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The air of the waffle house was sickly sweet, filling Richie’s nose while his skin continued to itch. He was twitching, restless, all the while trying to smile and joke back and forth with his friends, Mike and Stan. He shouldn't have come out tonight- his cuticles were aching, his brain was screaming something far too primal at him for him to even think straight. The chewing, the muted jukebox, a swallow- it all felt like too much on top of his discomfort, and then suddenly, suddenly, suddenly he snapped.
"Richie, the fuck-"
All too quickly he stood from the booth, using a shaky hand to wipe at his brow as he nervously laughed. This wasn’t the first time he had done something like this; this won’t be the last. Wallet, wallet, he fumbled for his wallet and threw a twenty on the table before tapping his foot twice and beginning to hurry for the door, calling back to his befuddled friends while making a jolt out into the night.
"See ya', queers, forgot I had a, erm, hot date with my left hand!” was all he could coherently yell on his way out. He could deal with the repercussions and exasperated looks later.
A forest, he had to go to the forest.
Once he reached the edge of the trees he began to strip, peeling off his clothes in brisk freezing weather, leaving nothing but his socks and boxers. With his clothes and now glasses discarded, shoved into a sappy hole of a nearby tree, he laid down onto the dirt of the forest, waiting, waiting, waiting-
Sometimes it seemed the transformations would take ages. Sometimes it seemed to only take seconds. This one? Intermediate? He just couldn't stop feeling itchy, his skin felt like it was cracked and burning and he kept focusing too hard on that, too focused on inconveniences to shift, before finally (and thankfully) the primal thoughts clouded him entirely. And that’s when he felt warm. So, so warm.
Then he ran. That's what he would usually do when this, whatever this is, occurred. Although he would have hardly any recollection of the night, he just knew that he would run so far, sometimes too far away. It's better than what he could be doing, and probably the safest thing he could do as well.
He was currently hulkish, big and imposing, so to move quick is to stay safe- remain a blur of black in the grays and browns. Standing still he looked threatening- dangerous, and he was, but like hell had sentient human Richie ever given him the opportunity to be. That's why he went out into the forest, why he got away, because it’s entirely unlikely that anyone was going to be in the Derry forest at 1am on a Saturday.
At least no human. Which, in fact-
Call it a canine-esque hunch, like the way dogs will bark at thin air, but even primal Richie knew something was off tonight, he felt like someone was there. He found himself snipping at the night, walking in circles, and growling at something that at least Richie-Richie will hardly even remember-
Or, at least he shouldn't remember.
Hours later something, something, led him back to his clothes towards the end of the night, his knees collapsing as his hips buckled. He fell back onto the dirt, where he started hours ago, and woke up to the cool dewiness of the morning. His joints ached, but he just as calmly as he could got up and collected his dirty clothing, pulling them on and pushing his glasses up his greasy nose.
He had new scratches on his face, on his arm, and he doesn't know how he gets them but he knows that right now? They burn. He's tilting his head back in a groan before beginning to make his way back to his house and-
It’s weird, he felt like he had a chill that seemed to go right to the bone. He knew it was only around 15 degrees outside, but this felt off. This didn't feel like a temperature chill, this was just unsettling; it also felt weirdly familiar, itching at the back of his brain. He went back to his house, early in the morning, and even with a shower and a power nap he couldn't stop feeling uneasy, but-
but, but, but- after waking up and walking down to his kitchen, he believes he found the problem.
He is used to that which is unnatural, hell he was a living and breathing example of the 'mythical', but what he saw in the kitchen made him freeze. God, he was almost scared he was hallucinating.
There, nestled on top of the counter with a vacant yet reluctant (?) look on their barely opaque face, was a boy-
a boy who Richie had seen before, and a boy that was most definitely dead.
He remembers seeing that face in the papers, how could he forget? It had been in the summer, nearly six months ago, when he had read the headline in the obits- 'Local Teenager Drowned in Quarry' with one of the prettiest pictures Richie had ever seen. Made his heart beat, made his heart break, and now that alluring visage that was one only known to him in print (he thinks) was staring at him-
and goddamn, Richie couldn't help but vomit on the last step of his staircase. He vomited up his coffee, eggs, what looked like little pieces of bark, before wiping desperately at his face to make sure he wasn't dreaming, delusional, anything, anything-
But there the boy still sat, now his face shifting into something that looked mildly uncomfortable, especially as Richie approached him, narrowly avoiding his vomit. Once Richie got about a foot or two away from the counter, he felt the temperature change dramatically, causing him to hold onto himself in a poor attempt to keep warm- a weird contrast to his own normal oven-type heat.
"Oof- eh, hello..?" god, he didn't know what to say to a ghost, he never thought about a situation like this too hard.
And it seems the ghost of the boy didn't seem to mind the hesitancy of his words, he even seemed at least a little happy now, relieved? The uncomfortable crease in his pale brow suddenly lessened over something. Richie couldn't guess what- too early for common sense, especially in a situation void of it.
"Oh, thank god-" his voice, Richie didn't expect that; it was warbly, soft, and small- it didn't seem to fit him, but Richie didn't know why, "I- I saw you, the both of you, I got-" Richie noticed his voice ebbed, in and out, and he looked frustrated with himself whenever his words dropped, "got so damn hopeful, you know?"
"Hopeful?"
The ghost nodded his head, his pale hands resting on the tops of his own thighs. He had a smile that reached his eyes now. Richie felt like he hasn’t done that in a while.
"Yeah, hopeful. I assumed people like us, you-you know, would be able to communicate. I saw you transition. We aren't really, fully here like...people? We-" he shut his mouth for a moment, and Richie just noticed that he oddly had freckles decorating his cheeks, his nose, and for someone so dead he looked lively, "we have ways, of being on different...planes, levels? I think. But you're living, and that's so damn interesting to me. YOU-" his voice suddenly got loud, booming, and it ringed in Richie’s ears- the ghost looked sorry, if only for a second, "you noticed me last night, and that was the first time something that breathes had seen me in a long, long time. Wuh-well, I think it's been a long time. Fuck if I really know anything involving time anymore." at that Richie got a weird metallic taste in his mouth, something bitter?
He still kept his distance. One thing he knew was that he just felt so damn unsure about whatever was going on.
This situation, it was unnerving. He was glad that he was able to offer something like comfort, he guessed, to this spirit (?) on his counter, but while he's just barely getting the gist of why, it's even more frustrating that he still isn't getting the how, how-
"How?" the ghost seemed confused, his mouth going into a flat line, before Richie put his hands up and apologized, "Shit, sorry, that was vague and a little rude I guess. Like- fuck, okay, how did you latch onto me? How do you know all this planar shit? How-" and then the ghost twitched, and he felt the mood of the room change as a vague creaking sound was heard over his own talking.
"Christ, don't ask me how's, do I really seem like I know what the hell actually goes on? I’m dead! Alright? No one explains to you what it's like to be dead. Wanna- wanna know why, you damn knucklehead? It's not too hard to figure out!" it almost seemed like the boy was whisper screaming, his form seeming more muddled, his hands clenched. Richie weirdly started to feel frantic, his defensive hands now shaking in front of him, as his heart started to beat hard, rattling his chest. He wanted to whine.
"Fair point, fair point- chill, please chill," he was talking to more than the ghost at that point, "you know, for someone colder than a witch titty, you must've been a fiery bastard. Trust me, I have experience with both sides of that coin." a nearly forced smile made its way onto Richie’s face, accompanied by a nervous burst of laughter as he tried to get closer. He started to feel the nausea bubble up in his chest once more as he kept only one of his shaking hands up now, his pointer finger going up to adjust his crooked glasses.
There was still a creaking, and Richie tried to speak quickly and calmly before the other managed to sinkhole his whole damn suburban home.
"Sorry, fuck sorry, please don't speak right now- I don't know how this works, you don't know how this works, it's real fucking weird, I’m not saying I don't like it I guess? But I’m so confused, Jesus, I think I might vomit again. I will ask you like, two more questions. If you don't have to speak, don't, because you're ebbing like crazy my dude, and we both need to…I don’t know, try to stay somewhere near neutral. So we can talk."
And the ghost, in response? He seemed complacent now, tired (?), and Richie once again felt like it wasn't like him- or who he guessed this boy to be. The (now silenced) creaking fit his aura much, much more. He took a deep breath- and god Richie just realized Eddie didn't breathe, at all- before continuing to speak, his eyes focused in on the cloudy face in front of him.
"Will my parents see you? Can my friends? I don't know how kindly they will take to Casper on my ass."
At that the ghost puckered his thin mouth, looking around the dim kitchen. His headshake no wasn't committal, and it was followed with a shrug of his shoulders and pick at his shorts (his whole attire didn't fit the weather outside, another thing Richie was just picking up on). At all these hesitant movements Richie didn't seemed convinced, but he supposed they would just find out the answer eventually.
He didn't know if he should ask his final question, but there was something that he couldn't remember from the paper, something that he wanted to know but didn't know if he should pry. This ghost seemed like they were a chaotic person, again call it that half-doggy-mind, but he was unsure of the potential energy this spirit could have when seriously bothered.
"You should probably speak for this one, as I can’t read minds...what's your name, bud?" He decided to bite for it, anyway. Was it insensitive to ask for a name?
Luckily, the ghost didn’t seem too bothered. "It's Eddie- Eddie Kaspbrak."
And of course it was. Richie vaguely remembered that he would've been a part of his graduating class, hearing his name whispered in the hall, flashing back in bold to him on that obituary. No memorial was held for him, he never remembers seeing his face beyond the newspaper, but he remembers an occasional murmur that would come from the halls.
Eddie.
Finally, something that actually felt like it fit him.