Archive of Our Own

Richie wakes, bleary and dry-mouthed, to the sight of Eddie hovering above him, smile brighter than any deadlights.

"Wake up, Rich! There he is, hey." His voice quivers with laughter, almost giddy in its relief. "I think I killed it, man! I think I killed It for real!"

He sounds surprised, taken aback by his own strength, whereas Richie absolutely believes that Eddie saved his life. He sounds like they’re kids again, the first time he ever beat Richie at Street Fighter, "for real, not because you let me win," though Richie fervently denied doing so. Eddie saw right through it, of course, because Eddie knew him like nobody else did. 

What a terrifying concept, thinks Richie, as he’s flat on his back, staring up at Eddie, a literal angel, haloed by the fading deadlights. He licks his lips, staring at Eddie’s, wishing he was braver. Maybe, he wonders, fingers curling around the nape of Eddie’s neck, if they had more time, he could learn to be.

But there is no time.

The tendril whips out, so fast there’s no time to scream, no time to confess every tender inclination of love he’s felt toward Eddie since before he knew what love was. Not before the tendril will impale Eddie–

–then it stops, and with it time seems to stop, too.

*

*

*

*

*

Eddie was five, and his father was dead.

He didn't understand what that meant, exactly. It meant there were no pancakes waiting for him in the morning, smothered in syrup despite his ma's protests. It meant nobody to read him comics before tucking him in, nobody to whirl him around in the air and pretend he was an airplane. It meant his ma spending days in bed, silent and joyless.

It meant Aunt Margaret coming down from Chamberlain to handle the funeral, the burial, the house and his mother. That left the care of Eddie to her daughter, Carrie.

He preferred it that way. Aunt Margaret smacked his knuckles when he reached for food without first saying grace. She told him if he lied about brushing his teeth before bed, he would be punished in Hell, since lying was a sin. Once when he was very bad, she locked him in the closet, where he was to pray until he found forgiveness.

Eddie didn't know any prayers, so he curled up and wept, the darkness pressing in against all sides. She let him out eventually, claiming his penance was served. He still trembled whenever she raised her voice, afraid she'd do it again.

For Carrie, that was a given. She was always being watched like a hawk, her chin always tilted down, as if in chastisement. In front of Aunt Margaret, she was timid and soft-spoke, instead of just soft like she was with Eddie.

They played together in the backyard, hidden behind his mother's thick hydrangea bush, where she read "blasphemous" comics from his dad's collection, away from her mother’s contempt. Grateful, Eddie snuck her his mom's copy of Anne of Green Gables, which made Carrie beam so bright it eclipsed her face.

(Stealing was sin, but if it made her smile, Eddie was willing to risk it)

It was with Carrie he felt safe enough to ask, "What's it mean, dead?"

She glanced up from her book, wide eyes wider than ever. "When you die, they put your body in the ground. Then God judges your soul," she explained, her voice grave. "If you lived virtuously, you go to Heaven. If you lived in sin, your soul goes to Hell."

Eddie didn’t know what a sin was, but with how often he got punished, he must be a sinner.

He didn’t have to ask how sinners got punished in Hell. Aunt Margaret was very clear on that part.

One night, he was woken by his bladder, and crept to the toilet on his tiptoes so he wouldn't be caught out of bed. His mother was acting more like herself these days, the spell of sadness nearly broken, and he hoped Aunt Margaret would leave soon.

Sneaking back to his room, Eddie caught bits of conversation wafting up from the kitchen. His curiosity ignited, he snuck downstairs, hoping against hope it was his ma, out of bed and talking.

His ma was out of bed, sat at the kitchen table, a steaming cup of tea in front of her. Her hair a mess, her eyes red-rimmed but alert, listening as Aunt Margaret did the talking.

"You'll have to watch that one, as he grows. Too much of your brother," she spat the word like a curse, even though Uncle Ralph was her husband. Or he used to be. "Too much of that filthy blood running through his veins."

He flinched away from her tone, scurrying back to bed before he could be discovered. But the words stayed with him, a knot in his stomach he couldn't shake loose. Even after his mom began to fret over him again, and Aunt Margaret left with a somber Carrie in tow.

The regime of pills began shortly after. "You’re sick, Eddie. You have to take your medicine,” his mother coaxed. "You don’t want to end up like daddy, do you?"

Daddy was dead in the cold, dark ground; and Eddie was scared of the dark. He was even more scared of what would come after. 

Eddie was five when he learned he was sick, which was just another way of saying he was wrong.

So he made sure to take his medicine, just like a good boy would.

*

*

Eddie was thirteen, and he was dreaming. 

Nightmares weren't unusual, when you spent the summer trudging through sewage, sewing up wounds, and fighting an evil clown.

But there was no Pennywise. No Betty Ripsom ripped in half. No terror at being separated from his friends, not knowing if they were okay, if they were alive.

It was just a girl. A girl in her pretty, pink dress. Drenched in blood. Even through the splatters of red tangled in her hair, brushed over her face like a shroud, Eddie recognized her.

Carrie. Soft, timid Carrie White.

"Eddie," she called, drumming loud against his ears. Her eyes huge, haunting. "Eddie."

Just his name, over and over, a hoarse whisper blanketed by the dark of his room. His nightlight stuttered in the corner, the lone source of light illuminating her. 

For once, though, he wasn’t afraid. He couldn’t explain – it was like he could feel she wasn’t a threat. But she was afraid.

Eddie uncurled his fist from the sheets, reaching out a trembling hand. Carrie watched the movement, her jaw slackening, the words trying to claw through the gap of her teeth.

Instead she screamed, her body erupting into flames, flaying her alive.

Eddie screamed, too, and nightlight shattered, plunging them both into darkness.

*

*

In hindsight, the dream wasn’t the first incident. Ever since he refused to take the placebos, Eddie had felt ... strange. 

Not sick, as he half-expected he’d be (years of conditioning was hard to undo overnight). Not afraid, per se. The world simply felt sharper. Less hazy.

Despite the fact that he felt different, his life remained the same. That meant that even without his pills, Eddie still had a weekly dose of torment from his classmates. 

"Kaspbrak!" Logan Geiger slung an arm over his shoulder in the hall before third period. "Lend me your math notebook."

Eddie gagged at his body odor, squirming at the thought of how many germs were floating in their proximity. Besides, it wasn’t as if he didn’t know the drill. Lend me was bully-speak for hand it over or I’ll pound you.

"Why don’t you just do your own homework?" he griped. Under his breath, Eddie mumbled, "Dick."

The word had scarcely left his lips before he was shoved. His arms flailed to catch him, his notebook papers spilling over the floor. He winced, not from pain, but at how dishearteningly easy it was to push him around.

"I asked nicely," said Logan, audibly cracking his knuckles. However, it wasn’t that sound that caught Eddie’s attention.

Over Logan's shoulder, a locker door was rattling. Nobody was near it, or moving it, yet it was moving to a familiar rhythm... Almost as if it was beating in tune to the pulse thrumming against his ribcage.

He didn’t know why, because it was insane, even for a hunch, yet a part of Eddie felt as though … it was moving because of him, somehow. 

Through the cluster of students who had gathered to watch the show, a dark mop of curls emerged, wearing his signature smirk.

"Morning, Logan. How’s your ma? She walking after last at night?"

Richie’s smirk dipped into a frown, concern magnified behind his thick lenses. He murmured "You okay, Eds?" out the corner of his mouth. Eddie tore his eyes away from the locker long enough to nod.

Logan sneered, "Makes sense you’d stick up for your boyfriend. Know what’s written about you in the girl’s bathroom, Tozier?"

Eddie swallowed, avoiding the prickle of everyone’s gazes. But Richie always fed off a captive audience.

"You spending a lot of time in the girl’s bathroom?"

Laughter rippled through their classmates, and Logan flushed, hot and indignant. "Yeah, with your sister!"

"Nah, she only puts out in the back of sedans." Another round of laughs and Richie was grinning, high off the rush. "Maybe your dick’s so small, it’s easier to pee sitting down?"

Eddie saw the exact moment Logan snapped, his fist rearing back, flying toward Richie’s still-grinning face. He opened his mouth to scream, to warn, to hurl something at Logan that might halt the violence aimed at his friend.

Suddenly, the light flickering overhead shattered. The hall burst into darkness.

It was chaos, kids yelling, feet running, bodies slamming into each other. Eddie would’ve been trampled, frozen in shock, if not for Richie’s latching onto him in the dark.

Under the sun beating down against the school’s lawn, Eddie caught his breath, sweating, his face wet. His fingers itched for inhaler, but he was trying to curb that instinct, since it, too, was merely a placebo.

"Shit, Eds," Richie gasped. "You’re bleeding!"

Frowning, Eddie touched the spot under his nose, shuddering when his finger comes back red. He yelped when Richie reached down and began to dig through his fanny pack. The heat of his blush was dizzying, unable to speak as Richie found his emergency hanky. 

"Did that jerk rough you up?" Richie grumbled, the venom in his voice betrayed by how gently he dabbed at the blood.

"Huh? No, I’m fine." Had he hit his nose when he fell? He couldn't remember. "Don’t you think it was weird? The lights?"

"I guess." Richie shrugged, concentrating on his task. "That's the Derry school budget for ya."

Richie was most likely right. Not that he’d ever admit that aloud.

"Ew, careful. Do not get my blood on you, idiot!" Eddie hissed, his mind buzzing. Anxious after all his mother’s tirades on AIDs, and maybe, a fear of something more sinister.

Too much of that filthy blood running through his veins.

He crumpled the tissue into his fist, ducking his head. "And, uh. Thanks for sticking up for me."

"No problemo, Eddie Spaghetti-o," Richie sang, off-key. Then, suddenly very serious, "If Geiger gives you trouble again, just come find me, okay?"

"You don’t have to," he replied, clipped and awkward. While the fluttery sensation in his stomach reveled in the attention, the tightness in his throat rankled at being dismissed, or worse, a burden. "Protect me, I mean."

"I know," said Richie, and Eddie smiled at him, grateful. Richie always believed he was bigger than he was.

He looked as if he wanted to say more, only then the bell rang, and the conversation was lost in their haste to get to class.

*

*

His scream penetrated the house, waking his mom with a fright. She rushed into his room, brandishing his inhaler like a weapon and shoving it in his mouth, which was stricken mute by panic. Before he could blink, she was bustling him into the kitchen for a hot mug of tea. 

"Just a bad dream," she sighed, puttering around the stove. "My poor Eddie-bear."

Eddie took a last, shuddery puff on his inhaler before managing to speak.

"Mom, it was Carrie. I saw Carrie in my room." Her spine tensed where it was leaned over the kettle. Eddie persisted with urgency, "She was hurt. I think Aunt Margaret, or someone–we have to help her!"

His mother whipped around, her face ashen. "Eddie," she gaped at him. "She’s dead."

Eddie blinked at her. That was impossible. No figment of his imagination could be as vivid as what he just saw. Besides, if Carrie had ... she would have told him, if his own cousin had died.

"No," he said, shaking his head. "Ma, you aren't listening, I saw her for real."

"Carrie died in May," she continued, fingers twisted into the fabric of her robe. "Right before your school let out."

"No!" Eddie slammed his fists against the counter furiously. "No, you're lying to me. Again. First the gazebos, now– why do you keep doing that?! Why won’t you tell me the truth?"

The kettle screeched, steam erupting from the nozzle. It tipped onto the floor with a deafening clang, just as the mug on the counter exploded in a flurry of cream-white shards. His mother lurched back with a shriek.

Only the version of his ma in the basement of Keene’s Pharmacy had ever shrieked like that, petrified, trapped. Now his real ma was looking at Eddie like he’s the leper. 

Eddie flashed back to the leper, remembering the stench of death on its breath, the power it had over them, when the idea popped into his head, sudden, unbidden: You could keep her like this. Keep her afraid, the way she’d kept him afraid his entire life. No more hiding him away like fragile glass, no more calling his friends nasty names, and forbidding them from the house. He was so immediately, viscerally alarmed by the thought he burst into tears.

"I’m sorry, I’m sorry." He tumbled forward, wanting her to wrap him in her arms, and tell him it was okay. Instead she kept her distance, clutching at the folds of her robe like she couldn't bear to have him near her, and it fucking hurt.

His throat clamped down around a sob, curling his arms around himself to calm the full-bodied quivers. "I-I don’t know why," he hiccupped. "Why this is happening–"

"Sweetie, I told you, I insisted," and then she was crying, too. "You should’ve taken your medicine!"

"But I’m..." He sniffled, wiped his nose, smearing snot and tears over his cheeks. "I’m not sick. They’re placebos."

Her lips pinched together, still struggling to keep hold of her secrets. And when she at last began to talk, she told him everything.

About the men who knocked at their door, searching for the family of Carrie and Margaret White. About the prom. The pretty, pink dress. The malicious prank that culminated in the massacre of her classmates. She didn’t mention the years of torment to precede it, but Eddie knew, as if he could sense Carrie’s utter devastation.

"Just like her freak of a father," she hissed, the venom of it like ice injected into his veins. "A bad seed, the moment she was born. Margaret knew, yet didn’t understand. Not until it was too late."

She shuddered, lips curled into a sneer. "Even as a boy, your uncle Ralph was strange. Things he wanted would just happen, no matter how selfish, or awful ... until that year, when he got very sick."

Blunt nails dug into his forearms, Eddie clinging tightly, afraid of what he’d do otherwise. He stared at his bare feet, glued to the kitchen tile.

"It was never clear, whether the fever burnt it out of him...or if, maybe, it was being so young, and believing he was too weak to do it anymore." The hysteric note to the story rose another notch, as if caught in a fever herself. "And I hoped, I prayed you wouldn’t inherit it, too. But  there was always a chance you would."

"Mommy," Eddie rasped, shivering all over. "I’m scared."

"That's why you have to take your pills." His mother’s smile wobbled on its axis, churning his stomach. "Do you understand? I lied, but it was to keep you safe. To keep everyone safe."

Safe from you.

Her fingers curled under his chin, tilting his face up to meet hers. "You want to be a good boy, don't you?"

The thought of hurting anyone, especially his friends, was unbearable. His tears slid over her thumb as he nodded, fervently.

"Of course you do," she exhaled, and finally, finally opened her arms. He sunk into the embrace, let her engulf him in her warmth, stroke his hair while she crooned. "You’re mommy’s good boy. Not like my brother. Not like that nasty girl."  

Except that wasn’t fair – Carrie didn't have a nasty bone in her body, as far as Eddie remembered. It was Carrie who cared for him, when guan mother was practically catatonic with grief. Carrie,  who remained soft in spite of her mother’s attempts to harden her. If someone as good as her could become the vision from his nightmare...

Anybody could go bad. Even he could.

*

*

It was an eerily sunny November, temperate enough that the Losers ate their lunches lounging on the green. Stan had explained that morning, before first period, that his grandparents were hosting a huge bash for their fiftieth wedding anniversary. Music, food, a rented hall – a real shindig, as Richie proclaimed, donning his Old Man voice. He was allowed to invite his friends, and it was all the Losers could talk about that afternoon.

All except for Eddie, whose palms were sweating in anticipation. "I’m sorry, Stan. I can’t go," he announced, glumly.

Richie groaned the loudest, a chorus seconded by Bill and Mike. A flush crawled up his neck, but he ignored it, plucking up blades of grass.

It was Stan was the one who shushed them, a far too knowing gleam in his eyes. "Is it your mom?" 

"Sort of," Eddie replied, shredding the grass between his fingertips. "We’re going to New York City."

His attempt at being flippant failed spectacularly. His friends swarmed him with questions, chief among them, why?

Eddie shrugged. "I dunno, there's this new doctor she wants to visit."

Bill wrinkled his nose. "What’s the matter with Dr. Langbert? We’ve all g-gone to him s-since we were in diapers."

"Are you kidding? That quack?" Eddie scoffed. "He doesn’t even change the parchment paper in between patients. Do you realize how unsanitary that is?"

"To be fair," Ben interjected, after Stan and Bill traded exasperated looks. "Mom took me to him last month and he recommended a diet plan. For strep."

"Thank you," Eddie huffed, bumping his knee against Ben’s in solidarity. "Also, fuck that guy, you eat way better than trashmouth over here."

Richie yelped, "What the fuck, Eds?"

"Yesterday I watched you eat an entire can of spray cheese," he deadpanned. 

"Dude," Stan gagged. "You should be seeing a doctor."

"Maybe the doc can take a look at your funny bone," Rich teased, flinging a bug at Eddie. "Give it a tweak."

He squealed, clawing wildly at his shirt. "Asshole! Lime disease is at an all-time high, and if that was a tick, I swear to God, I’ll kick your ass–!"

"I don’t think it was a tick," Mike offered, mildly. 

Richie wheezed like he’d broken a rib. "I’ll check you for ticks," he volunteered with a wink. "Don’t want those bugs slurping at our delicious lil’ Eddie Spaghetti."

Eddie didn’t dignify that with a response, and if anyone thought he was blushing, well, they could easily assume it was from all his hopping around earlier. He was horrible at lying, and, annoying as it was, bickering with Richie was his safe ground, the familiarity soothing his nerves. After a promise to bring back souvenirs, the topic inevitably shifted to Mrs. Kroll's totally unfair pop quiz. 

While Ben divulged the quiz's answers, turning Bill greener by the minute, Richie nudged his shoulder. "So, um. How long will you be gone?" he asked in an undertone.

"A couple of days." Eddie glanced up, unnerved to find Richie staring intensely at him. For a split, fleeting second, he thought he’d been caught. "Why?"

"No reason." Richie snorted. He quickly turned away, revealing the bashful glow of his cheeks. "Just don’t miss me too much."

Eddie smiled at his profile. "I’ll try," he muttered, wryly.

*

*

New York was fine, he supposed, but Eddie did miss his friends terribly. Especially that loudmouth Richie for some reason.

It was hard not to miss home, when you were in a hospital gown, bare legs exposed to the doctor sitting across from you, observing you like you were a fungus in a Petri dish.

The plastic taped to his forehead itched, but he was too nervous to scratch. "Do I have to wear these things?"

Dr. Silas nodded. "They monitor your brain activity for me."

"But we’re just talking," Eddie clarified. Which was weird. He never spoke to the doctors alone. The fact they had his mom’s permission was more bizarre. 

"Just talking," Dr. Silas confirmed. He asked a lot of questions, recording Eddie’s mumbled answers, cajoling him to do it more often than not.

Most of it was standard, getting-to-know you and your medical history questions that he answered mechanically. Eventually, the doctor set aside his clipboard and asked, "What are you afraid of, Eddie?"

His eyes flicked to Dr. Silas. "What does that have to do with this?" he demanded, gesturing at the wires.

"Surely you've noticed? Your mother tells me you’re a bright boy." Eddie did have a theory, yet he held his tongue, and swore he caught a glint of disappointment in the doctor’s gaze.

"Your abilities are linked to your emotions. That's why the manifestation can become so volatile." He steepled his fingers, so intently fixated on Eddie he yearned to squirm. "If we can get to the root of what triggers your outbursts, we can work on controlling these impulses."

"My mom said you could make it go away," he said hotly, skirting toward an accusation. "I don’t want to control it! I want it to stop."

Dr. Silas regarded him silently for a  moment, and then he stood, crossing the short distance separating them. Eddie fought the urge to shrink as the doctor neared, the long, bony fingers grazing his cheek as they reached for him.

Strapped to the wires, there was no way to escape. Besides, what if he rescinded the offer to help, because Eddie didn’t comply? It was a risk he couldn’t take, even as Dr. Silas settled a heavy hand over his shoulder, warm but unwanted.

"I understand your apprehension, son, but there’s nothing to fear here," he said,   so serene about the whole affair, as if this was normal. "You’re a sensitive child, I see. Who feels so keenly. Just like your cousin."

His breath hitched in his chest, and at this proximity, Dr. Silas noticed. He raised his eyebrows, a tacit oh yes, I’m well aware of who she is, who you are.

"And nobody wants another Carrie White tragedy," he added, solemnly. 

Eddie gulped, his knuckles white where they were bunched in his gown. They didn’t loosen until Dr. Silas was back in his chair, clearing his throat.

"Shall we try this again?"

*

*

He took the pills, twice a day, every day.

More, Dr. Silas confided, if there was a flare up. He trusted Eddie to figure out his limits, test his own resilience. His visits to the clinic become frequent, so frequent his mom considered moving closer to the city. Eddie nipped that in the bud by refusing to go to Dr. Silas ever again if she moved him away. 

Because he was going of his own volition. Eddie wanted to be good. And the pills were meant to help do that.

Of course, there were side effects, as with any experimental treatment. The migraines were the worst of it, almost crippling the first week. Like his body was resisting the intrusion, setting his brain on fire.

He tried to power through school, which ended in Richie half-carrying him to the nurse, after barely making it to the toilet to throw up his lunch. The nurse left him in the quiet, lightless infirmary to sleep it off, while Richie was ordered back to class. But it was so dark, and even through the skull-splitting ache, Eddie’s chest tightened in panic, and he clung to Richie, whimpering through clenched teeth, "Don’t go." 

After all these years, the memory of that closet overwhelmed him still. 

So Richie sat with him in a pitch black, nothing to do except grip Eddie’s hand, and without a single complaint. Later, Eddie had the grace to be ashamed, although he thought about that day sometimes, before falling asleep at night, the ghost of Richie’s touch firm against his hand.

He thought about it now, chin resting on his knees, drops of sweat rolling down his neck.

The air was cold, but the sun was blinding, and the dichotomy was captured perfectly in Bev, bundled in Bill’s jacket, sunglasses perched on her nose. She always looked so cool, and Eddie envied her a bit, imagining what it’d be like to wear another boy’s jacket. He thought of how close Richie sat to him in the nurse’s office, his scent wrapping around Eddie like a security blanket, and figured it would be something like that.

"It’s bullshit!" Richie snapped, obnoxiously loud, and Eddie grimaced, the affection mingling with annoyance. Endearing qualities aside, Trashmouth always knew how to spoil a moment.

From where he was explaining the finer points of X-Men comics to Mike, Bill balked.

"Uh, the end of the Dark Phoenix s-saga is iconic," he said, offended. "Easily one of the b-best X-Men runs."

"The ending was bullshit," Richie repeated. "They killed Phoenix, and for what?" 

"From a storytelling perspective, it is poetic," Ben claimed. "Noble hero transforms into monstrosity and commits the ultimate sacrifice, thus redeeming herself in the end."

"Et tu, Benjamin?" Richie moaned, dramatically throwing his arm over his eyes. "And what the hell do you mean, redeem? Jean didn’t do anything wrong."

"She ate a galaxy," Stan reminded. 

"Because of the Phoenix?" Mike clarified.

"Exactly!" Richie crowed. "She was like, mad with power, or whatever."

"Can you really separate the two, though?" Bill argued, and Eddie's ears pricked, his heart missing a beat. "The Phoenix was the source of power, but it was still Jean. If it wasn’t, then how could she have saved them in the end?"

Normally, Eddie was one to chime in for these sort of debates. Reveled in it, if it was Richie doing the riling. Now it was as if a noose had twined around his lungs, squeezing like a vice. Goosebumps spread over his skin, his sweat running slick and cold.

"I guess..." Ben cupped his chin, pensive. "Even containing such an enormous power threatens everyone around her, whether she chooses to use it or not."

The cramp in his stomach sunk all the way to his shoes. Eddie wilted with it; he wished he could sink into the earth. Bev glanced sidelong at him, a crease in her forehead, but he was too forlorn to care.

"So you could say she died for the greater good." At Richie's glare, Mike held up his hands. "I didn’t say I agree! But it makes sense. Like Ben said, very poetic."

"Except she didn’t die for the greater good," said Stan, firmly. "The point is, she died for her friends."

That shut the rest of them up, even the resident motormouth. Eddie glanced up tentatively from his knees.

Predictably, Richie was the first to pipe up, "And bad people don’t die to protect their friends! Ergo, I'm right."

"That is not what I said, but," Stan rolled his eyes. "Why do you care so much, anyway?"

Richie scowled. "It isn't fair she dies. While Cyclops moves on, marries someone else, and just ... so what if she was the Phoenix? That doesn’t automatically make her bad."

Eddie gazed at him, awed, his lips parted, the tension streaming from his jaw. He was always kind of in awe of Richie. How bold he was, how clever, how big his heart was, no matter how much bravado he hid it behind.

I love him, he realized, though not in those words; those words didn’t exist in his vocabulary yet. But the feeling was love – sincere, effortless love – even if he couldn’t describe it as such. He must’ve had the dopiest expression on his face, because Richie glanced at him, eyebrow quirked, the "Why’re you looking at me like that?" plain as if he’d spoken aloud.

"Aww, Rich." He was saved from further humiliation by Bev’s coo. Her sunglasses slid down her nose as she sat up on her elbows. "Didn’t peg you for a romantic."

"Nah," he grunted, breaking into his characteristic grin. "Just a shame, ya know? With the new costume, Phoenix was starting to show some skin."

She huffed out a laugh, kicking his ankle with her boot. 

"At its heart, it is a love story," Bill conceded. "And you can’t have sacrifice without love."

That, at least, made a whole lot of sense to Eddie. If this summer was any indication, he would do just about anything for his friends: follow them into a crackhouse, a sewer, fight a murderous clown with rows of razor-teeth. Take pills that hurt his head, if it meant protecting them from what he might do.

He burned with the sudden urge to tell them the truth – the whole truth. His mother had forbid him to, and he hadn’t really fought her on it, but it wasn’t as if he hadn’t broken a hundred of her thousand rules already.

"Earth to Eddie Spaghetti!" He must’ve spaced out, his expression pinched by the gut-twist of indecision. Between one blink and the next, there were six concerned Losers crowded around Eddie. 

"Is it your head?" asked Mike. "Another migraine?"

"You can take my glasses, if the sun’s too bright," said Bev, and before he could decline, she slipped them on. 

"Lookin’ good, Eds," she declared, and it sounded sincere, though she was probably humoring him. He felt sort of cool regardless.

"We can move into the shade," Ben suggested.

"Or get popsicles. Hydrate him," Stan said.

"Stan the Man with a plan." Richie ruffled his curls, evading Stan’s shove.

"I-I’ve got popsicles at mine." Bill crouched in front of Eddie. "And I c-can bike you home if you’re not f-feeling well." 

The vice-like tug returned, except this time, it wasn’t dread. It was that his heart felt too big, swelling in between his ribs.

"Guy, I’m fine," Eddie laughed. Thankful, now, that he had the glasses, the prick of tears hidden from view. "My head doesn't hurt. I, uh, I think the pills are helping."

It was as close as he ever came to telling the truth, but the hardest truth was this: Eddie was afraid. Afraid if they knew, they would be scared, disgusted. What if, despite everything, they hated Eddie once they knew what he truly was?

(Could he blame them, if they did? Even he didn’t know what he was capable of)

He’d rather suffer his secret in silence than risk finding out.

*

*

As he neared his mid-twenties, Eddie was taking his pills twice a day, often rounding it up to three. Dr. Silas trusted him to increase his dosage as he needed, and as he grew, Eddie found there was a need.

If he missed a day, which he rarely did, his head pulsed with withdrawal, and migraines would soon follow. He’d taken the pills for so long, he didn’t remember any differently.

He didn’t remember much of anything from before college, actually. It was blank. A slate wiped clean. 

"Retrograde amnesia could be a side-effect of prolonged dosage..." Dr. Silas hummed. "Hm. Interesting. This might be worth researching further." 

Eddie didn't see the point. You couldn’t miss what you’d forgotten, even if some nights, he stared at the ceiling for hours, his heart yearning, his chest throbbing for a thing he couldn’t name.

He knew the vague details of his past, obviously; he grew up in Maine with his mother, who moved them to New York shortly after his graduation. It made sense, really, what with his frequent doctor visits. Eddie had gone to college not far from the clinic. He lived closer now in his tidy little apartment.

The routine of his commute was second-nature, so when it was disrupted by a curt, "Hey, you!" Eddie stopped in puzzlement.

A man leaned against the receptionist’s desk, waving his hand. "Yeah, you. Any places to get a drink around here?"

He did a quick appraisal of himself, his usual ensemble of polo shirt, ironed slacks and lint-rolled coat. Trying to discern what about him made it seem like he was the person to ask. Eddie rarely drank. The statistics of alcoholism among people his age was disturbing enough, without his mother calling every week to remind him how many vehicular accidents were caused by drunk drivers.

So it would be a cinch to say “no” and be on his way. The guy was taller than him, he noted; a bit older, too. Brown hair, crystal blue eyes, and for reasons he couldn’t fathom, Eddie blurted, "There’s a bar on the corner, two streets over. I can show you."

His declaration was met by a raised eyebrow. Eddie flushed, realizing how eager it sounded. "Since I’m going in that direction anyway," he mumbled, embarrassed.

"By all means," the guy said with a grin, erasing some of the hard lines on his face. "Maybe I can buy you a drink, uh...?"

"Eddie Kaspbrak."

"Dan Torrance." 

He let Dan order for him, which, maybe a mistake. He was a stranger, after all. If he was also a patient of Dr. Silas, however, they likely had more in common than not.

"My aunt said indulgence in alcohol was a sin," is what Eddie broke the ice with, aiming for casual and shooting way past the mark. Instead of running for the hills, Dan knocked back his shot with alarming ease.

"She would not have liked my dad," he snorted, motioning for a belated toast. "To indulgences."

Eddie clinked his glass against the empty one, sipping at the amber liquid.

"This aunt of yours," Dan spoke after a beat. "She dead?"

"Yeah," said Eddie, choking on his drink. "How did you...?"

Dan smiled thinly, and he seemed older, all of a sudden.

"You seem like a guy with ghosts." He signaled the bartender for round two, murmuring, "Trust me, I'd know."

Squinting at the grimy bar table, Eddie shut his eyes against the flare of a headache. "He thrusts his fists against the posts and still insists he sees the ghosts," he recited, the line spilling past his lips, unbidden.

Dan huffed. "Donovan’s Brain. Holy shit. My dad used to read that to me."

"I can hear it in my head. Someone repeating the line, over and over," Eddie confessed, opening his eyes again. "I don't remember who."

"Your head is like mine," Dan whispered. He leaned into Eddie's space, the hot, bitter tang of whiskey on his breath. Eddie grimaced at the smell, yet didn’t pull away. Something about the other man drew him in, as intoxicating as any liquor. "You've got to make these lockboxes, right? You put all the stuff that scares you inside, shut it tight. Keep out the ghosts. Fuck, I mean, how are we supposed to live if all we've got is the goddamn dead for company?"

Eddie had lockboxes, alright. Only it wasn’t him holding the keys. 

"Is that why you’re seeing Dr. Silas?" he asked carefully. "To fix it?"

Barking out a laugh, Dan tapped at Eddie's temple. "Has he fixed you?"

This time, Eddie did pull away. His mind swam with a buzz he didn’t even have.

"Spent a half-an-hour with the man today." Dan examined the contents of his drink, as if it held all the answers. "You're better off self-medicating, if you ask me."

"I didn't," Eddie sniped, feeling heat prickle at the base of his neck. But it wasn't anger.

A girl stood in a pretty pink dressed stood in the corner of the bar. Blood matted in her hair, smeared over her face, dripping off her fingertips as they reached out for Eddie. It's okay, said her gentle eyes. You're unclean, too. 

He blinked and she was gone. The heat of her remained, nearly suffocating, burning holes in his lockboxes. Whatever was inside started to leak.  

Placebo. Clown. Loser. Liar.   

"What if they find a way in?" Eddie blew out a tremulous breath. Dan was looking in the same direction as him, but Eddie was too afraid to ask what he saw. "How do you stop the ghosts?"

"Could try my father’s method." Dan finished his second glass in a few hearty gulps. Eddie's first was practically untouched, yet when Dan shoved it back in his hands, he swallowed the rest of it like a man dying of thirst. 

Last call came and went. Eddie stumbled into the brisk New York air, arm slung over this stranger, who understood his mind far better than he did. His apartment was nearby, and it was the most natural thing in the world to offer Dan a place to crash, fumbling with his keys as the taller man panted uneven patterns onto his neck.

It was the most natural thing in the world for Dan to press him against the door of his bedroom, hands rougher with alcohol in him, rough as they wandered over his body, under his clothes. But he touched rough in too many right places for Eddie to complain. 

"She said this was a sin, too," Eddie murmured, chasing the taste of whiskey on the other man’s tongue.

"Only if you believe it is," Dan grunted, husky and wet as sunk his teeth in Eddie's neck. His thigh slipped between Eddie’s legs, grinding against the hardness there. Eddie unfolded for him, sweet and easy. 

He knocked the stranger back onto his bed, let him squeeze bruises into his hips as Eddie rode him, first in soft, slow grind and then faster, urged by Dan's grip on his thighs. “You shine so bright, baby,” he groaned, the sound mangled by pleasure, and Eddie could've laughed with how nonsensical it was, instead the endearment had Eddie clenching, coming, screaming so loud the whole neighborhood would know how thoroughly he'd been fucked.

For a single, blissful night, his head was empty. 

*

*

"I heard about your mother. I’m sorry for your loss, son."

"Thank you." Eddie's reply was placid. The endless amount of paperwork, coupled with the nebulous ball of grief he’d yet to unwind, had made the last couple of months so exhausting the numbness lingered. 

Dr. Silas walked with him to the front desk, chatting with the receptionist. "My niece, Myra," he introduced.

It was a strange concept, imagining his doctor with a life outside these clinic walls. A human, like the rest of them. To Eddie, his presence had always seemed larger, allowing almost no room to breathe.

"Hello," Myra said shyly. Eddie mustered a smile, along with a subdued greeting.

"She’s new to the city," Dr. Silas mentioned. His gaze slid to his long-time patient. "Could use someone to show her the sights. Certainly not some stuffy old man like me."

"Don’t you start," she huffed, playfully. 

"I..." Eddie hesitated. Lately, there were no fumbling hook-ups, no half-regretted, half-relished morning afters. Not with how raw he was from his mother's death. Myra appeared nice enough, but the suggestion of being intimate with any woman made him distinctly uncomfortable, the way he did whenever he heard locker-room talk at the gym.

Without a word, Dr. Silas pressed a bottle of pills into his palm. And that was how Eddie found himself mumbling, "I could take you out some time, if you’d like."

Myra blushed, pleased and flustered all at once. "Oh, I’d appreciate that. Very much."

"Wonderful," Dr. Silas proclaimed. 

One date turned to two, turned to months, turned to a half-hearted proposal. Years went by. The world was a blur of pills, work, home and hospitals.

"You know, it’s what your mother would’ve wanted. For you settle down, eventually start a family," said Dr. Silas, idly filling out his prescription pad. "A normal life. Isn’t that what you always wanted?"

Is it? Eddie couldn’t say for sure. His memory was full of gaps, his brain full of ghosts, and all he knew with absolute certainty was that he was sick, he was wrong, and he needed his pills. No price was too small to pay for that protection.

What he wanted never seemed that important, anyway.

*

*

Eddie was forty when he crashed his car. A single blip on an otherwise pristine driving record. 

The jolt of impact was enough to stun Eddie, but not inflate the airbag. His prescription spilled over the dashboard, scattering onto the floor.

Hearing the commotion, Mike exclaimed, "Eddie! You okay?"

Mike. Mikey Hanlon. Arms under Eddie’s elbows, dropping him in his bike’s basket, pedaling fast, away from Neibolt.  

"Yeah, I'm fine," he said, the words bubbling with forced, manic cheer. He stared at the half-empty bottle, only half-listening as Mike explained. He waited until goodbyes were said, promises made to meet in Derry, before he swallowed his morning dose. 

For some reason, they didn’t slide down as easy as before.

*

*

Eddie stormed into his room at the Derry Inn, cursing audibly.

Come to Derry, Mike said. Remember all your repressed childhood trauma, he conveniently forgot to mention. And cherry on top, hey, guess what, you're going to die horribly! Thanks for that cheerful revelation, Bev. 

He collapsed onto the bed, rubbing knuckles against his sore eye-sockets. Despicable as it was, Eddie craved the long, soothing puff of his inhaler, even though he remembered, remembered the placebos his mother would curl into his palm like other parents gave their kids candy.

Regardless, if he wanted that fix, he’d need to call in his prescription. Retrieving his phone proved to be a terrible idea. 

Twelve missed calls from his wife. Shit. 

His screen lit up while he was holding it, only it wasn’t Myra’s number. Eddie froze, unwilling to answer. He could hear his own blood pumping as he waited for the vibrations to give up. When they ran out, he inhaled a greedy gulp of air – had he been holding his breath all along? – and then the phone pinged, notifying him of a message.

For a moment, his finger hovered over the play button, trembling with indecision. Do it, urged Richie’s voice, chanting it through his brain. Eventually, his wrist began to cramp and the decision was made for him.

"Eddie." His doctor’s voice drifted out of the speaker, serene, more familiar than his father’s. "What’s wrong, son? You left in such a rush, you’ve got your wife in a frenzy. We’re all very concerned."

It had a chastising tone, as if he were a child – and Eddie acted the part, his head bowed in between his shoulder blades, guilt weighing down the tendons in his neck.

"Are you taking your pills?" Dr. Silas continued, shrewdly, and the rapidly decreasing fuse of his temper snapped. 

"Fuck you," Eddie hissed, hurling his phone at the wall, satisfied by the smash of it. The victory was short-lived, as he mulled over the broken pieces. He’d have to borrow Bev’s phone to call in the prescription.

The bottle of pills sat heavily in his pocket, never far from reach. Eddie traced the outline of it with his fingers, not finding the comfort he usually did.

Stan was dead, and then so was Bowers, and Eddie was mutilated, but still he went to Neibolt, the inhaler in his pocket, a pill bottle in his other. And Bill was stuttering angrily in his face, asking why, why the fuck Eddie stood there, watching while Richie was nearly killed, too rigid to move. Through the pangs of shame, adrenaline and fear, all he could think waw:

What are you afraid of, Eddie?

Of course he knew the answer. He had always known.

*

*

*

*

*

–the tendril stops.

Hovers midair like a rubber band strung tight, the tip mere inches from protruding through Eddie’s abdomen. The anticipation leaves Richie's lungs in a burst, and the oxygen rushes back to his brain, which is starting to wonder what the fuck is going on. But Eddie is still on top of him, still in one piece, and that's the miracle that deserves his attention.

"Eds," Richie gasps. "You’re bleeding."

He untangles their legs, struggles into a kneeling position. Eddie is breathing hard, beads of sweat rolling down his forehead. Richie grasps his cheek, tenderly avoiding the bandage, and tilts his chin up to inspect the stream of blood trickling from his nose. 

"Well, well, well." Pennywise’s shrill voice echoes through the cistern. The claw slithers back to It’s chest, like an old lady clutching her pearls. "Little Eddie’s gone off his meds."

Eddie jolts as if electrified, swerving around. "You knew," he says, slowly. Richie's never heard one of them address It so directly, as if It were anything other than fear personified, and, not gonna lie, it's creepy as hell. "Did you always know?"

More and more, this feels like a private conversation they’re eavesdropping on, and Richie, for one, does not appreciate being out of the loop where Eddie’s concerned. Not at all.

"I've encountered your kind," Pennywise warbles lowly. "Power wasted, scorned. On feeble things like you."

Richie scrambles to his feet, extending his arm protectively over Eddie's stomach. He doesn’t seem to notice, eyes fixed on the clown.

Baffled, Mike glances at Eddie. "What What’s he talking about?"

That's what Richie would like to know. The question sure tickles that fucking clown, who gives a huge, hulking giggle.

"Aren't you going to share?" It wheedles, as Eddie flinches, his fists clenched so tight Richie fears he might burst the vein bulging in his neck. "They're your friends, aren't they? And to think, you never even told Stan before he–"

"Don't say his fucking name!" Eddie explodes. Abruptly, the atmosphere shifts, the way it does before a thunderstorm. Richie wonders if the other Losers sense it, too, or if he’s just so attuned to Eddie's frequency. 

A chunk of rock falls from the top of the cistern, jagged edge pointed down. Pennywise avoids being skewered, but it’s too spot-on, too deliberate to be coincidence. 

The ground’s shaking. Minutely, and yeah, definitely shaking. The air itself seems to tremble, shards ripped from the bedrock and flitting around the cavern, carried by some unseen force of nature. 

"Eddie?" He brushes past Richie's arm, legs sloshing through greywater. 

"You're not going to hurt my friends," Eddie says in a steely voice he's never used before. It's a promise, and a threat. "I won't let you."

At this warning, the wind intensifies into a hurricane, sends the shards hurtling toward a target. Pennywise rises to the challenge but is just as swiftly pushed back. That surprises It as much as it does them.

Shielding his face from the debris, Richie searches for Eddie, standing in the midst of it, taut and motionless, untouched by the chaos. Maybe that's because he is the chaos. From his angle, he can barely make out the features of his face. His gaze is dark, unreadable even to Richie, and this, this is what scares him.

The shaking is more prominent, gouging fissures into the floor of the cave, crawling up the walls. Maybe the architect in Ben senses the growing instability, or maybe he's as worried for their friend as Richie. Regardless, it drives him toward the eye of the storm, where his call for Eddie is swallowed. To be honest, it's a guess to how much Eddie can hear at this point. He doesn't notice the stalactites quivering at the roof of the cistern. None of them notice, until the stalactite fractures, the fragments plummeting toward Ben. 

Bev launches her weight at him, toppling him out of its path.

"Stop! Eddie, stop!"

Her cry pierces the cavern, wrenching Eddie out of his daze. He gasps like a man underwater for too long. Catching sight of Ben huddled under Bev, Eddie crumples, realizing what he's done. He makes as if to step forward, then takes it back, the shame at war with his guilt. And he won't so much as glance at Richie.

"I-I’m sorry, I–" Eddie chokes on his words, eyes bulging as It's claw swipes past his flank, ripping away flesh as it retracts slowly, vengefully, and then flings him against the wall with a sickening crunch.

"NO!" Richie screams, darting for Eddie, who's staggering, teeth clenched against the pain. Blood's gushing through his shirt at quite an alarming rate, but Richie's only a couple feet away at this point, the Losers not far behind.

"Don’t," Eddie begs. He collapses, waist deep in water so filthy he should be having a coronary, trying to heave air into his lungs. "I can’t, please, I can't... Stay back."

The force of it sweeps them backwards. Richie bites the inside of his cheek, muscles strung tight with the effort of doing as he says, but he won't last much longer. He needs to hold Eddie, right the fuck now.

"Don't want to lose control, do we?" Pennywise chuckles. "Wouldn't want another Carrie on our hands."

Eddie’s eyes fly open. They're wet with tears. Richie can't stand it any longer, telekinesis be damned. 

He glances at the Losers for confirmation, a sort of: "Are you seeing this shit, too?"  He can't spot them in this – whatever it is. Trick? Dream? Memory? 

As far as he can tell, it's a prom. One that's more Games of Thrones than 90210.

Blood soaks the king and queen’s crowning. The girl is covered in it from head-to-toe. The king doesn’t so much as twitch where he's lying prone, and Richie thinks, Gone, he’s gone. The revelation is reflected in the girl. Shaking, raw, exposed to the ridicule of her classmates.

Suddenly, the doors swing. The locks click with the finality of a judge's gavel. Students swarm, yelling, trying to get out as they're pelted with water. The smell of singed flesh hits his nose, thick and nauseating. The scene is straight out of a nightmare. And there's a woman, waving her arms, backing toward the wall, shouting for the girl on stage.

"Carrie–!"  Her voice strangles as it stretches into an awful note that warps the entire scene. This one is quieter, nestled in the hearth of someone's home, and the woman here is not the same as before. Her lips thin until they almost don't exist. 

"Carrie!" The girl really is a girl, only nine or ten, her nose dotted with freckles that remind Richie of summer days at the quarry. "I will not ask again. What is this filth you were reading?"

"Mama, it isn’t–" Her mother slaps her, and on instinct, Richie lurches forward. That's when he notices the boy cowering behind her. Small, so fucking small, and Christ, were they ever that small? He's practically a baby, and still, Richie recognizes those eyes, those freckles, those dimples anywhere. 

"Eddie wanted a story," Carrie stammers, clasping her cheek.

"It’s an affront against God! Mutants? I will not stand for it," she sniffs, tossing the comic toward the fireplace.

"No, you can’t!" Eddie screeches, rushing to save it from the flames. "That’s my daddy’s!"

He clutches it to his chest, then drops it with a cry as she fists his hair and drags him down the hall. "You father is dead," she says, coldly. "And if you don’t learn from his mistakes, you’ll burn for it, too."

Richie wants to lunge forward and pry the bitch's fingers off. Wants to wrap his hand around her throat and wring it until she lets go. Do anything except watch, while Eddie claws against her grip with a desperation that breaks his fucking heart.

"I'm sorry," he wails. "Please, Aunt Margaret, I’ll be good, I’ll be–!" 

The closet's hinges creak as she says, "You’ll pray until you find the Lord’s forgiveness" and shoves Eddie inside, bolting it against his muffled sobs. 

Another shift, and he's already woozy, this close to hurling for the third time in as many days when it steadies into the most depressing waiting area he's ever seen.

"Dr. Silas is ready for you."

From where he's hunched in his chair, Eddie snaps to attention. He's small in a way Richie remembers. Short, skinny legs poking out of his jeans, knobby elbows digging into his thighs. He must be thirteen here, but that can't be right. Eddie never told him any of this shit, never told any of them, and the realization sits on his chest like a ton of bricks.

Mrs. Kaspbrak nods encouragingly. "Go on, Eddie-bear." 

Her son's throat bobs nervously, yet she doesn't appear to notice. That, or she doesn't care.

The nurse ushers him behind the Nobody Besides Authorized Personnel door, which leads into a stark white corridor, observation windows on both sides. A bang draws Eddie to one of them, just as an orderly smashes against the window, splintering with cracks where his skull hits the glass. Beyond the window, a girl seethes, almost animal in her ferocity, her body encircled by flames.

Richie watches Eddie watch. Eyes wide, petrified. The wobble to his chin.

"Keep moving," the orderly pushes him along, mumbling, "Bunch’a freaks."

Eddie hears the comment, his shoulders dropping, shame leaking out of every pore. Richie wants to punch something. Preferably anyone who ever made Eddie look like that.

The scene changes, barely. Eddie’s in his own observation room, his wrists secured by restraints, the kind use in low-budget horror flicks set in mental hospitals. Eddie must show a similar disdain, prompting the doctor to explain, "For your own safety."

Silas, the nametag reads. "Now, Eddie..."

Just as he speaks, an orderly pricks Eddie with a needle. There was no warning, certainly no consent.

"What the fuck was that?!"  Eddie shrieks, horrified. "What did you put in me?!"

"Something to help you relax." The lie pours smoothly from the doctor's mouth. "Remember what we discussed, during our last session? I want you to close your eyes and think about it for me."

Eddie gasps as he's pinned down, flat against the bed. His breaths are short, stunted by fear, so potent Richie fumbles for an inhaler they burned in the ritual. Something hovers at the edge of Eddie's vision, and he seizes, near-hyperventilating, as it comes into focus.

"What are you afraid of, Eddie?" It asks hungrily, maw split wide, drool pooling in the crevice of its teeth.

His vision whites out, Eddie's wail echoing through his head. Once the haze clears, Richie sees the other Losers and Eddie – the real Eddie, right where he was before. Haggard, pale, and queasy. A handful of pills are splayed over his palm; Richie counts at least ten. 

"You know what you have to do," It coaxes. Not in a chilling drawl, but in Sonia's crooning voice. "You've got to take your pills, sweetie. Or you'll be a monster."

"Bullshit!" Richie snarls, the shock of it zipping up Eddie's spine. "You lying sack of shit."

He drops to his knees in front of Eddie, grabs ahold of his face the way he did in Neibolt. Look at me, Richie implores, his thumbs tenderly stroking warmth into the icy pallor of Eddie's skin. "Don't listen to him, Eds, it's all fucking bullshit. You think you're a monster, because of this?"

Richie shakes him for emphasis, jostling the pills. They disappear below the murky surface, and when Eddie tenses like he might follow, Richie grips him by the wrists. 

"Monsters don't stick up for kids they barely know!" Mike jumps into the fray, and the Losers follow, sure as anything. 

"Or stitch up the new kid after he’s mutilated by bullies!"

"Or spend the night cleaning a bloody bathroom."

Bill shoots Eddie a watery smile. "Eddie always helps his f-friends, even when he's sc-scared."

Richie nods approvingly. "Our Eds isn't a monster. He's a goddamn superhero! A regular Jean Grey!"

He flashes him a grin, the joy quickly fading. Because Eddie's staring at him like he’s fucking crazy. Like he can believe in aliens, and magic, and cashew-induced diabetes or whatever the fuck, yet he can’t comprehend how good he is. Richie gets so mad his jaw aches with it, and hell, may as well use it on the goddamn clown. "That’s why you always had it out for him, isn’t it? Ever since we were kids."

Pennywise growls, teeth gnashing, and it gives him pause. He said it to get a rise out of It, but to hell with that now, Richie thinks he’s right. Knows he’s right.

Bev catches on first. "Maybe you're the one who's scared," she accuses, striding forward. Pennywise scoffs, but it’s all bluster, no bite.

The Losers join in, as if on cue, sensing the weakness It so often thought in them. Scared. Phony. Parasite. Just an old woman.

Just a clown, Richie jeers, watching as It seems to shrink. Not before It howls, the tendril snaking out again, this time aimed at Richie.

He doesn't move, acutely aware that his body is all that stands between Eddie and certain death. Not that Richie isn't afraid to die; he's still a coward where it counts. Defending Eddie isn’t brave, it’s as natural to him as breathing. 

The tendril never reaches its mark. Mere inches away from decapitating him, the claw remains, no matter how much It grunts and squirms. Assured he isn't going to die, Richie tears his eyes away and peers over his shoulder. Eddie is on his feet, swaying slightly, but standing all the same. I won't let you, he said, meaning every word.

Dumbstruck, Richie lets the tendril hang there a moment before instinct takes over, and then he grabs it, yanking the claw out of its socket. The cavern rumbles with the clown's fury.

"Shut up." Eddie pins It against the wall with a glance. "Stay."

The demand saps what energy he has left. When he starts to tip, Bill and Ben rush over, bracing Eddie on both sides. 

Richie shrugs out of his jacket, applying pressure to the wound. Eddie hisses, so Richie murmurs a litany of shit like, "It's okay, you're okay, just a scrape. A scratch, nothing you can't handle, Eds."

Gently, as if afraid to hurt him, Eddie removes the probing hands. "You have to go," he rasps, urgently. "All of you."

"We can’t–" Ben protests, trailing off at Eddie's cringe. 

"I don't know how much longer I can hold it," he admits, a deep furrow to his brow. "I think I can kill it, but I... I can't risk any of you."

Nostrils flaring, Richie spits, "I am not leaving you down here, Eds."

"Please, Rich," he says, quietly. "Don’t make me force you."

"You wouldn’t," Richie retorts, resolute in this. He won't be convinced, which annoys Eddie as much as it bewilders him. 

Pennywise stirs, thrashing against the dwindling spell Eddie has over it. He turns to Bill with his big, insistent eyes, while Bill visibly wavers. 

"I'll come back. I promise." He flicks his gaze to Richie, a tiny, half-smile curving his lips. "Don't miss me too much."

Nostalgia breaks over Richie like a tidal wave, and maybe that was the whole point, a distraction that aligns perfectly with Pennywise breaking free, and Bill’s frantic nod of decision.

"Go," Eddie repeats. "Now."

The Losers obey, no force necessary. They clamber to safety of their own volition, all except Richie, who Ben has to physically drag through the cistern, up the well and the stairs of the basement. His grip doesn't loosen once they're outside. Richie's glasses are cracked and caked with so much shit he’s practically blind, yet he’d sprint back to Eddie the first chance he got, which Ben fucking knows. So he doesn't let go.

Not until the Neibolt is crumbling. 

"He needs me, let go, we need to help-!" Richie bawls, surging against Ben's hold. It slackens enough for Richie to wriggle free. But by then, it's too late. All that remains of the house is rubble. 

Richie sinks to his knees. Gravels stabs into his palms, sifting through debris 'til the pads of his fingers are ribboned. None of it alleviates the throbbing void where his heart used to beat. 

"No, no, no..." Bill mutters, tugging at his hair. Richie's glare burns iron-hot.

How could you let us leave? We abandoned him down there to die.

But it isn't Bill's fault. He should have stayed, should have fought harder to stay. God knows Eddie wouldn't have left him, or any of them, to die alone. Never, Eds would have never broken his promise to come back unless–

A hand bursts out of the rubble, scrabbling for purchase. Richie yelps, sliding back on his ass. It doesn't process at first, what he's seeing, what it means. Bev gasps, stumbling over to Richie, anchoring him to reality. 

"Eddie?" 

Like a livewire's lit inside his brain, Richie seizes the flailing hand, holds tight, and puts every ounce of strength he has into prying the rest of him out.

"Pull him out, c'mon!" Bill hollers. They dig, and claw, uncovering an arm, then a head, and a torso, and then Eddie is there, alive and (mostly) whole, smudged with so much dirt he's hacking, gagging on it, undeniably the most beautiful sound in the world.  

"Shh, I've got you, I've got you." The sweet nothings tumble from his lips as he tugs Eddie into his lap, cradling him against his chest. He rocks with Eddie through the spasms, the rib-shattering coughs, the stutter of his lungs as they try to expel all the nasty shit they inhaled in the wreckage. 

"Jesus, it's a miracle," Mike mutters, placing his palm over Eddie's sternum, as if he can't quite believe he's alive. Chin hooked over Eddie's shoulder, Richie watches it rise on each exhale, dizzy with affection. He presses a chaste, relieved kiss into Eddie's temple. If any of his friends notice, they don't comment.

"You–" Eddie wheezes.

Richie shushes him again. "Don’t talk, just breathe. In, out. There you go, nice an' easy, Eds."

He doesn't need to speak, anyway. Richie may not be psychic, but he can read Eddie's thoughts loud and clear.

You aren’t scared of me?

"Never," he whispers against the shell of his ear, so low only they can hear. His cheek is wet where he nuzzles into Eddie's hair. "God, Eds, I was scared that I'd lost you."

And in case Eddie is a mind-reader – anything's possible at this point – Richie conveys what he actually wants to say. 

I love you. 

Eddie sags into his embrace with a sigh, as if a tremendous weight was finally gone. As if simply being near Richie is enough to ease his doubts. Lucky for Eds, Rich doesn't plan on leaving his side anytime soon.

They have the time now. He won't let it go to waste.