Archive of Our Own

Los Angeles, July

They broadcast from a small studio in an unassuming warehouse conversion off 6th Street, stuck between a row of boutique clothing stores and an empty theatre that might or might not get turned into a bigger boutique clothing store in the near future. It's a four hour slot every Tuesday, Friday and Sunday in which they get to do whatever the fuck they want. Richie takes the first forty-five minutes in an attempt to set the tone, something they decided in an early conversation when it was barely an idea. Helena goes next and she drags the standard back up kicking and screaming, offering genuine insight into the music industry and introducing the world to contemporary, fresh talent. Vinnie and Precious co-host a segment about urban legends that has a small but dedicated internet following, people who wouldn't spit on Richie if he was on fire but would, and have offered to, lay their lives down for his colleagues. The final fifteen minutes are free for all, an absolute mess of conversation, music and gossip.

Every Tuesday, Friday and Sunday of every week, Richie gets to talk to people much more interesting and funny than him, people younger and more relevant, and he never feels more like the washed up comedian that he is than in those fifteen minutes. But then they go off air and Precious offers him a beer, Helena says something nice about whatever bullshit he delivered that week, Vinnie good-naturedly insults his fashion sense, and Richie doesn't think about the clown.

It's a glorified podcast, that's what it is. Richie Tozier is a podcaster, live on air.

Steve begs him to go on TV, take this or that advertising deal, say yes to some embarrassingly small venue that wants him to host their comedy night, or, god forbid, just move to a proper radio station. Richie tells him to fuck off and pays him enough money to keep him from throwing in the towel. Every day that Steve doesn’t quit feels unearned. 

The thought of returning to stand-up makes him feel nauseous but he'll always be an attention-seeking asshole. Radio seems like a fair compromise.

"–unbelievable. What a fucking joke."

"Hm?"

"The ticket prices."

"Ah, right."

"Were you not listening? Because I'm not repeating myself, you old fuck."

"Who're you calling old, Kaspbrak?"

"You," Eddie says impatiently. "Never listen. I don't know why I bother. I think I listen to you too much. "

Richie uses his turn signal and takes a left. At the end of the dimly lit road he sees the glowing pink sign of Bar Flamingo, where he once watched Bill Denbrough lose his mind and dance on a table while threatening to take his shirt off.

"You do," he agrees. Drums his fingers on the steering wheel. Orange light comes and goes in rapid waves, washing over him. "Y'know, Bev hasn't listened to our show in months. She said it makes her feel out of touch, so I can't imagine how it must make you feel."

Eddie makes an indignant noise. "I'm not out of touch."

"Sure."

"Oh, fuck you."

Richie laughs softly. He's tired, the bone-deep kind of exhaustion that not even sleep can fix. He blinks against the dryness of his eyes and pushes his slipping glasses up with his index finger. Some small, lonely part of him wonders what Eddie might look like right now, while all Richie has of him is his disembodied voice through the car speakers. Is he in bed? Would it be weird of Richie to ask? 

He doesn’t ask. Out loud he says, "Did you see Stan's email?"

"Yes," Eddie says and the 's' sounds sharp and jagged on Richie's end. "I've already spoken to Hayworth to ask if I can have the Friday off. Asshole better give it to me, I haven't taken time off since fucking January. "

Richie slows down and comes to a stop at a traffic light. It's a quiet night and Atwater Village is as dead as can be, the high street empty save for a few stragglers.

He says, "I'd have to miss two shows."

"I'm sure your audience will survive."

"Will you?"

A brief pause. Then, snappish: "Other people listen to the show!"

Richie grins from ear to ear. "Doesn't matter. I only do it for you."

Eddie snorts. "God, I hope not. What a sad gesture that would be."

"Some people would kill for that kind of gesture."

"Some people are deranged."

With a familiar sense of longing lodged in his throat, Richie pulls into his driveway. He leaves the car running; Eddie doesn't have to know.

He fiddles with the zipper of his jacket for lack of a better thing to do with his hands and asks, "So you're coming?"

"If Hayworth lets me go."

"If Hayworth lets you go."

There's a moment of silence. Richie imagines Eddie in his small apartment, the inside of which he has only seen in pictures. It's tidy, he knows that much. The sofa is genuine black leather. The coffee table is walnut. Eddie talked about it at length in one of their phone calls earlier in the year, a freshly separated man in his unfamiliar bachelor pad. Does Eddie keep magazines on that walnut table? Candles? The remote? Or does he keep it free of any clutter, afraid people might see him living?

"It'll be good to see everyone," Eddie says softly.

It'll be good to see you, Richie hears. 

"Yeah, man." He swallows. "It's been a while."

The last time he saw Eddie was in a Lower East Side dive bar, both of them drunk out of their minds, laughing and clinging to each other where they sat squeezed into the corner. But Richie only had one night there before moving on, part of his miserable apology press tour in January, and when they hugged goodbye outside of Richie's hotel, they both held on much longer than there was any reason to.

Every time he talks to Eddie on the phone now, he feels the ghost of his arms around him, feels his warm, boozy breath against his neck.

"Are you just sitting in your driveway?"

Richie coughs awkwardly, caught in the act. He kills the engine.

"What's it to you?" he says petulantly.

"Richie," Eddie starts, then falters. The silence stretches into something strange.

"Yeah?" Richie asks just to knock it back into its place.

"Nothing." It sounded like something. "I'm going to sleep."

"Righti-o, Spaghetti-o," Richie says and gathers up his things from the passenger side. "Sleep is good. You should get more of it.” 

“That’s rich, coming from you.”

“It’s bedtime, Eds. Don’t start lecturing me now.” 

“I wasn’t going to.” 

“Yeah, you were. I can sense a Kaspbrak lecture coming from a mile away. It’s context clues and that little stern inhale you do, like a disapproving old lady.” 

“ Goodnight, Richard.” 

“Night night, Spaghetti.”  

*** 

Atlanta, August

Richie has been to Stan and Patty's house twice since the clown. (He calls it the clown because calling it anything else feels like self-pity. For a while he tried not to call it anything at all, tried not to think of it, but every nightmare needs a name.) The first time was in the weeks immediately after, when he couldn't bear the silence in his apartment, couldn't bear to sit still, or run, eat, drink, sleep, or really do much of anything. He crawled to them like an injured animal and they let him lick his wounds in their guest bedroom for a long weekend that turned into a week, turned into ten days. The second time had slightly more dignity — he was actually invited and only stayed the previously agreed upon four nights.

It's a nice house. Apparently accounting pays well, or at the very least it makes you stingy enough to save up for a nice house. It feels lived in, homely. There is love in the walls, so dense that Richie chokes on it. Stan takes pride in the garden and Patty takes pride in Stan's pride. More often than not the kitchen smells like home-baking, and the scent lingers long after the oven has cooled down. Even the guest bedroom is lovingly decorated, welcoming as though it wants you to live in it, to go to bed in it, with wood-panelled walls and dust-pink curtains draped across an arched window that overlooks the rose bushes and drinks in the gold of the evening sun.

Richie arrives a full day before the others, so he helps Stan in the garden, pulling weeds, sowing pansy seeds for the winter, and pruning his Hydrangea shrubs. Or rather, he watches from a safe distance with a beer in one hand and a cigarette in the other, offering snide commentary that he should probably keep to himself while Stan is wielding pruning shears and losing the will to live. Patty drifts in and out of the garden, muttering to herself about lesson plans and banana bread. He loves her the way he loves all of them. She's new but she slots into their lives like a piece of the puzzle. 

He has nightmares where she doesn't show up and Eddie doesn't live.

Richie is tired from the flight and the beer isn't helping, so by the time Stan is done picking snails out of his vegetable bed, he is lying flat on his back in the grass and dozing off with a cap across his face like a cartoon farmer. All he's missing is a wheat straw to hold in his mouth.

Stan nudges him with his foot and blocks out the sun above him. Richie grumbles and doesn't move. Stan nudges him again, a little harder this time.

"Stop kicking me."

"That was not a kick."

"It felt violent."

"I'll show you violence."

Richie takes the cap off his face and squints up at Stan. He stands above him, a silhouette against the low sun.

"Bitch," he says. "How's the snail hunt?"

"Slimy," Stan replies and holds out a hand. Richie pushes himself to a seated position before taking it. With an exaggerated groan, Stan helps him to his feet.

Richie's spine pops when he stretches.

"Beer?" asks Stan.

"First sensible thing you've said all day."

They drink on the back porch in companionable silence. These are things that don't come easy to Richie, companionship and silence, but Stan brings enough of it for the both of them. Richie smokes cigarettes and uses a jam jar as a makeshift ashtray. It's a humid day and even as the sun dips behind the trees in the distance the heat sticks to him like sweat. Despite a decade in LA, Richie never quite got used to the heat. Chicago suited him better, with its endless cold winters and tepid summers. He thinks about moving back the way a prisoner thinks of escape. It's good to hold on to hope. 

Against all odds, it's Stan who speaks first.

"You're okay sharing with Eddie, right?"

Touching, Richie thinks.

"Why wouldn't I be?"

Stan gives him a disappointed side-eye.

"It's fine," Richie lies. "We're good. I'm working up to telling him."

"This weekend?"

Richie balks. "Are you out of your mind? It's a marathon, not a sprint."

"I thought thirty years might be enough of a run up,” Stan says wryly. 

Thirty years makes it sound ancient, this thing in his chest. Maybe it is. Maybe cavemen painted its outlines on the walls like a blueprint. He thinks people must have been in love before, but most days he feels as though he invented it. 

"I'm working up to it," he repeats and looks resolutely ahead at the rose bushes. The air smells like fresh cut grass and smoke. In the distance, a police siren. It's too far away to even touch the peace in their backyard bubble. 

In a rare act of mercy, Stan changes the topic. 

***

Bill and Mike get into ATL at 9:47pm. Richie knows this because Bill sends him a nonsensical text the moment they land, informing him that feel sic the turbukence [vomit emoji] . Mike sends a more dignified Landed! [orange heart emoji] to their group chat a total of two minutes later. 

Like an old man, Stan is asleep on the sofa by the time they make it to the house. Richie and Patty have left him there to snore in favour of drinking iced tea on the front porch in their pyjamas. When Bill and Mike tumble out of their taxi and onto the lawn it's chaos for five minutes, a flurry of hugs and loud love. 

Once they’re settled into the living room with beer and a selection of snacks on the coffee table, having successfully woken up Stan, Richie allows himself to freak out about seeing Eddie again in a few hours. Rationally, Richie knows there is nothing to be worried about. He knows that Eddie is his friend more than anything, he knows that Eddie is his best friend despite how embarrassing it is to have a best friend at forty-two years old, he knows that Eddie thinks he's funny and Eddie will give him a hug. 

All the logic in the world doesn't stop him from sweating through his shirt and running nervous hands through his hair again, and again, and again, in the half hour it takes for Ben, Bev and Eddie to get from the airport to the house once they’ve collected their luggage. He checks his phone every few minutes, like Eddie might text him to say ‘Hey, I love you, don’t even worry about it!’. 

Although Stan is the only person he has actually spoken to about his feelings for Eddie, it’s as though the whole house is judging him. The paintings on the walls, the houseplants on the windowsill, the couch cushions, everything stares at him with mocking, leery eyes. Richie sweats harder under the scrutiny. 

At ten past 12am they all line up alongside the driveway like ducklings. Stan is awake this time although he looks like he would rather not be. The air has grown colder around them. 

Richie squints nervously at every car that goes past. When one finally slows, his heart dithers in his chest like it's drunk. 

Bev hops out of the car first, her red curls burning in the dark, then Ben with a shy duck of his head. When Eddie gets out, his gaze finds Richie first like he was looking for him. For a still moment the world stops turning as they grin at each other. Richie's blood rushes in his ears. 

"Happy birthday, Pats!" Bev hollers, effectively shattering Richie's romantic movie illusions. 

"It’s Patty’s birthday?" Bill asks at the same time as Stan says, "It's next week!" 

Everyone stumbles over each other, laughing and hugging. The taxi driver, a portly, red-faced man who looks like this is the worst day of his life, tries to stay out of their way and get the suitcases out of the trunk. Richie gets Bev first and she hugs him like she thinks she can hold him together through sheer force of will. After her, Ben is warm and comforting. 

Even while he hugs them, Richie is mentally with Eddie. He looks for him past Ben's shoulder and finds him giving the taxi driver a hand with an awkward frown. Richie squeezes Ben tighter because he doesn't know where else to put his love. 

"We were worried you wouldn't make it," Richie says when Ben lets go.  “I know how Eddie gets about airport security.” 

Ben gives him a pat on the back that he chooses to interpret as loving. 

Although Eddie looked at him first, he greets Richie last. After he has dragged the last bag out of the trunk, Richie catches his attention. Eddie slams the door to the trunk, much to the visible discomfort of the driver. 

"Hey," Richie says and hates that he sounds breathless. 

Eddie tells him, "Atlanta airport is a frequent flyer nightmare." 

"Great to see you, too." 

Eddie's laugh sounds a little hysterical. Richie puts them both out of their misery and hugs him tightly. He presses his nose into Eddie's hair. It's stiff and smells like American Crew gel. For a moment this is all there is in the world, just him and Eddie holding on to each other, and Richie doesn’t know what he was so afraid of. 

***

The sofa in the living room extends to fit two people. The Blum-Uris household is set up for guests like they've been waiting for years to host six friends they didn't know they had — or maybe they're just extremely hospitable people, Losers or not. Richie wouldn't want to be self-absorbed.

He lies on his back, covers pulled up to his chin, and he stares at the dark ceiling above him. Next to him, Eddie breathes in and out, in and out. A miracle. It's as though the whole world is breathing with him. They've been silent since Eddie got into bed a few minutes ago, his skin shiny with moisturiser and his breath minty fresh, though if Richie thinks too hard about what Eddie might smell like up close he is going to go insane.

Maybe he has already lost his mind. Maybe this is hell — sharing a bed with Eddie Kaspbrak and imagining what he smells like up close.

The dark of the room feels stifling. Richie wants to get up and run laps around the garden. He wants to get up and smoke a joint out of the kitchen window. He wants to reach out and touch Eddie's skin, to make sure that he's here, that it's him breathing in the dark and not the monster under the bed.

Unless Eddie is the monster under the bed. If there's one thing the clown succeeded in it's giving him trust issues. There are only so many times you can see it take the familiar shape of your friends before the thought of that lodges in your chest and stays there, choking you.

"Eds," he says quietly. His voice is hoarse.

"Yeah?"

It sounds like him. But then, that's part of the trick.

"Tell me something only you could know."

To his credit, Eddie doesn't question it. There are some things that are off-limits. After what they've been through, they allow each other their quirks.

"One time in middle school you climbed in through my window and then you had to hide under my bed for forty minutes while my mother talked about Aunt Meredith's hemorrhoids."

Richie can't help but laugh. It's too loud in the dark but then, he always is.

"I did do that," he says. "How is your Aunt Meredith?"

"Dead," says Eddie.

"Ah. The hemorrhoids?"

"Lung cancer."

"Hm, that's less funny."

Eddie snorts. "That's never stopped you before."

Richie turns onto his side and grins at him. His eyes have adjusted enough to the darkness around them that he can make out Eddie's profile, the slight jut of his chin and the slope of his brow bone. The shape of him is slightly blurry. Richie's glasses are on the coffee table at the end of the bed.

The last time he shared a bed with Eddie was the night Eddie was released from hospital and they slept on an air mattress on Mike's living room floor. Back then he still felt the fear of nearly losing him too keenly to speak in the dark. Eddie slept, hopped up on morphine, and Richie watched the rise and fall of his chest with each laboured, shallow breath.

Now Richie watches his face instead. He still dreams of Eddie dying but it feels less like remembering. 

"Take a picture, it'll last longer."

He grins. "How about a video? I'll put you on Vine. You could be a movie star." He says it in his best smarmy Hollywood director voice.

"What the fuck is Vine?"

"God, you're old."

" We're old, asshole," Eddie snaps. "Now go the fuck to sleep. It's one in the goddamn morning."

Richie smiles. "I think it's two, actually."

"Even worse," Eddie huffs. And with that, he turns his back on Richie and goes to sleep. Or at least he goes quiet. To Richie, there's really no difference.

When they speak on the phone, they never say goodnight. Eddie just falls asleep, usually halfway through a sentence, or listening to Richie talk shit. But he doesn't generally decide to go to sleep. So what's different? 

Richie was always the last person to go to sleep at sleepovers. Too wired from the sugar, too scared he might miss something if he slept. He usually made Eddie stay up with him until he crashed or until Stan woke up and threatened to smother them with his pillow if they didn't shut the fuck up. So nothing has really changed, if you think about it. Nothing but the walls around them and the shape of their scars.

***

There's a bit of a situation. Richie knew there would be but he had hoped to put off dealing with it for longer.

The thing is that talking to Eddie in the dark felt almost normal. Like any other conversation they've had over the past year, familiar and stupid and easy. On the phone they talk for hours. They talk until someone goes to sleep or gets home or goes back to work. Richie fills silences like mortar and Eddie hands him brick after brick, follows him wherever Richie takes it. They talk most days and when they don't, Richie texts him random updates about his day, anything he finds remotely interesting or funny. Eddie doesn't complain, even when it's neither interesting nor funny. 

Sometimes it feels too easy, this thing between them. Too raw, too honest. Sometimes Richie comes too close to saying more than he should. He thinks that Eddie won't mind, in those moments. He could say anything, confess to anything, and Eddie would tell him it's fine and he's safe, that he loves him too. Too easy in the way that falling asleep after a long day is easy. It makes sense, says his body. Let it happen.

In person, in daylight, Richie clams up like a mussel. When he opens his eyes in the morning and finds himself staring at Eddie's back where he sits on the edge of the bed he shuts them again and fakes sleep until Eddie is out of the room. When Eddie makes eye contact and smiles at him across the breakfast table, Richie nearly chokes on a bite of toast in his hurry to make a joke about Bill's new book, anything to take the pressure off. When Eddie asks him if he wants a coffee after everyone else has filtered out of the kitchen, Richie briefly blacks out and tells him he doesn't like coffee, which Eddie and everyone else in the world knows is a lie.

Late in the morning, they have an awkward encounter in the bathroom when Richie barges in to shave and Eddie is in the middle of rubbing lotion into his bare thighs, shirtless, with one foot up on the edge of the tub. Eddie stares at him like a child that's been caught stealing. Richie knows he should make a joke. It's what is expected of him. If he doesn't make a joke, he might implode. But it's stuck at the back of his throat. He feels like he's been electrocuted. Eddie's eyes are wide and there are freckles scattered across his shoulders.

"Sorry," Richie squeaks and flees the scene.

It doesn't help the situation.

So Richie does the only thing he knows how to do — he avoids Eddie like the plague.

He is aware that this is a self-made problem. Eddie isn't even being particularly weird around him. In fact, Eddie seems to actively want to spend time with him. But after his conversation with Stan in the garden Richie can't stop thinking that maybe he should tell him this weekend, maybe he has been running for too long. He thinks about how he might tell him, what Eddie might say, and how badly he does not want to deal with that.

While he helps Patty and Mike decorate the veranda, twisting fairy lights around the railing overlooking the rose bushes, he cycles through excuses. This is Patty's weekend — he shouldn't take attention away from it by causing a scene. He doesn't want to make Eddie feel awkward at the party. It would have to be on the last day so that they don't have to share a bed afterwards but Eddie's flight home is in the early morning so there's really no time. It has only been a few months since Eddie's divorce was finalised, it would be disrespectful to spring this on him so soon.

"What do you think? Blue or green?" Patty asks, tearing Richie away from his self-pity.

He turns to help her pick flowers, grateful for the distraction.

***

"I'll be back in LA next month," Bill says, perched on the armrest of the sofa.

Richie sits next to him with a beer in one hand. He looks up from the label he's picking at.

"The book tour," Bill elaborates.

"Right," says Richie. "When?"

"Next month."

"I heard that. What week?"

When Bill says, "All month," it’s implied that Richie just said something extremely stupid.

"Don't give me that, man," he says defensively. "You've pretty much moved to Mexico City."

"I'm in LA all the time."

"Really? So if there was no book tour…”

Bill takes a swig of his beer and has the decency to look sheepish. "... I'd probably be in Mexico."

He doesn't really understand what Bill's deal is anymore. There is clearly something going on with him and Mike, but neither of them will confirm or deny, and Richie doesn't know if they just smoke Mexican weed and talk about God when they're together or if they fuck, or make love, or whatever.

But what he does know is that Bill hasn't been in LA for more than a few weeks at a time since the beginning of the year and that wherever Mike is, Bill inevitably goes on holiday. Currently that's Mexico City but only since March. Before that he was hiking in Chile, and so, coincidentally, was Bill.

Quietly, very quietly, Richie thinks that as long as they’re dancing around each other, he can keep dancing around Eddie. That seems fair. 

"You'll have to take me out for dinner with all your book money."

"It's more movie money I have."

Richie shrugs. "Money's money."

"Who's rich?" Bev asks from the door, brandishing a kitchen knife.

"I'm Rich," he says. "And Bill is rich."

"You're also rich, asshole," Bill says — accuses.

"I feel like the joke would work better written down," Bev says wryly. "Give us a hand, would you?"

"Who, me?" Richie asks, at the same time as Bill says, "Sure."

There's music from the kitchen. It smells like roasted vegetables and barbecue. Richie looks at Bev's freckled, unimpressed face and the love he has for them all threatens to break him apart.

***

In the kitchen he skewers grapes, chunks of kiwi and strawberries with Bev and Stan. Eddie, Ben, Patty and Mike are doing something or other to the barbecue in the garden. Bill is on the phone to his agent on the front porch and they can hear his muffled voice through the window. The radio on the window sill is set to some local station and playing pop music Richie only recognises because Helena makes him keep up with the trends. The sun is low in the sky on the other side of the house so the hedges across the street are drenched in gold.

"I've got a new studio," Bev tells them and stabs a strawberry. "In Brooklyn."

"Very hip of you," says Richie.

"Since when?" asks Stan. "How is it?"

"I'm still moving in, but I'm working on my winter collection there. Working through some ideas about place and home, and place versus home." She takes a sip of prosecco and when Richie looks up at her she smiles at him, toothy and young. "I got the keys a few weeks ago."

Stan leans forward to look at her past Richie. "Place versus home?"

"I'm collaborating with this photographer. She does all kinds of crazy, philosophical shit, it's rubbing off on me." She laughs. "I've never felt at home anywhere, so I'm making some clothes and dealing with that. It's therapeutic."

"Bit heavy for fruit skewers," Richie says and tries not to think about the places he feels at home. The people he feels at home with. He picks up the skewer that Stan just put down on the serving plate and pulls a grape off it with his teeth.

"I think it sounds interesting," says Stan.

"You would. Suck-up."

Bev elbows Richie in the side.

"They're all things I didn't get to do before," Bev says. "Tom was never like that. Artistic. He just managed it into submission."

She doesn't talk about Tom unless she's a few glasses deep. Richie doesn't want to hear about Tom unless he's a few glasses deep, but he knows that's selfish, she should talk about this, it's good that she trusts them, it's good . Still, he tastes blood at the back of his throat.

"You can do what you want now," he says. "He can't manage you from 100 feet away."

Bev snorts. "He could probably find a way."

"So when am I visiting you?" Richie asks and smiles at her.

"Whenever, amigo. You too, Stan. And Patty! And everyone."

Richie says, "But especially me."

"Especially you," she confirms.

"Patty actually mentioned Thanksgiving so—" Stan starts.

"September?" Richie interjects.

"Greedy," Bev laughs and runs a hand through her hair. It's in a choppy, homemade bob, the kind of haircut people give each other in college dorms. She's rich enough to afford a hairdresser but Richie suspects it has something to do with independence, the same thing that drove her to chop her hair off while the clown terrorised them for the first time. Freedom, maybe. Bodily autonomy. Teenage angst, twisted into something darker.

"Just give me a week's notice and I'll make it happen," she adds. "I'm not doing shit this year. I'm just making clothes."

***

Richie finds Ben at the end of the garden, sitting on the grass and looking forlornly at some flowers. He spotted him from the back porch, cast in shadows from the fading light, so he thought it might be a good idea to check in. Everyone else is where he left them, eating burgers in the living room and watching Mike and Patty battle it out on the Twister mat.

"Hi," he says and Ben looks up from the flowers to blink at him. "What are you sulking about?"

Ben gives him a slightly exasperated smile and replies, "I'm not sulking."

"Looks a lot like sulking from where I'm standing."

"Nothing to sulk about. There's just a lot of booze."

Richie clears his throat and awkwardly hides his beer bottle behind his back.

"No, it's— Don't worry. I can handle a beer bottle."

"Sorry, dude."

It didn't occur to him that Ben might have an issue with this. He knew about his sobriety, knew a little bit about the complex feelings that came with it, but being overly considerate was never really his style. He was more of an act first, apologise later kind of guy.

"Just taking a breather," Ben says and while he's smiling, the lines of his shoulders are tense. "I'll be back inside in a moment."

"Nah, man, I get it. I mean I don't quite get it get it, but I get it."

Ben grins. "Sorry, you what? You get it? Did I hear that right?"

Richie grins back. "Yeah, I get it."

"Well, thank you very much. For getting it. But I swear it's fine."

Richie sits down next to him and his knee joints pop because he is an old man, and also landed like a sack of potatoes when the clown spat him out of the deadlights.

He nudges Ben and says, "It doesn't have to be."

"Hm?"

"It doesn't have to be fine. You can be upset, you know? No point in keeping it bottled up."

"I know," Ben sighs. "But there are some things that are better off bottled up."

Richie laughs, a stupid, high-pitched laugh, and Ben raises his eyebrow at him in question.

"Trust me, I know."

"Hm, what are you keeping bottled up, Trashmouth?"

"Oh, this and that. Stuff. Things. I'm a man of many secrets."

There's a moment of silence as Ben considers that, considers him. Richie isn't a fan of the way he looks at him then, like he can see right through him.

Finally Ben says, "I think I might know this one."

Richie nervously pushes his hair out of his face. "Hm?"

"I get it," Ben nods. "I might even get it get it, I think."

A pause. Then Richie asks, "What the fuck are we talking about right now? Alcoholism?"

"I'm talking about Eddie. What are you talking about?"

"Oh, I was hoping you weren’t talking about Eddie.”

Ben gives him a kind, understanding smile. Richie wants to push him over and run away.

"Don't," he says, grimacing. "I'll let you keep your thing bottled up if you leave this one alone."

For a moment, Ben is quiet. The air is still around them, no breeze there to rustle the shrubbery, and Richie nervously runs his thumb along the outer seam of his jeans. He thinks he's gotten away with it, that Ben might really leave it alone. He breathes out.

Then Ben says, "You know, when I first saw Bev again—" and Richie shifts onto his knees and gets up, joints aching.

"No," he cuts him off. "Absolutely not. No way! No way. This is not Childhood Crushes Anonymous, I'm not sharing my story."

Ben's eyebrow twitches.

"You can sulk on your own, stare into the rose bushes some more. I'm going inside to eat fruit skewers and make fun of Bill."

"Okay," Ben says lightly. "I'll be over here, sulking."

Richie thumps him on the shoulder and grins. "Enjoy, Bentastic."

The smile he gets in return isn't quite fond, but it's close enough. 

***

“Where is it? Upstairs?” 

“No, no, down the hall and to the left!” Patty yells after him. “Thanks, Richie, you’re a star!” 

“I know I am!” He leaves her in the kitchen, where she’s picking glass shards out of a puddle of beer. It was Richie who knocked it off the counter but Patty is an overly nice host so all he has to do is get a mop and a bucket. Stan would have made him collect the glass shards himself. 

On the sofa in the living room Mike has his head in Bev’s lap while she does a dramatic reading of something, potentially Youtube comments based on context clues, and rubs his head. 

“Cute,” he says in passing and blows them a kiss. 

Bev flips him the bird, but Mike gives him a thumbs up.

Just as he exits the living room, laughing at them both, Eddie comes out of the downstairs bathroom and Richie’s laugh dies in his throat. Eddie gives him a strange little look, eyebrows drawn together, and he brushes a hand through his gelled hair. Then he smiles, awkward and almost shy. 

Richie swallows roughly. They stop in front of each other in the corridor. 

“Yo,” says Richie at the same time as Eddie says, “Hi.” 

Eddie looks like he’s expecting more from the conversation. 

Richie clears his throat. “Uh, I have to— There’s glass. On the kitchen floor.” 

“What?” 

“I knocked over a bottle, so. Watch out for that. I’m getting a mop.” 

“I guess someone had to break something tonight.” 

“Haha. Yeah.” Richie shoves his hands into his jeans pockets. 

For a moment they just stare at each other. Then Eddie takes a step forward, and Richie takes a step to the side to get around him, and they laugh uncomfortably like strangers trying to pass each other on a narrow sidewalk. 

“Sorry,” Richie says and takes another step to the side. 

Eddie stands aside this time but he reaches out to touch Richie’s arm as they pass each other. Richie hesitates and looks at him blankly, momentarily panicked, and Eddie just squeezes his arm and lets go. 

Richie continues down the hall, his throat dry. He doesn’t turn back to look at him, no matter how desperately he wants to. 

*** 

It's quarter past ten when Mike clinks a serving spoon against his beer bottle to get everyone's attention and loudly announces that he's getting married.

There's a moment of startled confusion from everyone including Bill, who is mid-chew and sits perched on the arm of the sofa across the room.

"To Bill," Mike clarifies, looking a little loopy. Perhaps underprepared.

"What?" says Bill.

"What?" says everyone else in the room.

"Is this... the proposal?" Stan asks slowly. 

"Of course not." Mike looks a little offended at the idea. "Bill proposed a couple of weeks ago."

"I did do that," Bill confirms, when everyone turns to look at him. "I didn't know there would be an announcement tonight."

"It just felt right," says Mike. "While we're all here."

It's Patty who finally gets with the programme. She claps her hands together, laughs and throws her arms around Mike who is nearest to her.

"That's great news!" she shrieks into Mike's shoulder. It breaks the strange, confounded stillness that has settled over them and suddenly everyone is on either Mike or Bill, congratulating them, laughing at them, hugging them.

While Richie pats Bill on the back, he feels sweat prickling in his armpits. So much for waiting until Bill and Mike stop dancing around each other. He really thought that would afford him another six months at least, if not a year, but he has clearly underestimated Bill and Mike's weird bond. Maybe he could set a new deadline. The wedding?

"Are you even divorced yet?" he asks Bill when he pulls back from the hug, one hand still clasping his shoulder.

Bill looks at him with murder in his eyes and says, "No."

With a delighted laugh, Richie clutches his chest. "Mr Denbrough! Oh, the scandal!"

"Leave it out, Trashmouth," Bill grumbles.

"Happy for you. I mean it's a bit of a U-Haul, but whatever tickles your goat, I guess."

"Is that a euphemism?"

"Yeah, for love. The goat stands for love."

Bill laughs. "Thanks, man."

Richie pulls him in for another tight hug, squeezing him. He turns his head to the side, cheek squished against Bill's shoulder, and he catches a glimpse of Eddie's forearm — he knows it's Eddie's because of the particular dusting of dark hair, the spray of freckles, and isn't that mortifying? Isn't that just the worst thing you've ever heard? 

He smacks Bill on the back, harder than he meant to. Bill wheezes.

When he makes it to the other end of the sofa to shower Mike in hugs and kisses, Eddie's forearm is gone. They've traded places. Over Bev's head Richie sees Eddie clap Bill on the shoulder and the muscles of his jaw feel tense.

"I really thought you'd give me more time," Richie says into Mike's neck as he hugs him.

A lot of hugs tonight. He has been hugged more in the past year than his entire adult life before the great clowning of 2016 and sometimes it overwhelms him. A few months ago he stood in Bev's small kitchen in her newly rented one bed apartment and, gripped by some deep, inexplicable fear, he pushed her away when she wrapped her arms around his shoulders. She backed off in hard understanding, and then they smoked weed about it like grown-ups.

"It's not that it bothers me," he said to her, his feet in her lap on the couch. "I love the attention. I'm a sucker for friendship."

"It's not that it bothers you, but it does bother you," she nodded.

"Yeah. It bothers me, but it doesn't."

She nodded again and passed him the joint. "Makes sense."

"It does?" He took a drag and it burned all the way into his chest.

"Not really but I don't need it to."

"Please don't stop loving me," Richie said pathetically.

"There are ways to love people without touching them."

"Please don't stop touching me."

He felt cracked open, then. He remembers the sharp shadows on the living room floor, the stale smell of smoke at the back of his throat and the warmth of Bev's hand where it settled on his ankle, tethering him.

"Okay," she said softly. And then, "Sometimes when Ben holds me it feels like he's choking me."

"Yeah."

"Sometimes I want to choke him right back."

"Yeah."

And they'd smiled at each other, he thinks. Like two assholes.

In the Blum-Uris living room Mike smells like beer and love. What does love smell like? Well, it smells like Mike.

"Time for what?" he asks, his voice a comforting weight inside Richie's skull.

"You know," Richie says vaguely.

"I don't."

They pull apart but Mike keeps his hands firmly on Richie's shoulders like he wants to steady him.

"I'm trying to do something," Richie says.

Mike is a patient man, although his patience has worn thinner in the decades he spent in Derry, lying in wait alone, holding the fort. Still, he looks at Richie like he'd like to pull his metaphorical teeth right about now. And Richie wants to tell him, he does, but he doesn't. He wants to be touched, but he doesn't. He wants to be known, but he doesn't. There is nothing Mike could say that would take the edge off how badly he loves Eddie, but Richie would still like him to try.

He opens his mouth and his drunk heart stumbles out of it.

"I want to tell Eddie," he says. "I want to tell him. But—"

"You want to tell me what?" Eddie appears by his side like a fucking demon. Like Richie summoned him.

He slips out of Mike's grasp like a fish and turns to Eddie, his heart in his throat and his smile deranged. 

"How good your mom's pussy tasted last night," his voice grates. It's a bit like watching a car crash from a distance, knowing that it’s you in the driver’s seat. The joke's too much, too crude even for Richie, but it tears out of him like a wild animal freeing itself from a bear trap and lands flat on its face, right there on the carpet between their feet. His only defence mechanism in hyperdrive.

Eddie makes a face somewhere between startled and disgusted.

"What the fuck, Richie? You're so fucking gross, don't say that kind of shit to me."

"Oh, really? Now we're above those jokes?" Richie scoffs, just another car joining the pile-up on the highway. "I remember your dying fucking words, Eddie Spaghetti, and I know you do too."

"I was delirious," Eddie snaps. "Don't be such an asshole."

"Don't be such a princess," he says and shoulders past Eddie to get the fuck out. He needs some air.

His face burns against the cold night breeze. Richie sits on the steps of the back porch leading onto the lawn, his knees pulled up and his chin tucked against his chest. He stares down at the dark wood between his feet. In the distance a dog barks, a high-pitched and anxious sound. 

"Stupid asshole," he mutters and rests his forehead on his knobby knee joint. "Piece of shit."

Behind him, the door hinges squeak. He sighs.

"Sorry, man," he says to the darkness of the garden. "I shouldn't have said that shit."

Unexpectedly, it’s Mike’s voice behind him. "You okay?"

Richie doesn't know whether to be relieved or disappointed that it's not Eddie.

Just as he turns to look over his shoulder, Mike takes a seat next to him, a little too close. There's a tense moment in which he thinks that he might have to push him away like he'd pushed Bev but Mike seems to sense that this is not a hugging kind of moment and he keeps his arms to himself. The quiet look of concern he gets instead is almost worse.

"Shouldn't you be with the future Mr. Hanlon?"

"We're thinking of double-barreling it, actually."

"Hanlon-Denbrough? Denbrough-Hanlon?"

"Danlon? Henbrough?"

"That's not double-barreling it," Richie points out.

Mike shrugs. "But it's funnier."

"It's not that funny." It is a little funny, but Richie probably isn't the target audience. "I think Bill Hanlon has a certain ring to it."

"So you've avoided the question."

Richie's shoulders slump. "Why is everyone trying to be sincere with me tonight? Fuck that."

Mike gives him a meaningful look, but Richie doesn't get what the meaning is.

"Stop it," he huffs. "Don't look at me. Don't even think in my direction."

"I can leave," Mike offers. "Or get Stan."

What a nightmare. He feels like a five year old throwing a tantrum and Mike is his dad offering to get his mom because he doesn't know how to deal with him. "Absolutely not. What is he, my therapist? My mom?"

"Your friend."

"So are you," Richie points out.

Mike pulls one knee up to his chest and rests his chin on it. South America has been good to him, his skin is darker and his hair is shorter, cropped close to his head in a much better haircut than the one he had in Derry. There's a tiny golden hoop through his left nostril; it glints when the light catches it just so.

"There are different kinds of friends," Mike says.

Richie wonders if he could pull off a nose ring the way Mike could. Probably not. It doesn't stop him from considering it, now that he finds himself surrounded by cool people more often than not. Precious has seven visible piercings, including a bar through the top of his ear that looks painful but cool as hell, and now Richie catches himself daydreaming about shit like nipple piercings and tattoos and knowing that he would never be able to make it work. These things are for young people with self-confidence, not for comedians going through a midlife crisis.

"Are you having a midlife crisis?" he asks Mike.

Mike gives him an odd look. "Midlife is a social construct. We are in a constant state of flux. Change comes and goes."

"Man." Richie sighs. "What the fuck does that mean?"

"It means that we shouldn't let our lives be defined by arbitrary structures like midlife, gender, morality and speed limits."

Richie laughs, sharp and loud, and he claps his hand on Mike's thigh.

Then Mike asks, "Are you in love with Eddie?" 

The fizzled-out remnants of laughter die in Richie's throat. He crosses his arms in front of his chest and opens his mouth. Closes it again. Uncrosses his arms. Crosses his ankles instead. Less defensive, more fidgeting.

He sounds like an asshole when he says, "I don't know, Sherlock Holmes, am I?"

Mike remains unfazed. He says, "Probably."

"Did you know Bill isn't even divorced yet?"

"Of course I know. I've met Audra a few times, actually. She knows about us."

Richie wants to scream, but bites his tongue. 

They sit in silence, not quite uncomfortable but not exactly companionable, like Mike thinks that if he just gives him the time and space, Richie will fill it. Well, the joke's on him, because Richie has never met a silence he wanted to fill less than this one. He sits, stomach in knots, keenly aware of Eddie's presence in the house behind him, like his senses are primed for him. And Mike lets him sit. He takes a pouch of tobacco out of his back pocket and silently rolls a cigarette like the weirdo he is. Then, just as silently, he offers it to Richie.

“What are you, European?” he says and takes it. "I'm trying to quit.” 

"Aren't we all?"

“European? No.” 

“Trying to quit.” 

“That’s deep, man.” 

Mike lights the cigarette for him, one hand cupping Richie's, and he gives him a smile that feels like a challenge. Then he gets out another paper, another filter, tugs more tobacco out of the pouch. 

It's Bev who breaks their silence eventually. She opens the patio door with one quick, loud squeak and crosses the distance in a few firm steps. She wraps herself around Mike's back and crouches there like a backpack.

"Is this the fucking Doom and Gloom club out here?"

"Yeah," Richie says around a mouthful of smoke. "Membership fee is one tragic anecdote per month."

"Ha ha." She squishes her cheek against Mike's shoulder and grins at Richie. Mike pats her arm where it lies across his chest. Then Bev reaches into her shirt pocket and pulls out a blunt that looks like it has survived a dark alley fistfight.

She asks, "Will this do?" and waves it in front of Mike.

"Good enough for me," Mike says easily.

Richie shrugs. "Fine. But next month we want an anecdote."

Halfway through the blunt Richie starts to feel a little better about the world. He also starts to miss Eddie, who is closer now than he has been in months. In fact, if Richie turned around where he sits now he could see into the living room where Eddie and Patty are drinking rosé together on the sofa.

Is he really going to let his feelings get in the way of hanging out with his best friend? All this concern about ruining things but this just feels like self-sabotage.

Bev is in the middle of telling them about an altercation she had with a subway rat when Richie interrupts her to ask, "Does Eddie ever talk about me?"

Both her and Mike stare at him blankly.

"Um," she says, drawing out the 'm'. "You mean like, does he mention you?"

"Yeah," Richie nods and passes the blunt he's been hogging to Mike.

"You absolute fucking moron, Tozier," Bev says tersely. "You dick. What's wrong with you? Are you fucked in the head?"

"Hey!" Richie interjects. "What the hell?"

"You two are so embarrassing."

Mike laughs and Richie isn't sure if he's laughing at him or at Bev. Maybe both. His eyes are a little bloodshot so he might just be high.

"He mentions you," Bev says then. "He never fucking stops mentioning you."

Richie doesn't know what to do with that. He says, "Cool. That's cool."

"Have you ever considered a buzzcut?" Mike asks and hooks his chin over Bev's shoulder. They've swapped places, her now perched between his thighs on the step below.

"I'm not sure, Mikey," Richie says. "What if my head is shaped like a weird egg underneath all this? What if it's really square?"

"I meant Bev," Mike clarifies. "Please don't shave your hair, Richie."

"What, you think I'd be ugly bald? Fuck you." The childhood instinct of responding to every dare rears its head. "Maybe I'll fucking do it."

"I have been considering it," Bev says thoughtfully. "Even if my head is egg-shaped. I could pull off egg."

"Oh please, Bev, please let me shave your head," Richie begs.

"I'd rather die than let you touch my hair," she says waspishly, then blows him a kiss to soften the bite, surrounded by Mike's laughter.

Half an hour later finds Richie standing behind Bev, who is unbelievably high and sitting in a chair in the kitchen. Patty, Stan, Ben and Mike are all leaning against various surfaces around them like normal people, while Bill and Eddie are sitting on the kitchen counter like toddlers "helping" with the cooking.

Several inches of Bev's hair are already on the white-tiled floor. It's less of a haircut and more of a massacre but Richie wields the scissors with more confidence than he feels. They're kitchen scissors because Patty and Stan are normal adults with jobs who pay someone else to cut their hair for them — funnily enough, Richie doesn't think Bev will be paying him for this one.

"Do a mullet," Patty suggests from the sidelines.

The rest of the crowd cheers, except for Stan who says, "Maybe don't do a mullet."

"Fucking buzzkill," says Eddie. "It's Patty's birthday. You're gonna deny her this on her birthday?"

Stan rolls his eyes. "Her birthday is a week away."

"You're going to deny me the mullet during my birthday month?" Patty asks, hurt.

At this point Richie has already started working on a mullet since Bev didn't seem to mind. He's got his tongue poking out between his teeth in concentration as he trims the fine curls around Bev's left ear.

"She'll shave it anyway," Ben points out.

"I will shave it anyway," Bev agrees.

"Why is Richie doing this?” asks Stan. “Isn't there anyone more qualified?"

"Like who?"

"Literally anyone. Our elderly neighbour could probably do it."

"Guys, I'm in the fucking room," says Richie. "And I'll have you know I cut my own hair all throughout college. And my roommate's. And one time my roommate's drug dealer’s.” 

Bev twists in her chair to look up at him, eyes bloodshot and eyebrows raised. "That's not the reassuring statement you think it is."

"Oh, fuck you," he says and brushes hair off her shoulders. "Just sit still and let Stylist Tozier work his magic."

"Is that your official title?" Eddie asks.

"Yeah." Richie steps around the chair to snip at Bev's fringe and doesn't look at Eddie no matter how much he wants to. He says, "And I fucking earned it. Any more smart-ass comments from the peanut gallery, please submit them to my agent. You all have Steve's number."

Eddie snorts. "Why the fuck would we have Steve's number?"

Everyone else in the room gives him a weird look.

"I have Steve's number," Mike says.

"Yeah."

"Me too."

"Yeah, man."

"I drunk text him sometimes."

Eddie looks furiously at Richie. "Why the fuck don't I have Steve's number?"

"You never asked for it." Richie holds a section of hair between his middle and index finger and holds it at an angle because that's what people do in Youtube tutorials. He cuts along the line of his finger. "Also it's on the agency website. Show some initiative!"

"That's his office number, not his cellphone," Stan points out unhelpfully.

Eddie huffs and crosses his arms in front of his chest. "I want Steve's number."

"Anyone want a beer?" Ben opens the fridge door.

Bev holds out one hand expectantly.

"Say please," Ben says, already handing one to her.

"Someone give me Steve’s number."

"Eddie, baby, I'll give it to you after this fucking haircut. I can't work in these conditions," Richie complains, waving the scissors at everyone. "I'm gonna need at least three people to leave."

"You're doing a DIY haircut with kitchen scissors, you’re not a celebrity stylist," says Stan. Nonetheless, he kisses Patty on the cheek, grabs his beer and heads for the door. "Hey Losers, race you for the last slice of banana bread?"

Like poking a hornet's nest with a stick. It's chaos. Everyone clears out within seconds.

"Hey Richie," Bev stage-whispers. "Guess what?"

"Hey Bev," he stage-whispers back. "What?"

She's still whispering when she tells him, "I ate the last slice on the way in here."

The comedic timing of Bill yelling "What the fuck?!" in the living room is almost too good to be true. Richie laughs until he's red in the face and choking on air.

***

Bev's mullet is a mixed success. It's choppy, awkward cuts barely disguised by her curls, and the fringe is wonky but she does a twirl and a bow, and everyone claps, including Eddie. Richie takes it as a compliment although he knows privately that they're applauding Bev's confidence rather than his skills as a hairstylist.

Still, Richie offers haircuts to everyone else in the room. When no one takes him up on the offer he instead chases Eddie around the living room, wielding the kitchen scissors like a sword and threatening to give him a fringe. 

Eddie escapes, but only narrowly, by locking himself in the downstairs bathroom.

"Coward!" Richie yells through the door but refrains from banging on it like he wants to, conscious of everyone's clown trauma.

He leaves Eddie alone and makes himself a silly little cocktail. The kitchen table has been turned into a makeshift bar, pushed up against the wall, and holds an unreasonable amount of different spirits and liqueurs, garnishes, a jar of maraschino cherries and a bunch of cartons of fruit juice. Really, Richie should not be left unsupervised with this.

He pours curaçao, lime juice, sugar syrup, Chambord, ice and vodka into the plastic cocktail shaker that the Blum-Urises have so lovingly provided, shakes it for longer than necessary, and strains it into a mug that says 'EGRETS / I'VE HAD A FEW' under a picture of a bird, presumably an egret. He tops his nightmare drink with two mint leaves and skewers two maraschino cherries, not to garnish, but to eat straight away. Living life in the fast lane. 

Idly he wonders if Eddie is still locked in the bathroom. Should he check on him? It's a nice bathroom, with mosaic tiled walls and an array of well looked after houseplants. He's probably fine there. Eddie likes nice places with houseplants. Eddie likes fancy soaps and clean mirrors. Eddie likes marble sinks. The good stuff. Maybe he’s gone to sleep in the bathtub. Is Eddie drunk? Richie has spent so much of the night in his own head that he has absolutely no idea what’s up with him.

He pauses.

AM I DRUNK?

A sudden moment of panic.

Drunk Richie is his worst enemy. Drunk Richie tells people the truth, and no one wants the fucking truth. He holds out his hands in front of him and looks at them intently. They look normal, standing out against the backdrop of the tiled floor. He turns them so his palms face upwards and looks at the lines, reading them like roadmaps — this is the first litmus test.

He passes it.

The next step is to find a bathroom and stare at himself in the mirror. In bathrooms and taxis is where you really find out how your evening went. He has ended many nights looking at his reflection and realising, oh shit, I am fucking wasted.

He takes another sip of his cocktail. It's genuinely disgusting, but Richie has drunk worse things in his life. Mainly it's sweet and boozy and a little minty, which isn't so bad. He takes two big gulps and the mint leaves sink to the bottom of the mug.

Right. He should find a bathroom mirror to stare into.

In the living room Bev, Stan and Patty are sitting on the floor playing an extremely competitive game of Uno. Bev looks seconds away from strangling someone. Richie wonders if he needs to babysit them but when he meets Stan's eye he gets a very sober, I-can-handle-this nod so he leaves them to it. Through the patio doors he sees Mike and Ben engaged in a discussion that can only be described as passionate, their heads leaned close together and the tension thick between them. He can't even begin to imagine what it is they're talking about — property law in 1920s Nebraska or some shit, most likely. When he turns to look for Bill and finds him hunched in an armchair and scribbling in a notebook like he is re-writing the Ulysses and needs to finish it by sunrise.

Eddie is nowhere to be seen.

Bathroom, Richie thinks and ruffles Bev's mullet as he goes past. She bites at his fingers like a feral dog and they both laugh.

"Are you winning?" he asks when he's halfway across the room.

"Yes," all three of them reply in unison, which cannot possibly be true. Patty is holding about twenty-five cards in her hands.

The door to the downstairs bathroom is ajar, but it's dark inside. Richie hesitantly nudges it open with one foot and the hinges squeak quietly.

He squints into the darkness. A sliver of light from the hallway illuminates half of Eddie's face where he sits in the bathtub, cradling a beer bottle and staring at Richie with wide eyes.

"Alright, Spaghetti?" Casual. Very casual!

"Yup," Eddie says, poised for a fight. "You better not have scissors on you."

"Believe it or not, I came here to do a science experiment, not to pester you." Richie steps into the room and considers flicking on the light, but he worries Eddie might make a run for it, then, startled racoon that he is. "But now that you mention it, maybe I should reconsider."

"Absolutely fucking not," Eddie huffs. "What's your experiment on?"

"Trying to see if I'm drunk." Richie steps up to the sink and leans in close to look at his reflection. He looks like shit, frankly. His eyes are bloodshot, the tip of his nose burned red from spending too much time in the garden yesterday, his hair is in a state. He brushes away a drooping curl lying sadly against his forehead.

Eddie asks, "How do you not just know?"

"It sneaks up on you."

"Yeah, but I don't generally need experiments to figure it out. Just stand up quickly and see if you feel like throwing up."

"That happens when I'm sober, Eds. Pretty sure that's just old age."

"You should get that checked out, man."

Richie grins and pokes his own cheeks, still looking in the mirror, but his gaze is slipping, drawn to Eddie in the bottom corner of the reflection. He looks good. Tanned, summery. He's wearing a breezy, striped shirt and his hair has lost some of its slick, a few errant curls falling into his face. Richie wants to touch him so desperately it makes his palms itch.

Maybe this is the real litmus test. Forget the hands, forget the mirror, can he resist touching Eddie Kaspbrak's bare skin? Can he get through a conversation without trying to kiss him?

"Who's winning the game?" Eddie asks and meets Richie's eye in the reflection.

Richie looks away nervously. He busies himself with trying to get the very best temperature on the water from the tap, moving the handles incrementally again and again.

"Uh," he says and promptly realises he doesn't understand the question. "What?"

"Uno," Eddie clarifies. "Who's winning at Uno?"

"Oh!" Richie grins. "As far as I understand it: Everyone."

"That's not how Uno works."

"In this household it is," he says and lathers soap on his hands. It smells of vanilla and coffee bean. Richie wants to bury his face in that scent.

There's a moment of silence that feels hours long. Then Eddie asks, "Are you okay?"

"Aw jeez, why is everyone so fucking concerned tonight?" Richie rinses the soap off his hands furiously. "Is there something on my face? A sad little look, maybe? Are my vibes that miserable?" He turns around to look at Eddie with an exaggerated frown, wiping his hands on his jeans.

"You fucking drama queen," Eddie says. "And 'vibes'? Who the fuck are you?"

"I'm cool as hell. I have cool, hip Radio friends. I'm a radio star, Eds!"

"Yeah, I listen to the show, jackass. I know you're on the radio."

"But do you know I'm a star?" He draws the word out into a strange drawl and does a half-assed twirl.

Eddie looks at the ceiling like it will give him the strength he needs to go on. Then he says, "So you're okay?"

"Yes," Richie responds empathically. He leans back against the sink, his palms pressed against cool ceramic on either side of him.

Eddie looks down at the beer bottle he's holding. Richie watches him pick at the label, a distinctly anxious tic. He asks,  "So what's the problem then?"

"What?"

"You've barely said a word to me all night, so." Eddie takes a sip of his beer. "What's the fucking problem? Did I say something or what?"

Richie's palms are sweaty against the sink. "No, dude," he says. "I'm just being an asshole."

"I know, but why?"

"It's just—" He stops, clears his throat. Looks at the mosaic tiles on the wall behind Eddie, just past his shoulder. Anything but eye contact. "It's weird, isn't it? It's weird in person."

Eddie's face is carefully blank.

Richie continues but feels like going into hiding, "It's not like it is on the phone. Right? C'mon, man, don't do this to me."

"I'm not doing anything!" Eddie sets his beer down on the flat edge of the bathtub, then seems to rethink that and picks it back up again. "You want to sit down?"

"What? Where?"

"In the— In the bathtub, asshole."

"Oh, you want me to join your weirdo moment?" Richie laughs and a little bit of tension seeps out of him. "I don't know if I'm going to fit, little man. There's like 7 foot of me and only four of you."

"I'm going to kill you," Eddie threatens. "Just sit the fuck down."

And of course, Richie is already halfway there. It is a bit of a squeeze but he manages to sit down, his back against the tiled wall and his feet dangling over the edge, same as Eddie's. There is nowhere for him to comfortably put his arms so he ends up with one practically around Eddie's shoulder. He laughs out of sheer anxiety.

Eddie laughs with him which is very nice of him. He's like that sometimes — nice. It's certainly not one of the main traits he tries to project in his day to day life but it's like he just can't help it, like he's making up for the way the world has treated him by being a good fucking person in spite of it.

"It is weird," Eddie says once they're settled. "But mainly because you're making it weird. So stop."

Somewhere else in the house Bev hollers triumphantly and a few seconds later someone turns the music up. It's ABBA, which has to be Bill's doing. Richie assumes that means he has stopped writing Ulysses in his notebook and is instead getting ready to dance naked on a table.

"Alright, I'll stop," he nods lightly. "If you say so."

"Good," says Eddie.

"Good," says Richie. "So how's your night going?"

Eddie's eyebrows draw together as he considers that. "I'm not nearly as drunk as I thought I would be by this point."

"What time is it?"

"Midnight?" Eddie wriggles around to try to get his phone out of his pocket and he elbows Richie in the side in the process.

"Fucking ow," Richie hisses. "Do you have a license for those bad boys?" 

"What, my fucking elbows?"

"Yeah, your fucking elbows. They must be outlawed in several countries."

"It's 12:08am," Eddie informs him and shoves his phone in Richie's face as if to prove it. His wallpaper is a picture of the two of them that Richie took while absolutely plastered in New York City, their cheeks squished together and Richie's glasses nudged askew on his nose. They're both red in the face and grinning like idiots.

Richie stares at it for a few seconds longer than he needs to. He barely processes the numbers on the screen telling him it is indeed 12:08am. As he looks at the picture it turns into 12:09am. His heart does a funny little flip inside his ribcage.

"Cute wallpaper," he says, his voice strangled. "Who's the handsome fella?"

Eddie looks abruptly mortified. He crams his phone back into his pocket, his knuckles digging into Richie's hips.

"Just some homeless guy I met in Manhattan."

"Looks a lot like that comedian. What's-his-face, Tozier or something?"

"He does," Eddie nods. "Thank God it wasn't. I can't stand that guy."

"Hm, I bet. His Netflix special is terrible."

"He does this radio show," Eddie takes a sip of his beer. "Just absolute trash. He talks and talks, no music in sight."

"And yet you call me after every show to get some more of that sweet, sweet content. What does that say about you?"

"That I have issues. Clinical issues."

Richie drops his head back against the mosaic tiles, laughing, and knocks over a shampoo bottle in the process. The clattering noise cuts through the room and Eddie scowls at him like he did it on purpose.

"What? Do I have to be sexy and have spatial awareness?" Richie laments. "Isn't one enough?"

"One would be a start," Eddie says glibly.

The room goes bright all of a sudden, bathed in orange light from the hallway. Stan pokes his head in and they squint up at him. It seems Richie has joined the ranks of startled racoons.

"What's this? Midlife Crisis Anonymous?"

"Get fucked," says Eddie.

"Get fucked," says Richie.

Stan rolls his eyes at them. "Do you weirdos need anything? Some aspirin? A bucket to puke in? Maybe a blanket?"

"A beer would be nice," Richie says sweetly.

"Do I look like a waiter to you?"

"Pretty please. I'll bring you breakfast in bed."

"The hell you will. Get your own damn beer."

Eddie clears his throat. "Would you get me one, man? This one's almost done."

"Sure thing. Be right back," Stan shrugs and pulls the door behind him, just enough so that there's a sliver of light but the room is pleasantly dark.

It sounds like something is dying in his throat when Richie squeaks, "What the fuck?" He gapes at Eddie, then shouts after Stan: "This is blatant favouritism!"

Besides him, Eddie shuffles to get into a more comfortable position with a self-satisfied smirk.

"I'm being treated like absolute dirt in this family."

"Don't dish it out if you can't take it," Eddie says helpfully.

"The hostile energy here is stifling my growth." He sees the opportunity, unremarkable as it is, and takes it: "Unlike the growth of my dick."

Eddie's face is oddly close when he turns to look at him, eyebrows raised. Why are they sitting so close? Why is Richie talking about his dick while they're pressed against each other from knee to shoulder? Is he fucking high? (He is.)

"Are you saying that the hostile energy is giving you a boner?"

"I'm— Huh? The wuah?" Richie stammers. "Uh, I guess I am."

"Gross," Eddie sniffs.

"You fucking said it!"

"You're the one who brought your dick into it, don't try to—"

Light, again. Stan gives them a weird look from the doorway where he stands holding a beer in one hand and a glass of wine in the other.

"Hi," Richie says and gives him a wide smile. He is attempting to convey a real sense of normality — just a couple of besties sitting in the dark and talking about dick.

Stan steps just far enough into the room that he can hold out the bottle to Eddie, who takes it with a muttered 'thanks'.

"I don't want to be involved in whatever this is," Stan tells them. "Try not to knock over any of our plants. I like them more than I like either of you."

Richie whines, "Aw, Staniel, you don't mean that!"

"I think he does," Eddie stage-whispers, leaning into Richie. The urge to curl his hand around Eddie's arm where it rests stupidly close is unbearable so Richie makes a fist instead.

Stan gives his plants one final, concerned look before leaving the room.

This time it's quiet for a moment when the room darkens. Richie looks at a button on Eddie's shirt because it feels like a safe place among a sea of dangerous places to look. Still, his gaze wants to wander — to the freckles on Eddie's wrist, the dusting of dark hair along his forearm, the curve of his knee, his eyes. Worst of all his eyes.

"Here." Eddie holds out the beer bottle. "Got you a beer."

Richie feels like he's just been given a lot more than a beer. He grins and takes it, his fingers brushing Eddie's, wet with condensation from the glass.

"Poor Stan," he says. "You used him."

"He'll live." Eddie smiles back at him and it's almost coy. Or maybe it's just coy, nothing almost about it.

In the dim light things feel easy again; Richie can breathe without it hurting his chest. But with it comes the inherent danger of easy with Eddie Kaspbrak, and the space between them feels all too small. If Richie leaned forward a few inches, the tip of his nose, his lips, would touch Eddie's temple.

He swallows roughly and digs through his pocket for a lighter to pop off the bottle cap.

"Sorry I was a dick today," he says and the cap comes off with a quiet noise. It's as genuine as he can stomach.

"Yeah," Eddie nods. "You know we're grown adults now, right?"

"I guess." Richie clinks his bottle against Eddie's as if to celebrate that fact, as much as it freaks him out. "What does that have to do with anything?"

"It means you can legally drink and talk about your feelings."

Richie nods solemnly. "If you talk about your feelings as a kid you get thrown in jail."

"As if you'd know," Eddie scoffs.

"Hey! I talked about my feelings plenty, I just did it in riddles so they wouldn't arrest me."

Eddie gives him an indiscernible look, something between quiet judgement and confusion. He shifts, shoulder digging into Richie's side, and pulls one leg into the tub. His knee is illuminated by light from the hallway, and stark shadows line either side. There's a faint, white scar in the middle of his kneecap and Richie remembers the day he got it. Thirteen years old, ready to take every single bait Richie threw his way and falling six feet out of a tree just because Richie said he was too chickenshit to climb it. Sonia made him stay indoors for weeks, though that didn't stop Richie from sneaking in through the window.

He reaches out to touch the scar tissue with his fingertips. Eddie doesn't say anything, just watches him do it. The skin on his knee is warm and a little bumpy.

"I don't know what I'd say," Richie tells him and rests his knuckles against the side of Eddie's knee.

"Hm?"

"If I talked about my feelings."

Eddie makes a quiet, questioning noise. He nudges Richie's foot with his own. His socks have tiny hearts on them. When Richie notices, his chest swells with overwhelming affection.

"Fuck," he breathes, staring at the little hearts, his eyes burning. "You know, I— Eds. You know?" 

When he looks away from the heart socks and turns to Eddie he finds him staring right back at him. The room feels too warm around them. He wonders idly if they should open the window. Some fresh air might be nice.

Eddie's eyes are huge and dark. There are faint freckles on the bridge of his nose, like clusters of stars. Another thing that Richie didn't notice because he spent all day looking anywhere but at him.

"Do you know?" he asks because he has to. He grips the neck of his beer bottle tightly. The glass is warm where he has been holding it since Eddie gave it to him.

"What the fuck are you talking about?" Eddie asks but his voice is softer than his words suggest, like there's some peace here he doesn't want to disturb.

Richie's eyes dart across Eddie's face, shadowed and handsome. There's a curl of hair out of place against his temple that Richie desperately wants to brush back. He stares at it like a man possessed and in the end there's nothing he can do to stop himself from reaching out to tug it out of the way.

The ball of his hand comes to rest gently against Eddie's cheekbone and he feels his warm breath against the inside of his forearm.

"You, um, there was some hair," he explains and doesn't move his hand.

Eddie says, "Thanks, man," and blinks at him slowly, like a house cat.

They're still for a moment. This is why easy is dangerous. Richie isn't used to easy; he doesn't expect easy, it's not his style. His comfort zone is keeping his feelings bottled up and only telling the truth in jokes, tamping down things like 'hope' to avoid the inevitable rejection that comes from that. His comfort zone is your mom jokes and only saying nice things to Eddie on the phone at night.

And this isn't that. The dark helps, sure, but Eddie's skin is warm and real against his palm, and when Richie runs his thumb along the curve of his cheekbone Eddie leans into it like he wants to be touched — wants to be touched by Richie.

"Um," Richie says because the silence is threatening to drown him. His voice is quiet and raspy. "Is this— What do you—"

He doesn't actually know how to finish that sentence.

In lieu of an answer to an unsaid question, Eddie sinks into him until his head rests on Richie's shoulder. It feels tentative at first but then he makes a grumpy little noise and puts his hand on Richie's knee like a challenge, though it's not quite clear what the challenge is.

"I think I am drunk," Eddie says into Richie's neck. "Not that— This isn't. It's not because of that. I didn't mean it like that."

"Alright," Richie says and laughs, feeling breathless. He tries to adjust the fearful borders of his comfort zone in order to encapsulate whatever this is, and in as bold a move as he can manage he commits to actually putting his arm around Eddie's shoulder and pulling him closer. He rubs his thumb along the seam of Eddie's sleeve, his heart is jumping in his chest.

"So how's your night been?" Eddie asks casually, like his breath isn't ghosting along the vulnerable lines of Richie's throat.

"Oh, you know," Richie stares at the goosebumps on his arm, a little embarrassed, "the usual. Tried and failed to be emotionally available to several people. Got high with Bev and Mike. Made fun of Bill to compensate for the fact I nearly cried about his engagement. How was yours?"

"People kept trying to have heart-to-hearts with me," Eddie tells him.

"Dude, me too."

"We must both look so fucking tragic."

They both laugh but Richie's heart isn't in it because Eddie is stroking his knee like that's a normal fucking thing to do. He takes a desperate sip of his beer.

Eddie asks, "Do you have any New Year's plans?"

"What? No. It's August."

"It's August and most of your friends are adults living in different states."

"Most of my friends?" Richie gasps. "I have other friends!"

"I know, I listen to them on the radio."

"Oh, no, those guys... Those guys are not my friends. They are my cool teen posse."

"They're teenagers?"

Richie laughs into Eddie's hair. "I think Precious is twenty-eight, if that counts."

"It doesn't," Eddie informs him primly. Then he says, with no change in tone, "Stay with me?" He clears his throat. "For New Year's. Come to New York."

Richie's hand tightens around Eddie's shoulder reflexively and he breathes in his American Crew scent.

"Okay," he says. "Sure."

"We can— Bev and Ben will be around, I think, so we could all go to Ben's house or maybe Bev's studio, did she tell you about her studio? It's cool, very hip, I think she's too edgy for us now to be honest," Eddie rambles.

"Edgy?"

"Like your radio pals, her new friends are all young creatives, they all do drugs."

Richie gasps, a hand on his chest. "Not drugs!"

"Fuck you, man, just because you think speed in a club bathroom is a fun way to spend your Thursday night doesn't mean we're all fucking degenerates, Jesus."

"I think cuddling in a suburban house bathroom is an even better way to spend my Thursday night."

"It's not Thursday," Eddie grumbles, like he's angry about it.

"Pedant."

"Big word."

"Is it? Fucking is it? It's two syllables."

"It's big in spirit."

"You know what else is big in spirit?"

"Don't say your dick, don't say your dick, don't say your—"

"My personality."

"Asshole," Eddie half-groans, half-laughs and he snuggles — he snuggles — into Richie's side, moves his hand from Richie's knee to wrap an arm around his waist instead.

Yeah, cuddling.

Un-fucking-believable.

He desperately wants to ask Eddie what the fuck is going on, but is hyper-conscious of the fact that saying it aloud will make it real, and reality might ruin it.

"So when are you coming to LA, man?" he asks instead. That seems safer.

He feels rather than sees Eddie's shrug. "I've still got some PTO left."

For a moment, Richie is struck by the thought of Eddie in his house. It's too big for him alone, bought in a fit of new-fame mania when he came back from his first fully sold-out tour, but he fears that with Eddie in it it might be too small.

His voice is faint when he finally says, "Cool. Good stuff."

"September?" Eddie suggests but Richie is momentarily distracted by the way Eddie's thumb is running up and down his side. He can feel it through the thin fabric of his shirt the way that one might feel pain, or longing.

"Huh?"

"September. I could visit you in September."

"Oh, uh, I'm meant to—" He frowns, trying to think. "I said I'd visit Bev."

"All month?"

"I haven't thought that far ahead. Maybe a week."

"We could— I could go with you."

"To New York? You live there."

"No, asshole, to LA. If you let me know what return flight you'll book I can get the same one. I mean, if you want."

Richie is a little overwhelmed. He has barely seen Eddie all night out of sheer anxiety around everything between them, and now Eddie wants to hang out with him, touch him, come home with him—they might as well be talking about marriage, it's too much. He wants to kiss him. He wants to leave. He wants to hold his own head under the running faucet and feel nothing.

"Can't get enough of me, huh?" he says, you know, like an asshole.

"Fuck you." Eddie pinches his side and Richie squirms. "If it's all so goddamn awkward, we have to make it less awkward. We can hang out."

Is this post-divorce Eddie's approach to life? To bulldoze his way through any problems that arise? Richie needs to put his hazard lights on to deal with this.

"We are hanging out," Richie says faintly and takes a swig of his beer.

"Against your will."

"I want to hang out."

"Then act like it.”

Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, he thinks. This isn't goddamn easy. Is this easy for Eddie?

He pulls back far enough so that he can tilt his head down and look at him. Eddie tips his head back and looks up, his mouth set in a stoic line and his eyebrows drawn.

"Are we fighting? Is this a fight?" Richie asks. There is barely an inch between them. One wrong move and their noses would touch.

Eddie's frown deepens. "Do you want it to be?"

"It's either a fight or I'm going to kiss you."

What?

"Alright," Eddie says, still somehow furious, but his eyes are wide and feverish.

"Alright?" Richie's heart hammers in his chest like it wants to break out. Somewhere else in the house, their friends are laughing and Bev is loudly singing along to Cyndi Lauper's Girls Just Want to Have Fun. Eddie's breath is warm on his face.

"Yeah, alright, Rich," he says softly.

They've done enough fighting, he thinks, so he kisses him.

It doesn't feel groundbreaking because there was never any ground beneath them — it's falling, really. Isn't it? When Eddie's hand cradles the back of Richie's head he thinks again about the sink, thinks that he should have held his head under the cold water after all, because he feels on fucking fire.

It feels desperate, unless Richie is projecting. He feels desperate either way. He runs his thumb along the raised scar tissue on Eddie's cheek and kisses the corner of his mouth, his bottom lip, his cheekbone. If this is his only chance he wants to kiss every fucking inch of him.

"Richie," Eddie says softly and kisses the inside of his wrist. "Hey.”

"Hey," he says back, and licks into his mouth like a question he doesn't want to know the answer to.

He wants to say, I love you. You know that, right? Instead he makes an embarrassing noise when Eddie bites gently on his lower lip and he pulls him closer, his arm moving down to wrap around his back when Eddie leans forward enough to make space for it. The porcelain of the tub is warm from Eddie's body. 

Eddie's hand ghosts along Richie's chest before finding a home just above his heart. His fingers curl into the fabric of his t-shirt. Richie hopes that he can't feel the insane thump of his heartbeat, but he has to, there is no way he'd miss it. 

It must only be minutes but it feels like hours pass before Eddie pulls back. Still, his hands stay where they are, holding onto Richie's shirt and the back of his head like he might disappear if he lets go.

Richie opens his eyes but doesn't look him in the eye, focusing instead on the rumpled collar of his shirt. Did Richie do that? He doesn't remember.

"Hey," Eddie says like he had before. Richie wishes he would say his name again also, to prove that he knows it's him. "What are you— Hey, Richie, look at me."

There it is. Richie.

He looks up. Eddie's expression is soft, open. Curious.

"Are you drunk?" Richie asks.

"Not particularly. Are you?"

"A little, so," he breathes in sharply, "I'm in love with you."

Eddie blinks once, twice, and his fingers flex where they're cradling Richie's skull.

"Sorry," Richie adds lamely.

But Eddie shakes his head, says, "No, don't," and kisses him again.

It's brief and gentle. Eddie's thumb touches the shell of Richie's ear. When he pulls back again Richie wants to chase him, but Eddie's face splits into a huge grin, his dimples sharp and his eyes crinkled.

"Me too," he says. "Obviously. You think I stay up until 4 in the goddamn morning to listen to your stupid radio show because I'm just such a great friend? Fuck off."

"It's not stupid," Richie protests. "It's— Okay, wait, really?"

"Yes, really. Jesus Christ. I love you."

Richie wants to eat him. Overwhelmed, he pulls him close and Eddie goes with it until he is practically in his lap. Until he is in his lap, if they're honest with each other. Eddie settles into him, knees on either side of Richie's body, and he tugs his head back with one hand in his hair so he can kiss him again. 

“This is so fucking uncomfortable,” Eddie says against his mouth and Richie laughs. 

He pulls back a little to look at him “The bathtub was your stupid idea!” 

“And it worked, didn’t it?” 

“The bathtub was a move?” Richie asks, disbelief evident in his voice. “What the fuck?” 

“And it worked,” Eddie repeats. 

“Yeah, but that’s because I’m easy.” 

Eddie raises his eyebrows at him. “Oh, really? I wouldn’t call a year and a half of middle-of-the-night phone calls easy.”  

His heart squeezes in his chest with that knowledge. “Your moves are just fucking terrible, dude.” 

“Oh, fuck off,” Eddie says breezily and then he’s kissing him again. 

Gladly. 

Turns out it's difficult to stop kissing Eddie Kaspbrak once you start. They stay in the bathtub for longer than is reasonable and when they finally get interrupted by Patty, who is unsteady on her feet and gives them a cheerful thumbs up, they relocate to the back porch. On their way there they pass Mike, Ben and Bev locked in a battle of psychological warfare on the Twister mat, and Richie briefly considers staying to watch it unfold, but then Eddie takes his hand and nothing else matters but that.

The world goes quiet when the back door shuts behind them. Cool air hits Richie like a truck and has the same sobering effect that he was hoping for from the bathroom mirror, and suddenly he is all too keenly aware of Eddie's fingers interlaced with his. Eddie's palm is sweaty, or is that Richie’s? 

The past hour doesn't feel real out here. It's nothing like their little bubble in the bathroom, like a pocket universe they'd stumbled into, and Richie's pulse jumps in his throat. He considers letting go of Eddie's hand just to get some clarity. He considers dragging him back to the bathroom and kissing him against the sink.

"Ten bucks on Mike," Eddie says and tugs at his hand.

Richie looks at him, his face cast in blue shadows. "Hu—what?"

"That's my bet. For Twister?"

"No way," says Richie. "Ben is the only one who’s sober." 

"Being sober makes you worse at Twister."

"So does being drunk."

"Then I guess the playing field is level. Ten bucks on Mike," Eddie says again.

"Fine. Ten bucks says Ben and Bev team up and take him down together."

"That would be unfair."

"Don't matter. It's a bet."

Then Eddie says, "Hey, are you good?"

Richie didn't realise he wasn't until Eddie asked. He wants to sink into the earth. "Yep."

"You want to sit down?"

They're just standing on the back porch, holding hands, looking like idiots. Richie would definitely like to sit down.

"Yes," he says and lets himself be pulled towards the swinging bench to the right of them. It feels a little romcom, this set up. The fluffy pillows on the bench, the fairy lights wrapped around the railing of the porch, the flowers in the corner. If it were a full moon, Richie would have to call bullshit. Instead, there's a half moon and a sky full of sparkling stars, which is really not much better.

He stares stoically ahead into the garden, unsure of what he might say if he looks at Eddie's stupid, handsome face. Eddie rubs his thumb along the knuckles of his hand where he holds it and it feels unbearably intimate.

"You're freaking out.” It’s more a statement than it is a question. 

Richie grimaces and his voice is strangled when he says, "Do we have to?"

"What?"

"Talk about it. Just give me five minutes to freak out and then I'll be back with you."

Eddie sighs like a put out little dog. Like he wants to take Richie by the shoulder and shake some sense into him. Unfortunately for him, Richie isn't particularly receptive to silly things like 'sense' and 'communication'.

"I'm gonna get a hoodie," Eddie says then, out of sheer goodness of his soul. "I'll be right back. Try not to escape into the woods." He lets go of Richie's hand to stand up and it feels fucking terrible.

"Okay," says Richie. "I'll do my best."

He looks up and Eddie's face is unreadable. Richie attempts a smile though it must look like a grimace. Eddie touches his shoulder, then his cheek, and he doesn't smile back.

When the door clicks shut behind Eddie, Richie buries his face in his hands and kicks his feet against the cedar wood planks to rock the swinging bench back and forth. He takes a deep breath, swallowing down panic, and takes stock of the situation:

1. Eddie knows he's in love with him.
2. Eddie is in love with him, too.
3. Richie is scared of that.

Maybe it's not so much fear as it is uncertainty. He doesn't do well with emotions other than vague unease, vague misery, and vague contentment. Everything outside of that range feels severe, happiness like mania, anxiety like terror, sadness like the end of the fucking world, and he tries his best to stay away from extremes.

So he's uncertain. Surely that's normal. Surely Eddie is uncertain, too.

The real question is, does Eddie want to be with him? It seems unrealistic. They live on opposite ends of the country. Eddie has just lived through the year-long end to a shitty marriage and barely survived it. Eddie is his best friend. Eddie is also, as far as Richie is aware, heterosexual.

Well, that last part is up in the air given that he is in love with Richie and had just happily made out with him for the better part of an hour, but Richie is working on a lot of assumptions here.

Richie feels tired down to his bones. Sleep seems like the best option right now. Sober Richie can handle this nonsense tomorrow.

The door creaks when it opens. He straightens up to look over and sees Eddie poke his head out like he is checking it's safe, and his heart squeezes painfully at the sight of him.

"Hi," Richie says softly.

Eddie steps out onto the porch. He is wearing a dark grey hoodie and holding two steaming mugs in his hands. When he sits down next to Richie he jostles the bench and spills a tiny amount from each mug.

"Fuck," he grumbles and holds one out to Richie. "I thought about making coffee but it's 1am, so. Hope you like green tea."

"You know I don't," Richie laughs but takes it anyway. "I fucking hate tea."

Eddie glares at him. "It's good for your nerves."

"What am I, an old lady? Are you worried about my nervous disposition?"

"Yes. Of course I fucking am, you— just drink your tea."

Richie takes a sip and pretends to gag. It's not actually that bad, but it's worth it for the furious look on Eddie's face. He takes another sip without complaint and watches Eddie's forehead smooth.

"So," Richie says after a moment of gentle silence. "How are we feeling?"

"You tell me."

"I asked first."

"I don't know how we're feeling," Eddie says waspishly. "I'm feeling fine, personally. A little tired."

"Oh, me too." Richie blows into the mug and his glasses steam up. "We could just go to bed."

"Maybe once you've finished your tea."

"I feel like I'm being scolded right now. Are you scolding me, Kaspbrak?"

"I'm not doing anything. I'm waiting for you."

Richie coughs nervously. He drinks more tea just for something to do with his hands, his mouth.

"Are you gay?" he asks finally, after a moment of careful deliberation.

Eddie snorts. "Yeah."

"What, really?"

"Yes, asshole, you think I was kissing you out of professional curiosity? You think I was just crossing some shit off my bucket list?"

"Pretty lame bucket list," Richie says lightly. "And I don't know, you could have been experimenting. People do that!" 

"Look, I know I'm a fucking asshole, but do I look evil to you? What the fuck do you think of me?"

"You look a little evil." Richie reaches out to touch Eddie's eyebrow, he runs the pad of his thumb along the ridge between them. "Demon eyebrows.”

"Choke," Eddie says, but doesn't pull away from the touch.

Emboldened, Richie scoots a little closer, moves his hand downwards and curls his fingers around the back of Eddie's neck, his thumb stroking the line of his jaw. He wants to do something stupid. To blow this whole thing up. Self-destruct.

Instead he leans in and presses a kiss to Eddie's brow bone.

"Richie," Eddie says, his voice low. "What are you worried about?"

He pulls back and lets go of Eddie but not before squeezing the back of his neck gently.

"Most things," he says and takes a deep breath, determined to give Eddie some of the honesty he is asking for. "Do you— What do you want from this? What are we doing?"

Eddie takes a sip of his tea and so does Richie. He is getting used to the taste but he would rather be drinking coffee right now.

"I'm not, uh. I— I would like to." Eddie stops. Fidgets where he sits. Looks at Richie's face, then looks away again. "You know, it's really fucking difficult to date in your 40s."

"Bet," Richie says. "Did you forget I'm also 'in my 40s'?"

"Older than me, even."

"By a day."

"Practically ancient. You old fuck"

Richie laughs into his tea and his glasses steam up again.

"I don't know what the protocol is here," Eddie says. "Do I have to ask you out?"

Richie stares at him. "You want to?"

"Obviously I fucking want to." A beat, then he asks, "Is that it? You're worried this is a one-night stand?"

Instead of answering the question, Richie tells him, "I think we have to fuck in order for it to count as a one-night stand."

"I literally hate you," Eddie says. "But who says we won't?"

Richie chokes on a mouthful of green tea— and really, hasn't this beverage taken enough from him? Not only is it disgusting, now he also has to cough his lungs out in front of this new Eddie who might want to sleep with him?

"Fuck," he wheezes while Eddie hits him on the back hard enough to dislocate an intervertebral disc.

"There, there," Eddie says, not at all comforting. "You should stop smoking."

"I'm not—" He coughs, his eyes watering. "This is your— your fucking green tea trying to kill me, not cigarettes." He wipes at his eyes and takes a few deep breaths, then remembers what caused this and starts coughing again.

Eddie pries the mug from his hands, possibly to save it from certain death, and strokes his back. He says, "This is not a one-night stand."

Richie coughs a few more, pitiful times and straightens up.

"Okay," he says, strangled.

"Do you want to go for dinner some time?"

Richie looks over at him. His eyes are still watering so Eddie is blurry but he thinks he can make out a smile.

Feeling weak and torn open, he says, "Yeah." He blinks away the tears so he can see him properly.

Eddie leans down and sets down both of their mugs on the cedar wood floor, then shuffles closer to Richie. He looks nervous up close, a thin sheen of sweat above his brows and splotches of red on his cheeks.

Richie wraps an arm around him and takes one of his hands because he wants to and because he can.

"Big hand," Eddie says, looking down at their hands.

"What?"

Eddie's eyes snap back up like he just remembered Richie is there. "Nothing."

"Weirdo."

"Asshole."

"I love you."

"Oh." Eddie grins like he can't quite believe it. "I love you too."

"That's—" He inhales sharply. "That's kind of fucked up to hear, I'll be honest."

"I won't say it again," Eddie lies, takes hold of Richie's collar, and kisses him.

That night they sleep — just sleep, no funny business — curled up around each other on Stan and Patty's pullout sofa, Richie's face pressed into Eddie's hair and Eddie's leg thrown over his thighs. Richie sleeps the way he only sleeps when Eddie stays on the phone all night, like a fucking rock. 

And in the morning Bev wakes them up by jumping on the bed and screaming like an insane person. Eddie threatens to end her life while Richie just laughs and laughs, holding Eddie to his chest with no intention of letting him go. 

***

Los Angeles, December 

"You'd think that would be the end of it, right?" Richie says into the microphone, grinning widely at Precious who is sitting in the corner of the room and drinking his third beer. Precious grins back at him. "You'd think that after all that humiliation and stress I would call it a fucking day. Maybe go home, run a bubble bath, eat a blueberry muffin. And I did consider it, I promise you, but I have a massive humiliation kink so I walked up to her — stay with me here, please — I walked up to her and I said 'Do you want to be on my radio show?'"

Precious laughs and so does Richie.

"I'm not joking," he promises. "Dear listeners, she didn't want to be on my radio show. She told me to go fuck myself. Susan from the polling booth, if you're out there, I'm so sorry about your kale smoothie. But call me if you change your mind."

The incoming call button on the deck in front of him blinks red. For a horrified second Richie thinks Susan from the polling booth has taken him up on the offer to humiliate him on air, but it seems unlikely that anyone would hate him that much so he accepts the call.

"We've got an incoming call, everyone," he says cheerfully. "Susan, if that's you, please have mercy on me."

"Hi," says a familiar voice on the other line. Richie adjusts his headphones with a surprised cough.

"Oh, hi," he says, a little bashful. He looks up at Precious as if to check for a reaction. Precious just gives him a questioning look back and takes a swig of his beer.

"The last time you told that story was funnier," Eddie tells him. "With the— You know that part about the roller skates? I think it works better if you really lean into the physical comedy."

Richie laughs and tries to remember that he's hosting a radio show.

"Way to show my entire ass to the world, Eds," he grins. "Everyone, this is Eddie. He likes to heckle me, but he usually doesn't do it for an audience."

"I'm not showing anyone your ass," says Eddie.

"So you didn't call just to make fun of me?"

"No. You think I don't have better shit to do?"

"You tell me," Richie says, amused. "It's 2am in New York City and you're clearly listening to my show. I'm making some assumptions here."

"You know what they say about assumptions."

"No, Eddie, what do they say?"

There's a brief pause. "They're bad."

"Oh, my favourite saying!" Richie crows. "My grandma always used to say, Richie, don't make assumptions because they are bad. Then she'd pinch my cheeks and give me a Werther's Original."

"Fuck you."

Across the room Precious mouths 'is this your man?' and Richie winks at him.

"Aggressive. So, Eddie, why did you call in on this fine night?"

"I wanted to request a song."

"We don't really do music on this show," Richie tells him although Eddie has to know that. He listens most nights. "You'll have to stay on until Helena's Corner Booth."

"Kind of a shit radio show," Eddie huffs. "If there's not even any music."

"Well, never let it be said that I don't accept constructive criticism from my loyal listeners. What's your song request?"

Another pause. Richie tries to listen closely to it and work out what kind of silence it is, but it's hard without seeing Eddie's face. Then Eddie says, "Girls Just Want to Have Fun," and there it is, his clue.

Eddie was embarrassed. Richie laughs like it's the funniest thing he's heard all night.

"Oh, man," he wheezes. This is terrible radio; inside jokes with someone his listeners don't even know. He queues up the song, something he never does but has watched Helena do countless times. "I feel like this needs context."

"Does it?" Eddie grumbles on the other end of the line.

"Absolutely. Dear listeners," Richie starts, then stops to take a deep breath. "Up next: 'Girls Just Want to Have Fun' by Cindy Lauper. A real harbinger of romance. Don't believe me? If it weren't for this song, I might never have confessed my undying love for Eddie while drunk in a bathtub. So grab your best friend, give them a kiss and settle in for a real banger."

He says it like it's a joke but his heart hammers in his throat. The music fades in and he switches the call to off-air. This is as close to a public coming out as he ever thought he would get.

"Can people still hear me?" Eddie asks quietly in his ear.

"No, baby," Richie says, his throat dry.

"Hey, Rich, I didn't mean to—"

Richie cuts him off, "You didn't do anything. I wanted to do that."

"Okay," Eddie says. "Well, thank you."

"Hm?"

"For the song. I didn't think you'd actually play it."

"Anything for my biggest fan." Richie leans back in his chair and smiles. "Hey Precious, say hi to Eddie."

Precious scoots towards the table on his chair and cheerfully says, "Hi, Eddie! Good to meet you. Richie never shuts the fuck up about you."

"Mom, don't embarrass me in front of my boyfriend," Richie whines.

"Hi, Precious," says Eddie. "If it helps, he never shuts up about you guys either."

"I'm kicking you off the call," Richie threatens. "I should probably text Steve before the song ends."

He gets out his phone and types a quick just came out on air, i think.

Eddie says, "I'll call you after the show, yeah?"

"You should get some sleep." 

"Don't baby me." 

"You baby me all the time."

Eddie snorts. "That's because you're a fucking baby." 

"Punk," Richie says lightly. 

Precious waves his hands at him and says, "Cindy's almost done."

Richie's phone buzzes on the desk. He turns it over and reads Steve's text: You give me indigestion. Call me tomorrow. 

"Nice to meet you, Precious," Eddie says, and his voice through the phone sounds all too far away. Richie wants him close so desperately it hurts his chest. "I'll call you, sweetheart. I love you." 

Eddie always says it like it's the easiest thing in the world. It makes Richie's heart stutter even after months and months of hearing it. 

"Love you, Eds," he says and the call ends. Precious sidles up to him and hits the mic button, nudging him. Then, in his best radio voice he says, "Well, well, I guess sometimes love is worth it. Hope everyone got some romance out of that one! Next up I’m talking to our very own Precious Adebayo about the simple madness of craft beer dudes and LA socialite gossip.” 

Later in the car, he will tell Eddie he misses him. And he will listen to him talk the whole drive home, and think about kissing him, and think about New Year’s Eve, and think about kissing him some more. 

“I can’t wait to see you,” he will say, the kind of honesty that is only easy on the phone. “Sorry about the wait.” 

“Worth it,” Eddie will say, and Richie will know he means it.