect words, the perfect understanding of where they're from, but missing the meaning every time. Missing, or not seeing, or avoiding politely. Richie doesn't know, neither does his brain eating amoeba.

Ditto, he says. Because he knows. Ditto, he says. Ditto. Ditto. Ditto. I love you, Molly. I've always loved you. Ditto. I love you. I really love you. Ditto. 

“She ate them all by the way, I told you so.”

“I- what?” Richie looks back to him.

“The pop rocks. Bev ate all the cherry ones.”

“Oh.” Richie pauses a moment, then stands and drops himself beside Eddie. Legs dangling again, because he's too tall and lanky and awkward to be small. “I’ll buy you more.”

“You better, goo eyes.” Eddie bumps his shoulder against Richie's.

Richie smiles, tries to blink away the tears from before. “You know I will.”

Richie walks him home when the sun dips, and the street lights up in the distance on the bridge spanning across the river turn on. It's warm still, but night warm. Like the only heat is what was there before and it cools rapidly but in that sweet spot it's nothing. It's dead air, quiet. And this is the kind Richie likes, this quiet. He thinks maybe his brain bugs go to sleep, and let Richie Tozier take the reins of the horses in his head for just a small while.

They take the long route, because Eddie doesn't want to go home. Because Eddie hates his mom- Richie supplies himself, not because he's with you. 

His nose and eyes are dry now, pollen only sticking to him in the wet heat of the day, so he can breath- as best he can. As normal as he can. Because Eddie walks next to him on the sidewalk, dipped in gold light every few seconds as they walk past the lights. 

Richie really has to think of something else, something normal. Something that's not needing to know the smell and feel and taste of the other boy's skin. Needing to watch his eyes flit about when he's asleep, which Richie has had the privilege to see a small handful of times.

Something that's not everything to him, how do you think of something else but everything? How do you make something less than everything?

“I left something in your room.” Richie kicks a rock off the pavement, sending it rocketing across the street. “Am album, you'll like it, but there's one song I know you'll love.”

“Oh yeah?” Eddie mumbles, distracted, or distant.

Richie hums. “You ever see that movie Howard the Duck?”

Eddie glances at him, “No,” he looks away, “but it's sorta- technically Marvel, right?”

“Yeah.” Richie laughs. “It's real weird- he like, is a duck from a planet that has ducks instead of humans. Like they evolved the same way or something, just the wrong species. And he meets this woman, Beverly, right?” Richie smiles.

Eddie smiles too.

“Played by Lea Thompson, like the only other redhead to exist besides our Bev. I think they're from the same soul or something- anyway, he meets her and they fall in love. And also have to save earth from like aliens, or something. And the principle from Ferris Bueller's Day Off.”

“Right.”

“I don't know. I think it's sweet. Don't tell anyone I said that. But he calls her Doll, and Toots. And she calls him Duckie.”

“Like Pretty In Pink?”

“Like Pretty In Pink, Matthew Broderick. That's some weird cross over, huh?”

Eddie hums, splashed in gold once more. 

“Anyway. He's all ‘I don't drink outta bowls, Doll’, and she's all ‘What am I gonna do with you Duckie,’ and it's sort of weird- y'know cause he's a duck.” Richie shoves his hands into his jean pockets, thumbs looped in his belt rings.

Richie glances as Eddie, “And- and she's a human. And like people give them weird looks, y'know? Because it's wrong or, or weird. And y'know what Beverly says?”

Eddie looks at him, waiting.

“She says- says, ‘He may be a duck, but you people are animals. You don't make me proud to be a human.” Richie ghosts a hand through the air.

“Huh.”

“Ain’t that a thing?”

“Sure, Rich.” Eddie raises an eyebrow at him. “It got a meaning? To you?”

Richie thinks of feathers and curly styled hair. “Everything’s got a meaning, Doll.”

Eddie shoves him with a laugh. 

Eddie's house is in view now, and some tense ball in Richie's chest is winding around him like a snake, like a virus corrupting every cell in his body. 

When they reach his driveway, Richie stays quiet, knowing far too well if he laughs too loud or toughens up his voice for his ‘kinky briefcase sexual accountant’ bit he's at real risk of getting a shoutin’ at by Mrs Kaspbrak herself, scram Tozier, I better not see you round here again. 

Eddie climbs the few steps of his porch, getting a one up on height on Richie. He does this, he stands and waits for the night's monologue. Richie’s never told him he takes time most nights to figure out which to use. Richie likes to use lines he knows Eddie knows, so it's a secret thing just for them, trapping them in a bit Richie can pretend is real, just for a moment.

“So?”

“Sweet dreams.”

Eddie smiles immediately, he likes this one, Richie knows.

“What's a dream?”

“A dream is a wish your heart makes, when you're fast asleep.”

“Who says?”

“Walt Disney. Sleeping beauty. Nineteen…. Fifty.”

Eddie smiles. “No, it was Cinderella. Nineteen forty-nine.”

Richie can’t pull his eyes from Eddie's face, it's dark now, no lights to blur his freckles against his skin. Just shadows, and moths. And he's smiling so privately, he is so.

“Good night,” Richie whispers.

“Night,” Eddie whispers back.

Richie laughs, takes a few steps backwards, he can't look away, he can’t ever, ever look away. His eyes were made to learn Eddie's face. 

“I'm off like a dirty shirt!” Richie stage whispers when he stumbles off the pavement at the end of the driveway.

Eddie covers his mouth with his hand to stifle a laugh, “Bye Duckie.”

Richie jumps on the balls on his feet, wide grin taking over his face, then laughs loud against his will, runs back up to Eddie, cups his face in his hands, "Bird Of Beauty, nineteen seventy-four!” He shouts, and runs off again before Eddie can get onto him about the noise, or any of it, really.

“All my instincts,” Richie throws another pebble, “they return!”

“The grand facade, so soon will burn!”

Another pebble, jeez there really are a lot of pebbles on Eddie's lawn, the hell does his mom do all day? Shoot craps in the sun?

“Without a noise, without my pride,” Richie leans back, hand on his hip, he sort of has a cramp from running here. “I reach out from the inside! Eddie!”

Richie waits a moment, “Say anything, nineteen eighty nine!”

Eddie's window finally skirts up, flakes of the white paint fall to the grass as Eddie leans out. He definitely just woke up, bedhead prevalent. “Are you doing fucking John Mayer? At seven forty-five am? Seriously, Richie?”

Richie laughs, “Had to do it at some point! We were busy with a clown that summer, in case you forgot. Or do I need to call up Jumbo and Rudy for a refresher?” Richie scrambles to stand on the small bike shed under Eddie's window. “Well you've done it about thirty times now so you tell me,” Eddie mumbles from above him. 

Richie's scuffed converse slips approximately three times before he finally gets his grip and stands up. Eddie’s about half a head higher than him here.

“It is my lady, o, it is my love.” Richie smiles, “Heya, Eds.”

“Hey. You couldn't come to the front door like a normal person?” Eddie yawns.

“I haven't been normal a day in my life.”

Eddie leans back in the window, moving to his dresser to give way for Richie, “At least you're aware.”

Richie climbs in, careful of the pristine white curtains, and flops down onto Eddie's bed, making the posters on the wall swish in the wind. Thundercats Lion-o, of course. He-man, I have the power.

“Didja listen to it? The tape?” Richie flops his arm off the edge of the bed. He sort of wishes he could reach the carpet from here, but then Eddie's bed would be about five inches off the ground and that's not much of a bed, is it?

Which is weird because when he imagines Eddie's bed close to the ground and the carpet between his fingers he thinks of Breakfast At Tiffany’s and that's weird because that dudes bed was pretty high up, right? It's also really stupid, Richie thinks, that he's thinking of the bed in Breakfast At Tiffany’s instead of the gorgeous Audrey Hepburn. Just miserable. 

But still. He tweaks his arm sideways and reaches down at an incredibly uncomfortable angle, and his fingers graze the carpet. “Eddie?”

Richie looks up to find Eddie already watching him, half his arm under his shirt, scratching his ribs. 

“Yeah. How have I never heard that album before?”

Richie shrugs, lifts his arm back onto his stomach. “Sometimes they just slip by. I try to catch them all, cause it’s y’know- it's important to me. But you get most of your music from me, what with the broken car stereo Mrs. K got. So you probably just never had a way to hear it.”

“Talkative.” Eddie steps forward and sits on the edge of the bed near the pillow, right next to Richie's shoulder. “Fulfillingness’ first finale,” he says.

Richie hums, Eddie’s looking at him over his shoulder, just slightly turned.

“So, Bird Of Beauty?” Eddie asks listlessly, reaching out to run a hand through Richie's hair. Which is fine. There's just a stampede in Richie's head and a stampede in his heart.

Richie hums again. 

“What's the album about?”

Richie turns his head from looking at the ceiling, to look at Eddie, and his warm eyes and warm hand. “Stevie Wonder almost died, in seventy-three. Car crash. This one's about living. And hope, I guess.”

Eddie nods, he's not actually looking at Richie- not really, he's watching his own hand card through Richie's curls. 

“Which was your favourite?”

Eddie pauses, pulls his hand away, (a tragedy, Richie thinks), “Creepin, Rich.”

“Yeah? Guess I got it wrong.”

“Yeah.”

Richie sits up and wraps himself around Eddie from behind, dangling his arms over his shoulders and clasping his hands in the air in front of Eddie. “Finding the love where ya can, ay, Eds?”

“Something like that.” Eddie flicks Richie's knuckles, “Now let up, I gotta get dressed. Mike wants us there early, right?”

“Something like that,” Richie echoes. Though he's not really answering Eddie's question. 

Eddie ducks under Richie's hands, and heads to his closet.

“I can get you more soul if you want.” Richie grabs his hair and pulls it back off his forehead, “Elvis is not soul,” he says, in an arguably offensive Irish accent. 

Eddies doesn't turn to Richie but he's listening. “What's that from?”

“Elvis is not soul. Soul is the music people understand.” Richie says again, then drops the accent, and his hair. “Those are different scenes. Jimmy Rabitte, The Commitments, ninety-one.”

Eddie turns to face him as he pulls on a fresh shirt, “And was the accent the Tozier charm, or?”

Richie laughs and shakes his head, “No. Irish, real Irish, not like Maine Irish. It's good.”

“Exotic.” Eddie rolls his eyes.

Richie reaches next to him, pulls open the top drawer of Eddie's dresser nightstand, and blindly fumbles in the drawer till he finds a sock. He pulls it over his hand, “Hey, Eddie.”

Eddie looks up from where he's now doing up his shoes. 

“You can't live with 'em, you can't live without 'em. There's something irresistible-ish about 'em,” Richie sings while he mouths the words with the sock puppet.

Eddie gives him a look, a confusing look, an ‘I’m looking right into your soul, and I’m figuring you out’ look. “Rich, c'mon."

Oh? What was that? That stampede you heard, Richie? Yeah it's broken loose, they're everywhere. It's a flood of horses now, Rich. That walking pole gone with the wind. ‘He doesn't know.’ Richie pleads with them, ‘He doesn't know, he doesn't. He can't.’ That grey horse, from before, kicks up next to Richie, ‘You dumbass, it's so obvious. You're being so obvious. Isn't it on purpose?” Richie, gapes at the horse, ‘I- no, you're wrong.’ The horse shakes its head, and Richie can still feel the vibrations of the stampede inside him. ‘The love inside, you take it with you. Not the other way round.’

Richie stares, face feeling remarkably cold and clammy all of a sudden. “W-what?”

Eddie's eyes flit between Richie's own, looking up through his lashes, eyebrows a straight line and a small frown on his lips. Then he sighs, tucks his lace in and stands up. “Nothing. Let's just get to Mike’s. I'll meet you around the front.”

And then Eddie checks his watch, sets a timer, and leaves his room. Richie can only sit, and stare, mouth open. 

This is so ridiculous. He is so ridiculous. Oh god. Richie scrubs his hands down his face and yanks at his curls. You’re killing me valiant, he thinks. You’re killing me, you hate me!

There's an avenue leading down to Mike's farm, trees lining the left side, mirrored by a fenced off corn field. It's a wide path, sun pooling at the end shining straight down the middle. If Richie knew at all what was good for him, he'd pack his bags and head home to Greenbow, Alabama. 

The sun strikes Eddie, on Richie's right, the same way the streetlights did, flashing him in a warm, bright glow each time they pass a tree. This time, the wind peels his hair back, he's squinting at the light, looks like he tastes like the love dripping down Richie’s throat. Richie thinks of Doris Day and Rock Hudson. I went out and bought a cemetery plot, Richie thinks. Good, good. Use it in good health, his brain amoeba supplies. 

Some part of him offers up Gene Kelly too, snubbed of Sky, perfect for Sky. Richie thinks of Sky Masterson and Sergeant Sarah Brown, it's about you, it's about you right now. Maybe Marlon Brando did a good job. But he didn't want it as much as Gene Kelly.

“Why do you do that, Rich?”

Richie's front tire dunks into a pothole in the ground, sending him nosediving toward the dusty grain of the road. He has got to stop fucking faceplanting.

His bike follows after him closely, landing on his leg with a tumble, Richie sprawled on his front. With a groan, a sore groan, a Wile E. Coyote groan, if Wile E. Coyote ever groaned when an anvil fell on him, or a fake out wall hit him right in the face, Richie rolls onto his back and nudges the handlebars off his leg. 

He takes a moment, listens to Eddie’s and his own bike chains spinning. Eddie’s stops abruptly, and he plants his feet either side of his bike next to Richie.

Richie cranks open his eyes, nervous of any dust falling in them, and looks to Eddie. He's leaning his arms on his handlebars and he really does not have the expression of someone who just watched his best friend eat shit. Richie drops his head to the ground, wincing, and sighs. 

“Why do you do that, Richie?” Eddie asks again.

“Well darn, Eddie, that's pretty vague,” Richie croaks out. 

Eddie shifts on his bike, “The numbers, thing. With the movies, and the music. You do it an awful lot. Why?”

“Oh,” Richie sighs. “I don't know. I just memorise that stuff, the dates, titles. Makes sense to me.”

Eddie stares, and stares, and stares. “But why do you tell me them, even when you've told me before?” Eddie asks, then hesitates, “like Say Anything-“

“Nineteen eighty-nine,” Richie says in unison with Eddie, and a smile. “Because I want you to know what to look for if you like it.”

Eddie mumbles a, “I know what Say Anything is.”

Richie peels himself from the ground to sit up, shakes off like a dog, and realises-

“Your glasses are cracked.”

“Yeah. Thanks for the for observation, Einstein.” Richie pulls them off, glares at the crack in the bridge of the plastic, looks to the sky, sighs, and puts them back on, in that order. 

“Okay fine, see if I care.” Eddie kicks his feet up and starts cycling away, dust cloud blowing big from his wheels.

“Aw-aww Eddie, cmon!” Richie shouts from the ground, like a bug.

There was one time, years ago, when Richie had really pissed Eddie off, left him flushed in the face, tears in his eyes with a bloody scrapped up knee. Richie’d had the idea to sneak into the bombsite, steal a tire and make a swing out by the Quarry. He’d had the idea, hed done the stealing, ‘Seriously Rich, we’re gonna get in so much fucking trouble’, Eddie has said. ‘It's just a tire, Eds, Christ. Criss nabs wheels from the bikes outside Harleys like every fucking week, and no one gives a shit’. Richie had found the tire he wanted, not too big to be too much of a hassle to carry the uneven trek to the Quarry, and clean enough that it would only need half-way convincing to get Eddie to swing on it. ‘That’s because no one fucking knows he’s the one doing it, Richie!’ Eddie had kicked at the tire, ‘And no one knows we’re stealing this tire! So stop screaming like a girl before they do!’ And Eddie had looked at Richie in such a cold way, climbed up the pile of rusted bumpers and rotted pallettes, and said, ‘Richie Tozier. I am not stealing this tire with you.’ And Richie had smiled, hauled the tire over his shoulder and said, ‘Course you're not. I'm stealing it all on my lonesome.’ And left Eddie mouth agape, towering on the trash pile.

Eddie hadn't spoken to him the entire way up to the quarry, simply kicked his shoes and sighed loudly, obnoxiously, every five minutes from ten feet behind Richie. Which is fine, because it meant Richie could smile the entire way and know that even when he wasn't doing anything he still got under Eddie's skin. Regardless, they made it to the Quarry just after the sun reached its peak in the sky, Richie thought it best to have the swing down on the shore by the jut of the rock flat Beverly loved to sunbathe on, right behind that rock flat was a small clearing in a sort of semi-circle with old dying trees that had no leaves, but big branches. None of the branches overlooked the rock flat, which Richie thought would've been great for swinging out into the water, but he’ll take what he can get, and what he can get is a tire, a rope, Eddie huffing and humming (but still following Richie), and a perfect tree for a perfect swing.

It really wasn't his fault that Eddie had fallen, or, at least not directly. Eddie had sat on the rock and watched as Richie struggled to lift the tire, hold it, and tie it up all at the same time. Huffing and humming, still. But Richie really couldn't reach the branch and hold the tire, it was physically impossible even with his height, given that whoever molded him at birth seemed to stretch all the muscle out of him forever. ‘Eds, I really need a hand.’ Richie has said. ‘Why should I help you?’ H’e’d grumbled, Richie had sighed, ‘Because I’m your best friend and I’m about to make a super cool swing and if you help it means you can brag too when the others see it and say “woah Richie that is so fucking tubular”’, ‘They would not fucking say that, asshole.’ Eddie had said, but he stood up nonetheless. 

What happened was, Richie thought it best if Eddie climbed the tree, sat on the branch, and helped tie the rope and support the tire while Richie reached it up and looped the rope through it. What Richie had not known was that the rope he had stolen from his dads tool cupboard, was at least one million years old and seemed to be made of tissue. Because the second he looped the rope, looped it again, and let go of the tire, trusting in the looping and of Eddie’s holding, to tie off the bottom of the rope, it snapped in two, ricocheting the twine at the top of the tire into the air, and the tire to the ground, along with Eddie, because Richie had gotten Eddie to support the tire, so maybe, yes it was Richie's fault, but also the ropes. Eddie had fallen forward off the branch, straight down onto the edge of the clearing where the soft forest floor met the hard, cold rock flat, unfortunately he'd been facing said rock flat, so most of him ended up there. 

And Richie can’t really remember what Eddie had said then, or screamed then, because he looked so fucking angry and it looked so fucking real and so fucking directed at him that he blanked. He just stared as Eddie stood, and a loose tear fell, landing on his shorts, as Eddie pointed at him, fire in his eyes, probably said something about Richie being a shitty friend, that he made him do this, made him help, that he was always doing reckless shit, but really he has no idea. His ears had started ringing the second he say Eddie’s face and he thought ‘This is it’, ‘He’s finally had enough, Tozier, good fucking job.’ In the end Eddie had stormed off, and Richie had heaved a broken sob, and an actual heave, acid in his throat at the idea. 

Eddie didn't talk to him for three days, not until Richie had shown up at his window, (Say Anything, nineteen eighty-nine, for the first time), and offered him new gauze, and anti-bacterial cream and a copy of Horses by Patti Smith, for Eddie to keep.)

And fair, Eddie isn't anywhere near that mad this time, but it hurts all the same. Because he didn't really mean to upset Eddie, he's not actually entirely sure why Eddie is mad, but that doesn't matter. What matters is that he is mad and he is now thirty yards ahead of Richie, and Richie can barely look at him over his shoulder because the sun is shining so hard against his silhouette he might as well just not be there at all. That sends a pain right through Richie's heart that has him scrambling to pick up his chopper and catch up. He almost falls again as his handlebars swing to the side when he prematurely forces his pedals to move, swinging the other way when he over corrects them, and then straightening when he stops peddling and lets the bike idle, and then he speeds up. 

When he finally catches up to Eddie, he's out of breath. They're nearing the end of the avenue and the top of Mike’s farm is coming into view, it's downhill from where they are so the entire sheep field and house is in view, the barn being behind the house hidden by a row of oak and apple trees. 

He cycles next to Eddie, who's got his lips pursed in thought, and says, “Hey, it's not often you see a guy that green have blues that bad.”

“And who are you in this scenario?” Eddie asks.

Richie looks at his handlebars, "I'm known to multitask.”

“Right. And who am I?”

Richie hums, “Motorcycle cop.”

“Oh, fuck you!” Eddie laughs.

And Richie feels part of his soul clink against the edges of his body, some satisfied, fulfilled part of him. “I'll race ya!” Richie shouts before zipping off down the hill.

“No fucking fair, dickwipe!”

“Stan, it's fine, w-we already have like six s-streamers. With what Richie's bringing, and what we've got here it'll be f-f-“ Bill cuts himself off with a groan, “-alright.” He finishes.

Stan rolls his eyes, and as he walks away he throws a deadpan, "Don't blame me if she's underwhelmed then. I'll help Mike with the flowers, by the way, Richie's about ten seconds away from knockin’ you down like a bowling pin.”

Bill barely has time to frown in confusion before Richie barrels his way down the lawn towards them, throwing a leg over one side to ride his bike like all the ladies do in the spaghetti westerns, dropping it in a heap, and bear tackling Bill from behind, knocking the wind out of his in the process. “Morning, ladies!” He grins.

“Trashmouth, nice to s-see you alive this early.”

Richie smiles, wraps his arm around Bill's shoulder. “Well, we've got a princess to appease don't we?”

Stan shouts a, "You've been with Eddie all morning, you haven't done that yet?”, from down the yard.

Richie thinks he hears Eddie swear something nasty at Stan, but he's too busy laughing and clapping Bill's shoulder to register it. He makes his way over to the barn entrance, “Very funny, Stanley! Remind me, who gets all his doors opened for him?”

Stanley throws him the finger as Richie strolls through the barn, most of the hay bales have been pushed to the walls and the loose straw swept into an empty stall on the left. Richie doesn't actually know why Mike's barn has stalls since to his knowledge stalls are for horses, and Mike does not have horses. That would be so cool though, some mustangs to ride around on in the harvested wheat fields in August. Maybe he could even find some old cowboy boots in the old mans shop on main street. That would be so cool, Richie thinks again. 

Richie grabs his belt buckle in one hand, lifts the other in the shape of a gun and turns to Eddie, who's trailing behind him. “I hope your fingers aren't tickling my ivory handled Colt.”

Eddie rolls his eyes, and makes his way to the back of the barn. There's three wooden pallets lining the floor and old bed sheets Richie assumes they'll all pretend look like curtains. What is a nice touch, is the christmas lights strung on the walls, they're the entirely wrong colour, but it's nice anyway. They're also a little bit redundant, considering in the middle of the diy pallet stage there's a wooden latched window, and it's open. So the barn is already lit up. But it's nice anyway, he reiterates.

“Pass me your bag, Rich.”

“Ah-yes sir.” Richie tips his invisible hat, and lifts his leg, holding it straight in the air before taking a large step and walking to the palettes. 

In Richie's bag are the following; a pack of fake stick on moustaches from the Heeler’s summer fair stall, an old dog collar, one of his moms aprons, a plastic tiara Richie stole from his cousin, Three Stars safety matches (unrelated), a Chewbacca mask with the face cut out, and Ben’s tape deck, tucked safely in Richie's sweatshirt.

Richie is vaguely aware he's being sort of a pillow princess right now, as he lays back on the palette and watches Eddie pull out and categorize all the items. He should help, but from this angle he can watch all the little micro expressions on Eddie’s face, and the way his fingers strum in the air when he thinks. Richie would do anything for him, he really would. He wants so badly to be allowed. 

“Morning, guys.”

Richie and Eddie both look up to see Mike carrying a plastic box through the side entrance of the barn, “Bubba, my best good friend,” Richie drawls.

“Thin ice, Rich,” Mike laughs, "you're skirtin’ something you don't wanna skirt.”

“But I'm so good at it, I'm the best at it.” Richie sits up with a smile.

“Being good and being right aren't the same thing, Richie.” Mike hands him one of the cokes that was tucked in the side of the box, then hands one to Eddie. “Your mouth is writing a check that your ass can't cash.”

“It's a gift, Mikey, a gift. Besides, with words of wisdom like that you practically method act your way to Vietnam.” Mike sends him a look. Richie just shrugs, bites the cap off his bottle, turns to Eddie who's already handing him his own, bites the cap off that one too and hands it back. “So, what's the word?”

“Not sure, Billy said he called Ben before he made his way here, said that Ben would probably be here about twelve, and if he cant keep Bev away till then he'll call again,” Mike said as he pulled out a handful of white shirts from the box. 

“Holy shit, homeschool!” Richie jumps to grab at the shirts in mikes hands, “These are fucking legit, man, nice!”

Mike smiles shyly and holds one up to show Eddie, “What do you think?”

Eddie eyes the fabric, tilts his head to the side and says, “Pretty money.”

Mike laughs, Richie throws his arms out, shouting, “This one's for you, Mary-Jane Rottencrotch!” And whoops as he hears Bill’s faint, ‘Amen’.

By eleven forty, the barn was entirely set up, with extra blankets blocking view of the stall beside the diy stage. Everything they needed was hidden in there, and the props they needed to begin with were hidden behind the curtain in the palettes. 

Since the hard part was done, the five of them had taken to relaxing in the barn atop the hay bales. They formed a sort of tower, and Richie being Richie, took the top spot, dragging Eddie with him, (‘If I fucking fall, Richie, seriously I swear to god I will never speak to you again’, ‘I wont let you fall, promise’).

“Do you think she'll like it?” Eddie asked him quietly.

Richie turns to him, “Why wouldn't she, she loves this shit.”

Eddie shrugs, “Yeah I know. What if she's sad we did it without her?”

“Eddie, Bev loves a play, but there's abso-fruit-ly nothing more on this planet that Beverly Marsh enjoys more than watching us assholes embarrass ourselves for her one hundred percent sole entertainment.” 

Eddie laughs, “That's true. That's really true actually.”

Richie smiles at him, crinkling his nose, “I know, I'm the smartest man alive. I know the answers to everything.”

“No you don't."

“Do too, ask me anything.”

“How far away is the sun?”

Richie laughs, “Okay ask me something else.”

Eddie hums, “How deep is the ocean?”

Richie thinks of his car, fixed this time- no, really, promise. “I’ll tell you when you're older.”

“Oh will you now?” Eddie mocks.

Eddies smiling at him, all teeth and dimples, brown eyes creased with the grin, for once his eyebrows are lifted, he looks so bright. “Yeah. I will.”

“So what's on the agenda, for after I mean. Are you staying over?”

“Course I am. The day I turn down an all nighter with these bums is the day I die.” Richie folds an arm behind his head.

Eddie picks at the hay, “Cool. Me too. Staying- I mean. I told my mom I was staying at Bill’s.”

“That’ll do pig, that’ll do.” Richie flicks a balled up bit of hay at Eddie's head.

Eddie flinches and says, “Oi, fucker!”

Richie has less than a second to react before Eddie pounces onto the hay bale above him, tackling Richie. Richie laughs as he grapples at Eddie's frenzied arms, hay flying everywhere as he tears it out to shove at Richie's face. 

“Call me a pig again, I dare you!” Eddie laughs kneeling over Richie, continuing his assault.

Richie can only laugh, really he can't think of anything else to do, he's covered in hay now, clinging to his hair and his shirt, piled on his chest. “Uncle, uncle!”

Eddie shoves him one last time, before sitting back on his heels and crossing his arms, definitely about to say some hoity toity high horse snobby shit. So Richie beats him to it with a grin.

“No pig. Got it. I should've been more respectful,” Eddie watches him, sits up straighter, about to nod, Richie continues, "I'll call you by your name, Babe.”

Eddie's mouth does a weird quirk and he looks away, that was a very weird quirk, Richie's never seen that. He sits up, did he go too far? Fuck. Eddie looks back at him, Richie thinks he looks flushed.

Eddie shoves his hand in Richie's face, squishing his glasses into his nose. “Whatever. How come you're not all,” Eddie waves his hand around Richie's face, “gooey.”

Richie flops his head down, swallows, bides his time. “Got one of those sprays.”

“Oh. Well- that's a good idea.”

Richie huffs, “Told you. Smartest man alive.”

Eddie leans against the barn wall and tucks Richie's legs over his lap so he can straighten his own out. “You’re so full of shit.”

“And you're full of sunshine and smiles, ain't ya?”

“Bite me, Tozier. What were you and Stan talking about yesterday?” Eddie asks.

You, always you, you just can't tell because I'm so deep in it I gotta disguise it, with prose about tape recorders and saxophones. “Nothin’ really. Asked if he got those new marbles. And if he finally took the stick out of his ass.”

Eddie nods, a serious look on his face that Richie knows is just for show, for the bit. “And did he?”

“Afraid not, soldier.”

“Typical.”

“You know I can hear you asswipe,” Stan calls from two hay bales below, if Richie’s honest he entirely forgot about the other three boys in the barn. That's sort of just what it's like when he's around Eddie. “And that is not what we were talking about, is it Rich?” Stan smirks.

Richie's eyes widen and he feels his face heat up, "Don't be ridiculous Stanley, that sticks all I've been talking to you about.”

Stan squints at him, then at Eddie, who furrows his brows and then they both look at Richie. “Okay, sure it is.”

“I am incredibly confused by this conversation,” Mike chides from beside Stanley.

“W-whats new.” Bill deadpans, entirely distracted by the chain of his bike, Silver, which seems to be eternally loose. Every time they cycle anywhere, the day always ends with one Bill Denbrough grumbling and groaning about how he asked his dad to buy a new chain but his dad always tells him, ‘Not until that one's the length of a string’.

Touche, Richie assumes Mike thinks. Because touche is something mike would say. He also wonders if Mike thinks Bill is calling him stupid or if he knows Bill means all three, or four, including Eddie, of them. 

“Everybody’s always ganging up on me.” Richie pouts. “Oh, just leave me, go on without me.” Richie feigns swooning and Eddie laughs.

Richie spots Bill about to speak up once again, when he hears someone calling from outside the barn.

“That must be Ben and Bev," Stan stands, wipes himself off, and motions for Bill and Mike to follow, “You two set up the last things, we'll keep her distracted for a few minutes.” He points to Richie.

Richie sits up and huffs, he can hear the others greeting bev and the ‘oohs’ and ‘ahhs’ of wishing someone a happy birthday. He can also feel Eddie's hand on his shin, idly rubbing his thumb back and forth. But it's gone as soon as he registers it.

“I’ll close the window, you turn the lights on,” Eddie says as he moves Richie's legs one by one and hops down to the lower hay bale. Richie watches him go for a second, god he's always watching him. It’s getting pathetic, how his eyes find Eddie's face in every situation he's ever in. How he sees his smile and the straight slope of his nose when he closes his eyes. 

That makes it a nightmare trying to sleep, he'll spend all day with Eddie, looking at him, taking him in, memorising him just in case. And then he'll walk Eddie home, and glance at him from the side. And when he's home he picks a random album and god it doesn't even matter which one it is, what genre, decade, artist, every song reminds him of Eddie. Every word, every note, it's all just entirely Eddie Kaspbrak. Then, when he's too tired to think about his laugh, or how he drags his fingers along his collar bone absently, or the gap between his thighs when he lays back on the flat rocks with his feet planted under him, knees in the air, he’ll turn the record off, because he likes to use his turntable at home, and he’ll lay in bed in the dark and the second he closes his eyes he's there.

He's at a beach he's never been to, with Eddie who's never been either. And a car that's fixed, and one more step towards losing him to the other side of the country, and all he can focus on is the way Eddie's hair flies back, forehead on show, and his eyes crinkle with his smile and the salty wind, and the sun on his cheeks, his right being a little burnt, from leaning out the passenger window. Freckles taking over his nose and under his eyes, and he meets Richie's gaze and mouths something- it's Richie's own imagination, or dream he's not sure, but he can never make it out. He looks at Eddie and there's words coming out, and hes saying it with such a sweet smile, and such honesty in his eyes, and Richie doesnt know what the fuck hes saying, because any time he tries to picture it, or indulge himself and let it be exactly what he wants to hear, it gets all muddled. His brain loses focus, his eyes open and maybe it's ten minutes later, or an hour, or the morning. All Richie can think about is Eddie bitten by the bright love from the sun and the harsh salt of the sea and words he craves to hear. 

“Hey.”

Eddie turns around, half way down the last hay bale, raising his eyebrow. 

Richie sits up, suddenly hyper aware at the way his palms are sweating. Suddenly hyper aware of his entire being. Like he's grown past the shape of his body, ‘Remind me to add Zoltar to my shit list’, Richie tells his brain amoeba.

“Let's go tomorrow.” Richie says softly.

Eddie looks at him, confused for a moment, before recognition glitters his face, and he blanches. “Oh.”

“We’ll be back before sunset. Let’s just-“ Richie scrambles, looking back at Eddie and, “go.”

Richie can't let Eddie be like a busboy in a restaurant. He can't.

He'll miss him forever, (nineteen eighty-six). 

Eddie stares, he does that a lot. And then he closes his mouth, frowns, looks at the corner of the roof, and says, “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Okay.” Eddie repeats with a smile, then hops down and strolls to the barn window.

Richie's brain feels like it's exploding, like there's slime coming from his nose and his blood is curdling. It's all so scary, his heart beating in his ears. 

He just has to get through this play, through the night, through the drive and through the black hole at the end of tomorrow. And he'll either finally breathe for once in his life, or he'll suffocate in ear piercing silence forever, trapped in a shitty apartment, with his shitty puppets, selling his shitty stories for less than he'd pay for a bottle of apple sour. He just has to get through this play.

THE CURTAINS DRAW.

Beverly sits, with a tiara that was left on her chair.

Richie sits next to a potted plant, on the dusty pallettes, wearing a fake mustache and a collar with a tag saying ‘Jennie’.

Ben, who is hidden in the stall, voices a plant.

PLANT: You have everything, you have two windows, I only have one. Two pillows, two bowls, a red wool sweater, and he even loves you.

JENNIE: That is true.

PLANT: You have everything.

Richie nods, solemn look on his face.

PLANT: Then why are you leaving?

JENNIE: Because. I am discontented. I want something I do not have. There must be more to life than having everything!

Ben (the plant), stays silent.

Richie stands, pulling a bag from beside the palettes, and marches on the spot, feigning walking, (Eddie quickly grabs the plant off the stage). Mike, who's wearing a cardboard sign reading ‘free sandwiches’ and a chef's hat with paper pig ears glued on, comes out from the left of the curtain onto the palettes.

Richie squeaks in joy, and eats an air sandwich, Beverly laughs.

Mike unfolds the bottom of the cardboard sign, revealing the words ‘looking for something different?’

JENNIE: Yes!

Mike trips as he turns around to show the back of the sign, ‘wanted, leading lady for World Mother Goose Theatre! If you have experience call ex 1-1212’

Richie jumps excitedly, continuing on the scene, asking the pig all about the theatre.

He sneaks glances at Beverly throughout their show, she laughs at all their stumbles on the uneven slats on the palette, covers her mouth to stifle them when they mess up their lines.

She lets out the biggest laugh, when Eddie stiffly walks onto the stage in a little milk hat and a white shirt with a tie drawn on, and then continues laughing through his and Richie's entire scene.

Richie would laugh too if he weren't so determined to be good for Beverly, and if he weren't so distracted by the little curl that fell onto Eddie's forehead when he put the hat on for his and Richie's scene. He looks very handsome. Richie can't even remember his own name, or what's happening in the scene, he gets a lift in Eddie, or MILKMAN’s milk truck.

Stan plays his character, the Parlormaid, very seriously.

PARLORMAID: Everything but a good nurse for Baby.

Bill laughs from the stall when Richie lays down, moaning about pancakes.

JENNIE: What's your name?

PARLORMAID: Rhoda, may I ask what you have in your bag?

JENNIE: Everything!

PARLORMAID, NOW KNOWN AS RHODA: You do have everything!

JENNIE: I have even more, two windows that I left at home.

Richie eyes dart to Eddie, in the stall.

RHODA: I repeat, you do have everything.

Richie misses the way Stan looks at him at that.

Richie’s not actually sure he's ever seen Beverly so red in the face and out of breath from laughing than she is when Ben crawls onto the stage in a bib, with a shaker in hand.

He's also sure he ruined the entire scene by how much he was laughing himself, and the fact Ben had tears in his eyes from holding in a laugh and a cough. Ben coughs when he laughs, which sets everyone off, so he holds off.

Bill plays LION, donning the face-cut-out Chewbacca mask as a mane.

All three of them struggle to get through arguably the most serious scene of the whole story.

JENNIE: You can't eat Baby! I'll tell you her name! It’s Mona, it’s-

Bill leans in to fake bite Ben.

JENNIE: No eat! Take everything, but don't eat Baby! Eat me!

Richie only vaguely registers pretending to stick his head in Bill's mouth.

The show continues, Richie is down right sweating by the time they make it to the ash tree scene, he went into autopilot after he saw Eddie giggling behind the curtain, he honestly can't even remember the words, his or anyone else’s- maybe it was Mike, who voiced the tree.

Please eat me, there's nothing more to life.

He knows the play is wrapping up, with himself, Eddie, Mike and Stan all on the stage.

JENNIE: Rhoda, Pig, Milkman! What are you doing here?

RHODA: We are actors in the World Mother Goose Theatre.

MILKMAN: And we've come to welcome our new leading lady.

JENNIE: Me?

PIG: You, don't you remember? We promised to call when you had your experience.

JENNIE: But I didn’t call, I never fed Baby and the Lion never ate me!

BABY: You stuck your head in the Lion’s mouth-

-bright sun, salty air, a dimple, freckles-

BABY: That was an experience.

The play within the play is the most chaotic part, trying to figure out how to all fit on the palettes while doing their parts, Eddie falling out the window and trying to rush back in the barn from the side (higglety), Richie pretending to regurgitate the mop, which he had previously pretended to eat (pigglety), Richie then hitting Bill on the head with said mop (pop), and then finally, stop, clop, chop! The end.

The six of them squeeze onto the palettes, bowing, while Bev finally stands and claps furiously.

Eddie is squished up against Richie's side, he's warm, probably also sweaty and he's out of breath and smells like the hot barn air and Richie thinks, Jennie, I don’t think there is more to life. 

In the end, Beverly loves the matching shirts Mike had made. Each one reading ‘Beverly’s dog 1-6’, Ben being number one, of course. Richie barely gets a word in with Eddie through the whole ordeal of Beverly rambling about every little detail of the play she loved and how perfect it was, and how stupid they looked, and how much she loved her boys. She helps them tidy up the props (shoved into the stall for later worries), move the palettes back to where Mike’s grandfather needs them for the morning compost bags, and Richie lets her carefully fold the handmade streamers and collect the flower bouquets from around the stage so she can keep them safe. As per her birthday wish, Richie keeps the collar on. Woof.

Soon enough, they drag all of Mike and Ben's camping equipment from the shed behind his house. It's around three pm when they finally get everything down to the field's edge, down the hill from the barn. The grass has been cut, Richie notices. And the hill flattens out near the edge of the lake behind the Hanlon property, technically they aren't allowed to swim in it, but teenagers will be teenagers.

Richie for once, does help with setting up the tents, since the poles are so long and he's the tallest. He sort of likes this part, with all the duffel bags and wrapped up tents and snacks. He could totally be Gordie. Those train tracks were really cool.

Mike and Bill help Richie set up the tents, while Ben and Stan work on the fire pit. Eddie, Richie has realised, sits back on his ass with birthday girl Beverly, fresh Coke in hand. Richie frowns, Eddie didn't ask him to open that one.

“-and he’s like choking him out, and then he falls from the fucking window, Rich! And there's like a hundred John and Mary’s on the street. I'm telling ya’ it's just like American Werewolf.” Ben has been explaining the plot of Basketcase to Richie for about five minutes now, and Richie is listening, he is! And he's almost done with the last tent, Ben and Stan ended up finishing the fire pit first so now here he is, standing next to Richie and scuffing his shoes in the grass and talking about Basketcase (nineteen eighty-two).

Richie straps the last of the poles in place, the one right by the top that no one else can reach unless they lean over the tent and risk squishing the whole thing. “Nothing’s like American Werewolf. It's an anomaly. Especially the ending.”

Ben pulls a box of tooth picks from his pocket, sliding it open and catching one in his mouth. He pockets the box again and speaks through gritted teeth, “No, I'm serious. Credits even roll right when you're like ‘No way! What happens next?’, it's like they forgot to write an ending.”

“I think they always forget to write an ending. Maybe on purpose, leaves it ambiguous to the viewer," Richie mutters, looking over at Eddie. He's laughing at something Beverly said, Richie assumes. Keeled over, so open. “Maybe they didn't want to write an ending. Maybe they didn't know how to let go of the character so they just- just say ‘Hey, that's all. That's the end.’”

Ben seems to roll that over in his mind, then he hums in thought, "I guess you're right.”

“I’m always right,” Richie smirks.

By four pm, the tents are set up, (one for Beverly and Ben, one for Stan, Bill and Mike, because its Mike’s own tent and it’s the biggest, and one for Richie and Eddie), they're tucked up under the one oak tree by the bottom of the hill, about twenty feet from the firepit due to Eddie's refusal to risk starting a fire. Which is fine, Richie couldn't care less. Plus from this angle it almost looks like the tent gag from Austin Powers. Randy.

“So, Heystack what did you and the people's princess get up to before coming here?” Richie cracks open one of the beers Bill brought, passes it to Eddie, grabs another for himself, cracks that one open too, and takes his seat on the old logs set around the fire pit. Eddie’s on this log too, but that's neither here nor there.

Ben smiles shyly, “Nothing really, we celebrated with Bev's aunt and then went to the diner.”

“He’s being humble! It wasn't even the diner on the corner, it was the one by Elgers! The fancy pretentious one with the MJ statue on the wall.” Bev pipes up, pointing an accusing finger at Ben.

“Gross. You're sick with it, Bentley." Richie smiles behind his bottle as Beverly and Ben both laugh.  “Seriously though, I hope you had a good one, Beaver. You're money, baby.”

Bev coos and blows him a kiss (which he catches and stuffs in his pocket), “Alright- it’s party time,” Richie says loudly, reaching in to motion for everyone to clink their bottles.

And as if on queue, because Richie has trained the peanut gallery very well, thank you very much, they all shout, “P-a-r-t- why? Because I gotta!” 

Richie honestly finds that when he's with the losers, time muddles and becomes one long moment, one singular motion of time as opposed to multiple seconds, minutes, hours. Sort of like when he watched 2001 space odyssey for the first time, that really felt like it was eternal. It's how he finds himself now, at nine pm, very much tipsy, very much too warm and sticky from the heat of the sun and the heat of the fire pit and the heat off Eddie's body beside him, closer than he was earlier. 

He feels fizzy, like there's bees spinning around in all the crevices of his body. Like he's twenty thousand feet in the air and he's falling, and falling and- “Gonna swim.”

Richie stands abruptly, dropping his nearly empty can, and stumbles over to the water. 

“Rich, what?” Eddie sends him a confused look.

“You're crazy, Richie,” Beverly laughs. “I’m not sticking around for the peep show, Benny let’s go to bed.”

Stan rolls his eyes as Beverly grabs Ben's hand when she stands, “‘Bed’ she says.”

Bev raises a hand to her mouth with a laugh, “oh I'm so sorry stan, let me be more specific then. C'mon Ben lets go have crazy wild sex.”

Ben covers his face, blushing hard.

Richie doesn't hear much after that, as he shucks off his shirt, but from what he understands, Stan seems to have had enough and also does not want to stick around for the peep show, as Bev so eloquently put it. By the time he's out of his shorts and waist deep in the cold water, he turns to see only Eddie left. Eddie's looking at the sky and Richie stumbles under the water, eyes caught on Eddie's face. Eddie looks down from the sky as if he felt Richie's gaze, but before he can meet it Richie turns away again and wades in until just his head is above the water.

The water is colder now that the sun has gone down, and it sobers him up faster than he'd hoped. He felt brave with the excuse of influence. Maybe he can still be brave. He turns around, this time Eddie’s already watching him. Richie floats, and sinks until just below his nose is out of the water. Eddie’s sitting on the log, leaned over his knees holding his can, and he's smiling like- like he's not afraid of anyone even seeing it, not afraid to let Richie know that right this moment he is genuinely content, and it's aimed at Richie. Richie feels twenty thousand feet in the air. Can you fly this plane, and land it, striker?

Richie sort of feels like he's losing his mind. Like he’s just bumped into another species and he's looking and thinking ‘Holy shit, is this first contact?’ And the other species says out loud, ‘(garbled noise)’, and Richie nods because he assumes the other species is also asking, Holy shit is this first contact?

He feels like he's losing his mind, he's in a lake, why is he in a lake. Why is he so- sad.

“I feel like… Ben Luckett." Richie rises from the water just to his chin.

“Ben Luckett? Like Cocoon, Ben Luckett?" Eddie asks.

Richie lifts his hands from the water and watches the moonlight skirt off the droplets as they roll down his wrists back into the water. “Yeah.” 

Eddie looks up to the sky, the stars are only visible here, even though the town is small and it hardly has any light pollution, it has its own dark cloud. Some evil festering that hangs over the streets and neighbourhoods like a cloak. 

Richie looks up too.

“I wonder if they'll have fishing holes there. There's some things they won't have. They won't have grandsons, and they won't have baseball games, and they won't have hot dogs, and they won't have that kind of stuff. And... I'm gonna miss them.” Richie looks back to Eddie, and again, he's already looking at Richie. He's got a look on his face. His ‘I’m about to do something that weirds even myself out’, and then he stands, pulls off his shirt, kicks off his shorts and wades into the water, all while staring at Richie.

Richie's mouth hangs open the entire time Eddie walks over (Eddie winces from the cold and mutters a ‘Fucking fuck’ under his breathe).

When Eddie is finally in front of Richie, the water is up to his chin too, he must be standing on a rock, Richie's heart hurts. 

“You think- you think everything with Pennywise was cheating nature?” Eddie asks quietly. He asks a lot. Richie will always answer.

“Yeah,” Richie whispers.

“With the way nature’s been cheating us, I don't mind cheating her a little.”

Richie blushes, and laughs, because he's easy.

“Don’t be so hard on the turtle. I didn't know you knew that one too.”

Eddie folds his arms, but it's underwater so Richie can only smile a weird thing and appreciate it anyway. “There’s a lot you don't know about me.”

“I feel like. I-" Richie looks down, lets his hands balance on the horizon of the water. “Forever?” He glances at Eddie. I know you'll get it, please get it.

Eddie scoffs, but it feels wounded, it makes Richie feel all the more tortured, “We don't know what forever is, Rich.”

Richie hums. He's not sure what to say to that. “Are you scared?” Richie asks.

Eddie reaches out and floats his hands on the water too, finger tips touching Richie's. “I don't know. I can't wait to get out of here. Out of Derry, out of my house. Out of- the bubble of this place. The frozen memory of it. It's dumb.”

Richie pushes Eddie's fingers up, bending them so his own fingers align with them. “Me too. I'll miss it though. In a weird way, like, I hate it here, I hate what this place did to us but-“ Richie slips his fingers to the side, lets them fall in the gap of Eddie's fingers, and he holds him. Eddie's fingers stay loose, and Eddie stays quiet. “But this town also gave me you guys. And- and all the fifty cent cones, and homemade rockets out in the Barrens, and every stupid b movie we managed to sneak into on Fridays. It's tangled.”

Eddie clasps Richie's hands back.

“Like it wouldn't be… what it is, without the bad. I think you have to have both.”

“Doesn’t have to get worse though, does it?” Eddie asks.

“No. But you don't realise what you've got when it's all good, you don't realise what you could lose til you almost do.” Richie's eyes linger on Eddie's arm. “Makes you appreciate it when it's gone.”

“I won't be gone, Rich, just.. far away.” 

Richie swallows. It's fine. He's in a lake behind the Hanlon property at something-past nine pm and he's holding hands with Eddie just above the horizon of the cold water. “Gone all the same.” Then, “Will you write?”

“Course I will. I'll write words that stay.”

Richie hums.

“What about the others, you'll be okay away from them?”

“I-“ Richie pauses. I don't need them like air. I don't need them like a camera needs film, like a movie needs actors, like an actor needs dialogue, like dialogue needs air. “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking, and the thing is-“

“Hey Rich?” Eddie lets go of Richie's hands, reaching forward to hold him around the base of his throat, thumbs on his cheeks. “Tomorrow's going to be fun. Tomorrow's going to be great. The best. So just- you have time, okay?”

Eddies looking at Richie, really staring into his eyes, “You have time.”

Richie thinks, as best he can given the situation, that this is the same face he himself makes when he thinks, please, please get it. I know you get it. And that sort of makes his lip wobble, and an embarrassing sound gets choked in his throat. Eddie’s standing on a rock, because he's shorter than Richie, because Richie waded out too far, because he wanted to be eye level. Richie's heart hurts so, so much. So he nods.

“Aren’t you afraid of like- a fish swimming up your dick, right now?” Richie pushes away from Eddie, until he has to kick his legs to stay afloat. 

“What the fuck?” Eddie’s face screws up in disgust, “No I wasn’t- what- what the fuck dude, now I am!”

Richie thinks, safe. Now Eddie will scramble out of the water, go to the tent and lay as far away from Richie as possible to avoid catching the cold he’ll inevitably accuse him of having caught.

Except, he doesn't. He stays. Swims out too until he's right up in Richie's face. 

“They’ll get your dick too, though, asswipe.” Eddie says. “Go up your butt too.”

“Oh yeah? Is that where all the good stuff is?” Richie laughs.

Eddie nods, he has to work his arms faster to keep afloat next to Richie. “Yeah. Up your butt and around the corner.”

Richie laughs again, a real loud one he's sure just pissed off Stan and Bill. “You got the route memorised, spaghetti?”

“Shut up, don't call me that. Yeah, so I could figure out where all the shit you say comes from.” Eddie laughs at his own joke.

Richie fakes a gasp, “Eds! Gettin off a good one, who woulda’ thought?”

Eddie spins in the water, looking back to the sky before realising tilting his head got his hair wet, he grimaces, and straightens up again. “Course I did. I'm funnier than you.”

“Debatable. Very debatable.”

“To a dimwit sure,” Eddie looks at Richie with a sneaky smile, “but between us we both know I'm the funnier one.”

“Are you calling me smart? Was that a compliment in there?”

Eddie rolls his eyes, “Insult too, but sure, good with the bad like you said.”

A smile works its way onto Richie's face, impossible to stop. “You’re a piece of work you know that?”

Eddie shakes his head with a laugh, and starts making his way back to the shore. “Not a piece- the whole god damn work, thank you very much, Tozier.”

Richie watches him go, only for a minute, then follows. “Don’t I know it.”

“You’re still wearing the collar, by the way.” Eddie shouts from ahead of him.

Richie laughs.

Stuffy, stuffy and warm and really, really stuffy actually. Jesus. Richie groans and rubs his eyes, bright sun already beaming in through the mesh of the tent. It's way too warm, and there is absolutely no fresh air in here right now. He drops his arms and turns his head. Eddie's still asleep, usually he's awake before Richie but he's also like a cat, once he's warm he's lights out for the forthcoming future. Richie adds this to his tally, somewhere in the teens, of seeing Eddie asleep. He's seen him nap, falling asleep during movie nights, head rolling onto Richie's shoulder, but that's different. Usually he's only half asleep, one word and he blinks awake.

But this, this deep sleep Eddie, is a rare sight. Especially when most times he's seen Eddie asleep, it was with others around, so he couldn't indulge himself. But now he can. Alone in a warm, stuffy, bright tent and Eddie is asleep. Hair messy, curls folding over his forehead, lips parted, one hand stuffed under his face. Richie wants to kiss him.

He wants to, but he won't. Not yet. Instead he reaches out and as light as he can, he wrings his finger around one of Eddie's curls, it's always soft, Eddie's hair, and Richie doesn't know why Eddie styles it like Alain Delon, instead of letting his curls show. All neat and tidy and split at the side, though he does let the back grow out and curl at the base of his neck, which Richie doesn't even have words to describe. 

Richie thinks of Purple Noon, because that Alain Delon is really what Eddie reminds him of. It's weird because it's not the kind of movie he usually associates with Eddie, (romance, romance, romance), it's a crime thriller, but. But he thinks of Tom and Phillipe, and he knows he shouldn't because Phillipe was married to Marge, and Tom married her too. But. Ah, well. There was something about it.

Really all those sixtie’s actors remind him of Eddie, with their pretty eyes on film, hair gelled and styled with their pompadours, and slight parted waves, and slicks. Their dimples and sharp canines, pretty face all around. Richie watches Eddie's face, entirely relaxed, he's perfect for a screen. He was made to be fawned over by all the girls with their going out of fashion beehives, and their black and white mary janes, maybe even the boys with their slacks and collared shirts too. Maybe just everyone. 

Richie fawns over Eddie with the strength of everyone who should.

Because he has enough love in him to do so.

Because it's all for Eddie and there's nowhere else it will ever go.

It'll only ever be him, and his eyes as he sleeps.

“Eddie.”

Richie lets himself memorise his face one last time, “Eddie, wake up,” he says louder this time.

The first tell that Eddie's waking up is his eyebrows, they immediately furrow, then his nose scrunches and he swallows twice, then he turns and pushes his face into the pillow, and groans, in that order. Eddie is not a morning person.

“I love the smell of Napalm in the morning.” Richie laughs.

Eddie looks back, cheek squished by the pillow, annoyance on his face. “It is way too early for Apocalypse Now, Richie. Do anything else but Apocalypse Now.” 

“What, you don't like some early morning Kilgore?” Richie asks with a smile.

“I don't like early morning you,” Eddie grumbles as he sits up and crosses his legs.

Richie stays laying, because he's lazy, and he likes Eddie from this angle. Looking up at him, sleep all over his person, his wet dreams like it too but that's besides the point. 

“That’s a lie.”

Eddie looks at him and raises a hand, making it mimic talking as he pulls a face and says, “Mehmehmeh.”

“You’re so cute,” Richie snorts.

Eddie scoffs and wraps his arms around his torso, “Whatever. Is anyone else up?”

“No clue. Was distracted by you.”

“Right.”

“No, really.”

“Sure, probably distracted thinking ‘Wow Eddie is so handsome and cool, how come I’m so lame and butt ugly’, that close?” Eddie smirks.

Richie hums with a smile. “Something like that.”

Eddie squints, and blushes a little. But he leaves it at that, and unzips the tent before climbing out.

Richie sits with it, with the conversation he had with Eddie last night, well, with every conversation he's ever had with Eddie. But last night felt different. It felt like they were on the same page, Richie's not sure what the page is or what the words on it were but, the same page nonetheless. Sometimes when Richie is in a mood, he'll drive out to the edge of town. Right by the ‘Now Leaving Derry’ sign there's a power box, just below the dried out gully on the side of the road. He’ll park up on the grass, sit on the green box and just… look. Look at the town, and the lights and tiny cars and even tinier people moving around. And he’ll feel so disconnected from all it, but then he looks to the far left of town, sees a familiar street, and it's like there's a tether in his heart shooting directly towards the houses there. 

Sometimes Richie feels like his and Eddie's souls are made of the same. He's not sure what they're made of, but they're the same. Missing pieces, split in two, it doesn't matter. Maybe it's the little brain bugs and amoeba. Maybe they're the ones in love and that's why Richie feels like he's dying when he thinks of Eddie, maybe he's torturing his amoeba. Making it think of its lost love like a thirtie’s black and white film, sitting in a trenchcoat and hat at the bar asking for another round. 

“Well, are you coming?” Eddie pops back into the tent opening.

Richie jumps in fright, “Jesus, Eds, give a guy a warning.”

Eddie feigns regret and shrugs, still bent over peering into the tent. “So? We gotta get to mine before my mom wakes up.”

Richie raises an eyebrow, “What you don't wanna stick around and help clean up?”

Eddie finally crouches, giving in to the conversation. “We’ll make it up to them. They'll understand.” Eddie shrugs again, “Seriously though, I gotta drop my bike home.”

“Alright, spaghetti man, the Trashmouth is up.”

“Don’t refer to yourself as the Trashmouth, that's gay.”

Richie laughs, “The best things are gay, Kaspbrak.”

Eddie sticks his tongue in his cheek to taper a smile, "You're a major bonehead, Rich. Get up.”

Richie smiles, and gets up.

“I'm just saying! We could totally hide an alien from the government, that Elliot kid was good but- we could do it,” Richie smiles, “We could hide it forever, put it in your clothes and it could take your place at home.”

Eddie scoffs from his bike, “What does that even mean? You are so full of shit.”

“He’s tiny, same height as you. I'm sure it’d be like nothings changed to ol’ Mrs. K.”

“Oh fuck you! I am so taller than E.T!”

“Yeah, with shoes on maybe,” Richie snorts.

Eddie reaches between the gap of their bikes to smack Richie on the shoulder, “I’m gonna hit you so hard that when you wake up your clothes will be out of style, dickwipe!” He emphasises his point with said smack.

“Ow! Ow! Okay, okay. Jeez,” Richie chuckles and looks over at Eddie, he's flustered in a frustrated way, the way Richie always gets him riled up. “You’re a nerd. You know Brandon Walsh's lines. You're a big nerd.”

Eddie looks at him with fire in his eyes, “What the fuck do you mean? You quote every movie you've ever seen!”

Richie leans back and lets go of his handlebars, bike moving forward on the grainy dirt. He crosses his arms, for emphasis, not to impress Eddie. “Yeah but I’m me. That's my trademark. I’m a walking talking video library. You doing it? Makes you a nerd,” Richie smiles. “Especially when it's Brandon Walsh.”

“Oh, I'm sorry? Did you want me to stay at home today?”

Richie freezes, front wheel wobbling so he quickly grabs the handlebars again, “No! No, you're not a nerd, my bad.”

Eddie hums, “That's what I thought.”

Finally out of the avenue, main street comes into view, it's still early so most of the stores aren't open yet, or are just starting to wipe down the windows and place the outdoor sign, Richie is never out here this early. He's sneaked out to grab Eddie early, but most times he takes the short cut through the park. This early, he gets a glance at Victor Criss, in the act of stealing a wheel from a bike outside Harleys. It's like seeing a shooting star. It sort of feels like an omen. 

Richie shakes his head to clear the thought, that's weird anyway. It's just Criss. It's just a bike. Just a wheel. 

He focuses on the back of Eddie's head as they ride, he's rambling about something- Richie's not entirely sure. But he's waving an arm around, and looking back at Richie periodically for consultation- Richie nods every time. This happens a lot, Richie accidentally zoning out Eddie in favour of being completely distracted by him. It doesn't make much sense, Richie's not sure how the logistics even work. But when it does, it's like time slows down. He watches Eddie (of course he does), and everything goes silent, all the cars and birds and people, they just melt down to nothing until all Richie can hear is soft piano. Some song that hasn't been invented yet, hasn't been written yet, and he's not sure who will ever write it because it only appears when he looks at Eddie. Like he has his own soundtrack, and it vibrates off the back of Richie's skull for all time.

Sometimes Richie has the words, or the idea, like a movie scene. He'll be able to connect nearly anything to Eddie. But sometimes, it's just him. There's no movie quote that quite describes what it's like watching Eddie furrow his brow in the sun and point accusing fingers at the air. There's no movie that's quite like Eddie. Richie just tries his best. 

They pull up to Eddies street faster than Richie expected, and he wasn't nervous before, but now he is. Because next is getting his car, and then driving. And then. And he's not even sure why he's nervous, they've had this plan floating around for weeks. Maybe it's the tension of the summer ending soon, and everything that comes with that. Maybe it's something to do with Cocoon. Richie bites his cheek, it's definitely something to do with When Harry Met Sally.

He knows, logically, and he's being very logical lately, he knows there's something happening. There's some unsaid thing between them. But he doesn’t know the extent, Richie doesn't know if it's the same for Eddie as it is for him. He knows he has ditto, and forever, and time. He knows it can't all be bugged walls and torn floorboards, but ditto could mean anything. Richie grits his teeth. Except no, it can't, it's clear, it's so clear, it was clear in the movie and it's clear now. But clear can still mean anything. And it pisses Richie off, not at Eddie, but at himself because it feels like he's so close. Like it's dangling right in front of him and he's not allowed have it. Is that where it gets muddled? That he knows it's there, but it's not for him?

That Eddie can say ditto, and still leave?

“Hello? Richie?” Eddie snaps his fingers in front of Richie's face, he blinks out of his daze.

“Sorry, what?”

Eddie raises an eyebrow, “I was calling your name like a million times, go get your truck. Meet me back here in twenty.” He sounds hesitant as he says it, Richie really must have been miles away.

“Right. Okay.” Richie schools his face, "I'll be back.”

Eddie's confusion fades, he smiles and rolls his eyes, dropping his bike at the side of his house, “Alright Schwartznegger, see you soon.”

Richie nods, and takes off down the road.

Twenty minutes, he thinks as he cycles. Twenty minutes before the start of something new. Twenty minutes before he does something neither of them can take back. Twenty minutes before he's in his truck, and Eddie’s in his truck, and they're going to a beach neither of them have been to. 

Richie's lip wobbles, as he drops his bike on his lawn and climbs the porch steps. Twenty minutes before he's less than two hours away from possibly the scariest moment of his life. He's not even sure why he's compartmentalised it like this. Like there's only one place to do this. This, he thinks, as he runs his hands through his hair in the living room mirror. 

He should’ve made it a roadtrip. He should’ve thought of something longer, something that gave him time. And Bar Harbour doesn't even have sand, or pretty open water for miles all ways, it's just rocks and docking and fishermans houses and white picket fences.

It's not even a beach, and Richie knows Eddie knows that too. But they both still, want to go, and pretend it is. Richie scrubs his face and inhales hard to hold back a cry, will it be the right kind of beach for Eddie, even if he knows it's not what he's expecting?

Richie grabs his keys from the bowl in the hallway before his dad can question him on where he was, or where he's going, or why his breath is hitching.

He drives in silence, on the way back to Eddie's house. Leaves his tapes in the dashboard divot, leaves the radio off. Hands on ten and two. Heart in his throat. Eddie is the scariest thing he's ever done, and he hopes, and he prays, and he pleads with whatever being is up there, begs with the turtle, to please, please let him stay scared. Because Richie thinks, he knows, that if he ever stopped being scared he'd die. Knows his soul would crumble and his eyes would lose light and his heart would never beat again. 

Richie thinks, with a ball in his throat, of Maurice, I don’t know if it’s platonic or not, but it's what he did, he thinks.

Eddie's waiting for him on the curb when he turns the corner onto his street, Richie barely has time to pull up and open his mouth before Eddie is rounding the truck and clambering into the passenger seat with a huff. Richie shuts his mouth.

“She’s pissed. She’s awake.” Eddie supplies.

“Right.” Richie shifts in his seat, “And you're still going? Won't she be mad?”

Eddie looks at him, his face screwed up, “Of course I’m still going, what the fuck?”

Richie clears his throat, pulls away from the curb, swings a u-turn, “No, yeah. I don't know.”

Eddie doesn't say anything else, so neither does Richie, not for a while. Richie knows that Eddie's mom seriously gets under his skin. Sometimes Richie feels his skin crawl when he hears Eddie's mom refer to herself as ‘Mommy Dearest’, some dark slimy part of his soul thinks of Joan Crawford. So when Eddie is silent, Richie stays silent. Lets him process whatever fucked up thing she said this time, probably along the lines of ‘Edward, I did not say you go anywhere with that boy’, or, ‘Eddie bear please, you know the way he lives, he’ll corrupt you’, or ‘he’s filthy, Eddie, and I will not allow you to leave Derry, it’s too dangerous’, or something like that. He could go on. He tries not to internalize the fact most of Eddie's complaints about his mom involve her disgust for Richie. Or that Eddie gets so upset on his behalf.

When Eddie seems settled, Richie clears his throat and points to the divot of the dashboard, “There's a mixtape there, if you wanna put it in. I uhh- I made it a few weeks ago, when we first talked about this trip.” Richie scratches his chin with the same hand.

Eddie peers over, shuffles through the tapes, most of them albums, before he finds the one Richie must have meant. It's titled ‘Volcano’, and has no track list. “Still not a fan of spoilers?”

Richie smiles, indicates off the main street road, “I already know the songs, you don't. It's a surprise for you.”

Eddie hums, and takes it from its case, placing it in the tape slot. New Mistake by Jellyfish starts up, Eddie sits back in his seat, elbow on the window ledge. “I don't wanna go home tonight.”

“Oh.” Richie drums his fingers. “Do you wanna take the long route then?”

Eddie glances at him, “How much longer is it than the usual?”

“Like two more hours, six hour round trip. Countering in the time we’ll be there, probably back in Derry around five.” Richie shrugs.

Eddie furrows his brows, “Wait, how is there a way there with two extra hours? Surely we’d be going in circles.”

Richie tilts his head to the side, stops at a light. “Well, maybe. I mean yeah I researched the fastest route so you'd get home without your mom noticing originally, but now we can take the nice route, go through Bangor. See those wooden bear statues you like. And we can stop for food. If you want.”

“That seems like it's all for me, though. You don't even like driving for long periods.”

Richie laughs nervously, drives at green, “Well. Eddie, it is for you.”

“Even though you get antsy when you drive too long?”

“Yeah,” Richie says, the ‘Now Leaving Derry’ sign in view, “For you, yeah.”

“Okay.” Eddie is watching him, staring at the side of Richie's face, he's sweating.

“Besides, what's the harm in a little driving. Christine doesn't bite.” Richie smiles.

Eddie looks away with a laugh, “I still can't believe you actually named it Christine. And Christine literally does bite, that's like her whole thing.”

“She, Eds, cars are she. And she doesn't, she's a sweet angel.” Richie points as they make their way up the road, “lookit, there we go, eat dust, Derry,” Richie says, as he revs past the sign, kicking dust up into the rearview mirror.

Eddie rolls his window down, and leans out, shouting, “Fuck you, Derry!”

Richie laughs, glances every few seconds at Eddie's back, shirt pulled up by the seatbelt, he can hear him laughing in the wind too. Richie loves this Eddie, loves this carefree, brave Eddie. Loves every Eddie. 

He can barely tear his eyes away from Eddie as he leans half way back in, until just his arm and head are sticking out of the window, and Eddie laughs, and shouts again, “Vegas, baby!”

All the air gets beat out of Richie's lungs, he looks back to the road, and he knows his eyes are watering. He knows he's barely breathing. But sometimes it feels like he and Eddie really are in the same scene, living in a bubble of a moment, a rehearsed conversation someone is rewinding again, and again, and again. Like their tether was chosen, hand picked by the director of everything. 

Because Richie only showed Eddie Swingers once, and Eddie complained and complained the whole time. And now he quotes it, now he remembers it, when he's with Richie, when he wants to communicate on Richie's level, with Richie, like Richie. 

Fuck.

Eddie's been meeting him half way his whole life, hasn't he? He's always finished his quotes. He's always rolled his eyes when no one else did, when no one else got it. He's always got it. Because Eddie's his Valiant, isn't he? Eddies his Valiant, and he chose that and he didn't even like Roger Rabbit, he hated the jokes and he hated Judge Doom and he falls asleep every time Richie puts it on. But he still wants to be Richie's Valiant.

Richie grips the steering wheel. Eddie's still hanging out the window. Richie looks over, it's sunny today, and warm. And Eddie is awash in yellow and orange and a smile on his face as he turns to Richie and mouths something. Richie doesn't hear it. He smiles, and Eddie looks away. And Richie can already sense the burn on his right cheek. He repeats in his mind, I love you, I love you, I love you, all the way to Bangor.

Eddie's not hungry, and Richie doesn't think he can stomach anything at all, so they pull into a gas station along the route instead of a diner. Richie climbs out and rushes to Eddie's door before he can open it himself,  “Kansas awaits, Dorothy." Richie bows as he opens it. 

Eddie kicks at Richie's stomach, "Don't you mean emerald City?”

Richie waves a hand and slams the door, “Whatever. Grab me a coke, I’ll do the gas,” Richie says, handing Eddie his wallet.

Eddie salutes as he jogs to the door of the gas station.

Richie goes through the motions, fills the tank, puts the nozzle back, stares at his reflection in the driver's window. He just needs to get to Bar Harbour.

Eddie comes back a minute later, two cokes in hand, and a little keychain of Bangor City, with the name right under it in fancy font. 

Richie raises an eyebrow, opening the door for Eddie, “What's that for?”

Eddie climbs in and shrugs, “To remember this dumb day trip.” 

Richie stands with his legs crossed, in the passenger door. His truck is sort of tall, so he’s basically eye level with Eddie. Level with the brightest, most wonderful brown eyes he's ever seen in his life. The snow white of eyes. If that makes sense.

“What? Entire day of my great jokes and company that easy to forget?” Richie jokes, but it doesn't land that good.

“C’mon Rich,” Eddie's eyes soften, he reaches out to flick Richie's shoulder, “Course I’ll never forget you.”

“Don’t go soft on me now, Kaspbrak.”

Eddie looks at him sideways, “Richie,” he says. “Let's just get to the Harbour, okay?”

Richie feels inside out. Richie feels like the fly. I'm not Seth Brundle anymore. I'm the offspring of Brundle and a housefly. 

“Okay.”

Bar Harbour, as Richie has come to understand, is a lot more stones, and red houses and yellow houses and blue houses, and iron statues of seals, and triangle patterned flags stretching across the street, and independent bakeries than it is fishing, and boats, and stringy seaweed on the shore. Though there is a lot of that too.

It's a nice surprise, it makes him feel a little less bad about the fact there isn't really a beach. There's pebbles, and about five inches of sand that the water licks right up, and there's a little shack on the dock where you can pay two dollars for a ticket up to Little Tall Island.

There's not too many people around, surprisingly. Though on the drive in Eddie had pointed out some out of town fishing expo, which sounds exceedingly boring to Richie. So it’s quiet, and it's warm, and sunny, and Richie is pulling up to the unpaved parking lot up the hill from the dock, with Eddie in the car. 

Richie hadn't noticed since he's spent most of the day so far in the car, but the pollen is also out for an adventure today. Richie internally curses himself for not checking for his spray in his tent. 

He can't have a runny nose for this. This is the last moment of his entire life he could ever have a runny nose, and gooey eyes and a gooey brain. He sniffs, as he climbs out of his seat, and it sticks up his nostril. Fuck. He reaches back in to scavenge around the glove compartment, (muttering ‘fuck’ aloud too, as he does so).

“What? What's wrong?”

Richie drops his head to his seat, “I'm all gooey. I forgot my goo kryptonite.”

Eddie hums, moves his arm, stops, sighs, moves his arm again, unzipping his fanny pack he had thrown in the back seat. 

Richie watches him, with his cheek squished against the seat and his hip digging into the outside of the truck. “What are you doing?”

“I- I have one,” Eddie says.

“Oh.” Richie sits up, folds his arms under his chin. “But it's your one isn't it? Didn't you throw out the last one I used? I swear I saw it in your trashcan.”

Eddie's cheeks go red, “Yeah, well. I got another just in case.”

“You don't even have allergies, Eddie.”

Eddie scoffs, “Yeah, well, there's not even any grass here so- whatever.”

Eddie shoves the spray in Richie's face, and then climbs out of the truck, making his way to the hood.

“‘Whatever’ he says,” Richie chuckles, then sticks the spray up his nose.

When he's done, feeling much less gooey already, he locks the car and taps the roof. “Ready, spaghetti?”

Eddie’s looking out to the water, hands leaning behind him. He turns to Richie, “Yeah, Rich. I'm ready.”

They make the short walk down to the main street, it's downhill and Richie manages to make Eddie supremely pissed off by mocking how he's walking. Eddie stays close though, stays annoyed, stays with Richie. It dawns on Richie now, how absurd this all is.

They left all of their friends, at seven in the morning, with all of their mess and junk, with no explanation, to drive three hours away (one hour away) to go to a beach that's not even really a beach. It's not even really anything, Richie nor Eddie have any inclination to need or want a beach. They have the Quarry. It’s really not anything important to either of them, it's just a place, just a thing to go see, just a-

Just an excuse.

An excuse for both of them, he hopes, an excuse to finally, finally, stop skirting around his thing. To land the plane, striker.

“Did you even tell your parents where we were going, or any of the losers?” Eddie asks.

Richie thinks on it, no, he didn't. “Nope. Not a soul, well except..”

Eddie raises an eyebrow, with sort of an accusing look, like he thought they were on the same boat of keeping this a secret, disregarding his mom finding out. “Who?”

Richie smiles, digs his hands in his pockets, “Well, you see, I didn't know where your office was. So I asked the newsboy. He didn't know. So I asked the fireman, the green grocer, the butcher, the baker, they didn't know! But the liquor store guy... he knew.”

Eddie shoves him hard with a laugh, “Fuck you! I'm serious, Richie.”

Richie laughs as he rights himself, and opens the wooden latch at the end of the street to turn onto the docking steps. “No, I didn't. Really.”

Eddie squints, walks through the gate, “I don't know if I believe you.”

Richie shrugs, “You didn't believe me about my truck being fixed, yet here we are, in sunny, creative Bar Harbour, and all its fish-stinkin’ glory.”

“You’re fish-stinking,” Eddie laughs as he steps down onto the pebbles.

Richie grabs his chest, “Through the heart, Eds, killer!”

Eddie ignores him, simply speed walks to the edge of the water, and Richie's not sure what he expected. He’s not sure he was capable of expecting anything.

He's not sure he ever thought he'd actually make it to this day, not in Bar Harbour, just here. With Eddie, in some far away place that isn't marked with fear and hate. With Eddie after a three hour drive he spent half of with his eyes closed, cheek against the window when it was too windy. With Eddie who Richie is so scared of, scared of hurting, scared of leaving, scared of loving, scared of forgetting. 

Richie thinks of his dreams, of his waking visions, every night since he can remember. He thinks of soft shirts and soft hair. Of cherry pop rocks, and ice cream. Of the back of the Aladdin, knees brushing. He thinks of every second he's gotten to lay eyes on Eddie, gotten to be there and breath in his presence. How many years he's spent memorising every aspect of Eddie, from head to toe, from mind to heart. He would do anything, in the entire, god forsaken world, for Eddie. So he thinks of his dreams, sure there might be sand, and there isn't a dock, or triangle patterned flags, or bakeries or anything. But none of that mattered, it could've been a parking lot. It could've been the Bombsite. It could've been his bedroom. It just needed to have Eddie.

He thinks, for what must be the millionth time, of Eddie, with his wind swept hair, and his burnt right cheek, and his freckles, and nose and eyes and lips-

He thinks of mouthing the words he craves to hear, right against Eddie's lips. He thinks of saying them out loud, into the air between them so Eddie has to swallow them right up. Thinks of repeating them over and over into Eddie's ear, hand on his warm, red, too red, right cheek. 

His heart feels wet watching Eddie, as he crouches down and dips his fingers in the water. It feels heavy as he watches Eddie stand back up and tilt his head back, eyes closed. It feels full, when Eddie straightens and looks over his shoulder at Richie. It feels complete, when Eddie speaks. 

“Got something to say, Harry?"

Richie sucks in air he hadn't realised he was holding, walks over to Eddie. He watches the horizon first, the sun rippling off the water, then he turns to him. Eddie's already watching him, he always is, isn't he?

“Ask me again.”

Eddie licks his lips (Richie follows the motion), “Ask you what again?”

Richie swallows, “From last night- the barn. Ask me again.”

Eddie tilts his head, then his eyes widen, realization and confusion all at once. “Why?”

Richie's heart is beating faster than he thinks it should be. “Because I know the answer.”

“You do?” Eddie asks quietly.

Richie nods, with full intention. “Yeah. I do.”

Eddie nods too, small smile on his lips. “Okay. How deep is the ocean?”

“I’m not gonna say.”

“I’m heartbroken,” Eddie laughs.

“I’m in love with you,” Richie breathes, through every fiber of his being. “More than anything in this world.”

Eddie stares, lips parted. 

“Body and soul.” Richie finishes.

Eddie eyes flits between Richie's, looking for something- a sign it's a joke, a sign he's winding him up, that he's not entirely, heartbreakingly honest.

Richie feels the seconds tear through him. Until,

“Ditto, Rich.” Eddie settles on.

And he really can't hold it any longer, Richie's lip wobbles and a cry escapes his throat before he can stop it. He reaches up and shoves his glasses into his hair, covering his face with the backs of his hands. “Really?” He chokes.

Eddie hums, grabs at Richie’s wrists to pull them away, Richie's eyes are red, and wet, and his nose is wet too. “I love you, I really love you.”

“Fuck.”

Eddie laughs, “what?”

“Fuck.” He repeats, “So you meant it then? The other day?”

Eddie stills, nose scrunching, “That was so stupid. I thought it was obvious. I didn't know why you didn't question me on that.”

Richie finally drops his hands, quick to find Eddie's own and tangle their fingers. “I’m the one who did fucking Ghost at you.”

Eddie threads their hands properly, “Yeah, well I did it right back at you, so take that dickwipe. I can do Ghost too.”

Eddies got this smug look on his face, and yeah, his cheek is very burnt, he's gonna be a pain in the ass about that all week, blaming it on Richie. Maybe Richie can get him to let him put whatever cream he has on it. He's got a smug look, and he's holding Richie's hands and Richie can't do it any longer, as nice as Eddie's hands feel locked in his.

He unlinks their hands, watches almost in slow motion as Eddie's face shifts, feels the heat off his face when he cradles his jaw, and finally hears the words Eddie's been mouthing at him all those times, as he tastes the words on his lips.

And there's nothing like it. There is no movie scene, there is no song, there is nothing, in Richie's mind, that even vaguely resembles kissing Eddie Kaspbrak. 

And he's sure nothing ever will. It's an anomaly. It's a character he can't ever say goodbye to, can't ever let to, can't ever give an ending. 

So instead of thinking of a scene, he thinks of the credits this time.