Chapter Text
The water is cool but the banks by the lake are warm, the grass is wet, but the flat rocks are hot and blissfully free from insects. It's Saturday; school's out, the weekend is still an eternity. Eddie sits with his bare feet on the stone. His hands are tucked under his knees as if cold, the sun beating down on his t-shirt-clad back with clean heat, no humidity. An ant crawls across his foot and he doesn't bother swatting it away. A haphazard circle of Losers has formed, Ben to his left, Bill to his right.
Comics and magazines are strewn around them in a colorful collage; they're looking at celebrities in magazines, who's hot and who's not, decisions made fast and irrevocably as they flick through the pages – yes, no, no, yes! The smell of put out cigarettes on the rock face is fading, Richie and Bev having bought only a loosie each and finished them first thing.
"But Richie, who would you marry? In real life?" Bill asks, squinting in the sun. Richie's eyes are half-closed, his glasses are up in his hair. Like Bill, he's still in just his swim trunks, drying by the lake, all relaxed like he owns the place. The magazines curl where they've gotten wet on the edges.
Eddie stretches one leg out in front of him, then draws his knee back to his chest. The sunglasses he's wearing were plopped on his face by Bev, he did voice a perfunctory complaint but hasn't taken them off, feeling cool and free to peek at whatever he wants behind the tortoiseshell frames -- currently Richie. He waits for his answer, oddly apprehensive to hear his pick and hoping the question won't be turned on him because he's got nothing. Steeling himself, he does the same thing he always does when asked about crushes; mentally rifles through the school’s yearbook like it's a multiple-choice answer and he doesn't know which name to put an x next to. In the pressure to find the right answer, there's no time to think about what the honest choice would be.
"The question is who would marry Richie," Bev laughs and Mike knocks his shoulder into hers, tuning in and grinning, Stan now the only one left that's focused on reading, turning the damp corners of the pages slowly so as not to rip them.
Richie childishly blows a raspberry at Bev and kicks at her with his foot, she dodges with a little high-pitched yell and laughter, tumbling back onto the ground to avoid it and gets comfortable, happy to remain lying down. Next to her, Ben goes still as a statue. Eddie pities him and his transparency.
"Whoever's the hottest," Richie answers finally.
Ben protests, "That's not true, you can't just base it on that. You'd have to know if they're a good person and all that." Bev agrees, leaning an arm on his knee. Stan also hums in agreement, apparently not as deep into the magazine as Eddie thought.
"Pfft. Good person, who cares as long as you're hot."
His nonchalance is annoying. Eddie wants him to answer the question. He unfolds his arms and then crosses them again, trying to contain himself, but ultimately has to speak up. "Dude, you're such a liar, of course you'd care, anybody would care about that, if it's someone you're married to you have to see that person ev-e-ry-day. That's crazy, if you would spend all your time with someone you hate just ‘cause they're hot, that's just fucking crazy and insane."
In the grass, Richie slowly raises his eyebrows way up, deigning to flip his glasses down onto his nose only to peer over the edge of the frames at him without answering, first biting at his upper lip then lower. Through Bev’s sunglasses, he's made golden. Eddie's face feels hot with sudden anger.
"Yeah, I think it'd be nice to be with someone who was like a friend, a best friend that’s hot," Bev says. There are adoring looks from Ben and Bill. Lame. But Eddie gets it, if he had to pick someone to marry, he'd have to choose Bev too because she's the best friend who's also a girl he's got – really the only one he's got. It would be nice, probably. The idea calms him.
"Okay jeez, if you guys wanna be all fucking serious about it." Richie ponders and pouts, hums, crosses his leg over his knee, wagging his foot up and down, then stops. "I would marry someone who's really funny. The funniest person I met I would marry on the spot. Laugh every day, all the time. Would be rad."
"Okay, so who's the funniest person you know?" Bill asks.
A big grin spreads across Richie's face, he spins his wrists, making a drumroll noise, before pointing two finger guns at his chest. "Me." Then he laughs at himself.
Bill is clearly put-out. "No, the funniest g-girl, Richie."
"Bev, of course, duh." Richie stretches his foot out towards her in an attempt at a high five. She laughs and smacks it away from her, denying his proposal.
Bill pronounces Richie a hopeless cause and starts questioning Mike instead with would-you-rathers, thankfully not about anything relationship related, just history stuff. The anxiety begins to fade, and Eddie’s shoulders relax.
Before long Bev decides it’s time to leave, and Bill quickly offers to give her a ride home. Their combined shadows stretch and then pull away.
"Do you guys think they're like... together?" Ben asks, looking into the middle distance.
Richie groans, "Ugh, gay. That's so lame. Can we talk about something else, puh-lease?"
"Beep-beep," Stan mutters automatically, still focused on his magazine
"You're lame, Richie," Mike says, rolling his eyes and turning back a page when Stan reads on too quickly.
"I think they're together," Ben says, not addressing anyone.
The sun comes out. Eddie looks at the blue space between clouds and tries to measure how long the warmth will stay. He fidgets, taking off and folding Bev's sunglasses carefully then opening them again and tapping at the lenses, unsure where to put them and why he's so spooked about it.
"Whatever, who cares, I'm bored,” Richie complains. Eddie tunes him and the others out, worrying and cracking the knuckles on his fingers. A hand appears to still him. Looking up, he’s met with Ben giving him his always kind crooked smile; he's pretty handsome when he smiles.
On a whim, Eddie hands him Bev's sunglasses, speaking low and fast, "Would you give her these back? I can't have these, like, I can't bring them home." In the quick meeting of their eyes, it's made clear that this does both of them a service.
"Sure." Simple as anything, Ben pockets the glasses and rises to his feet. "I'm gonna go."
Richie sits up abruptly. "Whaaat? Come on, it's only like... I have no idea what time it is, but we could still do something. You could come over to my place," he pleads. “We could watch a movie.”
"Yeah, actually I should probably go too," Mike says apologetically. Stan rises and walks over to join Ben silently.
"You too? Traitors," Richie sulks.
Stan shrugs, entirely unmoved by Richie’s dramatics. "It's late."
"See you guys tomorrow," Mike says pleasantly, clapping a hand on Eddie's shoulder and lifting a hand towards Richie that he resignedly high-fives.
All his other options gone, Richie turns to Eddie. "Not you too, Eds? It’s not even dinner time."
And he was about to, he should leave, but there's still some sort of weight in his stomach keeping him seated in place, especially with Richie looking at him with such desperation. To be needed is a rare thing, and selfishly he finds that he craves it.
He shrugs casually. "I could stay a little longer." Richie's eyes burn with unbridled joy, it's too much to face head-on. He twists and watches over his shoulder as the others get on their bikes and wave goodbye, weirdly nervous to turn back to face Richie.
The sound of tires on gravel and Mike's resonant voice fades away, and they're left in a clearing of silence, the only life making itself known are the mosquitos. There’s warmth to the weight in his stomach now, all the emotions becoming hard to distinguish. Eddie looks at Richie who looks back thoughtfully, before he rolls over onto his stomach, baring his broad back, and says, "Dude, I've got a mutant hair on my arm that's like four inches long, wanna see?" Without waiting for an answer he stretches his arm out invitingly towards Eddie. "You gotta check this out, National Geographic wants me on the cover."
"Four inches? Cut it off," Eddie says dubiously but he still leans in, intrigued by the promised freak show.
Richie snatches his arm back. "No! This could be my Achilles' hair, my parents dipped me in the river holding me by this hair. What if I lose my powers? Like uh, who did they cut the hair off of and he lost the powers? Blind guy?" He chops a hand at his messy fringe.
Eddie frowns and skips past the nonsense; he doesn't care about that history stuff. "What powers do you have."
"You know, comedy! Wit!" he says with a voice crack and adds a snap of his fingers as if that will win Eddie over.
"I think you can only go up from here. Yeah, maybe you'll actually gain powers." He pokes at his arm, makes him turn it over, still curious to see it. This time Richie allows it. "What if it's cancer? Like a mole," he asks bluntly.
Richie tucks his other arm under his chin and gazes up at Eddie from the grass, head leaned to the side. "Not everything is cancer. And I thought that made you lose hair, not gain it, Doc."
"Actually it's the chemotherapy that causes hair loss, you don't lose hair from cancer."
Richie plays dumb, nods and hums like he didn't already know that, biting on a straw of grass, tugging off little pieces and lobbing them at Eddie's knee. He does that sometimes, Eddie's noticed – lies about not knowing stuff, answering things incorrectly just to– well, Eddie doesn't know why. Is it to rile Eddie up? To check if he really knows what he's talking about, like some kind of trick question? What does Richie gain from nodding along and listening to Eddie explain something he already understands?
When Richie starts to shiver from the breeze, Eddie decides it’s time to go home. He pulls on his clothes slowly, trying not to get dirt on the hems of his jeans and on his white socks as he balances on one foot and then the other, but he’s also sort of dreading going home, not wanting the warm laziness of the long afternoon to come to an end.
Richie's mashing comic books into his backpack. His back is turned, shirt hanging off one shoulder, hair all tangled in the nape of his neck because he let it air dry while lying down, Eddie remembers detangling it in the bathroom at school that one time after science class when someone had stuck gum in Richie's hair. Richie had twitched but not complained whenever he pulled too hard, he'd heard his quiet sucking in of breath and felt an emotion he couldn't place, something that made the comb tremble in his hand.
He wants to tell somebody and Richie's open, always easy to talk to about almost anything, although at the cost of him for sure joking about it. The sun is still shining, the water is still glittering green. Swallows swoop overheard like small black darts.
Richie swings his backpack on, and it hangs open. Eddie draws closer.
"Hold on, stay still."
"What?" Richie doesn't; he spins to face him. "What? Is there a bug or something? Get it off!" He starts pawing at his neck.
"Your backpack’s open, let me close it."
"Oh, okay." Turning back, he bows his head as Eddie zips it up for him. The mess of his hair is tempting. Eddie wants to tug it. Richie looks at him over his shoulder for confirmation, eyebrows high. Eddie nods and they start walking, leading their bikes.
It’s quiet aside from Richie’s humming, and Eddie gears up the courage to speak. Sometimes it's simpler to just get things out in the open, he tells himself. "Hey, can I tell you something?"
"Whaddaya got, Doc?" Not looking up, Richie’s focused on aiming each step at a dry branch and making it snap.
"You know how school has been all fucked for me lately?"
A vague hum is all the response he gets as Richie keeps his eyes on the ground. He always gets all weird when someone mentions not doing as well as him in school.
“So the counselor told me I should go to the doctor. A new doctor,” he explains, trying to be casual. Richie hums again. Eddie starts getting nervous again. Is he even listening?
"She said– the doctor said, it might be ADHD interfering with my studies," he parrots. “Said that she wants me to do an evaluation form, or whatever.”
"Edd-ie-H-D? High-def Eds?"
"No--" Eddie groans, already annoyed at what he knows is coming.
Richie stridently interrupts, "That's what you said though, isn't it, Def?"
Eddie feels it behind his eyes, a growing heat, and he grits his teeth, suddenly explosively angry at everyone and everything -- Bill's stupid marriage questions, Ben's embarrassingly obvious crush, Richie's constant talking.
"No! Can't you shut up for one second!"
"Yowza..!" Richie’s fingers fly up, thumbs still hooked on the bars of his bike, and his eyes go wide in played-up innocence. "Dude, chill pill maybe?"
That's what I'm fucking talking about! He wants to scream. He looks down and away, that way it's easier to get it out. "The doctor said I probably have ADHD. Not my mom," he clarifies hotly, "the doctor did. She actually said I probably don't, but. She doesn't want me to take pills for once. It's so-- I don't get it. It's fucked." He twists his grip on the handlebars, tight enough to chafe his palms; he's not explaining it right, it sounds all wrong.
The scene is fresh in his mind; the showdown between his mother and the doctor, Sonia calling her Mrs. Bradley when she’d introduced herself as Dr. Bradley, Eddie all but forgotten on the sidelines. The humiliation of sitting there quiet and hearing, Eddie’s not crazy, he won't be taking any pills. Still, the worst thing had been his mother's betrayed look at this supposedly wrong diagnosis, her emotions more palpable to him than his own. The ride home had been silent, and there had been no further mention of it the whole week since, Eddie jumping whenever she spoke to him directly. He wishes he was old enough to go on his own, but even then, he wouldn't know how to keep from telling his mom.
He glares when Richie begins to speak.
"Man, that's weird. I don't even know what's going on there. But ADHD isn't that like--" He squints. "I thought only like juvie kids had that."
As soon as the words are spoken, Eddie's anger drains out of him, gone as quickly as it came, and he's left feeling hollow and small. He stops and stares at the ground, at the dirt, the pebbles and sticks. The swarming ants' movement across the road becomes visible as if appearing out of thin air when standing still enough for his eyes to become unfocused. The corners of his lips feel pulled down by some immeasurable weight, impossible to try and lift. His eyes are dry, but his face feels hot, like the beginning of a headache.
"That’s not true." He can hear himself, and his voice sounds totally pathetic, so weak and childish. In his peripheral Richie comes to a stop.
"Yeah, no, I-- I didn't mean it like that, I don't know, that's just what I heard, I don't know anything about it or if it’s even true or whatever, I’m no doctor like you." His hands speed up as he gestures to Eddie. "Obviously that's not true if you've got ADHD, you're as sweet as they come, Eddie-bear."
"Gross," he mumbles. The ants find their way, giving him a wide berth, bypassing the toes of his shoes. "I knew you wouldn't get it. Should have just talked to Bill. He’d never say shit like that."
For a moment this renders Richie silent. There should be some sick satisfaction in successfully hurting him, but Eddie just feels sad, like he’s somehow failed.
"Hey, look, I didn't know it was-- I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said that, that's fucked. You can say something meaner about me if you want."
"I know I can 'cause I always can 'cause you're fucking stupid," he spits out and the innocuous word becomes harsher with emotion, the poison stings his tongue as he says it but it must be expelled, something must be expelled.
When he looks up, Richie's nodding encouragingly, lips pursed together, eyes huge and earnest behind his glasses. "Yeah, I am stupid. What else?"
Caught off guard, Eddie studies him; He stands with his back straight, taking Eddie's judging gaze head-on. Through the shade of the tree trunks around him, low sunlight ripples, half illuminating Richie and half throwing him into shadow. His shirt is buttoned-up wrong, there's a zigzag of pale blue fabric and sunburnt skin visible, and Eddie can't manage to shape any of his anger into a weapon. Of course Richie didn't mean it, Richie's never intentionally cruel like that, even when he's crass or clumsy. He just says shit sometimes, his words often seeming to speed ahead of his thoughts.
Eddie shrugs. "Nothing. Whatever."
"No, c'mon, I mean it, seriously! Call me fuck-ugly! I'm a nerd or I'm a fucking-- anything. Anything." Richie waves at his face, which is serious, distressed. There's nothing Eddie would change about it. There's nothing ugly about him.
"I don't care. It's fine, I'm over it."
"No--" Reaching out, Richie's hand lands awkwardly on Eddie's upper arm, his grip first too tight and then too loose around his bicep, right where the sleeve of his t-shirt ends. "Listen, I take it all back, I think you're great even if you have ADHD. No, hear me out! Actually, I like ADHD more if you've got it, everyone should have it 'cause obviously it makes people cool and nice and fun."
Despite how lame the compliment is, Eddie feels himself blushing and can't hold back his smile. "Ugh, how old are you? You're so fucking embarrassing." He grabs his hand to push it off. Richie’s grin is instant and huge.
“I'm sorry.”
“I know, shut up. Let's go.”
They're in no hurry to get home, walking their bikes on opposite sides, their elbows brushing every now and then. Eddie can’t hold back a giggle.
"What? What? Tell me!" Richie jabs the front wheel of his bike against Eddie's leg. Always so nosy and curious. It makes Eddie smile even bigger at his Richie-ness.
"'Eddie-HD'... You're so stupid."
A grin spreads on Richie's face, and he lets out a noise halfway to a giggle like he's unsure whether he's allowed to laugh yet. "That is funny, right? You liked that?"
"Only 'cause it's so fucking bad," Eddie laughs. Richie does too, and the reverb of their shared laughter colors the silent path, making everything three times as funny; he wants to laugh and laugh with Richie just to hear the sound of it combined.
They take the long way home, dropping off Richie first because Eddie’s mom doesn't like it when he comes around. On the curb outside the Tozier house, Eddie speaks up.
"Hey, Rich?"
"Yeah?"
Even though he doesn't really dare to, he braves the subject, unsure why it won't leave his thoughts, why he's still obsessing over something so banal.
"Did you mean it, with the marrying stuff? Would you really choose funny first, over anything else? For real?"
"Oh, that? Uh..." As Richie thinks, he restlessly drags his bike back and forth over the edge of the sidewalk, the wheels clicking. He scrunches his nose up like he always does when his glasses are starting to slip. "Yeah, I mean if I was really gonna actually marry someone it'd have to be like, the funniest person on earth. You're supposed to be together for life, like 60 years, if you don't get divorced that is. That could get fucking dull. I can't really imagine..." There's a strange tension to his shoulders but he perks up quickly, Eddie practically sees him shift gears from serious to joking when he pushes his glasses up. "And the combination of funny genes would make my kids comedy geniuses."
Eddie rolls his eyes. "Yeah, as if. Your kids are gonna suck ass."
"Better than whatever your lame shitkids are gonna be like."
Eddie makes a jacking-off gesture, Richie catches it and brings it to his heart with a smile as if he's been thrown a kiss.
"'kay, bye."
Richie echoes his goodbye, says see you tomorrow, and Eddie leaves instead of staying to watch him disappear inside.
Biking home past well-tended gardens, he breathes in the scent of lavender, of apples rotting on the hot asphalt. The thought of his and Richie's kids knowing each other lingers. It’s crazy, imagining the two of them as grownups, all of the Losers as grownups. It makes him want to laugh again, and he does, a little. Somehow it seems as unreal as going to space, as winning a million dollars on the lottery. He weaves, bumping up and down the sidewalk, slowing down as he nears home, almost slow enough to tip over, unwilling to let the warm feeling go so soon.
His mom is home. She must hear him come in because she raises her voice from the living room, "Where have you been?" The tinge of worry he hears is familiar and calming, settling him into being Mom's Eddie, a different Eddie.
"I was studying with Bill." The lie comes easy as his voice changes register into something softer, sweeter. He hears her make a hm noise of, if not approval, at least acceptance. He looks into the hallway mirror and feels only the tiniest hint of guilt from always choosing Bill – his family is the only one that she doesn't actively disapprove of, although that approval is always hanging on by a thread. It still feels like a betrayal to the others. He bends and takes off his Keds, straightens and looks back into the mirror where there's not much to see, grabs a comb off the shelf and fixes his hair so it’s not as obvious that he's been swimming, thank God he remembered sunscreen.
"Ma?"
"Mhmm?" The answering hum is just barely loud enough to rise above the monotone sound of the TV.
He pauses to look into his own brown eyes, considering. The obsessive thought is still stuck in his head, and he forces the corners of his mouth up into a smile without feeling it. It makes him look more mean than happy. His eyes seem dull. He raises his voice to ask, "Do you think I'm funny?"
Now she's clearly worried, "Has somebody been saying mean things to you, Eddie?"
The smile turns into a grimace in the mirror. "No Ma, it's-- it doesn't matter. It's nothing important."