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Chapter Text

PROLOGUE

Richie had forgotten how to breathe.

Actually, he had forgotten how to do anything. Anything except push his legs forward and grip Eddie, keeping him upright with the help of Ben and Beverly, as the remains of Neilbolt crumbled around them. He didn’t remember much from then. Eddie, blood, screaming. Red hot tears leaving him blinder than he already was. That was all.

By some fucking miracle- maybe God decided to give them a one-off, to make up for the bullshit that had been their last 25 years of existence- they made it out.

Richie didn’t remember much from then, either. He remembered collapsing, covered in dust and dirt and blood that wasn’t his, and the gentle thud as he hit the concrete floor. He remembered the paramedics sitting him up and how his immediate response was to ask, with a mouthful of his own vomit- “where’s Eddie?”. And he remembered how he was crying, begging them to put him as Eddie’s next of kin, just so he could sit by him in the hospital.

They did.

He’d stayed for two weeks now. He had refused to leave, no matter how much the doctors insisted, no matter how many times Bev visited, no matter how many times Bill called. He wouldn’t even leave when Stan called, told him vague details he didn’t catch properly, and had asked him to come out for dinner with him, Patty, and the Losers. The only time he would leave was to shower, change his clothes, and pick up food for himself- and he never let that take more than an hour.

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Chapter Text

Thursday was blood test day.

Richie had been hunched over in the uncomfortable orange chair, covering his face with his hands, pushing his glasses up and squinting at Eddie through the gaps in his fingers, when the doctor came in. They were on first-name basis now. He didn’t like how he looked at Richie; with that distasteful, obvious pity, buried in the wrinkle between his eyebrows. Richie jumped, knocking his glasses askew, and rubbed his hands together anxiously.

“Morning, Mark,” he greeted, voice strained and gravelly.

“Afternoon, Richie, jesus- it’s 3 pm,” Mark replied with a soft sigh.
He said Richie’s name the same way he looked at him- with pity and sadness, and probably a silent thanks that he wasn’t in the same position.

“Any news?” Richie asked as his gaze fell back to Eddie.

God, he looked so tired. Exhausted even asleep. His eyes closed, mouth slightly open, nose clogged with tubes. He looked paler, but that was to be expected. It aged him. It made the bags under his eyes look darker, his wrinkles more prominent, the fresh scar on his cheek pink and shining against his dull skin.

Richie was so busy staring, he completely missed the doctors answer to his question.

“Huh?”

“There’s nothing viral, and it’s nothing to do with his blood- he’s more stable than he has been, though, Rich. We’re hopeful. Have you eaten today?”

Being called Rich made him frown. He shifted in his seat, looking at Eddie again. He hadn’t. He hadn’t eaten anything yesterday, either. And he hadn’t showered since the day before. He imagined Eddie shouting at him about that, raving about hospital bacteria, arms raised and face red and eyebrows furrowed.

He didn’t shout, he didn’t rave- he laid in the hospital bed, the only signals that he was still living being the beep of the heart monitor and the slow, steady rise and fall of his chest. Richie’s saving graces, if he was honest.

“Yeah,” Richie lied, shifting his hair a little closer to the bed, a little further from the doctor, who began flicking through Eddie’s papers. “I’m not the patient here, Mark- don’t worry about me.”

Mark sighed gently, sliding Eddie’s papers back into the holder at the end of his bed, and turned to leave.

“Seriously, Richie- you don’t need to stay here, we’ll contact you immediately if anything changes.”

Richie just shook his head, receiving another sigh for his trouble, and that was it. Once the room was empty, he moved even closer. Slowly, as if there was a chance of waking him up, he reached for Eddie’s hand and linked their fingers. He spent a moment just looking at their hands. Feeling how small Eddie’s were compared to his own, strangely soft. Then he let himself look at his face again.

He refused to leave, not just because he was tragic and pathetic and pining, and not just because he was hoping for some fairytale moment where Eddie woke and decided to drop everything and run off to LA with him, but because it was what Eddie deserved. He deserved to wake up and see someone who loved him. Really loved him. Not loved him if he took his pills, not loved him when he did everything that was asked, not loved him but had to stop him doing things. Just loved him. Loved him for being stubborn, loved him for his ranting, loved him for his argumentative nature. Loved him for free. Without conditions or restraints or patronisation. Just loved him.

Whether it was returned or not.

He fell asleep with that thought.

He was still asleep when Eddie woke up. Eddie blinked, eyes glued to the pale green wall in front of him for a moment. He needed to collect himself, to analyse whatever situation and state he was in.

A hospital room for sure. The lights were so bright, and the walls were so dull, and deep in his head was a hollow, thumping pain. He kept his head still. The beep of the heart monitor and the weird smell of cleanliness, but not clean enough (like hospitals always where, really, clean and scrubbed but only on the outside, a breeding ground for every kind of fucking infection in the world) told him that much. He hadn’t forgotten any of it, but decided then was not the time. He needed to sort everything out. Sort himself out.

Slowly, swallowing against the burning pain and closing his eyes, Eddie turned his head and attempted to lift his arm, only to be unable to. Something was gripping him. Panic bubbled in his chest and forced himself to look. Whatever it was, he could deal with it. Even in a hospital bed with a hole in his middle. He’d defeated a fucking omniscent sewer dwelling clown. He could handle-

Richie. Richie Tozier.

Asleep. He’d pulled the chair over and crossed his arms on the edge of Eddie’s bed, one hand curled around his own. He’d fallen asleep with his glasses on, like the dumbass he was, his curly hair falling against the frames, breath soft and uneven. God, he looked absolutely exhausted. Like he hadn’t slept in years, despite him currently snoring gently through his nose. His mouth was slightly open and the way his eyebrows knitted lightly together suggested whatever dream he was having was not good. Eddie immediately wanted to reach out, to push his stupid hair out of his stupid face and press a soft kiss between his brows. Wake him up from whatever nightmare he was experiencing. He subconsciously squeezed his hand, feeling, oddly, tearful.

He was glad. He was glad he hadn’t woken up alone- or worse, to Myra. Richie was perfect. Richie was perfect and there and sleeping, not sound but sleeping, and holding his hand. And he knew that, when he woke up, he wouldn’t be interrogated. He wouldn’t be fussed over like he was made of glass. He’d probably be told he looked like shit, which he assumed he did, in that sarcastic, brilliant voice, that fond, cheeky smile on Richie’s lips.

He had survived. But good god, was he exhausted. He assumed he’d been out for a while, so in theory he should be fine. He set his gaze fondly on Richie, but couldn’t keep his eyes open for very long at all. He felt like he should have been a lot more panicked than he was. Worry and anxiety had began to bleed through the cracks, but somewhere, he supposed, he knew it would be okay. At least he was alive. And at least Richie was there.

Richie had missed it.

But, of course, he didn’t know he had missed it, so he woke up and felt the same. Miserable. And insanely grimey, hunger setting in. Just the same as he had for the last two weeks. He kept taking off his glasses, rubbing at the corner- the corner that had cracked, the corner where Eddie’s blood had landed. They weren’t even the same glasses, yet he did it every time. He did it then, blinking, eye-level with Eddie’s thigh. With a soft groan, he sat up properly, letting go of Eddie’s hands to reach for the glasses. He’d fallen asleep with them on. Eddie would have a cow if he knew how often he did that. Chewing his bottom lip, he ran his hands over his face, pressing his fingers into his eyes and rubbing-

“Finally, sleeping beauty.”

Richie froze. He felt something like fear crawl up his spine. Was this a dream? A nightmare? Was that fucking clown back, tormenting him? Surely, surely Eddie hadn’t woken up. He bit so hard on his bottom lip he could taste blood.

“Wow, I know I’m not at my prettiest, but that’s just rude,” he said again, and it was definitely, undeniably, Eddie- thank fucking God. His voice was strained and scratchy from so long without use, but it was him.

Richie dropped his hands at the same time his mouth dropped open. He blinked helplessly at Eddie, who simply yawned and cocked his eyebrow. Richie was silent for what felt like hours. He just stared, blinking, mouth twitching slightly like he was going to say something. And then he stopped, shook his head, and snorted, forcing his eyes to focus on Eddie. Eddie, who was awake, and talking to him.

“Definitely not your prettiest, no,” Richie replied simply, eyes burning suddenly, throat tight and dangerously close to crying. “You could use a shower or seven, Spaghetti.”

“Do not call me that. I’ve been in a fucking coma or some shit- what’s your excuse for looking like crap?”

He was smiling. God, he was smiling. It was tired and probably painful but it was a smile. The same one that had always seemed reserved for Richie- one corner twisted up, the other on its way, eyes rolling so fondly it stung a little. He shifted, feeling all at once like he didn’t fit where he was. Like he was suddenly too big for the chair and the hospital room and Eddie Kaspbrak’s smile.

“Come here, idiot. Gently or I’ll kick you in the balls once I figure out how to stand up,” Eddie said, voice soft and arms open.

Chapter Text

Eddie, for reasons that would remain unknown to him, Richie, and the entire Losers Club, went back to New York with his wife.

He’d been awake three days before he told Richie he really had to call her. He felt like he owed the knowledge that he was alive, at the very least. He dialled the number and listened to the tone and planned out what he was going to say. This would be it, he would say, this would be the last she heard from him. He didn’t have a plan outside of that. Which was probably a good thing, because that plan fell through pretty quickly.

He didn’t know how she did it. It was probably how she always did it. Always talked him down.

“Eddie, honey, you’re being crazy. You probably aren’t thinking straight-”

“You can’t leave me, sweetie. You know I’m the only one who can look after you properly.”

It was somewhere between “this is just the medicine talking, Eddiebear”, and “say it, say you love me”, that Eddie gave up and told her the address, choking on a quick ‘I love you’ before the call was cut.

Richie looked at him like he had just done the stupidest fucking thing in the world. Maybe, it occurred to him, and was then confirmed, he had just done the stupid fucking thing in the world. But it was too late when it dawned on him.

A few hours later and Myra burst into the hospital room, as frantic as ever, maybe moreso. She fussed over Eddie in that horrible way he had been dreading. She interrogated the doctors, and then she interrogated Eddie himself, and then she turned to try and interrogate Richie, who hadn’t moved. He’d moved his chair so that he was just sitting next to Eddie, and had stayed like that since he woke up. Myra stood in front of him, towering, hands on her hips and face red, a look in her eyes that terrified Eddie when he wasn’t even in the firing line. It was the same look his mother had given Richie after...IT. From the way Richie’s jaw twitched, Eddie suspected he recognised it, too. But he didn’t react to Myra at all- just looked up at her, boredom on his face, and some kind of hidden surrender in the creases of his eyes.
As much as it looked like boredom and suppressed reactions, it looked like bravery to Eddie.

A kind of bravery he didn’t think he would ever have.

Richie didn’t leave as Myra packed Eddie’s few things. He didn’t leave as the doctors ran final tests, gave him the all-clear. He didn’t leave when Eddie had gotten dressed, and Myra hurried him out the door, allowing him only a pathetic, desperate glance and a rushed “I’ll call you”. Richie just nodded, grabbing his hand for one last reassuring squeeze, and then the heavy door slammed shut.

Richie didn’t know what to do with himself.

He stood with his calves against the bed. He watched through the slim rectangle of glass in the door until he couldn’t see them. He could still hear them- hear her. It didn’t seem like Eddie had a lot to say, just apologies, when Myra was around. It felt weirdly like he was 12 years old, stood on the Kaspbrak porch on a Sunday morning after spending the night at Eddie’s without Sonia’s permission. She had hurried in the same way, given him similar scathing glances, and had slammed the front door in his face. He had felt the same odd, creeping numbness, and the same boiling, unfiltered rage.

A nurse came in to clear it out, ready for the next patient, and Richie physically couldn’t stay. Part of him wanted to. Wanted to sit back down in the room. The space, occupied only by Richie and Eddie, as they bathed in the afterglow of winning. Where they discussed the next move, the past moves, how everything hurt and how everything was healing. How the hospitals pudding was better than any other, and how Eddie disagreed profusely. How Eddie was definitely Monica from Friends and Richie wasn’t Joey, he had more brains than that, he was totally Chandler. How lucky they were to be able to sit and take shitty buzzfeed quizzes.

He didn’t. He left, thanked the nurse, thanked Mark, gave the receptionist Myra’s contact details. He stopped at the vending machine to get shitty coffee he had oddly grown to love. He stood outside by his flashy red sports car and chainsmoked three quarters of his Malboro Reds. He finished his coffee as it started raining and got into his car, and then something clicked.

Rage bubbled. He curled his hands into fists and slammed them into his steering wheel, over and over again. He pushed his chair back so he could kick his legs. He couldn’t stop himself. It was frustration and disbelief and fury and longing and grief. It was pity and hurt and hope. It was everything all at once, and it pushed him from tired into exhausted until he gave up and slammed his forehead into the wheel. He didn’t even care about the kids in the car a little further down, who had just watched him breakdown entirely. Shaking, Richie pressed his forehead into the wheel and bit the inside of his cheek until he drew blood. Then he reached for his phone, feeling like he had just been hit by a train, and scrolled to find Beverley’s contact.

In the hospital parking lot, Richie poured his heart out to one of the only people he trusted. He cried and he relived and he explained. He told her how he felt about Eddie, how he had felt since he was 11 years old and Eddie had beat him in a bike race and gave him the most triumphant grin in the world and Richie had felt the fabrics of his universe shifting and immediately decided he’d lose over, and over, and over again if it meant he got to see that grin. He told her it hurt and it hurt more now. She told him that she was with the group, that Stan had heard, and was willing to let him stay with them- because he didn’t need to be alone right then.

Sniffling, turning the keys in the ignition, Richie apologised, then thanked, and then agreed to go and stay with Stanley and his wife.

He drove home first. All the way to LA, and that took him so long it was dark when he got to his house. He pulled into his garage, and he unlocked his front door, but it felt so deeply wrong he could have hurled. Surprisingly, the contents of his stomach stayed put, and Richie moved through his place on autopilot. It felt wrong, and too empty, and too big, but somehow suffocating. But he swallowed and ignored it and packed himself a bag. Then he sat by his big bedroom window, on the windowsill, and sparked a cigarette while he called his manager. He could still taste blood and metal and discomfort as he explained he was sorry, but everything had to be put on hold until further notice.

After that, there was nothing else to do. It had gotten darker, ticking towards seven, and Richie’s response was to make two flasks of coffee, load up his car, and go.

By the time he reached Stan’s, he had replied every memory with Eddie twice. Even the newest- of his hands, of his ‘I’ll call you’, of the door shutting between them. Even the very first- of his small frown at the stains on Richie’s sweater, of the roll of his eyes, of his inhaler falling out of his pocket. From nine to twelve to seventeen. The gap. And then from the Jade, to the hospital room, to the sound of his wife’s grating voice.

He stood on the Uris’ doorstep and forced himself to breathe. He forced himself to smile, and then he knocked on the door, and he knew immediately his act wasn’t working. Seeing Stanley again brought on a fresh wave of emotions and he crumbled. He assumed it was okay, because Stan cracked too, and in the end it was Patty who came out from the kitchen and led them inside as they clung to each other.

Chapter Text

As soon as Richie sat down, in the Uris’ kitchen, at their table with its floral covering and its comfortable chairs, he knew immediately he needed to be there. He knew he couldn’t have been alone. Not right then. Because, in reality, he had left no time or space to heal himself. Physically, he was okay- save for the occasional chilling tunnel vision when he first woke up, something to do with the deadlights, he assumed- but mentally, he had crumbled. He had been too busy focusing on Eddie, thinking about Eddie, hoping he would be okay. He’d neglected his own need to heal, too.

He thought Stan probably knew that. He’d always known Richie better than the others. Except for Bill, maybe. Even so, Stan knew. And he didn’t mention it. He sat opposite Richie at the table, and Patty filled the kettle in the background, and it was weird because...because it wasn’t weird. Because he instantly felt as though he fit in, not like a burden, or an unwanted guest- all feelings he had worried about on the way there.

Stan looked at him in silence for a moment, and Richie could feel his eyes scanning his face. He didn’t even want to think about how terrible he looked.

“Hot drink, Richard?” Patty asked sweetly from the fridge, the kettle bubbling gently.

“Coffee. Black, with three sugars,” Stan answered for him. Flawlessly. Richie smiled, nodding.

“He’s right. What a man,” he joked, earning himself that familiar Stanley eye roll.

There was a comfortable silence- something Richie found rare and relieving- while Patty made them drinks. She took the seat to Stan’s left as Richie thanked her for the coffee. He needed it- exhaustion was settling in his bones, and yet he couldn’t sit still. His leg bounced anxiously under the table, and his fingers scrambled to spin his watch around on his wrist. He hurt, somewhere deep and dark and twisting. It was the same kind of painful twinge he felt when he had worked up the courage to ask out his first boy in college, and got turned down. It was the same kind of crushing breathlessness he felt when he came home with a B in French, and had been so scared about telling his parents and so worried they would be disappointed, he threw up. And, as he was thinking himself into that hole, a gentle touch on his shoulder made him jump.

Stan had moved, now in the chair to his right, and placed his hand on Richie’s shoulder. He had noticed how his eyes glazed over, focused on nothing. He had seen that worrying crinkle in his forehead and the unhappy twitch of his top lip. Even all these years apart, Stan still knew.

“Hey, Rich, talk to us, buddy.”

Richie shook his head. It was selfish, he knew it was. He knew Eddie couldn’t help going back to Myra. Just the same way Eddie had never been able to help going back to his mother, despite being only one more little step away from freedom. He swallowed.

“I don’t wanna talk about it right now, Stan the Man, if that’s okay,” Richie said steadily, now looking up to catch his eyes, seeing them full of sympathy that made his skin crawl. “Catch me up on you for the like, what, 27 fucking years? It’s been literal decades, dude.”

They ended up staying up until half two in the morning, then. They laughed, and they talked about college, and they talked about growing up. The later it got, the deeper in they dived. They spoke about Derry, and they spoke about not remembering Derry. Stan told him how he’d reacted to the call, throat tight and strained as Patty ran her fingers through his curls, and Richie had pulled him in for a hug. Richie commented on how perfect they were, how well they fit together. And he silently wished he had someone to be like that with, but didn’t say it. Patty kissed him on the cheek before she went up to bed at around midnight, leaving just him and Stan.

“You’re in love, Stanton, and it suits you,” Richie commented, sipping on his cup of tea, deciding to leave the caffeine alone.

“She’s amazing, Rich. She’s a real life angel. I don’t know where I’d be without her,” he agreed, a small smile on his face, and Richie felt his chest warm with happiness on Stan’s behalf.

“You two are so fucking sappy. It’s disgusting.”

“Keep talking shit, you can sleep on the floor.”

“You wouldn’t, you love me far too much.”

“Debatable.”

Richie laughed, kicking Stan’s foot. He felt better. Much, much better. But that was mainly down to the fact Patty, Stan, and memory lane were excellent distractions. Eventually, Stan went to bed, stopping to give Richie a hug, patting his back and sniffing lightly.

“You had better fucking shower in the morning.”

And then Richie was alone, luckily tired enough to pass out on the couch before he could think too hard.

-

No, giving her the address was definitely the stupidest fucking thing Eddie had ever done. The drive home was horrendous. She made him drive, but only because she was so busy waving her hands she would have crashed. Eddie stared at the road and kept swallowing every single word that bubbled in his throat except for “yes Myra” “no Myra” and “sorry, Myra”. The lines on the road blurred together and traffic lights were no more than hazy colourful dots. He managed to drown her out, like he always had. Until she started on Richie.

“And that disgusting, dirty comedian,” she started, folding her arms and squinting. “They let him stay there with you? He’s a mess. He’s a walking infection to any wound, Eddiebear. And he smokes! I wouldn’t be surprised if he sparked one up in your room- god, your poor lungs. We’ll need to get that checked, you know how sensitive they are. And he recently- it’s disgusting- he recently put something on twitter, and there’s speculation he’s- oh, it absolutely abominable. You’re so lucky I got there, saved you from his greasy, dirty hands-”

“Shut up,” Eddie muttered, eyes still on the road, feeling his chest tighten and his heart jump to his throat.

“What?”

“You don’t know him at all. He’d never do that. And you’re being horrible for no fucking reason. He just stayed with me, Myra, there’s nothing wrong with that. I’ve known him since I was about ten, for goodness s- FUCKING MOVE!” He argued, and then got distracted by the car in front of him.

He didn’t have to look up to know the face Myra was making. He could feel it. He could feel her burning glare, making holes in the side of his skull. He felt fear working its way into his ribcage, crippling regret at what he had just done. He should have just stayed quiet. Let her ramble it out, agree and apologies and say he loved her.

But he didn’t. Because he was an idiot. And because hearing her tear into Richie like that, the things she said, the implications of the ‘speculation he’s-’, had made him so fiercely angry he physically couldn’t contain himself. His grip tightened on the steering wheel as she spoke.

“How. Dare. You-”

“I’m sorry-”

“Eddiebear, that was so rude. I’m looking out for you. I’m protecting you. You don’t need some walking grease stain, you need me, and your medication, and your home in New York. How dare you disrespect me like that? All I have ever done is look after you.”

Eddie swallowed, but the lump in his throat didn’t budge. He felt fear and anger mixing in his stomach. He gripped harder, setting his jaw, and then nodded, slow and deliberate and defeated.

“I’m sorry, Myra.”

“Good. Now eyes on the road, honey.”

He lasted two months in New York before he couldn’t take it anymore.

Chapter Text

Eddie didn’t call. Richie didn’t know what to feel, if he was completely honest. From what he’d seen, it was completely likely that Myra had pulled some teenage bullshit and taken Eddie’s phone. Maybe she had deleted Richie’s number. Maybe Eddie had just decided not to call, that New York and his wife and his boring job was it for him- maybe what had happened had forced him to overcome, and he was finally happy.

Either way, Richie didn’t hear from him.

He stayed with Stan and Patty for a week. It was good- better than he could ever have imagined, actually. He fit there pretty well. They bathed together- Stan and Patty- which he became used to the second time it happened. Him and Stan drank cold cider and sat in their garden in dark green lawn chairs and watched the sun go down. Two mornings he woke up early and watched the sunrise, and watched the birds come out of the trees in Stan’s backyard, and was happy he had gotten the birds he wanted. They went for breakfast three mornings in a row, with Patty insisting Richie deserved to be spoiled, and adopting her own nickname for him- Goose. She called Stan ‘dove’, and although he ripped shit into him for it, it made Richie warm to hear.

It was a much needed break. He had a lot of time to think, while he was there. He blanked calls from his manager, and he looked up therapists in LA. And he spoke to Stan lots, about anything and everything, and sometimes nothing.

Not thinking about it was hard. About Eddie. Every quiet moment started with ‘he hasn’t called’. That carried on even when he said goodbye to the Uris’. It carried on as Patty kissed his cheek and Stanley closed his trunk. It carried on as he drove back to LA, weary and exhausted, but feeling himself become more settled. More even.

About a month back in LA, and Richie stopped thinking about how Eddie hadn’t called.

He went through the motions well enough. He booked that therapy appointment, and signed up to see her one a fortnight. He finally got in contact with him manager and booked more shows, and more shows, and had a meeting about a Netflix special. They were still discussing that, but it was definitely on the cards. He took his writer on as a partner instead, and they wrote material together, and Richie was a lot happier performing words that were his own. He came out that way- the only good things to come out of Derry, both him and his acceptance of who he was. A joke, slid in the middle of his act, and had watched it blow up for a good few days until everyone forgot. The house still felt wrong- too big and empty and suffocating at the same time- but he managed. Things were looking up.

On the outside, anyway.

His nightmares got worse. So bad, he stopped wearing pyjamas to bed, because he sweat through them. He woke up dripping, mid-scream. But he could rarely remember what the dream had even been about. His therapist didn’t want to medicate him so early on, so he lived with it- changed his sheets and distracted himself until he could get back to sleep. He rarely managed to get back. But that was okay.

And he did think about Eddie. Only occasionally. In the quiet, in-between moments, when it was just him and his white walls and the sun though his window. When he sat on his balcony as the sun set for his final cigarette of the night. Sometimes, thoughts of Eddie crept into the loud moments, too. As the crowds clapped seven weeks since the slam of the hospital door. As he downed bourbon at an afterparty on a friday night. He’d stopped, drink raised to his lips, microphone in his hand, and wonder what Eddie would like in those lights, from the stage, at the bar.

Someone would touch his back, shout his name, his earpiece would beep- and he forced back to the living, to the now, to LA and the emptiness in his middle. It was the same kind of emptiness he hadn’t been able to shake when he left Derry, the same emptiness he had been hounded by for the last 27 years. Except now it had a name, and a face, and a reason.

But he managed.

He managed, interrupted only by the Losers’ Club fortnightly group dinners (always missing one person), for two whole months.

-

The day Eddie decided, finally, to call, was one of the worst days of his life.

Which was saying something. He’d been into Neilbolt three times, which was three too many. He’d been attacked by a demon clown thing more than once. He’d married someone he didn’t love. He’d lowered his own mother into the ground.

And yet, this was one of the worst.

He didn’t know what made it so horrible, really. It had started off like every other day. The buzz of his alarm, the fight with Myra to let him get up, the smell of his coffee brewing. He called the fourth insurance firm that month for an interview over the phone, sat at their kitchen table, the spotless marble surfaces giving him a headache, far too bright for any sane person.

That checked out.

The interview did not go well. Myra was well up by then, making breakfast, switching on their tinny radio. Eddie looked out at the street, empty and bland and disgustingly familiar. He felt rage start to grow, unchecked, from somewhere deep within him. His hands clenched and his shoulders tensed. A taxi crept past and he imagined himself storming out, slamming the door, and climbing in. Even though taxis were a breeding ground for bacteria. Even though he was in his pyjamas. Even though he had no address to give the man behind the wheel- nowhere to go.

His thoughts were interrupted by his wife, calling him for breakfast. Usually, the anger would have drained. Instantly. Like it always did, because it became fear and uncertainty, and he became a coward. But it stayed their this time. His fists stayed clenched, his jaw stayed locked, and he sat down as if nothing was wrong.

They ate. Myra talked. Eddie pretended to listen. It had been the same since they moved in together. It had been the same when he had breakfast with his mother.

And then, while he wasn’t listening properly, dipping the crust of his toast into his egg, Myra said something that finally flicked the switch.

“I think we should renew our vows, Eddiebear- what happened made me realise how easy it might be to lose you,” she said, that annoying, fake gentleness to her voice, that made the hairs on Eddie’s neck stand up.

He dropped the crust and stared at her. For a moment, he was silent. He could see it in his head, playing out. Myra trapping him again, him willingly signing up for it, repeated the words he had choked on. He saw the spiders web and he saw himself tangled in it. He saw the cogs in Myra’s brain turning- ‘you’ll never get away again,’ the suggestion whispered, ‘us forever, Eddiebear’.

“No,” Eddie replied simply, then pushed his chair back and stood. “No.”

Myra looked like he had just slapped her. He felt, oddly enough, like he just had. He pushed his chair back in and kept his hands on the back. Guilt made his stomach twist at her expression- guilt he knew he shouldn’t feel, but always felt anyway. It was such a jumbled, suffocating mix between guilt and anger and relief, he thought he might be sick.

But this was brave, he decided. This was the same bravery as when he chucked his pills on the ground and shouted at his mother. It was the same bravery as when he dug his fingers into the lepers dirty eye sockets. It was the same bravery as when he attacked Pennywise.

It was the same bravery as Richie, sat in the hospital room, looking boredly up at Myra as she tried to twist him the same way she did Eddie.

It was the same bravery as Richie coming out on stage- he’d watched and rewatched the clip more times than he could count.

“What the- what do you mean ‘no’, Eddie? Don’t you want to reclaim your love for me, after something so frightening and dirty. Something that almost took you from me, made you unsafe, made you sick-”

“You make me sick!” Eddie snapped, shoving the chair forward so the table shook. “You make me sick! Make me unsafe! Anything would have been a fucking escape from you, Myra, not a fucking kidnapping! It was welcomed!”

It sunk in, a second later, what he had just said. What he had just admitted. The feelings he’d been swallowing for years. They collected in his throat, choking him, and yet freeing him with each breath. He reached, subconsciously, into his pocket for his asthma pump, and then forced himself not to.

“Eddiebear, I think you need a rest- I think I should call the doctor, it must your medicine, making you-”

“It’s you!” He interrupted again. “It’s you making me! Making me like this! I don’t want to renew our fucking vows because I didn’t want to say them in the fucking first place! I’m not renewing fuckall, I’m filing a goddamn divorce as soon as I get out of here-”

He spun on his heel and marched off to her bedroom, where all his stuff was kept, but the room wasn’t his. It never had been. She followed, appearing in the doorway as he grabbed his duffel bag from under the bed. He drowned her out as he packed, only catching lose words, moving fast in the hopes of hiding his shaking.

“You’re sick, Eddie!”

“Where will you go? Who will take care of you?”

“You’re not thinking properly, Eddiebear- please sit down. Take your pump, look at you-”

Then the anger replaced the negotiation and she started on the insults.

“You’re weak, Eddie.”

“You’re fragile.”

“This is ridiculous! You can’t look after yourself- you’ve never been able to, you baby. You need me!”

Then it was tears. Pleading. Begging. By then, though, Eddie had packed anything he deemed important. She had, thankfully, moved into her bedroom when she started crying, grabbing desperately at him and covering her face when she sobbed. It scared him, how little remorse he felt for her state. That worsened the guilt. He swallowed it, grabbing his pre-packed toiletry bag, and practically ran out of the bedroom door. She grabbed his duffel as he shrugged his coat on, but his hiss of ‘fuck off’ must have startled her enough to let go.

And then he had slammed the door.

He stood on their doorstep, hearing her muffled sobs behind the wood, and felt nothing but relief. A small smile graced his lips. He climbed into his car and pulled away, watching her through their big living room window.

He drove for about two hours before he pulled over, brought a coffee, and then reached for his phone.

Sure, he was two months late, but better late than never, he reassured himself as he flicked through his contacts, looking for the dumb close-up of Richie.

Chapter Text

Thursday, at around 3 in the afternoon, Richie had been asleep. His phone began to buzz loudly on the table beside his couch. He turned over, vision hazy, and scrambled for his glasses. It probably wasn’t anyone important, but he checked anyway. He was waiting for news on his Netflix spot.

It was not news on his Netflix spot.

He saw the name- Eddie Spaghetti- and almost fell off of the couch. He picked up a second before Eddie stopped mumbling “please pick up”. Suddenly he was very, very awake.

“Oh, hello, Eds,” he greeted, trying to downplay the shake in his voice.

“Richie,” came the reply. It was breathless and relieved and made his face feel warm. “Richie, I’m so-”

“Don’t. Don’t apologise. I met your wife, I get it, Spaghetti.”

“Don’t fucking call me that.”

There was a pause, a beat of silence, and Richie felt nervous. Why was Eddie calling him? Now, two months later, when he had finally decided it was time to move on. He opened his mouth to ask-

“Ex-wife. She’s my- ex- I left her. I left Myra,” Eddie blurted, before he could get his words out.

“Oh,” Richie responded softly. “Good for you, dude. She was like a less sexy version of your mom.”

He cringed at himself when he said it, but he didn’t know what else to say. Thinking about it hurt. He heard Eddie sniff, that first little warning sound before he burst into tears. A second later, and Richie was proven right, as the other sobbed down the phone.

“Rich- Richie, I’m sorry, fuck- this is stupid. I’m sorry. I don’t even know why I-”

“Because you promised.”

“Because I- yeah, I promise and- I’m so fucking- I don’t know what to do, Richie-”

“You need a place to stay, Spaghetti? Unless you pushed the bitch over and rolled her off the property, I think you just might,” Richie offered gently, pressing his knuckles against the bottom of his chin and trying to stop his leg from bouncing.

There was no answer for a moment. Just sniffling, sobbing, that way Eddie used to hiccup when he got really upset and didn’t take his pump quick enough. Richie heard the rattle of it being shaken, but not the sharp inhale- maybe it wasn’t taken at all. Then it was quiet, a breath was drawn, and Richie imagined Eddie nodding to himself.

“Yeah, yeah- I need a place to stay.”

“I’ve got room.”

“Are you sure? You’re not, like, angry or busy or whatever? Because I can-”

“Don’t be dumb,” Richie interrupted, knowing Eddie would continue for about three hours if he didn’t. “Are you driving?”

“I’m not driving right now- what kind of idiot drives while on their phone, I mean-”

“You. When Mike called. Dumbass.”

There was enough softness in Richie’s voice that he could hear Eddie’s affectionate scoff. He imagined him shaking his head, rolling his eyes. He stood up from the couch.

“Oh, nice one, dickwad,” Eddie replied, and he may have been deluded, but he could hear a very small smile behind the soft hiccups in Eddie’s voice.

“One comment about my house and I’ll make you sleep in the garage- I know what you’re like,” Richie joked and stood up, wandering into the kitchen. “There’s like a 40 hour drive between us. Get to a hotel for tonight, okay? Fly out tomorrow morning, and I’ll meet you at the airport.”

“Fucking hell- yes, mom, Jesus.”

“Your mom was Jesus? Is that why she was so good at-”

“Do NOT finish that sentence.”

“Alright, alright,” Richie responded in surrender. “I’ll send you some flights.”

“Okay,” then a small sigh, “thank you, Richie.”

“No problem, Eds Spagheds. I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“I’ll see you tomorrow.”

No ‘don’t call me that’. The line went dead. Richie gulped, put his phone down, and knew there would definitely be a problem or two. Or seven. Hundred.