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Part One: An Artistic rendition of Richie Tozier losing his Goddamn mind.
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Okay, so, when he initially woke up, it really wasn’t that bad.
To be fair, it would be hard to notice it at all, due to the fact that Richie didn’t even have to talk to anyone before he went downstairs to say good morning to his mom and, simply put, couldn’t stop talking.
Yes, Richie can’t stop talking on a normal basis, but this was worse. It was like every single thought that popped in his head just left his mouth. He didn’t even realize what was happening until he was blabbing to his mom about being in the sewers and dead bodies and shit. Which is not a fun topic to accidentally bring up to your mother.
She watched him, horrified, as he led into, “Yeah, well, fighting with a killer clown that wanted to kill you and all your friends wasn’t fun, but it sure brought the seven of us together,” from a simple, “I’m going to hang out with the Losers today.” And, when he tried to spout a simple lie to cover up his word vomit, he simply couldn’t force it out of his mouth.
Which led into a very awkward half-staring-contest thing where he and his mother stared at each other, horrified, for more than a minute.
“Was that a nightmare you had?” Maggie asked, at some point, seemingly sound with this revelation that she made and finding comfort in the fact that she convinced herself that her son is not crazy. (Oh God, Richie is going to lose his mind living like this.)
Richie attempts to agree with her, but “Yes, it was a nightmare!” would also be a lie, so it doesn’t leave his mouth. Instead, he ends up saying, “Ah! Nightmares are…bad,” with some disjointed pauses that make him feel awkward as hell, before rushing out the door.
He sprints all the way to Keene’s store which, luckily, houses a payphone right outside the door. Because, objective numero uno is to inform another Loser of whatever the everloving fuck is happening to him right now.
The only two he can remember off the top of his head, (other than Eddie’s, but God knows that he cannot talk to Eddie right now), are Bev’s, (enough late night phone calls to rant about Eddie have given him enough time to memorize her phone number), and Bill. Every Loser knows Bill’s number, it’s part of the right of passage. He generally needs to be alerted quickly when anything happens.
He decides to call Bill, because he’s always been the best to call when the Losers have a supernatural problem. He’s been the problem-solver as long as any of them have known him.
He dials quickly, holding the phone close to his right ear as the call goes through.
“Denbrough residence,” Mrs. Denbrough answers after letting the phone ring four times.
“Hi,” Richie tries to stop himself from saying how bad she sounds right now. God, it’s going to be a problem if he almost can’t stop himself from talking. “Is… Bill there? This is Richie,” he tacks on, almost forgetting himself.
“Yes, he is,” Mrs. Denbrough says, supposedly holding her hand over the phone and letting a muffled call for Bill to come downstairs out. “He’ll be here in a few moments,” she informs him. “How are you, dear?”
“Oh, I’m not great,” he responds, immediately, before realizing what he said. Fuck.
“Oh no!” She exclaims. “Are you alright?”
“Just been… feeling a little weird!” Richie forces out. (He supposes that isn’t technically a lie.) “Hahaha, please kill me now,” he squeaks out.
“What was that?” Mrs. Denbrough asks. “I didn’t quite hear you.”
Richie, luckily doesn’t have to respond, because Bill intercepts the phone, thank fucking God.
“Suh-sorry,” Bill says quickly. “How ah-are ya, Rich?”
“Thank fuck, Bill, I have been having a morning,” Richie sighs in relief. “I was having issues speaking to your mom because her voice sounds like shit, and I don’t think I could wait another second without saying anything, jeez. And speaking of moms, I told mine about Pennywise by accident, and she thought I was totally fucking insane? She assumed it was just a nightmare though, so, I don’t know. And-”
“Richie- Rich, slow down-” Bill tries to interrupt, to no avail.
“-either way, I tried to lie to her, and it just wasn’t working. It’s like, I physically can’t tell a lie, or some shit, which is weird as fuck. Well, I guess that’s what this call is so, yeah. Bottom line: I can’t tell lies right now. Like at all.”
“Wait, so, what?” Bill stupidly asks before following up: “You can’t lie?”
“Yeah! It’s so weird,” Richie confirms in a loud burst, but quiets down after he gets an angry “Sh,” from a middle-aged passerby.
“And, this is supernatural? Not some weird psychological thing?” Bill asks tentatively, and he’s whispering so that his mom doesn’t hear any talk of the supernatural. She’s always hated that kind of stuff- especially at the implication that the way Georgie died could be even remotely supernatural.
“I mean, yeah, I think so,” Richie nods to himself, “I’m usually pretty good at lying.”
“HA,” Bill barks. “Okay, that has to be a lie, ‘cus you’re sh-shit at lying, Rich. That’s, like, a fact of life.”
“You’d be surprised,” Richie chuckles nervously, unable to stop the words from falling out of his mouth. “I mean, shit, I’ve been lying to you all for years. You guys never knew about how I-” he slaps his hand over his mouth before he can finish that sentence, his lips still moving against his palm and making betraying muffled noises. Because, fuck. The sentence would have ended, “I’m gay and in love with Eddie,” which is something he is not wanting to tell Bill right now, or, like, anyone ever. (Even Bev, though he’s pretty sure he knows based on how much he talks about Eddie’s stupid lips.)
“What are you talking about?” Bill asks, but doesn’t get an answer, because Richie decides that the two of them are going to sit there in silence until Richie’s stupid fucking mouth won’t betray him anymore.
Richie finally feels safe and removes his hand from his mouth. “I am not going to tell you what I was about to say. I can’t believe that I thought that it’d be a good idea to call you, fuck.” He presses the heel of his left hand firmly against his eye, pressing deep enough to see spots.
“You’ve been hiding something from us?” Bill asks, his voice cracking up over the phone.
Richie absentmindedly pushes another quarter into the payphone. “Yes. Fuck. Bill… You have to shut up because… it is really fucking hard to not be saying things, right now.” That’s aggressively true. It’s a physical strain on Richie to refrain from saying things that his brain wants him to right now. Like that he’s gay. And stuff. He needs to stop thinking about it.
“Sorry, I… guess it doesn’t matter? Though I would like to know what Richie Tozier’s big secret is,” Bill responds lightheartedly, like he’s trying to brighten Richie’s mood, but he also says it like anything that Richie could be hiding would be stupid. Like, little ol’ Richie could never be hiding something bigger than a secret girlfriend. Ugh.
“Fuck, Bill,” Richie sighs, “What the fuck should I do?”
Bill makes a noncommittal noise and then clears his throat. “Okay, I’ll tell you what. Go to the Clubhouse, and wait there for everyone. I’ll get all the Losers to go there. It’s probably a good idea for everyone to be there if this is supernatural.”
“It is,” Richie snaps, immediately, and Bill chuckles. (Dick.) And, this, in theory, sounds like a good idea, the Losers have always helped with things like this, but, in reality, Richie does not think it would be a good idea to be in the same room as all of the Losers. Especially Eddie.
“So?” Bill prompts. “Is that good?”
“Uhh,” Richie coughs. “Fucking fine, I’ll see you there,” Richie groans and hangs up. After all, Richie can always run if things go to shit.
---
Richie has to wait in the Clubhouse for a while before any of the other Losers show up- probably twenty minutes or a half an hour. While Richie waits for someone to show up, his heart hammering uncomfortably in his chest, he sits on the hammock and attempts to look as amicable as possible. He absentmindedly flips through Loser-shared comic books that he’s already read, not paying attention to the plot or dialogue, just kinda vaguely staring at Wolverine, like he’ll tell Richie what to do.
Then, just as Richie is getting ready to give up on his friends and go home, assuming that Bill forgot, or something, Bill climbs down the wooden, creaky ladder.
“Huh-heya, Richie!” Bill calls to the boy laying in the hammock, and Richie sits up, placing his comic book down on the dusty floor.
“Fuck you Bill, for making me wait so fuckin’ long,” Richie glares at him, then breaks into a light smile. “When’s everyone else getting here?”
Bill shrugs. “Dunno. A few minutes probably.” The boy makes his way over to Richie, poking at his cheek a few times. “Are you broken?”
“I honestly think so,” Richie dramatically sighs. “Okay, that sounds like an exaggeration, but, again, haha! Can’t lie.”
Bill hums under his breath. “Okay, uh… To test this: what’s your least favorite thing about me?”
“Hoowee, Bill-ee. You make this really fucking obnoxious smacking sound when you chew gum, and it makes me want to strangle you, and then die,” Richie blurts. “You know, I’ve always had issues with that kind of stuff. Little noises and shit can build up and make everything else too much, and then I can’t breathe, God, it makes me feel like Eddie. Like, especially little squeaks. The recliner at Mike’s house squeaks, and I cannot be in the same room with it when it does, I mean, shit-”
Bill grabs Richie’s lips and squeezes them together, making Richie look like a duck. “Okay, shh, be quiet. I believe you. Jesus, I’m kinda realizing that you never tell us anything.”
“Yeah, that’s mostly intentional,” Richie responds and then groans in frustration. “Shit. I hate this.”
Bill frowns. “You know you can tell us stuff, right? We’re Losers. We stick together. And, we share a lot, so it’s not like there’s no trust between us, you know?”
Richie stares at Bill, willing himself not to speak. Not to say, “No, I can’t tell you guys anything, because you’ll hate me forever. You’ll be disgusted. You’ll think I’m weird or dirty, and I’ll even be exiled from the Losers.” Instead of saying all of that word-fuck, Richie makes a strangled noise in his throat, resisting the itch in his head that’s telling him to talk.
Richie thanks fucking God that Bev, Stan, and Ben climb down into the Clubhouse just at that moment.
Bill’s attention is drawn mostly away from Richie, but he gives him a stern look that seems to say, “We’ll talk about this later.” They will not.
“Hey, guys,” Bev calls out in greeting. “What’s the big emergency?”
“Yeah I’d like to know what was so important that I have to talk to you guys on a Tuesday,” Stan adds, spitting out the last word. He looks mussed up and tired, his eyes slanting down dangerously and his eyebrows tense. He enjoys sleeping in during the summer, although he doesn’t seem the type.
Ben, for one, the only pure member of the losers, waves at Richie and Bill, awkwardly, muttering out a “Hi.”
“Richie can’t lie,” Bill announces, pointing his thumb back at Richie, who’s starting to sit up in the hammock. Richie glares at them, meaning to say something sarcastic, but his mouth won’t let him. He guesses sarcasm counts as a lie too.
“Jesus,” Bev stares at Richie, something in her eye saying, shit, you okay? to Richie. “For real?”
“Yeah, for real,” Richie grumbles and crosses his arms. Ben gives him a sympathetic look.
Stan groans. “This is terrible. I do not want to know anything that goes on in Richie’s head.”
“I can’t even imagine some of the horny stuff he must be thinking about all the time.” Ben shudders.
“Don’t worry, I don’t want you to know either. I need like, fucking tape or something, so I don’t have to talk,” Richie says, somberly.
“Either way,” Stan shrugs, “Why am I here?”
“Losers emergency!” Bill says, offended, like it should be obvious. Richie agrees.
“Don’t you love me?” Richie asks, and intends to say it jokingly, but it comes out intensely genuine and raw. He winces at his own tone, staring at the floor for a second before reluctantly looking back up at his friends.
Everyone else simply stares at Richie for a moment. Stan looks halfway amazed at any genuine feelings that Richie could possibly show, and halfway upset. (Richie’s known him long enough to be able to read even the smallest changes in his expression or demeanor.) Bev, Bill, and Ben just look mostly pitying. Maybe sympathetic, maybe upset at him, who really knows.
“What the hell, Rich,” Ben speaks first, and quietly. “Of course we love you.”
“Of course,” Bill echoes, quietly, moving to place a hand on Richie’s back, but doesn’t follow through and his hand drops awkwardly back to his side.
“Well, shit,” Richie mumbles. “The irony of this situation is that you guys can still lie.”
“No, Richie, what-” Bev starts.
“You guys don’t even know how to fucking deal with me,” Richie laughs hollowly, feeling embarrassment burn on his face at the stupid words coming out of his mouth. And, just in Richie’s luck, shit just keeps falling out. “And, just, while I’m on it,” he continues, “fucking everything up already- Ben, I really fucking hate your new haircut. Like, I’m sorry, but I hate it. Bevvie, I had a dream that you killed my mom, and that’s why I didn’t speak to you last week. Stan, one time when we were seven, I ripped a page in one of your bird books, and cried so much that I threw up and then hid it in my closet, and now whenever I see it, I feel immensely guilty. Speaking of closets-” Richie shoves his hand against his mouth to muffle what he was about to say. (He can’t seem to shut up about the gay thing. Whatever the Turtle thought it was doing by giving Richie this curse, it really wants Richie to out himself.)
“Fuck,” Stan says, muted from how he shoves his hands against his face, rubbing his eyes. “This is a lot. I always wondered where that book went,” he mutters.
“Rich, what were you about to say?” Bev asks, her eyes conveying stark sympathy, and some annoying, sharp sense of curiosity. Good to know that his pain is being used as a sense of entertainment. Good to know that he’s still fun. (He supposes that’s all that matters.)
Richie keeps his hand firm against his mouth and shakes his head.
“He’s been very adamant about not revealing whatever this secret is,” Bill shrugs. “I guess we just have to let this one be.”
“I never expected Richie to be the secret keeping type,” Ben frets, lightly.
“Yeah,” Stan agrees. “Apparently he doesn’t tell us as much as we thought he did.”
You can say that twice, Richie thinks to himself, spitefully.
In the following upset silence of Stan’s observation, Mike and Eddie, timed exquisitely, climb down the ladder into the Clubhouse. They’re both smiling and laughing about something until they see the somber expressions on everybody else’s faces.
“Uh,” Mike begins. “What’s this emergency? And, second, slightly more important question, everyone here looks like someone died. Are y'all okay?”
“And why the fuck is Richie holding his hand over his mouth like he’s the one who died?” Eddie critically asks, narrowing his eyes and gesturing at Richie vaguely, before crossing his arms. And, wow, Eddie… Eddie looks just as stupid as always. His stupid light colored t-shirts and those short ass shorts. Inhaler shoved into his pocket, fanny pack long abandoned after The Summer. His hair parted perfectly to the side, slight curl to the edges as a beginning of a defiance to his mom, the starting stages of growing the silky brown mess out. God, Richie’s so Goddamn gay that it makes his heart hurt a little bit. He loves that boy.
And, he can most definitely not remove his hand from his mouth, under any circumstances.
“Richie can’t lie,” Ben says. “It’s kinda bumming us out.”
Richie’s hand moves from his mouth as an instinct, his mouth already gearing up to spit some witty response. In reality, he says, “Wow, it’s bumming you out? I’m having the worst fucking day of my life over here.” So much for keeping his hand on his mouth. He glowers about that for a moment, feeling spited that both his body and his mind are both working against him.
Ben glances at him apologetically before staring at the dirty floor with his face flushing in embarrassment or shame, gripping one of the wooden beams holding the Clubhouse together tighter with his left hand.
“The worst day or your life?” Stan asks, critically.
“This is actually, like, my worst fear so, yeah, Stan,” Richie fumes. “And, can’t lie, remember?”
After a moment of silence, Eddie speaks. “Okay,” he draws the word out and kicks his foot against the floor, sensing the awkward atmosphere, “So, why aren’t we laughing and cheering in celebration? Wouldn’t… wouldn’t this be funny?”
“I thought so too,” Bill mutters.
“Turns out he’s a lot sadder than we thought he was,” Bev puts her hands on Ben’s back in support, and he brightens, slightly, turning red in a more romantic way than earlier.
“Woah, is he like… depressed or something?” Mike asks, concerned, but not addressing Richie, who has returned to having his hand over his mouth, even though that has been shown to not work.
Stan looks particularly irked by this notion, and turns to Richie. “Are you?” He hardens his expression. “Depressed?”
“I,” Richie starts, his hand moving from his mouth again, “don’t know. Maybe? I have a lot of fuckin’ issues, but I’ve been thinking more that I might have ADHD. And, shit, I’ve done it again,” he groans, loud.
“ADHD? I am… surprised you know what that is,” Bev remarks with a questioning lilt.
“What’s that?” Eddie asks.
“And even more surprised that Eddie doesn’t,” Bev chuckles, trying to bring a levity to the situation. Richie can’t help but admire her. She really does pull everyone together and keep all of the boys under control.
Everyone laughs lightly with Bev. Richie is glad that the attention is finally drawn off of him, and he’s even more glad that he’s managing to keep most of his thoughts in his own head at the moment.
“It would make sense that you have ADHD,” Bill agrees. “Now that I’m thinking about it,” he adds.
Ben and Mike glance at each other, secretly making library plans with each other, supposedly to research ADHD.
“I thought we already knew that Richie had ADHD.” Stan looks around at everyone, with that, “wait, I was ahead of everyone again?” look on his face.
“Of course you knew,” Richie scoffs.
“Is anyone going to tell me what ADHD means?” Eddie glowers.
“Attention-deficit/hyperactivity disorder,” Ben informs kindly.
Eddie snaps, pointing upwards. “Okay, yeah, if I knew what that was, I would have made that connection years ago. You guys are idiots.”
“Thanks Eddie,” Mike snarks, with a smile on his face and pats Eddie on his back. Eddie all but glares at him, but there’s a warm glow of affection, (reserved only for the Losers), in his gaze.
“Okay, but, on track,” Bev redirects them and points back at Richie. “What do we do about him?”
Everyone stares.
“I am right here, what the fuck,” Richie pouts.
“What do they do in the movies?” Ben asks.
“Usually when someone can’t lie in the movies it’s because of some sort of serum,” Bill explains, “I feel like he would have said something if he had any serums of any sort.”
“Once again,” Richie says, “I am right here.”
“Maybe there’s a reason,” Mike pipes up. “Like, a reason that the Turtle, or whoever did this, made it so he can’t lie.”
“What would be the reason?” Eddie asks, moving to knock at Richie’s forehead, like that’ll somehow give him any answers.
“He’s been avoiding saying something all day,” Bill notes.
“Do we have to force him to say that shit?” Stan hypothesizes.
“Please don’t,” Richie squeaks, sinking down lower in the hammock. Eddie cocks his head at this, finally seeming to clock that Richie’s been in the hammock too long. He shoves at Richie’s legs.
“Move over, dickhead, I wanna get in,” Eddie requests, his insult seeming more fond than he probably intended.
“No,” Richie kicks at his hands. He cannot deal with Eddie in the hammock, because having Eddie that close to him usually means his only thoughts are Eddie-related. That’s a big no-no right now.
“Come on, guys, right now is not the time for fighting,” Bev says.
“They’re going to argue either way.” Ben deflates, defeated, the argument that’s winding up between Richie and Eddie already starting.
“Come on,” Eddie whines. “I want to sit, I had to walk all the way here.”
“You think I didn’t?” Richie shoots back.
“Yeah, but that was a while ago. It’s my turn now. Or at least share with me,” Eddie inclines, already starting to shove his way into the hammock.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Richie’s body moves quicker than he can even perceive what’s happening, and so does his mouth. As soon as Eddie’s calf is against Richie’s torso, Richie is throwing himself out of the hammock and into an awkward, almost-falling, standing position, and yelling off into the already shocked, (from his panicked movements and expression), Losers.
The best part, though, is what he yells.
After years and years of keeping a secret, years of being so afraid that he can’t breathe when he sees a porn mag, years of attempting to keep his dignity up and pretend that he’s just as good as a straight person, he yells out into the small crowd of his shocked friends that he’s gay.
No one speaks. Richie feels like he’s going to vomit. He can’t even look at anyone, because when he caught a glimpse of Bill’s face all he saw was shock and confusion, and Richie cannot explain himself. He can’t say anything else. He’s already ruined everything, which is weird, because saying he was gay was the lesser of two evils. He always could have accidentally yelled that he was in love with Eddie, and then everyone would definitely hate him.
Okay, he really feels like he’s going to vomit.
He stumbles towards the ladder, almost falling on the wooden floor from the sudden bout of dizziness he’s experiencing. He somehow manages to climb up the ladder, probably faster than he ever has, but he still doesn’t remember even a second of all that shit. All he remembers is vomiting onto a nearby tree, his head throbbing painfully, and then running.
---
Part Two: Eddie Kaspbrak witnesses insanity.
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Eddie has always been better at running than any of the other Losers. No matter how athletic Mike and Bill might be, and how good Ben is at cross country running, Eddie’s fast. He always has been.
So, after a moment of the Losers staring, shocked, at the Clubhouse entrance, Eddie still halfway in the hammock, Bev turns to Eddie and sternly commands, “Eddie, run.”
Eddie’s up immediately, climbing the ladder and chasing in the direction he thinks that Richie went in a matter of seconds.
As he runs through the woods, expertly dodging trees and foliage, he becomes more and more sure that Richie is long gone. The power of adrenaline probably gave him more energy and will to run than he’s ever had before, because there would be no reason that Richie could otherwise run faster than Eddie, even with a headstart.
Eddie gives up once he hits Kansas Street, and there’s still no sign of Richie.
“Fuck,” he mutters to himself, feeling a weirdly strong urge to cry. He takes a deep breath and then repeats, “FUCK,” in a distinct yelling form, to the empty asphalt street. He huffs angrily at himself, stomping back into the forest to the clubhouse.
Everyone else is waiting in apprehension for him, and they look disappointed when he climbs down alone.
“He got away,” Eddie grumbles. “I wasn’t fast enough, I guess.”
Bill places his hand on Eddie’s back. “Ih-it’s not your fuh-fault. Adrenaline.”
“That’s exactly what I thought,” Eddie agrees, plopping down on the floor, dejectedly.
Bev takes a deep breath. “So we’re all okay with this. Right?” She sounds kind of threatening, but also pleading. She’s always been protective over all of them individually, but mostly against Richie. When Richie takes something too far, she’s the first to shut him down and stop him. This time, she seems to be applying this energy to everyone else to make sure that they’re not dicks.
“Yes,” Stan says first. “Fuckin’- I love him. We all do. And we’re not prejudiced shits, right?” He glances around wildly, a fire of anger and devotion burning in his eyes.
Mike places his hand on Stan’s back, calming him. “Of course we’re not.”
“We’re the Losers Club,” Ben agrees with a firm nod.
“God, uh-of course,” Bill grips Eddie’s shoulder, more firmly. “He’s Richie. This doesn’t matter. It shouldn’t and it doesn’t.”
“Eddie?” Mike prompts, lightly.
Eddie glances up, then looks back at the floor. Of course he doesn’t have any problem with Richie. It’s just weird. Doesn’t anyone else think it’s a little bit weird? Is it just Eddie? Is it only Eddie who’s feeling a burning humiliation in his stomach, like he was the one who got private facts revealed about himself, not Richie? Is he alone in the way he feels intensely warm in his chest when he thinks about how Richie could now hypothetically kiss a boy? Some boy in school? (Eddie? Eddie, Eddie, Eddie?)
“I just chased after him for five minutes,” Eddie snaps. “Of course I’m okay with it. He’s Richie.” He picks at his thumbnail, aimlessly. “He’s Richie, Jesus Christ.”
Stan sighs and leans his head back, pinching the bridge of his nose tightly. “We need to find him.”
There are muffled sounds of agreement from the rest of the group. Eddie just sits in silence, frowning.
---
“The fuck is he on, pretending to be sick,” Beverly spits out into the open air, her arms crossed tightly across her chest.
“He’s not pretending,” Eddie mutters, downcast. “I saw vomit on the side of a tree outside of the Clubhouse.”
“Gross as shit,” Stan scoffs.
“That’s our ruh-Richie,” Bill says, sadly but fondly. “I guh-guess we have to try again to-tomorrow.”
As the group glumly walks through the streets of Derry, Ben timidly announces, “I’m going to go home. I have a feeling that we’re not going to do anything else today.”
Mike nods. “Me too. Either way, my grandpa wants me home to help peel potatoes. Long day on the farm,” he jokes lightly, and he’s received with a few smiles.
The Losers peel off quickly, leaving Eddie to walk home alone and dejected.
The rest of the day glides past, with not one moment going by without Eddie thinking about Richie. Thinking about what he’s going to say when he sees Richie again, and when he has to confront this feeling of warmth that he experiences when he thinks about Richie kissing someone.
He ignores his mom throughout dinner, giving short answers to any of her questions, at most. She doesn’t care, other than giving him a strict lecture about paying more attention to her, because she loves him, and he needs to respect her more. He ignores that shit too.
When he knows that she drifted off in front of the TV, and her snores float up to Eddie’s room abrasively, Eddie carefully sneaks out of the back door, his mind too intensely overcome with thoughts of Richie to function correctly.
Richie, Richie, Richie.
He imagines Richie kissing a boy. It makes Eddie want to die.
Eddie climbs up the side of Richie’s house, just like Richie always does when he gets lonely in the middle of the night. His window is wide open, letting the warm summer air wash over the bundle of blankets and limbs that’s curled on the right side of Richie’s bed, facing the wall.
Eddie quietly slides into the room, landing on his sneakers with a small thump.
Richie doesn’t respond, which prompts Eddie to notice the soft rise and fall of where his chest should be under the blankets. He’s asleep. Curled up and vulnerable, glasses still shoved haphazardly on his face once Eddie gets a better look at him, but asleep nonetheless.
He shifts ever so slightly when Eddie takes off his sneakers and sits on the bed next to Richie.
Eddie reaches over to take the other boy’s glasses off and place them on his bedside table.
Richie groggily turns over and grabs at Eddie’s side.
“Eds?” He mutters, sleep still evident in his voice. As Eddie gets a better look at him, he sees that Richie’s face is red and his eyes are puffy and irritated.
“Fuck, Rich,” Eddie replies, sharply, but he’s really trying to be soft with him. He guesses that Richie can see his intentions, because his mouth tilts up for a split second.
“Why are you here?” Richie sits up, dragging his arm over his eyes. “Why are you… okay with me?”
“We all are okay with you, Richie,” Eddie sighs and places his hand on Richie’s. “There’s pretty much nothing in hell that you could do to make any of us hate you.”
“Well, there’s a few things,” Richie starts, the beginnings of a truth-telling-induced-rant coming on, so Eddie puts his hand over Richie’s mouth for him.
“Shut up,” Eddie snarks. “The point is that we love you. And being gay could never make us not love you, you know? Sorry we never made that clear enough for you. Sorry you were so scared.”
Eddie lets his hand up off Richie's mouth, and the motor-mouth starts up immediately again. “Shit, yeah, I was so fucking scared. I thought I had ruined everything. I thought that you guys would never like me again, and I would never get to love you the way I wanted to.”
His eyes widen for a second, knowing that he, once again, said something that he didn’t mean to, but this time he holds his ground. He doesn’t look ashamed. In the darkness, with Eddie’s hand on his, he doesn’t need to be ashamed. He’ll be okay, because Eddie and the Losers will always be there.
Eddie moves his hand to Richie’s face, and imagines Richie kissing a boy.
Then, he, (a boy), kisses Richie.
Richie, (luckily, also a boy), kisses back.
---
As Richie wakes up in the morning, Eddie curled around his left side and Richie’s face buried in Eddie’s hair, he takes a deep breath and remembers himself.
“I have never stolen science equipment from the school lab,” Richie says to himself, and consequently cheers. “Fuck yeah! I can lie!”
Eddie slaps his arm a few times. “Shut up. Sleep.”
And, Richie can’t ignore that wonderful idea.