Chapter Text
Eddie Kaspbrak is on bed-rest, and he’s absolutely miserable. He knows he shouldn’t be – he tries to remind himself that he has a good, well-paying job, a stable living situation, and a wife who cares about his well-being, so realistically, he has nothing to be miserable about. But Eddie has always felt this way about being on bed-rest; not being able to do anything makes him antsy, and antsy is not a good look for him. Despite the limited nature of his memories from his childhood, he has a feeling this was always the case, which is both reassuring and not.
At least on bed-rest, Eddie muses, Myra gives him some space. He sighs as he watches the face of Seth Meyers come into view, signalling that the Weekend Update segment of Saturday Night Live has begun; if Myra were here, she would never allow him to watch it, despite the fact that he finds it very entertaining. She says that he’s above “that low-brow humour,” and that subjects such as those discussed on Saturday Night Live are simply too shocking for his frail heart.
A character that Eddie doesn’t think he’s seen before rolls into view in an office chair, catching himself on the desk just in time to avoid ramming into Seth, cupping his ring-adorned hands over his mouth, running his tongue over his teeth before greeting Seth and the audience in a soft falsetto.
As the bit goes on – Seth asking “Stefon the City Correspondent” for St Patrick’s Day destinations and receiving highly inappropriate (though, Eddie must admit, quite funny) nonsense about old women who look like raisins and clubs opened at gunpoint in return – Eddie is overtaken by the nagging feeling that he knows the face of the actor playing Stefon, that he’s seen it somewhere before – perhaps not exactly as it is now, but quite similar, or at the very least not different enough to be unrecognisable. How he’s so sure, he couldn’t say; it’s just such a strong feeling he cannot ignore it, no matter how hard he tries to force himself to focus on what he’s watching.
Another noteworthy point is that the actor seems to be having trouble keeping a straight face at times. Eddie is sure that there’s a reason behind this, but something about the act of the man breaking character only adds to how familiar the man seems – once again, for reasons Eddie can’t explain.
At one point, Stefon pulls a pin out of his pocket and presents it to Seth, who pins it to his lapel and reads the phrase printed on it, Kiss Me, I’m Irish, aloud. Stefon replies, “If you insist,” before grabbing Seth and mashing his mouth against Seth’s. The kiss goes on for two, three, five, seven, nine seconds; someone in the audience wolf whistles. Eddie seethes openly, though for what reason he has no clue.
Eddie wouldn’t call himself a homophobe, or anything in that vein. He thinks there’s nothing wrong with love as long as it’s true and pure. But at the sight of the actor (who he still could not place) kissing Seth Meyers, he feels full to the brim with some bitter, sharp emotion he can’t name. Jealousy? (Longing? Whispers the same part of his brain that insisted he knew that face.) Whatever it is, it’s nigh overwhelming; Eddie can’t remember the last time he felt so strongly, without any impediment, and this revelation startles him so badly that he reaches for the remote at his bedside and changes the channel.
He isn’t sure what came over him just then. Already, though, the feeling is starting to fade, so he comforts himself with the thought that perhaps with time he can simply put the entire ordeal out of his mind, wash his hands of it and forget it as though it never were in the first place.
“And that’s a wrap!”
Richie Tozier has to consciously keep himself from sagging to the floor at those words. He twists one of the various rings adorning his fingers and adjusts his printed sleeves nervously, some strange feeling making a home in his chest. He’s startled back to reality by a hand coming to rest on his shoulder.
“Don’t know how much practice you’ve had, Richie, but you’re not as bad a kisser as I expected,” Seth says cheerfully, punctuating his sentence with a wink.
Richie grins back at him. “Careful, there, sounds like you might be in danger of falling in love with the Trashmouth,” Richie says coyly. “Think of your wife, Meyers; she’d be crushed.”
Seth laughs brightly, slapping Richie gently on the back. Then, he stands, brushing the wrinkles out of his slacks as he does so. “I’m gonna go get a drink. You want anything?”
Richie waves his hand dismissively and makes a sound answering in the negative, and Seth goes, giving him one last friendly smile and thumbs-up as he leaves.
Richie remains in his chair for a moment before standing himself and making a beeline for the elevator.
How the hell did it come to this? He wonders internally, staring at his reflection in the polished metal of the elevator after punching the button for the floor that held his dressing room with, perhaps, a little more force than necessary.
And he lets that thought float there in the relative emptiness of his tired mind. How did it come to this – to playing a gay man on television, pretending to be in love with his co-workers? Although, Richie muses with something resembling bitterness, perhaps it isn’t the ‘playing a gay man’ part that he really needs to wonder about; perhaps it’s how he came to be a gay man pretending to be a straight man who plays a gay man on television. But really, when he gives it a little more thought, he decides maybe it makes sense, after all; he has plenty of experience pretending to be straight. It’s the pretending to be gay that’s the real obstacle for him.
As the elevator opens with a soft ‘ping,’ releasing Richie into the belly of the building he films in once a week, he allows himself a moment to feel every second of his age.
He feels, in truth, like a coward. He realises this as he’s hanging up his Stefon attire, and it leaves him so stricken that he actually has to take a moment to sit down. He feels like a coward. He feels like a coward, perhaps, because he is a coward; he can hold a ten-second kiss with another male actor on live television to make people laugh, but he doesn’t have the backbone to tell anyone that he actually likes kissing other men.
Is that really true, though?
And then, sitting on the little grey couch in the corner of his dressing room, still wearing all of those stupid rings, Richie faces a truth he’s been trying to ignore for a long time now: kissing Seth – kissing anyone, in fact – while not unenjoyable, felt wrong in a moral way, for reasons that are completely beyond Richie’s understanding. It isn’t just the fact that Richie is closeted, nor is it entirely due to internalised homophobia (though, shamefully, Richie can’t say that those two things don’t factor in). Richie truly cannot say what it is for sure. It isn’t as though he’s cheating on someone, considering he hasn’t really dated anyone in well over two years, and he’s just about as far from prudish as one can get. So why?
A face suddenly flashes through his mind and before his eyes, seared there like an afterimage. It’s gone before he can begin to process it, or even tell if he recognises it. He tries to quell his mounting frustration by telling himself that it could have been random, some sort of fluke, but it’s a weak excuse and he knows it. He has the nagging feeling he should know that face, that he should have recognised it instantly, but for the life of him he cannot figure out why.
Maybe I knew him before, Richie thinks, unbidden, before he has time to second-guess again.
He stares down at the silver rings still adorning his fingers, takes a deep breath, and begins twisting them off one by one.
“Beep beep, Richie,” he murmurs to himself, though it’s uncertain whether he even knows he said it.
Bill Denbrough has had it with this rotten screenplay. He’s had it with the director, too, for insisting to Bill that the ending needs to be changed, and with himself for being so quick to bend to other people’s whims. Mostly, though, he’s had it with the screenplay; he’s just about ready to scrap the entire last half and rewrite it from scratch (as though that would change the fact that he apparently couldn’t wrap up a story to save his life).
He’s been writing and rewriting and editing and starting over and hating himself for over two hours and he has nothing. The only thing keeping him sane is the SNL reruns he has playing for background noise, and even that isn’t going to work much longer if he keeps subjecting himself to this torture.
Sighing and carding a hand through his hair, Bill leans back in his chair, looking up from his laptop to tune into the episode of SNL that’s playing. His eyes catch on the face of the actor seated next to Seth Meyers, the host of the SNL Weekend Update, and as soon as his gaze locks onto the man’s face, he finds himself unable to look away – even when he hears the door to his study open behind him, meaning that Audra is about to catch him slacking off.
“Hello, darling,” Audra says as she approaches Bill’s desk, placing a mug in front of him. “How’s it coming along?”
Her voice doesn’t even reach Bill’s ears. His eyes remain focused on the face of the unknown actor, unable to tear himself away.
“…Bill?” Audra places a tentative hand on Bill’s back, and he jumps, the trance broken.
“Hi, sorry, honey,” Bill says, letting out a heavy breath through his nose and running a hand over his face. “What—What did you say?”
Audra doesn’t seem bothered by his lack of attentiveness – on the contrary, she only looks endeared.
“I asked how it’s coming along but considering the fact that I just came in to find you staring at the tube, I assume it isn’t coming along at all,” Audra tells him, rather matter-of-factly. “Should’ve known you would find a way to distract yourself if I wasn’t here to keep an eye on you.”
Her words conflict with the fondness in her voice, so Bill doesn’t take what she says personally, though part of him feels that he should; instead, he simply mutters something only half coherent about how the man on the screen looked familiar.
Audra hums, looking over and really noticing what Bill’s watching for the first time. “Ah, that’s Richie Tozier.”
Richie Tozier. Something about the name nags at the back of Bill’s mind. He feels as though he should recognise it – or perhaps more accurately, he does recognise it, but he feels as though he should know why. He tests the name on his tongue, and it rolls off easily, in an almost practiced way.
Audra nods. “I believe the stage name he uses is ‘Trashmouth.’ He’s grown quite a bit in popularity since he started at Saturday Night Live; I’ve even come across him at a couple of events lately. He’s rather good,” Audra says distractedly, watching the two men on the screen for a moment before continuing, “Perhaps that’s why you think you’ve seen him before?”
“Yeah,” Bill says, somehow not convinced. “Yeah, that m-m…” He furrows his brow. “Must be it.”
Audra doesn’t seem to notice his momentary struggle, which he’s grateful for, because he isn’t sure how he would explain it if she had. He tells himself it’s probably just nerves; he’s working himself up trying to finish this godforsaken manuscript, and the frustration and anxiety must be getting to him more than he realised.
He still can’t shake the feeling that he knows Richie Tozier – or, at least, knew him. Knew him almost as well as he knew himself, if not better.
Bill is shaken from his reverie when Audra places her hands gently on his shoulders, lightly massaging them, cooing softly at the tension she finds there.
“You really ought to get back to work soon, love,” she says gently. “You know how easily you lose your motivation.”
Bill nods absently, looking at the television one last time. He watches Richie Tozier make faces and do voices (though for some reason, in his head, Bill thinks of them as Voices, the capitalisation being very significant for reasons he cannot explain) for another moment before very reluctantly reaching for the remote and turning off the TV.
Ben Hanscom has never been gladder for the end of a meeting in his entire life. He’s been sitting in the same position for so long that he can actually feel himself melding with his (hideously expensive, oddly uncomfortable) chair. He lets out a jaw-popping yawn as he finally stands, stretching as much as his ‘more-business-than-casual’ attire will allow, and retrieving his jacket from the back of his chair.
One of the board members to his right begins chatting amicably about her upcoming plans and asks another man across the table if he has “anything exciting planned.”
“I do, as a matter of fact!” The balding man replies almost boastfully over the boardroom table. “Just bought me and the wife two tickets to a Richie Tozier stand-up show for our anniversary. Sold out right after I got ‘em – what luck! Can you believe it?”
Ben freezes at the sound of the name. It’s so familiar that he’s absolutely positive he’s heard it before – hell, he can picture himself saying it with such startling clarity that he must have done it, and yet he cannot recall ever having heard of Richie Tozier.
Trying to appear casual, Ben asks, “Richie Tozier? Who’s that?”
The others swivel their heads to look at him, some of them with disbelief written plainly on their faces.
“Who’s Richie Tozier?” The balding man (whose name escape Ben at the moment, though he thinks it begins with a W – Wallace? Walter, maybe?) says incredulously. “Richie Tozier is only one of the comedic geniuses of our time! He’s done stand-up in some of the most famous venues in North America! He’s been on Saturday Night Live since 2010!” Maybe-Walter’s face is red with exertion, and Ben hears one of the other board members say something about his blood pressure in a warning tone. “You’re telling me you’ve never heard of Richie Tozier?”
Ben throws his hands up placatingly, trying to think of something to say to quell Maybe-Walter’s anger. “Sorry, I just… don’t really watch SNL.”
It’s a stupid thing to say, but the anger seems to seep out of Maybe-Walter in seconds just from hearing it.
“Ah, no sweat, man,” He says. Then: “Y’know, I don’t blame you for not watching it. Who even stays up that late anymore, right?”
“Uh. Yeah.” Ben thinks about the information he’s learned about this Richie Tozier. He doesn’t really watch SNL, but considering how popular it is, he supposes that playing on the show for upwards of five years is a pretty big accomplishment.
Looks like Trashmouth finally made it to the big leagues, he thinks, and then he wonders what the hell that even means.
Out loud, Ben says, “I’ll have to look up some of his recent stuff.”
The woman to Ben’s right, whose name is Meredith, says, “I don’t really think his humour would be your ‘thing,’” she smiles warmly and pats his arm. “It’s a bit… Crude.”
“Never stopped him before,” Ben says without thinking.
Meredith furrows her brow. “What do you mean?”
Ben tries to think of a response, but when he reaches into the place in his brain the words had sprung from, he finds that all he gets is emptiness.
“Uh… Nothing. Forget about it,” he says, with a winning smile and a dismissive hand-wave, and for some reason he knows that the others will forget about it.
With no reason to stay any longer, Ben picks up his briefcase and heads for the door. He checks his watch absentmindedly, making a mental note to look into this Richie Tozier when he gets home.
The idea is gone from his mind before he even reaches the elevator.
Stan Uris has never been bored by doing bills in his entire adult life. He finds it almost therapeutic to sit down on the couch in his living room with the envelopes laid out on the coffee table in neat columns, armed with his trusty red pen, paper shredder affixed to the wastepaper basket settled next to his right knee. He genuinely enjoys it, no matter how mundane it may seem; it gives him a chance to relax and helps him feel like he’s doing something important.
(It’s also something of a trade-off in his mind, considering Patricia is the only one out of the two of them with any culinary prowess. She says that he makes up for it by doing the dishes and helping her clean the kitchen afterward, but he still feels like he needs to contribute somehow. He’d never admit to that, though.)
Anyway, yes, Stan is a weirdo who likes math and thinks doing bills is fun. This is important because Stan has been sitting in the living room, bills all perfectly lined up in front of him, pen in hand, for an hour now… And he hasn’t done anything for almost fifteen minutes. The reason for this is simple: he’s been staring at the TV, where an episode of Saturday Night Live is playing, courtesy of Netflix.
There’s movement to his left, and he is both startled and confused to look over and find Patricia sitting on the couch next to him.
“I thought you were making lunch,” Stan says, brows drawing together.
Patricia cocks her head at him. She looks as confused as Stan feels. “I did,” she says, gesturing to two plates sitting on the coffee table in front of them. “I told you it was ready from the kitchen three times. Did you not hear me?”
Stan feels his attention drifting back to the TV. “Must not have,” he murmurs, leaning forward to pick up his fork.
Stefon, a character Stan isn’t familiar with, is talking about Valentine’s Day destinations in New York, one of them being “located in an abandoned orphanage in the lower-lower east side of Chelsea.”
“I never understood how you could watch this stuff,” Patricia muses aloud. “It doesn’t make sense, and it’s so insensitive. It just doesn’t seem like the kind of thing that you would find funny.”
Stan hums noncommittally. Her words are going in one ear and out the other right now; all of Stan’s processing power is currently devoted to trying to place the face of the actor playing Stefon.
“Hey, Patty,” Stan says around a mouthful of chicken parmesan, before chewing and swallowing hastily. “Do you know the name of that actor? He looks so familiar, but I just can’t place him.”
Patricia laughs. “Stan, I must have told you his name a dozen times, now. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten again?” Stan shrugs, unease rising in him at the thought that he’s done this very thing before but has no memory of it, and Patty sighs. “It’s Richie Tozier, sweetie. Remember? I told you his name the first time when my cousins when to see one of his stand-up routines during spring break?”
Stan doesn’t remember that at all. He wracks his brain and is unable to recall ever having asked the man’s name before. He nods anyway.
On the screen, Stefon says something about “Jewpids,” and Richie Tozier begins to break character, his shoulders drawing up near his ears as he cups his hands over his mouth to hide his smile, but nothing can disguise the mirth in his eyes.
Something about it seems horribly familiar to Stan, but he simply cannot place how or why. His brows draw together again as he mulls this over, digging through memories as far back as he can before he reaches the hazy, blank white of his childhood. He feels, with some level of certainty, that it must have something to do with his inability to remember his hometown, or any of his life before college, really. He just cannot, for the life of him, figure out how the two things are related; every time he thinks he might be nearing the answer, the conclusion flutters off out of reach.
Can’t forget this time. Have to remember. Have to remember…
Perhaps spotting Stan’s stormy expression and assuming it’s related to the Jew jokes, Patricia swiftly grabs the remote and exits Netflix, flipping to Animal Planet. After she does this, she puts the remote down and places a hand on Stan’s shoulder.
“Don’t let it get to you, Stan. It’s not worth bothering yourself over.”
Stan hums quietly, leaning into her touch and listening to David Attenborough describe the mating rituals of the Bird of Paradise. Soon, he forgets what he was so focused on.
Beverly Marsh has been working on her new concept sketches for an upcoming line all day, completely absorbed in the feeling of creating, when her secretary knocks on her door and tells her there’s a call waiting for her on line one.
Reluctantly putting her pencils down, Beverly supresses a sigh and says, “Put it through.”
She takes the phone off the receiver and presses the speakerphone button, and an unfamiliar voice comes through saying, “Beverly Marsh?”
“This is she.”
“It’s a pleasure to speak to you, Miss Marsh. If you’re not busy, I have a favour to ask.”
Beverly cocks an eyebrow at the forwardness, but a part of her admits she’s glad for it. If she’d had to waste time with small talk and pleasantries, she would have been more than a little upset.
“It depends on the favour,” Beverly says.
“Of course. I’m a talent manager, and my client is going to be attending an award ceremony in a few months. We’ve seen the kind of things you create, and we would love for you to be the one to design his attire for the event.”
Beverly feels her heart skip a beat. This is the first time in her career that anyone has personally contacted her to dress them – or, in this case, their client – like this. It feels somehow more special because of the fact that they didn’t go through Tom, just called her directly to ask, despite the fact that she’s never done anything like this before.
She knows it’s an opportunity she can’t pass up.
“I would be happy to assist,” she says into the phone, trying her best to sound cool and professional even though she’s definitely freaking out in the best way. She opens a drawer in her desk and rifles around until she finds a legal pad and a pen. “Who am I speaking to, and could I have your contact info so that I can get in touch with you?”
“My name is Steve Covall,” replies the voice on the other end. Steve gives his phone number, his email, his fax, and even his mailing address, and then says, “My client is Richie Tozier.”
Beverly freezes, her pen stuttering to halt in the middle of writing the ‘R’ in Richie. “I’m sorry?”
“Richie Tozier? The comedian?”
Beverly swallows thickly past the lump in her throat. “Right. Right. And… What, uh, what ceremony will your client be attending? Just so I have an idea of where to start.”
“The Emmy's.”
Beverly jots this down, underlining it twice for good measure. “Is he being honoured?”
There’s a brief hesitation. For a moment, Beverly thinks that Steve might have hung up, but then he says, “That, I can’t say. Gotta keep everything hush-hush, you know how it is.”
Beverly nods instinctively before remembering that Steve can’t see her and feeling a bit foolish. “I understand. Are there any specifications I should know before I start working on a design? Any allergies to fabrics or anything like that?”
In the background of the call, another man says, “Tell her not to make the collar too tight and don’t use anything itchy. And stick to as few layers as possible, I don’t wanna fucking die while also being forced to act like a proper functioning adult for four hours.”
A smile finds its way to Beverly’s face, unbidden, and a swell of affection rises in her chest, so warm and light, filling her up and making her feel safe. When she realises it, though, the smile fractures before shattering completely; a sense of panic starts to override the warmth. Tom’s face appears in her mind, the way he looks when he’s suspicious of her, and her heart starts to race.
Making sure her voice sounds unchanged, Beverly says, “Got it. I’ll be in touch to get his measurements.”
“Thank you, Miss Marsh. Have a nice day.”
Beverly echoes the sentiment and hangs up. She stares at the phone, her hand still gripping it like a vice, but she doesn’t see it, not really.
In the middle of Derry, a Podunk little town in Maine, Mike Hanlon sits in the apartment above the library, flipping through the newspaper as he listens with one ear to the radio.
He has an intense look of focus on his face as he scans the text – one that doesn’t usually come with the territory of reading the Sunday paper.
“—And in other news, comedian and actor Richie Tozier is set to host this year’s Emmy Awards!”
Mike perks up at the name – a familiar one. The name of a friend he could never, in his entire life, forget.
The announcer continues: “Tozier is most well-known for his roles in the 2007 film Superbad, 2008’s controversial Tropic Thunder, and his many roles on Saturday Night Live. He will likely be receiving nominations this year in the Variety Sketch categories…”
Mike listens for a moment, smiling fondly as the announcer continues to sing Richie’s praises.
“…Is also preparing for a tour later this year! What a busy schedule!”
Mike’s smile falters. He looks back down at the newspaper spread across his desk – in fact, there isn’t only one, and not all of them are intact. Nearly all of the clippings are related to disappearances or murders that have happened in the past two weeks.
Mike’s eyes find the most recent one, hidden between reports of the local Little League team’s most recent game and a bunch of coupons for Derry’s one and only department store.
Victoria Fuller. The picture of her makes Mike think of the pictures he’d seen of another missing child, sitting in a box in the Denbrough’s garage, every one of them face down, like they couldn’t bear to look at them.
He turns the radio off.