Archive of Our Own

Richie dates women, in L.A. Of course he dates women. He dates women and does his standup, and talks in his standup about fucking those women, and that usually leads to breaking up with whatever woman just featured in the latest joke, and, well, that's how relationships are. He doesn't think too much about it, to be honest, which he's pretty sure is normal -- his life, his real life, is when he's sitting around a table full of guys in the back of a comedy club, shooting the shit and talking shop, everything there more vivid and real and sharp-edged than when Richie's out on a date with some blur of a girl, trying to make conversation and bored out of his mind. Not a lot of women at those tables in comedy clubs, just by the nature of the thing. That's not Richie's fault.

If he sometimes goes long stretches without dating anybody, well, he doesn't let on about that at the clubs anyway. He dates enough that nobody worries about him, and that's all he cares about. He's just -- he's really focused on his career right now.

Once or twice a year, something inside him feels like it gets wound too tight, so he paces around his house and talks too fast and bombs shows, his delivery all fucked up from whatever tension's ratcheted up too hard. Sometimes it's in the fall, October, if it rains too hard -- L.A.'s good, mostly, it hardly ever rains hard enough to bother him, but sometimes it does and everyone loses their minds, not just him. It's not weird that the one time it rained for a week straight so the L.A. River was straining its bed -- that thing always creeps him out anyway, paved like a storm drain -- Richie got so wound up he felt like he could claw his own eyes out, some elemental bad feeling inside him roaring up until he couldn't hear anything else. Or sometimes he'll get that feeling in June or July, if the air's clear the way it is in New England summers -- that'll stress him out too, he doesn't know why. Just, if the days are too perfect, the way childhood summers can be so perfect they drive you out of your gourd. Anyway, when he gets like that, those couple of times a year, he'll spend as long as he can trying to shove it down, sick fidgety dread building up inside him as he anticipates what he's going to do, lying in bed with his heart pounding, willing himself not to do it. But eventually he won't be able to stand it anymore, something inside him finally snapping, and he'll go out at one or two in the morning to this park he knows about. It's one of those parks, you know, one that guys go to, at night. You know. Anyway. It blows off some of that steam, makes his head feel like it's not just one long scream he can't make stop. Hey, everybody's got coping mechanisms, right? Some people drink too much, he does this. Well, he also drinks too much. But he's pretty sure that a bunch of guys do this sometimes. Anyway, it's not anything that means anything. It's stupid if people don't get that.

The last time that he gets like that, the May before Mike calls him from Derry, he takes a guy back to a hotel nearby, a place that rents rooms by the hour. After, the guy lies on the bed, languid and naked and satisfied, arching his back in a showy stretch. He's small and dark-haired and, now that Richie's getting a better look at him, faggier than Richie had thought in the heat of the moment. Something about the way he's holding his wrists, his smug cocksucking mouth, is making Richie hate him, the force of it irrational and alarming.

"Get dressed," Richie says. His jeans are already on and he's trying to find his t-shirt, but the guy's just lying there, naked and unconcerned, his flaccid dick awkward and obvious against his leg. Richie's trying not to look at it.

"Why?" the guy says, voice gratingly lispy. He moves slowly, sprawling across the bed onto his stomach so he can reach his phone on the bedside table, checking the time. As he moves, Richie can see his asshole, red and raw and open and accusing, and he feels his face go hot and ashamed. Jesus Christ, this fucking faggot.

"Uh, because this place is disgusting," Richie says. Seriously, where did he throw his goddamn t-shirt?

"I guess," the guy says, looking at the lock screen of his phone. "Ugh, I can't believe it's already the end of May. You going to Pride next month?"

Richie snorts. "Uh, no," he says. Jesus, does he look like the kind of guy who would put on assless chaps and a boa and go dance on a float? But the guy he's just fucked looks at him weird, like he doesn't understand the snort at all. God, does Richie look like that? A little wave of panic starts to come up. Maybe he needs to reevaluate his entire wardrobe. "I'm not gay, dude."

This time it's the other guy who snorts. "Um… you sure about that?" he says. He gives Richie a long suggestive up-and-down look that makes Richie feel like punching him.

"Yeah, I date women," Richie says. There's his fucking t-shirt. About time. He grabs it and starts to pull it over his head. "I think I'd know if I were gay."

"Uh huh," the guy says. He's a little less smirky at this point, giving Richie that weird look again, something Richie can't identify, but who cares because now Richie can't find his socks. "What, is this your first time fucking a guy or something?"

Maybe the socks are under the bed. Richie gingerly kneels down on the floor to see. God, what's with this guy, anyway? Why is he acting like he wants to know shit about Richie? That long panicky scream in Richie's head that this sex was supposed to quiet down for the next six months feels like it's about to start to come back, Richie's stomach knotting up. This guy isn't supposed to talk to him, he's not supposed to try to understand him, and it's making something want to come up again, something hungry and wanting and terrible, roaring in his ears like the damn river about to overflow its bed and -- no. Fuck that. "No, Jesus," Richie says, shoving that feeling down and focusing on staring into the dark corners under the bed, looking for those socks. "I've fucked tons of guys."

"Uh… huh," the guy says, sounding dubious. "But you're not gay."

There's one of his socks. Richie grabs it and looks around for the other one, wishing it was okay to punch people right after you had sex with them. "No, dude," he says. "But fucking guys once in awhile doesn't make you gay, it's not like I fall in love with guys. I just like casual sex sometimes and this is the easiest way to get it."

Which is true. When he gets all wound up, sometimes he just needs to fuck someone, and it's not like you can just go to a park and find a woman to let you fuck her in the ass. This thing he does is just a matter of convenience.

The guy he just fucked looks dubious, but obviously he is gay, so what does he know? Gay guys are always imagining that everyone else is gay and closeted anyway, single-minded fucks. "Sure," he says, sounding like he's laughing at Richie. "That makes total sense. Who wouldn't fuck a guy in that situation?"

"It's not a joke," Richie says, his voice coming out sharp. Aha! There's his goddamn sock, under the bed but blocked by the bedside table, so Richie has to crane to grab it.

"I don't think it's a joke," the guy says, as Richie starts pulling on his shoes and socks as fast as he can so he can get the fuck out of here. "I think it's fucking depressing. What are you so afraid of?"

**

They're thirteen and wrestling over the remote, rolling over and over on top of each other, and Richie finally gets Eddie pinned, laughing. "Fuck you," Eddie says, mad and helpless and squirming underneath him, whole body warm against Richie's. Their faces are close and no one else is home, dust motes floating in the tired sun coming through the windows in the living room, late afternoon quiet in the rest of the house. Eddie's trying to kick but Richie's hips are pressing him down against the carpet, legs twisting to keep him pinned.

"You wish," Richie says, and for a strange hair of a second Eddie's face goes soft and shocked and vulnerable. Eddie's so familiar -- Richie's been looking at him his whole life -- but this year looking at him has started making Richie's stomach get stormy and ulcerated in a way he keeps shoving down, trying not to understand. Before Richie can think, he kisses him.

Eddie kisses him back. For just a second, maybe two, Eddie's mouth is soft and warm and he kisses him back, Richie's sure of it. Almost sure.

But before Richie can fully feel it, before he can be sure that that's what really, really happened, Eddie's shoving at him, hard and panicked and so sudden that he breaks Richie's hold, knocking him back onto the carpet. "What are you doing?" Eddie says. He's gasping and his mouth is red and there's color high on his cheekbones. Richie feels like the wind got knocked out of him even though Eddie didn't shove him that hard. It's like the time he was swinging high on the swings at the park, so high he thought he might actually loop-de-loop around the top, and then leapt out at the highest peak of the swing, screaming so everyone would look, sure he'd land on his feet and impress them all. But instead he twisted wrong and landed flat on his back with a hard shock, so for a long few seconds he thought he'd never breathe again. The way Eddie's looking at him feels like that.

Eddie's eyes are dark and wild, fierce like a cornered animal. "I'm not a faggot," Eddie says.

Richie's never felt more exposed. He kissed Eddie -- Eddie knows. He fucking kissed Eddie, and Eddie could tell everybody and then everybody would know. "Me neither," he says, feeling the words come out desperate and thin, the obvious lie of them. He forces a laugh. "Psych! Don't have a cow, I'm just messing with you, dude. Ha ha. You fucking fell for it."

"Don't," Eddie says. His hair is sticking up a little on one side, and he's still flushed, the way he gets when his mom embarrasses him in front of everybody, that pretty flush that always makes Richie want to keep picking at him, keep teasing him and teasing him while he gets more and more worked up. When Eddie blushes like that, it makes Richie feel like an overinflated balloon, pressure in his chest like he might float away, a feeling so sweet and intense it's like a pain. "It's not funny."

"You think I wanted to kiss you, dude?" Richie says, really laughing now. He feels like he might throw up. He feels hysterical. "You're so fucking stupid."

"You suck," Eddie says. He almost looks like he's going to cry, fumbling for his inhaler, taking a few desperate gasps from it. "You're a freak, Richie. I'm going home."

He's not looking at Richie. Richie's too gross and perverted even to look at. Richie tries hard to be normal. "Oh, c'mon, don't be a baby," he says as Eddie picks himself up from the carpet and stomps to the front door. "I was just kidding!"

Eddie still doesn't look at him. He'll probably never speak to him again. Nobody wants to be friends with a big sick homo who's always going to be trying to jump them. Eddie probably thinks Richie is going to give him AIDS or something. Eddie's always talking about AIDS.

"Screw you," Eddie mutters as he throws open Richie's front door, then slams it behind him. Richie's left standing alone in the middle of his empty living room, watching through the window as Eddie picks his bike up off the front lawn. Eddie almost drops it before he manages to get on, make his wobbly way down the street before he finally picks up enough speed to straighten out.

Richie's shaking all over. He goes into the bathroom and throws up, but by the time his mom gets home from work he's on the couch watching an episode of Rescue Rangers and she doesn't seem to notice that anything's wrong.

He and Eddie never talk about it. It's almost like it never happened, except that Richie doesn't wrestle Eddie anymore, careful not to touch him, even if he still roughhouses with Bill and Stan sometimes. They're getting older anyway, too old to tackle each other for no reason. Eddie probably doesn't even notice that Richie's stopped. And if late at night Richie still thinks sometimes about that one second, that maybe two seconds that Eddie kissed him back, that furtive shameful moment when his heart was leaping in his chest, when every hair on his body stood on end like he was made of light, when for just that second he forgot how the world is, when it was just him and Eddie -- well, it doesn't matter. People think about all sorts of things late at night. It doesn't matter.

**

When they're sixteen, Eddie gets a girlfriend. It's irritating. Tiny little weirdo Eddie, who should not be someone girls are looking at twice, starts dating some random girl in their English class, and Richie hates it more than he's hated anything Eddie's ever done, which is really saying something.

He picks at it. He says she's as fat as Eddie's mom; he calls her boring; he asks if she's blind; he asks if she knows she's dating Eddie and not someone who actually has a dick. Even for him, he's mean, pushing it so far that Bill and Mike start giving each other uncomfortable looks, but he can't help himself. Eddie gets madder and madder, turning red in the face and storming off to sit at other lunch tables, but no matter how mad he gets, he never dumps her. Richie doesn't understand it.

Richie's spending a lot of time these days after school lying on his back on his bed, listening to music and staring into space. Everyone else is busy -- Ben and Mike have part-time jobs and Bill's on the track team -- and it's not like he has anything else to do. Sometimes he even forgets to put music on and only realizes hours later.

Today he puts on this mixtape that Eddie made him a while back, after Richie had said at lunch that U2 sucks. "You're an idiot," Eddie had said, and then the next day he'd come in with this tape. "Listen to that," he said. "Learn the error of your ways."

Richie still thinks U2 sucks, but he listens to the tape a lot anyway. He doesn't know why. Masochistic tendencies, he guesses.

"All I Want Is You," comes on when he hits play and he sinks back, feeling it pull at him. He doesn't even want anybody but this song still makes him sad. He closes his eyes.

The door bangs open, slamming him awake. It's getting dark outside, so the quality of the light in his room is totally different than when he closed his eyes a minute ago and he's disoriented, blinking. For a second he's not sure where he is, and he thinks he's in the abandoned house outside of town before he realizes it's just his own bedroom.

"What's the matter with you?" whoever banged the door says.

"What?" Richie says. He's not sure what year it is, and he blinks and blinks before his eyes focus enough for him to see that it's Eddie standing in the doorway of his room, fuming.

"Jennifer was crying after school today," Eddie says. "She says that in gym class you told everyone she farted and then said that's because fat people fart more than skinny people and everyone laughed."

Everyone had laughed, it was awesome. Richie hadn't thought that she would rat him out to Eddie, though. "Oh," Richie says, starting to get up. "Yeah, so?"

"So, that's my girlfriend, you asshole," Eddie says. He's madder than Richie's ever seen him, and he comes over and shoves Richie in the chest just as Richie's getting up. He's off-balance so the shove knocks him back down on the bed. "What the fuck is the matter with you?"

"Hey!" Richie says. He's getting a little mad now too. So what, Eddie thinks that just because he has a girlfriend now he can just do whatever he wants? "Who cares, can't she take a joke?" He tries to get up again, but Eddie shoves him back down, and it makes Richie so mad that he punches Eddie awkwardly in the stomach.

"Fuck you," Eddie says, but Richie thinks maybe he was hoping Richie would do that because then he's on top of Richie, hitting him wildly, and Richie's hitting back, and they're rolling around together fighting like they did when they were kids, rolling off the bed and onto the carpet with a thump.

Eddie's small and wiry and so mad, lashing out hard, but Richie finally gets him pinned, breathing hard. "Ow, you psycho, cut it out!" he says when Eddie kicks him in the shin. Richie's got a boner and he's trying hard to angle it away from Eddie but Eddie's squirming so much he's making it almost impossible.

"Get off me!" Eddie says, sounding so furious that Richie's actually about to, but then Richie's thigh presses against his crotch accidentally and Eddie's hard too.

Eddie's hard too. Richie feels like he's going to have a stroke.

"Look, Jesus, I'm sorry," he says, because he talks when he's freaked out and right now he's shocked and turned on and out of his head, trying to act normal even though he can't think about anything but Eddie's dick. He feels shaky. Eddie's hard. Eddie's got a boner. Eddie's got a boner from Richie all pressed up against him. Richie's mouth is moving without his consent, like it honestly does so often. "I didn't mean to make you this mad. You want me to blow you?" Whoa, where the fuck did that come from? He doesn't let himself think things like that, let alone say them, and Richie feels like freaking out and running out of the room except his leg is still pressing against Eddie's dick and it's not getting any softer.

Eddie's eyes widen and he flushes. "What?" he says, his voice cracking.

It's so quiet in the room that Richie can hear the clock ticking, a loud, horrible noise. He thinks his face is getting hot but he can hardly even tell because his whole body is flushed and weird and he's lightheaded. For once he can't think of anything to say. Eddie's staring at him.

"You want to --" Eddie says. His voice sounds choked. "What? Why would you -- what?"

He doesn't sound grossed out exactly, but Richie can't read his tone at all. He feels like he has to explain why he would just say that out of nowhere, desperate and panicky, so he says, "You know, like an apology," even though that doesn't even make any sense. What is he even saying, what's the matter with him? Why does he always just say shit without thinking any of it through? Richie needs to shut up and get off Eddie but he feels completely out of control of his own body and mouth and he can't seem to move no matter how hard he tries.

"An apology?" Eddie says, voice still rough and weird. He's stopped squirming, so Richie's just… lying on top of him with their bodies pressed together and his thigh against Eddie's dick. Eddie's hard dick, still as hard as before. Maybe harder. Eddie's not trying to move away.

"Shut up," Richie says after a second. All his muscles are so tense he feels like they're about to start shaking and Eddie's still not shoving him off and after a long moment, feeling impossibly daring, he moves and puts his hand on Eddie's cock, cupping him through his jeans. Eddie goes even redder, but he doesn't say anything, just stares at Richie with his eyes wide. He's breathing fast. So is Richie, who's expecting Eddie to push him away at any moment, but Eddie doesn't. After a long moment just looking at each other, Richie squeezes him experimentally, and Eddie mutters, "Shit," with his eyes fluttering closed.

Richie's heart is pounding high in his chest, so fast it's like a jet engine revving up, like it's preparing to fly right out of him all by itself. He feels clumsy and impulsive and terrified and he's sure Eddie's going to stop him at any moment. But neither of them say anything as Richie starts to undo Eddie's fly.

This is just -- just a thing they're doing. It doesn't mean anything. Guys do weird stuff sometimes, smack each other's butts on the football field, and Richie was a jerk today, he does need to apologize and… this is nothing. Richie tugs Eddie's jeans and boxers down so Richie can see his dick, thick and red and hard, and Eddie's eyes are still closed when Richie scoots down to take it in his mouth, heart going like a drum, waiting for Eddie to call him a fag and storm out of here.

He doesn't. He makes a little noise and jerks into Richie's mouth as soon as Richie's tongue is on him, like it's already so good, and Richie starts sucking, trying to get as much of Eddie's dick in his mouth as he can, feeling uncoordinated and awkward. He has no idea what he's doing but at least he's doing it with enthusiasm, so much enthusiasm that he starts to gag and has to back off a little. He tries to use his hand on the rest of it, looking up to see Eddie biting his lip, his face all screwed up. It's the hottest thing that's ever happened to Richie, Eddie's dick heavy in his mouth, Richie getting harder and harder in his jeans as he works his tongue around it. God, he wonders if Eddie's girlfriend has ever sucked his dick like this, and then he feels a little sick and wishes he hadn't wondered. But also -- he's never even seen Eddie and Jennifer kiss. Not that he wants to, he saw them hold hands once and that was bad enough, but it's not like they're making out all over the place, and Richie can't imagine that she would've actually -- actually put her mouth on Eddie's cock like this, that she'd want him that close, that she could possibly want Eddie the way that Richie wants him. The way Richie wants him so badly it hurts, so his chest is aching now that he's getting this little piece of him, tasting Eddie, this gross, perfect thing that's making his jaw sore. Jennifer can't have done this, and anyway, if she did, she can't have wanted it as badly as Richie wants it. Richie sucks harder, wanting to make this the best blowjob Eddie's ever gotten, wanting to make it the best thing that's ever happened to him, so Eddie will want it again and again, so maybe tomorrow Eddie will come over again and they'll -- he just wants it to be good, he wants it to be so good, and he wishes he'd given a thousand blowjobs before so he'd know what he was doing.

Eddie keeps his eyes closed the whole time, biting his lip, and he's so pretty Richie can't stand it. He's not making any noise, just breathing hard, and so Richie sucks harder, and it must work because Eddie moans, so Richie goes to suck like that again but then almost chokes because -- oh, Eddie's coming, that's what that noise was, and Richie was not ready for it at all, his mouth full of it, so it's all he can do to start swallowing just in time. He swallows and swallows, feeling gross and hot and so turned on he can't stand it, sitting back when Eddie's done and wiping his hand across his mouth. Some come must've dribbled out the side of his mouth because it smears onto the back of his hand and he stares at it for a minute, not knowing what to do with it, before he finally shrugs and licks it off.

Eddie stays lying there with his eyes closed, not moving, while he catches his breath. Richie can see his chest going up and down, the flush gradually fading from his cheeks, but eventually Richie has to lean his head back against the wall and stop staring, trying hard not to touch himself. He can't believe he just did that. He can't believe Eddie just let him do that.

"God," Eddie finally says, shifting around. When Richie looks up, he's putting his dick away, pulling his jeans up. "I have a girlfriend. What's wrong with you?" He looks… really stressed out, the way he looks when something genuinely bad has happened, when he's gotten a bad grade or when his mom's going to be really furious at him. Richie thinks he's almost on the verge of tears.

Richie shrugs, feeling his own face start to heat up, suddenly mortified at the strange pathetic way he was thinking about Eddie while he was sucking him off. He can't talk about it. How did he -- what was he -- he doesn't know what happened either, how on earth he ended up… Jesus. What is wrong with him?

"I gotta go," Eddie says. He doesn't look at Richie, like he's too disgusted by him to even make eye contact, just the same way he wouldn't look at him after Richie kissed him back in eighth grade, the other most embarrassing incident of Richie's life. It's the way Eddie looks when he knows what a pervert Richie is, when he can't even acknowledge Richie anymore because Richie's so gross. Richie jerks his head away and doesn't watch as Eddie leaves, not able to bring himself to see the revulsion that has to be in Eddie's face.

For the next two weeks, Richie's more scared than he's ever been, thinking every day that he's going to go into school and there's going to be a big "FAIRY" written on his locker door, that Eddie will have told someone and everyone will know.

Eddie never does tell anyone, as far as Richie can tell. But they never talk about it again either, not even after Eddie breaks up with Jennifer a month later.

Two years after that they leave Maine and forget anyway. When Richie blows Alex McNally junior year of college, he tells Alex he's never done it before and honestly doesn't think he has.

**

They all hang around in Derry for a couple of days after they kill the clown, everyone seeming a little lost, like they aren't sure what life they're going back to now. Richie keeps getting hit by new memories every time he turns around -- he sees the old candy store and boom, something he hasn't thought about in almost 30 years comes out of nowhere and hits him in the face. He thinks the rest of them are having that happen too. It's strange, to be gradually rediscovering your life.

"I feel like I just woke up," Ben says, rubbing his hand over his face. They're in a big booth down at the diner, Eddie on his third cup of coffee, Bev chain-smoking. "I don't even know what the hell life I'm going back to. It all feels like… choices I made when I didn't know I was making choices."

"I left my husband," Bev says, tapping her cigarette on the ashtray. This must be the only restaurant left in the United States that allows smoking. Derry's a real trip. "On my way here, right after Mike called. So… I guess I need to find an apartment."

Ben's head whips around. "You did?" he says. Richie tries not to roll his eyes. Get a room, guys.

He's about to say that out loud but before he can, Eddie says, "I think I have to leave my wife." When Richie's head whips around at him, Eddie looks like he's as surprised as anybody at what just came out of his mouth. He blinks a few times, then nods slowly to himself. "I have to leave my wife," he says, more definitively, like he's trying out the words, like he's finding out that they fit just right.

Bev's nodding at him in solidarity. Richie realizes his mouth is hanging open and he deliberately closes it.

"Hey," Bill says, putting his hand on Eddie's shoulder. "Good for you."

There's a brief pause, a few people looking at Richie like they're waiting for him to say something, though he can't think what. When he doesn't, Mike says kindly, "What are you going to do next, Richie?" Richie loves Mike. Mike is underappreciated.

"Oh, I have no idea, I haven't thought about it," Richie says, even though he's been doing nothing but think about it ever since they came out of those sewers. "Jesus, I have a tour starting in a week. I have to go tell my stupid fucking jokes." He needs a drink. He has no idea how he's going to get through that. Though at least it'll be a distraction from going home to his empty house and trying to deal with the fact that he's been in obvious denial about his sexuality for his entire life. "I was supposed to fly, but -- jeez, maybe I'll drive. Make it a road trip, you know? Clear my head."

"God, that sounds good," Eddie says, like the idea of running away from everything sounds pretty fucking great to him too. "Can I come?"

"Totally, you want to?" Richie says, but when Eddie blinks and double-takes, he realizes that Eddie was saying it as a joke, or an if-only hypothetical kind of thing. Whoops.

"Oh," Eddie says. "Uh."

"You don't have to," Richie says. "No pressure. But if you wanted to… it could be fun." He suddenly realizes how weird he's being and looks at the rest of the table, extending the invitation. "I mean, for any of you. Anybody who wants to come on a shitty comedy tour, you're all invited. Keep me company."

"Wait," Bill says slowly. "It's coming back to me. Didn't you pester us constantly to go on a road trip with you after graduation? Weren't you going to drive to California?"

"Oh my God," Bev says, looking like the memory's just now coming back to her too. "He did! He bought that horrible piece of junk --"

"Oh my God the Hyundai -- " Mike says

"-- and insisted that we'd all fit --"

Eddie starts laughing. "He was so mad when I said it was a death trap -- "

"-- and he said it didn't matter we didn't have any money or places to stay --" Bill says.

"Oh, fuck all of you," Richie says. "That trip would've been great if you weren't all so lame about it."

They're all laughing at him like he's an idiot, but it feels kind of good.

**

"Hey, did I suck your dick in high school?" Richie says later, when he and Eddie are out getting ice cream just the two of them. They'd walked over to the Dairy Queen from the hotel just as the sun was setting. It's one of those long Maine summer nights that Richie now remembers so vividly he can't believe he ever forgot them: warm dark air, crickets loud, fireflies blinking slow under the trees. Richie feels like he should have grass stains on his knees and skinned elbows. The metal picnic table they're sitting at is still a little warm under his hand from the day.

Eddie's eyebrows shoot up, like Richie just told him something instead of asking him something, which… uh oh. Maybe it was just a dream Richie had. "Um," Eddie says. He blinks a few times. "Yeah," he says after a second, sounding almost wondering, like he's currently getting brand new information through an invisible earpiece. "God, I think you did."

"Oh," Richie says. Eddie's still blinking, honestly looking -- well, honestly looking like Richie's question is what brought the memory back, like until that moment he didn't know that Richie had, which makes Richie feel squirmy. Should have kept his big mouth shut, but when has he ever managed that? "Yeah, I thought so. Sorry about that."

Eddie looks startled, going from staring into space like the memory was playing out in front of him to focusing on Richie again. "What?" he says.

Richie shrugs a little. "You know, sorry," he says. He feels very tired inside, wrung out, the kind of exhausted you are after a long day of, like, yardwork, something that wears you out so thoroughly your head goes quiet and still and it's hard to even care about anything. All his muscles have gone limp. Richie wonders if this is what it would be like to freeze to death, falling asleep in the snow; how giving up can be peaceful. "I was, uh. Pretty repressed, I guess." To understate it. Not just then, either, but until, like, two days ago. Jesus, he doesn't know where he's going to go from here. "If I had been a little more… well, anyway, probably going down on my straight friends wasn't, uh, the most mature way to handle anything." He meant to say that being a little closeted idiot gay high schooler was pretty fucked up, but veered away from actually saying the word at the last minute. Gay. He's gay. It doesn't make him feel that elemental rush of terror anymore, that rush of terror he's only just realized has been seething underneath the surface his whole life, surging up every time it goddamn rained too hard or a summer night was too nice, but he still can't quite say it out loud. Well. They only killed the clown yesterday, so. Maybe tomorrow.

Eddie's staring at him with a weird look on his face, so he probably thinks it's pretty pathetic that Richie still can't say it too. "Um," Eddie says. "I -- " and then he stops again. After a second he shakes his head a little bit, like he's trying to wake up, and he says, "Wait, did you suck other people's dicks too? Your -- your straight friends?"

How embarrassing. "Oh, no," Richie says. "No, uh, that was just for you, I guess. I had a pretty big crush on you, I think. God, sorry, that's such a weird thing to say, I don't know what's the matter with me, I'm so tired, I'm just, I'm babbling -- "

"No, it's okay," Eddie says. "You -- you had a crush on me?"

Richie can't read the expression on Eddie's face at all and he's too tired to try. Whatever. Who cares. Sick of keeping secrets. "Real bad," he says. It feels like a long time ago, and like yesterday. He only remembered it 16 hours ago. "Dude, I carved our initials into the Kissing Bridge." He starts laughing, thinking about it, and can't stop. "Who knew I was such a little romantic, right? They're still there. I went and looked at them earlier."

"Yeah," Eddie says. "Wow, that's -- huh." His face is screwed up a little, confused and processing. But it's probably pretty weird as a straight guy to suddenly remember the time your gay friend blew you, and then have that gay friend say he had a crush on you. Richie just can't stop making things uncomfortable.

"Don't worry," Richie says, trying to reassure him. "I got over it. It was a long time ago." It's not like Richie's been hung up on it; he didn't even remember it until this week. It's not anything Eddie has to worry about… though as Richie's thinking about how it hasn't been affecting him, it suddenly hits him that almost every guy he's fucked has been small and dark-haired and tightly wound, just like Eddie, and it sends him into a fresh wave of hysterics.

"What?" Eddie says, almost a little worried, like he thinks Richie might be laughing at him.

Richie tries to wave it off, trying to get himself under control. "Nothing," he says. "Sorry, sorry, it's nothing. I'm not laughing at you. It's just that my life is so stupid. I'm so stupid." Eddie may have married a clone of his mom but he's got to be feeling pretty good that at least he wasn't closeted until he was 40. Richie feels like he's losing it, laughing. He's come unhinged but at the same time he does feel a little bit lighter.

**

"You serious about that road trip?" Eddie says the next day at breakfast. Well, brunch. Richie wasn't really up at breakfast time, though he thinks Eddie's been up for hours, clean and pressed. Richie's pretty sure he personally looks like shit.

"Hmm?" Richie says. "Yeah, absolutely. You interested?"

Eddie shrugs. "Yeah, maybe," he says. He's playing with his napkin, not making eye contact for some reason. "I've got to think about some things. And when I tell Myra I'm leaving I won't have a place to live. So… might be nice to just get out of the state for awhile. Have some time, you know?"

Richie's trying really hard not to beam all over his face like a giant dork. Just, like, be cool, Rich! Don't act like you're 13 and your crush agreed to sit next to you on the ferris wheel! He's got the overwhelming urge to give Eddie a noogie and he has to violently suppress it. "Well, yeah, man, you're more than welcome," he says. He sounds really enthusiastic and tries to tone it down. "I mean, it'll be lame, probably, but I could use the company."

"Yeah," Eddie says, finally looking up. His cheeks are a little pink. "Cool. That'd be great. I've got the PTO, I think, so… yeah. That'd be great."

"PTO?" Richie says. He has no idea what the fuck that's supposed to mean. Some kind of insurance adjustor thing?

Eddie blinks, his mouth turning up at the corners a little bit. "Paid time off," he says, in this tone like he's trying very hard to sound neutral but he's laughing at Richie on the inside. What, like, that's an abbreviation everybody knows?

"Oh," Richie says. "Is that like… a thing?"

"Yes," Eddie says. The corners of his mouth are fighting very hard to stay down.

"Oh, fuck you, bro, I've never had a real job!" Richie says, and Eddie starts laughing and can't stop.

**

When Richie gets to New York to pick him up, Eddie comes down to the car with a truly ridiculous amount of luggage. "So you got the time off okay?" Richie says, popping the trunk for him and resisting the urge to comment on it.

"Kind of," Eddie says, scooting Richie's bag to one side to make room for his multiple suitcases. "I quit my job."

Richie's spent the past week making fun of how boring Eddie's job sounds, but -- Eddie quit?! Richie's so startled he can't think of anything to say. Eddie lifts in one suitcase, then the other, then finally looks up at Richie like he's confused by the silence.

"You quit your job?" is all Richie manages to get out. "You… you quit your job?"

Eddie shrugs. "Yeah," he says. "I mean, I have savings. And I'm good at it, I'll get another one when I want one. I just -- need the time. I want to clear my head."

Richie feels like he can't see straight. "You are Eddie Kaspbrak, right? Boring, risk-free, middle-aged Eddie Kaspbrak? In the dictionary next to 'predictable'? If that clown has taken over your body, I swear to God, Eds -- quick, prove you're you, who did you sit next to in Mrs. Britt's fourth grade class?"

Eddie shrugs, rolling his eyes a little as he slams the trunk shut. "Emily Talbot. You sat behind me and spent the whole year throwing spitballs in my hair."

"Oh my God, you are you," Richie says, poised to keep blabbing on while his brain's spinning away. "How did --"

But Eddie cuts him off. "So anyway, I can come along on the tour as long as you want," he says. "I mean, just tell me to get lost when you're sick of me though."

"Sure," Richie says. He can't imagine that happening, but sure, sure, Eddie, sure. Come sleep in his hotel room indefinitely. Sure. "Jesus. You left your wife and you quit your job? You having a nervous breakdown, buddy?"

Eddie laughs then, this genuinely amused, light, happy laugh. He looks younger all of a sudden, shoulders less slumped, forehead less turned down. Richie suddenly remembers the Eddie that wasn't just the neurotic hypochondriac, but the ADHD spaz who never sat still, who could run so quick and light when he forgot he had asthma. "Yeah, probably," Eddie says, laughing. "I probably am, I guess."

"Cool," Richie says. "Cool cool cool, as long as we're clear."

He doesn't know what's happening, but he feels wide awake, as alive as he's ever felt.

Eddie throws his backpack in the backseat and Richie starts up the car. The bluetooth starts playing music from his phone, where he's queued up It's the End of the World as We Know It to start them off as they peel out of the parking lot. Eddie does a visible doubletake, glancing between the console and Richie.

"Oh my God," he says. He looks like he's been hit over the head by a two-by-four. Richie smirks. He thought maybe that'd be a memory that hadn't come back yet. "Was this our prom theme?" Eddie starts laughing. "Oh my God, I'd forgotten. Shit, the cheerleaders were so mad."

It had been Richie's idea. There'd been a voting thing, with pennies, where each jar was for a different theme, and on the last day the voting was running, Richie had organized bringing in a shitton of pennies to stuff that jar, getting every loser he knew, Loser or just loser, to join in. He'd thought the class president was going to cry when his scheme worked.

"It's just --" he'd heard her saying to her friend between fifth and sixth period, sniffling a little. "What kind of decorations are we supposed to do for that? It's so stupid."

When they'd played the song at prom, at the end of the night, everyone had lost their minds. They were graduating in two weeks, all going their separate ways. The group he'd gone to prom with had circled up, dancing with their limbs flailing, singing along, nobody knowing more than half the words. Richie remembers he'd looked across the circle at Eddie, who was dancing like he'd never even heard of asthma, looking like a real idiot. They'd locked eyes as everybody yelled "LEONARD BERNSTEIN" and then dissolved into laughter, and Richie had thought, with a wild and terrible sadness, everything's going to change and i'll remember this moment as long as I live. He'd forgotten by the next year.

Eddie's remembering it now. "Leonard Bernstein," he says along with the song like he's only half awake, lost in it, the word a murmured shout. "Shit," he says again. "Prom."

"You get laid on prom night, Eds?" Richie says. Eddie had brought a date. Richie hadn't.

"What?" Eddie says. He laughs like that's the most ridiculous question he's ever heard. "No. Jesus. No."

"You two were dancing with your hips about two feet apart," Richie says, remembering.

Eddie snorts. "Yeah, that sounds like me," he says. "No, I found her on Facebook the other day, when I remembered her. Heather James. She's married to a woman now. Great prom date for me." He says the last part in such a weird tone that Richie can't actually tell if it's sarcastic or not, though it must be.

"And I feel fine," Eddie sings along, under his breath. He's staring out the window, looking far away. Richie pulls onto the highway and hits the gas.

**

"What time's the show tonight?" Eddie says at dinner. They're in State College, Pennsylvania, one of these little college towns that always make Richie feel sort of edgy. He used to not know why; now he knows it's just because they remind him of Derry. It's a lot easier to deal with when you know where the feeling's coming from, it turns out.

"What?" Richie says. "Oh. No, you shouldn't come to that."

Eddie frowns. "What do you mean? I'm on tour with you. That means I get to watch the show from backstage for free and be like, 'yeah, man, I'm with the band'." He does a shaka motion with his hand. It looks unbelievably dorky.

"Okay, first of all, I'm a comedian. It's not cool," Richie says. "You're not 'with the band'. Second of all, my show sucks, you don't want to see it."

"Uh, bro, I know it sucks," Eddie says. "I've been telling you it sucks this whole time. I've seen your standup before. Why don't you want me to watch the show?"

"You've seen my standup before?" Richie says. He feels strangely flattered even as he hates that.

"You have an HBO special," Eddie says. "I have insomnia sometimes."

"Oh," Richie says. "Well. Even so. The show sucks. You should go to a movie or something instead, you don't have to sit through that again. It's basically the same old bullshit."

"Rich, what the hell?" Eddie says. "Why are you being so weird about me seeing your stupid comedy? You gonna get up there and tell secrets about me or something?"

Ugh, God, if only. That would be ten times better than his actual show. "I don't know," Richie says, groaning. He doesn't know how to explain it. "It's just -- it fucking sucks I have this tour right now so I have to keep doing this set. None of the stories are even a little bit true, and everything's homophobic, and, I don't know, you should go to a movie, don't waste your time."

Eddie's frowning more. "Your standup's homophobic?" he says. He looks like that's upsetting -- like Richie's more fucked up than he thought, and Richie doesn't -- he's not saying this right.

"No, I --" Richie says and stops. "I mean, not exactly. It's just -- the whole persona is fucked up and I hate that I'm going to go out there and pretend like it's me, and… ugh."

Eddie's just looking at him, forehead furrowed.

"Fine!" Richie says. "Come watch if you want. It's shitty but if that's what you want for your life, I won't stop you."

He feels even grosser about the set with Eddie watching from the wings than he thought he was going to, his whole stupid fucked-up lie of a life exposed. At least he can do these jokes in his sleep, knows all the right pauses and the delivery that gets the biggest laughs from the asshole frat guys in the audience. He likes his job, it's not like he doesn't like it -- he likes the attention, likes people laughing at what he says. But even before Derry, it had felt kind of fucked up since his team got those two guys to punch up his set and gradually worked him out, so now he hasn't written a single joke for like two years. And, yeah, even when he was the one writing it, he was telling stories about fictional girlfriends, but… it was easier back then, before he remembered everything. He wasn't so aware as he stands up there that he hasn't had a girlfriend in five years, and even five years ago it wasn't so much a "girlfriend" as a girl he hooked up with two whole times, and she'd probably be grossed out if she knew he calls her his ex-girlfriend when she comes up now. He feels gross about it. He's gross.

At least when he wasn't admitting to himself that he was closeted, he could keep his head down and live with it, do the set and barely even feel like he was lying, but now that everything's clear to Richie -- that he's gay, he's got to get used to saying that at least inside his own head -- he can't keep doing this. It's not like he can change the set right in the middle of a tour, so at least it's buying him some time -- some gross, fucked up time -- but it can't go on forever. He has to fucking decide what to do about his career after this tour, what kind of comedian he's going to be, what kind of a person he's going to be, but he feels paralyzed every time he thinks about it. The problem is that his whole life he's been choosing the door marked "Not Scary at All" like he can't get it to stick in his brain that that's always the wrong fucking door.

Well, he told Eddie back in the house on Niebolt Street that next time they're not going to choose that one. He just doesn't know which other door to pick.

**

"So, what'd you think?" Richie says after the show, over shitty coffee and pancakes at an all-night diner. Richie's always buzzing when he's wrapped a set, can't go to sleep right afterwards, has to find a bar or a Denny's to try to wind down a little. "Sucked, right?"

"Sucked so hard," Eddie says, and then shrugs. "Nah, dude, it was all right. You've got the delivery and whatever all down pat, anyway. And it was funny. You're like, a real goddamn comedian."

Eddie being nice to him makes him feel suspicious. "You see what I mean about the persona, though, right? Stupid frat bro shit."

Eddie laughs a little ruefully. "Yeah, I guess. I mean, the guy telling the jokes definitely beat up the gay kids at his middle school."

Even though Richie was the one who had basically said that earlier, he still winces. Jesus. The fact that it's true makes it worse.

"Sorry," Eddie says, making an apologetic face. "That's not -- I didn't mean that. I'm just kidding around."

Richie tries to wave it off, even though he's feeling a little sick to his stomach. "No, it's true," he says. "A real Henry Bowers type." He still remembers the nauseating, horrible feeling of satisfaction he got when he put an axe in Henry Bowers's head, remembers how he spent all of sixth grade living in terror of that guy. Bowers calling him queer, his friends holding Richie down while Bowers punched the living daylights out of him, how one time it was so bad that Richie genuinely thought Bowers might kill him. Instead Richie grew up and turned into that guy, at least a little. He thinks about the actual homophobic jokes he had in his set ten years ago before he had to phase them out and tries not to squirm in his seat. Self-hating coward.

"Bowers wasn't funny, though," Eddie says, taking a bite of his pancakes.

"Yeah, well," Richie says. He's pretty sure he isn't funny either and he doesn't know what the fuck he's going to do. He realizes he's slumping low in the booth and considers trying to stop himself but then doesn't bother. "I gotta do something about this goddamn act but I don't know what." He murdered the real Henry Bowers -- and wow, that is something he's barely had the energy to even start to process -- so you'd think he wouldn't have a problem getting rid of the Bowers on-stage persona too, but he doesn't know if he has the guts for this one or what.

"You'll figure it out," Eddie says blithely, like it's no big deal. Jesus, Eddie, stand-up comedy is not super gay-friendly, and Richie's audience is worse than most. If Richie comes out he might never sell another ticket again and it's not like he's qualified to do any other jobs. "We're all figuring out what we're doing next."

"I guess," Richie says, and picks at his eggs.

**

They get to Indianapolis awhile before the show and have some time to kill. "You wanna go walk around?" Eddie says. They end up down by the canal, walking along the water's edge. It's nothing like Derry, but somehow it feels a little bit like playing down in the Barrens anyway, building a little dam in the river. Eddie's skin looks golden in the late afternoon sun.

They're talking about some bullshit, their favorite Simpsons reruns, whatever, when a couple of bros at a distance clearly recognize Richie, nudging each other in a way he can unfortunately spot at 50 paces. They're probably coming to his show tonight.

"Bro!" one of them yells. Oh good, we're yelling. "Bro!!!!" Eddie looks confused, but then suddenly realizes what's happening and glances at Richie sidelong, smirking. Yeah, yeah, it's very funny that idiots do this. "Bro, do the giant green dildo!"

"Let's not… with the dildo…" Richie says, but quietly, so only Eddie can hear him. He just… this happens like every three weeks and he hates it. He should never have told that stupid fucking joke.

The guys are walking up to them, so Richie braces himself for impact. Eddie, the asshole, still looks like it's the funniest thing he's ever seen. One of the bros is getting out his phone, so to preempt that Richie says, "Hey, guys. You, uh, want an autograph or something?"

"Selfie?" says the lead bro, the one in the Colts hat, holding his phone up. Great. Once you take a picture with one fan, other people see the picture being taken and they come over to see what's going on, and pretty soon you have a whole swarm of people and they all want pictures and it's a real embarrassing shitshow. Richie can't deal with that today.

"Aww, no, sorry, dude, I don't do pics," Richie says. "But you want an autograph?"

The guys' faces fall and they look confused. "What?" says Colts Hat. "No, c'mon, just one, I wanna put it on the 'gram."

Beside him, Eddie makes a strangled little noise that he tries to turn into a cough. Oh, fuck off, Eddie, it's not funny.

"Sorry, I really, I just, I don't do pictures," Richie says again, glancing at Eddie like, back me up here. Except that seems to draw the frat guys' attention to Eddie, and they look at him suspiciously.

"Why not?" Colts Hat says, eyeing Eddie.

"I'd really rather not -- " Richie says.

"I mean, what, is this your boyfriend or something?" Colts Hat says, giving Eddie this contemptuous look that makes Richie want to hit his stupid face. He says it like it's a joke, like it's an insult, like having a boyfriend is a fucking ridiculous thing anyone would laugh at. His friends snicker. "Jesus, forget it, let's get out of here."

"That's not a punchline, asshole!" Richie yells after them as they walk off. His face feels hot. He's mad, he's absolutely furious in a way that feels too revealing, that Richie instinctively wants to hide even though it's not telling Eddie anything he doesn't already know about him.

"Fuck," Richie says, as the assholes turn a corner and move out of sight. "That's just -- I can't even -- I mean, that offends me both as a comedian and as, you know, a gay American." He's trying to make a joke out of it, deflect the sharp edge of their contempt out of his own stupid heart, but his voice is a little bit shaky and it feels awful. It feels awful knowing that if he comes out, that's exactly what a lot of people will be thinking, that the deepest, most vulnerable part of him will just be a joke, that here he is, right between a rock and a hard place. Trying to make a choice between three scary doors and knowing that they're all fucking impossible and there's no way to win this game because the game is rigged.

"Yeah," Eddie says, and then has to clear his throat. He's looking a little embarrassed himself, not making eye contact with Richie. He's probably mortified for Richie that he has such asshole douchebag fans, that Richie's spent the last 20 years creating a life for himself where that's the kind of thing his fans would say to him. What a waste. What a stupid fucking waste of a dishonest life. "Fuck them."

"Fuck them," Richie says, and God. It's hitting him that he said it out loud, though. Just to Eddie, but still. He called himself gay out loud, it's ringing in his ears, it's a true thing that he actually managed to say and… just to Eddie, but still. You gotta work up to these things. Maybe he'll get used to saying it. He said it and maybe saying it is something he can keep doing, keep being brave enough to do. Maybe he really can change his life, little by little.

**

It's weird, being on the road with Eddie. Richie's usually alone when he's on the road, first of all. He's alone a lot, actually, for being a pretty social guy. Or a guy who gives the impression of being a social guy. So it's weird to have anyone in the passenger seat at all, and then -- it's Eddie. He didn't even remember having a childhood friend named Eddie until three weeks ago, but when the memories came back, they came back sharp-edged and clear as if they'd happened yesterday, not like how memories normally get over time, worn down and fuzzy from knocking around in your brain over the years, new memories getting written on top of the old ones so the corners of the old ones get dog-eared. Being thirteen years old and desperately in love with his dumb friend Eddie feels so close and so recent, sharp and bright, stronger than any feeling he's had in the last ten years. He keeps thinking that must be an exaggeration but it feels true. It feels like his whole adult life he's been trying to train himself out of having feelings that important and he guesses he must've succeeded, sleepwalking through his whole life without caring too much about anything or anyone at all.

And now there's Eddie the grown man, sitting in the passenger seat next to him, falling asleep against the window after lunch, breathing deep and slow just this side of a snore. It makes Richie want to laugh at him but it fills him with a horrible tenderness at the same time. Eddie the risk adjustor, Eddie who just left his wife. Eddie who quit his job to go on the road with Richie, which Richie still doesn't understand at all. Eddie's who's decided to start his new life here, with Richie of all people, even though he could be doing a thousand things he must like better. Eddie who Richie still desperately wants to touch.

They get hotel rooms with two queen beds, mostly, but sometimes there's only one with a king, and it's fine, they're friends, it's fine. Richie's not going to come on to his straight friend again like someone who doesn't know the deal, Eddie's perfectly safe with him. But Richie wakes up sometimes in the night and listens to Eddie breathing, feels the sweet sharp pain of loving Eddie so deeply he can hardly stand it. In the mornings, Eddie showers first, coming out of the bathroom wearing a towel, Richie seeing the hair on his chest, his narrow shoulders. Richie loves him without even wanting anything to come of it, loves him the way you love people when you're thirteen, a secret just for you, no expectations. Like a crush from before you know what sex is, wanting without knowing what exactly it is you want. It's enough for him just to love Eddie, Eddie who was married to a woman, Eddie who won't ever love Richie back the way Richie wants, but who came on tour with him and calls him a fuckface and gets the Wall Street Journal every morning as a physical paper, like he doesn't even know it's 2016. Richie tells him he's an idiot and brings Eddie his coffee exactly the way he likes it, two creams, no sugar.

"When were you the happiest in your life?" Eddie asks him one night. They wanted to get high but they're in a Courtyard Marriott in Oklahoma that's non-smoking, because it's 2016, so they drove halfway out of town and parked on the side of a dirt road, got out to lie on the hood of the car and look up at the sky like they used to do in high school. It's a strange whirling sense of deja vu, and you can see more stars out here than Richie's seen in 20 years, probably. In L.A., you can see, like, three, and when Richie's out on tour he honestly doesn't usually really look up.

"Jesus," Richie says, taking a drag off the blunt and handing it to Eddie. "Shit gets deep with Eddie Kaspbrak."

Eddie rolls his eyes at him, but he's too high to get very annoyed. "Fine, don't tell me."

Richie sighs, leaning his head back against the hood. It smells like nature out here, black earth and growing things, pine trees and moss. "I've never been that happy, I don't think," he says.

"King of deflection," Eddie says in a sing-song tone. He really is high.

"God, I don't know," Richie says. "There was -- probably right when I was starting out, when I was like, 23? I'd moved to L.A. and I had this friend, Jason -- he was a comic too, and we got this shitty apartment together and… I don't know. I mean, honestly, it shouldn't have been when I was happiest, things weren't that great. I was working a day job as a telemarketer and broke as shit, but we'd go out at night and bomb at open mics and get wasted and laugh ourselves sick and me and Jason did everything together… I don't know. It was a good year or two." He hasn't thought about this in forever. It's giving him a strange ache to think about, how he hasn't had a friend like that since then.

"What's Jason up to now?" Eddie says. "Still a comedian?" He hands the joint back to Richie.

"Oh, no idea," Richie says, surprised. "I -- he eventually got this girlfriend who was really annoying, and I was a dick about it, kept making fun of her and giving him shit about not hanging out with me as much, and eventually he got mad and moved in with her and stopped talking to me, so."

Jesus Christ. He's too high to be thinking about this right now, but even high, what happened in retrospect is painfully obvious. He always told himself Jason was just, like, oversensitive and they fell out of touch, but Richie… God, he hated Jason's girlfriend so much. It was way over the top, and now that he knows what his deal is more -- fuck. Well, he was in love with Jason, he guesses. That's great to realize. After Jason moved out Richie stopped having friends like that, friends where you did everything together, and he made a big thing about how it's dumb to have a best friend anyway because they just get pussy-whipped and ditch you, and, well, fuck.

"I'm such a fucking mess," Richie mutters and hands the joint back to Eddie.

"What?" Eddie says.

"Nothing," Richie says. "My whole life is making sense to me and I don't like it. When were you happiest?"

Eddie sighs. "Oh, probably in the Losers clubhouse," he says.

Richie kicks him gently with the edge of his foot. "Hey, that's not fair," he says. "I thought we were talking about after Derry."

"I didn't say that," Eddie says. "Why would you think I said that?"

"Well, Jesus, because we've been talking about the 20 years we didn't know each other," Richie says. "Excuse me for like, assuming along the same lines."

"You're an idiot," Eddie says.

"Fine, then, me too," Richie says. "The clubhouse, reading comics with you talking a mile a minute about something stupid."

Eddie laughs and nudges Richie with his foot too. Richie's feeling warm all over, right to the pit of his stomach. They're lying so close that Richie can feel the heat coming off Eddie's body, and he loves him so much it's like a horrible pressure building up under his skin. It's that same feeling he's been getting his whole life, surging up in the rain, the feeling that used to make him panicky and terrified, driving him to rush out and blow off steam any way he could. He waits for the familiar feeling of claustrophobic panic, of needing to get out of here, that always comes in its wake, but it doesn't this time. It turns out lying here loving Eddie isn't terrible at all now.

"Derry sucked, but at least we were together," Eddie says.

"Yeah," Richie says. It's so strange, letting that expansive, inflating feeling fill up his chest and not forcibly suppressing it, just letting it rise up and out, finding that nothing bad happens when he does. He feels like he's discovered something entirely new, some totally different mode of being. Eddie's breathing next to him, slow and steady, handing him the joint with their fingers touching, and Richie loves him. Richie loves him and that's good, even if Eddie will never love him back.

"I've been thinking a lot about… you know, like, life," Eddie says. He's really high. Richie's crazy about him. Richie can't believe that this overinflated feeling is bubbling up inside him and it feels so different now, that loving someone -- a man -- doesn't feel like the end of the world. "My marriage. Why my marriage failed."

"Oh yeah?" Richie says. The stars are so fucking bright overhead, and it's crazy to think about how the earth is moving right now, how they're pressed against it, revolving along with it. Him and Eddie out here on the hood of a car on a dirt road like they're in a goddamn Taylor Swift song.

"Yeah, and I think it's because I wasn't being myself -- my real self, I mean," Eddie says. "I was really trying hard not to be, I was trying to be… safe. But it wasn't safe, because it wasn't real. I think the last time I was really being my real self, being really honest about who I am, it was back then, in Derry. With you."

"You're always yourself, Eds," Richie says. It's seriously so dark outside in the country. It's crazy how dark it is. It's crazy that Richie is out here in the dark in Okla-fucking-homa, lying here loving Eddie and feeling so warm and expansive inside he could burst. It's the strangest thing that's ever happened in his whole life. "Nobody could be more Eddie Kaspbrak than you."

"Yeah, but I --" Eddie says, and then breaks off. "No, listen, I just think I need to… like, remember who I was, who I am, and then be -- you know. Brave enough to be that person. I need to be like I was back in Derry, in that clubhouse. When things were good."

"Yep, sure," Richie says, because it suddenly seems funny to him, being nostalgic for Derry. Him and Eddie, lying out here wishing they were in that clubhouse again when it was Derry. Boy, being in love with Eddie is making him stupid. "Things were great. Our idyllic childhood where a psycho clown kept trying to kill us."

Eddie laughs, a little irritated laugh. "Jesus, Rich, I'm trying to have a moment here. You don't have to bring up the fucking clown."

"Well, it was kind of a big deal!" Richie says. He's getting giggly. It's just so weird. And it's pretty fucking funny to have your formative childhood trauma be a clown with too many teeth. "That clown really said some homophobic shit to me."

Richie hands Eddie the joint and Eddie rolls his eyes. "The clown said some shit to all of us," he says.

"I know, but Jesus," Richie says. "I mean, I can't believe someone actually got gay-bash-murdered in Derry this summer. That clown is regressive. It's 2016, dude."

Eddie makes a little noise through his nose, almost a snort. "In case you haven't noticed, dude," he says, "2016 sucks."

**

Two nights later, Richie has a dream that dead Henry Bowers is onstage doing all of Richie's jokes. He has a gory axe in his head, just the way Richie left him, but he's standing up there delivering Richie's mean douchey jokes anyway, using the exact same inflections that Richie uses. Richie knows he has to get him off the stage, kill him again maybe, but when he runs out on stage to do it, he can see that the audience is full of clowns, hundreds of them in every seat, the air crowded with red balloons. As soon as the clowns see him, they turn on him and rush the stage, and just as they're almost on him, he wakes up with a start.

His heart's pounding and he's sweating, trying to remember where he is, when next to him Eddie says, "Richie?" Shit, he must've yelled or something.

"Sorry," Richie says. He's trying to be reassuring and normal, but his voice comes out sounding ragged. "I, um… sorry. Jesus. Bad dream."

When he shoves his hair out of his eyes and looks over at Eddie, Eddie's sleepy and mussed and concerned, reaching to touch Richie's shoulder. Of course this would be one of the nights where they had to get a room with one king bed instead of two queens, and Richie needs to say something to joke it off but for once in his life nothing feels funny. He's trying to breathe normally and not gasp but he can't quite catch his breath.

"You okay?" Eddie says. He's not wearing a shirt, and he looks very tender in the dim light coming in through the curtains, which is horrible. Richie wants to tip forward and put his head against Eddie's bare chest and has to force himself to stay upright. "You want a glass of water?"

"I…," Richie starts, about to say that of course he's fine, it was just a dumb nightmare, but Eddie's already getting up from the bed, pajama pants low on his hips. He pads to the bathroom on bare feet and Richie tries to sit up against the headboard and get himself under control. It's not fair that he has to see his stupid, hopeless childhood crush in the middle of the night after he's had a bad dream like a little boy, when all his defenses are down.

By the time Eddie comes padding back out, a hotel glass of water in his hand, Richie feels mildly more together, but still awful. It's stupid to feel awful just because you had a dream like that about a person and a clown-demon who are already dead. "Here," Eddie says, handing him the water. He turns on the bedside lamp after Richie takes it, a warm pool of dim light, and it does make Richie feel a little more normal. It's 3:30 in the morning. As Richie drinks the water, Eddie puts his hand on Richie's shoulder again, and it's stupid how much Richie wants to lean into that touch.

"What was the dream?" Eddie asks. He's being very quiet and careful and… gentle. Different than how they usually are with each other. It's so quiet it feels like maybe they're the only two people alive.

Richie tells him. "It's stupid," he says. "It's just a dream." He takes his glasses off to clean them on his t-shirt, for something to do with his hands and to keep himself from looking at Eddie too much. He clears his throat. With Eddie just a blur, it somehow feels easier to blurt out, "But my jokes really are asshole Henry Bowers jokes. It's shitty. Like you said, that guy onstage definitely beat up the gay kids at his middle school." It's not even just onstage. Richie's jokes have always been mean, and it's just gotten worse as he's gotten older. He's gotten worse, every choice he's made in his life has been to make him worse -- falser and smaller and sadder. He doesn't want to be this way anymore but he feels trapped in it. I don't want to be me anymore, he thinks helplessly.

When he puts his glasses back on, Eddie's wincing a little, like he's still sorry he said that. "You didn't, though," Eddie says. "You're not like that."

"Eddie," Richie starts, because Eddie doesn't have to lie to him.

But before he can say more, Eddie interrupts. "No, like… um, do you remember that time that you, um… you kissed me? We were like twelve or thirteen." Eddie's not looking at Richie anymore -- he's looking down at the hotel comforter, picking at a loose thread. His face is in shadow.

"Oh," Richie says and rubs his hand over his face. "Yeah, Jesus, sorry about that one too. I was really all over you, huh?"

Eddie laughs a little, rueful. "No, I didn't mean -- I'm just saying, I just… at the time, I kind of thought that you were. Making fun of me, I mean. But you weren't, right?"

Richie doesn't quite know why they need to go through all his most embarrassing moments right now, but okay. "No," he says. "No, I just… wanted to kiss you." He feels very sad. Sad for his 13-year-old self, sad for his 16-year-old self desperately hoping Eddie would let him blow him more than once, sad for his 23-year-old self in love with Jason, sad for all the selves after that who could never bring themselves to love anyone again. Just sad.

"Yeah," Eddie says. He's still picking at the bedspread. "I didn't get that. I was so… I don't know. Caught up in my own deal that it never even occurred to me that that might be why you did it. I just thought you were messing with me, and I was sure you were going to tell everybody at school so they could laugh at me too, but then you didn't." He looks up at Richie suddenly. His eyes look very dark. "You were never like Henry Bowers."

Richie suddenly feels choked up, like a real loser, and has to drink more water to try to cover it. "Thanks, buddy," he says finally. He feels very exposed and can't bring himself to make eye contact with Eddie.

"Yeah," Eddie says. "Sorry I didn't… I don't know. I wish I'd realized sooner. If I had, maybe I would've...."

It's nice of Eddie to try to make him feel better, it really does mean a lot, but also… Eddie doesn't know. He hasn't known Richie since they were kids, he doesn't know what Richie's like now, after 20 years of terrible choices. Richie's trying to drop it, go back to nonchalant, adult Richie, but he must still be really thrown by the dream because he bursts out with, "But I am like him. I can be a real jerk -- I'm a jerk all the time. I don't have any real friends -- I have, like, drinking buddies but not anybody I'm actually close to -- and I've never had a real relationship, because I'm a genuine shithead to basically every single person in my life. You should know that better than anybody, I'm a dick to you constantly, and you --"

Eddie snorts, which is startling enough that it pulls Richie's head up to look at him again. Eddie's face looks really soft. "No, you're not," he says. "I mean, yeah, we give each other shit, we fuck around, but you're never actually mean. The only time I ever thought you were mean to me was that kiss, and that's just because I didn't know." He's looking at Richie with so much compassion and tenderness that Richie has to look away. It's too much.

Richie needs a joke to break the moment but he can't think of one, so they just sit there, Eddie's hand next to Richie's on the bedspread, Eddie looking at Richie, Richie looking at the wall. After a second Eddie takes a breath in like he's about to say something, but then he doesn't.

Richie can hear the clock ticking, the dull hum of cars on the freeway. He swallows. "It's late," he says, at the same moment that Eddie says, "Richie--". They stop, neither wanting to talk over the other, but then Eddie doesn't say anything else so Richie says, "You should go back to sleep. Sorry I woke you up."

"Yeah," Eddie says after a second, the word sounding like a sigh. He shifts. "Yeah, we should get some sleep."

"I'm gonna take a piss real fast," Richie says, and escapes to the bathroom to splash water on his face and try to get ahold of himself. He feels like a body without skin, everything totally exposed, one giant nerve right out in the open air. Then he takes a sleeping pill, because fuck everything if he's going to have any more dreams tonight.

When he comes back out again, the light's off and Eddie's lying down on his side facing the other way, so Richie can't see if his eyes are open or not. Probably not. Probably he went right back to sleep. Richie crawls under the covers next to him, aware of the weight of Eddie's body on the mattress, of the way he has the sheets tucked around him. He lies there trying not to think about the way Eddie was looking at him, trying not to think about Eddie wanting to talk about them kissing. He spends at least 20 minutes desperately trying not to think about any of that until the sleeping pill finally kicks in.

**

It doesn't seem like getting divorced while you're on a weird road trip is the easiest or most practical way to do it. It's none of his business, so Richie tries to stay out of it, but Eddie spends a lot of time on the phone with his lawyer and with his -- with Myra. Sometimes he gets calls while they're actively driving, so Richie has to turn the music off and try not to listen to Eddie's side of the conversation but usually he can't help it.

Myra doesn't seem to understand anything that's happening, which seems awkward. From Eddie's answers, she seems confused about why Eddie's doing this at all, and very concerned about him quitting his job, and very concerned about him apparently having a nervous breakdown, and she thinks he should see a doctor because she thinks he's having, like, a psychotic break? Though honestly Eddie seems fine to Richie, except during these phone calls when he sort of folds in on himself, getting smaller and smaller and angrier and angrier.

She calls yet again at a rest stop in Colorado. When Richie comes out of the bathroom he can see Eddie pacing down in the grassy area on the other side of the picnic tables, the set to his shoulders that means it's definitely Myra on the phone. Richie shrugs and goes to buy himself some shit out of the vending machines, and when he's done with that and Eddie's still on the phone, he goes and sits at a picnic table. When ten minutes have gone by and Eddie's still on the phone, Richie lies down on his back on the bench and stares up at the sky. It's like being a kid, deciding what the clouds look like. When he was a kid, he always saw dicks, which… in retrospect that probably should've been a tell, now that he thinks about it. Eddie always got so mad when he pointed them out.

Richie's fully zoned out, almost asleep in the sunshine when Eddie says, "Hey," sounding really subdued. Richie raises his head to see Eddie standing there with his hands in his pockets, looking like it was a pretty rough call.

"Hey," Richie says, starting to sit up. He feels groggy and out of it. "You okay?"

Eddie shrugs. "I guess," he says. He looks around vaguely, takes his hands out of his pockets and crosses them over his chest, then uncrosses them again. "Actually not really," he says. "I, um…." He darts a look at Richie from under his eyebrows. "This is dumb, but can I have a hug?"

It's not the kind of thing they ever say to each other, but Eddie sounds so young and vulnerable that Richie doesn't even have the heart to make a joke out of it. "Yeah," he says, quiet, and stands up, reaching out for him. Eddie comes into his arms with a little sigh, wrapping himself around Richie's middle, his head tucked against Richie's shoulder. He feels small and warm and muscular and for once they're touching each other without making a joke out of it or goofing around. Richie expects Eddie to make it quick and pull away, but he just keeps leaning into him, arms wrapped around Richie's waist, way past the length of a normal hug. After a long moment he sighs. Richie keeps holding him, that feeling of loving Eddie so much he can hardly stand it coming rushing up. It feels risky to keep holding him like this. Richie almost doesn't trust himself, but he pulls Eddie closer anyway, thinking about the sweet pain of it, of how hard it is to love Eddie and have him so close but not close enough. How good it feels to have Eddie leaning into him like this, to be the one that Eddie needs when he's upset, to be the person Eddie's holding onto when things are hard. It feels good even if it's not ever going to go anywhere, and Richie lets himself fall into it, smelling Eddie's hair and holding very still.

It's a long time before Eddie finally pulls back, looking a little embarrassed as he does. "Thanks," he mutters, wiping his nose and not looking Richie in the eye.

"Hey, any time," Richie says, and thinks he should change the subject to bring them back to normal but he can't seem to think of anything to talk about. When they're back in the car he turns up some old surf punk as loud as he can stand instead but it still takes two hours for his skin to stop tingling.

**

"I should never have married her," Eddie says three days later. They're driving through the strange landscape of the high desert in Idaho, a bright day, high clouds. When Richie glances over, Eddie's wearing sunglasses so Richie can't see his eyes and staring straight ahead through the windshield. It's kind of easier to talk in the car like this sometimes, when you're not really looking at each other.

Richie really wants to help Eddie talk through whatever's going on, but he doesn't exactly have the "emotional intelligence" to know about "adult relationships" so he feels really out of his depth. He suddenly flashes to the park where he used to go cruising, how those guys were the closest thing to honest relationships he's ever had and he feels vaguely hysterical. Wow, getting advice based on what he's been doing is probably not the best idea. "Yeah, uh… why did you?" is what comes out of his mouth in response. He winces. Way to be sensitive and tactful, Rich.

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Eddie shrug, body language tight. "I don't know," he says, and sighs. "I guess it felt familiar. And she wanted to. And… I was scared, I think."

"Scared?" Richie says, bewildered, because that doesn't make sense. He was scared, which is why he's never been in a relationship that's lasted longer than two weeks. Getting married is like, the opposite of being scared.

"Yeah," Eddie says. "Scared of… well. Scared that no one else would ever want me. Scared that… that maybe I wanted something different. Scared not to be normal. You know? I needed to be married so that no one would think I was -- " He pulls up short. "I don't know. Weird."

"Oh," Richie says. "Yeah, I guess I can see that." Not his personal issue, but he can understand how maybe that could make you rush into things, not wait for the right girl. He can't imagine Eddie thinking that nobody else would want him -- cute little Eddie? -- but sometimes people are insecure even when you don't think they are. "Girls were always crazy about you, though. You don't really have to worry."

Eddie laughs, a little explosion of air that's almost a snort. "Yeah," he says. "Right." When Richie glances over, he's rubbing at his forehead.

"Anyway," Richie says, still wanting to be reassuring. "You were braver than me. I was too scared of women to be around one longer than an hour, basically. For me to have managed to get married I would've had to be, like, a Marine."

Out of the corner of his eye, Eddie's looking over at him. "Did you ever, like… worry?" he says. He sounds tentative, voice almost shaky. "I mean, that people would guess you were… you know. That you, um. Liked men. Since you weren't married?"

"Oh," Richie says. It had literally never occurred to him that he should get married to avoid that, even though, yeah, he worried about people thinking that all the time. "Well, yeah, that's why I had those hour-long relationships in the first place, I guess. But… well, it turns out if you talk about women's boobs all the time, people figure you're just a pig and that's why you're not married. It's great. A really mature way to handle things."

Eddie laughs. "Well, we all have our different strategies, I guess," he says. For a second he seems like he's about to say something else, but then he stops himself.

Richie leaves a long pause in case Eddie is going to say whatever it was, but Eddie doesn't. "Don't worry, Eds," Richie says finally. "The next woman you marry will be way better, I bet." Richie hates the idea of Eddie getting married again. Hates it. He keeps running his stupid mouth so he doesn't have to think about it in his head. "I can see her now, Eddie Kaspbrak's perfect girl. Maybe another risk assessor? Measured, sensible, always uses hand sanitizer. Shorter than you? No, you'll never find that, but maybe only an inch or two taller."

Eddie makes a little amused noise through his nose, but it feels like a pity laugh more than anything. It sounds tired, and when Richie glances over he's staring into space and frowning. After a few minutes he sighs, probably thinking about Myra, and turns the music up.

**

Nothing makes Richie feel more like a teenage asshole than how Eddie gets up like three hours earlier than he does in the morning. Or, he assumes, anyway. He doesn't know how much earlier because he's never awake then; it's just a fact that when he does wake up, Eddie's showered, dressed, caffeinated, and looking like he's more than halfway into his day, while Richie's bedheaded and pre-verbal.

In Spokane, when Richie slouches out of the bathroom after brushing his teeth and trying to wake up at least a little bit, Eddie's sitting at the little table in their hotel room. "Morning," Richie says, because he's pretty sure he only grunted on his way into the bathroom.

"Hey," Eddie says, looking up from his phone. He's looking overly pleased with himself for this early in the morning. Well, for 10 am.

"What?" Richie says suspiciously as he goes to get clothes out of his suitcase.

"Nothing," Eddie says, smirking like crazy as he takes a sip of coffee. "Just reading something interesting."

"Oh yeah?" Richie says, grabbing a t-shirt. He thinks his jeans from yesterday are still clean enough to wear, but he sniffs the crotch just to make sure.

"Yeah," Eddie says. He clears his throat. "'Richie Tozier, Unlikely Sex Symbol,'" he reads off his phone and oh fuck, that's a headline Richie is unfortunately familiar with.

"Jesus Christ, were you googling me?!" he says, spinning around.

Eddie's grinning like a real asshole and still looking at the phone. "'Richie Tozier doesn't know why you're so obsessed with him. The Maine native --'"

"Oh, fuck off," Richie says, and lunges for the phone.

"Hey!" Eddie says, laughing, and spins away, still trying to read this fucking article that Richie's buddies have been using to make fun of him for the last two years. " -- 'thinks it's pretty weird that he has fans thirsting' -- ow!"

Richie's going to get that phone away from Eddie if it kills him, and his arms are so much longer how is Eddie managing to keep it away from him? Eddie's still laughing, and Richie's all over him, trying to grab the phone and then twisting behind Eddie's back when Eddie holds it there, the two of them wrestling like when they were kids. "You're such an asshole, that article's so old," Richie's saying as he gets Eddie backed into a corner. "Just give me your phone, Eduardo --"

"I just want to read about how sexy you are!" Eddie says, ducking under Richie's arm and laughing hysterically as Richie tries to grab him. "I didn't know I should've been thirsting over you on the internet, but it sounds like that's what everyone --"

"Shut up!" Richie says but he's laughing in spite of himself. He's got his arm around Eddie's waist now and he's trying to wrestle him into a place where he can grab the phone. Their bodies are pressed together, Eddie small and wiry and more muscular than Richie was expecting, and Richie suddenly realizes that he pretty much has Eddie pinned against the wall, and -- Richie's still in his pajamas, just a t-shirt and thin pajama pants and he can feel the heat of Eddie's body against his and oh God, in about 3 seconds he's going to have a full-on boner. He lets go of Eddie as fast as he can without being weird about it.

"All right, all right," he says, trying to cover for how he can't be touching Eddie anymore. "I'm too old to wrestle you, you're going to throw my back out."

Eddie's looking up at him with bright, amused eyes, this teasing look to his face that… suddenly Richie flashes to another hotel room, maybe two years ago. He'd picked up this guy in the park, a short, dark-haired guy -- Jesus, he does have a type, he really imprinted at a formative age, and that's embarrassing -- and that guy had looked up at him just like this, grinning and mischievous, right after Richie had kissed him. God, why is he thinking about that?

"Oh yeah, you scared I'll wrestle better than you now that I've gone through puberty?" Eddie says, still having the greatest time. He's not flirting, he's just teasing, but it's still a little much for the precarious situation Richie's in right now.

"Yeah, that's it," Richie says. "I gotta get dressed, idiot, we have to check out soon." He grabs his clothes and tries to escape to the bathroom as fast as he can, where he's not going to jerk off. "And get off the internet!" he yells back over his shoulder as he goes to shut the door. Behind him Eddie's laughing.

**

Doing the show night after night keeps grinding on Richie as the tour goes on, his whole life feeling more and more claustrophobic the more he tells these same jokes over and over, listens to the same frat guys laughing along, thinking they know him. He can't keep going like this but the more he tries to think how to make a change, the more panicky he feels. Like, what, is he just supposed to… come out? Blow up his whole career? It's not like you can't be gay and a comedian, but trying to take Richie's actual current career and change that into the career of a guy who's gay and out? There's no real obvious trajectory to that and Richie feels like if he brings it up with his manager, the guy will probably just have a heart attack and die over the potential lost revenue.

And in some ways, it's making it worse that Eddie's here with him. Like, don't get him wrong, it's great having Eddie on the road, but it's making it pretty impossible to go on telling these jokes the way he always has. The fact is that he loves Eddie. Every day he gets up and he loves Eddie and he jerks off in the shower and when he dries off Eddie's there waiting, with his stupid heavy brows and his stupid wiry build, just begging Richie to love him for no good reason. Eddie's always giving him a hard time about the shit he eats and bumping Richie's shoulder with his own and giving Richie these sidelong looks, so amused and affectionate that Richie can hardly stand it. He knows Eddie's favorite gas station snacks and how often he needs to stop for the bathroom, and what podcasts he listens to, and they're getting these rhythms, these married road trip rhythms, but Eddie's straight and he's getting divorced from a woman and he's standing in the wings as Richie tells his jokes about fucking his fictional girlfriends and Richie honestly feels like he's going to go crazy.

He's stewing about what he's supposed to do next all the time, in his head and out loud, going around and around about it. "I mean, I could just come out onstage, I guess," he says. "Whatever. Rip the bandaid off. My manager would probably drop me but who cares."

"Mmm," Eddie says. He's sipping coffee in the booth across from Richie and Richie doesn't think he's paying that much attention. Richie's gone through this whole routine before. Jesus, he knows it's boring but Eddie could at least pretend to care that Richie's kind of losing his entire mind full time?

"Or I could, I don't know, try to just steer jokes away from personal life type stuff, but that's kind of… I mean, I've never been like, an observational type comic, you know? I always tell stories."

"Totally," Eddie says, but he's still not really listening, flipping through the newspaper that someone else left on the table.

"Ugh," Richie says, running his hands through his hair. "It's just, it's impossible, you know? Either I blow my career up and probably stop getting gigs and go broke and can't pay my mortgage and have to, I don't know, go back to a job in telemarketing, or else I just keep doing this and slowly die inside and I guess pretend like I'm dating women -- and Jesus, even if I do come out and manage to keep my career, like, I'm 40 years old and I have no idea how to date. Am I supposed to get on apps? Am I supposed to go meet a guy on an app and, like, build a life together even though I'm emotionally 13 years old still and I've never had a serious relationship? It's fucked up."

"Yeah," Eddie says. He's looked up by now, looking at Richie levelly and with no expression.

"It's not fair, you know?" Richie says, sitting back in his seat and slumping down. It's really not, it's just fucking not fair at all, not one little bit. "I wish I had a regular job where I could come out and nobody would care. It's easy for everybody else. Bev left her husband before we even got to Derry, and look at you, you left your wife without even breaking a sweat. I'm such a mess, I don't know what's wrong with me but it's so much harder, and it's just not fair --"

"Not fair?" Eddie says.

"Yeah," Richie says. "My life's so much more complicated than everybody else's and --"

"Complicated -- you honestly think it was easy for the rest of us?" Eddie says. He's frowning, getting that look like he does when Richie makes a crack about fucking his mom, but Richie really isn't sure why.

"What?" Richie says. "I mean, not easy, I guess, but easier, is all I mean, and --"

"Oh my God," Eddie says, with a sudden forcefulness that takes Richie aback. "What's the matter with you?" Okay, he sounds really mad, and Richie doesn't know…. "You saw Bev's bruises and you think it was easy for her to… you think the rest of us--" he breaks off, sputtering.

"I, uh," Richie says, taken aback, but Eddie's not done.

"I QUIT MY JOB!!!" Eddie says. Almost yells. Richie shifts in his seat and looks around to see if anyone's staring. "I'M A WRECK!! I'M NOT COPING!! I LEFT MY WIFE AND QUIT MY JOB TO GO ON A ROAD TRIP WITH A GUY JUST BECAUSE I WAS IN LOVE WITH HIM WHEN I WAS THIRTEEN!! YOU THINK THAT'S EASY??"

"I, um," Richie says. His head is spinning. "No, I guess -- wait, what?"

"You're so self-absorbed, my God," Eddie says, a little bit quieter, but still in a furious grimace. "It's unbelievable."

"I -- wait, go back," Richie says. What is Eddie talking about? Richie has to have misheard him because there's no way he just said what it sounded like he said.

"I'm having a nervous breakdown," Eddie says. "You think you're the only one who doesn't know how to start dating guys at 40? You think you're the only one having a hard time even saying that he's -- that he's -- you know."

Eddie is not making any sense, but he's acting like Richie should know what he's talking about, and Richie can't make heads or tails of it. "Eddie," he says. "You're straight."

"Jesus Christ," Eddie says, and rubs at his forehead. "Jesus fucking Christ."

"You were -- you were in love with me?" Richie says. "No, you weren't. Eddie, you married a woman."

"You're so stupid," Eddie says. He's got both hands over his face now, scrubbing at it like he's got a headache. "You're honestly the stupidest person I've ever known in my entire life."

"Eddie," Richie says. His heart's beating light and fast, like a hummingbird heart. Eddie's saying -- but he can't actually mean -- but also Eddie's saying -- in love with him? Like he might want…? But Eddie can't mean that. The sun's not coming up, that light has to be something else.

"You've been closeted 30 years and you don't recognize it in somebody else?" Eddie says. "You've never heard of a beard, Rich?"

"Of course I've heard of a beard, but you're not -- I mean… you're not -- since when?"

Eddie gives him a look.

"Well, how was I supposed to know?!" Richie says, because he doesn't know what else to say. Eddie was in love with him? Eddie was in love with him?

"Again, I quit my fucking job and left my wife to go on a road trip with you," Eddie says. "If you could pay attention to anything outside of your own little crisis maybe you would've noticed I've been flirting with you this whole time."

"What?!?!" Richie says. Though why had Eddie been reading articles about Richie being sexy… Jesus Christ. He didn't think. "You have not! You never told me--"

"I've been trying but you don't listen! And it's not that easy to just say!" Eddie says, starting to shove himself out of the booth. "Anyway, I'm telling you now."

"Oh, c'mon, don't storm out," Richie starts to say, but then Eddie's standing next to him, planting his hands on either side of Richie's face, and kissing him, full on the mouth.

His mouth is soft and warm and familiar, he's the same Eddie that Richie kissed when they were kids, and Richie's so stunned that he can't even move for a long, long moment, brain going a mile a minute, trying to process. Eddie means it. He's not straight and he was in love with him when they were thirteen and he's kissing him now so… so that says something about how Eddie might feel right now and… what the fuck.

Eddie pulls back before Richie's got his head around it enough to move or even close his eyes. "Sorry," Eddie mumbles. He's blushing, like he thinks Richie's not into it and that's why Richie wasn't kissing him back. "I didn't mean to make things weird, I know you're over it, I just --"

This whole time, thinking about what he's going to do next, Richie's felt like he's in front of those three doors in the house on Niebolt Street, trying to make an impossible decision. All the doors are bad options, there isn't a good door, there isn't a door that's just going to let him run happily through into a beautiful new life. There's not an It Gets Better door. They've all got, whatever, fuckin' bloody children's torsos behind them, and Not Scary At All is the worst of all the doors, it's living closeted and miserable until you're 40 goddamn years old and you can't stand it for one more second. But somehow it never occurred to him that when he was actually in front of those three doors, back in that horrible house, what he actually did, what actually got them out of there -- what he did was grab Eddie and run. It worked then and maybe it'll work now. He really is so stupid. You don't go through the doors, what you do is, you grab Eddie and you run.

"Jesus, you could've said something earlier," Richie says, and grabs the front of Eddie's shirt to pull him down again. This time Eddie kisses him back right away, opening his mouth and kissing Richie so intently Richie almost feels like he might start crying. "Fine, I'll come out," Richie says when Eddie pulls back just a little to catch his breath, and Eddie says, "You're such a fucking idiot," and kisses him again.

It wasn't hard to say. It doesn't even sound hard to do anymore. He'll kiss Eddie and he'll come out, and that's that. Who cares. He won't go through a fucking rigged door. No more clowns. Just him and Eddie.

It's a lot of PDA for a Denny's on a Tuesday night. Richie doesn't stop kissing him until he hears someone pouring something and opens his eyes to see the waitress leaning around them to refill Eddie's coffee, looking bored. Well, that's embarrassing.

"Oh, uh, thanks," he says to her, feeling his face go hot.

"You boys need anything else?" she says.

"Um," Eddie says. He's bright red, and slides back into the booth across from Richie, clearly trying to act like he wasn't just tongue-kissing another man in a restaurant at midnight. "Just the check when you get a chance."

"Please don't tweet this," Richie says.

He expects her to not know what tweeting is, because she's at least sixty years old, but instead she says, "Honey, you're not that interesting," and rolls her eyes as she walks away.

"Huh," Eddie says as she gets out of earshot. "I guess she didn't recognize you. Weird, when you're such a big deal."

"Fuck you," Richie says, trying not to laugh. Eddie's joke's not even that funny, he just feels a laugh wanting to bubble up from inside him for no good reason at all. "Not really my demographic."

"I thought you were an international sex symbol that crossed all demographics," Eddie says, fake innocent, quoting from that fucking article again.

Richie laughs way too hard this time, and Eddie's laughing too, grinning at him across the table. "I guess it worked on you," Richie says, kicking him under the table. "Secretly. Behind my back. I can't believe you left your wife for me."

Eddie rolls his eyes hugely. "I didn't leave my wife for you, you asshole. I left my wife because I'm --" He falters. Then he takes a deep breath, squares his shoulders and his voice gets very deliberate. "Because I'm gay."

Richie loves him so much. He's crazy about him. He'd do anything for Eddie Kaspbrak. "Gay for me," he says, like an asshole. He can't stop smiling.

Eddie's grinning too. "Shut up and finish your pancakes," he says, and Richie does.