Chapter Text
There’s no world in which Bill was Richie’s first choice to come out to.
But Richie has spent a lot of his time at the hospital crying. It’s funny. He’s never felt less self-conscious about tears.
And Bill, in his Bro-ish way, tries to comfort him. He sits next to Richie, currently watering his hands, and says, “It’s funny. Meeting up with old flames. Uh, confusing. Emotionally.”
Richie lifts his head to give him an incredulous look. Just to make sure he is, in fact, comparing his weird thing with Bev to Eddie being half-dead on a hospital slab.
“…Uh-huh.” says Richie.
Bill awkwardly plants a hand on his back and says, “Y’know we love you, Rich. No matter what.”
“No offence,” Richie says. “But that’s not like. My biggest concern right now.”
Bill blinks. “Fair enough.” He says eventually, and claps his hand on Richie’s shoulder. “Well. I’ll give you a minute.”
It’s a gift of a sort, because it makes Richie decide he doesn’t want to go through anything that awkward with the rest of the Losers.
“I’m gay,” he announces, out of the blue when they’re all sitting in the hospital hallway on a visit. He gestures vaguely at Eddie’s room. “In case that wasn’t clear.”
There’s a wave of positive responses that vaguely mists over Richie, like a dying hydrangea getting a little spritz of water. It's a nice gesture, but it's also a little pointless.
And then Eddie wakes up.
And suddenly, a lot of things are important.
Making the room look nice. Bringing Eddie candy that’s better than the vending machine shit. Being kinder to his friends. Working out what the fuck he’s going to do with his career.
Telling Eddie how he feels.
Maybe.
Hypothetically.
He tries telling the Losers that’s what he’s going to do, so that it’s harder to chicken out. The problem is, Bev has heard that so many times that eventually she just raises an eyebrow in sympathetic disbelief.
So he tells Bill instead. That puts some kind of time limit on it, at least, because he’s really not sure how long Bill can keep his mouth shut for.
“Now?” Bill looks nervous on his behalf, which is really not helping matters.
“Yeah,” Richie says , tapping on the arms of the hospital chair with false bravado. “He has like 5 minutes before physical therapy, right? So I have a clear escape route.”
“Alright,” Bill says.
“What?” Richie asks, now panicking. “Do you think it’s a bad idea?”
“No!” Bill says, pitch high, “Just. The words ‘escape route’ gave me pause, but-it’s a great idea, Richie.” He plasters on a terrifyingly fake smile.
“Oh my God. Ok. Christ.”
He heads up to Eddie’s room, clenching and unclenching his hands along the way.
Richie knocks the tune to Banana Boat on the wall and invites himself in. “Hey Eds. Can we talk?”
Eddie’s in his wheelchair, on his phone. “I have 5 minutes spare. Can this wait?”
“You’re in luck! It’s a 3 minute conversation.”
“Fine. Go on.”
Richie clenches and unclenches his fingers again. He’s pretty sure he sprained one.
“I just. Thought. That I should tell you-”
“4 minutes,” Eddie says dryly, and that about locks Richie’s throat up completely.
He swallows three times, and then what comes out is, “So. I’m gay. The more you know. Anyway…” He starts backing towards the door. “I will let you get to therapy.”
“Richie,” Eddie says, expression considerably softer. “Come with me?”
“Sure,” Richie says, still backing away, hoping that if he gets to the corridor first he can send some kind of bat-signal to Bill to be fucking cool.
No such luck.
“Dude!” Bill says as soon as he sees Richie. “How’d it-”
That’s when he spots Eddie following behind.
“-uh.”
Eddie rolls his eyes a little. “It’s fine. He told me.”
“He…told you?” Bill’s eyes glance between Richie and Eddie.
No no no no no Richie tries to convey telepathically.
“So,” Bill continues, “are you guys-”
“That’s right!” Richie interrupts. “I told him I’m gayer than Liberace, and he said he could always tell from my impeccable fashion sense and personal hygiene.”
“Definitely not what I said-” Eddie starts.
“Oh!” says Bill. “I mean, that’s great, Rich.”
Eddie narrows his eyes and glances between the two of them. “Ok. Anyone wanna tell me why I still feel out of the loop?”
Richie has practice keeping secrets. He knows, when you’re being interrogated, you have to take a breath. Then come back with a joke. Like your ribs aren’t getting hammered.
Bill has not. Fucking straight men.
“No secrets!” he says frantically. “Right, Rich?”
Jesus fucking Christ.
“Well,” Richie amends, “me and Sonia were going to wait to tell you this, but-”
“Beep beep,” Eddie says, eyes darkening.
“I’m…going to leave,” Bill says, and promptly turns heel, the traitor.
Eddie raises an eyebrow expectantly.
“You’re gonna be late for physical therapy,” Richie says, getting a hand on his wheelchair.
“Richard Tozier. If you forcibly wheel me anywhere, I will cut off your hands.”
Richie lifts his hand. Waves it at Eddie as evidence. And also because he has this energy bubbling up inside, and he kind of feels like if he doesn’t move, he might cry.
“What is it?” Eddie asks, working himself up. “Is it about me?”
Richie opens his mouth. And closes it again.
Eddie’s eyebrows bound up. “Richie, what the fuck? You know I have issues with people keeping things from me! If-if it's a health thing-Oh my God, are they keeping something from me?”
“No! You’re gonna be fine, Eddie.”
“Is it Myra?” Eddie asks. “Did she-is she leaving?”
“No.” Richie’s starting to feel warm and claustrophobic. He’s not sure Eddie’s ever going to stop asking. “I don’t know. Why would she tell me that?”
“My job,” Eddie says with certainty. “Am I fired?” He takes a ragged breath. “Is It still out there? Oh God. Bowers? Am I being charged? Are you being charged? Fuck, Richie just tell me-”
Richie knows what’s going to happen for about 3 seconds before it happens. Just makes it to a bin before he’s kneeling down to cough up his lunch, grey and acrid. There’s no good food to puke up, but hospital jelly is one of the worst.
At least it stops Eddie for 3 seconds.
“Richie.” he says, somewhere between concerned and appalled. “What….”
Richie stands up. Wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and watches Eddie flinch at that. “I need air.” He announces, and walks. Keeps walking until he makes his way outside. Sits on a kerb and rests his head in his hands, forcing himself to take deep breaths of the fresh air so he doesn’t pass out. It’s so hot. When did it get so hot?
He stays there for a long time.
Bev joins him eventually. He doesn’t look up, but he can smell her perfume. Lime and coconut.
“Eddie sent me,” she says. “After he interrogated me about whether you were being arrested? It was an odd conversation.” She hands him a water bottle. “He also told me to give you this.”
Richie huffs a laugh. He doesn’t know why. It’s just very Eddie. He lifts his head to take a few swigs.
“Do you want to talk to me?” Bev asks. “Or should I get Eddie?”
“Don’t get Eddie,” Richie says. “In fact, if you could protect me from being alone with him for the next year, that would be ideal.”
“He made threats on your life?” Bev guesses, matter-of-factly.
“Worse,” he says. “On my dignity.” He sets it up, so Bev can knock it down with a You have dignity?
Instead, she says, “I didn’t realise you two were already hooking up.” Richie snorts in surprise.
“We’re not,” Richie says after a moment. “Possibly ever. That would involve saying something, and I, uh. I think I’m just not a brave person. And if facing a clown couldn’t change that, there’s nothing that can, so. Fuck it, I guess.” He takes another swig. Wishes it was whisky.
There’s a short silence. “Richie. Had you told anyone you were gay? Before us.”
“That wasn’t bravery.” Richie says, sensing where she’s going. “That was being beyond giving a fuck.”
“Ok,” Bev says. “So you need to decide if you give more of a fuck about Eddie, or your fears.”
He wants to argue that it’s more complicated than that, but maybe it’s not, really. Maybe it’s a choice between taking a risk and the certainty he’s gonna miss someone for the next 40 years.
The Losers huddle around Eddie’s bed for his last night in hospital. It’s weird, now that he can move around, that they’re still crouching by his bedside each night like he’s a sick Victorian child. But it’s become a tradition at this point.
They say their goodbyes, peeling off one by one, and Richie’s not sure what his own choice is, whether he’s going to leave, or speak up. Then Eddie makes the decision for him. “Rich? Can you stay a minute?”
“Of course,’ Richie says. Plasters on his most relaxed smile, and goes to sit by his bed.
“I was thinking about yesterday,” Eddie says. “And. You’ve never kept anything from me that I needed to know. Anything that could’ve hurt me. So. Whatever it was, you don’t have to tell me.” He pauses thoughtfully. “Also, I don’t want you to puke in front of me again.”
Richie feels the tension in his shoulders dissipate. “Uh-oh,” he says. “I had 3 creaming sodas for lunch today.”
Eddie crinkles his nose and says, “You should keep a sickness bag around your neck, permanently. Like a puke bib. Or reverse feeding trough.”
“Why the fuck are you a risk analyst with ideas like this, Edward?”
Eddie rolls his eyes, smile tugging at his scar. He lazily shoves at Richie’s shoulder.
“Eds.” Richie says cautiously. “What are your plans after this?”
Eddie’s mouth flattens out. “Finding an excuse to tell Myra, and. Going back, I guess.”
Really? Richie doesn’t ask. The woman you removed as your emergency contact? The woman you’ve been texting fabricated excuses to for the last week? That Myra?
“We’re in the same area,” Eddie says brightening up a little. “You should come by. Myra will make you…well, I’ll be honest, it’ll probably be a salad, but it’ll be a good salad.”
It feels like the tiny possibility that everything would just work itself out is crumbling like charcoal. It throws Richie off his usual deny deny deny kilter. Nothing to lose, he thinks, and says, “I can’t-I can’t have dinners with you and Myra.”
Eddie rolls his eyes a little, like this is just Richie, being difficult as usual. “What, you only eat at Olive Garden?”
Richie stares at him. He had considered the possibility (probability) that Eddie wouldn’t feel the same. Or would, but would be so wrapped up in denial to reciprocate. But not knowing? Richie had always assumed he’d at least had a suspicion. That their friendship was being kept afloat by the powers of selective ignorance.
“Eddie.” Is he actually doing this? He pictures the alternative, eating wilted kale fortnightly, Myra keeping her eyes on him, keeping his eyes on Eddie. Being cuckolded without the benefits of an actual fucking relationship. Neither the Other Woman or the Main Squeeze, just The Creep Who’s Obsessed with my Husband.
He’s so fucking sick of that type of shame.
“I’m fucking. In love with you, man.”
Great. Great speech.
There’s a silence. Richie needs to fill it. “That was the big secret, by the way. I’m not-I’m not keeping another bombshell stored up.”
Eddie stares at him. Blankly, like he’s still registering. His mouth opens a little, and closes again. He swallows, and says, almost pleadingly, “Richie. I’m not. Good at this.”
Richie turns his head to the door. It’s not subtle at all, but he needs a second of not looking at Eddie. Last chance crushed by the fucking steel-toed boot of reality.
He nods, hopes it’s a substitute for I understand, it’s ok, because he knows there’s a cap on the number of words he can say without crying, and he really doesn’t want to reach that limit.
He’s nodding like a fucking bobblehead now, but movement is a distraction, keeps the burn of his eyes from sinking in.
“I’m sorry,” Eddie says miserably, and oh, that hurts more.
“It’s ok,” Richie manages. “I didn’t think I was playing a winning game.”
Except he had, for a second, because they had fucking won, and Richie had started to trick himself into thinking he might be a winner.
“Anyway,” Richie says. “I better…” he motions to the door.
“Wait,” Eddie says. His eyes are watering too, which is bizarre, and sort of funny, in a way Richie might be able to make a bit about if it ever stops hurting. “Shouldn’t we. Talk about this, or something?”
“You can send me a long, follow-up email,” Richie says, backing towards the door. “All your questions alphabetised.”
“Richie,” Eddie says, calling after him now. “I really. I really want us to stay friends. Please don’t just…disappear on me, when you get home.”
“I won’t,” says Richie, and he’s pretty sure he’s telling the truth.
Eddie’s so preoccupied, driving home, that he doesn’t even realise he has a huge fucking scar on his face to explain until he’s 10 minutes from his house.
He’d texted Myra an old friend’s funeral excuse, and given her vague and ambiguous updates over the next week, responding to about one of every 12 of her messages. Never had he mentioned the stab wound in his face.
It was an old friend’s funeral. There were shovels lying about. I fell on a shovel.
It’s not a good excuse, but it does seem like the least limiting.
Say it was a kitchen accident and he gets locked out of cooking. Say it was a shaving accident and he’ll have to grow a tree-man beard. Say it was a mugging and he’s pretty sure Myra will try to keep him inside the house for at least the next decade.
Say it was a shovel and he…won’t have to clean the driveway in the Winter? He can deal with that. He can definitely deal with that.
He hasn’t texted Myra to tell her he’s coming home. He thinks he’s kinda hoping to catch her in the middle of some transgression, lever some of the trouble he’s in onto her.
It’s fucked. He feels increasingly aware of how fucked it is, having spent the last few days with six people he loves. He can’t picture Ben doing this to Bev, or Bev to Ben, or Richie-
He frowns, and tightens his hold on the steering wheel.
Myra complains at him for a long time.
He can’t really blame her, but he also can’t bring himself to feel a huge amount of remorse.
Then she sits him down on their bed, brushes scar cream over his cheek with the pad of her thumb, and he remembers why they started doing this in the first place. Two people in need of comfort, no one else willing to give it to them.
Now, he thinks, he has those people. Five of them. All of them distant, though.
And he doesn’t know if Myra does. Her sister in Minnesota and all her brunch friends the subject of multiple and varied complaints.
And Eddie doesn’t exactly believe in the sanctity of marriage, unbreakable vows or holy unions, no matter how aggressively Myra’s sister put those ideas forward in her maid-of-honour speech. But he does believe in loyalty.
More than ever, after everything he’s been through, he believes in repaying people. And one thing he can say for Myra is that she’s definitely always been there for him.
So he’s going to try to do the same for her.
That night, Eddie dreams that he’s the leper. Reaching into the mirror, and taking himself by the neck.