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1992.
In the white haze of the nurse’s office, the only thing Eddie can see are his own two feet, the mattress he’s sitting on, and the curtain separating himself from the person on the other side of it—the person who punched him in the face.
Honestly, he isn’t quite sure what happened. One second, he was sitting at one of the school’s outdoor lunch tables, waiting for everyone else to show up. The next, Richie was…
Well, it’s hard to describe. Yes, Richie punched Eddie in the face, but the reason why (and more importantly, his feelings toward it) was unclear. It’s like he didn’t want to, but that it felt obligatory in a way. Like he had to.
And now, the nurse’s office. Eddie’s fine, really. He’s got a bruise forming on his cheek, the twin to the one blooming across Richie’s knuckles, but other than that, he’s good. Physically. Mentally, though, it feels like torture. Why is this happening? What did he do to deserve—
The curtain skkrts back on the rod, and there’s the nurse. She gives him a small, sympathetic smile before asking: “How are you feeling?”
“Um…fine,” Eddie says.
She nods. “Okay. Well, you said you didn’t want to go home, so if everything’s feeling alright, you’re free to go.”
“Yeah, uh…what time is it?”
“Just past one,” she answers, looking at her hanging clock and cursing under her breath when she sees it hasn’t been adjusted for daylight savings. “You should make it back in time for fifth period.”
Eddie says okay and heads off back to class; thankfully, fifth period for him is just a study hall, so it’s not like he’s going to be out of it during a class that actually matters. Unthankfully, he shares it with Bill and Richie.
When he gets to the room, almost nobody is there. The bell had just rung, so pretty much everyone was still in the hallway, loitering or rushing. It feels like, no matter which category they fell into, they were all staring at Eddie Kaspbrak and his stupid undereye bruise. The bruise his supposed best friend gave to him. Guess Losers don’t stick together after all, huh?
Bill is one of the people already there. His fourth period is in the same room as the study hall, so he doesn’t have to move—unless you count him going across the room to a different desk clump.
“Hey,” Eddie says, not wanting to talk about it.
But Bill’s never really been one to beat around the bush. “So wh-wh-what happened?”
“What happened with what?”
“Don’t play d-d-du-dumb,” Bill tells him, not bothering to look up from his notebook drawing. “What happened with you and Ri-Richie?”
“I don’t know!” Eddie tries his best not to throw his hands up in frustration. “He just punched me!”
Bill has been quiet in the last few years, since everything happened in 1989. Since Georgie, since the clown, since Beverly Marsh moved to Portland.
And to be fair, it isn’t like there’s anything else for him to do. The adventure is over, at least for another twenty-some years. Now everything’s about applying for scholarships or part-time jobs or studying for finals. They haven’t even discussed this summer yet, because they don’t have to. If they hang out, great. If they don’t, also great.
“Well, Ri-Riii-Ri…” Bill’s brows furrow. Eventually, he chokes out, “Richie went home.”
Oh, thank God.
“He did?” Eddie asks, trying not to sound too excited about it. “Why?”
“Why d-do you th-th-think?” Bill finally looks up. “He looked messed up all day. A-And I can’t imagine admin was vuh-very happy with him after…”
Bill doesn’t have to go on. Eddie’s mind flashes back to that moment. Seconds before, he’d been annoyed because the wind kept fucking up his hair and everyone was taking too long to get to the table. There was this girl, too, he thinks her name is Andrea or something. Anyway, Andrea has a bad staring problem. She doesn’t realize she’s even doing it. Today, she kept staring at Eddie on accident. It was real unsettling.
And then, the punch. Richie didn’t say a word beforehand. He didn’t say a word after, either. He just stood there, breathing heavily, rubbing his knuckles, and when he reeled back to get another one in, that’s when the teacher stepped in.
After school, Eddie takes his bike home. Ever since 1989, he’s refused to go down Neibolt. He takes an alternate route now, one that’s usually fun because it takes him past the Tozier house, which means that he and Richie don’t have to split up immediately. They can talk for a while. Now it isn’t fun for the same reason. He has to ride past the Tozier house.
It isn’t the biggest house in town, obviously. Even the well house is bigger. But it’s still way bigger than Eddie’s own, and even more than Bill’s or Stanley’s. Richie always complains about his dad’s job, says he’s annoying or a tight-ass because of it, but it’s the job that gave their family that house.
Before he knows it, he’s steering his bike toward that house. He throws it down in the driveway and awkwardly half-runs toward the door. One of the porch’s wooden boards creaks underneath his weight. The door is painted pale blue, but the paint is chipping, and the gold-colored knob is starting to rust. He’s sure the second Richie’s parents notice, they’ll fix it, because they’ve always cared about vanity projects like that.
His fist hits the door once, twice, three times. There’s a brief pause, then footsteps. The sound of a movie continuing to play. And then, finally, the door opens.
Richie looks different than he did at lunch. Less angry, calmer. He changed his clothes, too.
“What the hell do you want?”
Eddie shifts uncomfortably. “To talk.”
“About?”
“About the fact that you punched me in the fucking face, asshole.”
For a whole five seconds, Richie looks at Eddie like he’s the dumbest person in the entire world. Like he’s grown a second head out of the side of his neck. And then, finally, he says:
“Get off my porch.”
“What? I—”
“I don’t want to talk to you. You know what you did. Go away.”
The door slams in Eddie’s face.
Really, the answer is no—Eddie has no idea what he “did” to piss Richie off. Not a clue. So he stands there stubbornly with his arms crossed, tapping his foot against the wooden porch-slats. Then, when it’s evident that Richie isn’t going to open the door back up, he reaches for the key underneath the mat.
He wasn’t raised in an environment that did well with boundaries, after all.
As anticipated, Eddie finds Richie in his bedroom, reading some comic book he’s already read thirty times. The room is trashed; it always is, but this is a different level. Usually, it’s just clothes strewn about and unfinished homework littered everywhere. Now, there’s food clutter. That’s the worst kind.
“What the fuck are you doing?!” Richie demands, rushing to cover himself despite the fact that he’s not at all naked. “I told you to go away!”
“If you wanted me to go away, asshole, then you shouldn’t keep leaving the stupid key under the stupid doormat,” Eddie retorts, throwing the key on the floor for emphasis—and then immediately picking it up, because he can’t commit to anything.
Neither of them say a word. Richie’s face is starting to pinken, and Eddie can’t tell if it’s from anger or from the embarrassment that comes with being angry. He’d say it’s both, but really, when’s the last time Richie’s felt embarrassed?
Eddie decides that he’s gonna have to be the one to break the silence.
“What did I do?”
Richie takes off his glasses and cleans them awkwardly on his shirt. “What?”
“You said I know what I did, but I don’t, so tell me.” Eddie takes an experimental step closer. “So what did I do?”
“Look, dude, it’s none of my business what you talk to your mom about,” Richie says, refusing to look up from his lap, “but don’t bring me into it. Especially if you’re gonna make up lies about me.”
Eddie can’t help but scoff. What the hell? “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Yes, you do, dickwad. Don’t play dumb.” Richie looks up finally, and his face is still that weird shade of embarrassed-mad red. “You…you told her that I’m a fucking fairy or whatever, and that I made moves on you—”
“What?! No I didn’t!”
“You don’t have to lie to me! I already know—”
“Why the fuck would I say something—” Eddie cuts himself off, because suddenly, he remembers. He remembers what he did say, and no, it’s not exactly what Richie’s claiming. Not even close. Hell, he didn’t even say it to his mom, but, “Fuck.”
His hands start to shake at the memory. It was a week or so ago, maybe, on a Sunday. He went to church that day because he was bored out of his mind and wanted to, well…clear his conscience. In confidence after the service, he told the pastor about some odd dreams he’d been having—but he never said a word about Richie, so…
The pastor would’ve had to tell his mom, and then his mom would’ve had to make an assumption—
“Fuck,” he says again, because fuck.
He doesn’t know how to explain, how to tell Richie that he really didn’t say anything to his mom, without immediately getting ripped on. The dream wasn’t…it wasn’t graphic or anything, but it was certainly…something. Something that he’d rather not share with any of his friends, but especially not Richie. Never Richie.
“I didn’t say anything,” Eddie insists. “Really. I mean it. My mom’s just—man, you know how she is. She’s…she’s just…”
“A big, fat, mega-bitch?”
Eddie tries not to get offended. “Yeah.”
They both pause. Richie sighs, then sets down his comic book. He shifts a bit, clearly thinking. He has this face that he makes whenever he’s thinking hard, and he’s making it right now. Eddie recognizes it instantly. And then, finally, he says, “You really didn’t say anything about me?”
“No,” Eddie says back.
Richie’s fingers twitch. “Okay, then…then I’m sorry for punching you, or whatever.”
“Thanks, dick.”
Finally feeling comfortable enough to, Eddie sits down on the edge of Richie’s bed. He’s been in this room countless times. They’ve had dozens of sleepovers, usually when Eddie’s mom was being particularly overbearing and unreasonable. He’s slept in this bed before, facing the wall, his fingers twisting in knots, his stomach wanting to expel its own contents. Richie always was a tosser and turner, the kind of person who sleeps goddamn diagonally, and more often than not, Eddie would wake up to the feeling of warm breath hitting the back of his neck, and his heartbeat would speed up.
Now, there’s considerable space between them. Richie is still closed off, his legs crossed and his hands in his lap. He clears his throat.
“Does it hurt?”
“What?” Eddie looks up. “Oh. No, not really.”
Richie shifts closer, slightly. “At least I didn’t hit your eye,” he utters. “You’re not the kind of person who’d look cool with a shiner.”
“Fuck you.”
“Ew.”
“Shut the hell up. You know what I mean.”
All of a sudden, they’re sitting beside each other. Four scrawny legs hang off the side of the bed. Richie’s feet hit the ground; he’s tall enough. Eddie’s just barely don’t. Self-conscious now, he tucks his knees against his chest.
“I was…” Richie shrugs. “Your mom can be scary when she wants to be.” He laughs. “It’s kinda hot.”
Eddie almost elbows him, but doesn’t. “What do you mean? What did she do?”
Richie picks at one of the holes in his jeans. “Oh, y’know…she came here last night. Mom was cooking dinner, and Dad was still at work, so I answered the door and…she just started screaming.”
“At you?”
“Yeah. At me.” Richie stares off at the far wall, at one of the posters there. Springsteen. He goes on, “I couldn’t hear much of what she was saying because she was talking so fast, and then my mom came and pushed me out of the way. They were fighting, I think. I don’t know.”
Eddie doesn’t know what to say. Richie isn’t usually the type to accept comfort. He knows, though, the kind of things that his mother says about Richie when it’s just them. She says she’s “just worried” about him, about the lifestyle she thinks he’s living. When Eddie asked what she meant, she said it flatly: she thinks he’s gay. And to be gay is to sin, and to sin means to be damned to an eternity in hell. But Richie isn’t…
“I’m sorry,” Eddie says finally. “If I knew, I would’ve stopped her.”
“It’s fine.”
But it’s clearly not fine. If it were fine, Richie wouldn’t be staring off into space the way he is. He wouldn’t be working at tearing a bigger hole in his jeans. His eyes wouldn’t look so…dull.
“I’m sorry,” Eddie says again.
Richie doesn’t reply this time. He runs his hands up and down his face, rubbing at his eyes underneath his glasses. His breathing pattern has changed, becoming heavier than before in a way that Eddie isn’t used to. And then, suddenly—
He stands, walking out of the room. Eddie hears the bathroom door slam down the hall.
Time passes. Eddie isn’t sure how much. He doesn’t move, doesn’t want to make things worse. Richie is his best friend. He knows how he operates; if Eddie gets too close too soon, he’ll just shut down. So he sits there, waiting, until he hears movement down the hall.
When Richie returns, his face is redder than before. There’s some slickness on his cheeks, but neither of them acknowledge it. Eddie watches as Richie sits back down on the bed. They both stare down at their laps, unwilling to be the first to say something.
“You should probably go,” Richie says, breaking the ice. His voice is scratchy. “Before my mom gets back and asks if you wanna stay for dinner.”
Eddie nods, and he starts to stand up, but then he stops himself.
“...What if I did?”
Richie stares at him. “What?”
“What if I wanted to?” Eddie asks. “Stay, I mean.”
A thickness fills the room.
“But I punched you in the face–”
“And I already said it was okay.”
Silence.
Silence.
Silence.
Richie mumbles, “Then you should probably move your bike. It’s in my dad’s parking spot.”
All Eddie can say in response is, “Okay.”
That night, Maggie Tozier makes pork chops and potatoes for dinner. They all sit there and eat, trying their hardest to ignore the elephant in the room–that Maggie and Wentworth were having dinner with the son of the woman who came to their house the night before, the woman who shouted in their teenage son’s face and called him terrible names. And, perhaps even weirder, that they don’t seem to mind.
After dinner, Eddie goes upstairs with Richie like normal. He takes the clothes he’s offered, a plain white t-shirt and sweatpants that pool around his feet. He lays down in Richie’s bed, on his side, facing his friend. Richie’s on his back, staring up at the ceiling, his glasses still on. Neither of them say a word. They just breathe.
Eddie’s mind floats back to the dream he had, the one that started this whole thing. It was kinda like this. Dark. Comfortable. Warm. It wasn’t Richie in his dream, though. It was someone with no face, no discernable personhood. An idea. A concept. But this isn’t a dream. This is real. This is Richie, his best friend since they were little, live and in person. The subtle rise and fall of his chest, the twitch of his fingers, the slope of his nose, the…the flutter of his eyelashes, the…
“Hey,” Richie says. “You okay?”
All of a sudden, Eddie’s mind is blank. “Uh. Yeah.” God, could he be any more useless? “I just…it’s kinda cold in here.”
Richie stifles a laugh. “Yeah. It’s this new thing, it’s called November.”
“Wow. Okay, Einstein, fuck you,” Eddie grunts, sitting up on one elbow. It’s his janky one, still messed up from his fall, so it stings a bit but he ignores it. “You don’t have to sleep with the fucking ceiling fan on.”
“Fine. I’ll turn it off.”
Richie gets up, and instantly, Eddie regrets complaining. He watches Richie go to the center of the room and pull at the cord for the fan, watches as his shirt (navy blue, Star Wars, one he’s had since they were little-little; it used to run big on him, but now it fits perfect) lifts just slightly, showing off the smallest sliver of stomach, and–
Nope. Nopenopenope. Eddie squeezes his eyes shut, until they start to sting. It’s the only thing he can do as punishment for…for…
“What are you doing?”
He opens his eyes again. Richie’s there, back in the bed, staring. His glasses are gone now, seated lopsidedly on the nightstand.
Eddie lies, “Trying to sleep.”
“I don’t think sleep is supposed to look painful.”
“Shut up.”
For once, Richie doesn’t fight. “Okay.”
They settle. The room is quiet now, except for the low hum of the old, hand-me-down lava lamp on the other side of the room. Originally, the water was clear. Now it’s a pee-stain sorta yellow color, but Richie’s too lazy to get rid of the whole thing or try to change it out. Eddie stares off at it, at the wax floating up-down-up-down-up…until his eyes close for good this time.