Chapter Text
It begins at a party. Because of course it does.
Actually, no, maybe it began earlier that day, in the afternoon.
Or maybe a week before when Eddie was originally informed of the party.
Truthfully, it likely began somewhere between meeting Richie Tozier and the night of the party. Sometime in the decade in which Eddie transformed from a shrieky, rage-filled kid into a snappy, rage-filled adolescent on the brim of adulthood and Richie transformed from a loud, bucktooth clown into a loud clown with teeth that the rest of his face grew into.
The point is that beginnings are hard to pin down. But the simplest beginning for this story is the day of the party at around half past three pm in the park.
EXT. THE PARK – AROUND HALF PAST THREE PM – JUNE
The park is GREEN and BRIGHT with a playground in the center featuring SWINGS, a SLIDE, and MONKEY BARS. The equipment is beginning to RUST, but a small group of children LAUGH and PLAY on it anyway. Surrounding the park are brown BENCHES sporting a few splinters, and PICNIC TABLES that lean just slightly OFF-BALANCE.
EDDIE KASPBRAK, 18, is a compact young man with wavy mocha brown hair that tickles his ears. He used to carry an inhaler despite the lack of an honest asthma diagnosis. BEVERLY MARSH, 17, is a slender young woman with light ginger hair and freckled arms who talks a lot about tattoos but doesn’t have any herself.
There are also two ice cream cones in the scene. Cross stage left to the picnic table. Take a seat, look at Bev, and ACTION.
“I don’t know how you can stand pistachio,” Eddie says with a wrinkled nose, eyeing Beverly’s ice cream which is coloured a sickly pastel green.
“Better than boring vanilla,” she snarks back without missing a beat, raising her eyebrows at Eddie’s hand where the ice cream is dribbling over the edge of the cone and onto his thumb.
Eddie licks the pearl of white from his skin, realizing he’s already doomed for sticky hands. He supposes it’s hot enough outside for the ice cream to be melting but it’s not the stifling hot it was a couple of days ago that made him want to curl up inside a refrigerator.
June brought with it a heat wave which thankfully seemed to be subsiding now if the lack of sweat gluing Eddie’s clothes to his skin was anything to go by.
“Whatever. Are we going to this thing tonight or not?” Eddie asks, shifting focus.
“Obviously, we are going,” Bev replies easily. Eddie doesn’t understand why her ice cream isn’t melting like his is.
“Why is that obvious?” Eddie frowns, ready to debate the pros and cons.
“It’s like the last party we’ll probably ever go to with people from high school.” Bev shrugs.
“Oh, you mean all the people that literally hate our guts?”
“I mean those people exactly,” Bev says, pointing a finger–its nail painted a dark green–towards Eddie, her lips curving smugly.
“Are you a masochist or something?” Eddie grimaces at the thought, still not understanding what could possibly motivate Beverly to willingly stand in the same room as the people who once barbarically left a used tampon in her backpack.
“Sorry, that’s for me to know and for Ben to find out,” Bev teases with a gleam to her eyes, her tongue peeking out from the seam of her lips.
“Gross,” Eddie grumbles and fights back an ick-induced shiver. A drop of ice cream lands on his shorts, right below the left pocket. “You’re worse than Richie sometimes.”
As much as Eddie loves and appreciates his friends, he is pointedly uninterested in hearing about their sex lives. First of all, he hates that it always triggers unwelcome images of his friends naked and sweaty for his mind’s eye to behold. Not only does that make him uncomfortable, but even though he doesn’t have much control over it, he feels like he’s violating their privacy somehow. Second, he personally does not have much to contribute to the conversation and he would prefer avoiding embarrassment via an accidental demonstration of lack of personal experience.
“I think you may have just cast a summoning spell.”
Eddie doesn’t understand Beverly’s statement until he follows her pointed gaze, swivelling in his seat to look over his shoulder. Then he scowls.
RICHIE TOZIER, 18, is a tall and gangly, bespectacled young man with dark brown curls that borderline on black. He is affectionately referred to as Trashmouth by his friends on account of the garbage jokes he constantly makes.
“My children!” Richie calls, still several feet away, his arms thrown out to his sides.
Eddie groans and the faint sound of Beverly snickering behind him barely registers in his mind, but he continues to watch as Richie speeds up into a jog. The camera that hangs from his neck bounces against his chest in time with his steps.
Once Richie reaches them, he slides into the spot next to Eddie and throws an arm over his shoulder, immediately spying the glistening dome of ice cream that remains in Eddie’s hand and leaning towards it. Eddie pulls it out from under his nose and shoves him away.
“You’re not my father, I didn’t come from you,” Eddie tells him, a delayed response to Richie’s greeting.
“I should hope you’ve never come from your father,” Richie grins, raising his eyebrows. He tries a new tactic of reaching for the ice cream with a finger which Eddie almost finds even more offensive, batting his grabby hands away.
“Don’t be disgusting!” Eddie complains and hears a solidary noise of disapproval from Beverly as well. The joke isn’t as punchy as Richie would hope, since Eddie’s father had passed when he was too little to develop many concrete memories of him. Eddie’s arm is stretched about as far as it can be from Richie without Eddie getting up and physically moving away to keep him from his ice cream.
“You should share your ice cream with your father!” Richie continues, ignoring Eddie’s objections and cackling.
Richie is crowded against his side, fruitlessly swiping for the cone while Eddie juts an elbow against Richie’s collarbone, trying to push him away. Their faces are close–Richie with a playful, toothy smile and Eddie with a pouty, irritated frown–so Eddie can see the moment a plan hatches in Richie’s mind. Richie’s face stalls, his eyes fixed and steady on Eddie’s, and then he relaxes into confident ease.
“Would you prefer if I called myself your Daddy?” Richie smiles wickedly, brows lifted with intent.
“Oh my God,” Beverly scoffs.
Eddie seems to have frozen, gaping at Richie, mostly because of his audacity. Before he formulates a response, Richie has swooped in and snatched the cone out of Eddie’s hand.
“Hey!” Eddie’s brain kicks back up again. “You’re the worst, you nasty thief!”
“Oh, come on, even your mother talks dirtier than that,” Richie says, then his mouth basically envelopes the cone, sucking down all the ice cream left. Eddie doesn’t fully understand why his face feels hot but maybe it’s just because the heatwave isn’t as finished with him as he thought.
“I’m going to kill you,” Eddie seethes, opting to pretend that there isn’t a flush to his face.
“You promise?” Richie grins and Eddie watches absent-mindedly as Richie’s tongue darts out to lick ice cream off his glossy lips.
Eddie opens his mouth, completely planning on coming up with some sort of retort, but nothing arrives in his mind. Luckily, Beverly swoops in to save him.
“As entertaining as it is to watch you kids squabble, we were actually in the middle of a conversation.”
Eddie would never admit that he agrees with Bev–bickering with Richie was entertaining and fun and the highlight of his day. The two of them had always been weird together and it’s hard for Eddie to describe their dynamic exactly, but their total lack of boundaries comes to mind. Except Eddie technically says his boundaries and then Richie stomps all over them. But Eddie doesn’t mind because he thinks they both know that he was only half-serious in the first place. Eddie is always setting up limits like they’re made for Richie to push, like a strange game that they play.
“I’m sorry, it was a conversation more important than an actual threat to my life?” Richie says sarcastically, his gaze finally drifting from Eddie and landing on Beverly. Eddie feels his nostrils flare as he lets out a longer breath than he expected.
“Definitely,” Bev replies easily, ignoring the mock outrage that appears on Richie’s face in response. “It’s about the party tonight.”
“You mean the party tonight that we really shouldn’t go to,” Eddie jumps in, mustering up his best stern expression.
“No, I mean the party we absolutely should go to,” Bev says.
“That must be a totally different party than the one you were talking about earlier,” Eddie jokes.
“Nope, it’s the very same.”
“I don’t think it is.”
“Well, your judgement has been compromised.”
“Compromised by what?” Eddie asks, frustrated.
“If I had to guess, it would probably be the very recent use of the word ‘daddy’ in your presence.”
“Shut up, Bev!” Eddie snaps and quickly looks over to Richie as if he’s about to yell at him for what Beverly said, guilty by association.
Richie immediately throws his hands up innocently–one still gripped around an empty ice cream cone–as if Eddie has turned a weapon on him.
“I honestly don’t know what you guys are talking about, all I got was ‘party,’” Richie says. For a second, Eddie thinks he looks like a kid who doesn’t know what to do when his parents are having an argument. Then he lowers his hands and looks at Eddie imploringly. “You don’t want to go?”
“Of course not!” Eddie cries, exasperated. “I’m pretty sure I hate absolutely everyone that will be there.”
“But you don’t hate the Losers,” Richie points out, a little coy. “And we’ll all be there.”
“Correction: I don’t hate the Losers except for you,” Eddie scowls, but can’t look Richie in the eyes when he says it.
“Stop being so melodramatic, cupcake,” Richie laughs it off, leans a bit closer–close enough for Eddie to jab him with an elbow when he hears the use of a pet name. “Ow– I agree with Bev, we should all go. Who cares who else is there? We’ll have fun together, just us.”
“Yeah babe, it’ll be like we’re hanging out normally. Just with loud music, free booze, and no chaperones,” Beverly adds, shrugging her shoulders like it’s the same as any other day.
Eddie ponders for a second, deliberating, then turns back on Richie.
“Why do you want to go so badly? You want to play spin the bottle?” Eddie teases.
Richie almost seems taken aback for a moment which takes Eddie by surprise. And his cheeks blush just the tiniest amount which really takes Eddie by surprise. But it’s Richie, so of course he recovers rapidly.
“Only if your mom is going too,” Richie replies with a shit-eating grin.
The ice cream cone is crushed, shattering into shards of sugar when Eddie tackles Richie to the grass below.
EXT. RESIDENTIAL STREET – NIGHT
The STREET is DARK and comfortably COOL, PAVEMENT SHINING from the STREET LIGHTS that adorn the sidewalk. The HOUSES are perfectly SUBURBAN, each with two stories and a porch, their exteriors alternating between the same three shades of paint: BLUE-GRAY, BEIGE, and PALE GREEN.
Richie won’t stop filming Eddie as they and the rest of their friends walk up to the party together that evening (yes, Eddie was finally convinced that they should go, only after another hour of protesting).
“Get that out of my face,” Eddie demands, pushing the protruding lens of Richie’s camera away with his hand.
“But you look so adorable in your party gear,” Richie comments, looking away from the viewfinder for a singular moment to cast his eyes over Eddie’s outfit–simple jean shorts and a long white tee–before he lifts the camera up again, still recording. “And I need to document this night so we can have some– what are those things called? Oh yeah, fond childhood memories.”
Eddie frowns down the lens, knowing that’s the only way to make eye contact with Richie when he gets into filming mode. He wonders if it’s dark enough outside that any red pigments on Eddie’s face won’t be picked up by the camera as he processes Richie’s compliment.
Richie got his first camcorder when he was 12–a cheap, puny little thing that was a birthday gift from one of his grandparents. Since then, not a single milestone of his life went unrecorded. He and Bill started making stupid skits where Richie’s dastardly sense of humour was able to shine, and eventually the rest of the group started participating in the videos too.
Over time, Richie upgraded and expanded his collection of cameras and even saved up his money to get his hands on a used professional camera the previous summer, and a drone only a couple of months ago. Those devices usually stayed at home on account of their exorbitant cost, but Richie never really left his abode without some form of recording device dangling from his neck or stuffed into his pocket. His friends were used to the constant filming at this point, accepting the camera as basically an extension of Richie himself, although Eddie enjoys giving him a hard time for it every so often.
Eddie and Richie are in the middle of the group as they navigate the streets that they grew up on to locate the party.
BILL DENBROUGH, 18, is nearly as tall as Richie with short, chestnut hair and a bit of a pouty face. He can be an outspoken fellow despite the stutter that adds suspense to his words.
MIKE HANLON, 18, is the most muscular of the bunch, having grown up working alongside his grandfather on a sheep farm. His hair is dark, and his smile is soft and kind, a contrast to his hardened build.
BEN HANSCOM, 17, is shy and sweet with dark, golden-brown hair that sweeps to the side. He is easily delighted and easily distracted by his effervescent girlfriend, Beverly.
STANLEY URIS, 18, has tight brown curls of hair on his head, and a constant divot between his eyebrows to express his eternal dissatisfaction with the mischief of his friends.
Bill and Beverly are in front, both already a bit tipsy as they had pre-gamed with a couple of shots of vodka that they maneuvered from Bill’s parents’ liquor cabinet. Mike, Ben, and Stan trail behind Richie and Eddie, proactively comparing the best methods for recovering from a hangover.
“Richie, focus over here!” Beverly calls and Richie dutifully angles the camera in her direction.
Eddie grins as she giggles, stumbling a bit as she walks towards them.
“Hi everyone, it’s me, Beverly Marsh!” she says to the camera, her volume a little louder than necessary and her arms thrown out at her sides. She poses, an arm bending behind her head and her other hand resting on her hip, the bright yellow of her short dress radiant in the dark. “You have just stumbled upon some archive footage of me from before I became famous, about to go to my last high school party!”
Beverly cheers and Bill copies her, watching from a few feet ahead of them. Beverly turns around and runs back over to Bill–her hair bouncing delightfully around her head as she goes–and grabs his hand.
“Okay, cameraman– pan out!” Beverly instructs over her shoulder, then she and Bill begin skipping away, both laughing as they barrel into the darkness.
Eddie hears the lens of Richie’s camera adjusting next to him as Richie follows orders. Eddie is still watching Bev and Bill gallop onward, laughing when he sees Bill’s feet catch on each other and he goes tumbling into the grass, when he realizes Richie has turned the recorder back towards him. Eddie sticks his tongue out, making odd faces at the camera, and sees Richie’s mouth curve into a grin behind the device.
“Cute, cute, cute!” Richie praises, and Eddie has no counter to that.
INT. LIVING ROOM – NIGHT
LOUD POP MUSIC is playing, and the LIGHTS inside the house are DIM, except for a spinning projector in the living room which casts DOTS of every colour of the RAINBOW onto the walls. There is a large group of people DANCING, but not very well. Eddie stands awkwardly amongst the THRONG.
The group of friends had immediately sought out liquor when they arrived at the address of the party, ignoring the surprised face of the host–a guy named Bradley who never really went out of his way to harass them, but also never formed any type of friendship, let alone acquaintanceship, with them. They had thereafter split up–even though this was one of Eddie’s chief fears and they knew that–but Eddie had clung to Richie’s side. Probably a bad choice since this is how he finds himself on the “dancefloor” which is just the living room with all the furniture pushed up against the walls.
Richie is clearly enjoying himself, throwing his limbs around in a fashion that Eddie struggles to call a form of dance. The people in his immediate vicinity are split into one half that passes him judgemental looks and the other half of people are laughing–with him, for once, not at him–and cheering him on. He still bears his camera around his neck and every so often he raises it above the crowd, trying to get a shot of the party from a higher angle.
Richie had opted for one of the strongest options of alcohol possible–straight whiskey–and Eddie imagines that is at least part of the reason why he has been so willing to hurl himself into this mass of wriggling bodies. Eddie himself had chosen something tamer–a wine cooler that tasted more like fruit than booze, although sometimes that type of drink could be the devil in disguise. So far, however, Eddie is not feeling any sort of loosening of his own inhibitions, and that is at least part of the reason why Eddie is stiffly stepping from side to side within the sweaty mob around him.
After watching Richie dance for awhile, engaging his audience by twirling girls under his arm and getting them all to sing along to the songs, Eddie feels a little left out. He’s enjoying Richie’s antics, but also finds himself missing, somewhat bitterly, Richie’s attention on him. As Eddie loses more and more enthusiasm–which there was little to begin with–he feels himself withdrawing further, watching some distance be created between himself and Richie.
He's not jealous, just annoyed. Eddie knows Richie enjoys being the center of attention, no matter whose attention it is. Richie was the kid who made fart noises in the middle of class back when they were in elementary school. Richie was the kid who would speak in an exaggerated British accent whenever they had to read out loud in middle school. Richie was the kid who got sent out into the hallway for drawing cartoon penises on the whiteboard in permanent marker in high school. Richie is the kid that glows as the people around him laugh and shimmy back at him while he dances like a fool.
Eddie is not like that; he is very particular about the attention he gets and who he gets it from. Eddie likes when Beverly picks him out of the group to go for ice cream. He doesn’t like when teachers call on him randomly in class. Eddie likes when Bill chooses Eddie to show his writing to and get an opinion on–revealing it to Eddie with an anxious, scarlet-red face. He doesn’t like it when his mom grills him at the kitchen table for every detail of his day.
Eddie likes it when Richie focuses on him, clearly looking for the most efficient way to push Eddie’s buttons, always with a wolfish grin on his face. And he likes it when Richie devotes all of his energy towards cheering Eddie up on a bad day. And he likes it when Richie reveals that one smile he has–the one that appears when he’s teasing Eddie in a way that’s more endearing than irritating, like he’s admitting that it’s all from a place of affection for his friend. Eddie likes to think that smile is just for him.
Eddie figures he must just be possessive over his friends, over their attention, and shrinks on himself even more, ashamed for feeling that way, nonetheless because it reminds him of how his mother behaves. The control she exerts over Eddie, over Eddie’s attention. Eddie doesn’t want his friends to isolate themselves for him, stop themselves from experiencing new things just because Eddie’s afraid.
Eddie decides he needs to get away from the scene and begins to slip away when he sees an opening appear, the entryway to the kitchen in direct sight.
But then Richie appears to read his mind, as he often does, and his gaze lands on him. With a quirk of his eyebrow, Richie quickly reaches out to him–his palms up, inviting.
Eddie tries not to feel so relieved as he accepts Richie’s hands, allows Richie to pull Eddie closer to him, immersing him in the crowd once again.
“Where are you going, short stack?” Richie teases, and he begins alternately pushing their arms–still joined at the hands–back and forth, a poor attempt at a dance. “Thought you could ditch your date?”
“I’m not short,” Eddie complains, but he can feel the smirk on his face that betrays his mirth. “And you’re not my date.”
“That’s news to me, Eds,” Richie says, his grin devilish. “Considering how jealous you were of me making moves on these pretty ladies.”
Richie turns to face the small group of girls who are hanging close by and winks. They roll their eyes but one or two of them blush a darling pink, and Eddie feels something like the prick of a thorn in his gut.
“Wasn’t jealous,” Eddie grumbles, and starts trying to worm his fists out of Richie’s grasp. “And your moves are weak.”
“I resent that,” Richie pouts, holding onto him more tightly. “They work well enough on your mom.”
Eddie groans, rolling his eyes.
“Either she’s desperate,” Richie continues, tilting his head faux-thoughtfully. “Or I have some pretty sweet moves.”
At that, Richie lifts one pair of their joined hands over their heads, and spins Eddie towards him. Flustered, Eddie collides into Richie’s chest, Richie’s camera stabbing into his side as he loses balance.
“Would you look at that,” Richie laughs in Eddie’s ear before Eddie pushes him away, a bright flush on his cheeks that he will blame on the wine cooler. “They’re even sweet enough to get Eddie Spaghetti falling for me!”
“You wish, Tozier,” Eddie says, nearly shouting in order to be heard over the music.
“Loosen up, cupcake,” Richie responds, going back to shaking their arms around and jumping up and down with an excited grin. “Feel the beat, show me your dance moves.”
“I don’t have any,” Eddie counters, but finds his feet leaving the ground as he starts hopping about with Richie.
“Sure you do,” Richie insists with delight. “You just don’t know it yet.”
Richie keeps moving their arms, forcing Eddie to engage and try to keep up. Eventually, they fall into a steady rhythm and Eddie finds himself enjoying the moment, bouncing around with Richie in a room full of people he never wants to see again. He looks up at Richie and all he can see is joy, and he feels that joy reverberating within himself.
It doesn’t last too long before they are interrupted. One of the girls who was dawdling within their vicinity grabs onto Richie’s arm.
“They’re playing seven minutes in heaven downstairs!” she tells Richie with enthusiasm and starts pulling him with her. “Come on!”
As Richie begins to be dragged away, he looks back at Eddie, his face an emblem of confusion before it morphs into amusement, and he starts tugging on Eddie’s hand too.
“Let’s go, Eds!” Richie cheers. “The party has just begun!”
The moment happens so fast, Eddie only starts registering what he’s being towed into when he lands at the bottom of the staircase in the basement. A large group of people are seated in a circle with an empty vodka bottle in the center, like it’s some sort of cult offering.
“Wait,” Eddie says, trying to pull away. He’s not here to kiss anyone or bear witness to people kissing each other, let alone other things that could happen in an isolated room in the span of seven minutes.
“Trust me, dah-ling,” Richie smirks, British accent seeping into his words. “This will be a smashing good time!”
Eddie’s not sure how he allows himself to be yanked into an empty gap of the circle beside Richie, and he will later chalk this up to the booze finally flowing through his system. Eddie looks around, recognizing most of the people who have joined the circle. Thankfully, only two of them are people Eddie can remember actively calling him or his friends names. The rest are familiar but aren’t any of the people who would shove the losers into a locker or throw water balloons at them at that one formal dance in junior year.
The two tormentors–Greta and Harrison–notice that Eddie and Richie are in attendance and, surprisingly, resign to simple eye rolls and gagging motions at their friends. Eddie thinks it must be because the people they’re interested in are present and they are trying to be as appealing as possible. In Eddie’s mind, they’re too repulsive down to their cores to be attractive to anyone.
Eddie quickly tries to formulate his plan for escape. He knows it should be as simple as rising to his feet and dashing back upstairs, but Richie still has a hand wrapped around his wrist and Eddie is certain if he tries to run, Richie will just pull him back like a bungee cord.
The way Eddie sees it, there are three possibilities.
Scenario A: The bottle will land on Richie, pairing him up with some unlucky acquaintance. Eddie will make a break for it when Richie dutifully follows his temporary match into a closet, probably wolf-whistling as he goes.
Scenario B: The bottle will land on Eddie, again disappointing someone who likely had a different person in mind. When he begrudgingly follows them into a closet, he will immediately inform them they don’t have to do anything, and the other person will sigh in relief. Then they’ll stand in moderately uncomfortable silence for seven minutes. Only seven, agonizing minutes.
Scenario C: In the almost impossible event that the bottle lands on neither Richie or Eddie before people get bored of the game or something more interesting causes Richie to ditch it, bringing Eddie along with him, Eddie won’t have to do anything and this whole thing will just be a tiny glitch in their evening. A fleeting breach of Eddie’s comfort.
For some reason Scenario C seems much more acceptable than Scenario A, even though in both cases Eddie basically gets away scot-free.
There are around a dozen people in the circle, and they don’t waste much time before they send the bottle spinning. Each time it spins, Eddie gets more and more tense and he’s sure that Richie can tell, his fingers lightly squeezing Eddie’s wrist as if for comfort. But if he really wanted to comfort Eddie, Richie would just get him the hell out of here.
Most of the players obviously joined the game with the intention of being paired up with someone in particular–someone they have already been flirting with, someone they’ve already hooked up with, maybe someone they have a massive crush on, but the other person doesn’t even know they exist. Classic adolescent love.
Greta takes the first turn, and as the bottle spins, she makes furtive glances at a quarterback named Cliff a couple of people over from her. Her effort is successful and the shy look on her face as Cliff pulls her to her feet makes Eddie want to hurl.
Bradley instructs them to go into the bathroom on the other side of the room and they slip away, Cliff’s hands on Greta’s waist as he follows behind her, whispering in her ear. She giggles just before the door shuts and again, if you missed it the first time, Eddie would like to barf.
Someone sets a timer and someone else sets up a Bluetooth speaker to play their music on, clashing with the music that streams under the basement door from upstairs. Then everyone just looks at each other for a moment. Eddie looks at Richie, raising his eyebrows to ask him what they were still doing here. Richie responds with a wink, like he knows something Eddie doesn’t.
“Wait, so we’re actually going to wait for seven minutes?” one of the guys asks, restless.
“Yeah, that’s like, boring,” a girl adds, offering a very robust observation.
“Okay, fine,” Bradley says. “There’s a guest bedroom down here and a laundry room. I guess people could use those.”
The group is happy with that news and Eddie’s anxiety builds again. He thought he would have more time to rationalize things–or for Richie to get bored and move along–while the first couple were getting busy.
The second pair of people to go are people Eddie does not know. Even without knowing them, however, he can tell they had both been hoping for the bottle to land on someone else. They’re cordial about it, at least, shrugging at each other and beginning a conversation about their respective summer jobs as they file into the bedroom.
“Okay, who’s next?” Bradley asks, holding up the empty vodka bottle like a prize to be won.
There is a brief pause before the girl who had dragged Richie–and therefore Eddie–down here says “Richie, why don’t you go?”
Eddie isn’t blind, he doesn’t miss the way the girl’s eyelashes flutter a bit in Richie’s direction. She even bites her lip, crossing one ankle over the other as she leans back and props herself up with her hands.
“Wow-ee, how excitin’!” Richie cheers in a southern accent, accepting the bottle from Bradley with exaggerated enthusiasm. Eddie sees a couple of the spectators rolling their eyes, sending meaningful glances to their neighbours. Eddie wonders if Richie is completely oblivious to the signs that the girl is vying for the bottle to land on her or if he’s just pretending not to notice.
Eddie feels a bit of his discomfort alleviate as he watches Richie lean forward to carefully put the bottle down and send it spinning like a top. While it wasn’t the ideal scenario (for hazy reasons), it appears Eddie will get his chance to flee after all.
This relief is short-lived when the bottle finally begins to slow down, and its mouth points closer and closer towards Eddie, creeping along so leisurely that Eddie feels like it may be going in slow motion. And then it stops. And sure enough, Eddie is staring ahead at the rim of the bottle which almost feels accusatory in its designation of Eddie as Richie’s partner in heaven.
At first, Eddie’s instinct is to feel embarrassed. But he is fast to mitigate those feelings because it’s not his fault that the bottle landed on him. Eddie has nothing to do with this–he’s a victim, even! A victim of poor luck in a game of spin-the-bottle. That’s all, really, it could happen to anyone.
Eddie’s internal justification for this scenario (Scenario D, he guesses? It wasn’t even considered as a possibility) does nothing to quell the heat in his face. Even given this complicated predicament, Eddie still looks to Richie for some sort of response, to guide Eddie in how he’s supposed to respond as well.
“Well, I’ll be!” Richie continues with the southern accent. Okay, so they’re going with the joke route. Ha ha, isn’t this whole thing so ridiculous and funny? “If it isn’t the belle of the ball!”
“Shut up, Richie,” Eddie huffs but the flattery, even in its mocking tone, makes him cast his gaze downwards, unable to handle eye contact.
“So that means a redo, doesn’t it?” the girl from before speaks up again, gauging the reactions of her peers while evidently hoping for a second chance.
“Hey, I’m no cheater!” Richie argues and it feels like Eddie’s stomach drops into his knees.
“What?” Eddie squeaks, watching as Richie rises to his feet beside him.
“What do you say, old pal?” Richie grins, his smile surprisingly steady and cool. As if people aren’t going to wonder if some of the rumours about the losers are true when two of them willingly disappear into a room together during a game specifically designed to encourage making out and hooking up.
Richie stretches a hand down towards him, ready to help Eddie get up off the floor.
“You’re so annoying,” Eddie complains, but it feels forced, like he’s putting on a show. Trying to prove his disappointment in this turn of events.
At the same time, Eddie is not interested in sticking around to find out if the game would otherwise lead to him having to enter a small, dark space with a girl he’s never even spoken to before. And he is very interested in escaping the critical eyes of people he doesn’t have to call his peers anymore.
Eddie sighs and, despite the mounting unease in his chest, reaches up and accepts Richie’s hand. He stands and hesitantly follows Richie’s lead into the laundry room while the latter makes a big show of the whole thing, shaking his hips and making obnoxious kissing noises.
Eddie tries to ignore how they leave a trail of murmurs and mocking laughter in their wake.
INT. LAUNDRY ROOM – NIGHT
The room is DARK, simply furnished with a WASHING MACHINE and DRYER, as well as a shelf full of LINENS and cleaning products. It smells of DETERGENT and LAVENDER.
“This is your fault, you know,” Eddie says, as soon as the door fall shuts behind them.
He’s sure there must be a light switch somewhere, but he feels along the wall and doesn’t find anything.
“Yes, I used my secret super mind powers to make the bottle land on you,” Richie responds sarcastically, watching as Eddie makes his way around the room.
“I mean because you totally dragged me down here with no respect for my wishes,” Eddie hisses and gives up on his search.
“I’m sorry, sugarplum, but I did not want to end up down here alone with a bunch of chicks I don’t know,” Richie says with a shrug before managing to find a swinging chain. He pulls on it and a singular bulb of light sparks to life, casting a dim, yellow glow over them.
“You didn’t?” Eddie asks, skeptical.
Richie has attended a lot more parties than the rest of the losers, mostly without an invitation. They would hear tales of what happened at them on Mondays with Richie regaling details of every shot he took, every person he danced with, every girl he kissed. It was never clear how he got word of the parties or where they were happening which established a fascinating mystery as to whether he had a nose for drunk teenagers and crowded houses, or insider information.
Eddie, personally, was never really impressed but he saw how some of the others would listen attentively, like Richie was giving them the answers for a pop quiz to come later that day. Either way, Richie had created a reputation for himself; to the popular crowd he was a party crasher, but for the outsiders of their school he was a hero.
“Well, normally I wouldn’t be against it, but Lacey has been giving me eyes all night and I’m just not interested in her like that,” Richie explains, rolling his eyes.
So, he did notice it after all.
“How does that make sense?” Eddie quirks an eyebrow at him. “There was like a 10 percent chance it would land on her.”
“More like 14 percent, but maybe I just wanted some moral support, alright?” Richie says, with irritation now lacing his voice.
“You didn’t actually have to join the game, you know,” Eddie counters grumpily.
“And destroy my status as a womanizer? No way,” Richie jokes, dispelling his snappy tone from before.
Eddie huffs and silence falls between them. Eddie takes the opportunity to hop on top of the washer, deciding he’d rather sit through the remainder of the seven minutes than stand on the concrete floor.
After a moment of quiet, Richie starts pacing, impatient to leave and Eddie sighs. He thinks this scenario, as boring and uneventful as it is, is still a hundred times better than any of the alternatives.
“Actually, I’m kind of glad it landed on me,” Eddie admits. Richie looks up.
“Why? You’ve heard good things?” Richie asks, eyebrows waggling as he slowly approaches Eddie.
“No!” Eddie denies, shoving Richie away. “I just mean if anyone else had to come in here with me and actually expected me to kiss them, I probably would have spontaneously combusted.”
“How come?” Richie prods, now appearing genuinely interested as he furrows his brows. “Is it a germs thing?”
“No, it’s not ‘a germs thing,’” Eddie snaps, then hesitates. Richie doesn’t say anything. He hears the party continuing outside, overlapping conversations and low music. Eddie forces himself to continue with his heart picking up a rapid pace. “I’ve just never kissed someone before.”
“No way,” Richie breathes out, apparently astonished. “Really? I thought people would be scrambling to get a taste of those lips– I mean, if they’re anything like your mother’s.”
Eddie glowers at him, embarrassment now creeping up his spine. He usually doesn’t have to worry about judgement from Richie, so it’s weird that he feels uncomfortable now, regretting saying anything.
“Okay, sorry,” Richie yields at the look on Eddie’s face.
Richie appears thoughtful, and Eddie’s not sure how much thought there really is to give to the situation. It’s not that shocking of information, in Eddie’s opinion, considering how most other kids have treated him his entire life. He remembers girls joking that anyone who wanted to kiss Eddie would have to use hand sanitizer as lip balm. That definitely didn’t make it sound very appealing to lock lips with him.
Richie lifts the strap of his camera off his neck, places the device on top of the dryer. Then he moves to stand in front of Eddie, his hands falling on either side of Eddie’s thighs on top of the washer. Eddie crosses his arms, still put off by Richie’s initial reaction, but looks up at him.
“You know, once you do it the first time, it’s really not that big of a deal anymore,” Richie says, his tone comforting. Eddie feels his shoulders relax at his words.
“Sure, but when is that ever going to happen?” Eddie complains, shrugging hopelessly. “People don’t like me as is, I doubt someone would like me enough to want to put their mouth anywhere near me.”
“I put my mouth near you all the time,” Richie replies, then pulls a sour face like he wants to suck the words back in.
“What?” Eddie laughs, mostly out of confusion.
“I just mean it’s not like you’re gross or something, Eds. I call you cute all the time because it’s at least a little bit true,” Richie tries to explain, and Eddie feels a warmth worming around his stomach.
“If you’re trying to compliment me, you’re doing a horrendous job,” Eddie says, although his bodily reaction seems to be suggesting otherwise. He blames that on the fact that he’s never received an earnest compliment that implies he might be attractive. His mother calling him her handsome boy doesn’t count.
“Okay look, people like confidence, right?” Richie continues, bringing a hand up to comb through his locks as he thinks out loud–a nervous tic. “So, if you kiss someone, you’d feel more confident afterwards, wouldn’t you? And then that would attract more girls to you.”
“Maybe, I guess,” Eddie mutters, but he feels like Richie is ignoring the main part of the problem.
“How about I kiss you then?” Richie suggests and he says it so casually, but Eddie still reels back a bit.
“Huh?” Eddie can only vocalize, his chest and gut tickling now like someone is ladling out his insides.
“I mean, it’s just me, it’s not like you’d have to be nervous.” Wrong. “And you’ll see afterwards that it’s really not a big deal, which– I will admit, probably sounded easier said than done.”
Eddie doesn’t know how to respond at first, so he doesn’t. He can’t believe that Richie is offering that, even if it’s as simple as he proclaims it to be. A harsh thought trickles through his mind that this is just another game that Richie is playing, tricking him so he can laugh about it with all their friends later. Eddie knows that can’t be true but the fear of it still feels too real.
“Or we can totally pretend I never said that because it was clearly a dumb idea,” Richie rambles after a moment of Eddie’s silence, pulling away. But Eddie grabs hold of his forearm before he gets too far.
“You’re not trying to trick me? Embarrass me so you can make fun of me later?” Eddie asks, grimacing at how vulnerable he sounds, his voice weak.
“Of course not, Eddie,” Richie insists, rolling his eyes, but he doesn’t remove his arm from Eddie’s grip. “I’m not that much of a prick, I promise.”
“And, like, no judgement?” Eddie confirms, seeking out the answer in Richie’s gaze which remains stable on him.
“I swear,” Richie says softly, raising his eyebrows for emphasis. Eddie’s eyes finally fall to Richie’s lips–wide and full and pink, surprisingly not chapped even though Eddie doesn’t think Richie knows what lip balm is.
“You won’t tell anyone?” Eddie continues to press, his gaze still on Richie’s mouth. Richie licks his lips, moistening them, as if he’s aware.
“Not if you don’t want me to,” Richie asserts with a shrug.
Eddie hums, considering, looks at the rest of Richie’s face, checks for signs of deceit. He doesn’t see any.
“You’ll have to decide soon, Eds. Seven minutes in heaven doesn’t last forever, you know, hence the name. In like two minutes someone will come and–”
A rush of unbridled nerves travel through Eddie’s body and his chest feels like it might cave in, but it doesn’t stop him from closing his eyes and pushing forward, awkwardly landing his mouth on Richie’s.
It’s strange at first–a bit damp and soft, but it’s not bad, just new. Richie leans his head to readjust the angle and their lips meet more comfortably, Eddie’s trembling and Richie’s moving gently, coaxing Eddie to follow his lead. It’s nice, even.
Eddie registers Richie’s hand landing on his neck, just below his jawline and it feels warm, makes Eddie feel warm. Eddie doesn’t touch Richie, isn’t sure what would be appropriate or expected of him, but he relaxes into the cradle of Richie’s palm.
Soon, they part. Eddie’s not sure how long it was, how much longer they have left of the seven minutes. He looks at Richie for a reaction, but Richie is very still, his hand lingering on Eddie’s neck. His eyes are wide, and he blinks slowly. Then his posture loosens, and his hand falls back to the top of the washer, next to Eddie’s thigh.
“So.” Richie clears his throat, produces a wobbly grin. “How scary was that?”
“Horrifying,” Eddie replies, something like relief dousing him like water as he recognizes Richie’s attempt to joke–a sign that everything is fine, the world didn’t fall apart around them just because they are two friends who kissed.
Richie’s grin grows steadier, and Eddie thinks he sees him leaning in again.
Suddenly, there’s pounding at the door and the static atmosphere between the two of them crackles apart. Eddie hops off the washer like it was going to incriminate him, bumping into Richie and jostling him forward.
“Time’s up, weirdos! This closet is up for grabs!” someone calls through the door.
Eddie hopes it’s not obvious as Richie opens the door and the two of them file out, that there isn’t some permanent change to his face, like a sign that reads I JUST HAD MY FIRST KISS WITH MY BEST FRIEND AND IT WAS GREAT BUT IT DOESN’T MEAN ANYTHING, I SWEAR. Richie appears completely unperturbed and grins as he addresses the small group of stragglers remaining in the basement.
“Who needs seven minutes in heaven when you only last for two?” he jokes, his arms splayed out in a dramatic gesture.
“Oh my god, you’re disgusting!” Eddie instantly quips, giving Richie a solid whack to his chest.
Eddie figures his honest irritation at Richie must be convincing and not at all flirty because anyone who was giving the pair of them questioning looks before quickly loses interest and moves on. They don’t bother joining the circle of people again. Only four poor folks remain, one of them being Lacey, who looks dejected and annoyed. Without a second thought or another word exchanged between them, they both make a beeline for the stairs, trampling up them like there’s a pack of wolves hot on their heels.
When they burst through the basement door, they find nothing has really changed in their absence. The music carries on, teenagers move clumsily around each other, and drinks are still being poured. Eddie, however, feels like he has experienced a slight change–something more internal and barely perceptible, though. Something that can’t really be seen or felt by anyone beside himself.
Richie tells him they should go to the kitchen to get another drink and Eddie follows him wordlessly.
It turns out that Richie was right about kissing not being a very big deal. It’s nice in the moment, and it will probably be nice again, but it certainly didn’t knock his socks off or anything.
However, as Eddie follows Richie through the blundering mass of bodies in the living room, he thinks it may have opened the door to something. Like when the answer to a question only begs more questions.
They both tip back a shot of tequila–no lime or salt like Eddie has seen in movies–and scrunch their noses up at the burn. Eddie coughs a little and Richie laughs through his own grimace, then they chuck the disposable ounce cups they had used into the kitchen sink and meander back towards the living room.
Eddie spies Bill and Stan stationed on one of the black, leather couches that had been pushed against the wall and moves to join them, eager to be brought back to reality by the presence of friends other than Richie. Being around Richie is feeling just a tad too surreal at the moment.
Richie doesn’t object but he doesn’t follow either, instead returning to the mass on the dance floor.
“Where have you guys been?” Stan asks as Eddie falls heavily into the seat next to him, his body quickly sinking into the cushions like they’re absorbing him.
“Nowhere– around, I mean,” Eddie replies with faux nonchalance, and it sounds as incoherent as it feels to say.
“Th-thought I saw you g-guys come out of th-the basement,” Bill states, and when Eddie looks in his direction, Bill’s gaze is curious but playful.
“Yeah.” Eddie shrugs. His eyes trail over to find Richie in the mob, and he’s hard to miss, dancing in that way that just looks like he’s thrashing around again.
“Weren’t they playing spin the bottle or something down there?” Stan continues Bill’s line of questioning, his tone intrigued but absent of any accusations.
“Uh, I guess. Seven minutes in heaven,” Eddie says, nearly mumbling and taking an anxious gulp halfway through the sentence.
“Right,” Bill says slowly.
“Sounds more like seven minutes in hell to me,” Stan grumbles.
“That’s probably more accurate,” Eddie agrees.
“So then why were you down th-there?” Bill asks immediately, his expression shifting now towards suspicion.
Eddie shakes his head and shrugs, struggling to form a proper answer. It’s not helping that the tequila is now streaming through his system, blurring his thoughts and fuzzing out the logical side of his brain.
Stan gasps because he’s a dramatic bitch when he wants to be.
“Did you kiss someone?” he asks, a hand over his heart like a little old lady who’s had a fright. Bill also gasps at that because he’s drunk and annoying.
“Who would I kiss?” Eddie splutters, motioning at the crowd before them. “I don’t like anyone here!”
“Hey, we already discussed that!”
Eddie looks up and Bev is sauntering over with a content grin on her face. She sits on the armrest and leans across the back of the couch cushions, her elbow landing just behind Eddie’s head. Eddie has to turn his head so she can see his confusion.
“You like us,” Bev explains, and she taps Eddie on the nose, saying “boop” as she does.
“Bev,” Bill sits up, leaning closer like he’s about to reveal a scandal. “Eddie k-k-kissed someone.”
“I did not!” Eddie denies, waving his hands like it would erase the memory of the last two minutes from his friends’ minds. “They’re speculating!”
“I allow speculation in my court,” Bev says, instantly serious and looking to Bill and Stan for more information.
“Eddie and Richie were in the basement,” Stan presents the evidence, one haughty finger in the air, “while there was a game of seven minutes in heaven going on.”
“No way, you little slut,” Bev giggles, latching an arm onto Eddie.
“Where’s Ben?” Eddie asks in a slightly desperate attempt to distract Beverly and redirect the conversation.
“Outside. Needed some air,” Bev answers.
“And Mike?”
“Talking to some g-girl who goes to the same ch-church as his grandfather, I-I think,” Bill supplies, then nurses at the beer in his hand.
“Wait, is it Shelby?” Bev asks, and shifts to sit properly on the couch beside Eddie, leaning over him to hear Bill better.
“I don’t kn-know, I guess so.” Bill shrugs.
“Oh my god, I heard the craziest shit about her, apparently–”
Eddie tunes out the rest of that conversation, mostly because it doesn’t pique his interest but also because he’s distracted by Richie’s dancing again.
Richie moves with all the confidence of someone who has never owned a mirror, smiling at the people around him and sometimes closing his eyes to get lost in the music, letting his head loll against his chest.
As Eddie watches, he thinks that while Richie may be lacking skill in the rhythm department, he at least has a nice figure–for a lanky guy with a complete lack of curves, that is. Slim torso, broad shoulders and chest. His biceps aren’t very muscular, but his forearms and hands seem strong and defined. Nice lips, too. Eddie probably wouldn’t have noted that feature before but now it’s pressing in his mind.
Eddie observes as Richie hip bumps a girl next to him, his face bright and playful and happy, and it brings a smile to Eddie’s own face as he gets lost in a trance, the bass of the music and chatter of people around him becoming irrelevant, white noise.
“Richie seems to be having fun, doesn’t he?” Beverly suddenly asks from beside Eddie, leaning close enough that their shoulders touch.
Eddie jumps at the sudden attention, giving a regrettably bashful look in Bev’s direction as she peers at him conspiringly.
“Sure.” Eddie shrugs noncommittedly, turning his gaze away.
“Okay, what exactly happened in the basement?” Bev whispers, nestling closer to give their conversation the slightest shroud of privacy.
“Nothing happened, Bev,” Eddie replies, making steady eye contact to hide the lie.
Beverly gazes at him a moment, her eyes tracing over every subtle movement of his jaw, eyebrows, eyelids, lips. Then her eyes widen, because she has managed to read Eddie’s mind as she has done so often before.
“Oh wow. Okay,” she hums, not even hiding the way her gaze trails over to Richie then back to Eddie. “That is quite the development.”
“Development of what?” Eddie asks, exasperated. She’s already figured out what happened so there’s no point in pretending, but he doesn’t like the insinuation.
“Maybe nothing. Maybe something.” Bev shrugs casually, like the event hasn’t ripped a small tear in Eddie’s whole reality, opened a tiny portal to another dimension.
Eddie groans, his face falling into his hands. He supposes he doesn’t mind if Beverly knows because she won’t judge or tell, but she is also unlikely to ever leave him alone about it again.
“Don’t you worry your pretty little head, my dear,” Beverly says as she pats his hair. “I won’t tell a living soul.”
Eddie peeks through his fingers back towards where Richie is in the crowd and sees him staring inquisitively over at the two of them. A girl is trying to speak into his ear but she’s too short and Richie isn’t compensating for that by bending down so it looks more like she’s having a conversation with his shoulder. In the middle of a sentence, Richie nods a polite farewell towards her and starts heading over to the couch, a small inquisitive smirk on his face to hide the concern that slightly ripples his brow.
“Bev,” Eddie blurts, lifting his face from his palms and giving her a look that is equally intimidating and pleading. She just grins back at him. “Please, do not be weird about this.”
“Oh, ye of little faith,” Bev hums with a gleam in her eyes, but taps his knee in a conceding manner, nonetheless.
Eddie keeps his gaze on her as Richie approaches, as if they were engaged in a very interesting conversation about anything over than kissing one’s best friend.
“What’s up, kids?” Richie asks when he arrives, and Eddie hesitantly looks up at him. He’s got his hands in his pockets and he’s biting at his lip just slightly–and Eddie would prefer that his attention does not get dragged there, thanks very much. Richie looks between the both of them, awaiting an answer.
“Just talking about how you seem to be the life of the party, Rich,” Bev says, teasing.
Richie snorts but his eyes stay on Eddie.
“Right, well at least I’m not hanging off to the side like a couple of losers,” Richie says, light-hearted, and pokes Bev’s shoulder that has pinked up from the liquor in her blood.
“I like being a loser,” Beverly replies easily, and Eddie watches Richie’s gaze soften at that.
“Alright then, losers,” Richie acquiesces, gripping his camera and bringing it to his face, aiming the lens at them. “Strike a pose.”
Beverly throws her arm over Eddie’s shoulder and pulls him in close while Eddie groans and rolls his eyes. They begin making faces and then Bev plants a wet kiss on his cheek before the other boys on the couch notice and crowd in to be in the frame.
Somehow Richie’s observation through the viewfinder feels more heavy than usual. It’s strange to be looked at when Eddie feels like he was recently stripped raw, been vulnerable with someone in a way that he’s not sure he ever has been.
Eddie can’t say if it’s the weight of being perceived or the tequila in his stomach, but he’s not very interested in participating in the festivities anymore. When Richie’s camera finds its home back on his chest and he eagerly invites everyone to join him in dancing, Eddie is resolute in his decision to sit this one out.
Richie seems a little disappointed, but when Eddie explains he’s feeling a little sick, the entire group understands that to mean he won’t be budged and they all head to the dancefloor without him. But they’re not too far at all, a stone’s throw away, so it doesn’t really feel like they’ve left him.
Eddie sinks deeper into the couch and wraps his arms around himself, watching his friends dance with the same bliss he saw the day they graduated–when they all realized they never needed to set foot in high school again. When they understood that they didn’t need to be the people they were anymore, that it meant they could start anew. No more petty name-calling or cruel teachers or shitty parents.
Eddie thinks he feels it too, but as he focuses on Richie–the tallest, loudest, and shiniest of the group–he finds he’s a bit preoccupied by an inner battle against the flourish of a garden in his mind, exploding from planted seeds of curiosity.
INT. BILL’S BASEMENT – NIGHT
The room is DARK, only illuminated by the MOONLIGHT leaking in through two small windows close to the ceiling. The only sound is the TICKING of a clock coming from somewhere upstairs, MONOTONAL. Eddie is surrounded on each side by a row of SLEEPING BAGS, his friends reduced to shadowy LUMPS on the floor, slowly expanding then shrinking with their breath.
Eddie can’t sleep. And not just because he has always struggled to get any rest when he’s stuck on the floor in a sleeping bag.
The group of friends had left the party not too long after Eddie suggested he was feeling a little unwell, despite his insistence that it wasn’t that bad, of course, and that he didn’t want to stop them from enjoying themselves. At least it seemed most of them had gotten reasonably drunk and tuckered themselves out dancing, so they hadn’t appeared to be put out by it much.
The plan had always been to retreat to Bill’s house on foot, and they did so without too much stumbling. Except when Ben caught his foot on the crack of the sidewalk and tumbled forward, barely catching himself to prevent a face-plant while everyone else struggled to stifle their cackles. They didn’t dawdle for too long once they reached their destination, the alcohol dragging them down into sleep as most of them wiggled their way into sleeping bags. While Bill would typically retreat to a sleeping bag as well in solidarity, this time he shamelessly toppled onto the couch face-first and almost immediately began snoring.
Maybe it was the snoring keeping Eddie up, or the weird, staccato mumbling Bev was doing in her sleep every so often. But there is a small, miniscule possibility that it’s because Eddie can’t stop thinking about the kiss.
Eddie doesn’t understand why it has to linger in his mind. It didn’t mean anything except that now Eddie would know what to expect in the future if somehow someone he liked wanted to kiss him back. But that doesn’t explain the gooey sensation he feels under his skin, the strange buoyancy of his skull. Eventually these sensations become overbearing, and Eddie gets the urge to escape the cocoon of his sleeping bag and step out for some air.
EXT. BILL’S BACKYARD – NIGHT
The backyard is overcome with the INKY paint of NIGHT, but the porch light provides some relief from the DARKNESS. Eddie sits on the PORCH SWING, and it SQUEAKS slightly as he uses his feet to ROCK himself back and forth. It’s cooler than he anticipated and his arms ripple with goosebumps, but he can tolerate it for at least a little while.
In the silence of late-night-early-morn, Eddie can hear his heartbeat. It maintains a steady pace, although when his thoughts drift back to the laundry room at the party, he can feel the pulse in his neck. Realizing he needs to clear his head, he starts a cycle of deep breaths. In through the nose for four seconds, hold for three, out through the mouth for five. In for four, hold for three, out for five. Four, three, five. With each exhale he releases the tension in his shoulders, his neck, his back.
Using the exercise that he discovered on an online quest to manage his symptoms of anxiety, it isn’t long before he feels some semblance of relaxation flowing through his body, beginning to put him at ease. It also isn’t long before he is interrupted.
“You got a tummy ache or what, Eds?”
Eddie jerks at Richie’s entrance, surprised by both the company and the volume of Richie’s voice, and quickly turns around in his seat and shushes him. Richie sidles up from behind Eddie, carefully closing the back door so that the only sound it makes is a snick when the latch falls into place. His hair is more tousled than usual, sticking up in a couple of places and somewhat slick as natural oil starts to build up. Wearing a wrinkled plain shirt and soft sweatpants, Richie appears delightfully sleep-riddled.
“I’m fine,” Eddie says softly, turning forwards again and nibbling at the inside of his bottom lip.
“What’re you doing out here?” Richie asks as he falls into the seat beside Eddie, jostling the swing.
“I can’t sleep, that’s all.” Eddie shrugs, eyes settled on the trees just past the fence of the backyard, swaying periodically in the night breeze.
“Is it Bill’s snoring? Do I need to smother him so that Eddiekins can get his beauty sleep?” Richie teases, and Eddie can hear rather than see the smirk on his face.
“No,” Eddie huffs with a roll of his eyes, then steels himself, bracing for the impacts of honesty. “I just feel weird.”
“Wow, hungover already? It’s the tequila, I bet. You and your sensitive stomach didn’t stand a chance,” Richie says, mocking solemnity.
“Richie,” Eddie complains, tilting his head back to trace the stars above.
Richie hushes surprisingly, probably detecting Eddie’s sincerity and resolving not to ridicule it.
“I had my first kiss today,” Eddie says, the words tumbling out on a breath, and his eyes close.
“Right,” Richie sighs and Eddie feels him slump more heavily into the cushions of the porch swing.
Neither speak for a moment until Eddie finally opens his eyes again and risks a glance in Richie’s direction. Richie has a thumb in his mouth, gnawing lightly at the skin around the nail, clearly trying to come up with something to say. When he notices Eddie’s attention on him, he drops his hand back to his lap and shrugs.
“Okay, so. It does feel special and important when you have your first kiss. That’s normal,” Richie begins, speaking slowly as he chooses each word with intent–a rarity for him. “Over time, though, I promise it stops feeling like such a huge event. Like even a week from now, I bet you’ll start thinking that you weren’t actually missing out on much. You know what I mean?”
With that, Eddie feels some of his nerves evaporate. He might have guessed that. Like most things, time is all that is needed to shrink the size of emotion he feels as a response to the kiss. That distance will remove its strength, and maybe even tomorrow he’ll notice it beginning to fade.
Hopefully the distinct memory of Richie’s lips will start to fade. That’s the part he is most worried about.
“Yeah, makes sense.” Eddie nods, smiling at Richie with relief.
Richie grins back, then his gaze floats over the horizon, the sun still blanketed beneath it.
“I guess I should be thanking you?” Eddie asks as a joke, then instantly cringes at himself. Luckily, Richie just laughs.
“Nah man, if anything, I should apologize that your first kiss had to be with me,” Richie rambles, his fingers beginning to tap incessantly at his thigh.
“To be fair, you gave me the option but I’m the one who took it. We’re both at fault,” Eddie argues lightly.
“So, it is true what they say!” Richie responds with exaggerated glee, then softly jabs at Eddie’s side with an elbow. “Takes two to tango.”
“Oh, shut up,” Eddie moans, swatting Richie’s arm away from him.
The earth breathes around him and it feels like life is in motion again. Like he hadn’t noticed that the world had paused while it waited for some reconciliation, confirmation that their reality hadn’t shifted, and Richie and Eddie were just the same together as they had always been.
“So things aren’t going to be weird now?” Eddie asks.
“Nah,” Richie responds easily. “Like I said, not a big deal.”
NARRATOR (V.O)
It was, in fact, a big deal.