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2018.
Eddie twists and turns in bed, moving his laptop to lay beside him. The YouTube video illuminates his face–his bitter, old face. The wrinkles and the frown lines and the scar from where Henry Bowers had stabbed him and all. The room is cold, which is honestly his own fault. He left the damn fan on. But that’s not the only reason that the room is so cold.
Richie’s gone.
He’s been gone for a few weeks now, doing some voiceover gig in LA. His management wouldn’t let him do it closer to home; his reputation has deplenished in the last two years, since he ran off in the middle of a set to go back to Bumfuck Nowhere, Maine. They couldn’t afford not to have him within their sights at all times. The worst of the side effects is that they haven’t been able to talk much.
So now here Eddie is, lying pathetically in their bed, watching some of Richie’s old sets on his laptop. They aren’t even funny. Richie’s material, although it isn’t the most highbrow stuff even now, was way worse back in 2003.
Eddie’s halfway through an old interview that Richie did with some Late Night host circa 2009 when his phone starts ringing.
“Hello?”
“Hey. Eds,” Richie says. His breathing is ragged, heavy, like he just got done running across a parking lot. “We wrapped a day early. I’m coming home tonight. Fuck this. Fuck that job. Fuck LA.”
Eddie sits up, holding back a snort. He closes the laptop. “You sound heated.”
“I had to redo this one line, like, thirty fucking times!” He shouts. Eddie hears a car door open and close, followed by an engine coming to life. “It’s a goddamn kids movie! Those guys need to stop smelling their own farts and join the real world! Jesus fuck.”
“Mm.” Eddie hums. “Well, have you considered that maybe I don’t want you back?”
The silence on the other end tells him that he’s somehow managed to stump Richie for once. It lasts for maybe five seconds before—
“Why? What did I do?”
“Nothing. Nothing,” he says. “But maybe I’m just having a nice, peaceful, quiet time…”
Richie doesn’t believe him.
“No. Seriously. What did I do?”
“Nothing!”
“Is it because I hung out with Bill and Audra without you—?”
“Jesus Christ.” Eddie runs an annoyed hand down his face. “Never mind. I’ll never joke again. Just get home, idiot.”
They stay on the phone until Richie pulls the rental car into the LAX parking lot. Neither of them say much, for once; Eddie’s too half-asleep to properly structure sentences, and based on the rasp in Richie’s voice, he’s done enough talking for the day.
Once Richie gets settled—plane ticket bought, sandwich in hand, finally sitting down—he turns on the FaceTime camera, and…
“God, you look wrecked,” Eddie says.
Richie shrugs. “S’what the city does to me.”
Wrecked is the most generous statement there is to describe Richie’s appearance. His hair is mussed in that particular way that Eddie knows means he hasn’t combed it in days. His beard hasn’t been trimmed. The bags under his eyes are…more pronounced than usual. And the sandwich has already caused a mayonnaise stain on the front of his sweatshirt.
“Maybe you need a break, then,” Eddie mutters. He rests his chin on his hand. “From the city, I mean. Don’t take any jobs for a while.”
“A break?” Richie scoffs. “I haven’t had a break from cities since…”
Since Derry.
He goes on, “Even once I’m out of California, where am I going? To a different city.”
“New York is different.”
“Not that different.”
“But there is a difference.”
“I guess.”
Eddie’s convinced sometimes that he was made to live in the city. He likes being in a place where everyone sticks to themselves, where there’s enough angry people around that he doesn’t feel like a monster when he gets road rage. Or sidewalk rage. Or…stupid people rage.
But there are other times where he envies Mike, who moved down to Florida in late 2016. He envies Ben and Beverly and their fuckass Nebraska home. And sometimes, regrettably, he misses life before he moved to New York. He misses those nights when he’d fall asleep to the sound of the wind and the humidifier machine in his room, rather than that of car horns and pure electricity.
“It’s probably gonna bomb anyway,” Richie mumbles, his mouth full of sandwich. “I don’t know why I agreed to it.”
Eddie stands up, leaving the bedroom for a glass of water. “It’s Disney. It’s not gonna bomb.”
“Whatever. Money’s money.”
Again, they go quiet. Eddie tries not to make it obvious that he’s watching Richie eat. He’s a slob, sure, but he’s an endearing slob. Richie doesn’t even notice. He must be scrolling Twitter again. That’s one of his worst habits.
“Bill’s in the news again,” Richie says uncommittedly.
“Yeah? What for, this time?”
No response.
Okay. Cool. Dick.
A minute goes by, and then—
“HBO wants his book.”
“That could be cool.”
“Mm.”
Eddie asks, “When’s your flight?”
“Two hours.”
“Maybe you should take a nap, then.”
“I can’t. Won’t wake up.”
“I’ll call you again in an hour to make sure you do.”
Richie looks almost offended. “Isn’t it, like, almost eleven there?”
“So?”
“So it’s about three hours past your bedtime, grandpa.”
“Fuck you.”
“Oh my God, please.” Richie pauses, clearly waiting for a response to his bait. When Eddie doesn’t give it to him, he continues instead, “I’m serious, though, man. Get some sleep.”
Eddie, ironically, has to hold back a yawn before he replies, “I’m not tired. I don’t have to work in the morning.” A beat. “You have a habit of forgetting your keys. I was going to—”
“No. Absolutely not. You’re not gonna wait up for me, spaghetti man, I won’t allow it.”
“…I’m a grown adult, Rich.”
“Exactly! You’re supposed to be the one with a strict sleep schedule! Do you know how many times I’ve heard you complain that you forgot to refill your pill organizer? Not once! You’re an old man, Eds, but you’re still practical!”
“I don’t understand the problem.”
Richie starts to explain himself in an exasperated way, before realizing that he should probably try to act normal at least. “The problem is—go the fuck to bed.”
“No?”
“You can’t stay up until, what? Like, five AM? That’s stupid.”
“Fuck you. I’ll do what I want.”
“…Fine. Whatever.” Richie sighs. “I think I’ll take a lap around the terminal or something. Blast Flo Rida to keep me awake.”
Eddie groans. “Alright, but that bullshit stays in California, you hear me?”
“God. You hate fun.”
Wrong. Eddie doesn’t hate fun. He doesn’t even hate music. What he really hates is the way Richie listens to music, with the volume cranked all the way up and the sound carrying across the entire apartment.
After hanging up, he sits down on the couch with his glass of water. He has his copy of Bill’s latest book sitting on the coffee table, half-finished, so he figures that’s what he’ll do to pass the time while he waits for Richie.
He isn’t sure when he falls asleep. But he does know that he left the lamp on, and he didn’t check to make sure the book made it back to the table before he passed out.
Sometime later, there’s movement. The lamp is off. The book, now slightly creased from being left open, is back in its rightful spot. And the apartment now smells like…
“C’mon, Eds,” a raspy, tired voice whispers almost directly into Eddie’s ear. “I can’t lift you. I’ll throw out my back.”
Almost on autopilot, Eddie stands and walks to bed. He lays down face-first, groaning at the crick in his neck. For a second it feels like he’s just going to pass right back out, but he doesn’t. Instead, he lifts his head again, focusing on the shadowy figure walking around the room.
“You can’t get into bed like that,” he says. Then, feeling as though he needs to clarify, he adds, “You smell like LA.”
Richie laughs. Not his usual laugh. It’s quieter, the kind he only uses when they’re alone and it’s obvious he thinks Eddie’s being slightly ridiculous and overly type-a.
“I know,” he replies, opening a dresser drawer and digging around in it. “I’m gonna take a shower. Don’t worry.”
For a while, the world goes blissfully black, the only thing occupying the space being the sound of the shower running. It sounds like rain. And then there’s a smell, a smell that Eddie recognizes even in half-sleep as Richie’s body wash. It has this very…particular smell. Not bad, just particular.
And then, a touch.
“Ew…ew, ew, ew.” Eddie squirms a bit, pushing at Richie’s arms, which are now wrapped tight around his waist. “You’re wet.”
“Yeah, duh, I just showered.”
“You’re getting me soaked. Oh my God.”
“That’s the goal, baby.”
“I hate you. Shut up. Don’t call me that.”
But even then, Eddie can’t help himself. He turns over, purposely getting closer. In all the years he’s known Richie (so, if he were to discount the twenty or so where he’d forgotten Derry’s existence, about twenty), he’s always been weirdly attached to him.
It hasn’t always been in a romantic sense, either. When they were kids, it was more that…he felt safer around Richie. Stanley didn’t do great under stress; he was always the embodiment of a flight response. Bill, and Eddie himself, usually showed a freeze response. But Richie? Richie has no sense of self-preservation. It sucks for him, but it’s fantastic for Eddie.
And now, sure, it’s romantic. It’s plenty romantic. Eddie wouldn’t usually count potty humor and mystery smells as romantic, but that’s neither here nor there.
“There he is,” Richie murmurs, his hand snaking up the back of Eddie’s neck and tangling in his hair. “I missed you, too.”
“Mmph.” Eddie begrudgingly (not really) accepts his fate. “So…let me hear it. Give me one of your lines.”
“What, from the movie?”
“No. From the Irish cop, asshole.”
“Aye, lad, ya’d be wise to watch ya tone.”
“Rich…”
“Okay, fine. I’ll give you something.” Richie shifts slightly, clearing his throat. He puts on a voice, not too different than his real one, just slightly more animated. “Wanna get rich playing video games?”
Eddie snorts, caught off guard. “What?”
“That’s one of my lines.”
“This movie sounds stupid.”
“That’s why it’s for children and not spaghetti men, spaghetti man,” Richie says. “Luckily my role’s small enough that I don’t gotta go to the premiere or anything…”
“Good.”
“Okay, now tell me how amazing and sexy and awesome you think I am.”
“No.”
“Please?”
“I’m tired.”
“C’mon.”
“You’re special,” Eddie amends. “That’s what you are. And you’re also being really loud in consideration of the fact that it’s six in the morning.”
Richie responds, “I slept on the plane.”
“Oh, okay. That makes it all better, then.”
“Fine. Fine, okay. I’m done. I’ll be quiet.”
“Hallelujah.”
“I love you.”
Eddie hesitates. Not because he wasn’t expecting that—Richie says it all the time. And this is just the usual go-around that happens when those three godforsaken words come up right after they’re done bantering. He doesn’t want to sound robotic like he always did with Myra, doesn’t want to sound like he’s saying it just because it’s what Richie wants to hear. So he always hesitates, just a little.
Finally, he replies softly, purposely removing the edge from his voice, “Love you too.”
2019.
Even in October, the LA heat is unbearable.
The AC in their place hasn’t worked since they got there, and for some reason, the guy can’t come out to fix it for another two days. By then, they’ll probably be on a plane back to the east coast, but whatever.
As it turns out, Bill writing a book where the characters are based on their friend group means getting dragged to every major event involving it. It happened in 2017 when the book came out; Bill made this huge deal about the real-life friends behind it all, so Richie and Eddie and Bev, and sometimes Mike and Ben, were involved in the press.
For some reason.
And now there’s a movie. The turnaround on the damn thing was crazy; maybe it’s only because Bill surprised them with it after most of production was already done, but it feels like the big studios took no time at all to poach their story. Well, not really their story; Bill changed a majority of the key details, and obviously the general public is under the impression that it’s all make-believe, but still.
“Maybe we can fake a stomach-bug,” Richie suggests, leaning against the bathroom doorway.
Eddie rinses off his toothbrush and spits out the last of the toothpaste stuck in his mouth. “Or maybe,” he retorts, “you can stop complaining and just get dressed.”
“Oh, so now I’m the one who’s complaining?”
“Yeah.”
Richie rolls his eyes, then turns back into the bedroom. “Alright, but you remember that when we’re on our way back afterwards.”
Eddie doesn’t even acknowledge it. He’s too busy worrying about the piece of lettuce from lunch he knows is still stuck in his back teeth somehow. He can feel it, but just can’t…
He sees Richie reappear in his peripheral vision, dressed in a suit. How long had he been standing at the sink flossing? Surely not that long, right?
“You look fine,” Richie says. “Your teeth, I mean. You still haven’t dealt with—”
“My hair. I know. Shut up.”
“Bill said the car would be here at eight, so we’ve got—” A brief pause, “—about thirty more minutes. Don’t spend too much time pampering yourself, my dear.”
“Fuck you.”
“That’s after.”
The limousine—because that’s what it is, a limousine—arrives at 8:02. Beverly and Ben are already inside of it. Richie makes some stupid joke about knowing who’s “top billing” in the mind of Bill or whatever.
“Is Mike still coming?” Eddie asks once they’re settled.
Bev nods. “We’re picking him up next.”
It’s only been about a minute inside the limo, but Richie’s already halfway through one of the complimentary drinks. Eddie thinks about saying something but ultimately doesn’t; if he knew he could handle his alcohol better in front of so many people, he’d be drinking like that too.
“We saw your movie last year,” Ben tells Richie, which sets Beverly off into a giggle-fit.
Richie grimaces. “Ew. Why?”
Before they can answer, the car stops and the door opens again. Mike steps in, looking so much less stressed than the last time they saw him. Florida has done some wondrous things for the man.
He’d say the ride was quiet, but that isn’t the truth at all. Between Richie already being tipsy and Beverly clearly wine-drunk, there isn’t a moment where one of them isn’t shouting over the music the driver had pointedly turned up early on.
Two years ago, when Bill’s book first came out, something odd happened. Because he used their real-life story as part of the promotion, it was like everyone started caring about the Losers Club. It was a parasocial nightmare for a while really, especially for Mike and Eddie, and Ben in a sense, the ones who never really were in the public eye. Everyone knew their names, their faces, and worst of all, what they were bullied for in middle school.
And now, it’s like that is all coming back. As they enter the premiere, they get almost as many camera flashes and screaming fans as the cast itself. It’s insane.
The movie itself is…well, it’s a typical William Denbrough horror flick. It’s cheesy. The acting is somewhat questionable. The ending, this time, is actually okay. They leave through a back entrance, directly back into their vehicle. Bill and Audra join them.
“So…” Bill says with an expectant smile, one that the rest of the Losers know far too well. “What did you guys think?”
“I think,” Bev slurs, halfway melded into Ben’s side, “that we need to get drunk.”
Ben laughs. “You’re already drunk enough…”
“Mm-mm.”
“Movie was fine,” Richie says. “But, uh…the me-character was a total dweeb, man.”
Everyone else takes turns sharing a look. Beverly bursts into yet another fit of drunken laughter, this time ending with a loud, uncontrolled snort.
Richie feigns hurt. “What are you trying to say? I wasn’t like that.”
“Yeesh.” Eddie pats him on the shoulder. “I don’t know how to put this gently…”
“Ohh, it’s like that?”
“Dude,” Ben says, his tone like that of a parent addressing their fussy child. “You literally wore Hawaiian shirts every day.”
“So?!”
“So you looked like a dork!” Bill exclaims.
“Oh that’s rich coming from you, Buh-Buh-Bill.”
“Right. Immediately go back to making fun of my stutter. Real mature, dick.”
“I’m just saying! You weren’t the king of style back then, either! Didn’t you literally only wear the same shirt in different colors?”
“No!”
“You can’t just say no, man, I saw it with my own two—” A beat, “—my own four eyes!”
At that, Beverly finally doubles over, her laughing turning into coughs instead. Ben rubs up and down her back. When she sits up again, her cheeks are still red, but there’s a new clarity in her eyes.
“Suh…sorry,” she says. “I may have pregamed a bit too hard.”
“You don’t say,” Mike says.
Richie utters, “The bigger issue is that you were pregaming a Bill Denbrough movie.”
Bill flips him the bird.
Eddie puts his hands up in defense. “I’m with Rich on that one.”
“Oh, come on,” Bill says with a grunt. “Don’t let him turn you into a pushover, man.”
Ben raises a skeptical brow. “Turn him into?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Eddie demands, his expression twisting into that oh-so familiar annoyance that Richie loves so much. “Fuck you!”
Ben laughs, looking at Eddie like he’s simply a pissed-off chihuahua.
Audra, who’d been quiet up to that point, finally speaks up and asks, “Are you guys always like this when you meet up?”
“Yes,” they all say in unison.
She mouths, “Oh-kay…”
“I also just want to bring attention to the fact that Bill decided to kill me,” Eddie says. “Like, what the hell did I do?”
“Okay, can I just say something?” Bill asks defensively. “The characters aren’t one-to-one, alright? They’re different.”
Bev cringes. “Not really.”
“Yeah, no.” Mike shakes his head. “It’s very, very obvious who’s who.”
Bill rolls his eyes. “My bad. I just…thought it’d give the final battle some stakes, alright? Not everyone can survive a horror movie.”
Richie butts in, “Okay, that’s fine. Whatever—”
Eddie glares at him. “Whatever?”
“No, not—not whatever, but…whatever, you know? Moving on.” Richie puts his hand flat over Eddie’s face. “I’d also like to point out that you left out the part where Eds had to kiss me to break me out of the Deadlight trance—”
“It’s not one-to-one!” Bill shouts.
“Oh, but you kept in the part where Ben and Bev end up together!”
Eddie, deciding he’s had enough, shoves Richie’s arm away. “It’s an interesting choice, man, to be fair.”
“It didn’t make sense thematically,” Bill says, crossing his arms like a pouting toddler.
Richie snorts. “It didn’t make sense thematically? That’s a new one. Hey, Mike, you’re a librarian—can you spell homophobia?”
“I’m not doing that,” Mike says.
“H-O—” Beverly begins, before Ben wisely quiets her with a small pinch to the knee. “Hey!”
“Relax, Billy, we’re fucking with you,” Richie concedes finally. “I didn’t wanna see our doppelgangers make out all hardcore and shit anyway. Would’ve been awkward.”
Ben huffs. “Wish I could say the same for Bev and me.”
Eddie deadpans, “Imagine how we feel.”
Beverly, grinning ear to ear, says, “I love you guys so much.”
It’s around then that the limo finally pulls into the restaurant parking lot. Bill and Audra step out first, followed by Ben and a shaky-legged Bev, then Mike, and finally Richie and Eddie.
And as they walk into a restaurant that they’re unaware is about to give half of them extreme food poisoning, Eddie can’t help but have a fleeting thought:
Maybe LA isn’t 100% awful.
Only 99%.