Chapter Text
Richie stared down at the magazine cover that was in front of him. Adrian Mellon. “What am I supposed to be looking at Stan?” He brought his eyes up to his manager (and best friend).
“Adrian Mellon is the fastest growing pop singer today.”
“And what does that have to do with me?”
“Adrian was a huge fan of the Losers and wants to meet you! Something about performing a song together.”
That wasn’t what he was expecting to hear. He couldn’t remember the last time he performed in front of a real audience. Ever since Mike decided to take a step back from music to take care of his family's farm, officially disbanding the Losers, Richie had been stuck on the path towards becoming a has been. Five years later, and he’s 34, holding on to his stardom by a string, getting by with performances at theme parks, state fairs, hotels. He wasn’t complaining.
“He wants to meet you. Tonight.”
***
“Mr. Tozier, it’s a pleasure.”
Adrian Mellon stood before him in nothing but small, tight leather shorts. Sweat was glistening on his body, having just finished dance rehearsal. His eyes, rather his whole face, were covered in glitter, but he had a kind smile as he approached Richie and Stan.
“Your song ‘Dance with Me Tonight’ got me through my parents’ divorce, and I want my fans to have the same spiritual uplift your music gave me.”
Richie forced a grin, reminded of how long ago he recorded that song. “Great! I have some old tunes that can be updated—”
Adrian raised a hand, maintaining a very serious look. “I don’t live in the past, Mr. Tozier. I want you to write a new song.”
Richie turned to glare at Stan. “You see…”
“I recently broke up with my boyfriend. We had been together for almost two months! It was horrible. But then I read a book by Guru Mathashavi called A Way Back into Love. That will be the title of our new song.” Richie tried to comprehend the information being thrust at him. “In two weeks when my tour opens at Madison Square Garden, we will perform it together.”
“Here’s the thing,” Richie began, before Stan grabbed his arm, digging in his nails to shut him up.
“It will also go on my new CD that we are finishing up, so I’ll need the song by Friday.”
Richie’s head was spinning. Write a new song. In three days. There was no fucking way. “Ha ha,” he forced through a grimace, “No pressure, right?”
“We have other artists working on their own version of ‘Way Back into Love,’ so if you can’t deliver, we’re covered.” He sent Richie a warm smile. “Don’t look at this as a competition Mr. Tozier. If it’s meant to be, it will be.”
***
Richie had been at the piano for at least three hours now. He slammed his head onto the keys gently, the sound of jumbled notes echoing throughout his apartment. In between hits, he tried to speak. “Stan—I—can’t—do—this.”
Stan sighed, looking sympathetically at Richie. “Look…” Before Stan could tell Richie what he was supposed to look at, the intercom from the front desk beeped, “Hey Rich, I have Eddie here for you.”
“Eddie?”
“He’s here to do your plants.”
“But Beverly does my plants.”
“He insists, says it’ll take five minutes tops.”
With a heavy sigh, Richie conceded. “I guess it can’t be helped, send him up.”
Stan had a blank stare on his face. “Why do you even have a plant person?” He spun around the room, noticing for the first time, the large amount of vegetation that was present in Richie’s apartment. “Why do you even have plants?”
“You see, Sandy once told me that plants make women comfortable.”
The incredulous look was glued to Stan’s face. “Plants make women… comfortable,” he repeated.
“Well, Staniel, maybe if I had plants, I wouldn’t be single.”
“Sure, that’s the problem.”
“Not Sandy’s affair, or my trashmouth, or my crumbling music career…”
“… But your lack of vegetation.”
Richie’s next thought was interrupted by a knock at the door.
Upon opening the door, Richie was met with a fairly short man with a very irritated look on his face. Before he could say a word, the man pushed himself into the apartment. “Hi, I’m Eddie. Kaspbrak.”
Richie let eyes run up and down the man who just forced his way into his home. He couldn’t have been taller than 5’7, and he wore a navy cable-knit sweater and khakis. While the sweater hung loose on his torso, showing hints of his collar bone, his pants hugged his legs tightly, showing off his toned legs. The brown curls atop his head looked soft, and Richie wanted to run his hands through it. Richie’s gaze stopped on the other man’s caramel brown eyes before realizing that Eddie was waiting for his response. “Richie Tozier.”
Eddie huffed, crossing his arms. “I’m assuming you didn’t get the message from Bev?”
“No, I haven’t listened—”
“She was supposed to let you know that I’d be doing the plants.”
“Well Eds, I’m not going to say this wasn’t a pleasant surprise. It’s not every day I let someone as cute as you into my home.”
“That’s not my name.” Richie began to speak but was interrupted again by the shorter man. “I hope you have your own watering can. You would think that a person with plants would have their own watering can, but you’d be surprised. This last guy, he was like 80, didn’t have his own, so he starts yelling at me in Italian.”
Eddie began walking around the apartment mindlessly as he spoke, grazing his fingertips against the couch, along the top of the piano. Stan turned to Richie with a raised eyebrow, and Richie just mouthed ‘I don’t fucking know,’ before returning his attention to Eddie, who was still talking. He thought to himself, and they say I can’t shut up.
“—Long story short, you have not been cursed at until you’ve been cursed at in Italian.”
“It must be your lucky day Eddie Spaghetti because I do, in fact, have a watering can. It’s in the kitchen under the sink.”
Eddie’s eyes momentarily narrowed, flinching at the nickname. “Grazie. But never call me that again.”
“Come on, it rhymes!” He pointed Eddie towards the kitchen and turned towards the other man in the room, who seemed to still be taking in the last few events. “See Stan! I know how to rhyme.”
“The lack of progress on the song, which needs to be finished by Friday, seems to say otherwise.”
Richie let out a long groan before stomping back to the piano, plopping down on the bench. He felt his fingers move against the keys naturally as he sang the one “verse” that he had mustered after a couple hours of work:
Give it up, I’m a bad hot witch
I look real good, but I’m a nasty bitch
I can scream and claw, and curdle your blood
But you’ll die on your way back into love
“That was awful, please, don’t let those words leave your mouth ever again.”
“I’m trying! I haven’t written a song in God knows how long, and I need a lyricist! It’s only ever worked with Mike.”
“Alright, can I be honest with you?”
“Of course not, you’re my manager, I’d have to fire you.”
“Well as your manager, and your friend, your best friend, you need this.”
Richie felt his eyes drifting towards Eddie, who was currently drowning one of his favorite succulents. God, why is he cute? He sighed, bringing his focus back to the conversation with Stan. “Let’s not be desperate. There’s still the state fairs, and Knott’s Berry Farm—”
“They cancelled.”
Richie frowned. “Knott’s Berry cancelled?”
“Look, we’re still on for the few state fairs we have lined up, but Great Adventure only wants three days instead of ten.”
“Jesus Christ. Why didn’t you tell me these things?”
“I’m telling you now!”
Richie knotted his fingers in his hair, banging his head on the keys. “Oh God, I’m dead. I’m finished.”
Stan sighed deeply and placed a shoulder on Richie’s shoulder. “Rich, you are not dead.”
“I’m going to wind up doing bar mitzvahs!”
“I… am not going to take that personally. Come on, Rich, it’s one song. One song with Adrian to refresh your image, and then we’ll get Knott’s Berry, and Great Adventure, and who knows? We could even get Disneyland.”
“Don’t tease me, I’m very vulnerable right now.”
Stan stifled a laugh, as best as he could. “Alright fucker, let’s try this again.”
Richie returned his hand to the piano and played the same melody that he had been messing with. “Give it up, I’m a bad hot witch—”
“But with some magic, I just might switch.”
Richie’s head jerked towards the source of the words. Eddie was still drowning his plants, absentmindedly humming along to the melody he had just been playing.
“Sorry, Eds, what did you just say?”
Eddie paused, watering can tilted downward, and water rushing out of the spout. He had a confused look on his face, lower lip trapped between his teeth. “I don’t remember?”
“I think it was, ‘but with some magic, I just might switch.’ Fuck Eds, that’s actually amazing.”
“Why don’t we just let plant boy finish the lyrics?”
“Stan!”
Eddie moved on to the next plant a bit awkwardly. “I’m just here to cater the plants… I can’t write a song.”
“And you are doing a fine job.” Richie walked up behind Eddie and pulled him away from the plant. He didn’t miss the blush that spread across Eddie’s cheeks. “But this one is plastic.”
Eddie’s face flushed fully red. “Please, just try?”
Hesitantly, Eddie pursed his lips in thought. “Okay… uh… let’s fly my broom to the stars above, and we’ll… charm! Charm our way back into love.”
Stan’s eyes flickered between Eddie and Richie, evidently appalled. “Sorry!” Eddie exclaimed. Words began rushing out of this mouth. “I shouldn’t have gotten involved, sometimes I have no filter.” He turned, trying to distract himself with a nearby cactus.
“Have you ever done any writing?”
“I mean, yeah, everyone nowadays has done some writing.”
“I don’t know Eds, illiteracy is a growing epidemic. But that was some real good shit right there.”
“Uh, I write campaign slogans for Bev’s fitness company, but that’s it!”
“Well have you ever heard of ‘the Losers’? The band?”
“Of course. Bev loved them. They were those two weirdos, and Lord, one of them could not dress to save his life, and—” He turned as he spoke, looking Richie in the eye. “Oh my God, you’re one of them.”
“I’d like to say my outfit choices were very much in style.” Stan snorted, but kept his mouth shut.
“Wow, I am so sorry.”
“It’s fine, cutie. But I would love to talk to you about writing some lyrics?”
“Cutie? Whatever. No, I don’t write lyrics, and— oh my God! Holy fuck.”
“Shit, are you alright?”
Eddie jumped away from the cactus and began flapping his hand and jumping up and down. “Fuck, do you have a bandaid? Antibiotic cream?”
Richie just stared, questioning his attraction towards Eddie. “No…”
“Well, then I’m gonna go because this might get infected. It’s not clotting yet, but I mean, you can never be to careful. And I have to meet Bev for dinner anyways, and I think I’m going to get this looked at.”
As Eddie sped walk to the door, Richie grabbed his wrist, halting him. “Hey, I’ll be performing at the Hilton tonight. Reconsider the song writing, or just come anyways if you want a laugh.”
Eddie looked up to him, eyebrows scrunched together in frustration. “I’m sorry, I just can’t. I really appreciate the offer, but I don’t write… I can’t.” Eddie swung open the door, and hurried out. Before the door slammed, he shouted from down the hallway, “You should really get a first aid kit by the way!”