Detour

Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/15028481.

Rating: Mature
Archive Warnings: Major Character Death, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Categories: F/M, M/M
Fandom: IT - Stephen King
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier, Ben Hanscom/Beverly Marsh
Characters: Eddie Kaspbrak, Richie Tozier, Bill Denbrough, Ben Hanscom, Mike
Hanlon, Stanley Uris, Pennywise (IT), Sonia Kaspbrak, Wentworth
Tozier, William Hanlon, Jessica Hanlon
Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Alternate Universe - Road Trip,
Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Compliant, Other
Additional Tags to Be Added, Angst, Fluff, Slow Burn, Flirting, super
shameless and a bit sexual flirting, Oblivious Eddie Kaspbrak, Sharing a
Bed, Mutual Pining, Teasing, Banter, POV Alternating, Secrets,
Hurt/Comfort, Richie Tozier is a Fugitive, Daydreaming, about each
other, a group of best friends acting like best friends, You Read The
Book? You Wanted More?, I Bet You Didn't!, I'm Here To Offer This
Anyway, living in the 60s but talking modern day, Massage, Dream Sex,
Making Out, lazing around, Late Night Conversations, Cuddling &
Snuggling, showering together, Fluff and Angst, Everyones a little gay,
toxic masculinity? never heard of her, miscommunication is a bitch and
she is no friend of mine, A little smutty, Guns, On the Run, First Kiss,
forgot that one, Bisexual Richie Tozier, Ruthless Richie Tozier, homage
to the 2017 movie, Horror, Blood and Injury
Language: English
Series: Part 1 of Circus Circus
Stats: Published: 2018-06-24 Completed: 2018-07-06 Words: 69,784 Chapters:
6/6
 Detour
by naiesu

Summary

The paper isn't all that interesting. To be fair Eddie's seen it all before, years upon years ago,
and everything is exactly the same. He’s the only one out of place. Far away from New York,
no money and no wife, driving across the country with someone he finally remembers and
someone that should be dead. I should be dead, too, he thinks, flipping to the next page. It
feels like a dream, sometimes.

With Eddie’s death a fresh wound, It makes a promise. An offer to bring him back in
exchange for It’s life.

So Richie makes a wish.

 Beginning

Belief is a fickle thing.

It leads and waits and gives when there’s someone to fan the flames, but at the first sign of
wavering, of hesitation, the sparks are snuffed, and the coals are doused. A follower alone is
prey to the night, lost without light or guide.

But if, instead, there is an outside source? Providing, endlessly, belief both bad and good.

The possibilities are limitless.

Bad.

But good.
 Part 1

#1.) Eddie

There are things Eddie knows he won’t ever understand. It’s not difficult, of course, to find
something new and confusing. The world is changing, different with every footstep. But
Eddie is a chauffeur, not a surgeon, and he’s not sure he’ll ever comprehend just how much
blood the human body can spill when it loses a limb.

It’s a quiet, receding chaos in the room around him, and he can’t see anything besides
outlines as the light dims. The ground shakes as It runs, chased by Bill and Richie, but even
that is fading to something distant. His skin feels cold and clammy, and his fingers are numb
where they’re clamped around his shoulder. It’s all warm, pouring down his shirt and soaking
his pants, and he can’t think of anything but the stain he’ll have to fight with. How sticky it
is.

Beverly is tearing a piece of cloth, straining to wrap it around something he can’t see
anymore. “Just hold on, Eddie.”

They both know what she’s saying, asking for a promise she knows he can’t keep. He rolls
his head toward her, and despite his best attempts, his cheek touches the ground. Eddie
watches her struggle with a match, trying to light what may be a makeshift torch, and
breathes slowly. He’s numb, tethered to his body only by the pain in his shoulder. Floating.

Floating, but still conscious. He inhales, exhales, inhales, and says, “I wish we had never
met.”

Beverly looks at him in the matchlight, hand hovering by her unlit torch, and in the darkness,
the silence, he can hear her struggle with a sob. But he knows she understands. “I know,
Eddie,” she says, softly.

He stares, and neither of them break eye contact. It’s the truth. Things would have been
better--for all of them--if there had never been a group. A circle, a party, the Loser’s Club.
But there was. Stan died for them, Mike almost died, and Eddie will die. Derry is a curse,
stained on the earth in Pierrot makeup.

“You saved them,” Beverly says, and although she’s crying, her voice is even.

I know I did, Eddie thinks, and he doesn’t take it back. He never would. But he is angry and
bitter and regretting every missed opportunity that’s come and gone in his life, and he says
nothing in response. Instead, blood gushing between his fingers with every heartbeat, Eddie
relaxes onto the uneven ground, and smiles. “Tell them to return the favor, will you?”

And he wishes, with every fiber of his being, that none of it was real.
#2.) Richie

(let me go and you can have everything you’ve ever wanted)

It’s an oath--malediction tainted sweet for a weak mind. A promise with the catch hidden.
Bill is advancing, hands empty but fingers curled into claws. He wants--he has a victory in
sight, and Richie can see it in the way he walks, can see his hands clenching around it. Richie
has nothing.

It senses that, and no longer focuses on Bill. One large, red eye turns on Richie, mandibles
clacking and huge legs clicking on the tiled floor.

(I can give it to you)

Richie doesn’t have to ask what It’s talking about, and It doesn’t need specifics. It dips into
his mind, in and out, easy as a passing glance, and Richie knows he’s given up too much
before he even knows he’s given it up. His body locks up, and he stares It down.

No, no, no, he thinks, jolting out from under that penetrating gaze. He follows after Bill, who
is counting on him, assuming he’s still behind him. I can’t fall for that, don’t fall for that,
don’t--

Bill whispers something beside him, and Richie nods, staring straight ahead, telling himself
to focus. But focusing is never something he’s been good at, and it’s even harder when he’s
staring into the eyes of some primordial being. His legs feel cramped and jellied at the same
time, wobbling and locking up on him every time they take a step closer to It.

It backs up further and further, each step echoing in the long hallway. Something about Its
gaze is knowing, and Richie swallows, feeling the sweat dripping down the back of his neck.

(make a choice, Richie. he’s gone. stan, too.)

He’s gone?

But Richie knows he is. They had gathered around him, watched him bleed out onto the floor,
watched weakness take hold of him until they couldn’t linger any longer. Bill couldn’t wait
for his last words

“Bill?” Richie asks, but it slips out strangled. His hands are shaking.

It stops backing up.

(I can give them back. both of them. they won’t remember anything, but that’s enough for you,
isn’t it? let me go)

It doesn’t sound like a plea any longer. It sounds like a list, finalized and waiting for consent,
and Richie’s agreement will be the signature. He doesn’t want to agree. They came to kill It,
together as one, and lost too many people for Richie to choose to get the rest of them killed.
But for one terrible second, he hesitates, and he wishes, so completely, so fully, that It would.
Give it back, he thinks, hands fisted at his thighs, Give it all back.

The world is in stasis.

The earth is pinched on its axis, no longer turning. Richie can see dust motes in front of him,
unmoving, rocks kicked into the air by the scuffle, and Bill. Bill angry and ready to run,
mouth open to scream, hands fisted at his sides--frozen. Richie worries the hem of his shirt,
breathing heavily into the silence.

It stands in front of him--just like he had seen hours before--but at a normal height instead of
a looming presence. The spider is gone, replaced by something so human in facade but still
so unearthly in action. An eye missing, marring white makeup with blood. It’s holding a
single balloon, but it doesn’t move to offer it.

“I don’t think you want a thank you!” It laughs, and Richie wants to turn and run, but Bill is
still hovering between them, and Richie has nowhere to go. He doesn’t know how to get out.
Eddie. “Accidents happen, Richie,” It says. He hates the way it says his name, he hates it.
“But sometimes accidents are ugly.” The smile is gone, replaced with something squirrely
and threatening.

“That’s why they call them mistakes.”

 Part 2
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

#3.) Eddie

Eddie wakes in a room familiar and completely foreign. It’s full of all his things, taped to
walls and set in distinct patterns he knows only he would do--only he would like. The room
itself is a shape he’s never seen, a shade he’s never seen. Eddie’s only lived in two rooms in
his life, and this doesn’t look like either of them.

There’s a window near the end of his bed, and he sits up, trying to see, but pain lances up his
arm and into his neck, grasping at the underside of his jaw and clawing. He gasps, lying still.

His arm is stiff, wrapped up and stinging something fierce, but it feels somehow numb at the
same time. He knows that feeling. Pain meds. Eddie is working something out of his system,
and when he looks down at his arm and sees wrap wrap wrap from fingers to shoulder, he
knows he’s messed up.

His legs and stomach ache, but it’s a surface hurt. Eddie stares at the ceiling, running
possibilities through his head. He doesn’t know what happened to his arm, but he’s learned
enough from his mother to know that skin grafts mean bad.

I should be dead, he thinks, and all thought abandons him. He’s even more lost than before.

Getting to the window is one of the hardest things he’s ever done in his life, and he can feel
the gauze on his legs and stomach stretching with every move, every breath, but he finds
what he needs. His window is overlooking a busy city street, nothing he’s ever seen before.
Cars honking, litter blowing around the gutters. Dirty.

The door handle turns, no knock, and Eddie turns, knowing what he’ll see before she comes
in.

Sonia is just as big a presence as he remembers, and some distant part of him feels a
pervasive kind of heartache rising to the surface. One he hasn’t been able to let go of since
she died.

“Eddie,” she chides, face contorting. The heartache washes away under the tide of her
overbearing worry, and he takes a step away from the windowsill. “You know you shouldn’t
be out of bed!”

His chest tightens, hands coming together in front of his stomach to fiddle like he did when
he knew he was in trouble, but his right hand is wrapped up, and he only ends up looking at
the floor. “Sorry, Ma.”
Ma? Ma? You’re 38! he thinks in a hiss, but he gets into bed, just like she wants. She fiddles
with his bandages--even though he knows she shouldn’t be--gives him medicine, takes his
temperature, and props his arm up. You’re 38 but Ma is still alive.

Sonia sits in the room with him, touching things and moving them to a way she likes, sliding
pill bottles back and forth on Eddie’s night stand. He knows she’s just doing it to have a
reason to be in the room with him. Her gaze is steady, as much as she thinks she’s being
subtle, and Eddie closes his eyes, trying to fall back asleep. He needs to think, but the air
around her is oppressive.

So Eddie lets his exhaustion cradle his battered body, and drifts off.

#4.) Richie

Richie is on the beach.

He squints into the sunlight, covering his eyes with both hands, and finds he has to shut both
eyes. The sudden brightness is blinding, and he’s bombarded with sounds, smells, feelings.
He sways when the ocean pushes at his waist, head spinning, and he isn’t sure if he wants to
pass out or throw up. Maybe both.

Don’t throw up in the ocean, he pleads with his unresponsive body, feeling his stomach roil.

“Getting cold feet?” Went calls, splashing in behind him. He slaps Richie on the back as he
passes by, beach ball held tight in his hands. His fingers catch on the thin thread attached to
the ends of Richie’s glasses, and he tugs, just enough to pull them off Richie’s nose. “Or just
afraid you’ll lose your glasses?”

All higher functioning has abandoned him. Richie is still squinting when he pulls his hands
away, but he ignores it in favor of staring straight ahead of him. His glasses are hanging
around his neck, limp and knocking against his collarbone when his body rocks with the tide,
but the shape, the colors, don’t matter. It’s his father, standing in the ocean with him. Alive.

Richie’s throat closes up, but he doesn’t struggle against the tears that start welling in his
eyes. “Dad?” he asks, whisper soft between them. The sound is almost completely lost
against the wash of the ocean.

Went stops splashing and teasing-- ”lawks-a-mussy, Rich! We’re losing our ball!” --and
stares at him. “What?” Richie chokes on the words he wants to say, and Went wades closer.
“Cat got your tongue? You’re never this quiet, your mom would love it.”

Richie laughs, just once, and when he breathes back in it’s shaky and sounds a bit more like a
sob than anything else. He covers his mouth, finding himself smiling. I’m dead, he thinks,
staring up at the blurry image of his father. I’m dead or ‘ol Pennywise really knocked me off
my rocker like she always promised.
Went bops him on the head with the beachball, and Richie dabs at his cheeks with the very
tips of his fingers, careful not to get the water into his eyes. He slips his glasses back on, and
looks at his hands--smooth skinned, stubby fingered. Youthful.

“I missed you,” Richie says, sniffling unabashedly loud. He rubs at his eyes again and looks
back up.

“I was only blowing up the ball for a second,” Went says, but the smile on his face and the
laugh behind his words are nervous, like he’s not sure if Richie is joking or not. It would be
the first time in his life Richie was anything other than dramatic.

But Richie feels another wave of grief roll over him, and he chokes around the sound,
wanting to hug but not sure if doing so is OK. It’s been years, and Went doesn’t even know it.
Richie was never particularly touchy as a child, and suddenly asking for a hug in the middle
of a public beach may be more than he should. He’s already making a scene for a reason that
likely makes no sense from the outside.

But Went, ever the complying father, pulls him in. “Alright, alright, don’t cry,” he mumbles,
scrubbing at Richie’s hair roughly. It’s comforting, familiar.

Went smells like smoke, something Richie’s grown up surrounded by, but burying his face
into Went’s chest all he can think is, I watched you die.

Richie had pleaded for everything back, and It had given.

And given.

And given.

#5.) Eddie

It’s funny, almost--in a way that some things you say are funny aren’t funny at all. Eddie
listens when his mother speaks, knowing when he needs to keep his mouth shut, and plays
along. He finds out they’re in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, and it feels like a bad dream. A state
over from the past--the present, the future, the other. Living the life of the rich in New York,
forever hounded by the memories of his mother. She’s not a memory now, and it’s a real fear
she’ll never truly leave Eddie.

Sonia is unemployed as ever, and coupled with Eddie’s bedridden state she’s found a new
reason to ghost his every move. When he’s awake she’s in the room, cooing and feeding him
pills he’d rather not take, but he can’t stay inside and sleep forever, as much as he thinks he’d
like to.

She can’t follow him into the bathroom, however, although he’d like to see her try. It’s a
miracle she fits, he thinks, the day she finally lets him leave his bed to get cleaned up. The
apartment bathroom is snug as a shoe.
He stares at himself in the mirror, fingers gripping the sink. 11 years old. How fitting. Even if
he does figure something out, how can he plan for it? He can’t do anything as an 11 year old,
what did 11 year olds even do?

Crawl through the sewer system and plan murder. Eddie scrubs his fingers down his face,
mussing up his hair. He can’t focus. His mother’s presence in the room next door is
unbearable, attached to his heels like a shadow, offering him oxygen and then slapping him
on the wrist when he asks to breathe for himself.

Bill would know what to do. Bill always knew what to do. Eddie’s not shocked by the nature
of the thought, but of the thought itself. The memories are still there, clear as day, everyone
within reach. He hasn’t forgotten anyone. Not even a bit. And if he’s here, then--

“ --maybe everyone else is, too,” he whispers, staring at himself in the mirror. If he can find
the rest of the group, even just one person, he knows they can all figure it out, but on his own
he’s at a loss.

“ Eddie?” Sonia calls, and Eddie tenses when he hears a chair creaking. He scrambles with
his things, throwing the shower curtain back, and turns the shower on. The floorboards
outside the door bend, and Eddie’s throat tightens. It’s like being in a horror movie. “Eddie,
what’s going on in there?”

“ Nothing, Ma!” he yells, maybe a little too loud to be subtle. He throws his clothes off, and
struggles with the bag over his arm.

“ Eddie.”

“ Really, Ma, everything’s fine,” he says, struggling to come up with a lie on the spot. “I was
just,” he swallows, looking back at the mirror, “thinking.”

“ Thinking about what those boys did to you, I bet,” she scoffs. “I told you they were nothing
but bad news, you should’ve listened to me!”

“ I know, Ma.” He doesn’t know. Eddie stares at the shower curtain, eyebrows furrowed.

She clicks her tongue, pleased with his shame, and mumbles something he doesn’t catch.
“Hurry up so we can get you back to bed.”

Eddie breathes out when he hears the floorboards squeak with Sonia’s retreat, and feels his
heartbeat start to even out again. He steps into the shower, and makes sure he takes enough
time to get himself a tongue lashing before he’s forced back into his bed.

#6.) Richie

They’re in Los Angeles. It’s the biggest joke Richie’s ever had the misfortune of being on the
receiving end of in his life. They don’t live in the greatest house, but Derry wasn’t exactly the
dream, either.
The view from his room is the biggest tease of them all. Out his window are palm trees,
leaning fat and low over the road. If he had enough time and the trust of his parents, he could
probably walk to Beverly Hills and stare his house straight in the face. He wonders who lives
there.

None of his records are with him in his room, and he leans on the windowsill, wondering.
Would they still be in his house? Is his house empty? Can he get his job back?

No one will hire an 11 year old, he thinks, pushing his hands up under his glasses and rubbing
his eyes. What would he even do with the money? Pay his bills?

He could drive somewhere, if he could get ahold of keys and platform shoes. But it still begs
the question: where will he go? What will he do when he gets there? He needs to find Bill,
but something uncomfortable shifts in his stomach when he remembers how he ended up
here. Richie had promised to defeat It, and made to go through with it--not once, but twice--
and betrayed Bill the second something hadn’t gone the way he had liked it. Georgie had
died, hell, Audra had gone completely bonkers, and Bill hadn’t wished for them back. Why
was Richie always the weak link?

He rolls over on his bed, tired of staring down the past, and leans against the wall. Georgies
back, at least, and that’s something.

That same feeling slip slides around Richie’s stomach again, and he bounces his leg. But
what if he’s not? What if Bill didn’t come back, what if Eddie didn’t come back. Richie asked
for, wanted something that wasn’t specific enough, and It could have given him back his
childhood, but taken away everything that made it anything.

#7.) Eddie

The city is...disgusting.

Eddie insists on walking to school when he can’t stay cooped up inside anymore, but Sonia
refuses on the grounds that the city isn’t safe. It’s a fair point. The most normal worry she’s
ever had in her life.

She sends him out with the bus route he’s taking, some spare change, and a promise to wash
his hands when he gets to school. He curses himself for jinxing it.

But he does as he’s told. The bus is dirty, the people are dirtier, and the school is--it’s a
middle school, but there’s more kids than Eddie’s ever seen in one room in his life. For once
he doesn’t know the name of everyone he’s sitting with, and it scares him.

The fear goes away when he realizes he’s taking courses focused on his age, not his mind.
He’s surrounded by children, all far more lost than him, and he finds himself growing bored
quickly. People stare at his arm, wrapped up and in a sling; they ask him questions he doesn’t
want to answer about Derry; and, weirdly enough, the worst part is the people trying to be his
friend. Eddie has no idea how to act like an 11 year old, and he’s afraid he’ll do or say
something that will get him thrown in an asylum.

So, this time, Eddie makes the conscious decision to ostracize himself.

It’s an opportunity to start over, completely and utterly, and Eddie takes that and runs with it.
He does his schoolwork, gathers his things, and on the ride home applies for a library card.
His book bag weighs him down getting off the bus, but spreading all the books about time
travel out on his bed sets his mind at least somewhat at ease, and he starts reading.

#8.) Richie

Richie does what he can. He loots a map of the U.S. from the dashboard of his father’s car,
and pins it up on the wall in his room. It takes every ounce of memory recollection and focus
he can muster, but he manages to pinpoint the cities everyone in the Loser’s Club lives in,
and he circles them in vivid red ink.

Maggie and Went ask about it when they see, but he insists they’re the places he dreams of
living in. They accept it easily. An odd child, they probably think. He was always all over the
place.

When they’re not home and Richie’s not back in school, he picks up the phone again, and
again, and again, asking the operator for each of the Losers. Is there a Stanley Uris there? In
Atlanta, Georgia? No? OK, thank you. Every day, in surrounding cities, in surrounding
states, in Derry-- but it’s always the same answer. ‘No, I’m sorry, there’s no one by that
name. Is there anything else I can help you with?’ They don’t call him sir, and Richie thinks
that they’re only just barely going along with the things he asks. The ramblings of a child.

His fingers itch for a cigarette every time he scratches another ‘x’ onto the map, but he
refuses to give into it. It’s a chance to start over. A new body, new choices, the same people.
He’ll do better, this time around.

But time passes, and Richie runs out of places to map. There are no Uris’, no Denbrough’s,
no Hanscom's, no Marsh’s, no Hanlon’s, no Kaspbrak’s. There is no one but Richie Tozier,
alone and halfway across the world. So very alone.

So Richie folds up the map, and slips it away into the back of his closet where he can’t be
reminded of the past-future. Of the mistakes he’s made. The people he’s lost. What he’s
ruined. This is a time, he tells himself, to start over.

#9.) Eddie

Eddie reads. God, does he read.

He reads about both fiction and non-fiction, learning about made up concepts and theoretical
possibilities. None of it makes much sense to him, he feels like most of it is going over his
head, but he tries. It passes time, something he finds he has too much of locked up in his
house.

None of it is real, he finds, after stringing together events in a clean line from 1985 to 1958.
Time travel is a theory, nothing more. Yet there he is, all in one piece, feet standing in the
past but mind racing in the future. Magic, he thinks, is the only probability.

There’s an easy, but impossible answer to that question. It had the power to send them back in
time, he’s sure, but why would it do that when it could kill them?

Them? Or just you? He sighs, worrying his lip. It’s an uneasy train of thought to follow.
Being lost in the past with the Losers is one thing, but by himself, Eddie is at a loss. Reliving
his childhood with no way to escape his mother.

He digs his nails into the meat of his palm. There’s no way of knowing where anyone could
have ended up, and he has no way to contact them. Before he was able to contact everyone,
but couldn’t remember, and now he’s stuck with the memories without anyone to talk to.
Eddie supposes It is probably getting a kick out of that.

He does his homework. But when he’s not busy with homework, he plans--connecting dots
and making himself a timeline to set his mind to rest. And even though it never amounts to
anything, even when it never truly serves a purpose, he never takes the library books back.

#10.) Richie

At barely 18 years old, Richie steps into his old studio, looks his old boss in the face, and
smiles. It’s his chance for a do-over. The first time he had been too excited to be any real
good, but Richie has had so much practice in his life it’s not even second nature anymore.
He’s lived and breathed his job for two lifetimes. He knows what he’s doing.

And yet, sitting down and speaking over the radio, hands resting over the records he’s
chosen, Richie doesn’t feel the same spark. Something about it had settled in his bones
before. It had seemed right. He knows without a doubt that he should have this job, that he’s
made for it, but for some reason he can still see doubt on everyone’s faces.

A few days in and they send him home with a ‘maybe’. Richie waits.

He gets a call, but it’s not from anyone he’s expecting. He’s wanted on The Tonight Show,
they tell him over the telephone. He’s standing in the kitchen in ratty pajamas with pancake
syrup halfway to his neck. The think he’s funny, they say.

So Richie packs his bags and flies to New York.

It’s closer to Maine than he’d like. Far closer. All through the flight he thinks about the
Losers, how they’d react. He’d seen it once, the joy on their faces at seeing each other
successful. At seeing each other at all. He thinks they’d be proud of him if he could tell them
what he was up to.

Richie gets up halfway through the flight so as not to disturb anyone, and locks himself in the
bathroom until his chest doesn’t feel like it’s trying to rip itself in two anymore.

It’s not the first time he’s been on The Tonight Show, and if all goes well, if Johnny Carson
likes him, it won’t be the last. They get him all dolled up, and he breathes through the jitters,
jumping around backstage and shaking out the excess energy. He rides what’s left, ready for
his next step at getting his life back. He doesn’t know what went wrong with the radio
station, but if he has to be doing comedy on TV for them to take him, so be it. Richie wants
his house back.

So he steps out on stage, and becomes the version of himself that people love.

#11.) Eddie

When Eddie comes back from the library Sonia is asleep. He slides his book bag over his
shoulders, rolling the ache away, and tries to step over each creaky floorboard. He passes
through the living room, book bag held just above the ground, and rolls his eyes when he sees
the TV has been left on, likely running a soap.

“Until next time,” Eddie hears from the TV, a man, wealthy and arrogant. He sighs, rolling
his eyes. There’s laughter, so he assumes it’s a talk show, “This is Kinky Briefcase, Sexual
Accountant, saying, ‘You need my card if you can’t get hard’.”

What the hell? Eddie thinks, glancing at the TV. How crass.

He drops his bookbag, heartbeat in his throat and every other sense forgotten. Richie is
standing on the stage of The Tonight Show, smile resplendent on his face, hair done up and
eyes still huge behind coke bottle glasses. He waves when the crowd cheers, looking for all
the world like he belongs amongst their love.

Eddie runs his fingers over the TV screen, static dancing along his skin, and breathes out. He
doesn’t feel entirely in control of himself. Richie is alive. Richie is out there, Richie is a state
away. Eddie could drive and be there in three hours. His knees almost buckle with the
prospect, how real it feels. Seven years of remembering everything and accepting that he was
alone. He needs it like he needs to breathe.

“That was Rich Tozier!” Johnny calls to the crowd.

Eddie zones back in just as Richie gives another wave to the crowd, and then disappears off
stage. Panic shoots down his spine, jolting him into action, and he curses. He has to get a
hold of Richie somehow, but he doesn’t know any of Richie’s information--
But Mike did. Eddie curses again, twisting his fingers in his hair. He paces in front of the TV,
frustration curling in his body like fingers around his lungs, and squeezes his eyes shut. His
eyes feet hot, prickling with tears. Information seven years passed, mentioned in the butt of a
joke--that’s what Eddie needs.

He knows it, he does, and that’s the most frustrating part. Eddie’s always been good with
numbers, but it’s asking so much.

He remembers taking a bathroom break in the library, and walking by a list of numbers. It
had been there, written down underneath Richie’s name, and Eddie had been privately
impressed with Mike’s sleuthing. The digits are a blur in his mind--the memory is a blur.

But by the time he starts putting the number together he remembers that it was for 1985, not
1965. Johnny Carson is saying goodbye, and Richie is nowhere to be seen.

“Eddie?” Sonia asks, voice dampered by sleep. Eddie jumps, swivelling around like he’s been
caught. If she saw Richie on TV she’d never let Eddie even look at the remote. “I didn’t hear
you come in.”

You weren’t meant to, he thinks, picking up his book bag. His heart is still pounding, eyes
wet. “I just got back.”

She rubs her eyes, but makes no move to sit up. She looks exhausted. From what, Eddie
hasn’t the faintest clue. Her glasses are off, otherwise he’s sure she’d see what a mess he
likely looks. “I hope you were wearing a scarf,” she mumbles, and like that, she’s gone.

Eddie slips away into his room, laying his bookbag against the wall, and sneaks back into the
hallway. He eyes the telephone, lying on the table next to Sonia.

The back of his neck prickles, and he feels jumpy, nervous. He’s doing something he
shouldn’t, doing something she would hate, Eddie I can’t believe you went behind my back
and talked to that Tozier boy I’m so disappointed in you--

But, God, Eddie doesn’t care, he needs Richie. There’s a hundred different similes he can
think of to describe just how much.

He tiptoes up next to Sonia, and slips the phone off the end table, stretching it back to his
room. He has to stop halfway down the hallway to unravel the rest of the cord, but he
manages to get it just inside the doorframe. Eddie closes the door, dials the operator, and
stretches the phone cord all the way to his bed.

#12.) Richie

The phone is ringing when Richie steps out of the shower.

He ties a towel around his hips, scrubbing roughly at his hair with another, and steps out into
the room. He had already spoken with his parents earlier that evening, and Richie is still
proud and giddy with the experience. They love him very much and they can’t wait to see him
home again. It’s likely they’re both bragging to everyone they know, but Richie can live with
that. He likes to brag, too.

“Yello,” he says into the receiver. His voice sounds exhausted, and he clears his throat.

“Richie,” someone breathes into the line.

Richie smiles, confused. It’s a man’s voice. He wasn’t expecting to get fan calls so quickly,
certainly not from men. The man makes a squeaking sound that may or may not be the start
of sobs, and Richie runs his hands through his wet hair, overwhelmed. “Who else, baby?”

He hears something that sounds like, ‘It’s you’, but the line becomes so muffled he can’t tell.
Richie throws the towel over his shoulder, shuffling back and forth, and weighs his pros and
cons. It’s best if he hangs up before they get too deep into the conversation. “Yup, you asked
for my hotel room,” he says, soft, “but listen--it’s getting pretty late, and you’re worked up.
Hey, I’m a bit worked up! So, why don’t you--”

“Richie,” the man says, cutting him off, “shut up.”

Richie does. Something about the man’s voice is familiar in a way he can’t describe, so he
waits for an explanation. It takes a minute--he can hear the man struggling, sniffing loudly
through the phone. “Do you even know who this is?”

It’s a game now. Richie wracks his brain, interested. He hums. “Can’t say that I do.”

“Jesus Christ, Richie,” the man says, exasperated. His voice is wrecked and wobbling.

Richie grins. “Did I get you pregnant? Is that why you’re calling me at this god awful time
of--”

“It’s Eddie.”

Richie stops smiling. Then starts smiling again, but it’s shaky and stilted. He laughs once,
then catches himself, and swallows. Why is he so nervous? “W-what?” he asks. He hopes it’s
a joke. He hopes it’s not.

“What are you not understanding?” the man asks, but it’s not a question. It’s forceful and
brusque. “It’s Eddie.” He sniffles again, and Richie hears something brush the phone. “Eddie
Kaspbrak.”

Richie feels the air get sucked out of him, numb and overly sensitive all at once. His knees
buckle, and he catches himself on the bed, letting himself fall heavily onto the mattress. He
covers his mouth with his hand. Eddie Kaspbrak. Here and alive, too, just like everyone else,
he thinks, choked up with emotion. But, lost in sobbing laughter, what comes out is, “Don’t
fuck with me.”

Eddie is even angrier than before. “What about this is so funny to you?”

“You can’t be Eddie,” Richie says, bending over, head between his knees. “I’d know.”
 “You’d know,” Eddie scoffs. “First time in my life you call me by my name, but ‘you’d
know’. Do you need to ask me some ridiculous questions or something?”

Richie can feel the smile slipping off his face. He wants to believe it so, so, bad, but he’s
afraid to let himself hope again. “Yeah, sure, sure, OK,” he says, wiping at his eyes. Eddie
sighs-- I can’t believe you-- but Richie ignores it. He takes a second to think. “Where was the
last place we went out to eat together?”

“Jade of the Orient,” Eddie says.

The line goes silent, and Richie drags his hand down his face and then back up again. The
pain in his chest is unfathomable, but he can’t stop smiling. He should be known as the Man
of a Thousand Masks, not Voices. But that’s all the Voices are, really. Masks.

Eddie sighs, and Richie knows that sound, because he’s felt it for 34 years. “Where are you,
Richie?” he asks, soft, but so incredibly desperate.

Richie cradles the phone against his ear with both hands, fingers curling around it, wrapping
up in the cord. He laughs, a brief, barely there thing. “You called me, Eds.”

If Eddie cares about the nickname, he doesn’t say as much. “That’s not--” Richie hears Eddie
take a deep breath, and he pushes the phone as close to his ear as it’ll go. He can hear Eddie’s
hiccuping sobs, the way it barely tints his voice because he’s careful to speak clearly. “Where
were you?”

“In California,” Richie says. “I called, Eddie, I swear. I called everywhere. There were no
Eddie Kaspbrak’s, they said.”

“I believe you,” Eddie says. “I’m in Pennsylvania. When--” He pauses, and Richie knows
what he’s going to say, but doesn’t expect to hear him finish-- “When will I see you?” he
asks, and then laughs, but it’s nervous. Richie can hear the hiccups coming through. “I feel
like I’m gonna hang up and you’ll just disappear.”

“I won’t, Eds.” Richie leans further over his knees, bundling himself up like the phone is
Eddie and Richie can comfort him through the plastic. “I’ll--” He’ll what? Go tomorrow? He
has a meeting tomorrow.

“I don’t have a car,” he says.

“I do,” Eddie says, quick as lightning. His voice sounds so sweet, so hopeful. Richie can feel
a smile creeping up on him, as unlikely as it seems. Eddie breathes out, giddy, and Richie
smears away the tears gathering on the rims of his glasses. “When should I come?”

Chapter End Notes

Questions or comments or maybe you just want to yell at me? I get it. My tumblr. Or
maybe you want to listen to the tunes that helped me get this fic going. My Spotify.
 Part 3

#13.) Eddie

Eddie packs that night and fills his bookbag with the last essentials he thinks he’ll need for
the trip. He adds a few things for Richie, knowing he’ll forget, and just the thought of that
simple action is enough to steal Eddie’s breath away. They’re meeting up. Nothing about it
feels real.

“ Are you wearing enough, Eddie?” Sonia asks in the morning, eyeing him critically. She has
the phone pressed up against her ear, but nothing about her gaze seems off. Eddie had been
careful to wrap the cord up in the exact way he had found it, put it back in the exact place the
phone had been. She would have known. “It’s cold.”

There’s certainly a chill in the air, but Eddie is dressed for the next blizzard. He’s sweating in
the living room, wrapped up in a thick coat and a scarf. He’s not in the mood for a fight. He
nods, slinging his book bag over his shoulder, and winces when he hears his pill bottles
shake. Sonia narrows her eyes, and it’s so quiet in the space between them that Eddie can
hear the person talking over the phone. “Haven’t been feeling too well, lately,” he says
lamely. “I may have to stay home from class tomorrow.”

Sonia’s expression smooths out, and she nods sagely. “Of course, Eddie.” It’s her worried
expression, the one that means Eddie is going to have to lie in bed being fussed over for the
next week. “I’ll make sure we have cold medicine here when you get back.”

He’s positive they have enough medicine in the bathroom alone to start selling drugs illicitly
from their apartment, but he doesn’t say anything. “I’ll see you later, Ma,” he says, waving.

He’s nervous she’ll stop him, see through his poor facade, but she just waves at him, face
turning into the phone. Eddie breathes out slow and deep, as quiet as he can, and walks to the
door.

“ What?” Sonia asks, affronted.

The hairs on the back of Eddie’s neck stand up, and he doesn’t look back as he opens the
door, stepping into the hallway. He closes the door, and the click of the lock makes him jump.
Sonia’s anger is palpable through the walls.

“ Richie who?” Sonia asks, but it sounds so harsh, so demanding, that it’s not even a question
anymore.

Eddie feels his throat closing up, his lungs squeezing with the panic breathing down his neck,
threatening to pull him under. He backs away from the door, and finally gets a hold of his
body when he bumps into the hallway wall. He bolts.

The drive to Richie’s hotel is a mess. He’s so frazzled by his mother’s rage that the beginning
of his trip is filled with wrong turns and backroads, staring at the map against the steering
wheel and trying to get himself under control. His lungs beg for his inhaler, but he knocks his
fingertips against the circle on the map where Richie is and refuses to give in.

After that, calm and confident, Eddie reaches New York in a little over four hours. A waste of
time, at first, but he makes it nonetheless. He follows the line he’s drawn on his map, and
finally parks in the parking lot.

It’s a cheap little place. Not bad, not good. He’s finally pinching his pennies, Eddie thinks,
walking inside.

He’s lightheaded. A bit nervous. He knows he probably looks it. When he steps into the
elevator he turns around to look at the door, and fixes his hair and clothes in the reflection.
Halfway up he realizes what he’s doing and gets the unreasonable desire to completely mess
up everything he’s just done to fix his appearance. He didn’t come to impress anyone.

But something small and anxious gnaws at Eddie’s chest. All that time ago Richie had been
called away before Eddie had finished what he was trying to say, but Eddie knows he’s not
stupid. Anyone standing nearby would’ve understood what Eddie was trying to convey,
laying on the ground and spilling a thousand emotions into a fraction on the words. Richie
hadn’t had time to say anything in response.

Is that really what’s important? he thinks, stepping out into the hallway. He walks up to
Richie’s room, and breathes slow--in, and out. He feels like he’s sweating too much. Like his
face is red.

He knocks on the door, and looks down the hallway, trying to find something, anything to do
with himself. His fingers fiddle with the piece of paper he’s written Richie’s door number on.

There’s a heavy sound on the other side of the door, and then quick footsteps, just before the
door is thrown open. Richie looks just as nerve-wracked as Eddie. His curly hair is a mess,
like he’s run his fingers through it, and his shirt looks like it was hastily thrown on, but Eddie
can see the tag sticking out of the front, brushing his Adam’s apple. His pajama pants are
hanging low on his hips, and the tie is coming undone.

But all Eddie can look at are Richie’s huge, huge eyes, staring at him from behind those
coke-bottle glasses.

“ Eddie,” he says, barely a breath. Relieved like Eddie’s just patched a hole in his chest and
he can breathe again, like Eddie’s name is the only thing he’s wanted to say with that last
breath.

Eddie can feel his face going hot from his collar to his ears. “Richie.” It’s ineloquent, but it’s
all he can think to say. Every thought has abandoned him.

Richie stares, and stares, and finally grins. He reaches out, grabbing Eddie, and pulls him into
the room, crushing him in a hug. “Eds! Oh, God, Eds!”

Eddie thinks normally he would protest, be he lets himself get wrapped up in Richie. He
grabs Richie’s collar, and buries his face in his neck, letting Richie set his chin on Eddie’s
head. Richie smells clean, faintly like soap and a lot like toothpaste and hotel blankets.

“ You’re here,” Richie whispers into Eddie’s hair, reverent. His hands are running up and
down Eddie’s back, restless with energy.

Eddie leans into Richie, letting the weight of him act like an anchor, tether him. It’s real, it’s
real, he’s real, Eddie thinks, and feels his eyes well up.

They stand in Richie’s doorway, breathing each other in, and for the first time since Eddie
was 11--11 the first time--he feels light, carefree, weightless. Things will be alright, and he’s
aware of it now, accepting it. There’s no looming presence waiting just over his shoulder.

Richie ducks his head down, cheek dragging a slow line against Eddie’s, lips brushing his ear.
Eddie shudders, and--

“ Mrs. K sure can make ‘em, can’t she?” he asks.

“ Beep-beep, Richie!” Eddie snaps, pushing Richie away. He slaps his chest, and Richie
laughs, hands out to protect himself. “That’s disgusting.”

“ It’s true! Tell me it’s not true.” He looks Eddie over once, and smiles. “You’re young.”

“ Were you expecting an old man to come knocking on your door?” Eddie asks, setting his
keys on the bedside table.

“ I wouldn’t have minded,” Richie says, coy. Eddie folds his arms. “You’re cute as ever, Eds,
I couldn’t have said no to you if you knocked on my door with a rocker.”

Eddie points at him. “Stop calling me Eds. I’m 46, Richie--” Richie looks him up and down,
clearly disbelieving. “Don’t even look at me like that. We just celebrated my 19th birthday,”
he says. “Just me and Ma. Eight more birthdays with Ma.” He sighs, and feels that endless
hurt beginning to pool in his chest. “Just me and Ma.”

Richie’s smile dissolves, eyes pinching just so at the corners. He would’ve been there, is what
that look says, and Eddie doesn’t have to hear him say it to know it’s true. They’re attached at
the hip. They always have been.

“ What’s going on, Richie?” he asks. The tension is becoming too much. “Do you know?”

Richie’s expression changes, and for a brief second Eddie thinks he sees something that may
be dread, but it’s gone as soon as he blinks. “It,” he says. He sounds sure of himself, and
Eddie furrows his eyebrows. “There’s nothing else it can be,” he amends.

Eddie stares at him a moment longer, wondering what’s going on behind the mask of his
expression. Richie has always been the best liar. He sighs. Again. “That doesn’t explain
much,” he mutters. “So,” he shrugs, “what? It sent us back in time? To different places?”

“ I guess,” Richie mumbles, shrugging.

Eddie rolls his jaw, licking his lips. “We didn’t kill It.”
Richie doesn’t answer for a long time, but when he does, it’s flat. “No.”

#14.) Richie

Richie laughs when Eddie walks him to his car, and slaps the trunk a few times, waiting for
Eddie to pop it. “Wow, Eds. You’re like the mom I never needed.”

“ Shut up,” Eddie says, shuffling through his keys. He unlocks the trunk, and Richie throws
his suitcase inside.

Before Eddie can close it, Richie stops him, shoving his head inside. He parses through all of
Eddie’s things, and smiles when he finds a pile of blankets. “Where’s the tent?”

“ Go get up front,” Eddie says, pulling him out of the trunk by the back of his shirt.

“ I can’t sit in the back?”

“ Do you want a carseat, too?” Eddie asks, pausing at the driver’s side to look over the top of
the car.

“ Oh! Eddie gets off a good one!” Richie laughs. The smiles feel so easy, so natural, and he
can’t help making everything into a joke. There’s a boundless well of energy in his chest,
calling out to Eddie, and just standing and staring at him is making Richie feel like he’s
losing his mind. I forgot you for 27 years, he thinks. I won’t let it happen again. “Barely off
on our adventure and we’ve already had us a few chucks.”

Eddie must be feeling the same way, because where he usually barely deals with Richie’s
loud mouth and obnoxious jokes, he ducks his head down and runs his fingers through his
hair. Richie can see a smile creeping onto his face, and something warm bursts beneath his
skin.

They both get situated--seatbelts on, car started, bags on the back seat.

“Richie,” Eddie says, hands on their standard positions on the steering wheel.

“Yeah, Eds.”

“Where are we going?”

#15.) Eddie

They stop at a gas station to pick up maps, and Richie makes it an entire affair in and of
itself. He picks up each map, noting the color and the pictures on the front, and poses like the
women done up in bathing suits on maps of routes going from New York to Florida.
“Which one am I, Eds?” he asks, holding up two different maps. He looks at Eddie and tosses
his arm over his head, bending at the waist and posing seductively.

Eddie isn’t fazed, even as the clerk gapes at them. He holds up the map he’s chosen, tapping
the middle of it with his finger, and slides it over the counter with the rest of their drinks and
food. “You’re the kid being ignored by their parents.”

Richie laughs, putting each pamphlet back in its place, and struts over, hands tucked in the
front of his slacks. He’s dressed like he’s got somewhere to be, like Eddie is doing all he’s
ever done--chauffeur. Not like Eddie is the destination.

“You’ve still got a mouth on you,” he says, coming closer. He hip checks Eddie lightly, but
the arm around the shoulder, the hair ruffling, the cheek pinching, never comes. It throws
Eddie for a loop.

“Are you really in any position to be saying that?” Eddie asks, thanking the cashier when she
hands them their things.

“What?” Richie asks, serious. He looks at Eddie. “Above you?”

Eddie stops in front of his car, deadpanning. Richie only smiles, hands up in a placating
gesture, and waves the road map. He gets into the car, and Eddie rolls his eyes.

“Welcome, welcome,” Richie says when Eddie shuts his door. He’s digging through their
things, “it’s the birth of the plastic shopping bag.”

He hands Eddie an orange, and Eddie pulls a napkin out of the console and lays it over his
lap.

“Don’t need any soap to wash it off first?” Richie teases, pulling out a bag of potato chips. He
drops the rest of their things on the floor by his feet, and Eddie wants to say something, but
he let’s it go.

“Are you gonna go get their bathroom key?” Eddie asks, pulling a diaper wipe out of the
console and wiping the orange off. He cleans his hands methodically, and throws the wipe
away in the plastic bag he has hanging from the gear shift.

Richie stops tracing the route on the map. “Do you need it?”

“No,” Eddie says, peeling the orange.

“Then no,” Richie says, returning his attention to the map.

Eddie watches him, letting the car idle, and eats his orange in relative silence. It’s almost
comforting. The engine thrums beneath them, paper hissing as Richie runs his finger up and
down, sighing occasionally. He reaches up every now and then to adjust his glasses, even
though he’s only putting them back in the same place.

It’s like they’re getting ready for a road trip. Just the two of them, snacks and drinks and a
U.S. map. Pillows and blankets in the back, toothbrushes in baggies, clothes in suitcases. It’s
easy to lose himself in that fantasy.

But it’s a pretty lie. They’re on a trip to make sure one of their best friends isn’t dead, and
that’s easily enough to ruin Eddie’s daydream.

“Do you have a pen?” Richie asks, and Eddie blinks.

“Yeah,” he says, opening the console. He pulls out a pen, and Richie thanks him, marking the
map.

Eddie sighs, tugging his right sleeve down over his fingers, and listens to Richie go over their
route as he traces the roads over with black.

#16.) Richie

It’s a long drive. Richie sees it as soon as he finishes fleshing out their route, but Eddie
doesn’t complain. They both know that Mike would be closer, that going back to Derry
would be the fastest choice, but neither of them mention it. Richie wants to find Stan, he
needs to. He has to see if he’s still alive. If he could find Eddie, then there’s still a chance.

He sits in the passenger side, attention wandering, hands fiddling, but keeps his eyes on the
map when he has to. When the roads even out, he turns up the radio and sings into the space
between them, trying to coax Eddie into smiling. It works after awhile. Richie has to sing “I
Get Around”, and Eddie finally calms down enough to sing along.

But they can’t drive forever. It’s late November, and the sun sets early. The sky is dark, roads
empty, and they started late with Eddie’s drive to Richie’s hotel. After some exhausted
arguing, they decide to stop in Petersburg, Virginia for the night. Halfway, Richie thinks.

“ We need to make sure we save our money for food and gas,” Eddie says once they’re in
their hotel room. He lays his things on his bed and ruffles through them.

“ Are you saying we’ll really be sleeping in that tent?” Richie asks, digging through his
suitcase. He tosses his pajamas onto the bed. Another look through his bag comes up empty,
and he looks up, about to ask Eddie if he’s seen his toothbrush, but Eddie is already handing
the bag over. “Thanks, Eds.”

He doesn’t react to the nickname, hasn’t been since they met earlier that morning, and it
makes Richie smile. “No,” Eddie says. “We can sleep in the car.”

“ The station wagon?” Richie asks, shoulders slumping. “Eds, do you realize how bad that’s
gonna be for my figure?” He stretches his back out, running his hand down his side, and
Eddie’s eyes follow his finger’s progress. “I need my beauty sleep! The metal is gonna ruin
my back!”

Eddie tosses a pillow at him, but the attempt is half-hearted, and Richie knocks it out of the
air easily. He picks up his clothes and soaps, making his way to the bathroom before Richie
can get around the beds. “Deal with it.”

Richie watches him, sees the door close, and stares, listening to the sound of Eddie moving
around in the bathroom. He has little idea what to do with himself. It’s not the first time he’s
been in a hotel--not in this life or the one before--and he doubts it’ll be the last, but suddenly
he’s got no idea how to go about settling in. It’s not just him, anymore. Not just him, not a
manager, a coworker in another room, a one-night stand, Sandy.

Sandy. He wonders if Sandy is doing OK. He doesn’t really care.

Richie fiddles with the pillow on the bed that Eddie threw at him, eyes wandering. They land
on the duffle Eddie’s toted in with himself, and Richie gets the sudden, wild urge to open it
up. He knows he shouldn’t, really, he does, but he’s never been that great at telling himself--
or his brain--no.

He looks at the bathroom door again, listens to the sound of the shower running, and slips
around the end of the bed. It’s nosy, what he’s doing, and he knows it. Eddie would throw a
fit. They’ve never had any secrets between each other before. Richie’s curious to see if that’s
changed. Desperate to know it hasn’t.

There are a lot of clothes, as always. Eddie likes to be prepared for every occasion, and
Richie even finds dress clothes near the bottom of the duffle near a pile of neatly folded
underwear. There’s little else inside. Eddie’s taken all his soaps into the bathroom with him,
and there’s nothing left but some lotion, pills, wet wipes, and his glasses case.

Richie settles everything back into the stacks he found them in, and situates the bag in a way
that looks decidedly untampered. He sits on the edge of his bed, pajamas waiting in a
haphazard lump next to him, and tries to make it look like he’s been busy doing something
useful.

How many years have I lived, he wonders, all put together?

45, he calculates, fingers toying with the hem of his pant leg. Just like Eddie said. 45 and he
doesn’t look a day over 18. He’s barely known Eddie for 13 of those years, 13 and a day, but
just spending another afternoon with him, just a car ride, is enough to have Richie realizing
that nothing is ever going to be like this is. Like it is with all of the Losers.

“ Richie,” Eddie says, and Richie jerks back into the present.

Eddie is standing by the edge of his own bed, hair carefully groomed and sticking to his skin.
His arms are crossed, and when Richie looks him over he can’t help but smile. His pajamas
match.

“ Looking for company?” he asks, standing.

“ I’m already dressed for bed.”

Richie walks past him, clothes under his arm, and grins. “You don’t have to stay like that.”
Eddie looks at him, deadpan expression clear on his face, and Richie takes that for the end of
the conversation. He laughs, walking into the bathroom, and turns to shut the door.

“ Take a shower,” Eddie says, and Richie stops, raising his eyebrows. He can see the flush
coloring the tips of Eddie’s ears, but his expression looks calm. Impish, “and we’ll see.”

Richie’s eyes widen, and he only notices he’s let his face tilt down in a stare when his glasses
slide down his nose. Eddie looks at him for a moment longer and turns away.

Richie doesn’t stop thinking about it all night.

#17.) Eddie

Eddie sets an alarm, but his body is accustomed to waking up at ungodly hours to catch the
bus to his classes, and he wakes up before it goes off. 6AM. He taps the alarm to turn it off,
and gets out of bed, shuffling around the room to get ready for their drive.

Richie throws a fit the entire morning, sleeping all through Eddie’s shower and barely getting
up to shuffle to the car. Eddie shoves him into the passenger seat, and watches with a muted
sort of amusement as Richie’s face slides over the headrest to thunk against the doorframe,
glasses smashed against his window.

“ This is why you never made it to class on time,” he says, starting the car. He checks the
mirrors, and stops when he sees Richie staring at him.

“ I got the best grades out of all of you guys,” he says, indignant. There’s drool running from
the corner of his mouth to the edge of his jaw.

Eddie wants to say something about it, but looks away, hand dropping to the gear shift.
“Seatbelt, Richie.”

“ What?”

“ We have seatbelts now,” Eddie says.

Richie curses, buckling himself in. “So that’s what was digging into my shoulder.”

Eddie ignores Richie’s following digression of, “Love bein’ safe, Eds. Wearing seatbelts?
That’s the kind of life I wanna be livin’”.

He falls asleep again before they pull out of the parking lot.

It’s not that long of a drive. They leave at about 7AM, and Eddie has the estimate of a seven
hour drive. 2PM is when they should get there.

Should, of course, is not set in stone. They hit construction work almost immediately, hardly
an hour after they’ve started driving. It takes two hours to get through, car idling, Richie
sleeping peacefully next to him. He’s oblivious to Eddie’s irritation, the people honking.
They pass someone using a jackhammer and Eddie has no idea how he stays asleep.

He stops to get gas, and steps inside briefly to get some snacks. Richie’s sleep schedule
escapes him, so Eddie just grabs what he remembers Richie liking--what he saw him grab the
day before. It feels a bit like normalcy returning to him. Slow, but sure. Eddie has lived a
long time, and known Richie for barely a fourth of that, but somehow he’s unwilling to let go
of it.

Eddie realizes he’s standing in an aisle of the gas station staring at a bag of chips, and flushes.
He buys his things and leaves.

Richie wakes up when they get stuck in traffic again. A crash, Eddie assumes. Likely a bad
one, with the way things are progressing. He checks the watch on his wrist and sighs. They’re
going to get stuck in rush hour in Atlanta.

“ Do you know exactly where Stan lives?” Eddie asks, fiddling with the heat. It’s getting
warmer the further down they go. Eddie fiddles with the sleeve of his shirt, nervous. He
glances at his hand on the steering wheel. It’s heavily scarred, but thankfully it’s all healed
the same pale ivory. He’s only worried Richie will notice the folds of skin, the inlays of
purple and red. As long as he can keep his shirt on, he’ll be fine.

Richie has his head leaning on the window, fingers tapping on his thigh to the beat of the
music on the radio. Eddie knows if it were any other time he would be tossing his head
around, losing himself to the music, trying to get Eddie into the same mood. He wonders how
he knows.

“ Yeah,” Richie says. His eyes are locked onto the car next to them, but Eddie knows he’s
completely lost in his own thoughts. “Yeah, I know.”

Eddie watches him for a moment longer, then looks at the road, inching the car forward when
traffic moves. He wants to say something, but he doubts it’ll be what Richie needs. “Do you
think he’ll be there?”

“ In his exact house?” Richie asks. He doesn’t look at Eddie, but Eddie can see his smile in
the reflection of the window. Richie laughs. “Were we, Eds?” He looks like he’s genuinely
enjoying the situation, and Eddie furrows his eyebrows. Richie does look at him, then,
pulling his leg up onto the seat and setting his elbow on it. He rests his chin in his palm.
“Pennywise always liked Hide and Seek.”

#18.) Richie

They get stuck in evening rush hour. Richie is almost wishes he had stayed up earlier so he
could sleep until they got there. They talk to pass time. There’s still a chill in the air, but it’s
far warmer in Atlanta than it is in New York, and Richie takes off his coat.
They mold back together, like they were never away at all. Like it’s 1958, and they’re
hopping rock to rock through the barrens, digging clubhouses, arguing for a share of ice
cream.

Shared trauma, Richie thinks, glancing at Eddie, whose eyes are locked onto the bumper in
front of them. He’s talking about a course he is-- was, he supposes. He just ran away from
home--taking. Richie hasn’t retained a single word of it, but he loves listening to Eddie talk.

That kind of shit makes you or breaks you, he thinks. Eddie pulls forward. They’re almost off
the highway, and it broke Stan.

It’s nearly 11 when they get out of traffic, and Eddie is past exhausted. His fuse is shortened,
so Richie lightens his jokes, and tries not to prod as much as he normally does. He offers to
drive, but Eddie refuses. He loves his car, he says, and his life.

“ Should we look for him tomorrow?” Richie asks. He knows the answer, but he’s reluctant to
put their search off any longer. They’re so close.

“ I doubt he’s going to be running around this late,” Eddie says, eyes scanning the roads for
motels and inns.

He wouldn’t. Richie knows Stan, proper and timely, would want to get as much sleep as he
could. He probably wakes up just as early as Eddie. Is probably off to college like the goody
little two-shoes he is.

If he’s even running around at all. Richie feels a little nauseous, anxiety turning his already
scattered thoughts into a jumbled mess even he can’t sort through. He looks at Eddie, alive
and well, right arm attached firmly to his body, and breathes a bit easier.

#19.) Eddie

This time when Eddie wakes up in their hotel room, Richie is already up and running. It’s
almost twenty minutes before their alarm is set to go off, but Richie is already ready to go, so
Eddie sits up, pushing the heel of his palm into his eye. That’s his cue to get ready.

He’s never seen Richie so jittery. Well, that’s not quite true. He has, just not when he himself
was so calm--when he was old enough to keep it that way. It would be easy to fall under the
sway of nerves, the rocking anxiety threatening to pull the last thread keeping his thoughts
wound together completely undone.

Richie’s leg taps a quick, uneven tattoo on the car floor, unaware of the slow beat of the
music. It’s grating on Eddie’s nerves, not quite irritating him, no, just ratcheting his worry up
so high he’s not sure how much longer he can deal with the silence. The sway of the music is
too lulling, too complacent. Mocking.
“ Rich,” he says, hand dropping from the gear shift to Richie’s thigh. It stops bouncing, and
he glances over to meet Richie’s eye briefly. “He’ll be there.”

Will he? Eddie’s not so sure. He feels Richie’s gaze linger on the side of his face, and
discomfort churns in the pit of his stomach. What if Stan isn’t there, and Eddie is only raising
his hopes to crush them later? Will it destroy Richie, or push him? The back of Eddie’s throat
tightens. He suddenly feels like a liar, and they haven’t even gotten to the suburbs yet,
haven’t even seen what Stan’s house looks like.

Richie’s fingers curl around Eddie’s, interlacing them, and Eddie relaxes into the seat.
There’s a different sort of feeling in his throat now, not quite as constricting, not the same sort
of pressing, life or death choking. An edge of pleasantness has slipped in. Eddie squeezes
Richie’s hand back, and hears him sigh, slow. Grounding himself.

He doesn’t respond to Eddie, but he’s calm, calmer than before.

They find Stan’s house early in the morning, and Eddie is already tired of Atlanta. They’d
gotten caught in rush hour again.

“ Should we just go ring the doorbell?” Richie asks. They’re parked along the curb, and
Richie’s fingers are picking a quick rhythm on the edge of his shirt. He looks torn, like he’s
having second thoughts but wouldn’t be able to live not knowing if Stan was inside or not.

“ Yes,” Eddie says, getting out of the car.

Richie makes a noise, following at his heels. Eddie can feel the moment he goes from being
Richie to being someone else, a different person with Richie’s face and voice. His anxiety
gives way to confidence, and he slows his walk, tucking his hands into his pockets. Eddie
glances at him, but Richie doesn’t look back.

He rings the doorbell. It’s a nice house, not big, not small. Eddie hears someone walking up
to the door, and hopes they’ve got the right place.

It’s Andrea, alright. He thinks. Eddie knows on some level Stan is the one that never came
back, but standing in front of his mother and only getting the blurriest memory of her to turn
up is making it all real.

She looks between both of them, face pinching in a courteous sort of confusion. “Can I help
you?”

Richie smiles back, all show. Eddie panics. “Yes, you can! Not many people get to meet me,
so you can consider this your lucky day!”

She looks disbelieving at first, but after a second something starts to dawn in her eyes. Richie
looks positively tickled. Eddie grabs his arm just as he opens his mouth again, squeezing.

“ What he means,” Eddie says, smiling. It feels strained, “is we’re looking for someone. Does
Stanley Uris live here?”
“ Yes,” she says, nodding. She looks them both up and down again, and Eddie isn’t sure what
she’s looking for. “Are you Stanley’s friends?”

“ His very best!” Richie says.

“ Yes,” Eddie says. He wants to grit his teeth.

She looks dubious, but turns from the doorway, gaze lingering for a moment. “Stanley!” she
calls into the foyer. “Some of your friends are here to see you!” There’s silence, and then the
distant sound of footsteps. Andrea drops her hand from the door. “Wait here. He’ll be down
in just a moment.”

She closes the door, and Eddie turns to Richie, slapping his arm. “Do I need to leave you in
the car next time?!” he hisses through clenched teeth.

“ Come off it, Eds, she totally wanted my autograph,” Richie says. He’s rubbing at his arm,
but he doesn’t look put off at all. If anything his grin may have widened.

“ She looked like she was about to call the police.” Eddie sighs, facing the door again.

Now that it’s quiet again Eddie can hear whispering behind the door, and he worries his lip.
Stan will remember them. He will.

But what if he doesn’t? What if they drove all the way down the country just to get a quick,
Sorry. Never heard of you. Or, worse yet, if Stan says he’s not expecting company and they
really do call the police without even checking to see who it was.

“ I think I’m gonna throw up,” Eddie whispers. He has a sudden urge to use his aspirator,
nestled in the console of the car. He pushes it away. I gave that up.

“ It’s gonna be fine,” Richie says, and when he smiles at Eddie the words are real. They
haven’t been filtered through a facade. Eddie feels a blush pinching the tips of his ears.

Richie slams his fist on the door and the whispers stop abruptly. Eddie thinks his blush may
just be a sunburn.

The door swings open, and it’s Stan standing on the other side, furious. “You know--!”

He cuts himself off, face going white. Richie stares back, still confident in his attitude, but
just a hair off. Pulled taut at the corners. “I don’t think I do,” he says, but his lip wobbles
when he says it, and Eddie can see his expression breaking.

Eddie doesn’t bother trying to hold it back. He knows an effort in futility when he’s met with
it. He lets the tears fall, covers his mouth to hold back the worst of the sniffles, bites his lip to
hold in a sob. He never thought he’d break down in a suburb in Atlanta of all places.

“ Eddie?” Stan says, voice small. He looks at Richie again, squinting, like he doesn’t believe
his own eyes. “Richie?”

“ It hurts my feelings that you have to ask,” Richie says, and it sounds wet.
Stan stares at them both, and Eddie wishes he knew what was going on in his head. He looks
like he’s coming to terms with what he’s seeing, like he believes it but he doesn’t, just the
way he did when he was younger.

His lips pinch, eyes welling up. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, wet and scared and hopeless.

Richie steps up into the house, wrapping Stan up in his arms, and Stan grabs at the back of
his shirt, face buried in Richie’s shoulder. Eddie follows, hugging them both, although he
can’t quite get his arms around their backs. Richie takes pity on him and wraps one arm
around him to pull him into their circle. It feels a little better like that, all of them crying for
different reasons, or maybe the same. Holding each other.

No one speaks.

#20.) Richie

They’re invited in. It’s not tense, but it’s not comfortable either, and it takes an entire
afternoon and evening of talking, talking, talking to get things running smoothly again. Stan
is doing most of the work, telling them about the life they missed out on, the one they never
got to hear about. Both Richie and Eddie are seeing Stan’s new life, his own version of a
second chance. He promises to do better this time, he tells them, and it sounds so quiet, so
nervous, so hopeful. But Richie doesn’t have to hear it. He can recognize it in every
movement, in Stan’s very breath. He’s made a decision, and he’s going to stick by it.

They eat, and talk. And talk some more. We’re spending the night, Mrs. Uris, Richie tells
Andrea that evening, did Stanley not tell you? Very forgetful boy, our Stan!

But Stan is not forgetful, and Richie isn’t even sure what they should do in the morning. Stay
for breakfast? Leave in the middle of the night? Richie isn’t sure how serious Eddie was
about sleeping in the station wagon, but he doesn’t want to find out.

“ I want to come,” Stan says. They’re piled up in his room, blankets and extra pillows littered
around the floor by Stan’s bed. He looks like he’s made up his mind. “I want to see everyone
else.”

“ We’ll find them,” Eddie murmurs. He’s got one of Stan’s hands in his, and is tracing
soothing patterns into his skin with his thumb. Richie watches Stan relax some, nodding.

“ Are we leaving tomorrow?” Richie asks.

Eddie looks up at him first, and after a prolonged moment so does Stan. Like he’s not sure if
he’s allowed to be part of the conversation, the group, yet. Richie wishes it wasn’t like that.

“ We could stay for breakfast,” Eddie says. “Then we wouldn’t have to worry about picking
anything up on the way out. Is that OK, Stan?”

“ You guys are in charge,” he says, hands held up.

“ You’re part of this,” Richie says, “which means you’re in charge, too.”

“ I don’t think that’s how it works--”

“ Plus,” Richie cuts him off, receiving a flat look he hasn’t seen in actual ages, “this is your
house.”

Stan stares at him, expression a hair away from being blank but giving himself away by the
pinch in his eyebrows. He’s trying to figure something out. Richie smirks. He needs to work
on his poker face.

But Richie thinks he knows what Stan is trying to see. They haven’t seen each other since
they were children, and it’s jarring, is what the look on Stan’s face says. His expression has
been reflecting that all day. You’ve changed.

And Richie stares back when Eddie isn’t looking, you didn’t have to see what we did. It’s in
the past, so he shoves it away.

“ Yeah,” Stan says, “eating here is probably better. We need all the money we can get.”

Richie opens his mouth, and cringes when Stan hits him in the face with a throw pillow. He
fixes his glasses. “What was that for?!”

Eddie has his mouth covered with his hand, eyes averted, but Richie can see his shoulders
shaking with laughter. Stan has that same flat look on his face again. “You know what.”

“ I’m not sure I do, Stanley!”

“ What were you gonna say, Richie?” Stan asks, staring.

It’s an obvious challenge, and Richie tries to fight his smile. He knows exactly what he was
going to say, but Richie is an adult now. “Nothing.”

“ Yeah, that’s what I--”

But he’s still an instigator. “Just that it’s no surprise you would say that, being a Jew and all.”

“ Wow, Richie,” Eddie says, looking at his watch. “You lasted about...26 seconds.”

“ That’s almost normal!”

“ It’s not even close, but good try.”

“ One day,” Stan says, standing up. He picks up a half-packed bag from the floor and starts
filling it with random things plucked from around the room, “you’re gonna to wake up, and
you’re gonna be broke. You’ll have no idea where all your money went, and no one will
believe you when you point your finger at me.”

Richie laughs, reclining on Stan’s bed. “Are you telling me you’re going into a life of
crime?”
“ If that’s what it takes.”

Stan teases him relentlessly for the rest of the night, and Richie goes to sleep with the first
blossoms of peace in his chest he’s felt for a long time.

#21.) Eddie

Stan wakes up at the same hour as Eddie, and the company is refreshing. Early morning
conversations, quiet packing, small meals. It’s something he never would have thought of
sharing as a child, and the thought of his own ignorance puts a pit in his chest. He’s yearning
for something else, a nostalgia, but trying to connect it to the life he’s spinning out for
himself is like trying to weld metal without heat. It’s not an option without the correct items,
and Eddie is missing every piece between the end and the beginning. A puzzle with a border,
but no middle.

He wonders if Stan is having the same problem. If they were all detached from each other
until they met back up, then Stan is still lingering in the unknown. Eddie can see it on his
face when he thinks they’re not looking. The questions, the longing.

“ Well, you can see her walkin' down on Peachtree Street. She got high-heeled shoes and a
dot on her cheek,” Richie sings as they leave the house, eyes squinting behind his glasses in
the morning light. He’s more than a little sleep mussed, hair wild and voice gritty. “She's
lookin' good, she's headed downtown--”

“ Richie,” Stan groans, fitting his bag in alongside the rest of their things. The back of
Eddie’s car is slowly filling up.

Richie ignores him, pushing his lanky form in between the two of them to get to the trunk.
“Ain't got no money, honey, she knows her way around. I think she's cute.” He tosses his bag
haphazardly inside, pinching Eddie’s cheek on the way back around the car and only barely
avoiding the swat Eddie throws his way. “Think she's cute as she can be--”

“ How long do we have to stay in this car,” Stan asks, half question and half demand. His
face is the face of a man walking to his own execution.

“ He stops when he wants to, Stan,” Eddie says, hands up. He walks around to the driver’s
side, “You know that.”

“ I can’t listen to anymore Georgia-themed songs, Eddie, please.” His tone is desperate as he
stops by the door, but his eyes are almost playful. You’re right. I do know that.

“ Well,” Eddie opens the door, leaning on the hood of the car. Richie isn’t singing anymore,
boisterous voice tuned down to humming. He’s falling asleep already, “we’ll hit the border in
a few hours.”
It’s a promise, albeit a shitty one. Stan sighs, looking at the sky, and Eddie smiles at his
grumbled, “Thank God we’re not going to Florida.”

They get settled, and Eddie waits until all three of them are buckled up to pull away from the
curb. The heat is low, and he’s thankful no one asks for anything else, still swathed toe to tip
in clothes. Richie hasn’t mentioned it yet. Eddie knows as soon as his curiosity latches on,
he’s done for, and he has no idea how any of them will react to his mangled arm.

“ Where are we headed?” Stan asks from the back, some hour and a half into the drive. He’s
been nearly silent, save for the sound of his shifting on the leather seats.

Eddie glances at him in the rearview mirror quickly. “I’m not sure,” he admits, squeezing the
steering wheel. He taps his fingers against it, lightly following the beat of the radio.
“Nebraska, maybe?”

It’s a quick and offhanded thing to say for a place so far away, and Stan raises his eyebrows.
“‘Maybe’.”

“ Ben might be there.”

Stan is still staring at his face in the rearview, and Eddie doesn’t have to look at him to know
he’s skeptical. “Do we have enough money?”

“ Yeah, we should.” They’ll be running on Eddie’s funds for a while longer, but the station
wagon is a gas hog, and driving up and down the US is stripping him of cash. He’s banking
on picking up each of them in turn and adding their share of money to the pile.

“ Why do you have so much money?” Stan asks after a long moment.

“ Saved it up.”

Stan stares at him, eyes narrowed. Where Richie accepted every answer and offered his own,
Stan is still stuck in a whirl of normalcy. He knows, deep down, and Eddie knows that he
knows, but Stan has always had a penchant for denial until there were no more lies to tell
himself. “Why?”

“ Felt like it.”

“ The world doesn’t run on gut feelings, Eddie.”

It used to, Eddie thinks, running his thumb over the grooves in his steering wheel as they wait
in the morning traffic. But whether Stan realizes it or not, he’s just admit that there’s no such
thing as coincidences.

#22.) Richie
Richie wakes up with the sun high in the sky, warming his skin and glinting off his glasses.
He shifts in his seat so his face is out of the light, blinking at the road. It looks like they’re
still on the highway.

“ I hope you don’t have to pee,” Eddie says, hands steady and body relaxed, “because we
stopped at a rest stop in Kentucky.”

Richie shifts, looking at him more. His head is still muddled and cotton filled, and he lets
himself stare at Eddie, admiring the way the sun makes his hair look lighter than it is. Draws
attention to his eyes. “Kind of.”

Eddie glances at him, unimpressed. “Hold it.”

“ Ugh.” Richie rolls his eyes, shifting again in his seat. “What if I was about to piss myself,
Eds? You still wouldn’t stop?”

“ I’d stop,” Eddie says. “But only to drop you off.”

“ On the side of the highway?”

“ I hope you know how to hitchhike.”

Stan snorts, and when Richie turns in his seat he sees Stan has a book open to the middle.
“Why didn’t you guys wake me up?”

Stan looks at him, thumb pressed precariously to the side of his book to hold his place. “We
did.”

“‘ Guys’,” Eddie mocks. It’s a poor imitation, in Richie’s opinion, “‘I swear I’ll get up in a
second, can you just park the car in the shade?’”

Stan laughs. “Yeah, we ate lunch without you, too.”

“ What the fuck!” Richie lets his seatbelt drag him back into his seat. He drops his hands into
his lap. “You guys are the worst. Where are we?”

“ Still in Kentucky.”

“ Yeah, we’ve only been in the car for like 10 minutes,” Stan says. He looks like he’s doing
his best to keep a straight face. “I think we still have a banana in the back, do you want me to
check?”

“ I don’t want your pity food,” Richie says.

Stan mumbles something about being ungrateful, and Eddie laughs. Richie sighs, staring at
him. It’s nice, like they’re already getting back into the groove, the swing of things, but
malcontent hangs heavy in his chest. Richie knows why, and wishes he didn’t. You like him.
You want to be alone with him. It’s selfish, and God, if there aren’t more important things
than that at the moment, but it doesn’t feel like it when things are so good.
Eddie glances at him, smile faltering and eyebrows pinching. “What?”

“ Just realizing I’m probably gonna want that banana here in an hour or two,” he lies easily.

Eddie snorts, looking back out to the road, and Richie watches him chew on his bottom lip.
He looks for another second, but I could just say something right now and have that lip
between my teeth and he looks forward again.

They stop at a motel. Nothing fancy, something cheap. There’s only one bed, and the clerk
had horrified look on his face when they asked for the room, but didn’t argue when he handed
over the key.

“ Richie,” Stan says, already tucked up under the blankets by the time Richie is done
showering. It’s dark besides the light coming in through the blinds, “you can sleep on the
floor.”

Richie looks at the other lump underneath the blanket, hair strewn about his pillow in tufts,
and smiles. “Hmmm,” he hums, walking toward the bed.

“ Richie--”

“ Sorry, Stan,” he says, climbing in. The bed creaks, lurching under the added weight, but
Richie ignores it. He shuffles under the blankets, sidling up against Eddie so he doesn’t fall
off the bed. That’s his excuse, at least. “I can’t quit this cold turkey!”

“ Rich,” Eddie grumbles, and Richie watches his head slide further under the covers, “be
quiet. I’m exhausted.”

Richie is was sure he would get rebuked for that, and he looks at Stan, eyes wide. Is this what
I get to have now? Stan is staring back at him with the same look, and after a second he
shakes his head, rolling over. Unwilling to insert himself into situation.

It’s for the best. Eddie is warm against him, breaths slow and limbs pliant under the sway of
sleep. Richie scoots almost imperceptibly closer, and closes his eyes.

#23.) Eddie

Eddie wakes up sweating. Three of them to a bed is bad enough, but Richie is a walking
furnace, and it’s not nearly cold enough to be pressed so close to him. The middle of the bed
is sweltering.

“ Move,” he hisses, rolling Richie onto his back and climbing over him.

“ What are you-- watch it,” Richie warns, jerking when Eddie almost rests his knee on
Richie’s dick.

He stops, trying to shift his weight to move, and Richie snickers. “What.”
Richie is looking up at him, but Eddie doubts he can see much of anything without his
glasses. His hair is a mess around his head, a black halo, lips quirked. Eddie’s stomach goes
hot, and he clenches his fist in the sheets.

“ I didn’t know you were a top.”

“ Oh my god,” Eddie snaps, voice still a whisper. His face is flushed, he’s sure. He can feel it
all the way down his neck. He tosses the blanket off of them, scrambling out of the bed.
“Don’t touch me.”

Richie holds his hands up, unperturbed.

He’s trying to kill me, Eddie thinks, running to the bathroom. He knows and he’s trying to kill
me.

The past couple of days have been rough, and Eddie’s right arm is dry as bone. He uses a
liberal amount of lotion, and stares at his reflection in the mirror, hair wet and towel around
his hips. His arm isn’t quite right, and there are lines where his original skin meets what was
grafted on. It feels normal, it moves normal, it almost looks normal. Almost. Just enough to
ask questions.

They’ll have to know eventually, he tells himself, starting to get dressed, but he hopes
eventually takes its time finding him.

“ I’m gonna go return the key,” Eddie says, walking around the bed to the door. Stan is
already up and moving, and nods as Eddie passes him. Richie has his eyes open, but isn’t
making any move to get out of bed, and yells when Stan throws the blanket off of him. Eddie
shuts the door.

He walks around to the entrance, but the desk is vacant when he steps inside. He rings the
bell, and jerks when something crashes in the storage room.

“ Just a second!” someone calls.

Eddie taps his fingers against his thigh, resigning himself to wait, and prods at the newspaper
on the desk. It’s got the date on it, and he hasn’t been keeping up with the news, so he flips it
around to face him, leafing through it.

It’s not all that interesting. To be fair he’s seen it all before, years upon years ago, and
everything is exactly the same. He’s the only one out of place. Far away from New York, no
money and no wife, driving across the country with someone he finally remembers and
someone that should be dead. I should be dead, too, he thinks, flipping to the next page. It
feels like a dream, sometimes.

He stops, staring at black and white print, and sees his face staring back.

HAVE YOU SEEN ME?

Like Eddie is a missing pet, waiting to be returned to his doting owner. There’s a list of
attributes under Eddie’s name--his full name, Edward Kaspbrak. Light brown hair, grey eyes,
caucasian, 19, Ma, I’m taller than that--

Kidnapper is highly dangerous, and has attacked the victim before.

Eddie stares at the paper, a thousand lies spun into something edible, something people can
stomach just enough to gossip about. There is mention of his arm, made out to be a gory mess
of an idea, and Richie’s name and picture has been slapped next to his. He’s smiling.

Eddie slides the middle of the paper out, folds it up, and stashes it in the back of his pants. He
leaves the key on the desk.

“Get your stuff,” he says once he makes it back to the room. His things are already packed,
and he grabs his suitcase, carrying it across the room.

“What’s wrong?” Stan asks. He’s got a shirt in his hands, halfway folded. Richie sits up in
bed.

“I’ll explain once we’re in the car,” Eddie says, halfway out the door already. It’s still dim
outside, and there’s a chill in the air, drawing a shiver up his spine. He wonders what the
weather is going to be like back home.

Richie is next out of the motel room, and he meets Eddie by the trunk to toss his things in the
back. He looks wired--a stark contrast to the state of his clothes--but there’s a glint of humor
in his eyes. “You behin’ chased, senhorr? Cuz eev you are, I gotta go.”

It’s so stupid, almost frustrating, that Richie could turn any situation on its head in an attempt
to make it funny, but the Voices aren’t bad anymore. He thinks about the amazing stories he
was told back then, in the other time, and doesn’t think it’s such a stretch Richie became
famous.

But then Stan walks up behind him, and Eddie is pulled back to the present by the weight of
the article in his back pocket.

“Not yet,” he answers. “And they’re chasing you, not me.”

Richie stops smiling, eyes wide behind his glasses. Stan whips his head around to stare at
him. “What did you do?”

“Why do you always assume the worst of me, Stan.”

“It’s less of an assumption and more of an expectation.”

“Get in the car,” Eddie says, shutting the door. The seat is freezing when he leans back, and
he hopes it’s not too cold in Nebraska. Or that news hasn’t spread.

“Sorry,” Stan calls.

“Sure thing, Eds!” The passenger side door opens and Richie tosses himself in, shaking the
car. He smiles at Eddie, pulling the door shut. Stan sits down with far less fuss, and Eddie
knows without looking that his expression is probably exasperated. “You had a story?”
 Part 4

#24.) Richie

“ Wow,” Richie says, staring at the road. He nods once, licks his lips, tries to hold his tongue
but finds he doesn’t care enough to. “Your mom is a bitch, Eds.”

Eddie, however, only sighs. “Yeah,” he mutters. He’s slouched over in his seat, bent over the
steering wheel, and Richie eyes the line of his shoulders. Tense. He could use a massage.

As if he’d let me give him one, Richie thinks, lips pursed. He’s a little shocked that Eddie had
agreed with him about his mother, but Eddie seems to be shocking him left and right. A lot
has changed.

“ Nothing’s changed,” Eddie says. He thunks back against his seat, and then adjusts so he’s
sitting up straight. “She’s her old self right down to the socks she wears.”

“ The polka dot ones?” Richie asks.

Eddie looks at him, wide-eyed. “How did you know that?”

“ I keep tabs.”

“ He’s yanking your chain, Eddie,” Stan sighs. Richie hears a page turn.

Eddie glances at Stan through the rearview, and then looks at Richie. Richie can’t help but
smile and shrug. “Wild guess.”

“ That’s not funny. That’s not even remotely funny.”

“ It was very funny, Eddie, I should know. I’m a very funny person.”

“ I will crash this car to get away from you,” Eddie mumbles.

Richie hears a seatbelt buckle behind him.

“ So, then,” Richie looks out the window, trying to piece together something comprehensible.
Nothing is forthcoming. He’d rather not be in charge, “what’s the plan?”

“ The plan is still the same as before,” Eddie says. “We’re getting everyone back together.”

“ That was a given,” Stan says. Richie turns to look at him. “But how are you gonna pull that
off with your names in the paper?”

Eddie’s lips curl downward, and he sighs. “Hide, I guess.”

“ That’s gonna be difficult. Wasn’t Richie just on TV?”

Richie grins, slapping his hands down on his knees. “Why, Stan, were you watching?”

“ I always watch the Tonight Show,” he says. He doesn’t look amused in the slightest. “Kind
of a letdown when you came on.”

“ This letdown puts bread on the table.”

The bickering continues until Richie thwarts Stan--i.e. Stan gets sick of their verbal
volleyball and ignores Richie with his reading--and Richie turns around again. Car rides are
boring, he’s learning. It’s bad enough when you’re playing the automobile version of four
corners, but now they’re just connecting all the dots, and nobody’s even talking. Eddie has to
concentrate because he’s the driver, and Stan’s too much of a stiff.

I don’t know what we’d do anyway, Richie thinks, crossing his arms and leaning his head
against the window. Sleeping would pass the time, but he’s not really tired. He’s never been
much for reading, either.

“ Richie,” Eddie says.

Richie looks over at him, eyebrows raised. Good God, Eds, start a conversation, I’m dyin’
here.

Eddie doesn’t catch the desperate look on his face, which is probably for the best. “Can you
get something out of the glove compartment?”

“ Is it lube? A condom?” Richie asks, looking at Eddie while he reaches for the box. “I can
give you road head--”

Eddie tenses, jerking to look at him. His face is turning a very cute shade of pink. “Shut up!”

“ Is it because Stan’s in the back?” he asks, looking at Stan, who’s pinching the bridge of his
nose. “I’m sorry, Stan, could you leave? He’s a bit shy--”

“ Richie, I swear to God,” Eddie says. “I just wanted my lotion.”

“ Oh, so a handjob.”

Eddie looks at him again and Richie knows immediately that he’s pushed his luck a little too
far. He gets it out and hands it to Eddie, who snatches it from him. He lets go of the steering
wheel and presses the top of his thigh to it, massaging it into the skin of his hand. Richie
stares out the window until he has to put it back.

It’s silent again.

#25.) Eddie

“ Oh my God, please let me out.”

“ Yeah, and have you thrown in jail?” Eddie asks, grabbing his shirt to stop him from opening
his door.

Richie turns to look at him, and his smile is pitiful. “It’s sweet that you care.”

“ We have plans. Don’t ruin them.”

“ It’s so hard being around you guys.”

“ You have no other friends,” Stan says, leaning into Eddie’s window. “Do we need
anything?”

“ Provisions,” Richie says.

“ He’s right,” Eddie says. “You’re the only one who can eat in public.” Stan nods, and Eddie
hands over enough cash for food and gas, plus a little extra. Just in case. “Grab him a Rubik’s
Cube or something. I think he’s about to lose his mind.”

“ You have about ten more years,” Stan says, patting the side of the car and walking off.

It’s quiet in the car for a stretch of time, but Eddie doesn’t wait for Richie to speak to look at
him. He’s knows it’s coming. Richie is slouched in his seat, looking forlorn. “How much
longer?”

“ We’re stopping outside of Kansas City for the night.”

Richie stares at him. “Did we decide that while I was sleeping again?” he asks hesitantly.

“ No,” Eddie says, shifting in his seat. “I decided just now.”

The look on Richie’s face is odd, and Eddie furrows his eyebrows. “I can give you a massage,
if you want.”

Eddie flushes. “Richie, if this is some weird sex thing--”

“ No, no, no!” he says, cutting Eddie off. Then makes a ‘well, maybe’ face. “I’m serious.
You’ve been driving for days. You should let one of us drive.”

“ You’re not sitting in the driver’s seat of my car.”

“ Fine. Stan can drive. But I’m serious about the massage.”

Eddie laying down and finally taking a break? Plus Richie’s hands on him? He doesn’t know
just how well that would go over in the long run, but just the thought itself is pleasing
enough. He must still be blushing a little. Things feel like they’re escalating between the two
of them, but he knows it’s only in his head. It’s just a massage. I’ve never been with anyone,
he thinks, catching Richie’s dorky grin. Don’t chicken out, Kaspbrak.

“ Yeah, OK,” he says, reaching up and running a hand over his cheek.
Richie looks shocked. “Really?!” He seems to realize what he’s said, because his demeanor
changes suddenly, and he straightens up. “I mean, yeah, sure, OK.”

Eddie nods, and Richie nods, and the air between them changes to something awkward that
Eddie’s not quite sure he’s ever had to deal with before. He doesn’t know why Richie’s acting
the way he is, but he has an idea of what it is. An idea that he’d really rather not entertain,
because it’s very similar to the reason he himself is acting the way he is, and that’s just too
desirable of an outcome.

So Eddie gets in the back before either of them can say something weird that will make the
atmosphere even weirder. Stan stops when he gets back to the car, confused, but once he
learns that he’s driving he’s more than happy to take over his shift. You needed a break, he
tells Eddie, accepting Richie’s directions without falter. I just didn’t think you’d listen to me.

But now Eddie has nothing to do but watch the scenery pass by. He can feel how tense his
shoulders are, and the line of his back aches no matter how he sits. Sometimes he hates how
persistent he is. Richie talks to him throughout the ride, and they play games to pass the time
that Richie learned as a child.

“ Who put Kansas City in Minnesota?” Richie asks when they finally stop for the night.

Eddie is standing next to him, leaning against the car while they wait for Stan to return with
the motel key. He looks up at Richie and starts to say something, likely about to make an
idiot of himself by admitting he doesn't actually know, but is saved when Stan walks around
the front of the car.

“ Kansas City existed before Kansas,” Stan says, holding up the key. Eddie walks around the
car to pop the trunk. “How do you not remember that? You had the highest grades out of all
of us.”

“ It’s been thirty years, Stan,” Richie whines, letting his head roll backwards as he follows
Eddie. “A man forgets his stuff!”

Stan stares at him. “Are you telling me you didn’t go back to school.”

“ I graduated once. No use going again.”

Eddie hears Stan’s distressed ‘Oh my God’ around the trunk, and he looks up at Richie, hands
frozen around his luggage. “Are you serious?” he asks.

Richie smiles, that shit eating grin of his, and Eddie wants to punch him in the face. He
doesn’t know why he’s getting so worked up about it. Richie was on TV. He can obviously
get a job.

“ And freak my parents out like that?” Richie asks, grabbing his things. “Of course I went.”
He leans close to Eddie. “Why, Eddie, dear, you’ve got yourself a learned man,” he says in a
Southern Bell voice Eddie doesn’t think he’s ever heard but isn’t sure he wants to hear again.
He said he’d give me a massage, he thinks, following Stan to their room. He’s been
imagining it all day, and maybe he’s--maybe? Definitely--getting ahead of himself, but he
can’t get it off his mind. He’d better shower first.

And they do. Stan runs out to get food while they shower, and Eddie comes out of the
bathroom to find Richie leafing through one of Stan’s books. The bookmark is still in its
proper place, but Eddie has a feeling that’s only because Richie isn’t even really reading it.

Richie sits up when he sees Eddie, and pats the bed next to him. Eddie hesitates. He knows
he wouldn’t if Stan were there, but when it’s just the two of them it feels intimate. If it’s just
the two of them Richie could do anything. Would you mind?

“ Cold feet?” Richie teases, looking down. “They don’t look very cold.”

Eddie shuffles, frowning. His feet are still beet red from his shower. “You’ll never change,
will you?” he asks, walking forward.

Richie makes space for him on the bed and he lays down, sighing when he finally gets the
chance to relax into the sheets. The mattress dips when Richie shifts, and Eddie breathes
through his nose, taking a slow breath when he feels Richie place his palms on his back.

“ Is that a bad thing?”

The silence extends for some time, and every time Richie digs his thumbs into a knot in
Eddie’s back he feels himself start to drift off a little more. “No,” he says. Of course not.
Richie swings a leg over Eddie’s back and sits on his butt, and Eddie grunts when his spine
cracks. “Fatass.”

Richie laughs, smoothing his hand over the small of Eddie’s back. Eddie is relaxed, eyes
closed and half asleep, and Richie seems to realize that Eddie doesn’t need his help anymore
because one hand slips over to his side. Eddie sighs, stretching.

The lock on the door clicks, and Stan stops as soon as he walks in. Richie jumps. “Hey,
Stan!”

If Eddie was asleep, he sure isn’t anymore. Richie has his hand on Eddie’s hip, fingers
stroking, and his other hand has been running up and down his back for God knows how
long. It certainly doesn’t look like a massage. It’s not.

“ I thought you were joking earlier in the car,” Stan says. He sounds skittish.

“ Why--

“ He was!” Eddie says, almost yelling in the chaos in an attempt to have his voice be heard.
He jerks up on his elbows, and Richie curses, trying to regain his balance. Eddie knocks him
off. “Right?”

Richie’s smile smoothes out into something more serious, and Eddie’s mouth drops open at
the same time Richie starts to speak.
“ I don’t care!” Stan yells, cutting him off. I do, Stan! Eddie thinks desperately. He was just
talking about sucking my dick! “I brought food!”

“ Never seen a dick before?” Richie asks, rolling across the bed and hopping up to look
through their food. “It was just a massage, Stan. You need one? I’ve been told I have magic
fingers.”

Stan looks at Eddie, and he can see his jaw jump when he grits his teeth. Eddie shakes his
head. It wasn’t me. “Who, dare I ask, told you that.”

“ My ex-girlfriend.”

“ This is not funny,” Stan says. He looks furious, but when Eddie squints in the dim lighting
he can see Stan is embarrassed. “Nothing about this is funny. What about this is funny to
you.”

Richie turns around, french fry swinging from the fingers he has poised by his groin. “What
do you mean?”

Eddie doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

#26.) Richie

Richie dreams--dreams of soft skin and brown hair and quiet noises, and thanks every god
that does or doesn’t exist that he woke up before their alarm clock goes off. Eddie is smashed
up against his side, lips parted and breath warming Richie’s arm.

“ Fuck,” he hisses, barely audible. He extracts himself from Eddie and almost trips on the
sheets in his desperation to get to the bathroom. Guess he’s taking another shower. “Stan you
fucking cockblock.”

They’re on the road like normal once everybody is awake, and wow, isn’t it so crazy that
Richie is the first one ready! But he doesn’t argue, and laughs along with Stan’s jokes. A
nice, long, boring car ride will do his soul good.

He ends up in the back, which is somehow worse than the front. It’s only a couple more
hours, which he supposes he can deal with in the long run, but those couple of hours seem to
stretch out forever. Richie liked looking out at the road and having someone to sit next to.
Now he’s just by himself staring at the treeline.

Ben will be here soon, he keeps telling himself, and Ben’s fun. Not as fun as Bev, but Bev is
next. Fuck, we should’ve picked up Bev first, they’re gonna be making out the whole time.
God, I’ll have--what? A whole day with someone to talk to, and he’ll be talking about Beverly
the whole time.

Richie lets his head hit the headrest, looking up at the front. Stan traded off with Eddie a few
miles back, and even though Eddie has nothing to do either, he hasn’t said a word. Richie
looks up through the windshield, watching the cars go past. Hundreds of people are seeing
his face daily. Thinking he’s a monster. Searching for Eddie. The world takes a step forward,
and they run backwards. He wonders if it will always be like that.

Richie sighs, glancing away, and catches Eddie’s eye in the rearview mirror. Eddie looks
away.

That’s something. Richie’s interest is piqued, and he stares at the mirror, waiting.

He turns it into a game. Somehow he manages to make it through the rest of the car ride
catching Eddie’s eye and making him blush, imaging a lot of things he shouldn’t be
imagining, or pestering Stan until he laughs or tries to throw something.

They make it to Ogallala, Nebraska near sunset, but Stan suggests they keep driving until
they get there. It’ll be easier to hide while they’re picking up Ben.

Which means they’re picking up Ben and then going straight to a motel. They manage to
work out Ben’s address and Stan directs them with flashlight in his lap. It only takes a couple
more hours to get there, and when they do they’re all at a loss for words. It’s a shanty little
place--the whole town, really. They’ve all grown up in cities, and Hemingford Home is
inconsequential in comparison.

“ Stay in here,” Stan says, peering into the passenger’s.

“ Are you sure, Stan?” Eddie asks, body turned to lean over the console.

“ I’m positive. This place is small. We’ll be lucky to stay hidden long enough that no one will
report your car.” He looks at Richie. “Be careful.”

He closed the door, and the car is dark.

It’s quiet--so quiet it seems like Eddie is holding his breath. They’re both staring at Ben’s
house, watching Stan walk up to his doorstep. None of them are up to date with the news, but
if Stan is an accessory there’s a chance they’ll be caught as soon as the door opens.

Richie is halfway shoved between the front seats, and he swallows. It’s just him and Eddie.
This may be the last moment they have alone. I’m running out of time.

“ Eds,” Richie says, soft. He feels like he should be whispering.

Eddie jumps, and Richie sets a hand on his shoulder. He feels the tension run out of him.
“Yeah?”

“ It’s gonna be fine,” Richie whispers. He slides up to sit on the console, and slouches, head
brushing the ceiling. Eddie’s outline is barely visible in the dim porchlight.

The two of them stare at each other for a long moment. Richie feels like screaming. On a
good day he’s already thrumming with energy, but now he feels like he’s going to explode.
“ Eds,” he whispers. Eddie looks up at him, and Richie braces himself. “You’ve been staring
at me a lot today.”

Maybe not the best way to get himself a good lay. Take a picture, it’ll last longer. What is he?
11?

Eddie tenses, and Richie tenses in response. You fucked up, Tozier. Eddie’s hand reaches up,
grabbing Richie’s, and he feels a good, hard hit coming on.

“ Kiss me.”

“ Huh?”

It’s like whiplash, and Richie blinks, trying to guide his frazzled mind back to a thought that
makes sense. Eddie may as well have punched him for all the good he’s done. The words are
breathy and desperate, like that’s what’s been on his mind every time he’s looked at Richie in
the mirror. Richie thinks that’s what stops all his higher functions.

Eddie hesitates, grip on Richie’s hand changing, and Richie squeezes Eddie’s shoulder in
return. “I--” He cuts himself off, voice suddenly timid. “You were talking about all that stuff
yesterday.” Richie can hear him lick his lips in the dark, and unconsciously finds himself
mirroring the action. “About--about handjobs and,” he pauses, making a sound that sounds
vaguely like choking, “road head.”

The words sound strangled, and Richie’s first thought is inhaler, but he hasn’t seen Eddie use
it once on their car ride and he doesn’t know where it is. He starts sliding off the console.
“Jesus, Eds, hold on--”

“ Were you joking?”

Richie stops, staring at the faint outline of Eddie against the inky blackness of the car. He
slides back into his place. The sound of Eddie’s breathing is a physical thing. “No,” Richie
says.

“ Then kiss me,” Eddie says, more of a demand than a request. His voice is still wavering and
stuttering, but he sounds determined.

Richie leans into his space, hand moving from his shoulder to his face. He can’t see anything,
and he stretches his thumb out, letting it rest at the corner of Eddie’s lips. “Since you asked so
nicely,” he murmurs.

Eddie is stiff as a board. Richie is sure this is all he’s ever done--stood and waited the worst
out. The thought makes him smile, and he cups Eddie’s face in his free hand. Eddie sighs
through his nose.

“ I know I remind you of your aunts, Eds, but I promise I’m not gonna pinch your cheeks,”
Richie laughs.

Eddie huffs. “I don’t know what I’m doing,” he says quietly.

“ No rush,” Richie says, lowering his voice to the same level. He kisses the side of Eddie’s
mouth, ears attuned to the shaky sigh he receives. “We have plenty of time.”

Eddie reciprocates easily, pushing himself up in his seat so Richie isn’t leaning over quite as
far. His kisses are sloppy and unpracticed, but Richie can’t find it in himself to care. His arm
is aching from where he has it pressed into the door to hold him up, and his spine hurts from
his tailbone to his skull, but Eddie is warm and pliant against him.

“ Is that OK?” Eddie asks, mouthing lingering against Richie’s between kisses.

“ Mhmm,” Richie hums, hardly hearing his question. Say something. “Yeah. Glad we’re
having such a great lesson. Next week I’m gonna to teach you how to use your tongue.”

“ Yeah?” Eddie asks. He shifts in his seat again, folding his knees up under himself. Richie
feels Eddie slide up against him. “How does that work.”

He obviously doesn’t care--or maybe he does--but Richie’s dug himself a hole. “You just,” he
cuts himself off, not caring enough to keep it up. The thought comes back to him a few
minutes later when Eddie’s fingers toy with the hair at the nape of his neck, “stick it in
there,” he mutters.

Eddie’s thumb catches on Richie’s bottom lip, and his eyes open when Eddie slips his tongue
into his mouth, brushing it against his own. He moans, pulling away. “What was that?!”

Eddie laughs quietly. “You were too vague.”

“ Where did you learn how to do that?” he asks. “I thought you said you didn’t know what
you were doing!”

“ What?”

“ Eddie, that was good.”

“ Oh.”

Richie stares at him, and without his glasses he may as well have his eyes closed. “Where
have you been sticking your tongue?”

“ I don’t know what you’re trying to imply, but I’m gonna go ahead and stop it right now.”

“ Eds, that was no talent. I know when to compliment a man who’s been putting in the work-
-”

“ Shh!”

Richie quiets immediately and listens. The hinges on the storm door of Ben’s house squeak at
the same time Eddie jumps, and Richie knows that’s his cue to move. “They’re coming!”

“ Catch ya later, sweetheart!” Richie says, mocking a salute. He slides into his seat, careful
not to shake the car, and fumbles to get his glasses off the top of his head and back onto his
face.

The car door opens before Eddie can answer, and Richie is glad there aren’t any lights
because he’s sure he looks like a mess.

Ben sits in the back with him, bag cradled in his lap. He’s exuding a nervous sort of
excitement, but Stan was in there long enough that the initial shock has worn off. “Guys,” he
whispers.

Jesus, how long has he been crying? Richie thinks. Only half of his thoughts have returned
from his dick.

Eddie clears his throat, and Richie grins. Bless the night. “Hey, Ben.”

“ Eddie, you’re OK,” Ben says, leaning forward in his seat.

“ What?” Richie asks, following him. He’s still smiling, he knows, and it’s audible. “Of
course he is.”

Ben doesn’t say anything for a moment, but Richie eventually hears his relieved sigh. “I’m so
glad to see you guys.”

“ Yeah, we all know you’re just excited to see Bev.”

A beat passes. It’s obvious Ben’s trying to make it last longer, but it doesn’t work. “When are
we picking her up?”

“ We’re stopping somewhere tonight,” Eddie says, craning his neck around his seat. “We’ll
leave in the morning.”

Stan gets them back on the road, and all of them get lost in a lazy conversation, physically
and emotionally exhausted. Ben has a lot of questions, but seems oddly distant at times when
Richie speaks. He’s got his mind on other things. Richie stares out the window, rubbing his
lips together.

His mouth tastes like mint and chapstick he doesn’t own.

#27.) Eddie

“ Shh.”

But Eddie can’t be quiet. They’re in the bathroom of the motel, and while Eddie was initially
opposed to their escapade, he doesn’t think he much minds now. Ben and Stan are asleep--at
least he hopes. It’s going to be questionable that the two of them are in there together
otherwise--but they’ve only been in the room for a few hours. It’s almost pitiful that they’ve
devolved to this state so quickly.
Eddie shoves his palm against his mouth, swallowing thickly when Richie mouths at another
spot on his neck. He arches his back a fraction, pressing his cock against Richie’s thigh, and
sighs. It’s not nearly enough. “This was a bad idea,” he whispers.

“ Why?” Richie asks, just as quiet. He rolls his knee against Eddie, and Eddie’s breath
stutters. Richie smirks, satisfied. “Because you can’t keep it down?”

Richie’s hands jump from the countertop to Eddie’s waist, thumbs finding the grooves in his
hips and digging in. He drags down Eddie’s torso, placing absentminded kisses as he goes.
Eddie opens his eyes and bites down on the side of his thumb, leaning against the counter for
support.

Richie is on his knees, and he slides his hands inward, resting one over Eddie’s fly and
slipping his thumb underneath. He runs it down his zipper, and goes back up when Eddie’s
hips jump. “Well,” he says, looking up at Eddie. “It’s no road head.”

Eddie wakes up quietly, opening his eyes in the dark. He holds his breath, and feels the strain
it puts on his lungs. His pulse thrums beneath his skin.

Richie is pressed tight against him, back to chest, and his arm is dangling over Eddie’s ribs.
His mouth is open, and every soft snore blows the hair on the top of Eddie’s head forward.
They fit together rather well in Eddie’s opinion. It doesn’t mean much at the moment.

Eddie shifts, trying to get up without waking him, but underestimates just how different their
heights are and what exactly that entails. Richie’s hand bumps into his dick, and he blows all
the air in his lungs through his nose.

Don’t think about it, don’t imagine it, don’t focus on it, it’s not important, he thinks, chanting
it to himself. The next time he moves it’s more successful, and Eddie sets Richie’s arm down
on the bed carefully. 45 years. You can wait a little longer. He’s not some hormonal teenager
anymore.

Eddie rolls onto his stomach, trying to ignore his erection, and buries his face in his pillow
when the friction immediately assaults his sleep addled brain. Yes I am, yes I am, yes I am.

Richie is a warm weight next to him, inches away, hand laying between them. Eddie turns his
head to face him. He can only see the stark outline of Richie’s curls against the backdrop of
the blinds across the room, but he shifts and breathes and the heat he radiates is all so visceral
that it’s almost impossible to believe.

I could ask him, Eddie thinks, staring into the dark. I don’t think he’d mind.

It’s so tempting, so, so, so tempting. Eddie reaches between them and brushes the tips of their
fingers together, running the idea through his mind.

But it’s too much to handle, and the thought of Stan and Ben being feet away--even if he and
Richie went to another room--is enough to turn him away from considering it. Again, he
doesn't think it would be much of a problem even getting Richie out to his car once Eddie got
him up--

Stop. Eddie pulls his hand back, rolling onto his side. It can wait.

He doesn't sleep well at all, and it takes them half of the morning to get out to the car because
all of them have to use the bathroom to get ready. Richie is in and out in a heartbeat, and
drifts off in the car while the wait. It's another option, just walking out there and talking to
him instead of sitting on his bed and waiting for Stan to shower.

Don't be that person, he tells himself, scrubbing his hands down his face.

It's a miracle Richie happened to be on the east coast when they started this journey, because
if he hadn't the trip would've been a lot more expensive. They're driving in a line now, with
only Beverly to pick up before stopping back in Maine to call Bill. It's a terrifying prospect.
Returning.

"Why do you live in BFE," Richie grunts. His elbow is resting against the window, eyes
trained on the passing traffic, although there's not much. There's not much of anything around
them.

Ben doesn't answer for a beat. "It wasn't my decision to make," he says, and the words sound
gruff and clipped.

Eddie glances at him in the rearview mirror, pursing his lips. Ben has been more than happy
to talk to him and Stan, but has been unusually short with Richie, and it worries him. Has he
read the papers?

He has no idea if anything else has been published, but the original article Eddie had come
across is folded and tucked away deep in his luggage. He hopes no one will find it. They
know what they need to, he's told them what's important. Eddie looks at Richie, worrying his
lip.

If Ben does know, Eddie wonders why he hasn't said something to Richie. He looks at Stan,
who's taken over behind the wheel, and considers the possibility that Ben already talked it
over with him while they were alone. They were in there long enough.

It's not his fault, Eddie thinks, looking at the road again when Richie almost catches his eye
in the mirror. They don't need to start playing this game again. Ben doesn't know what he's
talking about.

No one does. No one except you.

He needs to tell them, but the prospect is terrifying. While Eddie wants to fall prey to his own
cowardice, he knows he's discarded that phase of his life, and it's just a matter of time. He
just has to wait for the right moment to present itself. He’ll tell them. He will.

It's not quite as long a drive from Hemingford to Chicago, but it's still quite a trip. They
debate on whether or not to stop before picking Beverly up, but their only real option is
getting her in the middle of the night. They decide to drive straight from Nebraska to Illinois.

Eddie switches out with Stan every few hours, and at some point Ben ends up behind the
wheel. He would've figured with four of them in the car conversation would've boomed, but
it's stilted, and the atmosphere is tense. Ben is driving a wedge between all of them and
Richie.

It had to have been the paper, Eddie thinks. He can't think of any other reason.

They reach the border after sunset, and exhaustion is heavy in the air. It's tiring being in the
car as long as they all have, and Eddie and Richie have been driving the longest. They can't
even go inside anywhere besides motels anymore. There's no option to stretch out until the
end of the night presents itself.

"Should we park the car in an alley?" Ben asks. He's in the back again, hands hanging onto
Stan's chair and face peeking between the front seats.

Stan takes a moment to answer. His eyes are caught on the traffic and people lining the
streets. "Probably."

Eddie sighs, inching his way around the corner. It's a nice apartment building--he can see it
from here. The problem is finding somewhere no one will go looking. "Who's going inside?"

"I can--"

"Me."

Stan glances in the mirror at Ben, who's staring straight ahead through the windshield,
watching Eddie park. His fingers are tense on the leather seat. "You sure you want to go in
alone?"

"Don't trust him," Richie says, rolling from where he's propped against the window to lean
forward against the back of Eddie's seat. "Alone? With Bev? We'll be waiting out here all
night."

Eddie snorts, and while Stan tries not to react Eddie can see his wry smile. "Think you can
handle yourself, Ben?" Stan asks, teasing.

"I'd invite you all, but two of us are wanted men," Ben says, turning his gaze to the window
of his door. There's nothing to see but the brick walls of the buildings on either side of them.

The words are almost callous, but no one reacts. Eddie watches him, breath held, and almost
jumps out of his skin when Stan unbuckles himself. "I'll go with you."

"Make it snappy," Richie says, propping his feet up on the seat when Ben immediately gets
out. "I'd really like to get to a motel soon."

The doors are shut, and any conversation is cut off. Eddie sighs, watching them walk around
the edge of the building before disappearing. He's so anxious his chest aches.
"Richie?" he asks, quiet.

"Hmm?"

He doesn't want Ben to say something before he does, and he certainly doesn't want Beverly
to get in the car, fiery and quick-tempered, and snap at Richie for something he doesn't even
know he didn't do. "Ben is acting strange."

"Yeah, no kidding." Richie sits up again, and in the dim light Eddie sees him stretch his arms
behind his head. He hears a couple cracks. "Wonder what's got him so wound up."

Eddie stares at his hands on the steering wheel and feels his heart pounding in his throat. His
head feels light, and his lungs tighten. He wants to turn the conversation onto something else.

You know him, he tells himself, unbuckling himself and climbing over the console. He
ignores Richie's pleased jeers. You know he'll understand.

Eddie sifts through the luggage in the back of the car, and opens his trunk, digging through it.
He finds the newspaper article with little difficulty. It's where he left it, tucked away,
untouched. Unwanted.

"Eds?" Richie asks.

Eddie opens the console and gets the flashlight out. His hands are shaking, but it's impossible
to see in the dark. "Here," he says. He's afraid to say anything else.

Richie reaches forward, hands brushing the newspaper, and cups Eddie's hands. "What is it?"

"Just--" Eddie takes a breath, trying to stop his chest from squeezing down on his lungs. "Just
read it."

Richie's fingers run over the back of his palms, once, twice, and then he slips the newspaper
out of Eddie's hands. He clicks the flashlight on, and both of them wince. Richie glances at
him once, eyes apprehensive, but Eddie doesn't look away.

It's not the longest article in the world. It's short and to the point, but Eddie can see Richie's
eyebrows drawing together. His fingers tighten on the newspaper, and Eddie purses his lips.

He looks up at Eddie, hand falling to his lap, flashlight pointed at the floor between them.
There's a smile on his face. "This isn't real."

But Eddie isn't smiling, and Richie's expression twists into something nervous and jittery.
"It's not," he says. "I didn't do this."

He doesn't sound sure of himself, words catching in his throat. None of them would know for
sure. Anything is up in the air. But Eddie shakes his head. "You didn't."

Richie stares at him, and Eddie fiddles with the hem of his shirt. "Show me."
It's something Eddie expected, but the words still send of spike of anxiety through him. He
takes a breath, pushing his sleeve up to his elbow, and holds his arm out for Richie.

Richie shines the flashlight on him, not wasting a moment. He scoots closer, hand closing
around Eddie's arm, fingers dragging up and down.

"I wouldn't have noticed unless you held them side by side," he mumbles. He looks up at
Eddie. "Did you just find out about this in the paper?"

It would be easy to say yes, to lie and say he had only been harboring his secret for a few
days. "No," he whispers, looking down at his arm. Richie still has his fingers wrapped around
it, thumb stroking. It's an odd feeling. "Ma mentioned something about it when I first woke
up, but I didn't know the specifics. I just found out about you the other day."

Richie sighs and sits up, but doesn't let go. They're sitting right up against each other. Richie's
knees are almost in Eddie's lap. "A cherry bomb," he mutters, scoffing. "You wouldn't have
this much of your arm left if I had blown it up with a cherry bomb."

They both look at Eddie's arm for a long time, thinking. Maybe about different thinks, maybe
the same. Neither of them voice their thoughts until Richie runs his thumb from the inside of
Eddie's elbow to his wrist. "Pennywise," he says. "You got your arm back, but not all of it."

Eddie is only half listening to the rest of Richie's grumbling-- Of course It would do
something like this. Fucking bitch. They've all gotten the bulk of their lives back, but lost
something in return--starting with their homes. He wonders if they'll have to lose anything
else on the way.

"Richie," Eddie says, cupping his elbow with his right hand. It's a weird feeling. He tries to
avoid touching people with his right arm, but doing it isn't so bad. "Calm down."

Richie stops talking, staring. He nods after a second. "I'm glad you told me," he says.

The words are truthful, and it sounds like they've been ripped out of him. A struggle. "Yeah,"
Eddie says, thrown for a loop. "I wanted to earlier, but I was scared."

Richie smiles. "I know." Eddie blushes, frowning, and Richie laughs. "What made you
choose now?" His eyes widen as soon as he speaks, and he grins, finger tapping the inside of
Eddie's elbow. "Benny boy."

Eddie nods, looking at Richie's hand. "I didn't want him to tell you before I could."

"How honest," Richie says, leaning forward. He's still smiling.

Eddie can't help but stare at his mouth, eyes half-lidded. "Some of us weren't born for deceit."

"I've never told a lie in my life."

"I find that hard to believe."

Richie stops, leaning back, and peeks around the headrests. Eddie follows his line of sight.
"Did you hear that?"

"No," Eddie says, rubbing his lips together. There's too much to focus on right now and only
one thing that's actually important.

"I think they're coming out," Richie says, clicking the flashlight back off.

Eddie huffs, climbing over the console. "Put that newspaper back in my luggage."

"Where?"

"I don't care, just shove it in there and make sure it's closed." Eddie sits down in the driver's
seat, taking the flashlight when Richie hands it to him. "And don't mess up my clothes."

"Hey."

"What?" he asks, turning back around.

Richie's hand cups his chin, and he pecks him on the lips. "We need to get our own motel
room," he says softly.

Eddie turns back around in the driver's seat when Richie leans over into the back to fiddle
with his luggage. His stomach is flipping. He wishes more than anything they weren't
confined to short bursts of solitude in his car. "Are you paying?"

"Hah!" Richie throws himself down into his seat at the same time Stan opens the passenger's
side door. "By the time we get back home I won't have a pot to piss in, Eds."

The back door opens, and Beverly slides in. She tosses a suitcase into the back. "I don't have
a pot to piss in now. I hope you weren't expecting me to bring much money, cuz I'm broke."

"There is, in fact, cab fare on this car," Richie says.

"Oh good," Beverly says. She hesitates, but once she leans into Richie's hug the normalcy
from years ago seems to return. "It'll be just like our first date."

"It's good to see you not covered in blood," Richie jokes.

Beverly laughs, moving in a little closer when Ben closes the door. "It's good to not be
covered in blood."

The conversation between the two of them is a bit stiff, and Eddie has the same feeling that
she's seen the paper, too. It's impossible that she hasn't, but seeing the way they're interacting
is relieving. He can tell she knows the truth, now, sitting next to Richie with Eddie still in the
car. Ben will come along.

"Were you two upstairs rubbing gums?" he asks, wrapping his arm around Beverly. "I know it
can be hard turning ol' Haystack away."
"Oh? Are you jealous?"

"Yeah, I am! Maybe think about sharing a bit?"

The two of them spur on a conversation with the rest of the car, and Eddie finds himself
breathing easier as they find their way out of Chicago. Things are coming together. They're
coming together.

Home, Richie had said. Eddie pulls onto the highway, and wonders if that's really where
they're going.

#28.) Richie

They don't get their own room. In fact they're back to sharing with Stan, three to a bed. It's
not his first choice.

Sleeping with five to a room is suddenly so much more stifling than four. He hadn't really
noticed Ben's presence, sleeping across the room, and Stan hadn't been a problem. At the
time. So Richie lies awake, staring at the ceiling.

Eddie shifts, and when Richie turns his head he sees a flash of grey eyes. "What are you
doing?" he whispers, hardly a breath.

"That could've been us," Richie says, maybe a little louder than he should. He gestures
toward Ben and Beverly.

Eddie leans up a little to see, and then pushes himself further under the blanket. His eyebrows
are drawn together in an agitated line--at least Richie thinks so--and Richie has the sudden
urge to smooth it out. "That was us. Last night."

Richie rolls onto his side to face Eddie, and scoots down so they're at eye level. "Do you
really wanna just deal with this?"

"It's only one more night," Eddie sighs.

"Or-- or," Richie says, and Eddie raises an eyebrow. Again, assuming. He's a blur of colors
and shapes, and in the dark it all looks the same, "we could all switch off. Its, what, about a
days drive here to there? If we all drove for five hours we'd make it, no problem."

"And, say," Eddie pushes up onto his elbows, looking down at Richie. Richie rolls onto his
back again, "everyone is asleep--but us--and we have to stop for gas." He shifts again,
leaning over Richie, arms on either side of his head. "What if one of us is seen?"

Richie reaches up, brushing hair away from Eddie's face and praying he doesn't stab him in
the eye. Eddie leans into his hand, and he cups his cheek. "We run like hell?"
Eddie laughs, a breath of a noise. He leans his weight onto Richie's chest. "Your plan is full
of holes."

"I've had worse plans." Richie smiles, free hand resting on Eddie's hip.

Eddie's nose bumps into his. "I know. I've been a part of them."

Richie pushes up, catching Eddie's mouth against his, and smiles when he feels Eddie's sigh
against his cheek. He opens his mouth, but as soon as his tongue touches Eddie's lip he pulls
away. "We need to sleep," he whispers.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" Richie hisses, pinching Eddie's hip.

"No, Richard," Eddie tugs on one of Richie's curls in retaliation, "I'm not. I'm not gonna sit
here and let you stick your tongue down my throat with Stan sleeping next to us."

Richie sighs, hand sliding down to rest on Eddie's neck. "Don't worry. It doesn't even go that
far. I've tried." He twirls a lock of Eddie's hair around the tip of his finger. "We could always
invite him."

"Yeah," Eddie moves his arms to Richie's sides, laying his head on his chest, "I bet he'd love
that."

It surprises Richie. That Eddie's so casual with his affection in a room full of others, sleeping
or not. What if we wake up like this? It's sure to make everyone question things between
them, and Richie knows Eddie's weighed the repercussions--he always does. He doesn't care.

It's a nice thought to fall asleep to, and when he wraps Eddie up in his arms, it's easy to feel
like it can last forever.

They wake up with the alarm, and even though Richie has a bit of drool on his shirt he
doesn't mention it. No one says anything about their sleeping arrangements, and Richie
knows for sure Stan doesn't care. He's seen them wake up in more than one compromising
position. He's woken up in a couple. Richie is a clingy sleeper.

He jokes that they can make it back to Maine within the day, and as terrible as it sounds to
everyone, showing up in the middle of the night seems to be their best bet. They'll have to
find somewhere to stay while Bill flies back from England--if they can get a hold of Bill at
all.

"I can't believe you're going to be driving this car," Eddie says, midway through New York.

Richie looks at him. They're sitting next to each other in the back--Richie hasn't gotten a
chance to sit in the front since Stan started driving. He's called the window seat in retaliation
every time. It's the least he can get. I'm the tallest out of everyone, Eds, give me some space.
"Afraid I'm gonna crash?"

"Preparing for the worst."

"Eds," Richie says, throwing his arm around Eddie's shoulder. Eddie struggles. "I drove
myself back to Derry. A second chance is all this is."

"How many times did you get pulled over--"

" What's important," Richie says, raising his voice, "is that I know how to not get caught."

Eddie stares at him, and he can see Ben over Eddie's shoulder doing the same. "Are you
serious."

"Absolutely not." Richie leans back in his seat, and Eddie weasels out from under his arm. "I
took a plane to Bangor and drove the rest of the way. Why would I drive from LA to Derry?"

"It wouldn't be the first bad decision you've made in your life," Stan calls from the front.
Richie crosses his legs and makes sure to kick the back of his chair.

They drive for what feels like forever. Everyone is allowed out at stops besides Eddie and
Richie, and it's grating. They've both been confined to motels and Eddie's car for days, and
Richie would rather be out in a public restroom than sitting in the car and waiting for
everyone else to bring back takeout.

Hours pass, and--as early as they all get up--they end up driving well into the night. Richie is
the last of everyone to drive, and ends up in front with Eddie, who's begun dozing. He's really
not a bad driver, but seeing Eddie's panicked expressions is enough to keep him laying it on
thick as he can until Eddie is finally out for the night.

It's a long drive, and he knows it far before the get anywhere near Maine, but as Richie passes
through Portsmouth he feels himself start to tense. There's a stretch of road, a bridge. An
entire river cutting them off from Derry.

No one else is out as late as it is, and the headlights of Eddie's car cut through the dark. A
single sign peers back out at him, the only thing illuminated. Vacationland. It's brand new.

It feels like they're being mocked. The back of Richie's neck prickles, lungs going tight as the
anxiety presses down on him, and he thinks he may be on the verge of a panic attack. They're
not even in Maine yet and his mind is halfway between stability and complete insanity.

He drives over the state line, looking over the side of the bridge into the vastness where the
river is hidden. Richie wants to wake somebody up, wants to move his hand from the
gearshift and nudge Eddie, needs the distraction.

There's a prickle behind his eyes--faint, a distant memory of pain--and he panics. He taps at
Eddie's thigh hurriedly, not caring what it may look like from the outside.

"Eddie," he whispers. His voice is barely audible over the sound of the radio.

Eddie rolls in the passenger seat, swatting at Richie's hand. "What."

"Wake up."
He sits up immediately, blinking fast. "What did you do," he hisses.

Richie wants to laugh. It doesn't come. "Talk to me."

"Are you serious?" Eddie asks. He peeks behind them, likely to see if everyone is sleeping,
and then looks at Richie again. "You woke me up to talk?"

He wants to crack a joke, he really does, but he knows as soon as he says something Eddie
will turn over and go back to sleep. Richie is too high strung to keep up the facade. "Please?"
he asks, and this time his voice is so strained even he can hardly catch it.

Eddie stops moving. It's silent for a long moment, and then, "How close are we?"

"About two hours out."

He molds into his seat, body turning forward, and stares into the dark. "I love Mike, Richie,"
he says. "I really do."

Another long pause stretches out between them, and Richie pinches his lips. Eddie is
struggling with something, and Richie has a feeling he knows exactly what he's going to say.

Eddie folds his hands in his lap, running his thumb along the side of his first finger. Back and
forth and back and forth. "But not enough to go back there."

He means it. Richie feels it. "I don't think anything could make me want to go back there,"
Richie says.

Eddie squeezes his hands together. "Then why are we going back?"

To kill It. At least that's their excuse. But has It been bothering them? No. In fact, Richie
couldn't be happier. His life hasn't been the same line of unending perfection as before, and
it's likely he'll have to talk to the police at some point, but he'd rather have the Losers back
than his old house.

Press'll eat that shit up, he thinks, running his future career plans through his mind. "To get
Mikey," he says. He wants to use a Voice, something to make Eddie feel better, but he knows
when Eddie gets like this he'll either ignore him or turn his worry outward into an irritation
he can focus on Richie. Plus, the whispering would just turn it into a poor accent. He's better
than that. "Then we pick up Big Bill and we're on our way."

"Where?"

"We'll figure it out," Richie says, and he hopes they do, because he has no idea.

#29.) Eddie
"You think he's in there?" Richie asks. He pulls the car to a slow stop in the grass, and the
sound of dirt and gravel crunching under the tires fades to silence.

Eddie unbuckles his seatbelt, leaning forward to perch against the dashboard. None of the
lights in the house are on, but there are two cars parked outside. Someone is home.

"I don't know," Eddie says.

"Have you ever been here?"

"No."

Richie sighs, leaning onto the top of the steering wheel. There are bags under his eyes, but he
looks wired. He taps a finger on his elbow restlessly. "Neither have I."

"What," Eddie says, finally following his train of thought, "were you planning on doing
something?"

"I don't know," Richie says, but the way that he says it means he was. He shrugs a little,
glancing into the rearview mirror quickly before lowering his voice again. "I was gonna
throw rocks at his window or something until he let us in."

"Are you courting him?" Eddie hisses, turning in his seat. He ignores Richie's, 'I didn't know
you were the jealous type, Eds.' "We'd freak him out if five of us suddenly showed up at his
house in the middle of the night. He probably thinks we're dead!"

"OK, so plan one sucks." Richie has one hand between them, gesturing to follow his words.
He almost smacks Eddie in the face when he turns in his seat.

Eddie leans back. "There's more than one?"

"I'm resourceful."

"Then let's hear them."

"Plan two," Richie says, turning towards Eddie further. He starts gesturing with both hands.
"We wait until morning to see who leaves, and then talk to Mike."

"Too risky. And driving all night to get here was your idea."

"That's not why I pitched this plan, but whatever. Plan three," Richie says. If Eddie really
struggles, he can catch Richie holding up three fingers in the space between them, but all
that's readily visible is the glint on his glasses from the porchlight. "I crawl into one of the
open windows and look around."

"That's even worse than plan one!" Eddie pushes his palms into his eyes. He's going to get
himself thrown in jail, he thinks, shaking his head.

"It's like three in the morning, we can't just knock on his front door!" Richie sighs harshly
through his nose, pushing his glasses up to rub his eyes. "We didn't think this through."
"We didn't have a choice," Eddie whispers. He sighs then, too, scrubbing his fingers through
his bangs.

They don't have a plan, and waking up Mike's parents could end badly if they're caught. If it's
not Mike's parent's, Richie will definitely end up in prison, but they're not going to know
who's house it is unless they knock. Eddie runs his hand through his hair again, fixing it.

"I--" He sighs, cutting himself off. "What if we--"

"I know you're there!" someone yells.

Eddie ducks immediately, fingers digging into the dashboard. He peeks through the
windshield, eyes barely clearing the hood, and looks around.

A man is walking toward them, stepping through the grass barefoot. He's wearing pajamas,
but something about the way he's moving makes Eddie think he was never asleep at all. It's
too dark to make out what he looks like, especially with the porchlight like a halo behind
him, but he's built. And--

"He's got a gun, Richard, you idiot, get down!" Eddie hisses, panicked. He jerks the front of
Richie's shirt, throat closing up.

"What's going on?" Ben asks. His voice is groggy.

"Either this is Mike," Richie says, looking back, "or we're gonna die."

The sleep clears out of Ben's eyes. "What did you do."

"Why does everyone always assume it's me that's done something--"

"I can see you!" the man yells. He cocks the gun.

Richie turns the car on, and the man winces, cursing. "Hey, it is Mike!"

He's lost it, Eddie thinks. Richie is ignoring them both, hand on the door. "You're gonna get
us killed," he whispers. It's no use. He hears movement in the back of the car, Stan and
Beverly’s soft mumbling. Freshly woken and confused.

"Do you think I should get out?" Richie asks, eyes trained on Mike.

"No," Ben and Eddie say.

The car door opens with the push of a button, and Richie wedges his hand out of the top,
waving it slowly. He pushes himself out of his seat to stand up. "Oh my god," Eddie says,
steepling his fingers over his nose and sliding down in his seat.

The two of them start talking, but Eddie can't make out their low voices over the sound of the
engine. Richie steps away from the door after only a few seconds, and Ben leans over the
console, likely trying to catch an idea of what they're talking about, too. Eddie turns the low
murmur of the radio off completely.
"What's going on?" Beverly asks, leaning into the back of Eddie's seat.

"Richie's talking to Mike," Ben says.

Stan tries to wedge his way into the middle, then. The car jostles. "Should we help?"

"And get shot? I'm good."

Mike drops the gun and hugs Richie, who almost trips over his own feet and sends them both
sprawling. Eddie lets out a breath, rubbing his eyes. He feels like he's shaking more than he
ever has. He's so reckless.

"I should have made a bet," Beverly says, clicking her tongue.

"About him getting shot?" Eddie asks, watching Richie and Mike rock back and forth in front
of the car. Mike is crying. "Who would've taken that?"

A chorus of 'me' s goes up in the back, and Eddie rolls his eyes. He opens the door, and on his
way out hears Stan say, "But Mike wouldn't have, right?"

"--you planning on talking to me?" Mike asks. "I could've killed you!"

"He was gonna break into your house," Eddie says, folding his arms on the top of the car
door and leaning on them.

Mike swivels around to look at him, and Eddie smiles. He's exhausted, and it's almost too
much--seeing Mike young and healthy. The version none of them got to see before. The life
Mike never got to have.

"I definitely would've killed him," Mike laughs. It's half a sob, and Eddie drags his first
finger under his eye to wipe his tears away.

The doors on the car open up, and the rest of the Losers pour out, swarming Mike in a tired
heap. Eddie follows, forcing himself into the middle. It's a mass of limbs, laughing and jokes,
with Mike at the center of its attention.

"What happened down there?" Mike asks. The talking in the circle slows and then dies out
completely. He looks around.

Beverly is staring at her feet, but she looks at Eddie out of the corner of her eye, and he
clenches his jaw. I remember, her gaze says, I remember what you said to me before you died.

Standing in the middle of all his friends, held like he means something, because here is the
only place he does. Knowing he's said something he can't ever take back.

Eddie drops his gaze to his feet, and feels different kinds of tears welling up in his eyes.

"Maybe we should go inside," Ben says, voice soft.

"Yeah, that's--" Mike looks around at everyone. His eyebrows furrow when he notices the
way everyone lowers their eyes. "That's fine."

He slips between everyone and starts toward the house, picking up the shotgun on the way.
"We have some extra guest rooms, and people can sleep in the living room," he glances over
his shoulder, "but we'll have to explain to my parents what you're all doing here in the
morning."

"How many guest rooms do you have?" Beverly asks, trotting to catch up. She's barefoot as
well.

"Two."

"I'm done sleeping with Richie," Stan says, hands up.

"Hey," Richie says, tapping Eddie. There are bags under his eyes, and when he turns Eddie
catches smeared tears on his cheeks. "I'm gonna park the car behind the house."

Eddie nods. When he turns around the group is already up to the porch, and he jogs to keep
up. Mike lets them in, directing them around, and dividing them up into rooms. As the
excitement wears off it's decided that they'll talk about what happened in the morning.

Eddie is more than happy with that. He'll take any chance he can at putting off that
conversation. He'd rather them not have it at all, or better yet have it without him included.

Will they talk about that? he wonders, remembering his arm, bleeding out, the numbness. The
pain. They will, of course they will. We talked about Stan.

"Eds?"

Eddie jumps, hands gripping the edge of the bathroom sink. He's been staring at himself in
the mirror. "Yeah?" he asks. He clears his throat when it comes out choked.

"Uhh," it's Richie. The floor creaks just outside the door as he shifts his weight from foot to
foot, "I brought your stuff in from the car. I figured you'd wanna take a shower."

Eddie feels a bit more fondness bloom in his chest. He unlocks the door, leaning on the frame
as it opens, and looks up at Richie. "Thank you."

Richie smiles, tired and sweet. "I don't know how you carry this, it's super heavy. You must
be ripped under that shirt."

Eddie laughs, taking the suitcase from him. "I packed more than a toothbrush and pajama
pants."

"I have suits in here." Richie holds up his duffle. "Also, Stan said, and I quote: 'Tell him,' him
is you, 'I said I am not sleeping with you,' you is me, by the way, 'tonight. Sorry, Eddie,
you're just gonna have to take one for the team'. I personally find that very offensive," Richie
says, hand over his heart. "There were thousands of people dying to sleep with me not ten
years ago."
"Were," Eddie emphasizes. He smiles when Richie narrows his eyes.

"Even you," he spits, and Eddie laughs. His expression clears up quickly. "Hurry up. You're
not the only person that needs to shower."

Eddie showers and gets ready for bed quickly. The house is old, but big, he finds. It's what he
should have expected from a farm house, but he had thought Mike lived somewhere smaller.
He has to stumble around the second floor for a few minutes, but eventually he finds an
empty room with the light still on.

"It's only a twin," Richie whispers on his way out.

Eddie doesn't care. He drops his things on the floor by the nightstand and falls into the bed,
pressing himself flat against the wall. The wallpaper is chipping, and the blankets are a hair
too thin for the temperature inside, but it's his last concern.

I get to sleep in an actual bed, Eddie thinks, turning his face into the pillow and breathing in
slowly, for more than one night . His body aches, and laying down has him falling asleep so
quick he hardly registers when Richie slips into bed behind him.

#30.) Richie

"I should have been down there," Mike says. He looks mad, but at what, Richie doesn't know.
It? Maybe. Himself? More likely.

"There was nothing you could do," Beverly says, resting a hand on his arm.

Ben and Eddie are chatting off to the side, sitting at the corner of the kitchen table. Eddie's
hands are curled into each other in his lap, and as Richie had continued retelling the events in
the sewers Eddie had drawn himself in. Ben glances Richie's way repeatedly. It feels like
some kind of code he doesn't understand. Stop talking about it. Come talk to Eddie. Help me,
I don't know what to do. They all look the same to him.

Stan is wide eyed, looking at the wall in a dead stare, hands cupped in front of his mouth.
Disbelief. Maybe the opposite. He believed too much and it killed him. He's pale. So, so pale.

"Stan," Richie says. He's reluctant to step away from his food at the stove, but Stan is sitting
close by at the island counter. Richie sets his spatula aside and walks to the island. "Are you
OK?"

"It killed Eddie," Stan whispers, breathless and wheezing.

"Hey." Richie leans on the counter, half bent at the waist. "Look at him. Eddie is fine."

"But why?!"
The sudden boom of volume brings conversation in the kitchen to a halt. Everyone is staring
at the two of them, and Richie feels a prickle of sweat beading at his hairline. He can't lie to
them if they ask.

"What?" Ben asks. He looks wary.

Stan sighs, shaky. He puts his face in his hands. "We shouldn't be alive." His voice drops
back down to something quiet again.

Eddie's eyes dart away, fingers tense in his lap. Richie looks at Mike. "Can you contact Bill?"

Mike stands up almost before Richie is done talking. The atmosphere in the kitchen is thick,
and he's nearly tripping over his own feet to get away from it. "I can give it a shot."

Richie watches him leave. A sudden exhaustion sweeps over him, and he turns back to the
stove, pushing at bacon he doesn't want to eat. Beverly starts talking quietly behind him, but
Stan is unresponsive.

I did the right thing, he thinks. It feels like he's trying to convince himself.

It takes a long time for Mike to get a hold of anybody at all, and in that time Richie eats and
talks. Beverly gets cleaned up and Stan leaves to get air. Eddie walks out soon after to make
sure he's alright.

"Just you and me, Haystack," Richie says, biting into his sandwich. Bacon drops onto his
plate, and he stuffs it back between the bread. He licks the mayonnaise off his fingers. "You
must feel right at home here."

"Ha-ha," Ben says. He moves from the table to the island, and Richie hops on top of the
counter. "Never a shortage of jokes from you. Even now."

Richie takes another bite. "May as well laugh a few times before I die."

Ben watches him eat for a while, and for the first time in his life Richie starts to feel self
conscious. There's mayonnaise all over his chin, and his fingers are a mess of lettuce and
tomato and grease. He swallows, trying to be subtle in his search for a napkin. I was so
hungry, Ben, please stop looking at me like that.

Ben sighs, rubbing his eyes. "I'm sorry for the way I treated you when you picked me up."

Oh. "Is that why you look like you want to steal this?" Richie waves his sandwich. "Old
news, Ben."

There are layers to his pun, and Richie can't help his smile. Especially when Ben deadpans.
"Is that the best I'm gonna get out of you?"

"Of course not. I forgive you," Richie says, serious. "In fact," he sets his sandwich down and
jumps off the counter, walking around it with his arms outstretched. He wiggles his dirty
fingers, "I think we should hug it out."
Ben kicks out of his chair, arm held out. "Get away from me," he says, but he's smiling.

"Ben, we're making up after a fight. We need to hug. I need physical affection."

Ben backs into the wall, and--panicking--grabs a fork from the kitchen table. He brandishes it
at Richie. "Back up, Trashmouth."

Richie laughs. "I didn't even say anything!"

"All of it!" Ben gestures to him with the fork. "Garbage!"

Richie gasps, laying a hand on his chest. He points at Ben as he walks back to the counter.
"I'm gonna follow in Big Bill's footsteps, just you wait. There will be a book about this.
'Richie and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Friend' ."

"That's plagiarism."

He taps his wrist where a watch would be and shakes his head. "Check your calendar,
Haystack."

The screen door opens, and Eddie hops inside. He shuts the door, and Richie shivers,
frowning. "It's freezing outside," Eddie says. He wraps his arms around himself. "Is Mike still
on the phone?"

Ben shrugs. "We've both been in here."

"Is everyone else in the living room?"

"Beats me," Richie says around the last bit of his food. Eddie makes a face when a piece of
lettuce falls out of his mouth. Richie swallows, licking his fingers. "I don't even know where
the living room is."

Eddie looks at Ben. "Do you?"

"I probably couldn't find my room again if you asked me."

Richie slides off the counter, setting his plate in the sink. "Come on. This house can't be that
big."

Eddie points at him. "Wash your hands."

"They're clean, Eds." Richie holds them up, wiggling his fingers.

"They're really not."

One hand washing and a lot of exploring later they find everyone in a sitting room upstairs.
Stan is in a talking mood again, and Richie loses the tension in his shoulders when he sees
him laugh. In fact, the three of them look like they're in a pretty good mood.

"What did Bill say?" Eddie asks, rushing in around Richie.

Beverly laughs, and Mike smiles. "He said he doesn't have the kind of money necessary for a
plane ticket, but he could probably scrounge up enough for a cruise ship."

"So he hasn't dropped out of college to write books yet?" Richie asks.

The room breaks up, and Beverly slaps his arm when he sits down. "Leave him alone," she
says, but the laughter drowns it out.

"So how long are we gonna be waiting for him?" Ben asks.

Mike shrugs. "He said it'll take about three and a half days to get here, and then someone has
to go pick him up in New York."

"Should've bought the plane ticket," Richie mumbles.

"What are we gonna do for three days?" Stan asks.

"You could always help around the farm," Mike says.

Beverly gasps. "Really?" She's grinning when Richie looks at her. "I saw the cows this
morning. They're so cute."

Richie leans back in his chair, letting the conversation unfold around him. They have three
days to be lazy. No plans, all of them together. It sounds unreal. Like he's gone back in time
to the very beginning and can just relax with his friends.

He looks at each of their faces, breathing it in. Once Bill is back, all of them will finally be
together again. No catch. Just for this.

They avoid Mike's parents most of the day. His father is outside working, and his mother
meanders around the house, but they're both kind and cordial. Richie can see where Mike
gets his warmth.

"Isn't that bed too small for you?" Beverly asks when they start splitting up for the night.

"Here," Mike says, pushing a thick comforter into Richie's arms. "That should keep you both
warm."

"My feet hang over the edge," Richie says, bundling the blanket up in his arms.

Mike walks away to his own room, and Beverly watches him until he closes the door. "Both?
I thought Eddie was sleeping on the couch."

"We're saving space for Bill."

"Already?" she asks. "He won't be here for three days."

Richie shrugs, shifting the blanket around in his grip again. "We didn't know that last night."
"Richie," Eddie says, opening the door to their room, "it's freezing." He looks between them
both. His hair is dripping from the shower. "What are you two doing?"

"Bev is trying to kick you out of our room and make you sleep on the couch downstairs."

He looks offended. "It's so cold."

Beverly clicks her tongue, deadpanning. "That is not what we're talking about."

"Oh. Then what--" Eddie cuts himself off, spotting the comforter in Richie's hands. "Gimme
that." He hefts the comforter from Richie and disappears behind the door.

He's so cute, Richie thinks, listening to him shuffle across the floor. The bed creaks. "I guess
he didn't actually--" Richie stops himself, smile fading when he sees the look on Beverly's
face. "What?"

Her expression is drawn, strained. She pinches her lips, and Richie steps forward, arms out to
comfort. She looks like she's a hair away from crying. "He was married, Richie," she
whispers. "And he died. Doesn't that bother you?"

"No," Richie says with a hint of laughter, shaking his head. He's smiling, but it's confused,
nervous. "I mean, yeah the dying, but it doesn't matter now."

Her lip wobbles, and Richie stops smiling. He drops his arms, curling his fingers into his
palms, and tries to stay calm. These questions are never asked without reason. "Why."

"Richie, I--" She stops and folds her arms tight around her. "I'm not supposed to be telling
you this," she whispers.

It hits him then. The chills. His chest is like a void suddenly, empty and cold, and he wishes
he had gone into the room with Eddie.

"What happened," he asks, deceptively soft. It's the quietest he's ever whispered in his life.

"What are you gonna do when everything is fixed?" she asks, just as quiet.

"Fixed?" he hisses, scoffing. He can't help the bitter smile that fixes itself back on his face.
"It's fine the way it is. Nothing needs fixing."

"Richie," Beverly steps closer to him, "Mike said It hasn't shown up the whole time he's been
here. There aren't any records of it. Anywhere. No one is dying."

"Then what is the problem."

"Someone has to kill It," she says. Her eyes are watery, but the more he starts to break the
more she looks like she's set herself, "It's not dead. We have to go back there. Or," she shrugs,
but it's weak, "we could try to draw It here."

"'Or'," Richie repeats. He looks down at his feet, shaking his head. Beverly is staring when he
looks back up. "Are you gonna ask Stan and Eddie to kill themselves so you guys can feel
like heroes?"

"This isn't about feeling like a hero, Richie, people are dying!"

"You don't know that!"

She purses her lips, fisting her hands at her sides. Richie wants to cry and get mad and laugh
all at once, but all he can manage is a weak smile. It wasn't Beverly's singular decision, and
taking it out on her isn't fair. He shakes his head again, trying to fight his wobbling lip. "This
isn't an 'or' kind of situation, Bev."

Richie takes a hold of the door handle, and Beverly grabs his arm. "Don't tell him," she
whispers.

"Why wasn't that the first option?" he asks, looking back at her.

She lets go of him. "We didn't want anyone to get their hopes up. It wants to kill us more than
anything. We figured the likelier chance was that It would drag us back over there because
we're already down two and Mike's in the hospital."

"It's almost dead there, too."

"We're a lot stronger here than we are there," she says. She takes a step back, and a beat
passes between them. "We'll try."

She turns and walks down the hall, disappearing into her room. Richie opens the door to his
own room, feeling a weight pressing down on his shoulders. He was hardly tired before, and
now it seems like he's been awake for days. Third time’s the charm, he thinks, but there's no
humor in it.

Eddie is standing in the middle of the room when Richie gets inside, and he closes the door
quietly. "Thought you were cold, Eds," he says, clearing his expression up into something
more welcoming. "What are you doing standing in the middle of the room?"

Eddie frowns. "What were you two talking about?"

Richie grins. "We were--"

"Don't lie to me, Richie," Eddie says, soft.

Richie looks at him, arms folded to ward off the chill, standing only a few feet away, hair
mussed on one side from the pillow, lamplight a warm glow on his skin. A vision. They were
going to ask you to die and you don't even know it.

He pushes his fingers up under his glasses, rubbing his eyes. "It wasn't a lie," he says. His
fingers come away damp, and he rubs at his eyes again, biting his lip.

Eddie pads across the hardwood floor. He takes Richie's hands in his, pulling them away
from his face. "What's wrong?" he asks, squeezing Richie's hands. "Did Bev do this?" He
sounds disbelieving.
Richie shakes his head, and that's not a lie, either, but it feels like one he has to convince
himself of. It was a group decision, a group effort, that Richie is feeling the effects of. "I don't
wanna talk about it."

"OK," Eddie says. He looks like he wants to say something else, but he looks Richie over
again and nods. He stands on his toes and kisses Richie's cheek. "Come to bed."

Richie follows him to the bed, and Eddie slips under the covers, rolling up against the wall
and holding his arms out.

"You big enough to spoon me, Eds?" Richie asks, cracking a weak smile.

"You know I'm not." Eddie pats the bed, and Richie sits down. "You wanna be spooned?"

Richie nods, laying down. Eddie curls up behind him, wrapping an arm around Richie's
midsection. "It's like a teaspoon and a tablespoon," he says. Eddie taps his stomach, but
doesn't say anything. "What if I roll over in the middle of the night? Afraid I'll crush you?"

"I've slept with bigger people," Eddie says. The sound is muffled.

Richie remembers what Beverly said only minutes ago, and he rests his hand over Eddie's.
"You never really told anyone about your wife."

Eddie stiffens, and then relaxes. "There's not much to tell."

"People only say that when there's a lot to tell."

"Just," Eddie pauses, "imagine my mom." It seems to take an unimaginable amount of effort
to say.

Richie makes a face, and he's glad Eddie can't see him. "You could do so much better than
her."

"Obviously my standards aren't very high," Eddie quips, squeezing Richie's fingers. "It's in
the past."

"But still--"

"Rich," Eddie says. He waits until Richie relaxes again to talk. "Get some sleep. We can talk
about it later."

Richie nods, and Eddie pulls them closer together. He's warm, breath soft against Richie's
back, skin smooth under Richie's fingers. He stretches, and Richie smiles, large and
unfettered, when he feels Eddie's toes barely skim his heel. I won't let anyone hurt you.

He turns out the light.

#31.) Eddie

Three days is a long time to spend waiting. Eddie is reluctant to help out in the barn, but with
little else to do, he follows everyone else outside, hands tucked safely inside his pockets.
Where they will stay.

Mike's father is pointing most of them around, and Mike himself is helping when people need
it. Ben is moving hay, Beverly is feeding the cows, Stan is feeding the chickens, and Richie is
being a general nuisance. Eddie walks over to Stan when he sees Richie leaning into his open
stall.

"--back to your stall," Stan says. He has a chicken in his arms.

"I already fed the goats," Richie says, bending to pet another chicken. It flaps wildly and
skitters away from him. "I don't think they like me."

Stan nods his head in the direction of another stall. "Go over there and take care of the ass."

"Two peas in a pod," Richie says.

"How long are you guys planning on staying in here?" Eddie asks, pressing himself up
against Richie when he gets close enough. He's giving off enough heat for Eddie to feel it
through his coat. He's probably the only person comfortable out here.

"Until all the chores are done." Richie looks around.

"I don't think it'll take much longer, Eddie," Stan says. "You probably could've stayed inside."

Eddie grumbles, and Richie throws an arm around his shoulder, leaning in to his ear. "Check
this out," he says in a stage whisper. "Stan's holding onto the only chick he's ever gotten his
hands on."

Stan deadpans, and, after a moment, pulls the chicken closer to his chin. He leans down to it.
It pecks at his collar. "Cheep-cheep, Richie."

Eddie laughs, boisterous. He walks out from under Richie's arm, navigating the dimly lit barn
to get to Mike. "Mikey," he says, shuffling close. "What're you doing?"

Mike sets his hands on his hips, eyes following everyone's work. He watches one of the barn
cats trot across the loft above them. "Trying to teach city kids to sweep."

Eddie laughs, looking around at the poorly swept floor. There's hay everywhere, sticking to
things Eddie doesn't want to know about. He backs up when one of the cows pushes its head
over the gate.

"Pet it," Mike says. Eddie must be making a face, because Mike smiles, walking up to the
gate. "When's the last time you pet a cow, Eddie?"

Never, Eddie thinks, pursing his lips. All farm animals are dirty. Nothing he should be going
near, least of all touching. A lesson beaten into him since childhood. He's never had an
animal, and neither has any of the other Losers. The only domestic animals Eddie can
remember touching are the tons of cats his aunts had. "Mike, this is the first time I've been on
a farm."

"Just give it a go," Mike says. He reaches out and strokes down the cows forehead. It chuffs,
licking the inside of its nose. "She's like a really big dog."

The anxiety is nearly crippling, but the look on Mike's face is hopeful and patient and Eddie
can't tell him no. He reaches out, fingers shaking, and strokes down its forehead like Mike
did. He feels the dirt and mud on his skin like a glove, and a shiver wracks up his spine.

She's cute, he thinks, looking into her huge eyes. He scratches the side of her face. This isn't
so bad.

She tilts her head up suddenly, licking Eddie's hand, and he gags, lurching away. Mike
laughs, bending at the waist. "I'm leaving," Edding says, darting around animals and farm
equipment.

"You didn't even do anything!" Ben says, and he's laughing too.

Eddie washes his hands until the feeling of saliva is gone, and hides out in the house with
Mike's mother until everyone else comes back inside. Household chores are something he's
capable of performing.

It wasn't that bad, he finally convinces himself later. He could probably live with an animal.
Something small. He likes cats well enough.

I need to get over this, he thinks, looking at his fingers, red and raw from the heat of the
water. Another gift from his mother. One he's been unwilling to give up. Compromise.

They play board games when everyone is done, and everyone eventually breaks up into
smaller groups. Stan and Mike get to talking again, and Beverly and Ben end up half on top
of each other doing nothing more than telling stories.

Richie leans across the table, cards held close to his chest, and Eddie tilts his cards closer to
himself. "I heard Mike's parents rowing with him about Bev being in a house with us." He
looks down at the cards on the table between them and sets one down from his hand.

"Are you really gossiping right now?" Eddie asks, laying down a card of his own. He wants it
to sound serious, but the warm atmosphere and relaxed day they've spent ambling around the
farm has him in a good mood.

"I am so bored."

Eddie looks at the grandfather clock across the room. They've eaten, and things are winding
down, but it's still a ways away from night. The sun is setting when Eddie looks out the
window. He looks down at table again, watching Richie flick through his cards with such
long fingers--
He has an idea then, and he purses his lips, suddenly impatient. There's no better time. Two
more days to themselves, so why not--

"Eds," Richie says, and Eddie looks up at him. "Your move."

Eddie lays a card down, not looking at it, and the side of Richie's mouth curls up in a smile.
"Losing your touch."

Eddie ignores him and collects all the cards, shuffling them. Richie leans back in his chair,
limbs spread out in a lazy heap while he waits.

And wait they do. Mike's parents retire early--it's normal, according to Mike. 'They're getting
old'. Ben and Beverly wait for a while, but eventually get up at the same time, announcing
they're off to bed, too. Richie's attention pivots away from their game of Name That Tune ,
and he gives Eddie a look.

"Goodnight," he says in a chorus with the rest of the room, smiling as the walk out. He looks
back at the record player. "They're not even trying to be subtle."

"Leave them alone," Eddie says, nudging Richie's foot under the table. His attention is half
on the song, but he can't place the melody.

Richie looks back at him, raising his eyebrows, and Eddie deadpans. He hasn't gotten any of
the songs yet, and Richie's already marked out most of his card. He waits a second, and
smiles again when Eddie only stares at him. "Nothing?"

"I hate you."

"Close!" Richie searches for the number on his card and marks it off. "It's Shine On, Harvest
Moon."

Eddie falls back against the couch, listening but not really listening to the next song. Mike
snorts from across the room, leaning on his elbows to see around Richie. "You can't win
against him, Eddie."

"Don’t tell him that!" Richie says, turning around in his chair. "Then he'll stop playing."

Mike says something that Eddie doesn't catch, standing up and walking to the doorway. "I'm
gonna go get ready to bed," he says. He taps the doorframe. "Night."

Eddie and Richie echo him, falling back into their game. Richie wins, leaving Eddie with
nothing on his card. He throws it back into the box, and Richie digs through the Hanlon's
collection of games, trying to find something to pass the time. Eddie's eyes dart to the clock,
watching the hands move. Waiting.

Stan starts nodding off part way through a game of Mystery Date that Richie digs up from the
back of the game cabinet-- Eds, please, we have to-- and stumbles upstairs with a wave and a
mumbled 'goodnight'.
"Come on," Eddie whispers, staring at the door on the board. Richie has a hand fisted against
his mouth. Eddie spins the door handle. "Let's go bowling--!"

There's a boy in casual attire on the other side of the door, and Eddie claps his hands,
grinning. "Yes!"

"No!" Richie covers his face, slouching back in his chair. "James and I were supposed to go
to prom!" he says, valley girl voice high and convincing. Eddie laughs. "Everything was, like,
so perfect, but--"

"Beep-beep, Richie," Eddie says, holding a finger up to his mouth.

"Oh, shit," Richie says, sitting up. He's smiling, too, and he winces when he sees the time.
"We should sleep."

Eddie his original train of thought then, watching Richie pack up the game and put it back in
the cabinet. He looks at the clock, too, and listens to the sounds above them, waiting for the
slightest hint of movement. The creak of a floorboard, a bed. There's nothing.

"You gonna sit down here in the dark by yourself?" Richie asks, hovering in the doorway.

Eddie stands up, following him. "If I said yes?"

"I'd ask you if you wanted one of Mrs. Hanlon's magazines. They're similar to your mom's, I
figured you'd be right at home--"

Eddie gives him a light shove, and he chuckles. Eddie is practically bouncing, and as much as
he tries to convince himself it's energy, excitement, he knows it's probably all nerves.

"--think you should go see the sheep tomorrow," Richie says as they walk into their room. He
has his fingers hooked in the bottom of his shirt, but he stops to look at Eddie. Eddie closes
the door. "The lambs are so cute. They've got them dressed up in little sweaters--"

Eddie reaches up, wrapping his fingers in Richie's collar and tugging him down. I have no
idea what I'm doing, Eddie thinks as he slots their mouths together. Richie is still in the
middle of talking, and their teeth clack.

Richie hums, bending so he doesn't have to be pulled. He backs up, sitting down on the bed,
and drags Eddie into his lap by his belt loops. They fall together again, and it feels odd--
being so close to someone. Face to face, chest to chest. It's only ever been in the dark.

Richie splays his fingers on Eddie's sides, eyes watching his own hands. The lamplight is
throwing shades of amber against his skin, making his hair look lighter than it is, his features
softer. Eddie looks at him and feels warm inside. I wish I knew what you were thinking.

He reaches up, cupping Richie's jaw, and Richie looks up at him, eyes wide and huge behind
his glasses. So blue.

Richie stares at him, and his expression pinches. He looks like he wants to say something, but
he blinks, and it clears away. He leans into Eddie again, and this time their kiss is soft, slow.
"I can't believe I get to have this," he whispers, lips dragging away to kiss over Eddie's jaw.

Eddie sighs, tilting his head into it. He slides his hand around the back of Richie's neck,
entangling his fingers in Richie's hair. What was that? he thinks, pressing them closer
together and closing his eyes, focusing on every place they're touching. "Ditto."

Richie mouths at the skin at the edge of Eddie's collar, fingers squeezing his waist, and Eddie
pushes his hips forward. He gasps, grasping at Richie's shirt and rutting into him before he
can think better of it. Richie smiles against Eddie's neck, humming.

"Fuck me," Eddie whispers.

Richie stops, pulling away to look at him. His eyes are dark, blue swallowed up by black, and
he licks his lips. Eddie watches his mouth, copying the action. He feels his cock stiffen
against Richie’s abdomen.

Richie turns out the light.

#32.) Richie

They shower. Somehow. The shower is a circular shower head hovering over the center of the
bathtub and little more. It's barely big enough for the two of them standing chest to chest, and
the curtain clings to their backs and arms and every bit of skin it can get a hold of.

It doesn't matter. They make it work. Eddie is awake and functioning better than Richie could
ever hope to achieve. Early in the morning and after sex Richie is at the point of collapse, but
Eddie is still thorough, pushing Richie out from under of the stream of water for his own use-
- 'Don't hog it if you're just gonna stand there.'

Richie is mostly blind, but he watches Eddie closely, engrossed by the blur of colors in the
dimly lit bathroom. He reaches out, dropping his hands directly on top of Eddie's head so he
doesn't misjudge his depth perception, and drags his hands down to Eddie's shoulders,
fanning his fingers out.

Eddie makes a noncommittal noise. "I don't know what you're thinking, but I'm not gonna be
a part of it."

"You use my dick and then you're done with me?" Richie asks. He squeezes Eddie's
shoulders, digging his fingers in where he feels knots. "I see how it is."

"No one used your dick," Eddie says. He bats Richie's hands away, hooking his rag on the
edge of the tub. "You're very distracting."

"Can't help myself, Eds. You seen yourself lately? You're a beaut."

Eddie shakes his head, slapping Richie's chest with a fresh rag. "I have. Have you?"
"Yes, I have." He steps under the stream of water, and Eddie backs up, peeking out of the
curtain for the soaps. Richie doesn't know why Eddie put them up. He would've just left them
kicking around by his feet. "It was a delightful experience."

"Beep-beep," Eddie says, handing over a bar of soap and a bottle of shampoo.

Richie juggles them, squirting a dollop of shampoo in his hair. He wants to tell Eddie
seriously--the things he thinks when he sees him, situation be damned--but the words always
get twisted in translation. A giant sap and too afraid of the repercussions to let anyone know.

He drops the soap on the ground, washing himself off methodically.

"I'm leaving that down there," Eddie says, arms folded.

"Adds a little risk."

Richie almost doesn't catch Eddie's quiet scoff of laughter. "Hurry up," he says, reaching up
and scrubbing through Richie's hair.

Richie angles his head down. Eddie's hands stay on his head when he bends to wash his legs.
His feet are dirty from outside, and he wonders how anything got into his socks while he was
working. "Uh, I'd just like to say that we haven't been in here this long because of me."

"And I'm not encouraging subdural hematoma by soap." Eddie is careful pulling his fingers
through the snares in Richie's hair, and rinses it out, scrubbing.

"You're so smart," Richie says, going to kiss Eddie's nose and getting his cheek instead.

"Richie," Eddie lets him go, pushing his hair out of his face, "I made those words up."

Shit. "Uhh," Richie wrings his rag out, hanging it over the side of the tub, "I stand by what I
said." He shrugs.

Eddie laughs and is quick to smother the sound. "I'm joking." He turns the water off, pushing
the curtain aside.

Richie watches him get out and smiles. Fond. I'm so smitten, he thinks, and it's like bellows
on a fire in his chest.

He slips on the soap getting out of the tub.

The next day is spent much like the last. Eddie is still wary following them outside into the
barn, hands in his pockets and limbs tucked up against his body. Richie watches him flit
between all the Losers, peeking into different pens, holding light conversation while people
work.

Beverly is staring at him when he looks away, and she jerks her gaze down to her hands. He
watches her for a moment, and then turns his attention to the goat nibbling at the hem of his
jacket. He wonders, then, if everyone standing around him is privy to their secret. If Stan is in
the dark. Knowing Eddie is.
He fills up the feed like he's been shown, checking the water. After that t's like stepping on
eggshells without anyone knowing they're there, and he has to force a facade. The other
Losers give him odd looks when he makes a strained joke or remark, but every time he slips
back into his natural state of ease he catches Beverly struggling for a smile, and it's like cold
water over his head.

Richie leaves the stall when another goat gives his pants a taste, and veers off his path to the
others to lean against the Hanlon's tractor. They'll have to talk about it--all of them. He wants
things to be good between him and Beverly again. Standing and staring at each other from
across the room because they're both reeling is doing nothing.

"Mike?" Eddie calls. He's standing by the barn door, staring through to the road. "Who is
that?"

Everyone stops, curious, but Mike walks toward him briskly. Eddie moves out of his way. It
only takes him a moment before he's pushing Eddie away from the opening. "Stay in here,"
he says, disappearing.

Eddie turns around, looking at Richie, and he can do nothing but shrug in response. Ben
drops a bale of hay on the floor of the barn and sits on it, waiting. They all migrate toward
him.

"You think that's what the gun was for the other night?" Stan asks, when they're all standing
in a circle.

"Sure wasn't the police," Eddie says.

"I forgot how things could be around here," Ben says. Beverly sits next to him, still staring at
the door.

Richie is watching the road, the car that's pulled up and stopped in the middle of the street.
This isn't a Derry he's familiar with. He can't pick faces out of memories he doesn't have. "I
doubt Mike has."

The front door of the house swings open, and a second later they hear Mike's father shouting
obscenities. Mike walks down the drive, and in the dull grey of the afternoon Richie catches
the glint off the shotgun.

The car drags in the dirt and then shoots off down the road. Mike swivels on his heel, stalking
toward them. He pushes the barn doors open, and Richie crosses his arms, stepping closer to
Stan to ward off the sudden chill. Beverly curses, burrowing into Ben's side.

"Move your car into the barn, Eddie," he says, brusque. Eddie nods and trots off. Mike looks
at them. "Are you guys done in here?"

Ben shrugs. "More or less."

Mike nods with his head. He steps outside, and the way he holds the gun makes him look like
an escort. "Head inside."
"Is everything OK?" Stan asks.

They start heading back in a group, but stop when they see Mike is waiting for Eddie. "About
as good as it's gonna get," he says. He turns to peek around the house when he hears Eddie's
car start. "I don't want you getting seen. Just in case."

He waves them inside, and they get cleaned up, regrouping in the living room. Eddie shuffles
in a few minutes later, and he looks unsettled, arms folded and eyes locked on the doorway.
Mike and his parents are arguing in the kitchen, but their words are no more than a hiss.

"Eds," Richie says. He pats the couch cushion next to him. "Come here before you wear a
hole into the carpet."

Eddie narrows his eyes. "I'm not even moving."

"You looked like you wanted to."

He sighs, unfolding his arms and sitting down. They're all sitting in a circle around the coffee
table, and a game of monopoly is spread out between them. They're barely playing.

Eddie worries his lip. He watches them all play for a few minutes before the quiet finally gets
to him. "Do you think they're gonna kick us out?"

"It doesn't matter if they do," Stan says, taking money from Ben. "No cheap motel is gonna
turn away business."

"Yeah it might from a felon," Ben says.

Richie smiles. "Running out of blind jokes?"

"It's always nice to have new material."

"You're gonna be the first one that cries when I'm behind bars, Haystack. I'm calling it now."

"You heard it here first, folks," Stan says, counting his money as he evens the stacks out.
"Richard Tozier is gonna do the time and wipe the slate clean."

The laughter of the group breaks the tension in the room. Richie smiles, somewhat nervous.
"Guys, I don't actually wanna go to jail."

That really gets them going, and Richie taps his leg, waiting it out. They'd get me out, he
thinks.

Mike comes in later, looking exhausted. He speaks, but it's sparse, and mostly listens or
watches their game. Beverly wins, but it’s a long, drawn out fight against Eddie, who’s taken
Richie’s piece and run with it. He gambles his money away far better than Richie could ever
hope to.

It cuts through the tension, but lying in bed, feeling Eddie shifting and picking at the sheets
and plucking at his clothes, Richie knows it’s a far cry from wishing it away. He rolls over,
hooking his arm around Eddie’s midsection. “What--”

“ I’m worried,” Eddie whispers, sudden enough to catch Richie off guard. “About a lot of
things, I know, and I’m gonna be so glad when Bill gets here because right now I feel like
we’re just a body without a head, but--”

“ What part am I?”

Eddie sighs. “What part do you want to be?”

“ I’m not sure. I’ll get back to you.”

Richie squeezes his stomach a bit, and Eddie folds their hands together. “I’m worried about
Mike. Five extra people just showed up at his house asking for-- refuge, and now he has to
deal with the extra stress of his parents on top of that? And who were those people?”

“ I couldn’t tell you, Eds.” But he could definitely take an educated guess. Mike’s told them
about his time in Derry, and Richie knows enough to say that it’s never been good to the
Hanlon’s. Least of all if the Bower’s are still living next door.

Eddie doesn’t say much else. Richie mumbles a sweet nothing or two, hoping his presence
can do more than his words. He doesn’t know enough about the situation to be a comfort.

“ Do you really think everything’s gonna be OK?” Eddie asks sometime later.

Richie is mostly asleep, and he jolts awake. He takes a second to process Eddie’s words.
“Everything always turns out OK in the end for us.”

It takes a long few minutes for the meaning to sink in--that things don’t always turn out well
for everyone involved--but by the time he realizes it Eddie is already asleep, and the words
don’t come.

#33.) Eddie

They’re out in the barn again as soon as everyone is awake. Eddie flits between the Losers,
watching them clean up and deal with their respective animals while trying to offer
conversation.

He eventually finds himself taking up Richie on his suggestion, standing off to the side of the
barn to stay out of everyone’s way. He’s leaning halfway inside the sheep pen, arms dangling
inside, watching them watch him. They’re laying in a circle in the middle, far from his hands.
I can’t reach them unless I go in.

But he doesn’t want to go in. Ben had cleaned earlier, but it doesn’t mean much when a thick
layer of straw is masking everything else. Eddie leans his head against his shoulder, wiggling
his fingers. They look away.
“Having fun?” Mike asks.

Eddie jumps, standing up straight and tucking his arms up close against him. Mike has faint
bags under his eyes, but he looks better--he’s smiling. Some of the tension in Eddie’s
shoulders drains away. He smiles back. “You could say that.”

Mike unlatches the pen enough to step inside and pulls it closed behind him. He picks up one
of the lambs, and Eddie watches him carefully, trying to see how he handles it. “Here,” he
says, stepping up to the gate.

“No, no, no, I’m good,” Eddie says, but when he holds out his hands to ward Mike off he sets
the lamb in Eddie’s outstretched arms.

He fumbles, and the lamb kicks in his unsteady grip-- I’m going to drop the first animal I’ve
held that doesn’t land on its feet-- but he manages to steady himself. The lamb bleats, quiet in
the chatter of the barn.

It’s a knobby little thing, fuzzy and wrapped up in a sweater to keep out the cold. It’s cute,
Eddie thinks, petting it carefully. It leans its weight against him, looking around.

Mike is smiling at him when he looks up, and Eddie feels sheepish, but he smiles again
anyway. It’s not so bad. It’s not licking him or chewing on his clothes. We could get
something small.

They put the lamb up when everyone starts cleaning up. It’s turning into a routine. Wake up,
work in the barn, take turns washing up in the bathroom afterwards.

“Hey,” Ben mutters, bending over into Eddie’s space. “Does this look OK?”

They’re standing in the kitchen, all spread out in a line at the island. Richie and Stan are
hissing at each other--sometimes helpful, sometimes irritated when Richie tries to play
swords with their knives. Mike is standing on the other side of them both, blocking them
from Jessica and trying to offer what little help he can to Beverly.

Eddie looks over at the noodles Ben’s cut out of his dough. He purses his lips. “I think you
should let someone else do it.”

He carries his own noodles over to Jessica’s chopping block, and she thanks him, setting
them out carefully. As much as Mike’s parents are nervous having them all under one roof,
especially with him and Richie in trouble with the law, Eddie thinks it’s easier to like them
when they’re all working.

It’s a long wait for the noodles, but Mike insists they’re better homemade, and Eddie believes
him. Jessica’s cooking hasn’t let them down yet.

Mike slaps a deck of cards on the living room table when they’re done cleaning the kitchen,
and Richie immediately sits down, rubbing his hands together. “What are we using?”

“Peanuts.”
“Yeah, I’m in,” Ben says, sitting down.

Stan shakes his head, but he’s smiling. “I’ll--”

“Will?” Jessica calls. She sounds a hair away from nervous, barely keeping it together. They
all stop talking and watch Will stand up from the chair across the room, hurrying down the
hall.

It’s quiet while they try to listen in, but they can’t hear anything from rooms away. Richie
shifts, uncomfortable, and Eddie looks at him, knowing he wants to say something but not
knowing if he should. “Should we--”

Will’s footsteps hurry back to the living room, and Richie cuts himself off. “Upstairs,” Will
says, stopping in the doorway. “You five, upstairs. Hide. Don’t make any noise.”

There’s a moment of complete still while the words sink in, and then everyone is rushing out
of the room and up the stairs in a messy line. They split to their respective rooms, closing the
doors.

Richie hovers by the door, hand pressed to the wood. The silence in the house is unnatural,
and Eddie is afraid to move. It feels like every floorboard will creak if he tries.

“Richie,” he hisses, toeing toward the wall where the floor is sturdy.

“Wait,” Richie whispers, pressing his ear to the door.

Eddie fists his hands at his sides, chest fluttery and tight. “This isn’t a game!”

Richie glances at him. “I want to know who’s down there.”

Eddie can’t deny that he wants to know, too, but he’s not sure if he wants to know enough to
risk getting caught. Who would catch me? he wonders. Will hadn’t said anything about why
they were hiding.

He’s cautious moving to the door, and he mirrors Richie’s position when he gets there.

There’s no sound for a long time. Eddie wonders if they just won’t hear anything at all
because of their position in the house, but after what feels like forever the sound of heavy
footsteps echos up the hall. He toys with the hem of his shirt, anticipation rolling around in
his stomach.

The voice is deep, gruff, and most of the words get lost bouncing around the walls, but the
tone sounds cordial. Eddie can hear Will talking, sometimes Jessica, and they don’t seem
very offput.

Richie sets his hand on the doorknob, and Eddie grabs his wrist. “What are you doing?” he
whispers.

“Just gonna crack the door a little.”

He turns the knob, careful not to let it click, and opens the door a few inches. The sound
changes dramatically. Richie looks at him again, and Eddie squeezes his wrist.

“--know how those kids are,” a man says. “Parents can’t raise ‘em right.”

Will hums in acknowledgement. There’s no other sound, and Eddie finds himself holding his
breath. His heartbeat is in his ears, drowning out everything else.

There’s a creak of floorboards, the shuffle of weight. “I know those boys ain’t here, William,”
the man says, voice subdued, serious. “No kid in his right mind would run back to Derry.
There’s nowhere to hide. Too many eyes.”

“Dumbass,” Richie whispers, trying to peek down over the banister.

“Well,” the man says, loud. It’s a parting tone, and relief is warring with the nerves bearing
down on Eddie’s lungs, “I know you’re a busy man, and I’ll leave you to it.”

His footsteps fade, and he says something else that the front door swallows up.

The relief is almost enough to knock him to the floor. We have to fix this, he thinks, following
Richie’s tentative footsteps into the hallway. We can’t keep letting everyone stick their necks
out for us.

Will calls them down once the driveway is empty, but the jovial air is gone, and they eat in
silence.

#34.) Richie

What little routine they have is wracked with nerves the next day, and no one stays outside to
play with the animals. It’s all work, and Will stands on the porch, acting as a lookout. I need
to fix things, Richie thinks, taking in the muted air and unsettled expressions.

But he can’t. Not on his own. He needs Eddie there to do the sweet talking, the convincing. ‘I
was not kidnapped’ sounds a lot more believable than, ‘I did not kidnap’. Sonia is going to be
a problem, he thinks, pushing the salt back and forth on the table. If she’ll throw me under the
bus once she’ll do it again.

“You OK?” Eddie asks. He sits across from Richie and smiles at him. It’s timid. “You look
gloomy.”

Richie takes a second to think, and Eddie nudges their feet together. Richie smiles. “We could
stay on the run forever, you know. Just you and me.”

“Ahh.” Eddie leans back in his seat, and really smiles, big and wry. “That’s what this is
about.”
Richie sits his cheek in his palm, expression fading to something fond. He sits, using the
moment to take Eddie in. Exhausted and pale and stretched a hair too thin, but still bright
eyed and happy. “Rob banks,” he says. “Ditch the crimson crone, get--”

Eddie laughs. “Are you talking about my car?” He kicks Richie. “I like my station wagon!”

“You won’t when the police catch up to it.” He leans back, mirroring Eddie. “We need
something fast.”

“Richie,” Eddie says. He knocks their feet together again, and Richie copies him. “It’s not
gonna be so bad. We’re just gonna go talk to them, sort this mess out, and then--” He makes a
gesture with his hand, pursing his lips. “Go deal with my ma I guess. Well, you don’t have to
be there for that part, but--”

“But I will.”

Eddie stops, staring at him. He looks sheepish, but hopeful. “OK.”

“If not just to see the look on her face.”

“Richie.”

“What?” He reaches across the table, taking both of Eddie’s hands and shaking them back
and forth. “She’s trying to throw me in jail, I think I’ve earned the satisfaction. But,” he says,
intertwining their fingers, “I know she’s really gonna flip her lid when she finds out her son’s
been mackin’ on ol’ Trashmouth Tozier.”

“ You came on to me .”

“Yes, but she can’t know that. She’ll try to call the cops again.”

“ It’ll be fine,” Eddie says. He turns Richie’s hand over, kissing his palm. Richie’s face goes
hot. “Because after that we’ll be stealing a car and robbing a bank.”

Richie grins, giddy and light, and Eddie smothers his smile in Richie’s hand. Perfect, perfect,
perfect.

Eddie looks over Richie’s shoulder, eyes going wide. He jerks his hands away from Richie’s,
sitting up straight and pulling his feet away from where they had been nudging at Richie’s.
His face is waxen.

Ben and Stan are standing in the doorway when Richie turns around, and he clenches his fist
on the table. Waiting. The two of them stare--Ben with shock written all over his face and
Stan with blank eyes.

“ So,” Stan says. He looks at Eddie. “What’s it like? Dating Richard Tozier? Is he as good in
bed as he says, or is it all just talk? Like everything else.”

Richie breathes a sigh. Stan, you are indeed The Man. He smiles, turning in his chair. “Stan
gets off a good one! You call my skills in the bedroom into question an awful lot. Would you
like a demonstration?”

“ In your dreams.”

“ How did you know?”

Ben is still speechless, and he gestures at Stan, shocked. “What?” Stan asks.

“ Did you know?”

“ I shared a bed with them. Richie can’t whisper to save his life.” He looks back at them. “We
wanted to let you know we’re leaving. Mike is driving us to pick up Bill.”

“ All four of you?” Eddie asks. He’s flushed down to his neck.

“ Yeah. We’ll be back by tonight.”

Ben waves, following Stan out, and Richie turns back around in his seat. Eddie has his hand
pushed up into his bangs. “I’m gonna have a heart attack one of these days.”

Richie stands up, walking around to Eddie’s side of the table and sitting on the corner. “When
were you planning on telling them? The altar?”

Eddie looks up at him, shocked. “We can’t get married,” he says, a whisper. He looks around
Richie to the doorway.

“ Too soon?”

“ Illegal.”

“ So is robbing a bank, but you promised me--”

“ I did not promise to rob a bank!” Eddie says, half laughter. He stands up, pointing at Richie.

“You took an oath. We shook hands.”

“ Fine.” Eddie leans into Richie’s space, and Richie sets his hands on Eddie’s hips, slipping
his thumbs under his belt. “If you have the nerve to rob a bank, we will.”

“ Great--!”

“ But we have to do it in my car.”

Richie groans. “Eds, c’mon--”

“ What did you say the other day?” Eddie pretends to think. “‘Adds a little risk’.”

Eddie pushes at Richie’s hands while he’s still floundering for a response. “Let’s go find
something to do. They’re gonna be gone a while.”
And they are. It’s a fourteen hour drive, there and back, and that’s only to say if Bill is there
waiting when they first arrive. They’re going to get back in the middle of the night.

Richie and Eddie manage to pass the time. It’s slow going, and mostly boring, but they do.
Playing games and watching TV and talking and dozing off. It’s not bad. Domestic.

The backfire of a car wakes him later, and he jerks. The room is a blur, and he blinks, trying
to make sense of his surroundings. He’s laying in Eddie’s lap, legs dangling over the end of
the loveseat, arm over the back. The TV is still running, but it’s almost entirely static now.

Eddie shifts. “Are they here?” he asks, voice groggy.

“ I think so.” Richie sits up, pushing his hair away from his face. Eddie hands him his
glasses. “Thanks.”

The room looks darker, but Richie knows they had already fallen asleep after sunset. He
looks at the clock. Midnight. He wonders briefly if anyone turned a lamp off, but everything
is still on when he looks around. Just disoriented.

“ Come on,” Richie says, vaulting up. He turns around, slowly dragging Eddie to his feet.
“Lets help Bill with his bags.”

“ Bill can get his own damn bags,” Eddie says, but he starts off toward the front door.

Richie follows behind him, looking through the windows to get a glimpse of the truck. He
sees the fatigued bustle of people and smiles.

Eddie tosses on his coat, wrapping himself up to peek through the front door. Mike walks in a
few seconds later, and he stops, looking between them apprehensively. “He’s kind of in a bad
mood.”

“ Can you blame him?” Eddie asks.

Richie opens the door, watching Bill haul his bags up the stoop. “Ah say, ah say, boy,” he
says, nudging Eddie. Bill drops his bags on the porch, “is that William Denborough--!”

Pain explodes in the side of his face, familiar in distant sort of way. Richie is knocked back
onto the floor, and he shields his face instinctively when he feels weight drop onto his
stomach.

“ Bill!”

“ Bill, stop!”

Bill? Richie thinks in the cacophony of voices. There’s another blow to his arm, and then Bill
is being dragged off him, kicking and snapping.

“ What the hell is your problem?!” Mike asks. His voice is the only clear thing Richie can
hear.
He shoves himself up on his elbows, blinking and pushing his glasses back up, but he pulls
them off when he sees one of the lenses is broken. The frame is snapped. He puts them back
on anyway, hoping they’ll stay, and ignores the bloody fingerprints he leaves on the glass.
His nose is a mess.

“ Are you fucking kidding me?” Richie asks.

Bill ignores him. “I can’t believe you. I cannot fucking believe you,” he spits. “We were so
close, and you just couldn’t help yourself. You are so fucking selfish.”

For a second it’s true. A thought Richie’s been struggling with for days-- I am selfish. I
fucked up. This is my fault-- but he tamps it down firmly. He pulls himself to his feet, and the
world tilts curiously before he straightens again. “How is that selfish?! Because I took the
risk and brought everyone back together? Because I gave us a second chance to do things the
right way?!”

“Because you couldn’t live with their deaths!” Bill kicks out at him, and Mike jerks him
back. “That’s your problem, Richie! You can’t live with your own loneliness!”

It strikes a very real and very vivid fear in Richie’s heart. He clenches his jaw, fisting his
hands at his sides. Going for the throat, I see.

Everyone is staring at him, and Richie sees a lot of different expressions. Shock, denial,
anger. Fear. There’s a line drawn on the ground that Richie can’t see, and he’s alone on one
side.

“I take it Georgie isn’t well.”

Something lights behind Bill’s eyes, and he swings at Richie so hard he pulls himself out of
Mike’s grip. Richie stumbles back to avoid it. “Don’t you dare.”

“Why? Would you rather I sit here and let you wail on me?”

“Is that it, then?” Bill asks. “Is that how this is gonna go? I fuck up, and then you fuck up,
and we do it all again? You traded the lives of three people for hundreds. How does that make
you feel?”

He intends for it to hurt, and Richie knows that, can see it in the look he gives Richie. That is
the end of this conversation. But if there’s one thing Richie’s bad at, it’s giving other people
the last word.

He looks at Stan and Eddie, both ashen under the fluorescent lights, and nods at Bill. “Pretty
fucking good.”

Bill snarls something at him, but Richie ignores it, walking upstairs to his room. It’s far later
than he expected to be up, but he knows he would’ve stayed up late if Bill had wanted to
catch up with everyone.

He probably does want to, Richie thinks, swiping some toilet paper to wipe his face up with.
He stuffs the rest up into his nose, and winces at the pain. Just not with me.
Eddie comes in a few minutes later when Richie is already laying down in bed. He closes the
door quietly, walking over to the bed and sitting down on the edge. It takes him a moment to
speak. “You shouldn’t be laying down.”

Richie sits up, shuffling to the edge of the bed beside Eddie. He drops his feet on the floor,
letting his hands dangle between his knees, and hangs his head.

Eddie reaches over, fingers tentative on Richie’s face. “Pinch it--” He clamps his fingers
down on Richie’s nose, and Richie winces. “Here.”

Richie copies him, ignoring the way the pain makes his eyes water. He presses the toilet
paper up against the bottom of his nose.

There’s little for him to say, and he doesn’t know what Eddie wants to hear and what he
already knows. Instead the silence stretches out between them.

“You haven’t been acting like yourself,” Eddie says, as if that explains it all. “This whole
time. I couldn’t figure out why.”

“‘Acting like myself’,” Richie repeats, scoffing. Eddie looks at him. “Eddie, do we even
know each other?”

Eddie pauses. “Well,” he says, “I know no matter where we go you always remember
everything but your razor,” Richie furrows his eyebrows, looking over at him, but Eddie is
listing things on his fingers, “you always try to get someone else to do your dishes unless it’s
someone’s parent, you try to pet every animal we pass, even though you make fun of
everybody else’s dumb quirks you always make sure they’re comfortable, you wear
mismatched socks because it makes Bev mad, I learned tonight you’re very good at keeping
secrets, you value what those five think of you more than anything in the world, you still
won’t share your rocket pop once it gets down to the inside--”

“That’s my favorite part,” Richie says, subdued.

“That’s everyone’s favorite part.”

Richie sighs. “What are you getting at?”

Eddie drops his hands again. “We have time,” he says. “A little of you is the same, and a lot
of you is different. Everyone here is. We’ve all changed.” He gestures to the floor, where
Richie assumes the rest of the Losers are in the living room. “Learning is half the fun.”

Richie smiles at him. It’s weary and small, but Eddie smiles back. “How wise,” Richie says,
leaning into Eddie’s side.

“It’s cuz I’m the oldest,” Eddie says, wrapping his arm around Richie’s back.

Richie sleeps that night curled into Eddie, head on his chest, Eddie’s fingers in his hair and
heartbeat beneath his ear, and knows he doesn’t regret his decision.
Bill finds a place in their routine with ease the next morning, but Richie feels the rift. There’s
a tenderness, a fear to prod. They try to encourage conversation, but Richie’s cut the circle in
half.

He keeps to himself most of the morning. Eddie drifts between people like usual, but his
words are fainter, and he draws himself close to Stan and Richie as the time passes.

Richie hates it. He hates the strain, of pushing everyone to the limit, of ostracizing himself.
Stan and Eddie talk, and all Richie can see if the one thing they have in common, the one
thing he’s forced them to think about. Stan looks at Richie, expression nervous, eyes bruised,
skin pale, and Richie sees relief. He thinks about Bill’s words last night. Selfish. If they thank
me I’ll knock Bill’s teeth down his throat.

But they don’t talk about that. They eat and clean and try to put things off, but eventually
everyone ends up in a circle in the living room. Rather than being a disorganized mess, Bill
naturally gets them into a sense of order. We needed this, Richie thinks, as much as he loathes
to.

“So,” Bill says, looking around the Losers. His gaze lingers on Richie--broken glasses with a
mended frame, black eye. Richie glares, “we already talked about this some last night, but we
need to finish this once and for all.”

Richie glances at Eddie, but Eddie just shrugs. He looks back, folding his hands in front of
him and leaning forward, curious. He hasn’t stuttered once since he got here.

“ Beverly suggested trying to lure It here, rather than going back,” Bill says, eyes flickering
to Eddie and Stan. “Does anybody else have any ideas?”

The circle is silent, and Richie drops his eyes to the floor, rolling his tongue in his mouth. We
don’t have to do anything at all. But for once, he keeps quiet.

“ OK,” Bill draws. It’s like before, when they were younger, sitting around in the Barrens and
waiting to follow Bill to the ends of the earth. None of them know what to do. It’s his plan.
“Any ideas on how we should go about doing this?”

“ I think we should stick with what worked the first time,” Mike says.

There’s a murmur of agreement, and the rest of the Losers start chipping in, offering advice.
The little things, tidbits that they remember from their original childhood. Richie sits quietly,
listening to people talk and wishing for silence.

Eddie reaches out, rubbing his back. “It’s gonna be OK,” he says, soft. He looks a bit shaken,
but otherwise steady.

Richie nods, and tries to believe that’s the truth.

“ OK,” Bill says, sometime later. He holds his hands out, and it cuts off all the talking. “So,
our plan is to get up tomorrow, sneak into the Barrens, trace our steps back down through the
Morlock Hole--Eddie, do you still think you can navigate it?”
Eddie wrings his hands in his lap, hesitating. He purses his lips, and as the seconds pass
Richie sees his eyes tighten, shoulders going taut. He nods his head.

Bill watches him for another few moments, but nods back. “Alright, good. Does everyone--”

A knock on the front door cuts Bill off, and Richie turns around in his seat, trying to see
through the doorway. He knows he won’t be able to catch sight of anything, but he looks
anyway, trying to find Will or Jessica. They’re both sitting at the kitchen table.

Mike stands up, creeping around the couch. He stops in the doorway. You’re blocking the
view, Mikey, Richie thinks. He thinks that might be the point.

Will’s heavy footsteps are the only sound in the house, and then the creak of the front door
opening. A draft blows through. “Officer,” Will says, gruff.

Mike reaches up, gripping the doorframe.

Richie slides out of his seat, and Eddie follows, low to the ground and shuffling. He hopes
the floorboards don’t decide to give away their position.

Where do we go? Richie thinks. If they try to go upstairs they’ll have to walk behind Mike.
We could hide outside until he leaves.

“ I got a call last night,” the man says. Richie thinks he recognizes the voice, but he can’t
place it to a face. He doesn’t know the cops of Derry well enough. “A lot of very worried
mothers.”

“ What does that have to do with me?” Will asks.

Richie sees the rest of the Losers carefully slipping out of their seats, ready to follow him, but
he doesn’t know where to go. It doesn’t help that I can’t see anything, he thinks. Bill waves
them on, making a circular motion. They turn and follow him.

“ Apparently,” the officer says, “these women are under the impression that this boy in the
newspaper has--” he pauses, exasperated, “rounded their kids up. The one who kidnapped
that cripple? Apparently some lady invited them both into her house before she knew about
it, and when she woke up the next morning they were both gone and her son was missing.”

The silence extends on Will’s part as they all wind around the back of the house, trying for
the stairs. “Alright.”

“ Five women calling me, William.” He pauses. “All saying the same damn thing.”

“ Are you gonna tell me, or am I gonna have to wait all night.”

There are footsteps, boots on hardwood, but they stop as soon as they start. “Saying they
were all friends with your son.”

“ Get to the point, Boutillier.”

There’s something off about the atmosphere. Richie can feel the tension in the air, but there’s
something else, alien but familiar. Like they’re moving through a movie, invisible observers.
The only ones without puppet strings.

“ Well,” Boutillier says, “I happened to see something last night on my shift. Pretty late. It
looked like your car, full of missing kids, with your son behind the wheel.”

There is a very long, pregnant pause. Richie feels his chest go tight, and he holds his breath,
fight or flight responses going wild. He wants to step out and give himself up, but part of him
knows he’s not going in without a fight.

Someone in front of Richie steps on a creaky floorboard, and everyone stops.

The kitchen goes silent, and Richie feels the blood drain from his face. He shifts, ready to
turn and run the other way. “Can I take a look around?” Boutillier asks.

William doesn’t say anything, but Richie hears the heavy footfalls walking their way, and he
turns, following Ben back the way they came.

There’s a door down the hallway from the living room that leads out the side of the house,
and they stop by it, fiddling with the lock. Richie curses when it doesn’t open on the first try.
The more time it takes him to fiddle with it, the more he starts to panic, and his hands start
shaking.

“ Move,” Mike hisses, pushing to the front of the line. He pulls at the door, jostling the lock,
but it’s stuck. “Why doesn’t this door ever open.”

“ Nice house you got here,” Boutillier calls. The sound bounces around the hallways so much
Richie doesn’t know where he is.

“ Just go,” Bill hisses, pointing to the front of the house.

Mike hesitates, but starts walking to the front of the house. They follow, quiet as possible,
and Richie can feel his heart pounding in his ears with every step he takes.

They round the corner, and Mike stops. The rest of them slow to a stop, watching him, and
Richie peeks around Ben. He’s trying to calm himself, to slow his breathing to something
silent, but occasionally it feels like he’s choking on his own throat, and he ends up gasping.
I’m so nervous.

Mike slips into the kitchen, and they all start walking again, half hunched over and toeing at
every spot on the floor before they take a step.

Richie glances over to the side and furrows his eyebrows when he sees William and Jessica,
wide eyed and shaking their heads. They look behind him. Jessica mouths something to him,
but it takes him too long to figure it out.

A gun cocks beside him.

‘ Run’.
He’s so close to the door. Mike is halfway outside already, but Richie is nearly last. He turns
around, looking at Boutillier, hiding in the corner.

“ There you are,” he says, pointing the gun.

This isn’t right, Richie thinks. Questioning. That’s what was meant to happen. But there’s
something twisted in Boutillier’s gaze, blank, dark.

He’s on Richie’s blind side, and Richie doesn’t see him pull the trigger until it’s too late.

Something jerks him down, and he drops, thrown off balance. There’s too much happening,
and Richie is caught in the middle of it.

There’s a thump behind him, and an uproar of noise goes up in the air. Richie pushes himself
to his feet when he feels himself being dragged, and the sound of gunfire follows them until
they’re outside.

“Go!” Bill yells, pushing them to the barn, to Mike’s truck.

But Mike is screaming, shrieking, and Ben and Stan are fighting to get him there. “Mom!”
He thrashes in their grips, sobbing. “Let me go!”

Richie watches him, numb. What have I done.

They’re still running to get to the barn, but it doesn’t seem like they’re getting any closer.
Eddie is the one pulling him, Richie realizes when he looks down, and he squeezes his
fingers.

Eddie’s hand slips through his, and he stops.

“ Eddie?” Richie asks, reaching for him. His hand phases through.

“ Richie!” Eddie calls, looking around. He backs up, turning in circles.

No, no, no, Richie thinks, following him. Don’t do this now, please.

There’s a distant sound Richie hears. Of laughter. Happiness. But there’s something layered
underneath it, edgy and restless. He turns, looking at the empty driveway, the clear sky, the
frosted fields, and sees nothing.

He spins back around, and everyone is gone.

(richie)

The voice is right in his ear, but when Richie turns around no one is there. Everything is
empty. The sound is gone. Nothing is moving. He shivers, eyes wide and muscles taut. Seven
years, he thinks, backing up and glancing around. There’s no way I could’ve prepared myself
for this.
He turns again, and It is standing where Eddie had been not moments ago. It waves, playful.
Richie is frozen.

“ So,” It says, “you had a plan!”

It laughs, and laughs, and laughs, and Richie wants to turn and run but he has nowhere to go.

The laughter stops abruptly, smile replaced with a hollow expression and cruel eyes.

“ But we had a deal.”

 Part 5

#35.) Richie

Richie wakes up with a gasp, lurching in bed. He’s covered in a layer of sweat, cool on his
skin and soaking the sheets. He kicks them off, sitting up.

It’s light out--he can tell that much without his glasses--but there’s nothing else familiar about
the room. The bed is big, the blankets feel different, the temperature isn’t right. But somehow
he recognizes it.

Is this…? Richie turns, patting beside him for the night stand, and gets his glasses. He runs
his thumb over the frame. They’re fixed.

He puts them on and stares at his Beverly Hills bedroom.

The bed shifts beside him, and Richie nearly jumps out of his skin. He suddenly becomes
very aware of himself. Where are my clothes.

They’re on the floor beside the bed in what he likes to think is a neat pile but knows is an
absolute mess. Someone else’s clothes are mixed in with them, and Richie has to fight the
chills dragging up and down his spine, the wrongness. When am I?

“ Richie?”

It’s not a voice he’s heard before--more likely one he has but never committed to memory--
but it doesn’t make him feel any better. He pulls the blankets up to his stomach, easing out of
the bed. This is after Sandy.

Thank God for the little things, he thinks, toeing through the clothes pile in search of
underwear. Pants. A dress. He’s not feeling picky.

“ Come back to bed,” the woman says, voice groggy. She pulls herself up on her elbows,
pushing her hair out of her face. “It’s too early.”

“ You go ahead and go back to sleep,” he says quietly. Think of something fast before she
really tries to convince you.

He still has the blankets in his hand, and he bends down to the ground, grabbing the first pair
of underwear he finds.They’re black and lacy. He glances at the pile of clothing in a bid to
find something else, but doesn’t see anything. She starts dragging herself to the edge of the
bed.

“ Are you going somewhere?”

Fuck. He shimmies into them, grabbing his pants. He can change later. “Yeah, I have some
stuff I’ve gotta take care of, so I’m gonna go ahead and start getting ready.”
She glances at his hips when he stands up straight again, raising her eyebrows. “You gonna
wear my bra, too?”

“ I would if it fit,” he says, walking to the door.

It takes him a minute to find the kitchen. He knows it’s his house, but the layout has almost
slipped his mind.

He’s reeling. It feels like just minutes ago he was standing in another kitchen staring down
the barrel of a gun, but now he’s alone. Surrounded by people, by friends-- are they your
friends anymore?-- and now no one.

Richie stops searching for a calendar and drops to lean over the counter, holding his head.

This isn’t a game, Eddie had said. But it feels like one. Richie feels like the world is a
chessboard and he is a pawn.

No, I’m not a pawn, he thinks, scoffing. I’m the king. Watching everyone else die at my feet
because I’m too afraid of my own vulnerability to move.

He stares at the tiled countertop.

Then who is the queen?

Richie glances up at the side of the fridge and sees the calendar, pushed away to the side on a
magnet. 1984.

There’s no use wondering who the strongest player is, because he already knows.

#36.) Richie

He starts packing a suitcase almost immediately. The woman in his bedroom--Diane, he finds
her name is when he glimpses the spilled contents of her purse--cleans up and makes herself
right at home. Richie doesn’t mind. He doesn’t plan on staying long anyway. She can have
the house if she wants.

But she has places to be, too, she says. She cooks herself a quick breakfast with food Richie
doesn’t even know he has, and packs up her things, navigating her way around with ease.

“Keep the underwear,” she says, when he follows her to the door. She’s wearing fresh
clothes, and he has no idea where she’s found them. “Just wash them.”

Richie holds the doorframe, feeling the heat bearing down on him. It’s a sudden shock to his
system. I was just standing in the snow. “Do you need a ride?” he asks.

Diane looks at him, furrowing her eyebrows. It takes another moment, but she smiles. “You
drove my car home last night.”
Richie smiles, but it’s a struggle. There’s no attempt at a facade. He’s trying to piece together
the past and the present. What happened minutes ago? Or decades? He feels achy and sweaty
and like he might be sick because he doesn’t know what any of it means or what it could.

“Slipped my mind,” he says. It’s all he can manage.

Her confusion twists into worry, pursed lips and scrutinizing looks. “Told you you should’ve
stayed in bed,” she says. She sighs and pats his chest, turning on his front step. “I’ll see you
later, Rich.”

“See ya, Diane.”

She throws her hand up over her shoulder before he can close the door all the way. “Put that
suitcase down and take a nap.”

“I’m busy!” he calls after her, watching her disappear into the garage.

“Let me know what Steve says when you get sick!” she calls back.

He huffs a laugh. It’s quiet for a long time, and then a car starts up. He leans on the
doorframe, watching her pull out, and waves when she drives by. She honks.

Richie doesn’t take a nap. He takes a shower and changes his clothes and keeps packing.
There’s not much to be worried about. He only needs enough to get him through a couple
stays at a hotel. A week, maybe?

It feels like he’s reliving a previous life while somehow being in the past of that future. It’s
almost too confusing to think about, sometimes. Is he in the past? Or the future? Or
somewhere completely different?

Richie stops in the middle of calling to get a plane ticket lined up. Am I even where I think I
am?

What if he’s not in his original life at all, but the one he unwittingly created? What if time
was just pushed forward?

But no. Richie knows his house, he knows Beverly Hills, he recognized Diane. Eddie would
be here, he thinks.

“ Rich?”

Carol. He pinches the bridge of his nose under his glasses. There’s no doubt of it. He’s back
where he started, one year before everything happened. What are you playing at?

He books a plane ticket for the earliest time they offer to fly. Now it’s really a brain teaser.
Richie is pushing the limits of what he can remember of where everyone lives, the specifics.
Some are simple--one’s he’s already stopped at days ago--but others are lost on him. Where
exactly does Eddie live? He could be searching for days.

Richie packs his wallet full of money and repacks his suitcase.
#37.) Richie

It isn’t particularly hard locating Eddie.

Richie’s plane touches down in New York and, as he already set up in LA, someone comes to
pick him up. From Eddie’s company.

He slips into the back of the limousine, ignoring the stares and the gawking passersby, and
shuts the door. The window is down between the front seat and the back, and Richie can see
the driver looking back at him in the rearview. “Where to, Mr. Tozier?”

He says Richie’s name wrong, but Richie doesn’t care enough to make light of the situation.
He slides down the seats, leaning halfway through the window. “You know Kaspbrak?”

The chauffeur's eyebrows shoot up. “He owns the company, sir.”

“ Yeah, do you know him?”

He doesn’t get asked this often, Richie thinks, watching the chauffeur’s eyes dart to the side,
as though the people crossing in front of them will give him the answer. “I suppose so, sir.
He’s my boss.”

Richie taps the divider. “Take me to his place.”

It floors him. “I--do you have a complaint you want to put in with one of our drivers--?”

“ Yeah, I have beef with him,” Richie says. “This is the first time I’m doing business with his
company, and I have a lot of people flying in in a few weeks that need transportation. I want
to talk to him about it.”

“ Sir, I can put you in touch with--”

Richie glares into the rearview, and the chauffeur sinks in his seat. “Your boss.”

He pauses, and nods after a few seconds. Richie leans back, and the wall slides up between
them.

You are such an ass, he thinks, rubbing his eyes. It’s odd wearing contacts again, but he’s
trying to manage the facade of Rich “Records” Tozier, rather than running around, tousled
hair and horn rimmed glasses, as Richie “Trashmouth” Tozier.

The chauffeur is having it out with someone on the phone, and Richie leans over his knees,
waiting. He really does feel bad. He was just trying to do his job. But Richie has places to be
and things to do.

Lives to save. He likes to think think that.

The car starts moving a few minutes later, and Richie watches the streets of New York pull
by. People love to stare at a limousine, love to fawn over the rich, love to dream of opulence.
It’s another shock to his system. Richie is strutting in front of the eyes of the world rather
than crawling beneath them.

They pull up in front of a rather nice house, and Richie waves off the driver, paying him and
tipping him heavily. For the heavy handedness, he thinks to himself. So he can sleep easy.

He unloads his things, jogging up the sidewalk. There’s a catch, he thinks, knocking on the
door. He’s landed safe, he’s walked straight up to Eddie’s door. So where is it?

The door unlatches, and Richie stares, breath jerked from his lungs.

Eddie is staring at him, hair greying and eyes worn behind rimless glasses. His fingers are
paused in the action of fixing the cuff of his suit, which he seems to be in the process of
buttoning. He looks old. So, so old.

What did the world do to you.

The world? a voice says in his mind. It sounds a lot like Eddie. Oh no, Richie. This wasn’t the
world. I did this to myself.

“Eddie,” Richie says, tripping over his own feet to get closer.

Eddie backs up, opening the door more to let him in. He looks agitated. “I would prefer Mr.
Kaspbrak,” he corrects. He drops his hand from the cuff of his sleeve, “since you were so
insistent on making this a matter of business.”

Richie steps into the foyer, moving out of the way when Eddie closes the door. He watches
him mill about, eyes locked onto his smaller frame, shocked into stillness. There’s something
unimpressed about the way he moves. Complete unrecognition.

“Did you not stop at a hotel before coming here?” Eddie asks, almost to himself. He gestures
to Richie’s suitcase and the rest of his bags, starting off down the hall. “Make sure to take
your shoes off. Do you need help with those?”

Richie has to jolt himself into comprehension. He shakes his head. “N-no. I’ve got it.”

Eddie looks him over, eyes lingering some before he walks down the hallway. “Sorry I’m so-
-scruffy,” he says, buttoning his suit. He leads them into a dining area, and gestures to the
table. “I wasn’t expecting company.”

It’s barely a business voice. He sounds less than happy, and Richie can’t blame him. He just
showed up on his doorstep, demanding to be seen, acting like a self-entitled child.

Richie sits down at the table. “Eddie,” he says, but he doesn’t know where to go with it.

Eddie stops before sitting down, giving Richie a hard look. “Please,” he says, clipped. He
tacks on a smile. “Mr. Kaspbrak.”
Richie’s chest aches, empty and torn. He doesn’t remember me. He doesn’t know what that
means. Does that mean he still can, or Richie is the only one, lost among a crowd of confused
looks? Remembering in a sea of amnesia? Right back where we started.

He sits his chin in his hand, curling his fingers around to cover his mouth. He feels sick.

Eddie looks at him, and some of the harshness in his gaze disappears. “Do you want
something to drink?” He asks, but he’s already halfway out of the room.

What do I say? he thinks. It took Mike to spur them all into remembering. Is that going to be
his job, now? Rounding everyone up?

Yes, he thinks, because they’re going to kill It and Stan will be there to see it through or
Richie will die trying to get him there.

Eddie walks back into the room with a glass of water and sits it in front of Richie. He places
a bottle of Aspirin next to it.

Richie ignores it. “Eddie,” he says, watching the way Eddie’s eyes roll away from him in
thinly veiled anger, “do you remember anything?”

Eddie walks around to his side of the table. “I’m,” he pauses, shaking his head minutely, “not
sure what you’re referring to. I apologize if I’ve forgotten a meeting we had prior to this one.
Did you call, by chance? Maybe you spoke to--”

“Eddie--”

Eddie stops by his chair, clenching his jaw. “Please, Mr. Tozier. Can we get down to--”

Richie has both hands on the table. Let me talk, Eddie, damn it, why are you so stubborn?
“Eds, It is--”

“Richie!” he snaps.

The tension in the room breaks, pulled too tight, and Richie stares, knowing he’s pushed too
much. Too much? Or just right?

Eddie slaps a hand over his mouth, eyes wide. He backs away from the table. “Excuse me,”
he says, voice small.

He strides out of the room, and Richie stares at the doorway. It’s deathly silent in the house,
no matter how much Richie listens for a sound, for something, for anything. He puts his
elbows on the table and drops his head in his hands.

Did that work? he wonders. There’s a distant sound of shuffling, of a voice, soft. Richie can’t
make out the words.

Either he remembers something or he’s panicking because he yelled. But Richie knows
Eddie, knows the way he works. He wouldn’t have yelled in the first place. He remembers
something.
It’s quiet for another few minutes. Richie pushes his glass back and forth on the table, staring
down the bottle of Aspirin. The tap in the kitchen runs, and Richie stops when he hears
footsteps, looking at the doorway.

Eddie hesitates in the threshold, shaky and pale. Sweat is beaded at his brow. He walks closer
to Richie and takes the Aspirin, popping two in his mouth. Richie watches him, nervous.

“I called you a cab,” Eddie says. He taps his fist against his thigh, and Richie purses his lips
when he sees Eddie’s inhaler clutched tight in his hand. A lifeline. You quit. You were better.
“I--” He makes a quiet, gasping sound, but seems to struggle with lifting the inhaler to his
mouth. He clutches it to his chest instead. “I’d like you to leave,” he whispers.

Richie stands up. Don’t push him, he thinks. Remember what it was like for you? You wanna
watch him blow chunks all over the kitchen table? Wonder what he ate last. “Eddie,” he says,
and this time there’s no irritation on Eddie’s face.

Eddie looks years older, and he scrubs his hand over his face, up under his glasses. “You
didn’t come here for the company,” he says.

Richie shakes his head. He feels small suddenly, standing in the room with Eddie, watching
him struggle with decades worth of memories. Feeling the weight of the world pressing down
on him.

Eddie looks down. A beat passes, and he nods. “The cab won’t be much longer.”

“Eds,” Richie says, stepping forward. Eddie looks off the to the side, pursing his lips, and
Richie sees tears welling in his eyes. “It is back.”

“You don’t even have a car,” he says. It’s barely audible. He looks back at Richie, but glances
away just as fast. “Are you planning to get back to Derry on foot?”

Richie doesn’t know what to say to that. He does have a car--he’s not that useless. ‘I just
didn’t pick it up’? It’s a poor excuse, but it’s the only one he has. Eddie was the only worry
on his mind, and now it seems like the rest is falling into place again. Crashing, he thinks.

“Rich--Richie--”

The sound of a car horn cuts him off, and Richie tenses. He really did call a cab.

“Get a hotel. And a car,” Eddie says. “I’ll pack.” He looks up at Richie, twisting his inhaler in
his hands. “Come by tomorrow and we can go.”

“When?” Richie asks.

Eddie stops moving his hands, curling his fingers around his inhaler until his knuckles go
white. He closes his eyes, expression twisted up in pain. Like he’s got a headache. “I don’t
care,” he says quietly.

The car honks again, and Richie grabs his bags.

#38.) Eddie

Eddie wakes up and prays that things have gone back to normal. He lies in bed, thinking
about yesterday, thinking about the sudden bombardment of information, thinking about
everything that has happened and hasn’t and maybe won’t. If he’s lucky.

But Eddie isn’t lucky by nature, and every memory is sitting at the back of his mind. Like a
filing cabinet, waiting to be checked.

His bags are packed, hidden away in the closet of his and Myra’s room, but he leaves them.
He doesn’t want them sitting at the front door all day.

And Myra. Myra is an entirely different matter altogether. She’s expecting him to go to work
that day, and when she sees him shuffling around the house she questions it immediately.
Eddie, dear, don’t you have to be at work, shouldn’t you be at work, why aren’t you at work?

I should’ve been at work, then, too, Eddie thinks. He remembers turning to her a year later
and saying exactly what he’s going to say now. It hurts his head to think about, but he’s
already packed all his painkillers away.

“I had someone come in yesterday,” he tells her, “and I’ll be gone for a few days on
business.”

It’s not a complete lie, and he stares up at her, watching her take it in. She wrings her hands.
“With who?” she asks. “Why?”

He explains everything she can question, and every answer is spun with a lie attached. If not
a complete lie. Somehow that’s better than the first time he told her. Just running out of the
house and assuring her he would come back.

The memory, the feeling of death threatens to choke him, as it did so many times the night
before, so Eddie diverts his attention. Myra leaves him for the time being, unhappy but
placated.

Things are different this time. And that’s not a lie. They’re very, very different. Mike won’t
call him until next year, Stan won’t kill himself, Eddie won’t crawl through the sewers and
bleed out beneath Derry. Not for a year. They have a year to fix the future.

Richie did this, Eddie thinks. He doesn’t know what he thinks. Richie saved them, but Eddie
has never felt worse. It’s like the first time remembering, but rather than one extra life being
shoved into his head he has two.

The doorbell rings before noon, and Myra looks at him, but Eddie doesn’t look back. He
walks to the door, opening it. Richie is standing on the porch, done up in shades with the
backdrop of a mustang. He looks all the man he talked himself up to be. He looks nervous.

Eddie steps back from the door, waving him in, and Richie thanks him. “Let me grab my
things,” he says. He hesitates. “Just,” he sighs, and Richie folds his sunglasses, hanging them
on his shirt. His eyebrows are furrowed, “come in here. She’s going to talk to you
regardless.”

Richie nods, realization dawning in his eyes. Eddie leads him into the living room, stopping
just inside the doorway. Richie hovers behind him.

“Myra,” Eddie says. She doesn’t look at him. She’s looking at Richie, almost glaring, “this is
Rich. Rich,” he turns around to look at Richie, who glances down at him, “this is my wife.”

Business, he mouths, and Richie nods, slow. He looks back up at Myra. “It’s so nice to meet
you, Mrs. Kaspbrak,” Richie says, crossing the room to her. He’s smiling, throwing himself
into a different person. He holds his hand out. “Your husband’s been holding out on me!”

Myra shakes his hand--albeit somewhat reluctantly. She hasn’t stood up, and lets Richie bend
to her height. A queen to a peasant. “He gets his work done,” she says. “My Eddie’s good
like that.”

Something flickers in Richie’s eyes, almost breaking his facade, and Eddie walks upstairs to
get his things.

They’ll be in the car for a long time, so he’s done up for comfort. He grabs his bags, gives
them a second glance to make sure everything is inside, and walks back downstairs.

Mandy is playing over the stereo, and Eddie furrows his eyebrows. He walks a little faster.
He can hear their voices over the music, but only just. Did she get up and play that?

“--what this song is about?” Richie asks. “See, I’ve met good ol’ Barry--”

Myra gasps, dramatic. Eddie stops in the entrance to the living room to watch them. “You
haven’t!”

Richie is grinning. He’s sitting on the couch next to Myra, arm slung over the back and body
angled toward her. “Oh, but my dear, I have.”

“What’s he like--?!”

“Rich,” Eddie says, and they both turn to look at him. Past and present sitting in his living
room. You weren’t supposed to get along, how on earth are you getting along. “Are you
ready?”

“Born ready, baby,” he says, standing up.

“Eddiiiie, ” Myra says, drawling his name into something long and wilting. Her face is
twisted up in a moue. “He was just about to tell me about Barry!”

He can see Richie watching him out of the corner of his eye, and he sighs, stepping forward
to her. “I know, Marty,” he says. The pet name softens her expression somewhat, “but we
really have to go. He can tell you when we get back, how about that?”

Eddie glances at Richie, and sees him nodding. “I can make that work.”
Myra takes a minute to think it over, but nods, heaving a sigh. “Do you have your pills? Your
inhaler? Your--”

“It’s all packed up,” he says. “I’ll see you in a few days, Myra.”

“Will you call?” she asks.

“If I can.”

A memory pushes in behind the rest of his thoughts--saying the exact same thing under
completely different circumstances. Myra isn’t chasing him out of the house, begging him to
stay, grabbing at his clothes to keep him away from Derry. Derry is following him, knocking
on his door, standing in his living room. Richie is keeping Myra pacified.

He thinks about giving her a kiss, and then remembers, again, again, again, standing in a
different part of the house and asking for the same thing. To mollify her? Or himself? He
can’t remember anymore. Does it matter? It didn’t work the first time.

It seems cruel, either way. To kiss her now when he knows he’ll come back with divorce on
his lips.

He waves instead, offering a quiet goodbye. Richie sees him start toward the door and turns
to Myra, flashing another smile. “It was a pleasure,” he says.

She laughs, saying something Eddie doesn’t catch all the way in the foyer. It sounds coy. He
toes his shoes on, and waits on the porch for Richie, who comes out a few seconds after him.
Eddie closes the door on the fading sounds of violins.

“ Need any help?” Richie asks, pointing at Eddie’s bags.

Eddie shakes his head. “I know you can’t carry these.”

“ You underestimate me, Eds,” Richie says.

Eds. It’s a punch in the gut to hear every time. ‘Stop. You know I hate it when you call me
that’. But he didn’t. He doesn’t. Memories overlapping, the older and the newer. He hated it,
but for weeks he relished it. Revelled in it. Death brought change, and Eddie sought
resolution.

But he isn’t the same Eddie. He’s stuck somewhere between two different people, both
fighting for the forefront.

He holds out a bag, and Richie takes it, but bows forward almost immediately. He grunts,
setting it on the ground. “What’s in there?” he asks.

“ Clothes,” Eddie says. He picks the bag up again, walking to the mustang.

Richie grumbles something that sounds a lot like ‘Fucking jacked, what the hell’ and slides
his sunglasses back on. He pops the trunk open, and Eddie slides his things inside. He walks
around to the passenger side.
It’s different. Richie’s car rather than his. Richie driving, Eddie directing them.

Richie starts the car. “Shall we?”

#39.) Richie

They drive in silence. It’s not comfortable or familiar or friendly. It’s tense. Richie feels like
he’s done something and Eddie’s shut him out, arm on the window and face turned to the
road.

He’s wearing short sleeves, and Richie can’t help but glance at his arms, looking for
something, anything that would give him a clue as to what happened. Where he is. If Eddie’s
arm is still scarred then maybe they were thrust from one time to the other.

But it’s not. The more Richie looks, the less of a difference he sees in skin tone. Eddie is
wearing his wedding ring, and his left arm is scarred from the break he got as a child.
Nothing more.

It’s enough. They’re back to their original time, and Richie will just have to make it work.

“ So,” he says, unable to handle the silence. He sees Eddie tense slightly, but he doesn’t move
otherwise, “what do you remember?”

Eddie doesn’t say anything for a long time. A long, long time. Richie is wracked with nerves,
hand tapping the side of the car where his arm is hanging out of the window. He considers
turning the music up louder to keep him company, but Eddie turns in his seat, facing forward.

“ Everything,” he says. It’s simple, blunt. There’s no emotion behind his voice.

Richie can’t read minds, but he knows when something is wrong. Eddie didn’t show up to the
Jade of the Orient like this--brusque and terse. He was as joyful as the rest of them, happy to
share his memories and reconnect with everyone.

“ Everything,” Richie repeats, apprehensive. “So--”

“ Whatever you’re about to say, Richie, yes,” Eddie says, cutting him off. He’s agitated,
hands fisted on his thighs. “Everything.”

Richie is slowly drawing into himself. He doesn’t know what to do, how to make things
better, because he doesn’t understand the situation. “Eddie, you can talk to me,” he says, but
it feels meaningless. Not enough. “If it’s too much.”

Eddie turns to look at him. His face is twisted up, expression incredulous and eyes livid.
“‘Too much’?” he asks. “‘Too much’, are you kidding? Did you just wake up and everything
was perfect? You just flew right here with no problem?
“ This isn’t too much, Richie,” he says, pointing to himself. “This is way past too much. I’ve
lived the same life twice! You know what I was doing today last time? I was at work driving
Clint Eastwood. I shouldn’t have to know that, I shouldn’t have to think about that. But I do.”

Richie has both hands on the steering wheel, gripping it like a lifeline. It feels like its the only
thing keeping him grounded. He can feel the strain, the hurt in his chest. Twice, Richie thinks.
Richie had woken up with one set of memories that had erased the rest. Eddie is fighting with
three.

Eddie slumps back in his seat. “And what about the rest of it?” he asks, voice choked. “I
know what you want to hear, Richie,” he says. It’s almost inaudible. “I saw the way you
looked at me when you knocked on my door.”

Richie feels like he could snap the steering wheel in half. His muscles are locked, body rigid.
He clenches his jaw, feeling his eyes welling up.

“ That wasn’t me, Richie,” Eddie says.

Quiet overtakes the car, leaving the music on the radio as the only sound between them. This
Must Be The Place plays softly, jaunty and upbeat. Richie listens to the lyrics, leaning his
elbow on the window and running his fingers over his mouth. It feels like life is spitting in
his face.

They get a hotel. A nice one. There’s no struggling to hide from passersby or the police, no
sleeping in cheap motels. Neither of them lack for money, and they both get separate hotel
rooms.

Richie gets ready for bed, but before he can get under the covers he stops himself. He can’t
get their conversation off his mind. Maybe he’s stubborn, but he would rather finish the rest
of their roadtrip with their problems worked out.

No better time to get things worked out than right before bed, he thinks, walking down the
hall in his pajamas. Nobody can shut up when they’re tired.

He knocks on Eddie’s door, and it opens a few seconds later. Eddie is looking up at him, eyes
weary behind his glasses, hair damp from the shower. He backs up so Richie can come in.

It hardly looks like anyone is living in his room. Everything is neat, untouched. Eddie’s bags
are stacked nicely against the wall, and what little he needs out is sitting on the bedside table.

“ How long do you think this is gonna take?” Eddie asks.

Richie walks across the room, not caring about his manners. He sits on Eddie’s bed, patting
the space next to him. “You got someone to see?”

Eddie comes and sits next to him. “The Sandman.”

Richie smiles, looking down at his lap. His folds his hands, leaning onto his knees. Eddie
stays sitting with his back straight. “Do you want this to be some big affair?”
“ Why would I?” he says, sighing.

Richie takes a long moment to think. “You don’t,” he trails off, struggling with the words,
“feel like their yours. Your memories, I mean.”

Eddie takes just as long to respond. “It feels like I woke up with someone else’s life. I’m
living mine, but now I have to deal with theirs, too. Their grief and happiness and--” he
glances at Richie, but looks down, knotting his fingers together. “Experiences.”

“ But I know it’s mine,” he says before Richie can speak. “It feels new, but still familiar. I--”
He heaves a sigh, shaking his head. “I don’t know. Did you--”

“ No,” Richie says. He’s bouncing his leg, all nervous energy. “What happened at Mike’s
house--” He cuts himself off, not wanting to talk about it, think about it. “I woke up right
after that. I was here. I didn’t go back to the beginning.”

“ You’re still you, then.”

Richie looks over at him. “Are you saying you’re not?”

Eddie stares at him. “I don’t know who I am, anymore.”

It sinks in, deep, and Richie lets it. He looks away for a moment, afraid to hold the subject
but more afraid of dropping it. He can’t let things settle like this--an unspoken person
between them, maybe real, maybe not.

“ I don’t want to spend the rest of this ride with you struggling to separate your memories just
for you to turn around and never talk to me again after we’re done.”

Eddie is looking at his lap, at his hands. “You want me to just accept them as mine?” he asks,
scoffing.

Richie shrugs. “Maybe.” Eddie is silent beside him. A statue. “I hate beating around the bush,
Eddie,” he says.

Eddie looks at him again, eyebrows furrowed.

“ You said you started from the beginning,” Richie says. He meets Eddie’s eye. “We could do
the same thing.”

Eddie pauses, and then turns to him more fully. “What?”

“ It doesn’t have to be about someone else, or having to force yourself to feel like their
memories are yours or whatever,” Richie says, sitting up. “It could just be me, and you, and
we could start wherever you want. If you want,” he adds, shrugging. He smiles, nervous.
“Learning is half the fun.”

He sees the recognition flicker in Eddie’s eyes, the sting of an open wound, fresh in his mind.
Eddie’s throat works, but he doesn’t make any sound. Richie glances at his inhaler on the
nightstand.
“ You’d be OK with that?” Eddie asks, so, so quiet. He looks desperate--desperate for an
answer, desperate to hide it. “With,” he gestures to his lap, “me instead of--of him?”

Richie works his jaw, leaning far over his knees. “The first time,” he says, after a long pause,
“I fucked up. I fucked up so bad, Eddie, and all that shit happened and I didn’t realize until
the last second and by then it was too late.

“ But I got a second chance, and we made things work. So this is just the third chance.”
Richie shrugs, but it’s half-hearted. “It doesn’t matter what,” he stumbles on the words. They
feel wrong in his mouth, they don’t fit, “‘version’ of you it is. They’re still your memories.
It’s still you.”

Richie pauses. It’s probably the most upfront he’s ever been with his feelings, and it’s almost
choking him, but he wants to say it, needs to. Half of his personality is a farce, and he can’t
use it as a shield forever.

He squeezes his fingers together, tight enough to make the skin go white. “I just wanna be
with you,” he whispers.

Eddie inhales, sudden and shaky, and Richie looks over at him, but he covers his face with
his hands. He pushes his fingers up into his bangs, and Richie slumps when he sees the tears
welling up in Eddie’s eyes. “This is all so crazy,” he says, and it comes out thin and
wavering. “Everything was normal: I was sitting in my house, on my day off, working a
normal job, making good money, living with my wife.”

He looks at Richie, rubbing at his cheeks roughly. “And then you showed up on my porch
like we knew each other, because--because two days ago we did. And I remembered all the
things we did, but I also remembered everything I had been doing at the same time here.”

Eddie draws in a stuttering breath. “But the way you looked at me,” he says, and Richie
thinks about the way he said it hours before in the car, somber and binding. Instead his voice
is awed, and he rolls his eyes, trying for a smile and biting his lip when only half of it comes.
“You were looking for someone else, and I wanted to be him.”

Richie sits up, and Eddie pushes his fingers under his glasses, smearing tears across his
cheeks. Anything he could say would be insufficient, never enough to encompass what Eddie
is feeling, and he doesn’t know if his touch is welcome or not. Richie can do little else but sit
and listen.

“ I turned around, and you weren’t there,” Eddie says, so much quieter than before. He looks
at Richie, eyes rimmed red. He sniffles. “I’ve lost you twice. I don’t think I can handle losing
you a third time.”

“ Eddie--” Richie says, spine ramrod straight.

“ I’m not saying what you think I’m saying,” Eddie says, cutting him off. “If you think I
don’t wanna be with you, too, you’re as stupid as we all thought you were.”
Richie relaxes slowly and smiles, tentative and small, but still there. He bounces his legs,
laying his hands out on his thighs again. “So…” he starts.

Eddie doesn’t quite manage a smile, but he’s not as tense. Exhausted, but content. “My pace,”
he says.

Richie looks down, trying to hide his smile. Adoring, because Eddie is still Eddie, through
and through. It’s been your pace this whole time, Eds.

“ Your pace.”

#40.) Eddie

They leave early in the morning. It’s a routine that Eddie knows but is entirely unfamiliar
with--but one he takes in stride. They pack their things in the back of Richie’s rental--Eddie
packs their things, really. Richie is a string bean with bones--and set off just as the sunrise
peaks over the horizon.

It’s not nearly as stifling as it was yesterday. Early mornings mean sluggish passengers, and
conversation draws to a standstill while they’re both waking up, but the silence is
comfortable. Last night’s agreement still hangs in the air between them, but the light chatter
helps them sweep up the eggshells they’ve both been struggling to walk on.

It’s funny, Eddie thinks, that we can both know each other completely and not feel like we
know each other at all.

They get to Atlanta around three, and immediately check into a hotel. If there’s one thing
Eddie doesn’t miss it’s portioning off money for motels and gas. He has more than enough
for all the Losers combined, and rarely spends it.

Now he finally is. Hotels with gyms and spas and pools and huge beds all to himself. Richie
teases him for it, but seems more than happy when he hears about the spa. He cracks his back
all the way from the front doors to the desk.

“ So you know his address?” Eddie asks, after their things are all put away.

They’re standing in Richie’s room, and Eddie watches him walk around the room, restless.
He looks at Eddie. “No. But,” he says, before Eddie can snap at him, “I have a plan.”

“ You keep saying that.” Eddie sits on the bed facing the windows where he can comfortably
track Richie’s pacing. No he doesn’t, Eddie thinks. It’s a small, nagging voice in the back of
his head. This is the first time. Eddie ignores it, trying to make it seem like he meant to say it,
rather than an accident. Natural as breathing. “I have yet to hear anything good.”

Richie glances at him, catching the slip up. He doesn’t mention it. “All of them would’ve
worked. You’re just picky.”
Sorry I value your wellbeing, Eddie thinks. He bites his lip.

“ Everybody moved,” Richie says, still on his mission to work a line into the carpet. He’s
taken his shoes off, Eddie notices. Thank God, “but it’s gonna be so much easier to find them
this time.”

He stops, holding his hands out, and Eddie tilts his head, waiting. Richie motions with his
arms, leaning forward. ‘Come on,’ his expression says, ‘I’m waiting.’

“ Oh, it’s one of those games,” Eddie says. He smiles when Richie’s lips thin. “Uh,” he trails
off, rolling his eyes up to the ceiling while he thinks, “while no one was looking, you asked
Mike for our information.”

“ No, try again.”

Yeah, that would’ve been a miracle. “You looked us all up yourself before you came here.”

“ Close.”

Eddie sighs, but he’s smiling. “Richie, I don’t know.”

“ We’re all big names, Eds!” Richie says, walking up to him. “We’re rich--hell, I’m famous-
-”

“ A bit egotistical, too.”

Richie kicks his foot lightly, but he’s smiling. “You know what I mean. People know us. Our
names are all over the papers.”

“ So,” Eddie says, “you looked us up in the papers.”

“ No!” Richie groans.

Eddie laughs. He wants to let Richie have his moment, but it’s so much more fun watching
him get agitated.

“ I had my secretary find everyone,” Richie says, sitting on the bed.

“ Mike is going through a lot of work to keep tabs on us.”

“ He’ll live.”

They get back in Richie’s car and manage to find their way through Atlanta’s traffic. Richie
has Stan’s address written down, and Eddie directs him, map laid out in his lap. It’s almost
funny how close he is to his other house. How similar the streets look. It sends an unpleasant
shiver up Eddie’s spine.

“ Do you think he’s home?” Eddie asks.

Richie rings Stan’s doorbell, rocking back and forth on his feet. He shoves his hands in his
back pockets. “If he’s not, we can just wait.”

Eddie supposes he’s right, but he’s already nervous enough, and waiting is just going to make
it worse. He doesn’t want to be caught sitting at the curb in Richie’s mustang in the suburbs
like some creep.

The soft patter of footsteps draws their attention, and they both go quiet, listening. The
curtains draw back on the door just slightly, and then drop again. Nothing else moves.

Richie huffs. He pounds on the door. “This isn’t a one way mirror!”

The locks on the door rattles, and a woman opens it. She looks testy. “Can I help you
gentlemen?”

Richie’s disposition changes immediately. “Yes you can, ma’am,” he says, folding his hands
in front of him. “Have you accepted our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ into your--”

“ We’re looking for Stanley Uris,” Eddie says. “Is he home?”

She pauses, hand tight on the doorknob. I’m going to kill him, Eddie thinks.

The woman backs up, and Eddie tenses, but she turns her head into the foyer, eyes flickering
between the two of them. “Stanley.”

A call answers her --deep-- and the sound of footsteps follows. Eddie shifts, not knowing
what to expect. He’s seen two different sides of Stan--one he wasn’t meant to, this one that
surely wasn’t meant to exist at all.

“ What’s wrong?” Stan asks, walking up to the door. He opens it, looking between them.

The woman steps back into him. “These gentlemen wanted to speak with you.”

Stan looks between them, and Eddie sees a brief, brief flicker of uncertainty in his gaze.
Expecting strangers and distrusting himself. He smiles anyway. “What can I do for you two?”

Richie is openly staring at him. Taking it in. Eddie glances at him, and then looks back at
Stan. I’m about to ruin his life, he thinks. Stan looks so relaxed, untroubled, arm around his
wife and smile easy on his face. These are the words that killed him.

They catch in Eddie’s throat, and he clenches his jaw, feeling his lungs squeeze tight.

Stan tilts his head, curious but uneasy. “Sir--”

“ It is back,” Richie blurts.

Eddie glances at him, takes in his wide eyes and pursed lips, and looks back at Stan. Stan is
stopped in the middle of speaking, mouth still open, eyes locked on Richie. He looks floored
for a moment, and then the words seem to hit him. His expression contorts.
He grabs the door, backing up, and Eddie jerks forward, shoving his foot into the threshold
just as he slams it.

"Fuck!" Eddie almost falls over, and Richie grabs him.

He pushes his hand into the door, wedging it out just enough for Eddie to get his foot out.
"Stan!" Richie calls.

"Leave!" Stan yells.

He pushes the door, and Richie grunts, unprepared. Eddie braces himself against it. "Stan,
we're not going anywhere!" Richie says.

"I'll--!" He stops, abrupt. It's quiet again, but it takes a long time for the pressure against the
door to let up. Eddie backs up when the door swings open. Stan barely peeks through the gap.
He's wide eyed, paranoid. "You're right."

#41.) Richie

Stan lets them in and hardly hesitates before packing. He looks shaky and unsure, but insists
that he be left to his own devices while he gets ready. Richie doesn't push the matter. He
knows how hard it can be, and as time goes on the memories are only going to continue to
assault him.

But as much as he wants to be left alone there's a hair of distrust that lingers between the
three of them. Richie and Eddie send Patty upstairs with Stan. It's the only thing he allows.

"You think he's mad?" Eddie asks. He's sitting in the kitchen, leg propped up on a separate
chair.

"Doesn't matter," Richie says, sifting through Stan's freezer. "A promise is a promise."

He finds a sack of peas tucked away in the back and pulls it out. Eddie has his hand fisted in
his pants. He looks uncertain. "I don't want him to spend this whole week panicking about the
past just to turn around and go there and..." He trails off, shrugging, but Richie catches the
look in his eye and knows what he's trying to say.

"Nothing is going to happen to him," he says, laying the peas over Eddie's foot. He feels like
he's being too fussy, trying to care after Eddie when he knows Eddie is more than capable of
doing it himself, but he's not being stopped. You're getting a little too old to be using your
foot as a doorstop, Eds.

Richie sits down across from Eddie. "Nothing is going to happen to either of you."

Eddie only looks at him, weary and anxious. "You don't know that."
Silence bleeds out into the air, and Richie looks up when he hears drawers being pulled open.
He takes a breath, leaning over the table. "Bill is going to make a move first," Richie says.
"You know that."

"So what?" Eddie leans back in his chair.

"So let him."

Eddie turns, arm on the table, so he's facing Richie just a little more. "And if you get caught
up in it again?"

"Then--"

"If you both start slipping?" Eddie's hand turns into a claw on the table. "You want me to just
sit back and watch? Run? Let Ben or Bev or Mike or--"

"I'm not saying that," Richie says, cutting him off. The words come out terse. It's not what
he's saying at all, and the fact that Eddie would jump to that conclusion makes nerves spike
deep in his stomach.

But then he's not saying anything at all. The words aren't coming--they're caught up in his
chest, looking at Eddie who's staring back at him, impatient and irritated. Why, why, why is
this the only time I can't talk? When it matters most?

Eddie shrugs, raising his eyebrows when Richie remains quiet. "You wanna play martyr this
time?" he asks.

"No," Richie says, choked.

Eddie stares at him a moment longer, and his voice is soft when he speaks. "You wanna run
away together?"

Richie looks away from him when he feels his eyes watering. He pushes his fingers up under
his glasses, wiping under his eyes, not now, please not now. "I was just going to say we
should plan a better attack," he says, voice so quiet it's almost a whisper, "than just winging
it."

Eddie's eyes soften, and he looks away, body going lax in his chair again.

It's not quite tense between them, but there's a sense of unease, unhappiness, hanging
overhead. Richie hates it. He hates that no matter what happens anymore, what he does, what
he says, it always ends with averted eyes and impassable rifts.

"I just want you to be careful," he tacks on.

He thinks it's inaudible until Eddie looks back at him. "You think I don't want the same?" he
asks. "That wasn't fun, Richie--standing back and watching that--that thing suck the life out
of you. But--"

"You think my side of things was any better?" Richie asks.

Eddie stops. He stares at Richie, and then pushes his fingers up under his glasses to rub his
eyes.

I hate this, I hate this, I hate this, why do we keep doing this.

Their both teary eyed, fingertips wet but faces set in stone. Eddie breathes in, deep, and then
sighs. "This isn't--this isn't like the first time," he says. "This isn't some dumb adventure in
the Barrens we thought we could take on without considering the consequences."

He's bouncing his leg, agitated. "We're not kids anymore."

"You don't have to tell me that," Richie says. Eddie's head swivels towards him, mouth
opening, but Richie cuts him off. "I know. Trust me, I know.

"I wish more than anything we could just go back to the beginning and forget all about this.
Start over, and just make sure Bill didn't leave that first time. Make sure those seven killed
It." He sighs, listening to the sound of Stan talking upstairs. "But you getting mad at me isn't
gonna change a thing."

"I'm not--" Eddie stops himself, biting his lip and glancing down. His expression smoothes
out, but his eyebrows are still furrowed when he looks up at Richie. "I'm sorry."

For a moment Richie wants to toss it back in his face, is rolling on the waves of Eddie's
anger, but he steadies himself. It's petty. They've spent their lives not knowing each other, and
Richie isn't going to waste time nurturing spite.

He stands up, stepping around the table, and sits on top of it in front of Eddie. "I'll forgive
you, Eds," he says, ruffling Eddie's hair. Eddie clicks his tongue, "but only cuz I know how
your brain works."

Eddie doesn't say anything, and Richie smoothes his hand over Eddie's hair instead of ruining
it any further. He cups Eddie's cheek. "What's got you so wound up?" he asks, soft.

Eddie leans into his palm, and Richie purses his lips, stroking his skin with his thumb. "He
was so happy here," Eddie whispers. It seems to pain him to say it.

I know, but he had to come, Richie thinks. He's already said it, and there's no point in
emphasizing it again. It'll just make Eddie feel worse. "He's coming back," he says instead,
but they both know Richie can't promise that.

"I don't want anybody to get hurt," Eddie says, quiet and choked and wet.

Richie slides off the table, hand shifting to the back of Eddie's neck, and he pulls Eddie into
him. He goes without protest, arms wrapping around Richie's waist. Richie soothes his hand
over Eddie's hair.

No, he can't promise they're make it out alive--any of them, but God if he wouldn't give
anything to make it happen. If the Turtle made deals, he thinks, rolling his eyes. He's gotten
them into enough trouble.
Stan comes down later, a long time later, a mess with bags in tow. His wife is following him,
fussing over his every move in a way that belies a fierce sort of protection with no outlet. He
looks exhausted, but accepting.

Eddie is still leaning into him, likely long after he needs it, but he pulls away when Stan
comes in. He looks tired, hair untidy and glasses askew.

Stan stops, setting his bags down. "Please," he says, and it comes out shaky, "let me have one
more night with my wife."

He feels like a villain, then, come to steal away loved ones and dangle them before certain
death. He'll be fine, Mrs., I'll send him back in one piece, I won't let anyone lay a finger on
him, I promise, I promise, I promise, Richie thinks, but it sounds more like, I want, I want, I
want.

"Stan, you don't need to ask," Richie says.

Stan sighs, shoulders slumping, and his wife glares at Richie. He figures he deserves it.

#42.) Eddie

They pick Stan up early in the morning. Richie hardly speaks, few jokes and fewer smiles,
and Eddie worries. He drives and drives and drives. Lost in his own thoughts.

And Stan is just as quiet. Staring out the window, eyes vacant.

Eddie can't help but do the same. He thinks about yesterday, about how easily he'd fallen into
step with Richie. Conversation and actions both, arguing and letting Richie hold him and
holding Richie back because as much as it doesn't feel like it's his he knows that it is. You're a
matching pair of gloves and you won't wear them because they fit.

Stan is drowning in the past, Eddie is suffocating in a present that isn't even his, and Richie is
choking on the future.

"Stan," Eddie says. Richie glances over at him, but Stan doesn't react. Eddie clears his throat.
"Stan."

Stan blinks, looking over at him. He raises his eyebrows.

"That was your wife?" Eddie asks. Something flickers in Stan's eyes, and his attention seems
to zone in on Eddie more fully. Curiosity, maybe. Wariness, more likely.

"Yes," Stan says after a beat.

"What's her name?"

He hesitates another second. "Patricia."

Eddie turns more fully in his seat. At least he's talking. "What's she like?"

And then Stan is taking a breath and unloading a lifetime worth of information onto them.
Eventually Eddie runs out of questions, but by then Richie has got a few of his own, and they
keep Stan in good spirits through most of the ride.

They end up retracing their footsteps back up to Nebraska, but rather than sleeping three to a
bed in some poor motel on the outskirts of Kansas City, they're all in their own suite.

"Do you think he'll be OK?" Richie asks when Stan calls it a night and disappears into his
room.

They're hovering by Eddie's room, Richie outside and Eddie inside. "I'm sure he'll be fine,
Richie," Eddie says. "You saw how he was when we picked him up last time."

We. Richie stares at him a hair longer than subtle. "I guess you're right," he says. He taps the
doorway. "I'm off to bed, Eds. Up tomorrow bright and early, just the way you like it."

Eddie watches him walk down the hallway, and taps his foot. He grips the doorframe.
"Richie."

"Oh, thank God," Richie says, turning around and walking back, "I'm so glad you said
something. I have a question. Do you think we'll still be rich after we kill It?"

Eddie is taken aback by the question, and he furrows his eyebrows, blinking. He opens his
mouth but can't think of a response.

"I should've let you go first," Richie says.

Yes, Richie, God damn it, you should've, because staring up at Richie, patient and warm and
tired, the words catch in Eddie's throat. He feels himself choking on his own airway,
embarrassed over himself.

Richie's eyes widen, and he looks past Eddie, eyes scanning for his inhaler. "Hold on, Ed--"

"Stay here tonight," Eddie wheezes.

Richie's gaze jerks back to him, eyes wide. "Are you--like, stay here--like--" Richie makes a
motion with his head, eyebrows shooting up.

"What're you--" Eddie gasps out, and stops himself. He flushes.

"OK!" Richie says, hands up. "OK! So it wasn't that kind of stay the night, just checking!"

Eddie points out the door toward Richie's room, but he's struggling for breath and the words
are nearly impossible to get out. "Get--!"

"Get my keys, yeah," Richie says, smiling and nodding. He sits his hand on Eddie's shoulder
and turns him around. "You take a puff of the ol' lung-sucker."
He checks to make sure Eddie's door is unlocked and then walks down the hallway. Eddie has
a brief inclination to lock the door on him, but he doesn't care enough. He stumbles over to
his bed, uncapping his inhaler and bending over his knees while he catches his breath.

Richie comes back a few minutes later, keys in hand. He closes and locks Eddie's door,
striding over to the bed and tossing his keys haphazardly onto the nightstand. Eddie glances
up at him.

"You on this side?" Richie asks, hands on his hips.

Eddie looks down when he feels his face heating up. "Yeah."

Richie says something soft, a noise of comprehension, and walks around to the other side. He
pulls the blankets out from where they're tucked in and shuffles underneath them. A pause
passes between them, and Eddie can feel Richie getting ready to say something, so he kicks
his slippers off, turning out the light.

He hears the sound of Richie's glasses being set on the bedside table, but it's otherwise silent.
Eddie feels like he's making too much noise getting under the blankets, is hyper aware of
himself, of Richie.

It doesn't last long, and Eddie doesn't expect it to. Richie takes a breath, and Eddie clenches
his jaw, preparing himself.

"Can I ask you a question?"

"Another one?" Eddie asks, only half joking.

"Yeah."

Eddie rolls his bottom lip into his mouth, so nervous he could choke on it, but somehow so
calm. Apprehension and expectation toil in his stomach. "OK," he says.

"We have two different rooms."

"That's not a question."

Eddie hears Richie turn his head on his pillow, but neither of them can see in the darkness.
"It's not what I'm asking."

Eddie sighs. "Then what's your question?"

Richie takes another moment, and Eddie can only assume he's looking, or trying to. Eddie
looks back and sees nothing. "Why did you ask me to come?"

Eddie knows it's coming and doesn't want to answer. Because so many other people got to
have you and now that I've had a taste I want the rest. It's too intimate, and staring Richie in
the face Eddie knows he can't do it.
But Eddie isn't staring Richie in the face. They're both in the dark, and it's so much easier to
close his eyes and whisper his secrets to a ghost than to watch them get twisted up in
someone's expression.

"I miss you," he whispers.

It feels like such a pathetic thing to say when they're lying next to each other, hardly a foot
apart, but it's true. Eddie aches for something he had but never did. He knows what it looks
like, what it feels like, but just once I want to let myself have something. Just once.

He feels Richie's attention zero in on him, but he doesn't say anything. Richie's hand drags
over the top of the blanket and curls over Eddie's.

"I'm here," he whispers. "Whenever."

Eddie stares up at the ceiling. "What if it was just this? Forever?"

Richie squeezes his hand. "Holding hands?"

"Yeah."

"That's OK."

Eddie jerks his hand out of Richie's grip, throwing the blankets back over himself when he
rolls over onto his hands and knees. Richie pulls his hand back like he's been burned, folding
his arm onto his stomach, but Eddie ignores it. He pulls the blankets up, forcing Richie to
move, and curls into Richie's side, thumping his head on Richie's chest.

"I hate you," he hisses, draping his arm over Richie's stomach.

Richie is shocked into silence for a moment, arms out at his side, but he relaxes once Eddie
does. He chuckles, and Eddie feels the sound more than hears it. Richie wraps him up in his
arms. "No you don't," he says, soft, smile audible in his voice.

Eddie's expression softens, and he sighs when Richie toys with the hair at the nape of his
neck. No. I don't.

# 43.) Richie

They leave early in the morning again, and everyone is in higher spirits. Eddie is still
working on his own wavelength, one that Richie doesn't quite understand just yet, but he had
woken up softer around the edges than the past few days. More well rested. Richie considers
that progress.

And Stan. Stan is still shut off, but he talks more, opens himself up as he accustoms himself
to his memories.
But it's not fun and games anymore. Richie had gathered them all up before with the intention
of getting the Losers back together, just a chance to reminisce without strings attached, but
everyone else saw it as another chance. Bill surely did.

Now we have no choice, Richie thinks. They have to kill It. If they wait, or try to put it off,
Mike would end up calling and only have three people show. They would get caught in a loop
and end up losing.

The get to Hemingford Home around three, sun high and hot above them. "Nice place,"
Richie says, stopping the car by the curb.

Eddie opens the door, stretching his legs before getting out. "Were you expecting anything
less?"

Stan and Richie both get out, and Stan stops, staring at the building. "What do you mean?"

Richie is halfway in the middle of the street when he hears him, and he stops, turning around.
"Ben's our architect."

Stan looks floored for a second, and looks back up to the building, but then nods his head. "I
should've expected that."

"Think he'll let us stay here?" Richie asks, nudging Eddie when they get up to the door.

"There's nowhere else to stay," Eddie says. He rings the doorbell.

There's no sound for a long time. Richie looks around them, but there's not really all that
much to look at. The streets are empty and the houses look uninhabited. He stuffs his hands
in his pockets.

"Is his car here?" Richie asks.

"Be patient," Stan says.

"You know that's not one of his virtues," Eddie says.

"He has virtues?"

They bully me so much when they're together. He reaches over to the doorbell, ringing it
incessantly. Richie can hear it on the other side of the door, an endless cacophony. 'Ding-
ding-ding-ding-ding-ding-ding--'

"I'm coming!" Ben yells.

Richie starts ringing it faster, but Eddie grabs his hand, yanking it back down to his side.

The door is thrown open, and Richie cringes when he sees Ben. Smells him, more like. "Late
night party?" Richie asks.
"What the hell do you want," Ben says, but it comes out as more of a grunt. He's squinting
against the sun.

"I want whatever you just had."

"Richie," Stan warns.

"It is back, Ben," Eddie says.

It hardly takes a moment for the realization to bleed across Ben's face, and he looks between
the three of them like someone's just pulled a veil back from over his eyes. He sways,
grabbing the doorframe, and his skin goes ashen.

"Outside," Richie says, dragging Ben out onto the porch and letting him lean over the railing,
"outside."

Ben vomits, and Richie rubs his back, looking back at Eddie. "Got anything?"

"Hold on," Eddie says, walking back to the car.

"I'm going inside," Stan says. He toes his shoes off at the door, and Richie watches him
disappear around a corner.

"You could've come," Ben says, words a slur. He spits into the rushes lining the porch, "at
any other time. I would've been fine. But you decided to come today."

"Sorry, Haystack," Richie says. Ben groans, clinging to the railing like he's riding a ship
through a storm, "I didn't know."

"It was in the paper."

"Do I look like a man that reads the paper?"

Ben turns his head to look at him, lips dripping saliva and eyes rimmed red. He's glaring.
"You don't look like a man that reads at all."

"That hurts."

"Bring him inside," Eddie says, walking past them into the door. "I don't have anything to
drink."

Ben turns, stumbling inside, and Richie walks behind him, arms out to catch him. He feels
like a father chasing a toddler.

"Kitchen's in here, Eddie!" Stan calls.

"I need a drink," Ben says. He follows Eddie, and Richie follows him, into the nicest kitchen
he thinks he's ever seen.
"What you need," Eddie has a glass of water, and he sits it down next to a couple of pills that
Richie can't discern, "is a nap."

It takes a bit of coercion, but they get Ben to lay down on the living room couch. They set
him up with everything he may need when he wakes up, but the three of them end up sitting
in the chairs around him. If he needs something they can go fetch it.

"Do you feel any better?" Eddie asks Stan.

There's been little other conversation between them, and no one wants to turn on the TV. Stan
looks at Eddie, swirling around a discarded glass of wine he found on the coffee table. "I
think so."

"Do you remember everything?"

"Do you?"

Eddie meets Richie's eye, and Richie nods at Stan. "Yeah," Eddie says. "We both do."

Stan looks down at his hands, setting the wine glass back down. "I did the first time, too."

Richie feels tense, and doesn't know what to say to keep conversation flowing. Yup, we
figured that's why you kicked the bucket! just doesn't suffice.

Eddie nods, looking down. "Yeah," he says again, quieter.

"We're gonna do this as fast as we can," Richie says, and once he forces it out into the air he
can't stop the rest. "We're all gonna do this right, and we're gonna get you home." He shrugs,
feeling nervous with their attention on him. He tries for a smile, but it feels shaky. "You can
pretend we don't exist."

It's a joke, but it's the last thing Richie wants. Stan looks at him more fully, expression sullen.
"I don't want that," he murmurs. "I," he trails off, shaking his head. "I just want it to be over. I
wanna stop worrying."

Richie can deal with a little worry. He kicks his feet up on the coffee table, knocking a beer
can onto the floor. Stan watches it fall and shoots Richie and unimpressed look. "Not much
longer, Stanley, and then it's all smooth sailing." Richie makes a motion with his hand. "You
can go home, make love to sweet, sweet Patricia--"

"Beep-beep, Richie," Stan says, blush high on his cheeks.

"--pop out a few--"

"Beep-beep," he says again, through gritted teeth.

"What?" Richie reclines in his chair, folding his hands behind his head. "They'll be cute, I
bet. A couple little gingers running around your house."

Stan folds his arms. "Yeah? And what'll you and Eddie be doing?"
Eddie's attention perks up when he hears his name, and he opens his mouth, but Richie beats
him to the punch. "Honeymooning, of course."

"Richard," Eddie hisses.

"Nothing else," Stan says.

"What else is there?"

"Why go domestic when you can get a good lay instead. Is that right?"

Richie sits forward again, pointing his finger. "That's what I like about you, Stan. You get it."

"You think that's what he wants?" Stan asks, gesturing to Eddie.

"I'm including domesticity in honeymooning," Richie says.

Stan looks at Eddie, who has his head hanging and hands barring his face from view. "Is this
what you want, Eddie? Is he forcing you into this?"

Richie kicks out at him. "Stop! Don't give him any ideas!" He holds his hand out to Eddie.
"You made your choice. Stick it out till the end."

"Stop," Stan says, but he's laughing. Richie grins, watching him stand up. "Come on. Help
me clean up this mess."

"This isn't even our house."

"I'm well aware of that," he says, collecting the bottles and cans on the floor on his way back
to the kitchen. "But Ben is our friend, and this place is gonna stink if we leave it like this
while we're gone."

Richie looks at Ben, snoring quietly on the couch, and then back at Stan. "I've never seen that
man."

Stan knocks him in the head with a wine bottle, and Richie sits up. "Get up."

They clean as much of Ben's house as they can before they call it quits. Stan is the only one
used to that kind of cleaning, and Eddie's arm starts acting up. Richie is just plain bored, and
cleaning up a mess he didn't make--especially a party mess--doesn't appeal to him at all.

Instead they wake Ben up and let him take a shower before finding their way to a local diner
for dinner. It's quick and easy and a good place for him to nurse what's left of his hangover.

He's not much for chatting. Richie figures it's best to be left alone to sort through the
memories, or at least be given the time to come to terms with all of them. They don't push
him, and he doesn't offer much.

There's not much to talk about, and they don't linger once everyone is done eating. Ben sets
them each up with a room, points them in the direction of the bathrooms, and disappears.
"Is it gonna be like this with everyone?" Eddie asks when the two of them are cleaned up and
ready for bed.

Richie is sitting on his bed, looking at Eddie where he hovers in the doorway. "Probably."

He leans against the doorframe. There's a glass of water in his hand and a heating bag tossed
over his arm. "I hope he feels better tomorrow."

"I'm sure he will. If nothing else be sure of the fact that he'll be raring to see Bev."

Eddie stares at him, and it feels like hesitation. Richie stops trying to clean his glasses and
sets them on his face. "Can I stay with you again?" Eddie asks. It's nervous and quiet.

"You don't need to ask," Richie says. The intimacy of the moment gets to him when he sees
Eddie's shoulders relax, his eyes go just a bit warm. Richie leans back on his hands. "Mi casa
es tu casa."

Eddie rolls his eyes, stepping inside and closing the door. He walks around to the other side
of the bed and sets his inhaler down on the desk, sitting down and kicking his slippers off.

Richie watches him, taking in all the little differences. He's straight-backed, meticulous as he
goes through the routine of readying himself for bed. Pops a few pills in his mouth, takes a
swig of water, sets the glass on the desk. There's no more old t-shirts and shorts to sleep in.
His pajamas are a set.

He's checking off boxes, and Richie is sitting on the other side of the bed, throwing himself
down to go to sleep with no preamble.

Eddie pulls the covers back, but stops when he sees Richie staring. A light pink blush dusts
his cheeks. He looks so cute with those glasses, Richie thinks. "What?"

"You knew I would let you stay."

He looks like he wants to argue, but he just pulls his glasses off and sets them aside. "I had a
feeling."

Eddie slips the rest of the way under the covers, laying down, and sets the heating pack over
his arm. He flexes it once, and then settles. "Turn off the light," he says.

"You were up last," Richie says, smiling, but he gets up anyway. He flips it off and stumbles
back to bed.

Eddie laughs when Richie knocks into the bed with his knees. "I laid down first."

"Whatever."

Richie takes his glasses off and lays down, blinking up at the ceiling. The silence stretches
out between them like last time. He thinks he could sleep tonight, but he would rather Eddie
be closer again. "Does it hurt?" he whispers.
"Only when the weather is bad," Eddie whispers back. "Or when I strain it too much."

"You shouldn't have been doing all this."

"I didn't expect we were going to be carrying a pool table across the basement."

Richie chuckles. "I don't think any of us were. But we needed you. You're the closest thing
we have to muscle right now."

Eddie laughs. "Beverly will help him clean up the rest."

Richie turns to look at him. "He's a party animal! I can't believe he didn't invite us."

"I'm not much for partying," Eddie says, snorting.

"Oh please," Richie says, rolling over and leaning on his elbows. "I can see it now. A couple
shots in you--"

"Beep-beep. I don't want to hear wherever you're going with that."

Richie stops, looking down at the bed and toying with the sheet. In the darkness he can hear
every minute shift and sound they're both making, and it feels like too much. "What do you
want to do after all this?"

"What?" Eddie asks. It's like every wall Richie just knocked down in the past few days has
been thrown back up, and he goes tense.

"Are you going back to New York?" he blurts it out, panicked and unable to filter himself. "I
just mean we're both on opposite sides of the country and you've got--you've got a lot of stuff
to sort out back home and your business is--"

"Richie," Eddie says. It's just to get him to stop talking, and Eddie takes another few seconds
to mull over his words. "We'll figure something out," he murmurs.

"I can move to New York," Richie says. "It'll take a bit of fussing, but I can make it happen."

"I don't have to live in New York to own the company." Eddie shifts his hand, laying it over
Richie's. He squeezes Richie's fingers. "I can move to LA. After," he trips on his words for a
moment, "after I figure everything out." Richie turns his hand over, locking their fingers
together, and Eddie huffs out a small, anxious laugh. "Got room for me?"

'He was married, Richie. Doesn't that bother you?'

Yes, yes, yes, you have no idea how much it bothers me, I want him so bad it's killing me.

"Always," Richie says quickly. And he means it, God does he mean it. No matter what, no
matter where, he would make room for Eddie in his life.

It goes quiet between them again, and there's a hint of tension in the comfort. A bond, a deal,
an agreement. "Your job comes first, Eds," Richie says. It sounds strained to his own ears.
"I know what I'm doing, Richie," Eddie says.

Richie pauses again, and fists the sheets in his hand, squeezing Eddie's hand just a bit. "Can I
kiss you?" he whispers.

"Please," Eddie breathes, desperate.

Richie reaches out with his free hand, finding Eddie's face and cupping his cheek. He leans
in, pressing their lips together. It's little more than a peck, soft and careful and tentative, but
Eddie sighs through his nose and goes pliant beneath Richie.

He pulls away, resting his forehead on Eddie's shoulder, and finally relaxes--really relaxes--
because it feels like acceptance.

#44.) Eddie

Eddie wakes up with Richie pressed close into him, heating him up enough to have him
breaking out in a light sweat. He wakes him up, and the two of them get ready to go. There's
no mention of the talk last night, but it's a living, breathing thing between them, and Eddie
finds he doesn't mind it being there. He's torn down one of the last walls he's thrown up
between them, and it feels good. Relieving.

Stan is already ready when they get downstairs, and Ben comes down a bit later when Richie
goes upstairs and bothers him enough to get him out of bed. They stop back in the diner for
breakfast, but don't stay long.

It's a long drive to Chicago. Richie stays behind the wheel the entire time-- 'If you can do it,
Eds, so can I!' --but they make frequent stops on the way. Grabbing lunch and dinner,
bathroom breaks. At one point they stop at a Walmart, and Richie comes back out with a
baseball bat.

"What is that for?" Stan asks, peeking out the window and watching Richie load it into the
back.

"I thought about stopping at a batting cage on the way," Richie says, stepping back in behind
the wheel. He looks at Eddie. "You've always wanted to play, right, Eds?"

Eddie stares at him. "It's a bit late for me to be learning to play."

Richie looks in the rearview. "What about you, Haystack? Will you play with me?"

Ben looks back at him, somewhat serious, but he's smiling. "What is the really about,
Richie?"

"I'm serious!"
They get to Chicago around seven, and the city is buzzing with people. Eddie easily points
them in the direction they’re meant to be going, and Richie pushes his way through traffic.

It's a nice little place Beverly has. We're all quite liberal with our money, Eddie thinks. But
they have enough to toss around.

"Alright, everybody," Richie says. He has a smile on his face, but when Eddie looks at him he
sees something else, sees the tension in his shoulders. His expression is a bit too intense to be
comfortable, "get out!"

"We're all going in?" Stan asks, but he opens his door.

They all step up onto the curb, and Richie pops the trunk, getting the baseball bat out. He
swings it once in a wide circle, and lets it rest on his shoulder. "Yup!"

"Hey, whoa!" Ben says, hands out when Richie starts walking up to the door. "What do you
think you're doing?"

"What do you mean? We're getting Bev, Benny Boy."

"Richie," Eddie says, apprehensive. "You can't just knock on her door with that."

Richie knocks on the door regardless of what Eddie says. He turns to look at them, but his
expression is serious. "You heard what she said about the most wonderful man in the world."

It takes a moment for Eddie to put together what he's trying to say, but Eddie doesn't
remember what Beverly said. Something mentioned in passing, likely, that Richie latched
onto. "Richie, what are you talking about?"

"She said--"

The door unlatches, and a man peers through the doorway. He looks unkempt, like he's just
been woken up or hasn't put in the effort to take care of himself all day. "I'm not buying," he
grumbles.

He swings the door shut, but Richie sticks the baseball bat out, and it catches in the doorway.
He shoves his way inside.

What is he doing, Eddie thinks, panicking. He follows after Richie, and Stan and Ben push
their way in behind him. This is trespassing, he's really bent on going to jail this time.

Beverly's husband is saying something that Eddie doesn't catch, garbled and flustered as he
stumbles away from Richie.

"What are you doing?" Eddie hisses, grabbing Richie's arm.

Richie doesn't look at him. He turns his head slightly in Ben's direction when he walks closer.
"Go get Bev."
Ben looks startled, but walks off, looking around. Eddie watches him walk until he can't see
him anymore.

"She knows you, huh?" Beverly's husband asks, agitated. His face is twisted up in a scowl,
and he's no longer cowering from the three of him. He's regained his footing. "Where'd she
meet you? Whoring around--"

Richie swings the baseball bat, stopping it at a dead point at his face. Her husband clamps his
mouth shut, jerking back. "We're gonna have an even bigger problem than we already do if
you don't shut up."

Eddie glances up when he hears frantic movement, a drawer opening, something heavy
hitting the floor. They're in a hurry, and the tension in the air is palpable, but Eddie can't
remember why, why, why is he acting like this I've never seen him like this.

"What's your name, again?" Richie asks. He tilts his head, and a bit of a smile curls at his
lips, but it's not friendly. "It was short. Maybe I can start guessing."

Her husband purses his lips, and Eddie sees his face go red. He looks furious, a bit confused,
but he doesn't move. Richie, stop, he thinks, but he doesn't speak. Stan is behind him, just as
quiet.

"James?" Richie asks.

It's a staredown. Richie is unrelenting, metal bat swinging back and forth between them like
he's drawing a line on the floor and just begging for someone to step over it. Beverly's
husband is livid, hands fisted at his sides, just as stubborn. He looks like he wants to knock
Richie's lights out, but it's three against one with a veritable weapon.

"No? How about John?"

Heavy footsteps clatter down the stairs, and Eddie watches Ben appear around the corner. He
looks pale, shaken, and Eddie furrows his eyebrows. There's a tote on his arm.

Beverly steps around the corner after him, and Eddie clenches his teeth. No, no, no this is
what it was for.

"Tom," Beverly says, voice nervous but strong in equal measures. Her eye is black, and under
the robe she's tossed on Eddie can catch welts in long stripes, "leave them alone."

"Tom," Richie says. "That's it!"

Tom turns as Ben leads Beverly around them to the door, following. "You fucking--"

"Hey, come on!" Richie says, catching him in the chest with the bat. He steps in front of Tom.
"We were in the middle of a conversation."

He's grinning, but it's stretched too far, almost cruel. His eyes are wild behind his glasses. He
looks manic. Eddie steps away from him, shoulders prickling.
Eddie remembers Tom stalking Beverly all the way to Derry to kill her, driven by spite and
anger. Remembers how scared he was and how relieving it was to find him dead.

But Richie changed time --twice-- to save them all. Chased them to the ends of the earth to
get them back together.

He wonders who's really more terrifying.

"Richie," Eddie says, and he can barely force it out of his throat. He reaches out, laying a
hand on Richie's arm.

Richie looks at him, and his expression softens.

"Come on," Eddie says. "Let's go."

Richie stares a moment longer, and then nods, dropping the bat. He knocks it against his shoe
as he walks out.

"Richie," Tom repeats. "You're Rich Tozier." Richie stops, turning to look back at him. Tom
steps forward, sneering. "I knew I recognized you. I've seen your show."

"I'm flattered," Richie says, but he's not smiling.

"You think I won't turn you in?" Tom asks. "Breaking into my house? Taking my wife?"

"Richie," Eddie whispers, curling his fingers around Richie's elbow and tugging him toward
the door. Please just stop, just leave it, can we go, I can't stand this.

Richie walks out of Eddie's grip, and stops right in front of Tom, looming over him. "You
think they'll believe your word over mine?" he says, solemn and callous. "A wife beater over
a star?" he watches for a moment as Tom struggles to take in the words. "Try me."

Richie turns back around, swinging the bat in a circle. Eddie half sprints out the door, and
Richie shuts it behind him, going around to the back of the trunk to throw the baseball bat
back inside. Eddie gets in the front seat again, and glances in the rearview.

Beverly is shaken, covered only by that thin robe. She's leaning against Ben, who's muttering
something Eddie can't make out. Stan has the other window seat, and he looks back at Eddie,
expression strained.

"It shouldn't be like this," Stan whispers.

Eddie thinks of his own wife, thinks that's one of the things he and Beverly have in common.
Running back to their traumas, their comforts. Hates that it ended up that way and not
understanding why. "No," he whispers. "It shouldn't be."

Richie gets behind the wheel, and he still looks serious. There's a hint of terseness in the line
of his shoulders. He starts the car. "I think we all need a good night's sleep. How does that
sound?"
No one answers, but Richie nods anyway. He pulls away from the curb. "Sounds good."

Eddie watches him relax as they look for a hotel. The sigh that has his expression smoothing
out, his body relaxing in his seat. The smile that has him coming back into himself. 'I'd tell
you to take a picture, Eds, but I know you don't have a camera. I guess I'll let it go this time.'

Eddie watches him glance at Beverly in the rearview, and thinks maybe he cares too much.

#45.) Richie

"Richie?"

"Hmm?" he hums, half asleep. Richie breathes in, deep, and rolls his head to the other side,
trying to keep himself awake.

They hadn't bothered to get separate rooms, and although it saves them the extra time of
awkward conversation and walking, neither of them were willing to stay up later than they
had to. Getting Beverly was a trial, and an exhausting one at that.

Eddie shifts his leg up, and Richie moves to accommodate it. He strokes Eddie's elbow where
it lays on his stomach. "I've never seen you act like that," Eddie whispers.

Richie opens his eyes, blinking into the dark. There's no point in pretending he doesn't know
what Eddie's talking about. "I know."

"I don't think I've ever really seen you," he trails off, picking at Richie's shirt, "mad."

Richie doesn't ever remember really getting mad. Not mad mad. Not what Eddie is talking
about. He always buries it, covers it up with snarky humor, or just doesn't get that mad in the
first place.

But, then, no. Richie does remember getting angry. Standing in the sewers, watching Eddie
bleed out, and being livid. Running on grief and fury and making one of the worst decisions
in his life.

My anger got us into this mess.

"Nothing to be mad about, Eds," he says.

Eddie huffs. "Only you." It's quiet again for a few seconds, and then Eddie shifts closer,
laying his head on Richie's chest. "Don't do it again."

Richie can't tell if he means it or not, but he thinks Eddie knows it's an impossible promise to
keep. There's no telling what the future could throw at his feet. He pushes Eddie's hair back
carefully, carding his fingers through it. "OK."
They have another full day ahead of them, purely of driving, and no one wants to go all the
way through the night. Instead they take their time, making stops when stops are needed and
eating when everyone starts yelling at Richie to pull over.

In their rush Beverly only grabbed enough for one night, and they stop at a mall on their way
to Syracuse to pick up clothes. The clerk looks shocked to see four men walking in tow
behind Beverly, all trying to help her pick clothes or just browsing through the women’s
section.

We have no idea what we're looking for, Richie thinks, pushing through dresses. Impractical
to be crawling through the sewers in, but cute. He turns around. "Would this look good on
me?" He turns back and forth so it swishes. Stan snorts.

Beverly glances back at him where she's filing through tops. "That's not your color."

Richie makes a face at her. He looks at Stan while he puts the dress back. "Don't be jealous
that I'm more secure with my figure."

Stan stops smiling. "My figure is perfectly fine."

Richie pulls out a different dress. He holds it out. "Oh yeah?"

Beverly walks past them to the counter. "He's a ginger, Richie."

"I'm well aware."

"So, that dress is orange."

Eddie and Ben follow Beverly, and Richie puts the dress back. They help her carry her bags
back to the car when she's done, and finish the drive to Syracuse. It's unlikely they'll find any
hotels further down the road in any short period of time, so Richie pulls them in to the first
one he finds.

Eddie calls the shower first, and Richie sets up their things in the meantime. Putting Eddie's
things out the way he likes them, throwing his own stuff to the side because he doesn't care
where it ends up. He sets his things out for the shower and pulls his cellphone out of his bag.

It's nice to have it back in his hands, rather than just struggling to find a line. It's huge though,
Richie thinks, rolling it back and forth in his hands. Heavy.

He dials Carol's number.

It takes some arranging, but Richie manages to get a hold of Bill's number. He figures if he
calls tonight, they can meet up in the afternoon in Maine. It's less work on his part.

But then he does have to use a landline. He stuffs his cellphone back in his bag and sets the
hotel phone in his lap, dialing up Bill's number.

It's nerve wracking. The last time Richie saw Bill was days ago and he nearly knocked
Richie's teeth out. Out for blood, Richie thinks, waiting for the operator to hook him up.
"What," Bill grumbles into the phone.

He sounds groggy, and it's only then that Richie remembers the time difference between
them. It's the middle of the night where he is, likely morning. "Bill?"

"This better be real fucking good," he says. Static cuts through the words. It sounds like he's
shifting in bed, blankets folding against the receiver.

Richie wonders how he's going to react. Remember that anger, and yell? No, Richie doubts it.
He'll latch onto the gravity of the situation and wait until he's staring Richie in the face to
lash out at him. Like last time.

"It is back," he says, quiet. He looks down at his knees, pulling at his pant leg.

The other side of the line goes silent, and Richie taps his foot, waiting. He can hear Bill
breathing, hears the way it's almost picking up to a gasp. "Oh," he chokes out.

"Can you come?"

"You--" Bill swallows, breath stuttering. He laughs, but it's uneasy. "You sound just like
Mike."

I do, don't I. "I know."

"Is--is Mike there?" He moves again. "Richie, this is you, right?"

"It's me, Big Bill." Richie glances over when the bathroom door opens. He hears the click of
the light turning off, and it prickles the skin of his shoulders. Oversensitive. "We're going to
meet up with him back home tomorrow."

Back home, back home, back homE COME HOME COME HOME COME HOME--

Richie remembers sitting in a circle, down one, passing a picture written in blood around the
room and pretending they were ready to take on the world. He presses his hand to his
forehead, bowing his back, and runs his fingers up into his hair until they catch.

"Yuh-yuh-you're not there yet?" Bill asks. Richie clenches his eyes shut. Bill clears his throat.
Neither of them say anything about the slip up. "You said we. Who all is there?"

Eddie steps forward, and Richie glances up at him. He looks worried. "Who is that?" he
whispers.

"Bill," Richie says softly. "We're in New York," he tells Bill, pressing the receiver to his ear
again. Eddie sits next to him on the bed. "Everyone but you and Mike."

It takes Bill another few moments to respond. "What's going on, Richie?" he asks. "This isn't-
-Mike should be calling everyone. Next year. Why are you?" How?, his tone says.

Richie rolls his tongue around in his mouth, fighting with the words, because in the long run
he doesn't regret his actions at all. "You know as well as I do."
"You think It is already killing again? And Mike doesn't know?"

"Isn't that what you were afraid of?"

Bill's voice comes out softer, but the words don't have any less impact. "What did you do,
Richie."

It's not a question, and Richie doesn't answer him. He takes a stuttering breath, running his
hand down his face. "Will you be there?"

"Yes," Bill says. He doesn't give Richie any time to say anything else. "I'll see you
tomorrow."

The line goes dead, and Richie hangs the phone up. He pulls his glasses off his face, rubbing
at his eyes.

"What did he say?" Eddie asks. He touches Richie's back tentatively.

"That he'll be there," Richie says, sitting up.

Eddie rubs his back, and Richie leans into him. "Was he mad?"

"Oh, you know how Bill can be. You make one bad deal and he never lets it go. What would
he say if I got into gambling?" Richie slides his glasses back on and turns to look at him.

Eddie smiles, warm. "He only does it because he cares about you. All of us. He's worried."

"I don't know. I think he's always wanted to deck me in the face."

"Richie," Eddie says, but it's halfway lost in a gentle laugh.

Richie cups Eddie's cheek, leaning in and brushing their lips together. "Hmm?"

"Don't--" Eddie laughs, pulling away. "Don't kiss me and then ask me what."

"But you're so cute, Eds."

Eddie stares at him, but he's still smiling. "I know. You tell me all the time."

Richie nods, serious. "It's because it's the truth. I'm glad you know."

"You know once this whole mess is over, Bill is gonna want nothing more than to be your
friend again." Eddie takes Richie's free hand in his, and Richie feels his stomach go warm.
"You'll both be laughing about it."

"You're just saying that because you'll all be laughing at my expense," Richie says.

"Richie," Eddie laughs.

"Kidding, kidding." Richie presses a kiss to Eddie's temple. "Thank you."

He stands up, stroking the inside of Eddie's wrist with his thumb before letting his hand go.
"I'm gonna go get some air."

Eddie kicks his slippers off. "Alright. Don't get lost."

"Absolutely chuckalicious, Eds," Richie says, putting his shoes on and grabbing the room
keys. "We should switch jobs."

Eddie snorts, but doesn't say anything else.

Richie doesn't really get any air. He walks up and down the halls of the hotel, stretching his
legs and letting his mind race. If he'd have stayed in the room with Eddie he would've
unloaded weeks worth of worry onto him. Eddie has enough to worry about.

He passes a clock in the lobby around midnight and decides he's worked himself up enough.
He'll have to feel around in the dark for his things so he can take a shower. That'll make Eds
real happy.

"Richie?"

He stops by his door, looking down the hallway when he hears his name. Beverly is standing
by her door, wrapped up in a jacket. "Bev," he says. He turns and walks closer.

She rubs her eyes. "Hey," she says, quiet.

"Hey," he repeats. Her eyes look bruised, worn. "Are you doing OK?"

She looks up at him. A beat passes while she assesses him, taking everything in. "You're," she
stares, "you're not mad?"

"Bev, I--" Richie shakes his head. "No. Of course not."

She sighs, relaxing, and Richie feels terrible. He wants to see her playing, messing around.
Joking. I need my best friend back. Please. "That was really shitty of me," he says. "I
shouldn't have treated you like that. I--I should've--"

"Richie," she says, cutting him off, but she's smiling. Just a little. "You didn't know that was
going to happen."

No, Richie thinks. I didn't. But I should've.

Her smile disappears, and she wraps her fingers around her upper arm, caging herself in. "We
shouldn't have made that decision without you guys. We shouldn't have made it at all."

Richie watches her, and she looks back up at him after a moment. He holds his hand out,
smiling tentatively. "Besties?"

She purses her lips, taking his hand. "If I have to."
He pulls her close, wrapping his arms around her and swinging her around. She laughs, high
and happy. "You do! It's required!"

"By who?"

Richie swings her around one more time before setting her on her feet. She's still laughing a
bit as she straightens her clothing. "The Loser's Club commanding officer. There was a
contract. Didn't they have you sign?"

Beverly walks over to her door, nodding at him. "Oh, yeah, because Bill would force me to
be friends with you."

"Who do you think you're kidding, Bev, Bill would force you to be friends with the world if
he had the chance."

She snorts, unlocking her door. "I'll see you tomorrow, Richie."

He waves as she disappears behind her door, and Richie breathes out a sigh. He can feel
himself smiling, feel the tension leaving his shoulders. If Bev has my back, we've got nothing
to worry about.

He takes a quick shower and climbs into bed, wrapping Eddie up in his arms.

"Feel better?" Eddie slurs, quiet and groggy.

Richie pushes his nose into the back of Eddie's neck, closing his eyes. Eddie sighs, going lax.

He lets himself take it in, one touch at a time. Already feeling on top of the world after
patching things up with Beverly, feeling like he could hold the universe with Eddie against
him. I've been to the edges of the universe, Richie thinks, and this is so much better.

"Yeah," he tucks Eddie further into himself, and gets a noncommittal noise in return, "I do."

#46.) Eddie

There's a sudden rush to get in the car in the morning. Pushing and shoving and excitement to
be in Maine. Back in Derry. We need to see Mike, Eddie thinks, because there's no other
reason any of them would want to go back.

He thinks it's also a bit of a wall--using their happiness to cover up their terror. It feels more
like a shroud, thin and barely covering what writhes beneath it.

They get to Derry early in the afternoon. The conversation in the car slows to a trickle, and
it's like they're all holding their breath, waiting for a change, a feeling. Some indication of
what's going on.
But nothing happens. Eddie glances over at Richie and sees him adjusting his glasses
nervously. Beverly and Stan's eyes are locked on the sidewalk as they drive down the main
street, searching for something to give it away. The peace. It's impossible.

And it really is. It's not peaceful at all. There's a nervousness in the air, stagnant, like the rest
of the town is staring right back at them.

Eddie sees a phone pole stapled with rain soaked papers, and feels his heart jump up into his
throat.

Stan catches his eye in the side mirror, and Eddie shakes his head, clutching his inhaler. "This
shouldn't be happening for another year," he says.

Richie glances at him. "What?"

The attention in the car shifts to the side, and Beverly turns in her seat, looking to see what
they spotted. She plops back down after a moment, covering her mouth with her knuckles.
Her face is pale.

They stop at an intersection, and every phone pole is covered. They're layered over top of one
another like scales, covering old faces with new.

Richie leans back in his seat, staring. He sets his jaw slowly. "Oh."

There are things to talk about, to figure out, but no one brings it up. Taboo. Bad luck, maybe,
to be planning murder at a crossroads surrounded by ghosts.

Mike's address is still the same, but they're early enough that they have time to spare. He's
still at the library, and it's the last place they want to spring up on him.

"Anybody want to walk around?" Ben asks, looking around when they all get out of the car.
He sits on the hood.

Everyone stares at him, looking between each other. Stan shakes his head.

"Well," Richie says, clapping his hands. "I think we should get something to eat. Why don't
we invite Mike to Jade of the Orient?"

They all look at him--Stan curiously--and Eddie folds his arms. "Are you trying to jinx us?"
Beverly asks.

"I would be lying if I said I didn't find this just a little funny."

A door hinge creaks, and they all glance in the direction of Mike's house. Bill is leaning on
the doorframe. "Your messes always made you laugh the most," he says, slow and careful.

Eddie straightens up, pushing away from the curb where he's leaning against Richie's car. Bill
looks exhausted, eyes purple and skin on the pale side. He squints against the sun.
Did he grab a flight as soon as Richie called him? Eddie wonders. There's no other way he
would've made it in time.

Richie is tense next to him, but the smile he throws on is so convincing Eddie isn't sure if it's
real or not. "Why not enjoy the moment before I have to clean it up?"

"Wow, Ben!" Beverly says, hand over her heart. She throws her voice dramatically when she
talks. "I thought you were the one into poetry!"

Ben holds his hands out, shrugging. "I am but an architect, Mrs. Marsh. How could I hope to
stand up to these improvised ballads--"

"Go kiss and make up," Stan says. His arms are folded, and he looks aloof about the entire
situation, but Eddie can see the hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth. "We don't have all
night."

Richie looks back at Bill. "You wanna kiss, Big Bill?"

Bill sighs. "What I want is to punch you in the face again."

"Ah ah ah," Richie says, shaking his finger. He walks up to the door. "That's not an option.
We kiss or bust."

Bill stands up straight, looking up at Richie once they're both on the porch. "L-lips?"

"Only if you can't help yourself."

Bill cranes his neck and pecks Richie on the lips. They look like children again, making up
after some petty fight, trying to gain favor in the eyes of their parents. But there are no adults
here, and all of the Losers--Eddie included--hoot and holler like they're seeing something
much more risque.

"Always nothing b-but talk," Bill says, stepping back to put some distance between them.

Richie narrows his eyes, smiling. The tension lining his back is gone. "Am I?"

"Eddie is ten feet away, Richie," Stan says.

"You're right!" Richie says, swinging around. He bounds down the steps, and Eddie presses
himself close to the car. He glares at Stan, but Stan is conveniently looking away. "Eds, let’s
show him I'm not just--"

Eddie holds his hands out, and they lay flat against Richie's chest when he steps in close.
Eddie's face is on fire. "Let's not!"

Beverly starts laughing, and Richie walks over to her, pulling her close and dragging his
knuckles over her head. "You think that's funny, Marsh?"

Ben and Stan start toward Bill, and Eddie follows them. If he's inside, there's no reason the
rest of them wouldn't be allowed.
Bill is still watching Richie when Eddie passes him, but Eddie can't tell what the look in his
eyes is. His face is carefully blank, with only a fraction of a break, barely anything showing
through. Eddie stops. "Bill?"

He looks over at Eddie, raising his eyebrows.

Eddie stares a second longer. "Are you alright?"

And then Bill is staring at Eddie. His eyes are pinched at the corners. Eddie feels his neck
prickle. "I think so," he says. He looks down for a moment, and when he looks back up he's
smiling. It's tired. "J-j-jet lag?"

If Richie were standing with him he would make an ill-timed joke about time travel, and
Eddie knows in his eyes that would make it so much better. Eddie only nods. "We'll try to get
you to bed as soon as we can."

"It's all up to Mike's schedule," Bill says, chuckling.

Mike doesn't get home until late. Really late. They dig through his cabinets and his pantry
and end up throwing something together while they wait, talking all the while. Making up for
lost time, Eddie likes to think. But he knows they're just putting off the important
conversation as long as they can.

Mike isn't surprised to see five extra faces in his living room when he gets home. He only
sighs, long suffering, and walks across the room to the armchair. He folds his hands in his
lap, staring at his fingers.

"Nothing?" Richie asks, after only a few seconds of silence.

"I have a lot I want to say," Mike says, scoffing out a laugh that doesn't sound the least bit
amused. "Most of all why it was you this time." He looks up at Richie. A beat passes and he
shrugs. "I know now--I remember now. I guess I can put it together."

They stare at each other. Richie's smile is gone. Mike leans forward, hands twisted up so tight
he strains the skin of his knuckles. He looks back down. "We were all blind this time," he
says. "You know we didn't hurt it this time, right?" he asks, glancing around at all of them.
"When we were kids?"

"What?" Bill asks, sitting up from his position on the couch.

Eddie stares at the table in the middle of them all and thinks about it, digging through his
memory. They're all arguing around him, and he tries his best to remember--crawling through
the sewer, wounding It, thinking they had killed it but finding out they hadn't.

The memories are fuzzy, but they're folding into place over a puzzle piece that's not missing.
Eddie remembers meeting the six of them and as the year went on and the line of murders
strung out like a tripwire he just drifted away. He moved when the neighbor's kid went
missing.

Too much for Sonia Kaspbrak. Too close of a call for her boy.
Why didn't we do anything? Eddie thinks, running his fingers up into his hair.

Richie catches the motion and gives him a look. 'What's wrong?'

And Eddie knows why they didn't do anything, staring across the room at Richie. I
misstepped and he brought the rest of the world down with me.

Eddie shakes his head minutely, glancing at the ground. Richie's expression hardens a
fraction. 'Liar.'

"So what?" Stan says suddenly. Everyone stops talking. "From what I'm hearing It was
completely fine when you got back the second time." He shrugs. The longer Eddie looks at
him the more wild he looks. "Why are we worrying about it? Why not just go in there and get
this over with?"

They stare a moment longer, and then Richie grins, throwing an arm around Stan's shoulders.
"I like the new you, Stan!"

"He's still the old Stan, Richie," Ben says, but he's smiling, too.

"Yeah, I am," Stan says, pushing Richie's arm off. "I'm just sick of this bullshit."

Richie gestures to Stan. "The star of your next novel, Bill."

Bill laughs. "I'm thinking about it."

"Stan is right," Mike says. "We shouldn't hesitate."

"Yeah," Stan says, leaning back with his arms crossed.

"So?" Mike looks around the circle. "Any ideas?"

And then no one is talking. They're still smiling a bit, but everyone is doing their best to
avoid Mike's eye contact without being obvious about it. Bill leans forward and rests his
elbows on his knees. "We don't have much choice for getting down there," he says. "We're
just gonna have to do our best." He looks at Eddie. "I know I keep putting this on your
shoulders."

Eddie laughs softly, but it doesn't feel real. He tries for a smile. "That's alright."

"B-Ben can lead us there first," Bill continues. "Like last tuh-tuh-time."

His nerves are getting the best of him, and Eddie watches him work his mouth, fighting with
himself. He looks away.

"So the problem is what happens when we get inside," Mike says. "Really inside."

It's so quiet Eddie can hear the clock on the wall ticking. He grits his teeth. "Bill, do you
think you're-- strong enough to go up against It again?"
Bill looks at him, eyes pinched, and then looks at the ground. He shakes his head. "I d-don't
kn-kn-know."

It's something Eddie already knew, but hearing it from Bill's own mouth has him bouncing
his leg. He can feel his throat closing up, and he tries to ignore it, tries to focus on the feeling
of his inhaler in his hand. The feeling of certainty.

"Then," Mike trails off. "I guess we'll need a backup."

"I was second last time," Richie says, and as flippant as the words sound his expression
betrays how nervous he is.

Eddie's gaze jerks toward him, attention latching on. Richie looks back at him, but looks
away just as fast. It doesn't feel like a plan. It feels like they're fighting for first dibs at the
chopping block.

Mike nods at Richie, glancing around at the rest of them. No one speaks up. "I guess I can be
third."

"Are we all just taking numbers?" Eddie says.

The six of them look at him, and Eddie's skin itches. Overwhelmed. It's too much but not
enough at the same time. They'll never plan enough. How could they?

"If we have to, yes," Mike says.

"And that's the plan?" Eddie scoffs.

"Well we can't just run in there and start swinging," Beverly says.

"Why not?" He stands up, shrugging. He looks around at all of them. "This is exactly what
we did last time. We just ran in there and started the ritual and people still died. What are we
doing that's so different?"

Richie sits forward, poised to get up. "Eddie--"

"Don't 'Eddie' me," he says. He feels like he could crush his inhaler. Eddie's eyes are hot, and
the more he looks around and sees everyone's sullen expressions, the more he feels tears
prickling at his eyes.

He doesn't want to be sitting in the living room, fighting for his life and hoping he'll survive
the second time through. He doesn't want to watch his friends struggle for the same thing.
Eddie shakes his head, and smiles even though he can feel his breath stuttering in his chest. "I
want to go back," he whispers.

He sees the flicker of alarm in Bill's eyes and turns, starting toward the kitchen. I have to get
out, he thinks, choking on his own breath. He didn't mean for his thoughts to come out the
way they did, to come out at all, but Bill's misinterpretation is the last straw.

"Eddie," Richie calls behind him.

"Richie," Mike says, soft.

The couch springs squeak as Richie's weight lowers back down, and Eddie isn't sure if he's
thankful or not.

Eddie stops in the kitchen, bending over the sink. He can hear them talking in the living
room, voices lowered to a whisper, and wants to go outside. Sit in the car, maybe.

He turns his arm and catches the faint glimmer of an old scar, and thinks maybe sitting
outside by himself isn't the best idea.

So he sits in the kitchen. It takes them all a long time to break apart from each other, and
when they do they slowly disperse in different directions. Ben goes outside, Beverly goes
upstairs, Stan walks further down the hallway.

Richie hesitates in the doorway, and Eddie looks up at him, a little angry and a lot scared.
"We're staying here for the night," Richie says, quiet. He walks closer to where Eddie has
grabbed a seat for himself at the kitchen table.

"What did you all decide?" Eddie asks.

"What we ended up with," Richie trails off, leaning against the counter, "wasn't that different
from what happened the first time. You didn't miss much."

And I was right, Eddie thinks, but he doesn't say that. Richie knows. "We're going in the
morning?"

"If nothing tries to kill us in the meantime."

Eddie takes his glasses off and rubs his eyes. "Jesus, don't say that."

Richie walks forward, pulling Eddie closer. Eddie leans into him. "Expect the expected."

"That's not how that saying goes."

Richie pulls away from him, squatting. "Are you OK, Eds?" he asks. He rests a hand on
Eddie's knee.

Eddie looks at him for a second, and then turns in his seat, facing Richie. "Once this is all
over," he says, serious and a bit breathless. Richie glances at his inhaler where it's resting on
the table, "we are going on the longest vacation ever."

Richie stares at him, and then smiles, patting Eddie's knees. He kisses Eddie on his way to his
feet. "It's a date."

"Come on," Richie says, holding his hand out. He pulls Eddie to his feet. "We're staying in
the living room tonight."

"Even Mike?" Eddie asks.

Richie points to the window, and Eddie follows his line of sight. "You wanna sleep all split
up again?"

"No, I guess not."

Richie holds up something shiny, waggling it, and Eddie turns to look at him. "What--"

But Richie is already halfway to the door, stretching his back. Eddie stares a moment,
glancing at Richie's hands, and looks back at the window. His keys...?

The reflection is still there. Eddie's body goes taut, and he backs up slowly, but with every
step he takes it seems like less of a reflection and more like someone standing on the outside.

A hand presses up against the glass, rotted and oozing. Eddie blinks and all that's left of
Richie's face is blue eyes and mucus slick glasses. They slide off its face and thunk against
the window.

It lifts its other hand, and Eddie sees a dime pinched between the tips of its first and middle
fingers. It smiles.

"Eds?" Richie calls. He steps back into the kitchen, holding onto the doorframe.

Eddie jerks, staring at him with wide eyes. He looks him over top to bottom, trying to find
something to give away the illusion. I would've died, he thinks. It would've killed me.

"Eddie," Richie says, walking toward him. He looks worried, nervous.

Eddie steps back when he gets close, and Richie stops. He holds his hands up, looking
around, but Eddie knows what it looks like. There's nothing there, and he's just a bit crazy.
"What ha--"

Richie walks around the table to the sink, looking at the dripping handprint. His expression
twists up in disgust. "What did you see?" he asks Eddie, glancing back at him.

Richie sets his hand over the handprint, and Eddie can see from where he's standing that the
size matches. He clutches his inhaler close, feeling his throat closing up and trying to hold
back the gasps to something quiet. You, you, you, I saw you, but it wasn't you it was It.

Eddie switches his inhaler to a different grip in his hand, walking closer to Richie and
brandishing it like a weapon. Richie is preoccupied with the handprint, saying something
Eddie isn't listening to.

You might not be him, he thinks, and stops just shy of Richie's back. He tenses his finger over
the top of his inhaler, holding it out, knowing it could kill if he's right. Knowing he could die
if he misses.

Richie unlatches the window, opening it and running his finger through the slime. Eddie
drops his hand. It's him.

"What the hell is this?" Richie asks, rubbing his fingers together. He looks up at Eddie.
Eddie watches him for another second, not wanting to tell him, but the smell hits him and he
knows he has to. "The leper."

"The--" Richie stops moving, and Eddie watches his face go green. Richie holds his hand
away from himself, and Eddie backs away from him. "Oh."

"Richie, there's a sink right behind you," Eddie says, trying to turn him around.

"No, no," Richie murmurs, so quiet Eddie can hardly make out what he's saying. The words
sound wet. "I think I'm gonna puke."

"OK, OK," Eddie says, closing the window and latching it. Like it'll do much good.

He leads Richie down the hall, rubbing his back while he washes his hands. The smell is
exacerbated under the hot water, and Richie throws back the toilet lid, gagging. Eddie turns
the fan on, but the longer he stands there the less serious he finds he is about the entire
situation.

He starts laughing, and Richie turns to look at him, eyes watering. "What?"

"You are so stupid," Eddie says, snorting. "Why did you touch it?"

"I was sitting there talking about touching it the whole time and you didn't say anything," he
says. He sounds genuinely miserable.

"I wasn't listening."

Richie spits into the toilet. "Fuck you, Kaspbrak."

"Not unless you brush your teeth first."

"Hey," Mike calls through the house, "what's on the window?"

Richie groans, and Eddie laughs again.

#47.) Richie

There's a reluctance to get up the next morning, cramped together in the living room. Richie
wakes up with Eddie half on top of him on the couch and cards his fingers through his hair.
He stares up at the textured ceiling.

It's calm. In the room, outside. Derry is holding its breath.

Richie turns his head and sees Stan looking at him. "Should we wait?" he whispers. The
words look like a struggle to get out.

Richie nods minutely, and Stan sighs in relief, rolling onto his side.
He puts his glasses on, mapping out Eddie's back under his fingers. We'll have time after this,
he thinks, closing his eyes and trying to feel. So much time.

There's no way to make himself less scared. Anybody would be scared. Anybody.

The rest of them wake up one at a time, and no one makes a move to get everyone together.
Eddie shifts and looks up at him, bleary eyed and tousled, and Richie smiles. He cups Eddie's
cheek in his hand.

I can't wait to take you away from this, Richie thinks, watching him start to drift off again.

"We have to get up," Richie whispers.

Eddie holds Richie's hand and turns his head, kissing the inside of Richie's wrist. Richie's
face goes hot, but he can't stop smiling. "Just a bit longer."

"If you can say that, you're already awake."

Eddie opens his eyes, displeased, and Richie hands him his glasses. "You're not a very
comfortable pillow."

Richie sits up, holding Eddie in his lap. Eddie cleans his glasses. "At least you got to roll
around all night. I had to lay on my back and take it."

Beverly catcalls, and Richie grins at her. Everyone sits up slowly, stretching, and Eddie sets
his glasses on his face. He leans in close to Richie. "I didn't know you were a bottom," he
says, quiet, teasing.

Richie runs his hands up Eddie's thighs, fighting a smile. "Minx."

"Gross!" Ben yells, tossing his pillow. Eddie catches it and flings it back.

"Stop it, Ben, you're ruining the show!" Beverly hisses.

"Yeah, I wanna see how far they'll take it," Stan says, leaning back against the foot of the arm
chair.

"No, no, no!" Mike says, stumbling on his way to his feet when he gets tangled up in his
blanket. He points at the two of them. "Not in my house! Not in my living room, not in any of
the other rooms!"

"Why?" Richie asks, watching him almost trip. Mike picks up his pillow. "Every stain is a
memory, Mikey--"

Mike tosses the pillow at Richie's head as he walks by, and Richie bats it out of the air.
"Come on," he says, trudging into the kitchen. "We need to get ready."

Eddie tenses, and Richie's smile disappears. The air in the living room is cold, distant. Richie
can't bring himself to make a joke.
Eddie looks at him, a nervous glance, there and gone just as fast. He shifts, standing up, and
Richie follows him into the kitchen.

They eat. It's nothing special--just something quick they dig up in Mike's refrigerator. They're
dressed and on their way out the door in under an hour, no chit chat or procrastination. Richie
glances at the kitchen window on his way to the front door. It's immaculate.

He runs into Bill just as he starts to step over the threshold. "Who's holding up the line?" he
asks, leaning around.

All six of them are stopped, and Richie furrows his eyebrows, looking around. There's
nothing down either side of the street.

Stan shifts backwards, body turning like he's going to come back inside. Ben steps back,
pushing the rest of them onto the porch. Richie leans forward. What are they looking at?

"Where is everyone?" Mike whispers.

His tone sounds so thrown that Richie tenses. The sidewalks are empty--there are no cars, no
children, no one on their porches. Every light is off. Richie's neck prickles.

"W-w-we have to g-go," Bill says, pushing forward. He walks stiffly, like he's forcing himself
to move.

The rest of them scramble to follow him into Richie's car, and Richie only just remembers to
shut Mike's front door. He throws himself into the driver's side, starting up the car and
slamming his door.

Every street is empty. They drive down the main drag and it's almost as if no one was there
yesterday. Like everyone packed up and left.

The Losers are smashed in the back seat, huddled together, and their heavy breathing is the
only sound besides the hum of the engine. Richie looks out the window at the phone poles,
but every child's face has been replaced. A werewolf, Paul Bunyan, an eye. A clown. Their
eyes follow him.

He looks straight ahead, trying not to be obvious about his shaky breathing. "Did we grab the
flashlights?" he asks.

"W-well, I didn't grab matchb-b-hooks," Bill says, looking over at him from the passenger
seat.

Richie gives him a withering look.

He pulls off the side of the road as near to the Barrens as he can, and they all flood out,
hovering around the trunk. Stan passes out flashlights, and Richie distantly hears Ben and
Bill working out the direction to the Morlock Hole they need to go down. He looks at the bat
laying in the trunk.

I shouldn't, he thinks. It's just gonna weigh me down.

But he grabs it anyway, shutting the trunk and following the rest of them down the overgrown
path down to the creek. Stan turns back and furrows his eyebrows. "What are you doing?"

Richie lays the bat on his shoulder. "It's no fair that Eddie gets a weapon and no one else
does."

Eddie turns around to look at him, deadpanning. Richie shrugs.

They stop by the Morlock Hole, and rather than drop a matchbook down inside Richie clicks
his flashlight on and shines it down. It looks the same in every way. He doesn't know if that's
good or bad.

Bill bends down next to the cap, looking underneath it. Something was down there, Richie
thinks, watching him stand back up. Something of Audra's.

But neither Audra nor Tom are in town, and Henry Bowers is nowhere to be found. A pit is
settling in Richie's stomach, opening up a hole of unease. He blows out a slow breath, trying
to regain his bearings, and taps his flashlight against the top rung of the ladder.

"Ladies first," he tells Beverly.

She gestures to the hole. "I'm not sure why you're making us wait."

"Bev gets off a good one," Richie mutters. He doesn't have it in himself to laugh.

He swings his leg over the edge, climbing down, and Bill shines his light down so Richie can
see the bottom. The water goes up his shins, and he shivers. Why didn't we get boots.

"Come on down, the water's fine!" he calls.

"Beep-beep, Richie," Mike calls back.

It echoes down the ends of the pipe, and he shines his flashlight both ways, terrified he's
going to see something peering out at him. He bounces up and down impatiently.

Bill is the next one down, and Richie shifts close to him, back to back. They both keep an eye
on their path, but there's nothing. The water sludges around their legs, and the endless length
of the pipes distorts the noise.

Mike comes down next, and the three of them fan out, waiting. No one wants to be first or
last, and each of them gets faster coming down than the person before them.

They all look up when Eddie doesn't swing over as soon as Ben is down. There's a muffled
noise, branches breaking, rustling.

Richie pushes up to the ladder, heart in his throat. He grabs a rung, fitting his foot into the
bottom one. "Eddie?"

There's another muffled noise and a snap, and Eddie's face appears. Richie exhales. "Sorry. I
got caught in those blackberry bushes."
They step back as he comes down, and Richie takes in his scraped and bloodied arms. His
hair looks disheveled. "You OK?"

Eddie purses his lips in disgust, shining his flashlight down at the muddy water swirling
around their shins. "I guess."

"We thought we'd lost you," Mike snorts. He pats Eddie on the back.

"Swallowed by the blackberry bush," Eddie mumbles, starting off in one direction. They all
file in behind him. "That'd be a way to go."

Eddie leads them until they're crawling. There's no sound besides the scrape of their limbs
against the walls and their ragged breathing. It's almost too loud in the space around him, too
closed in. He swears he can hear the distant patter of footsteps. Running. I didn't think I was
claustrophobic.

"Richie," Beverly grunts, "I really wish you hadn't brought that bat."

He accidentally nudges the back of her knee with it, and she shakes it off. He wiggles it
around a bit just to be an ass. "Richie, I swear--"

"It makes me comfortable, Bev," he says. "I need the protection."

"What the hell--" Stan makes an alarmed sound behind him, jerking forward. Richie laughs
when Stan's head butts his ass, "is that bat going to protect you from?"

"Whatever you just saw."

"Alright, I'm saying this now," Mike says. "I'm buying ice cream when we get out of here."

"Are you b-bribing us?" Bill asks, somewhere ahead of him.

"What would the bribe even be?" Ben asks.

"To not die," Stan says.

"That's right," Mike says. "As much as you all want. It's on me."

Richie hoots, and it echos on and on and on until it comes back at them even louder.

"Fuh-fuh-fuck, Richie, don't do that."

"Sorry, I got excited."

"About ice cream, or everyone living?" Ben asks.

"A little bit of both. Mostly the ice cream."

He hears quiet laughter peppered throughout the Losers, and it lightens the somber mood
somewhat. If just a little.
He hears a curse up ahead of him, quiet muttering that he can't make out. It's the drop off, is
what he hears, and he has to have help being pulled from the pipe so he doesn't fall.

Bill clicks on his flashlight, and the rest of them follow suit. No one shines their light in
anyone's face, but they all give each other once overs, looking one another up and down.
They're dirty and their clothes are tattered from crawling, but besides being a bit scuffed up
they look fine.

Mike shines his light around, and Richie goes tense. He straightens up, shining his flashlight
in the corner. There's no skeleton. Nothing left of Patrick Hockstetter's remains. Richie
pushes a little closer to the rest of them, shining his flashlight in a wide circle around the
small room.

The pipes are different. He's been in there twice, and their drop off didn't look like it does
now. Are we lost? he wonders. They're all looking around, mapping with their flashlights.
Eddie is standing in the middle of the room, staring at the pipe they dropped out of. He looks
at the ceiling, then behind him. There are three more pipes in the room. He turns, looking up
again.

"It's this way," Eddie says, pointing down one pipe.

Richie steps forward. Eddie doesn't look put off at all, but Richie knows for certain that it's
not remotely the right direction. Not the way they went the last two times. Where are we
going? "Eddie, are--"

There's a splash, and all of them whip around to the biggest outlet, shining their flashlights
inside. Someone is running toward them, panting, gasping, terrified.

Another splash, like they've tripped, and Eddie stumbles out of the mouth of the pipe. He's
clutching his arm, and Richie sees blood oozing between his fingers. "Guys," he says, quiet.
He sounds so relieved he's breathless.

They all look back at Eddie, standing on the other side of the room, nestled in the safety of
the Losers. He's staring into his own face, eyes wide. Eddie backs up and holds up his
flashlight in shaking fingers, pointing it across the room. He looks between them all. "That's--
that's not me," he says, skittish.

The other Eddie mirrors him, pressing himself close to the clay wall. His eyes are sunken,
skin ashen. His hair is sweat soaked and slicked back in dirty water. The hand his points is
shaking just as bad, if not worse. "You--that thing-- It," he says, swallowing. His voice is
weak, "attacked me outside the pipe."

They're all staring, and Richie chances a look back at the other Eddie. The Eddie that's lead
them down a path none of them are familiar with, that hasn't spoken since they've gotten
inside. Eddie looks back at him. They stare at each other, and he smiles suddenly, teeth like
razors.

Richie goes numb, staring. Everything around him seems to slow down, bleed away until
there's nothing left but the two of them staring at each other in the dark.
And then it crashes back down on him. He's paralyzed, so, so scared. Furious.

Richie tightens his grip on the bat, walking across the room with long strides. He lifts it as
high above his head as he can, putting every bit of force he can manage into it, willing every
bit of belief he has into that one swing. This will kill you, it will it will it will--

He starts to swing, and Bill grabs his arm. "R-Richie!"

Eddie's face is morphed back into something normal, human. He's stumbling back up against
the wall, breath a rabbity wheeze in his chest, and he scrambles to get his inhaler out of his
pocket. His eyes are tearing up.

"What the fuck are you doing?!" Ben yells, pushing him back.

"Are you kidding?!" Richie yells back. He pulls the bat out of Bill's hand, but lets it rest by
his leg. He gestures wildly to the Eddie he had been about to swing at. "Did you not see
that?!"

"See what, Richie?!" Bev asks, voice high to match his.

They're all yelling then, tensions high. He can see them all shifting minutely, blocking his
path to Eddie. To It.

"That's not Eddie!" he says.

Mike holds his hands up, and Richie can feel himself pushing that last bit of rope. Pulling it,
seeing how much is left. He's going to snap, he knows it. "Just calm down, Richie. You're
seeing things."

"See--" Richie huffs a laugh that isn't remotely amused. He nods, knocking the bat against his
shin. "Yeah, yeah, OK." He points at the It-Eddie. "That's It, and you can keep telling me
differently, but It's going to die."

It-Eddie pushes further back into the corner. "Richie," he whispers, pleading.

And it hurts, God, does it hurt to watch that. Richie feels the briefest flicker of hesitation, but
he stuffs it down. You hurt him, and I'll kill you for it.

"Don't," he says. "Don't you dare."

"Richie, stop," Stan says, scared but serious. His tone wavers, but his stance is solid. He
points at Eddie, standing by the pipe. "That is not Eddie."

One moment, a happenstance, where Richie looked over and saw a flash of a monster that no
one else did. Once again he feels himself standing on the other side of some invisible line,
but Eddie is standing with him.

"Richie," Bill says, stepping forward. He walks like Richie is a wild animal, something that
will flee with the first flicker of mistrust. "I w-was behind Eh-Eddie th-th-this whole time. I
kn-know that's not him."
His immediate reaction is to argue, but he stops, staring at Bill and turning the words over in
his mind. It's Bill. Why would Bill lie to me? Richie is sick of fighting everyone, especially
him, and as much as he doesn't want to believe them at all he would rather work it out than
throw their words to the side in favor of his own.

He nods, and the group sighs collectively. "I get that, Big Bill, but I--"

Something catches the corner of his eye, and he looks over just as something juts out of the
pipe near Eddie. It grabs his leg, yanking him back, and he slams down onto his stomach.
Eddie's good hand scrambles for purchase on the ground, and he screams as he's pulled back
into the dark.

Richie starts after him immediately, and the Losers call after him, fingers grabbing at his
shirt. He has enough time to glance behind him before he's running back into another pipe,
and he catches It-Eddie's eyes, yellow, cat-like. His smile.

Eddie's screams are distorted by the pipe, bouncing up and down the sewer until they're loud
but quiet and close but far. Richie runs, trying to follow as fast as he can. He has to bend to
move, and walking alone is a chore when he's sloshing through sewage, but running is almost
impossible. He can feel himself lagging behind. Knows Eddie is getting further away.

He runs until he ends up in another room. It's smaller than the last, and every pipe is a
different size--most he can't fit through. He can't hear the Losers screaming for him anymore.
Eddie's voice has disappeared completely.

It's quiet.

Richie knows that's exactly what's going on, right in that moment. A single kernel of doubt is
something to wedge a sword into, and It is taking advantage of that. Six is a number with no
power. If Richie is broken away from the group they'll be useless.

With Eddie dead we'll be down to five, he thinks. And It is there with them.

We're going to die.

Richie scrubs a hand up into his hair, feeling his eyes watering. His breath is stuttering in his
chest. He doesn't want to die. He doesn't want any of his friends to die. Doesn't want Eddie to
die again. He's alone.

"Fuck," Richie whispers, voice hoarse. He runs both hands up into his hair. "Fuck!"

Should he go back? Retrace his footsteps and try to meet up with the group again? Or keep
looking for Eddie? Richie shines his flashlight into one of the pipes across the room. It's the
only one he can fit into.

He shouldn't. He knows that. If there's no more sound he's gone too far in one direction.
Going back would be the smartest thing to do. Can I even find my way back without him?

Richie turns, walking back to the pipe. They all look the same. Why do they all look the same.
"Help me."

Richie stops. He stares down at the floor, the sewage, and feels his heart jump into his throat.
His spine tingles from his tailbone to his shoulders. Run.

The voice comes from every direction, filtering through every pipe and bouncing back down.
A whisper that feels like a scream. It sounds like Eddie, but the echo doesn't. Like it's been
said by a hundred different voices all out of unison. Richie feels his skin itch. Inhuman.

He hears laughter bubble up from one of the pipes behind him, skittering and demented, and
swivels on his heel, shining the flashlight. Something catches the light-- eyes, I swear
something was looking at me-- but it disappears so quickly he's not sure.

It's playing with me, Richie thinks. He feels almost hysterical, shaking all over, unable to
catch his breath. Waving his flashlight like the light will protect him. It's funny how much he
believes that it will. The dark isn't the scary part. It's being caught alone. And Richie is so
very alone.

There's another sound from the pipe, a sagging cry, and Richie is sure that one is Eddie.

He hesitates, and he hates himself for it. I don't know what's down there with him. And he's
by himself. He can't kill It alone, as much as he wishes he could.

But he certainly won't let it kill Eddie. He won't. Richie clenches his hand to stave off the
jitters, and the bat in his hand feels like a life support.

He ignores the instinct to run and walks down the pipe across the room.

It's quiet again. The only sound is the water trailing around his ankles and over the old brick,
his feet splashing, water flowing in from overhead or smaller waterways. The occasional rat.

Richie walks for what feels like forever. There are bends in the pipe, and he thinks it may be
a bit difficult to get back up, but he knows he can. The further he goes the older is looks.
Everything is falling apart, there's no concrete, no clay. Just old old brick paths that crumble
around him.

How far under am I? he wonders, glancing up when he feels an open space above him. Part
of the ceiling has fallen through from a pipe above him, and he shines his flashlight up. His
heart pounds when he swings it back down, afraid he's going to see something standing there
in front of him.

But there's nothing there, and he's only working himself up as time goes on. Every second
that passes makes it harder for him to swallow around his own fear.

He gets to the end of the tunnel, and stops, looking down the pipe it's attached to. Left or
right. Both directions look the same, and he has no indication of which to take. He turns to
the left. Remember that. You took a left here.

Trying to force that into his mind has him thinking back. Does he remember the path he took
to get to where he is? He runs it back through his head as best he can, and it calms him down.
Richie almost trips on a chunk of rock hidden in the stream he's trudging through, and on his
way back to a crouch he stops, shining his flashlight on the wall. There are bloodied
fingerprints dragging over the brick. Low and dripping into the water.

He points the light down the pipe, but he can't see the end. There's only water and brick
extending on and on and on.

Richie takes a cautious step forward, glancing back at the blood on the wall, and then starts
walking again. The further he goes the more debris is lying around. If the rest of the sewers
looked bleak, this is completely desolate.

He takes turn after turn, and starts marking them with fallen bricks to find his way back. The
blood is washing downstream or he would follow that back instead. I'm probably going to get
confused. All the rubble looks the same.

The blood stops abruptly by a break in the wall of the tunnel, and Richie stops, looking
inside. The wall has fallen in, and there's a huge room on the other side. He steps over the
partition, and trips when the broken brick gives way beneath his feet. He falls onto his hands,
cursing when it scrapes up his palms.

His flashlight and bat both clatter away, and he picks up the bat where it's resting against the
wall. He stumbles over to his flashlight, tripping over the fallen brick. Having his flashlight
back in his hand is like a safety net, something to protect him, and he sighs in relief, looking
around.

The walls are falling apart, and the ceiling is broken in multiple places, but it looks sturdy.
The entire floor is covered in a mound of debris. Richie climbs to the top of the pile, looking
around into the back of the room.

The bat clatters out of his fingers and back onto the ground, bouncing off into the corner.

Eddie is lying against the back wall, head turned toward Richie and eyes glassy. His arm is
broken, and the other is gone--a cruel mockery of the past-future. He's lying in a pool of
congealed blood. His expression is horrified.

Richie covers his mouth, feeling his stomach churning. His eyes are welling up, and he
doesn't make to stop it. Doesn't fight the immediate grief that crests in his chest. This was
what I was supposed to fix.

There's something on the wall behind Eddie, and Richie moves closer, shining his flashlight.

Ready or not!

It's written in blood, still dripping, and something about it feels almost gleeful.

"Oh God," Richie murmurs, turning. His stomach lurches one last time before he falls onto
his hands and knees, vomiting.

He spits, gasping, and squeezes his eyes shut around the tears. This was supposed to save
him. This was all for him. I told him he would make it. Richie thinks about every conversation
they had on the way from New York to Derry, every word spoken about their future, and feels
an unbearable anguish clawing the inside of his chest.

"I'll kill you you fucking bitch!" he screams at the words on the wall.

He turns sideways, sitting on the top of the mound, and pushes his hands up under his
glasses. He's exhausted and so angry, because being angry is easier than being sad. But
Richie doesn't know if he's angry at It or himself. Pennywise for what she did, or me for
letting our future fall apart before it had a chance?

Richie chokes on a sob, muffling it into his bloodied palms. He doesn't care that he's leaving
himself prone, sitting on a hill in the middle of a room on the outskirts of the sewer system.
His flashlight is warm in his palm and with his hands over his eyes the darkness is bearable.

He sits there in that room for a long few minutes. Until he can look at Eddie again. Until he
can finally breathe. Until walking out won't feel like taking scissors to an artery.

Richie stands up when the smell of vomit and sewage and blood becomes too cloying to
breathe in the stagnant air. He looks at his feet, reluctant to leave but knowing he has to. He
shines his flashlight over at Eddie one last time, and Richie's stomach squirms. It's like he's
looking right at me.

I should shut his eyes, he thinks, stepping closer. The more he thinks about it the more it
bothers him. Eddie hates the sewers, and he's made that very clear. I can't leave him down
here. I can't just let him rot. Let him be eaten.

His stomach squirms again, and Richie takes a deep breath, trying to calm it. He walks down
the pile of bricks. I can carry him.

Halfway down his flashlight catches on the words again, and he almost doesn't look, but he
can't help himself. It's gruesome in the way that draws attention. But that's not exactly why.
Richie's flashlight swings by the base of the letters, and he stops when he thinks he sees
something. He shines the light up again.

here i come

Richie steps back, forgetting his anger and grief in a wash of cold panic. The bricks by Eddie
shift and he looks down, pointing his flashlight.

Eddie is staring up at him, grasping with his broken arm. "Help me," he says, hoarse and
scratchy.

Richie stumbles backward, tripping and falling. He can feel the bricks digging into his thighs
and back, but he doesn't stop scrambling for purchase. Eddie shifts to follow him, dragging
himself. "You're--you can't--" Richie shakes his head. His thoughts are a mess, cut off from
his mouth.

Eddie pushes himself up, and his arm gives a loud crack, sending him face first into the
rubble. Richie's stomach churns, and he kicks off the mound, searching the side of the room
for his bat. I need it I need it before I leave.

He hears Eddie struggling behind him. "Richie," he says, and his voice sounds clearer, but
there's something just beneath the surface. Unsettled, like he's a hair away from screaming,
"you promised."

Richie's heart lurches, and he skids down the bricks. The light catches on the metal of the bat,
and he rushes to grab it. The bricks are shifting behind him, quick, and Richie's breath
catches in his throat. Eddie's found his feet.

Richie trips when he turns, but runs around the wall of the room to the hole leading back into
the pipe. Eddie falls once, and then is up again. He's chasing me, Richie thinks, hysterical.

"Trashmouth!" Eddie calls. He falls down the pile closest to Richie, and Richie vaults onto it,
using his legs to his advantage to push him up and onto the broken partition. "Where you
going? We have a date!"

Richie feels fingers scrabbling at his pants, and his throat tightens so much he can't breathe.
He throws himself back out into the pipe, and blunt nails bite into his ankle, pulling off his
shoe and dragging it back into the room.

He spins around on the ground, not caring that he's splashing around in sewage, and shines
his flashlight into the opening. Nothing is there.

Richie stands slowly, heart pounding, chest hurting, and looks around the room. There's
nothing. No blood, no writing. Like he imagined it all.

He steps back, too scared to go fishing around to his shoe, and starts walking back the way he
came.

Can It control dead people? he wonders. He thinks about it the whole time he's walking.
They've never encountered anything like it--only the living being controlled. Did it control
Bowers while he was dead? Richie doesn't remember.

He walks and walks and walks, bat held in a vice-like grip in his hands. Every turn could
have something waiting around the corner, and each time Richie shines his flashlight both
ways just to be sure. He swears he hears walking behind him, Eddie's quiet laughter, but each
time he turns around it's just him. Alone.

"Just me," he murmurs to himself, following his path back. "Just me and a hundred people's
shit."

He turns around a corner, and sees someone standing at the mouth of another pipe. Richie
screams, startled, and swings.

"Richie!" Ben yells, jerking back. The bat bounces off the wall, and a loud metallic sound
vibrates in the air. "Jesus!" He steps forward, hands out. "We've been looking all over the
place! We thought we lost you!"
Richie stares for a moment, shocked into stillness, and then chokes on a sob. He can feel
himself tearing up already. Ben looks relieved and worried, eyes gauging. He looks Richie up
and down, but doesn't ask. "Let's just get this over with, OK?"

Richie nods, starting to follow, but stops. "Where--" He clears his throat when he voice
comes out watery. "Where's your flashlight?"

Ben turns back to look at him, hand on the wall. "My batteries were bad. I just tossed it in."

Richie stares at him a moment, uneasy. He shines a light down the pipe Ben's leading him
down, but doesn't see anyone. "How could you see?"

"What do you mean?" Ben's eyes flash in the light, unnatural and animalistic. When he talks
Richie sees canines. "I was following you."

Richie glances over when he sees Ben's hand change, and feels an old old old fear flood
through him. His hand is the size of a baseball glove, clawed and covered and fur. He looks
back at Ben's face but sees a maw in its place.

Richie screams, staggering as he turns around. The werewolve's claws catch the back of his
shirt, and Richie feels his skin tear, grunts at the pain. There's a splash behind him when he
starts running--the sound of something giving chase. He sprints.

He trips on his own brick markings more than once, and he's sure he's broken his toe, but he
doesn't let up. It sounds like it's right behind him no matter how fast or slow he's going. He
can hear Eddie's voice bouncing up and down the pipes, singing a crude version of Too Slow
by the Impressions. A whisper one second and a hoot the next. Laughter.

You're too slow! You're too slow! You're too slow!

"Richie!" he hears, yelled from somewhere ahead of him.

"Richie where are you?!"

It's a chorus of voices, and he gasps, relieved but panicked. "Help!"

"R-Richie!"

"Richie, we're this way!"

It doesn't help much, distorted as the sound gets, but Richie lays it on, running until he hits
the next room. He stops when he sees multiple pipes, shining his light down each.

"Help!" he cries again. He doesn't know what else to say.

"Richie!"

Richie spins around when he hears Stan, and he gets on his knees, shining his flashlight into a
smaller pipe behind him. Stan shields his eyes, turning his flashlight toward the wall so it
doesn't shine at Richie. "Richie, thank God," Stan says, squinting at him. When he breathes
it's shaky. "We could hear you screaming," he whispers. His eyes are round, scared.

"Stan, Stan, oh, God," he blubbers, leaning halfway into the pipe. He's prone, but he's so
close to all of them. He can hear them shifting in the pipe and on the other side. All trying to
talk over each other.

"Come in this way," Stan says. "I don't know how you got over there, but we don't want to
lose our way. And lose the bat already."

"OK," Richie says, dropping it on the ground. He wedges himself inside. "OK."

"Back up!" Stan calls. Richie hears slow shifting, and he moves forward until he's as far in as
he can get with Stan in his way.

They both sit nose to nose, flashlights throwing odd shadows all over the place. Richie sits,
partially out of the pipe and feeling exposed. Stan stares at him. Richie raises his eyebrows.

"What?" Stan asks.

"Are you gonna move?"

Stan smiles. "That excited?"

Richie shifts back, eyebrows furrowed. He stares, confused, until Stan lurches forward
suddenly and grabs his arm with clawed fingers.

Richie screams, shoving himself backward and trying to disentangle the two of them. His arm
is being pulled further and further, and he can feel blood pouring over his skin as it's ripped
open. He gets himself out of the pipe, but It yanks back, and Richie shrieks when his arm is
pulled until it pops out of place.

His foot slip slides on the bat, and he makes a mad grab for it. His fingers brush against it,
and he cries out when his skin tears and It's fingers wrap around his wrist, yanking. He slams
against the side of the pipe, knocking his head into it. His glasses clatter onto the ground, and
his head spins, but he gets a grip on the bat.

Richie turns and shoves it into the pipe, smashing it into a blur of a figure. He hears a hiss
and little else, but he manages to wedge it down against the arm locked around his. He puts
all his weight behind it, this will work, this will work because it always works, arms break,
and hears a crack.

There's a sudden scuffle and a cry, and the grip on Richie's arm disappears. He pulls it out of
the pipe and pats for his glasses on the ground with his good hand, so panicked he knocks
them back and forth before finally getting a grip on them.

The pipe is empty when he looks up again, and his heart stutters in his chest. Richie reaches
in with his good arm, grabbing his flashlight, and points it inside.
It is peering back at him, white makeup smeared with a thin rivulet of blood. Furious. It
lurches into the pipe suddenly, fingers clawing at the cement, and Richie screams, running.

He has no idea where he's going. Everything looks exactly the same, but he knows he never
crawled, so he sprints down every wide-mouthed pipe he finds. There's no indication of
which direction he's going, and he didn't take the time to memorize his path when he was
chasing Eddie.

Richie takes a turn too fast and falls, almost losing his flashlight in the sewage. His arm is
just about useless, swinging back and forth at his side and hurting, God it hurts so much.
Fingers grapple at his leg, and he gasps, vaulting forward. It takes his other shoe.

It's going to chase me forever, he thinks. He barely has enough air, can feel himself choking
on his own throat, but manages a sob. His eyes tear up so much he can hardly see the path
ahead of him. I'm going to die. I'm lost and I'll never find them again and I'm going to die.

He swings around another corner, hears the splashing behind him. Something grabs the back
of his shirt and he screams, really screams, because it's over this is the end this is where It
gets me--

"Richie!"

A flashlight wheels around the corner in a wide arc. It's Mike, standing there, gasping and
teary-eyed. Richie takes a step back, bat held out like a sword. "Go away," he says, voice
bobbing, warbling. His whole body is shaking, tense, ready to run.

Mike looks him up and down, arms held out to placate. He steps closer. "What ha--"

"I said go away!"

Mike's expression smoothes out into something very serious. "Richie, put the bat down."

Richie's hand is shaking, and the bat wavers. "I'll kill you," he says.

"No you won't."

"Yes I will." He nods, and a slow, deranged smile breaks out on his face. "You think I won't?
I hurt you once. You think I can't kill you?"

Mike stares at him, eyebrows furrowed. "Richie, I don't--I don't know what you're talking
about, but--"

"Yes you do!" He steps back again, and Mike matches him. "Don't fuck with me!"

"Richie--"

"Mike!" Stan calls. The pipe throws his voice out of proportion. "Where are you?!"

"I found Richie!" Mike calls back without breaking eye contact.
There's a sudden burst of noise from the pipe, and Richie sees lights bobbing up and down,
glaring off the water. There's a cacophony of splashing.

Richie's chest hurts. His entire body hurts. He wants to believe it's Mike, he really does. He
lowers the bat slowly, watching.

Mike smiles slowly. "See? It's OK."

Two glittering yellow eyes blink back at Richie from behind Mike, and Richie's heart starts
up that same heavy tattoo in his chest. He spins on his heel, socks slick with sewage, and
almost falls forward. Mike follows him, footfalls heavy in the water.

Laughter echoes around him, cruel and demented, and Richie sees things peeking out of the
dark where his flashlight doesn't reach. Every time it swings back and forth he sees a new
face, a new grin. Eddie's voice is there again, tailing him, whispering in his ear. ' You're
gonna be dead and buried before we're married'.

Mike crashes into him, and Richie cries out when he lands on his shoulder. He struggles, but
Mike is wrapped around him, pressing his arms up close to to his body. He can't get any
traction, feet sliding all over the waterway.

"Mike!"

"I'm down here!" Mike yells. His voice is strained.

Richie thrashes against him. God, no, please don't--

A face peeks around the lip of the pipe and into the room they've found, and when the
flashlight drops Richie sees Bill. Beverly steps around him, and she makes a noise when she
sees Richie, covering her mouth. Their eyes are wide, shocked. Disbelieving. Stan steps out
around them and utters a shaky gasp.

"Richie," he whispers.

"Move!" Eddie snaps, and the three of them bubble forward when he pushing through.

Richie stops struggling, staring at him. He looks pale, cheeks ruddy and shiny with tears,
eyes red, hair tousled, skin scraped raw. The brambles. He looks OK. He looks alive.

Richie's shoulders shake with a sob, breath catching in his chest. "Please, no," he murmurs,
voice wet and tone despondent. "I can't."

He drops his head, staring at the light of his flashlight on the ground. I can't look. Just let it
be over with.

Eddie's footsteps walk forward, stopping in front of his feet. He kneels, and Richie tenses
when a hand rests on his knee, feeling his heart pick up despite him willing it not to.

"Richie," Eddie says, soft. He reaches up and cups Richie's face. "Look at me."
Richie breathes, shaky, and does. Eddie is so close he can see the little freckles on his nose.

Eddie runs his thumb under Richie's glasses, catching a tear, and Richie sniffles. I thought I
was all dried up. "I'm not gonna hurt you," he whispers.

Richie drops the bat, and when he reaches forward Mike carefully lets him go. He lays his
palm flat over Eddie's heart, feels it beating beneath his fingers, the rise and fall of his
breathing.

Eddie covers his hand with his own, squeezing. "See?" he asks, careful. "Just me."

Richie makes a noise, pain and relief so tightly wound in his chest he's not sure where it
originates. He squeezes his eyes shut against the rush of tears. Eddie lurches forward, pulling
Richie flush against him, and Richie buries his face in Eddie's neck. He fists the back of
Eddie's shirt.

"It's OK," Eddie whispers, voice sweet and soothing where it nestles into his neck. "It's OK
now."

Someone steps forward, and Richie feels his skin prickle, body tensing. He pulls Eddie
closer. Eddie rubs his back in a slow line, turning his head to look over his shoulder. "It's just
Beverly." He stares for a second. "He's alright."

Everyone shifts forward then, hesitant. Mike is still sitting beside them both, and he wraps a
gentle arm around Richie's shoulders, scooting closer until the three of them are pressed
close.

Richie feels the panic abate as the six of them circle around him, kneeling and wrapping him
up in their arms or standing over him and resting their hands on his shoulders. It isn't
comfortable in the slightest, but it's warm and kind and loving and Richie feels his panic start
to abate sitting there on the floor.

They stay like that until Richie stops crying. Until he gives into his exhaustion and starts to
doze off, wrapped up in Eddie's arms.

"We need to wrap his arm," Eddie murmurs. His fingers card through Richie's hair when he
shifts.

"He was bleeding all over when I grabbed him," Mike whispers. "His back and his arm."

"Where are his shoes," Stan says, almost inaudible.

"His palms are all cut up, too," Ben says.

"His shoulder doesn't--doesn't feel right," Eddie says.

It should all be worrying, but he doesn't let it bother him. Their voices, close and surrounding
him, carry him off to a light sleep. Richie feels them moving, shifting, poking and prodding
with gentle fingers.
"--t-t-take him to a huh-hospital--"

"We--take him--"

"--just leave."

"Bev is--. We've already gotten this far."

"You wanna ask--come--all that? Cuz I don't--"

"Fine. Fine."

"Sorry, Eddie--"

"Oh, can it."

There's a lull in their conversation, and Richie tries to slip back under, but his dozing is
tumultuous at best, and the six of them are bickering. His anxiety spikes, and no matter how
hard he tries it only feels like he's laying boneless against Eddie's chest.

"--him u-u-up. We need to g-get--"

"Seriously?"

"We can't stay--fuh-forever, Eddie."

There's another pause, and then a light tap on Richie's back. He breathes deeply, tired down
to his bones, and blinks. His eyes sting. Eddie pats his back again, and Richie leans back,
trying to regain his bearings. Everything aches.

"We have to go," Eddie whispers.

Richie looks up at the five of them, all standing around he and Eddie in a circle. Waiting. He
looks back at Eddie, nodding slowly. Ignoring the quick spike of nerves that dig into his
stomach. He looks into Eddie's eyes, grey and shiny with worry in the dim light, and feels a
bit sturdier.

Eddie stands and pulls Richie to his feet. The Losers shuffle around them, ready to start
walking-- ready to leave, Richie thinks. I'm keeping them down here. He bends and picks up
the bat, ignoring his flashlight. Stan picks it up.

Eddie glances at it briefly, but doesn't mention it. "Follow me," he says.

"OK," Richie says quietly, nodding. He presses his runny nose into his good shoulder.

Eddie moves, just a little on the balls of his feet, shifting forward like he wants to say
something. He turns at the last second, fingers catching in the hem of Richie's shirt and
tugging. Richie follows.
They walk. Eddie barely hesitates at each corner, looks one direction and going another or
trusting his own instinct so completely that he turns without checking the other way. It's cold
so far into the earth, and Richie's skin stings with the chill. The only sound is their footsteps
through the sewage and greywater and over the clay.

But it eats away at Richie after too long. His thoughts are abuzz, and he hates that more than
anything. Reliving the immediate past. He looks down at Eddie's fingers, tangled in the loose
fabric of his shirt, to keep him settled.

"How did you guys find me?" he asks. His voice doesn't sound nearly as strong as he thinks it
will. We weren't anywhere near where I left.

"Well," Bill starts, where he's following right behind Richie, "w-we tried to follow y-y-you at
first."

"We could only hear your running for so long," Stan says. "All six of us running at the same
time drowned you out pretty fast."

"No one knew how far you went," Eddie says. He stops, staring at the wall ahead of them,
and then looks down one end of the pipe. He stares for another second into the dark, and then
starts walking. "And we didn't want to start blindly exploring."

"Yeah," Ben says. "So we waited." He pauses for a moment, and his voice comes out a little
unsteady. "For a really long time."

They're all quiet, and Richie tries to put their experiences side by side. Their panic beside his.
Pacing up and down some random room while Richie ran down to the furthest unused
reaches of the sewers.

"Richie," Beverly says, quiet. "We thought you died."

It drives a spike into his chest, and he looks down at the floor. I did this.

"We found you," Mike trails off, voice sagging, "because we heard you screaming."

Richie pushes his fingers up under his glasses and into his eyes when he remembers why.
Eddie glances back when the bat smacks the wall, face pinched. I don't want to be here, his
expression says, but I want you here even less.

Richie looks at him until he turns back around, and then sighs.

"It got worse and worse," Mike says, "and we--"

"We're close," Eddie cuts him off. Richie doesn't know if it's on purpose or simple a
coincidence.

They drop the subject for the time being, and Richie lets it be. The turns they take have a
subtle familiarity to them, and Richie feels a pull in the back of his mind--pushing to
remember the past. He doesn't want to.
Eddie's hand flattens against his stomach, and he stops. Richie almost knocks into him, and
Eddie's hand shifts against his abdomen, fingers pushing so slightly Richie almost doesn't
notice.

Everyone stops behind them, close. Bill leans around Richie's shoulder. "What is it?"

And Richie sees it, sees what Eddie's only just caught with his flashlight. The door up ahead--
small and unassuming in the way that peaks your curiosity once you find it. Unable to be
ignored, but so obviously something that should be.

Eddie is standing in front of it, half hidden in the dark where the light doesn't quite reach, arm
missing and skin slickened with blood. He looks as gaunt--as dead --as Richie remembers
finding him in that room. When he started chasing me.

He looks at Richie, fingers tight over the stub of his shoulder. "Richie," he groans, voice
raspy. Anguished. "Why did you leave me down there?"

Richie starts backing up, squeezing his fist around the grip of the bat. This will protect me, he
thinks. But his chest aches with a distorted grief, knowing it isn't real but feeling like it is,
and Richie feels adrift.

Bill's hands settle on his sides, holding him in place, and Eddie's fingers tighten around his
shirt again. It's an anchor, keeping him from running but forcing him to let his fear take hold
of him.

"Richie," Bill says, "t-this is your trial."

But Richie doesn't want a trial. He doesn't want to fight these deep seated fears, doesn't want
to think about them, confront them. Eddie won't die. Can't die. Richie can't bear to let it
happen.

Eddie steps forward, eyes pleading. He looks so like the Eddie from Richie's memories all
that time ago--the one that Richie held and cried over and had to walk away from. Like Eddie
just stood back up and walked out of that room to haunt him.

"I didn't leave you down there," Richie says, shaky.

"Yes you did," It-Eddie says. His eyes go shiny, voice warbling. "You let me die. You were
going to let me rot down here." He points behind him at the door, and his shoulder oozes.

Eddie turns his face away, breathing deeply. His fingers tighten around Richie's shirt. Richie
can feel him shaking.

"I didn't," he says again, shaking his head, and his voice comes out stronger. "I would never
do that. I would never let that happen."

It's true. He wouldn't. Dislocated shoulder and all, he thinks, looking down at Eddie, I would
drag you out of here.
It-Eddie's face slackens into something deadly serious. He drops his hand from his arm,
stepping back into the outskirts of the light. His eyes flash from grey to yellow, and he
disappears completely into the dark. "We'll see."

The seven of them stand there in a line for a long few seconds, and Richie stares down that
door, feeling relieved and wretched in turn. One down one to go. But each one is taking a toll,
and they both feel less like one and more like a hundred. I don't know how much more of this
I can take.

Eddie turns back to look at him. He looks shaken up, and Richie moves forward, trying to get
the two of them closer. Eddie turns into him, just a little, and Richie reaches up to brush his
fingers against Eddie's arm. Reluctant to let go of the bat.

"Is that what--" Eddie swallows, voice weak. "What I--"

He shakes his head suddenly, taking a deep breath. He gives Richie another glance, and looks
forward. "Everyone ready?"

A murmur goes up in the air, a quiet chorus of 'yes' that sounds more like 'I don't know' .
Eddie starts toward the door, and the line moves forward to follow.

He doesn't stop to look at the door. Instead he bends and opens it, ignoring the symbol on the
front. Sickly yellow light spills out, and his hand clenches the old wood, body taut.
Hesitating. The smell hits Richie, and he breathes through his mouth.

"You want me to go in first?" Bill asks, quiet and even.

Eddie looks back at him. "I--" He sighs, nodding. "I'd appreciate that, Big Bill."

Bill nods, shimmying around Richie and kneeling on the ground. He slips inside, and Eddie
waits until his feet are almost through to follow. Richie steps forward, falling to his knees.
Unwilling to be left behind.

"Last one in's a rotten egg," he says.

It doesn't have any of the light, joking atmosphere he's going for, but he hears a few snorts
from the Losers. Bill barks a quick laugh.

"That's not fair!" Ben calls from the back of the line.

"Stop pussyfooting and use your elbows, Haystack," Richie says, crawling through.

His back scrapes the doorframe, dead arm dragging over old bones and grit and flesh. His
skin itches, stomach flip flopping. His mouth still tastes like bile. A threat. Not now.

It happens fast. Richie is barely inside when he hears Eddie yelling, footsteps crunching
through dirt and litter. He looks up, stumbling to his feet, and sees Bill standing in the middle
of the room.
It's silent. There's no yelling this time. Bill's voice, It's voice, are both gone. Focused. Twice
they've come to this room. Once Bill's won, a second time Eddie. Richie doesn't want to have
to struggle to get the third win. Doesn't want to have to sacrifice someone for the sake of the
world. I'm not that strong.

"Bill," Mike whispers.

There are a last few crunches as the rest of the Losers get to their feet. Richie walks forward,
following close behind Eddie. His eyes are all over the place, looking over the webs,
dragging over the corpses hanging around them. The ones that have fallen from the ceiling
and onto the floor, half eaten.

Richie hears whispers, a thousand miles away but right in his ear. The sound nestles in the far
reaches of the room and lingers, echoing. Bill is speaking to It. He looks unreal. Glimmering.
A living ghost.

Richie doesn't want to move. He looks at It, looming fifteen feet tall overhead, foam dripping
from its mandibles. Its legs click against the stone restlessly, but it doesn't move. Can't.

Eddie's hand moves, drawing his attention. He drops his flashlight on the ground, and it rolls,
catching in a split in the stone and shining on the what's left of a torso. No one pays it any
mind. Eddie uncaps his inhaler and takes a deep, grounding breath.

He looks over at Richie, and his expression is stony. 'I'm going. Are you coming?'

Richie's chest is tight, and he's scared. More than scared. More than terrified. There isn't a
word. He would rather be anywhere else.

But that isn't true. He wouldn't abandon any of them, and if they choose to be here, to do the
right thing, Richie will follow. He looks at Bill, throwing himself at the mercy of the lion for
the sake of the world. I would follow you to the ends of the earth. Richie supposes he has.

He shakes his head. "This is fucking batshit," he mutters.

Eddie's eyebrows furrow. "Richie--"

"C'mon, Eds," he says, swinging the baseball bat in a wide circle and walking forward.
Working his arm. His body is tense and Richie isn't a lefty, but he'll make do. "Let's save
Bill's ass."

Eddie makes a noise, but trots to catch up. "Are you gonna use that?"

"We don't all have lung-suckers."

"Where are you two going?!" Stan yells. His voice is panicky, and Richie turns to look at
him. He hasn't moved from the door.

"Out for tea, Stan. Where does it look like?" Richie calls back.

"You're gonna get yourself killed!"

"Someone in this room has to die today--"

Eddie snaps his head toward him, expression vicious. "Beep-beep."

Richie starts up a light jog as they get closer, ready to run when he needs to. He holds up his
hand. "Am I wrong?"

Eddie ignores him. The voices are louder now, a soft murmur. Richie listens, listens and hears
yelling, screaming. He can't make out the words.

He looks over at Eddie. "Are you sure this is a good idea?" he asks, heart caught up in his
throat.

Eddie puts distance between them. "If you have a better one, it's a little late!"

"Not this time, Eds!"

Eddie shakes his head, and he says something that Richie doesn't catch. They're close now--
very close--and Richie's mind churns up memories of the other timeline. Standing this close
and staring down It until there wasn't anything to stare at. Until Richie was outside of
himself, standing at the edge of the universe and praying not to lose everything.

That's Bill's problem now, he thinks, so close to It that he can feel It--the heat, the rotten air,
the wrongness. In a way he's back on that edge, walking a tightrope and trying not to look
down because looking down is what will kill him. Not the fall.

It's Bill's problem until it's mine. He glances over at Eddie one last time, and looks at the
huge, huge, huge leg in front of him. I guess I can make it a little easier for him.

Richie bounces on his feet when he steps up close, fingers tight around the bat, and believes,
believes, believes that it will hurt. Bats break when they're swung hard enough, and Richie's
already wounded It once. I can do it again.

It strikes, hard, and Richie has enough time to register the shock to his muscle before Its leg
shivers, jumping away from him. It makes a great hissing sound, and Richie clamps his hands
over his ears when he hears Its voice in his head.

(STOP STOP IT HURTS--)

And then Bill's hoarse shouting. It stumbles suddenly, a jerky movement, and Richie backs
away. There's a thick black blood flowing from the wound he's made, pooling on the ground.
It shudders again, and Richie's heart picks up a heavy beat. It's going to stop the ritual--

But Bill yells again, yells that stupid saying his mother used to make him practice, and It
goes almost still again. Richie looks back and sees Bill’s head lolling on his neck, eyes
unblinking. He looks at Eddie and sees him looking back.

"It feels a bit better to be winning!" Richie yells. It's almost inaudible over the cacophony of
screaming.
"Then win!" Eddie calls back.

He runs around to the very back leg and holds his inhaler out, two hands and lined up in his
sight like a pistol. His face is ruthless, violent.

Richie isn't sure if he hears Eddie's inhaler trigger or if it's just his imagination, but he winces
when It screams again, mandibles clacking threateningly. Eddie triggers it again, and Richie
can see Its flesh curl and burn and corrode--like it actually is acid.

(STOP NO THIS ISN'T FAIR--)

(what would you know about fairness?!)

"Dont just stand there, Richie!" Eddie snaps at him.

Richie stops staring, stops watching Eddie and Bill do all the work. He hops closer to the leg
he hit, nothing but restless energy, and reels back again for another swing.

The leg buckles, and blood spurts onto Richie's bat. It shrieks, loud loud loud and deafening,
and the leg drags on the ground, curling up underneath It. It shudders again, body tensing and
pulling like a roped up wild horse, but Bill doesn't let go.

Another leg buckles a second later, and Richie stumbles back when It's weight shifts and
starts to crumple. It hits the ground, and Richie holds his hand out for balance when the floor
shakes. The ceiling starts to crumble.

"Eddie!" Richie calls, running around Its flank. His legs hurt, and it slows him down to a
stilted jog. "Eddie, where are you?!"

"I--I'm over here!" Eddie calls back. His footsteps are unsteady when he walks around, arms
still held out at his sides like he's preparing for the ground to shake again. "I'm OK!"

Richie takes a steadying breath, looking him up and down. He looks mostly untouched--a
little shaken and a lot dirty. He's fine. Richie nods, and they break up again.

He doesn't hesitate to swing the bat, over and over and over, watching blood spill onto the
ground and feeling victorious. Eddie is somewhere off to his right, still near the back. Richie
swears he hears the inhaler triggering, but Bill and It are both having it out at such a volume
that Richie's ears are almost ringing. He feels deaf, stumbling about and swinging his bat in a
collapsing room.

A split cracks down Its back, flooding the floor with blood in splashes.

(LET ME GO! LET ME GO STOP STOP IT HURTS STOP--!)

(LISTEN TO ME!)

(NO!)
The words sound furious, but more than that pained. Panicked. It's scared now, Richie thinks,
and somehow that makes him livid. He swings again, lets that anger push him. How does it
feel.

It moves suddenly, six legs rolling and pounding against the ground as It comes back into
itself. Richie lurches back when one leg hikes high in the air, thrusting down against the stone
where he was standing. The ground shakes again, and Richie stumbles.

"Run!" Ben cries.

He does. The Losers are all calling out for them, and when Richie turns he sees Bill on his
hands and knees, pushing himself to his feet. He looks shaky. Unsteady. Triumphant.

Richie drops the bat, helping him to his feet. Bill clutches at his good shoulder, pulling
himself up, and squeezes Richie's shoulder as he starts off in a drunken gait back to the door.
Safety is what that looks like. Richie picks up the bat again, counting the dark outlines by the
door. Five. Where is Eddie.

He spins on his heel, looking around, and sees Eddie sprinting toward him. He's terrified, and
Richie stands there in the middle of the room, watching It crash around in a frenzy. He
doesn't want to move, doesn't want to go closer, but he's going to get caught.

Richie rushes forward toward him, and thinks he sees Eddie shake his head, eyes wide,
shocked. He may be imaging it.

"Hey!" Richie yells. It's too late to catch It in the ritual. If Bill couldn't hold It any longer
there's no way Richie could begin to start it. "Bitch!"

It stops, turning to face him. Two legs down and more bleeding, back and stomach split open.
It doesn't have the right face to make expressions, doesn't have a face at all, but Richie can
feel the incandescent rage.

(you.)

Richie hears the voice in his head and all around him. It clacks Its mandibles, and foam drips
to the ground. It inches forward, lifting up tall, and Richie sees It swing Its stinger up.
Preparing.

(i gave you not one chance, but two. and what do you do?)

Richie backs up when It starts getting a bit too close. If those illusions in the sewer could kill
him, this certainly could. Poison and brute force--both are a worry. Somehow Richie finds
himself less bothered by this version. I've never been afraid of spiders.

(you come back. we had a deal)

Richie takes a deep breath and feels his lungs shudder, tighten. He ignores it. "Let's face it,
doll. Neither of us were ever interested in that deal."
It makes a noise, frustrated and nervous. Eddie is somewhere far on his side, and Richie hears
the quick patter of his footsteps in the silence. You killed him and I would never let you live
for that. Never.

Richie takes hold of that anger, the anger from earlier, and lets it build. Lets it block out every
other feeling. He steps forward, swinging the bat back and forth at his side like a pendulum.

It shifts back to match him. There are tunnels further back, and Richie is under no pretenses.
He knows It will bolt.

(it was only one child)

It takes another step back. Richie steps forward. He hears footsteps behind him, and the
security of the other six locks Richie in place. I'm not running. Not this time.

It takes a bigger step, starting up a slow, limping walk.

(only a boy. i even gave him back, i returned him, but you came after me anyway. it was just a
child)

It's the panicked, nervous rambling of the man walking to the guillotine. Anything to get
away, to turn his crime into someone else's mistake.

Bill rushes forward. "Guh-Guh-Georgie wasn't 'just' a-anything!" He has nothing to arm him,
and yet he keeps running, keeps closing that distance. Richie watches him in a mute sort of
paralysis. "He did nothing and you killed him! You killed him and you killed all those other
kids and now we're going to kill you!"

It trips over Its own legs and then turns, half running and half dragging itself through the
tunnels at the back of the room.

"Go after It!" Bill yells, words clear.

He's at the head of the group, leading them charging like a battalion. Richie is tense and
aching and exhausted but he finds his second wind, using his long legs to his advantage.
Eddie is next to him, scared but unharmed, and Richie thinks that's where he finds it. I told
him I wouldn't let anything happen to him and I won't, I won't, I swear it.

They run, following Its weak glow deeper and deeper into the sewers. Richie starts to
recognize the brick around him, and he tenses, heart kicking up a heavy tattoo. He looks
around every turn, expecting to see cat yellow eyes looking back. Expecting to see Eddie's
corpse.

It hits a turn, but instead of following it, It careens to face them, sliding across the bricks. It
kicks up loose stone and rubble, ripping the bricks apart as its feet hook into the ground.

(you don't want to kill me, you don't--)

Bill hasn't stopped. Richie feels like he's seeing double, watching memories fit over the
present. Richie's hesitation and Bill's drive, clashing and dragging each other back and forth.
He looks at It, Its red, beady eyes locked onto his, but this time doesn't find any reason to
stop.

Richie runs forward after Bill, and hears the uncoordinated stumbling footsteps of five people
he thinks really don't want to be doing what they're doing. I know I don't.

(if you let me live--!)

"Shut up!" Bill yells. He's got nothing and yet he's rushed straight underneath It, fists cocked
and ready to throw.

(no, no, no, WAIT--)

Richie is sick of it, sick of the promises, the begging. You can dish it out but you can't take it,
huh? he thinks, and then he's right underneath It with Bill.

It's flailing, screaming as Bill hits and hits and hits. Richie does his best to avoid getting hit,
but one leg catches him in the side, ripping through his shirt and tearing at skin. He ignores it,
running further under.

It's stomach is sagging, and Richie sees a break in the skin near him. It's bleeding generously,
black as ink. Richie flips his bat in his grip, holding it like a sword, and thrusts it upward.

The sound in his head is enough to leave him gasping. The pain is unreal, like his skull is
trying to split in two. It reels back, and Richie dodges every swipe aimed his way, grabbing
the bat again and running.

Bill pushes by him, and Richie stops. It's a stupid thing to do, standing out in the open the
way he is, but he can't help but stare. Bill punches, punches, punches, and then pushes his
hands up inside It. Richie moves out of the way of another leg, weaving his way out.

It slams down. Bill is swallowed up inside It, and Richie goes still. He's going to kill himself.

"Where is Bill?!" Mike yells, and Richie turns to look at him. The five of them are hovering
near the wall, shuffling like they want to help but not knowing how.

Richie looks back at It, sees Bill's legs. "He's inside!"

"What?!" Stan yells. He pushes his dirtied hands up into his hair, pulling it back from his
face.

Richie steps forward. "I don't know what--!"

(NONONONONONONO)

He stops, staring as It gives one last, colossal jerk, and then stops. Richie takes another step
back, waiting for something. For it to go into another rage. Did we kill It?

Its body teeters for a moment, and then tips. Richie lunges back, kicking up rubble before his
socks finally find purchase on the floor. He runs back toward the Losers just as It hits the
ground. The sewers shake, and Richie loses his footing, falling onto his elbow.

He turns onto his back, scooting across the ground, and watches Its legs curl up into its
stomach.

Richie sees Bill's legs, then, as he slides out of Its stomach. He's black from head to toe, and
he looks around, slow. He spits onto the ground, and Richie winces when he sees that's black,
too.

"Bill!"

His name goes up in a chorus, and the Losers rush over to him, arms out. They swarm him in
a pack, yelling at him for his stupidity and praising him for his bravery. Richie snorts, picking
himself up and following them.

He throws his arm around Mike once he's close enough, and lets his head hang. He's covered
in blood, and he feels like he's going to drop dead, but he manages to stand there. To bask in
it.

They're all still jittery and shaken and scared, but the immediate victory pushes it to the back
burner. Richie feels himself smile, just a little. It feels good. He feels good.

Eddie's eyes catch his from across the circle, and he smiles. It's bright and relieved and
happy. Richie doesn't try to fight the reaction to smile back.

They split into smaller groups. Ben wraps Beverly up in his arms, spinning her and kissing
the laughter away. Bill and Stan and Mike group up, talking and pointing back at It. Richie
sees Mike throw his hands up, emotive energy all over the place, and watches Bill's
exhausted laugh.

Fingers curl around Richie's elbow, and he looks down. Eddie is standing beside him, eyes
tired but fond. There's still a flicker of a smile at the corners of his mouth. "Are you OK?" he
asks, quiet.

They've started walking, but no one's in any hurry. They don't have the energy for it.

Richie looks at the ground, at Eddie's hand around his arm. He laughs. "I don't think so, Eds."

Eddie looks over him, free hand tracing the gash on Richie's side. He sighs. "We're going to
the hospital, and then you're going to relax for a very long time."

"And after that?"

"Whatever you want."

Richie inclines his head toward Eddie, eyebrows raised. "Whatever?"

Eddie snorts, biting back his smile. "Anything."

"Wow," Richie says. He keeps his eyes on Eddie, because looking into the dark is too much.
The immediate shock is wearing off, and he knows he'll be a mess once it's gone. "How
liberal."

"This deserves celebration. A really big one."

"That vacation?"

"God, yes."

Richie smiles. "So what do you wear at the poolside, Eds? Trunks? A speed--"

There's a great splitting sound, and the laughter stops. They all look up, but in the fading light
the top of the tunnel is impossible to see. Beverly clicks on a flashlight, pointing it up.

A crack is pushing the brick apart, and they stare, tense. We're far underground, Richie
thinks. Very far.

The crack travels further, and they move closer to the wall. Flashlights click on when the
light from Its huge body dims too much to be of any use.

Eddie's fingers stiffen on his arm, and Richie looks around to the rest of them. Stan's
flashlight is wavering. "Guys--"

The stone grates, shaking the ground, and they all start running. One thing after another,
Richie thinks, keeping pace with Eddie as they're led back out. Just can't catch a break.

"C-can you get us out of here, Eddie?!" Bill yells.

"I think!" Eddie calls back, glancing at him quickly.

They're running by the light of their flashlights, shuddering and swinging back and forth over
the debris and crumbling tunnels. Eddie doesn't hesitate to lead them around turns, and Richie
is glad they have him. Bill would just run until they found their way out. Richie would have
gotten them lost.

They pop back out into the cavern, dodging spiderwebs and ignoring the lifeless bodies
around them.

"Guys!" Stan screams.

Richie and Eddie stop, turning around to look at him, but it's only him standing at the mouth
of the tunnel. He's got his flashlight pointing into the dark, hand tight on the stone wall.

"Where is everyone?!" Eddie yells.

They both run back, and Eddie pulls Richie out of the way of a web as it hits the ground
beside him. Stan turns, eyes wide. "I don't know, they were--they were right behind me--!"
Richie looks into the tunnel, but there's nothing. He follows the light of Stan's flashlight, and
it feels like such a waste of time, standing there and waiting for the ceiling to fall in on them.
He doesn't see anything.

"Should we--" Stan takes a shuddering breath, shrugging. "Should we go look for them?!"

Richie shakes his head. "They had flashlights," he says. "We would see them."

"What?!"

"I said if we can't see them now, they're gone!" Richie yells. It hurts to say. He would rather
stand at the mouth of that tunnel than leave them behind, but if they can't see them with four
flashlights, there's something wrong. They're gone.

"We need to go!" Richie yells. A huge chunk of stone falls from the ceiling, and he starts off
to the door on the other side of the room.

"Richie!" Eddie yells.

It sounds so pained, and Richie's chest goes tight. He's going to cry. But they can deal with
that when they're safe. High, high up on flat ground.

The lights in the room aren't dimming. They're growing brighter, so much so that it's almost
white around them. Richie doesn't know what that means, is afraid if they linger it will turn
into something malevolent.

They're close to the door, but the light has swelled enough to be blinding. Richie shields his
eyes, squinting. It's coming from everywhere.

"Guys," Stan whispers.

It's so quiet, and Richie stops when he realizes why can I hear that. Everything is silent.
There's no sound of falling debris, of the earth splitting apart.

Richie straightens, turning around, and sees Stan standing feet away. He's staring at his
hands, and Richie steps forward. It's so bright.

And then he stops. He sees why Stan's voice is so unsteady, why his eyes are locked on his
palms. They're fading away, flaking into nothing. His fingertips and part of his palms. His
toes to his ankles. He looks up at the two of them.

Richie takes a shaking step, and then rushes the rest of the way. "Stan--"

He doesn't know what to say. Has no explanation. Stan was with them, so full and alive, and
now he's disappearing. Turning to dust.

Richie reaches out, hand hovering near Stan's torso. He pats him, but he still feels there, is
still standing in front of Richie, still shifts with Richie's touch. Stan tries to cover Richie's
hand with his, but there's nothing. Like it was never there at all.
"What do I do," he says. It doesn't sound like he's asking Richie. More that he's talking to
himself.

His voice comes out choked, and when he looks up at Richie he's crying. Richie feels his
eyes welling up. "Stan, I--I don't--" he shakes his head, and can't help it when his breathing
picks up. Stan's legs are gone, and he's left hovering there, torso falling away into nothing.
"Stan, you can't go," he whispers.

Stan looks down at himself, and stares. He's disappearing faster and faster. He looks back up
at Richie, looks at Eddie behind him. His face screws up, and he sobs, throwing what's left of
his arms around Richie's neck. Richie pulls him close with his arm.

"Tell them--" he takes a shuddering breath, "tell them I'm sorry," he says on the end of a sob.
Richie hooks his chin over Stan's shoulder, eyes wide. "Tell--tell them I'm so glad I got to see
them again."

"I will, Stan, I will, I promise," Richie mutters into Stan's neck.

His arm falls through Stan's back, and Richie can feel the loss of touch over his shoulders.

Stan takes another, quieter breath, and his touch disappears completely. "I'll miss you."

One second he's there, and the next he's not. Richie looks up, arm still held out in front of
him to comfort, but the space is empty. "Stan!" he calls, even though he knows, he knows no
one will answer. He doesn't want to believe it.

"Richie?"

His name comes out small, and Richie turns to Eddie, eyes still welling with tears.

Richie drops the bat.

Eddie is looking back at him, face almost blank save his wide eyes. He's standing just behind
Richie, fingertips bleeding away and feet gone to the ankles. A mirror.

Richie freezes, staring, unwilling to believe but unable to refuse it. He steps forward, head
shaking, and holds his hand out. "No, no, no, Eddie, please--"

"Richie," Eddie says, soft and sad and sorry.

Richie pats at Eddie's chest, at his arms, curling his fingers around to cup Eddie's neck. Like
his touch will heal. Like his touch has ever done anything other than destroy.

"What--what about our plans," Richie asks, and his voice comes out wet, wrecked. He can
feel tears slipping down his face, fat and heavy. "We have so much we still have to do,
Eddie."

"I--Richie, I know," Eddie murmurs, reaching up to smooth his hands over Richie's hair down
over his neck to rest on his shoulders. Careful not to hurt. Always so careful. His eyes are
shiny. "I know. I wanted it so bad."
Richie takes a heaving breath, and his words devolve to pleading whispers. "Then you have
to stay. You have to. You have to."

His legs are disappearing, and Richie reaches up with his other arms, despite the intense pain
that lances up to his shoulder. His fingers are weak, and he hates it, he hates it in that second.
He curls his fingers in the hem of Eddie's shirt, feels the skin of his abdomen brush his
knuckles. Warm.

Eddie cups Richie's face, wiping his tears away with the pads of his thumbs. Disappearing. "I
can't."

"God, Eddie, yes you can. You can," the words catch on a sob, and Richie looks around them,
but the room is white. Empty, "we can figure something out--"

"Richie," Eddie whispers.

Richie's fingers fall through Eddie's shirt, and he looks down. Eddie's torso bleeds away into
an ash and blows away on a wind Richie doesn't feel.

Eddie throws himself forward, wrapping Richie up in his arms, and Richie muffles a sob in
his neck. "Please, you can't go," he whispers. "I need you."

Eddie's hand cups his cheek as he pulls back, and he leans in, kissing him. It's forceful, a
thousand words in one action, and Richie pushes back just as hard. The pressure of Eddie's
fingers starts disappearing. Richie gasps in a quick breath, trying and trying and trying to
hold him there. It's all about belief, right? It has to be. This has to work.

But the kiss softens, softens to something sweet and careful and gentle and trying and trying
and trying to hold him there turns into trying and trying and trying to convey.

Richie's hand falls through Eddie's shoulder, and Eddie pulls back. His eyes are still welled
up with tears, but he looks accepting. Peaceful.

"Eddie, please," he whispers, almost inaudible. The light is enveloping both of them until
Richie can hardly see. He cups Eddie's cheek, trying to force away the tears when his vision
goes watery. "I can't lose you."

Eddie smiles, soft.

"You know I always loved you."

Richie blinks up at the skies over Beverly Hills and doesn't know why he's crying.
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