Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

[August, 1989]

            They are thirteen-years-old, and they are winning a fight they should not be able to win.

            It had known from the very start that these kids were going to pack a mean punch. That much had been evident in their sheer determination, in the way they quickly fell together and became powerful in a way that It has never seen before, but It had never thought, for even a fraction of a second, that there was a chance of It losing. It can’t lose. Especially not to a group of children.

            Except these children are special, oh, It has become well aware of that. These children were chosen by that damn Turtle, chosen to be protected, chosen to harness the strength and energy that should not be possible for a mere human to withhold, let alone seven. If It could tear that Turtle limb from limb with It’s own teeth, It would, but that simply isn’t an option. The Turtle shall die when he is good and ready, not a moment too soon or a second too late. The sooner, It thinks, the better.

            For now, the Turtle lives on, and It has to sit here and try to convince these children to leave It be. And It tries, over and over again – It takes the form of all the things these kids fear most, manifests Itself into every heavy sense of dread and every lingering anxiety they may have, but still they soldier on. They’re determined, with fires in their hearts and steady hands and raised voices and It is getting weaker and weaker and weaker with each and every passing moment. It can’t lose, It refuses to lose, not after all this time, after many millennia spent thriving off this world.

            But It gets the upper hand eventually, yes It does, when one of them loses focus, when someone steps too far, when It gets the chance. It grabs Denbrough by the neck and seizes him, holds him, promises that It will leave the rest of them alone so long as It can keep just one of them as a trophy for It’s victory, a final meal before sleeping again. It thinks the plea just might work, too, when no one moves, when they all just watch, when Stuttering Bill himself tells them to go. But alas, there’s too much love in their beating hearts, more than It could have anticipated, and—

            And it’s Tozier, the Trashmouth, the one that’s the hardest to scare, that steps forward. He speaks, slow and quiet, and he grabs a bat, and he swings so hard that It sees stars. Oh, and how fitting that is, for the one to hurt It most be the one who takes nothing seriously – the one who has angered It the greatest, for it is Tozier that makes this the most difficult. It is Tozier that has a fear far too difficult to manifest. It tried, and It succeeded in a small way, made him weep over a sheet of paper that claimed him to have disappeared, but It has not done to him what It has done to the others. It has not found the proper way to make him feel fear the way It had accomplished with all of his friends.

            Barely alive, that’s how It escapes. Weak, bruised, bleeding, hardly able to maintain a steady heartbeat within It’s trembling form. If it weren’t for Tozier, It would have won, would have been able to overpower those kids and lived on strong for another couple decades before needing to feed again. Now, It must heal, must mend, must piece Itself back together and prepare for another battle far down the line, a battle that It will not be defeated in. But It wants them to suffer with It, to struggle until they meet again. And there are many ways to do that, to fulfil It’s twisted need to hurt them, but It is angry, furious, towards a specific member of their group. It could make them all forget each other, It could wipe their minds of any memory they have ever shared. Or…

            Or, It could make Tozier’s greatest fear come true.

            Time is different for It, days feeling like minutes, months feeling like hours, years feeling like days. All It wants to do is sleep the pain away, but It has to summon the strength first, the power that is needed to do what It wants to do. It isn’t sure how long it has been since the kids got away, but eventually, It is ready, and with a satisfied rumble of noise that would be the equivalent of a content sigh if It were human, It fulfils It’s wish. With that done, It finally allows Itself to rest, knowing that those horrid kids will go through Hell and back while It is gone.

[October, 2016]

            Over the course of twenty three years, Richie imagined what it would be like to reunite with the people he loves in various different ways. At the beginning, he thought it would be energetic, him jumping into someone’s arms or someone jumping into his arms, overjoyed shouting of each other’s names, and maybe they’d be crying, but they’d be crying with grins on their faces. As he began to get older, however, he started to envision it differently – more mellow and soft, with warm hugs and whispered I missed you’s and I love you’s and tears trickling down splotchy cheeks. He’d sit in the front seat of whatever car he was using at that point and he’d dream about it until he was hunched over and crying. Then, somewhere around his thirtieth birthday, he stopped dreaming about it at all. He didn’t see the point in thinking about something that was never going to happen, he thought. But now…

            Now, he’s here. He’s in Mike Hanlon’s living room. And he can’t fucking talk.

            He wants to, more than anything, and it’s clear that he isn’t the only one. Mike is sitting next to him, a few feet of space between them, a result of Richie unintentionally flinching away from every attempt at physical contact. “Can you tell us what happened to you?” Mike asks, quiet and gentle and patient, though Richie can hear the mild hysterical distress in his voice.

            “Please,” Stan adds, crouched down in front of Richie, and Richie wants to grin because he was right. At least, partly. Stan and Mike are together, but they have a wife, too, a woman named Patty who had introduced herself to him briefly before leaving the three of them alone. But Richie can’t even bring himself to smile right now, let alone get to know this girl the two of them are with. He can only glance between Stan and Mike with wide eyes, afraid that, if he looks away, they’ll be gone when he looks back.

            “Richie,” Mike murmurs, and he reaches a hand over, hovers it above Richie’s knee, an attempt at a comforting gesture, but as soon as Richie can feel the brush of his fingertips against the fabric of his jeans, he moves away, sucking in a harsh breath and shaking his head once. And he doesn’t know why, doesn’t understand the odd, all consuming, overwhelming fear that washes over him whenever they try to touch him, but he can’t stop himself from pulling away. Mike sniffs, looking close to tears, and pulls his hand back reluctantly. Stan closes his eyes, features strained. And it’s so strange, seeing them like this, seeing them as adults. There’s clear remnants of who they were as kids, the slope of Stan’s nose the same and the shape of Mike’s face, and their eyes are the same color, only they look so heavy, so tired, a result of aging. Richie tried picturing what they would look like as they got older hundreds of times, but none of them were exactly right. Close, perhaps, and accurate, but not completely correct. Which is odd, because he thought he was never going to find out what they would look like now, yet here they are, right in front of him. Two of the six most important people he’s ever known and ever will know.

            Opening his eyes, Stan lets out a slow breath, looking briefly to Mike before meeting Richie’s gaze with a small smile. “The other’s are on their way,” he tells him simply, propping his elbow on his knee and cradling his chin in his palm. It’s eerily reminiscent of how he was back then, when he’d sit on the floor and lean against his knee, or rest against a table top. Richie wants to point this out, but cannot even bring himself to part his lips. It doesn’t matter too much, really, as Stan quickly continues with, “I called them while Mike went to pick you up. Bill’s the farthest, lives in L.A. right now, so he’ll probably get here last, but we don’t know that for sure. The point is, the rest of them should be here by tomorrow morning, if they’re all able to get on last minute flights. Except for Eddie. He’s in New York, so he’s probably already on his way here. Probably speeding, too, since he knows you’re here.”

            It isn’t a word that Richie gets out, no, but an involuntary rumble of a sound that vibrates in his chest and nearly echoes around the silent room. Even that is enough to make his unused vocal cords hurt, already sore from the very little conversation he forced himself to have when picking up the phone, but it still makes his lips part in genuine surprise. He hadn’t meant to make the noise, and judging by the way Stan and Mike both stare at him with wide eyes, it’s clear that they weren’t expecting to hear it after how silent he’s been up until now. They don’t make a bit deal out of it, though, only relaxing into small smiles and relieved eyes, like just that one sound is enough to ease them slightly. “He missed you, you know,” Mike murmurs quietly, almost timid. “We all did, but he… he took it hardest, when you went missing.”

            Missing? Richie falters at that, confused, because he… he wasn’t missing. Everyone else was missing. Except, they’re all here, apparently – they grew up in a normal way, live real adult lives, while Richie was… also here, but not the same here as them. He was here, but elsewhere, apparently. It makes no sense. Nothing has made sense since he woke up that one morning when he was seventeen, though. Perhaps it would be best for him to focus on the here and now rather than the how and then. As in, try to choke out a few sentences, or break down this barrier that’s keeping him unresponsive and silent when he wants to tell them how much he loves them, how much he’s missed them. He wants more than anything to talk to them, to… to say something. But he can’t. He just blinks, lips twitching in the phantom motions of what could be a smile through squinted eyes and a tilted head. It’s barely even a reaction, he knows it, but it’s enough to urge them on, to make them keep talking to him.

            “We spent the entire summer after senior year driving around, looking for you,” Mike tells him.

            Stan scoffs, but in a fond way, and says, “Yeah, but only after arguing about it with Bill. I love that man to pieces, but jesus christ, he can be so unintentionally selfish sometimes.”

            “He had a good reason,” Mike dismisses with a wave of his hand. “I mean, I didn’t agree with it, and it pissed me off too, but I could see where he was coming from. Sort of. Kinda.” He pauses, shrugs, and concludes, “Doesn’t matter, ‘cause he came with us anyway. That’s the important part. And he was actually the one to bring up extending the search from a few weeks to the whole summer. He wanted to find you just as bad as we did, he was just scared.”

            “We were all scared,” Stan adds, a bit softer. Richie is helpless to do anything other than glance between them, just as he was before. And it’s kind of hazy, this scene, the three of them – it feels fuzzy around the edges, slightly blurred and a little bit off kilter, like a dream that’s getting ready to fade away and form into a different dream. But every time Richie blinks, they are there when he opens his eyes again, and he thinks that he is afraid, but he is also safe. He is not sure of what to do with that.

            Mike clears his throat then, drawing their attention, and smiles when Richie looks at him. With a look on his features, one that’s gentle and warm and surreal, he pats his own knee and gets to his feet, saying, “I don’t know where you’ve been or what happened, but you look like you haven’t had a real meal in months.” Richie would snort, if he could. More like years. A decade, maybe. He can’t remember the last time he bothered to make himself something proper. After the first few years, most proper food was spoiled, anyway – all he could choose from was canned shit and snacks that don’t mold over time. So he lifts his shoulders in a shrug, a very slight answer that is not much of an answer at all, but it’s enough for Mike to nod once and muse, “Thought so.” As he moves over, he brushes his hand against Stan’s shoulder, then quickly ducks down to press a kiss to his temple, staying hunched over when he asks, “Are you okay with me going to make some food really quick, then? We haven’t had dinner yet, either, and Patty said she’ll be back in an hour, so I should probably make sure there’s something ready. Plus, everyone else will probably start showing up throughout the night and they might be hungry when they get here.”

            Again, Richie shrugs slightly, feeling indifferent, because he does not see a flaw in that suggestion. At least, he does not see one until Mike grins at him and starts walking away, because the moment he steps foot into the hallway and starts to leave Richie’s sight, he feels his heart seize in his chest, throat closing, breath coming out of his slightly parted lips in a high pitched whistle. Perhaps the sound of blood rushing past his ears is a bit deafening, because he does not think his reaction is loud enough to draw a reaction, but Stan looks alarmed and Mike is instantly back by his side, both of their hands hovering by him, wanting to offer a comforting touch but knowing from their previous attempts that Richie cannot handle the physical contact quite yet. “What?” Stan asks, and Richie does not know what he looks like, but he knows he’s hyperventilating and he knows that Stan looks scared, so he assumes he does not look very good. “What’s wrong? What happened?”

            “Richie?” While Stan looks scared, Mike looks devastated. He’s scanning over Richie’s entire body, eyes wide but brows pinched together with a crease between them, fingers curling into his fists, clenching and unclenching while he fights the urge to rest his hands on Richie’s back or shoulder. “Are you- are you hurt, or something? I didn’t think- I mean, I didn’t see any injuries when I picked you up, but if you’re hurt, we can—”

            Shaking his head, Richie swallows roughly, lifting a trembling hand and then promptly dropping it. His thoughts feels quiet and muted, his mind cloudy and slow and the world disorienting around him. The way his chest heaves with each breath is almost painful, lungs aching, but he forces his eyes to focus, makes himself look at Mike, then at Stan, then Mike again, Stan again, back and forth, and he tells himself that they are there. Of course they are. How could he be here, listening to them, if they weren’t? But that answer is quiet terrifying in itself, and he tries to push it away, only it is persistent, annoying, hovering over him until his breathing is even but his mind is unfocused. Stan and Mike try to talk to them, he can hear their distant voices, but his gaze slides over the wall, not really seeing what he’s looking at, and he cannot hear what they attempt to say.

            What if this isn’t real?

            He doesn’t want to consider it, and he doesn’t. It just lingers there, covers his thoughts like a blanket, because he fears it could be true. But if this isn’t real, that doesn’t mean he can’t at least let himself enjoy it. Perhaps his mind has conjured up hallucinations of his friends, perhaps he is still sitting in his old bedroom and dreaming all of this right now. If he is, there is nothing he can do about it. So he calms down, albeit slowly, and he tunes back into reality, blinking a few times to clear his vision and waiting for the ringing in his ears to fade away, until he can see Mike and Stan again, and he can hear Stan murmur, “Here, just- write it down. Talk to us like this. Tell us you’re okay. Please.”

            Looking down, he finds that there is a pen resting against his thigh, an open notebook placed on the sofa cushion besides him. Stan is looking at him desperately, Mike’s eyes shimmering with hope, and it’s such a simple idea, one that he’s kind of shocked hadn’t come into play the second they realize he wouldn’t utter a word, but he still picks them up gingerly. Uncapping the pen with somewhat shaky hands, he poises it over the page for a short moment, considering what it is he wants to write – his confusion, his fear, his uncertainty, his worries – before deciding on something simple. Something that will help avoid sending him into a spiral of panic like that again.

            In choppy, uneven scrawl, he writes down, I don’t want either of you to leave me.

            Mike reads it first, looking confused when he looks back at Richie, Stan leaning over to scan over the words himself. “Rich, we’re not going to leave you—”

            “Then we’ll all go to the kitchen,” Stan interrupts simply. Glancing towards Mike briefly, Stan looks at Richie, meets his gaze, and questions, “That’s what you mean, right? You don’t want either of us out of your sight.” Capping the pen, Richie hesitates, then nods once, the action small and curt. Brightening, and looking very relieved that the problem is much less severe than what they had assumed, Stan pushes himself to his feet. “Dinner needs to be made no matter what, so we’ll all go. We’ll both be there the entire time, and if anyone needs to leave the room for whatever reason, we’ll all go together.”

            Richie feels like he could cry from gratitude alone, but he does not shed a tear (has not been able to shed a tear, despite feeling on the edge of a breakdown ever since that phone rang). Instead, he nods once more, trying to convey how thankful he is for Stan understanding what he meant with his eyes, and follows the two of them out of the room, feeling like he’s walking in a dream as he goes.

            It’s a very strange feeling, this mixture of excitement and fear brewing within Eddie’s chest. The adrenaline that flows through his veins makes his hands shake, but the pure terror of the unknown that’s to come makes him movements slow. In retrospect, he could be halfway to Derry by now, had he moved as quick as he should have and hopped in the car within minutes of ending that call with Stan, but he didn’t do that. No, he spent a solid twenty minutes standing there, staring out the window, and then he wasted another twenty minutes sitting on the window sill and numbly eating the take out he had bought for himself. And it makes no sense, feeling so physically vacant when his mind is moving a mile per second. Because he should have thrown himself out the door as soon as he heard Richie’s name, should have rushed down to the lot and hopped in his car and sped away, packed bags and dinner be damned. Mike, Patty and Stan are more than happy to provide him food and clothes while he’s there, he knows – he’s visited them a fair share of times since starting the divorce process with Myra, and they are all great friends and ever better hosts to guests. Perhaps it’s just an excuse, though, a way to postpone leaving for as long as he possibly can. Which is just ridiculous, because…

            Jesus, it’s Richie, and he’s been dying to see Richie again since the day he disappeared, but now that that day is here? He doesn’t know what to do, or how to feel, or- or anything. He just doesn’t fucking know, because he always hoped that he’d see Richie again, and when he was younger, he dreamed about it every night, but as the years went by that’s all that they were – dreams. Not something he believed was ever going to happen. Just a hope, a wish, something he felt foolish about. Hell, even two years ago he considered himself an idiot for still wanting Richie, and now, out of nowhere, Richie is back? Mere days after his divorce is finalized? He’s still reeling from finally freeing himself from the grasp of the woman he never loved, his brain can’t quite grasp that only person he’s ever fallen for is suddenly just… here.

            Well, there. In Derry, waiting for him and the others to arrive. And maybe it’s ridiculous, struggling more with this than he did with the aftermath of what they dealt with when they were thirteen, because at least he still moved back then. He hurt, he ached, he had nightmares, he was scared of what he would see around every single corner, but he kept fucking going, no matter what. Now, however, he feels like he can’t keep going, like stepping out that door will be the hardest thing he will ever have to do, even though he knows for a god damn fact that it isn’t even close. He stares at his suitcase, the one he just emptied of whatever random shit he shoved in it for the move, and he thinks that putting clothes in there will just be impossible. It would take five minutes, because his clothes are already folded up in boxes in his empty bedroom and all he has to do is move them from the box and into the suitcase, but he just can’t do it. Because he’s scared. He is so fucking scared that it fucking aches in his heart and churns in his stomach and presses against his chest until it feels like his ribcage is about to splinter beneath the pressure. And it sucks, for lack of a better word, because he wants to be exhilarated about Richie being found, but all he is… is terrified.

            Because there is no way that the Richie he knew twenty three years ago is the same one that is sitting in Derry right now. Because Eddie is still so fucking head over heels for this guy that he’s afraid of how he’ll react to seeing him. And what will he see, anyway? Will he see someone who’s lived a full, happy life without the losers, or will he see someone who was deprived of living? Stan said that, according to Mike, Richie sounded nothing like his old self. His voice had been barely audible, croaky and clearly not very used, but that was over the phone. Who knows how reliable that observation really is.

            Only, that doesn’t matter, Eddie realizes. It’s a sudden thought, an obvious yet unexpected thought, one that makes him blink once and come crashing back into himself so suddenly that it sends a shiver down his spine. It doesn’t matter, because Richie isn’t missing anymore. Richie isn’t missing.

            Holy shit.

            “I need to leave,” he murmurs to himself, lurching forward to fling open the first ox of clothes sitting closest to him. It’s been a few hours now, he thinks, since Stan called him, and he should have been the first one to get to Derry due to living the closest, but he’s pretty sure the others are already on last minute flights and will probably reach Bangor Airport before Eddie even gets to Maine. That doesn’t matter either, though, because he’s going to get there no matter what, and he’s going to see Richie with his own eyes, and that is going to making everything okay.

            The first person to walk through that door after Patty gets home is the one and only Beverly Marsh. Richie always thought she was beautiful when they were teens, and often called her The Gorgeous Miss Marsh in a fancy accent just to make her giggle, but she has grown into herself incredibly. Even the way she walks into the room shows how strong she still is, and Richie can feel it in the air, can see it in the way she holds herself, that he had definitely been right about one thing – whatever it is she does for work, there is no shadow of a doubt in his mind that she is the boss.

            Then Ben follows in after her, and Ben has definitely grown into himself, his middle still soft but his shoulders broad and his features shining with a confidence he never had when they were younger. And Richie realizes he had been right about two things, because they have matching rings on their fingers and they share a look before spotting Richie sitting on the sofa that is filled with love. They’re together, he thinks, heart skipping a beat in a giddy kind of joy. That’s good. They deserve each other.

            “Oh my god,” Beverly breathes when she finally looks over and meets Richie’s gaze. Tears spring to her eyes instantly, Ben looking shell shocked, and they stand frozen for a few long seconds while they take Richie’s appearance in. Richie isn’t much to look at, though, with his greasy mess of hair nearly reaching his shoulders and the scraggly beard he hasn’t bothered shaving, unwashed clothes that he hasn’t changed out of in at least a week clinging to his body, skin crying out for some soap, body begging to be taken care of. His stomach is happy, though, warm from the nice stew that Mike made. Despite how much of disaster he knows he looks, the two of them look overjoyed to see him, and when Beverly lurches forward, he almost allows her to close the space.

            Only, at the last second, some kind of panic seizes him, causing him to lurch off the couch and scramble away from her, and he feels so ashamed, moving away from the touch of the people he loves, even more so when she freezes and looks at him with wide, hurt eyes, but he can’t help it. He parts his lips, wanting to apologize, but his voice still won’t cooperate, leaving him useless to do anything other than turn to Mike and Stan, who are watching the scene with sad gaze, and beg them with his eyes to speak for him. Thankfully, Stan does, quickly saying, “You can’t touch him. We don’t know why yet, because he isn’t talking either, but it makes him freak out.”

            “Oh,” Beverly murmurs through an exhale, and that hurt in her eyes melts into guilt, as if she could possibly be blamed for not knowing something that is not obvious. Richie wants to kick himself in the head, mentally screams at himself to just work like a normal person already, but all he does is shut his mouth and offer what he hopes is an apologetic smile. Apparently getting the message, Beverly smiles back, lowering herself onto the couch Richie had been sitting on and making room for Ben to sit besides her. “That’s okay,” she says to Richie, voice light and comforting to listen to. “We won’t touch you then, not unless you’re okay with it.”

            “We promise,” Ben adds, and his voice is not what Richie expected, much deeper and mature than what he ever could have imagined, but it’s still that same, warm sound that Richie remembers, still pleasant and soft and something that can only be described as Ben. “Can you sit back down? Please?”

            It takes a moment, Richie’s mind reeling, his eyes scanning over Ben and Beverly repeatedly, but then he shuffles forward again, lowering himself into his seat but making sure there’s enough space for him to not accidentally brush against someone else. They look at him for a moment, almost expectantly, until Beverly lets out a slow breath and looks away. “I always thought you’d be talking up a storm once we found you,” she muses, mostly to herself, but the others all chuckle lightly in some kind of agreement. I wish I could, Richie thinks, swallowing the lump in his throat and begging his body to just let him utter a single word, but nothing comes out. He flexes a hand, then reaches forward to grab the pen and notebook that Stan had given to him earlier.

            Feeling everyone’s eyes burning holes into him, he simply writes, Sorry.

            “No, don’t be sorry,” Ben says before he’s even finished writing it, frown audible in his voice. “You have your reasons, I’m sure. We just don’t know what they are. It’s just weird because we’ve… I mean, it’s been a long time, but every memory I have of you includes you talking, joking, laughing…” he trails off, purses his lips, and shrugs. “You being so silent just isn’t what we expected, but I’m sure as shit not going to complain about it. I’m just glad you’re here. We all are.”

            Richie wants to respond to that somehow, in a way that matters, in a way that shows how much hearing that means to him. All his does is nod, tear out the page he had written on, and set the pen down to indicate that he does not plan to write anything else, at least for the time being. Taking that as a sign to change the subject, Beverly perks up, eyes brightening, and says, “I have an idea, to fill the silence. It’s been a long time since we’ve seen you—”

            Twenty three years, Richie thinks. Give him a moment to think about it, and he could probably get the exact number of days, maybe even narrow it down to the hour or the minute.

            “—which means that… a lot of things have happened since you were gone,” Beverly goes on. She looks at Ben, glances toward Mike and Stan, and then returns her gaze to Richie to say, “We could tell you what you’ve missed, if… if you’d want that. I know that I want to know everything that’s happened to you since you disappeared, but since you aren’t talking, maybe you’d like to hear what has happened to us.”

            Without even thinking, Richie nods. One of the main things that kept him moving forward was imagining his friends lives, picturing where they would be, what they would be doing. To actually hear about it, to see if he was accurate in any of his assumptions, would mean more than words can explain.

            “Okay,” Beverly grins, seeing the way Richie’s eyes widen slightly with excitement, his nod curt and quick and certain. Grabbing Ben’s hand, she holds their linked fingers up to show off their rings, starting with, “Well, if you haven’t guessed yet, Ben and I are married. We didn’t start dating for forever, though, not until after college, probably a year or so after we graduated.”

            “I went to school in Boston,” Ben cuts in. “Got a degree in architecture. She got a business degree, and when she was trying to figure out how to put it to use, I suggested that we try starting a business together. An architecture firm, where we split the responsibility fifty-fifty and were both in charge. It took a while to actually go anywhere, but she’s incredible at what she does and was able to gets loans from banks and support from people willing to buy stock in us, and eventually we became pretty successful. Like, we’re set, money wise, and our kids are gonna be set, too. Especially since Stan is an amazing accountant and helped us make sure we were putting our money in the right places.”

            Holding a single hand up to wave it dismissively through the air, Stan grins at them. “You guys are smart, you didn’t need a whole lot of guidance. I just made sure you didn’t make any mistakes.”

            Richie uncaps his pen quickly, bringing it down on the page to write, Kids? Then, in a haste, he holds it up for all four of them to see, making it clear that the question is meant for the entire group, not just Bev and Ben. It’s Ben that answers first, though, pulling something out of his back pocket that Richie cannot recognize. “We have two,” he says, tapping away at the object, before turning it towards Richie to show him a photo on it. Richie is bewildered at first, unfamiliar with whatever kind of technology this is, but chooses to question it later as he leans closer to look at the picture. “That one’s Mandy, she’ll be three in February,” he tells Richie, pointing to the older of the two kids in the photo – a little girl with Beverly’s hair and Ben’s eyes. Moving his finger to point at the younger child, he adds, “And that’s Ricky. He’s turning one in December. We actually named him Richard, after you, but it felt weird calling him Richie.” Feeling a little bit numb, a little bit disoriented, Richie nods, his throat closing slightly. They named one of their kids after him. After him.

            “They’re staying with Ben’s mom while we’re here, but you can meet them as soon as possible,” Beverly tells him. “They’ve heard plenty of stories about their Uncle Richie. I mean, they’re still really young, so they probably don’t remember any of the stories, but still.”

            Uncle Richie. That punches a gust of air out of his lungs, makes his chest ache.

            “We have three kids,” Mike says, drawing Richie’s attention to him as Ben puts that device in his hands back into his pocket. Thankfully, what Mike grabs is a regular photo, one placed in a nice looking frame, which he quickly hands over for Richie to examine. “This is our oldest, Robin—” he points to a boy that looks distinctively like Stan, with angled features and sharp eyes, a goofy smile and bright hair. “He’s seven, and he’s biologically Stan and Patty’s, if you couldn’t already tell. This one is Debbie, named after my great grandma.” He moves his finger over, indicating a younger girl with long, curly hair and darker skin. Her eyes are bright and shimmering, her smile toothy and wide. “She’s six, biologically mine and Patty’s. If it were possible, we would have had one that was biologically mine and Stan’s, but science isn’t that advanced yet, I don’t think, so our youngest is adopted. Her name is Miranda,” he slides his finger over even more, and had he not told Richie that the child was adopted, he likely would not have known – in this picture, she has the same warm complexion as Mike, the same sharp eyes as Stan and her brother, and the same light brown hair as Patty. “She’s also six, but we adopted her when she was two.”

            “We’ve also told them about you,” Stan adds, smiling at the picture warmly, fondly. “They’ve been wanting to meet you forever, but we had Patty take them over to my parent’s house. They moved back to Derry after me and Patty moved in here, so they aren’t far. You could probably meet them tomorrow, if you’re feeling up for it.”

            And Richie would love to meet them, but he does not think he is capable of being in the right mindset for that at the moment. Handing the picture back to Mike, he takes his pen and slowly writes, Not yet. When I can talk and act normal. Then he lifts the page, flashing the words to Stan.

            “That’s fine,” Stan assures him instantly. “Whenever you’re ready. There’s no rush.”

            Richie offers what he hopes looks like a grateful smile, setting the notebook back on his lap and leaning back in his seat, glancing around at them all. And it isn’t all of them, not yet, but he was sure he’d never see any of them ever again. This is more than he could have ever asked for. It makes his heart swell in his chest, his lips twitching farther up, gaze settling on Mike as he leans forward and says, “I don’t know when Bill and Eddie are gonna get here, but Eddie has no kids yet, and Bill only has one, a three-year-old boy. He’s married to a really nice girl named Audra, who’s actually—”

            “Been wanting to meet you since the first time Eddie told me about you,” an unfamiliar voice interrupts, snapping Richie’s attention to the entryway of the living room. He had been warned beforehand that the rest of their friends know to just come in when they arrive, not needing to knock on the door or anything like that, but it still scares him with the sudden, unfamiliar presence in the room – a woman, with hair that’s close to the color of Beverly’s, grinning at him from across the room. She crosses the space quickly, falters a few feet away from him, and then sticks a hand out. “I’m Audra. I’ve heard so much about you from everyone.”

            “No touching,” Stan says. “He’s not responding to touch well right now.”

            Seemingly unbothered, Audra drops her hand, nodding once. “Okay.”

            “He’s not talking, either,” Mike informs her, “but he has a notebook to write down anything he wants to say. Just so you know.”

            “Not talking?” A new voice scoffs, and when Richie looks, it takes him a moment to realize it’s Bill – he’s aged well, for the most part, but he’s always looked a little older than the rest of them, tired in a way a person should never be. Still, through the bags under his eyes and the creases between his brows, Richie can recognize the boy he knew, especially when he grins at Richie and says, “Trashmouth is always talking. There’s no way he’s changed that much. Can’t fool me like that, Hanlon.”

            Despite himself, Richie smiles, wider than he’s managed too so far, because that? That feels normal, the poking fun. It feels like how he remembers. And Bill looks at him, grin growing, but after a moment, his eyes turn expectant, and Richie realizes that he is waiting for Richie to respond. Richie’s smile falls, and with a deep breath, he shakes his head. “Not lying,” Mike murmurs. “He can’t talk.”

            Bill frowns then, looking curious, and makes his way forward to sit on the sofa opposite of the one Richie’s sitting on. “Can’t? Did something happen to you, an injury or something like that?” Again, Richie shakes his head, making Bill’s brows pinch together in thought. “Then why can’t you?”

            For a moment, Richie falters, before lifting up his pen and writing down an answer, making it as blunt as possible. Once he’s done, he puts the cap back on and lifts the notebook, spinning it around for everybody to read, watching their reactions as they do so.

            I haven’t used by voice in five years.

            Eddie has not once gone under the speed limit since getting on the road. The world has been going past his windows in a blur, his only goal being to make sure he doesn’t crash and avoid being seen by any possible police. He presses his palms against the steering wheel to try and conceal how his hands shake, but his trembling fingers still fumble and slide against the surface when he tries to turn or adjusts the volume of the random radio station he has on. In all honesty, he’s a good driver – actually, he’s a great driver, but with his mind so fuzzy and his focus all over the place, he’s surprised he makes it to Maine in one piece, let alone to Derry. But make it he does, and at approximately two in the morning, he puts his car in park and takes the key out of his ignition. The sound of farm animals are quiet at this time of the night, but they’re still there, and the house looms in front of him like some daunting, powerful thing, which is probably the most ridiculous thing he has ever thought, because this house is most definitely the definition of comfort and warmth and friendship. Not once has he stepped foot into this place and not felt at ease. Even when he was younger, when this was where Mike lived with his parents and they let him come over whenever he wanted. Of course, he usually spent his time at Richie’s house, but the sentient had been just the same, and it’s stayed consistent as they got older.

            He’s been thinking a lot on this drive, a jumbled up mess of words and ideas and worries and hopes. He considered what he should say when he sees Richie, then he ponders over what he should do – hug him, shake his hand, fucking nothing? It’s not like he has some kind of guide on how to treat this situation, especially since he doesn’t even really know what the situation is. At least an hour of his drive had been spent on these thoughts, and he decided that he’d just going to go with what’s natural, whatever flows out of the moment. Now, however, that he is mere minutes away from the moment he’s been wishing for since he was eighteen, he regrets not weighing his options even more. Without some kind of plan of action, he’s afraid he’s going to freeze entirely and shut down in shock.

            Letting out a sigh, he postpones this for a few short moments longer, digging his phone out of his back pocket just to check if he’s missed anything important while driving. For the most part, it’s just texts from Myra, who he’s been adamantly ignoring, which will be a lot easier once he manages to switch his number and drop all possible contact with her entirely. He’s about to turn off the screen and dismiss those messages until later when he catches a single text from Bill mingling in the bunch.

            [Billy] Not sure when you’re getting here, but fair warning: something really fucked up happened to Richie. We don’t know what, but he won’t let anyone touch him and he apparently hasn’t used his voice in five years and isn’t talking. It was really disorienting for me when I got here so I figured I should let you know so it won’t catch you off guard

.

            And, well… huh. Okay. Maybe that helps solve his dilemma, then. Brows pinching together, he typed back a simple response, thanking Bill for the warning and letting him know that he just got to the house. Then, locking his phone and shaking out his hands to try and dispel himself of some nerves, he gets out of the car, opting to leave his suitcase in the backseat for now, and heads towards the house on shaky legs and unsteady feet. And it’s a little unfair, really, how the drive here has already blurred in his mind, but these few seconds where he walks across the lawn and climbs the front porch steps feel as though everything has slowed down to a fucking crawl. It’s like he’s moving through honey, his every movement slow, the world frozen around him, his hand raising slightly to knock on the door before dropping to twist the doorknob when he remembers that they’re allowed to just go inside.

            Within the house, door shut behind him, everything feels still for a moment, silent, the only sound audible to him being his own breathing. The air is warm and presses against his skin in a way that is both comforting and stifling, causing sweat to bead at his hairline and on the back of his neck. And then, suddenly, he hears the sound of loud laughter.

            “She can handle her liquor like a fucking pro,” Bill says, pointing a finger in Audra’s direction, his demeanor almost childish and accusing. Audra rolls her eyes fondly and shrugs, as if it isn’t a big deal, while the rest of them snicker, Richie watching them with bright, awestruck eyes. “I mean it! She once downed, like, eight shots in less than a minute and didn’t even blink. It’s like tequila tastes like water to her. It’s fucking terrifying.”

            “What can I say?” Audra raises her glass of wine in the air, lips pulled up in a smug smile, and then lowers her glass to take a sip. Once satisfied, she smacks her lips together with an audible pop, raises her eyebrows at Bill, and finishes, “I’m not a fucking pussy, Denbrough.”

            Stan snorts so hard that his own wine almost shoots out of his nose, his hand slapping over his mouth to stop it from spilling past his lips. That reaction alone is enough to send the rest of them into near hysterics, and even Richie feels his chest shake slightly with silent laughter, small crinkles forming at the corners of his eyes. He doesn’t notice the approaching figure out of the corner of his eye, doesn’t feel the sudden weight of a new gaze on him, doesn’t realize what’s about to happen. Remains painfully unaware while Bill scoffs and says, “I never said you were, Denbrough. What I was trying to say is—”

            Before Bill can continue, there’s a series of soft, timid knocks, drawing everyone’s attention to the entryway of the living room, where Eddie stands, looking stiff and unsure. And Richie is not prepared for his appearance, he realizes, because his entire being seems to shut down, his mind going blank, his body tensing, his mouth suddenly dry. No one speaks, perhaps feeling something in the air that tells them they shouldn’t, and if anyone moves, Richie doesn’t notice, because his eyes are glued, stuck, frozen, taking in Eddie’s features – grown up, like the rest of them, but there’s still something gentle in the curve of his cheeks, something fiery and powerful in the glint of his eyes, something indescribably beautiful in the slope of his nose. Hidden under years and years of aging, Richie can still see the boy he knew.

            Eddie, on the other hand, is absolutely floored. His head is filled with a fuzzy kind of noise, like radio static, and he feels a little woozy, like he’s swaying on his feet. Because that’s him, that’s Richie, sitting across the room from him, that much is clear. But he’s not the same Richie, hair reaching his shoulders in tangled, greasy curls, glasses taped together on the tip of his nose, a messy beard on his chin that looks more like the product of laziness than anything else. His skin is pale, and his freckles that were so prominent when they were kids are still just as visible, but a noticeable amount have assumedly faded over time, making the remaining ones even more attention-grabbing in contrast to his pale complexion. And Bill’s text had been right, Eddie already knows, because something about Richie feels somehow inherently wrong. Not with Richie, per say – as in, Richie is Richie, but the bags beneath his eyes are like bruises, and the crease between his brows looks permanent, and something about him just screams tired. He looks tired, in a way that Eddie can’t comprehend, can’t imagine. Something awful happened to him.

            But right now, Eddie doesn’t focus on that, decides to deal with it later, because Richie is looking at him like the sun itself just walked into the room, and he knows, somewhere in the back of his mind, that Bill specifically told him Richie won’t let anyone touch him, but he wants more than anything to cross the room in one long stride and pull Richie into his arms. It takes all of his restraint not to, fingers twitching, nails digging into his palms, but he manages to limit himself to one small step in Richie’s direction, their gazes locked, before quietly, almost brokenly, murmuring, “Hi, Rich.”

            His own words seem to echo in the silence of the room, everyone watching the two of them, and Richie’s eyes shine with what appears to be tears, and Eddie is so caught up looking into those ocean blues that he doesn’t see Richie’s lips part, doesn’t notice the way his Adam’s apple bobs with a rough swallow, doesn’t prepare himself for the soft, almost inaudible whisper saying, “Eds.” And it actually sounds painful, Richie’s voice – a croak, cracking in the middle of that single syllable, consisting of more air than sound, but it’s there, feeling like a physical weight on Eddie’s shoulders, and he’s so dizzyingly overwhelmed by it that he doesn’t bother to take in how everyone else is gaping at Richie in shocked silence. Their jaws drop even further when, after a moment of absolutely nothing, Richie throws himself out of his seat and practically launches himself forward, barreling into Eddie’s chest with another broken, helpless attempt at saying Eddie’s name that makes Eddie’s heart ache.

            Though he feels a bit wary, he doesn’t hesitate to melt into the embrace, his arms enveloping around Richie’s shoulders, cheek pressed to Richie’s hairline, and he absently thinks that it doesn’t make much sense, Richie tucking himself under his chin despite being at least five inches taller than him, but he can’t deny that he adores this, holding Richie close to him and rubbing soothing circles into his back. And he knows he’s crying, though he can’t pinpoint the exact moment he starts, can only feel the way he chokes up, sniffling slightly, while he lets out a wet, breathless laugh. “You’re really here,” he says incredulously. “You’re actually- Christ. I missed you so fucking much.”

            “Eddie,” Richie croaks again, like it’s the only thing he can say, but then his shoulders shake with a sob, and Eddie can feel his shirt start to dampen with Richie’s tears, and it takes him a moment to realize that this is more than just happy tears. He heaves in a horrible breath and releases it with a strangled cry of genuine anguish, and it takes ever fiber of Eddie’s being not to fall apart from how sad the noise is. Unsure of what else to do, gaze sliding up to look at his friends helplessly, he tightens his hold on Richie’s shoulders, hugs him closer, and starts to rock them from side to side.

            “I got you,” Eddie tells him gently, in a way he hopes is comforting. He feels his lower lip wobble, more tears rolling down his blotchy cheeks, and tries not to be crushed by the weight of this moment. “You’re okay, Richie. You’re here. I got you.”

            It takes a while to calm Richie down, a lot of murmured reassurances and gentle touches from Eddie and Eddie alone. By the time he’s managed to turn his sobs into hopeless little hiccups, it’s nearing three in the morning and Richie is hunched over on the sofa, leaning heavily against Eddie’s side. Mike tried holding his hand a minute ago, assuming that Richie won’t be as adamantly against it like before, but after a moment, Richie had still pulled his own hand back and shook his head. “’m tired,” he managed to get out in his strained, unused voice. It’s almost grates against their eardrums, that’s how gravelly it is, but it’s better than nothing, so everyone just smiles and nods, wanting to encourage him to keep talking. And he does, after a moment of hesitation, eyelids fluttering slightly as he turns his head to look at Eddie. He clears his throat, lips tugging down in a pained grimace, then forces out, “Can I—?”

            That’s all he can say before he starts to cough, and Eddie can’t imagine what it’s like, trying to speak after years of not doing so, but he can tell by the strain in Richie’s eyes that it’s painful. And he understands why everyone wants Richie to keep talking, seeking a sense of normalcy in this mess of confusion, but he doesn’t want Richie to hurt himself, so he quickly shushes him and nods, saying, “Whatever you’re asking, don’t bother. The answer is yes.”

            For a second, Richie frowns, looking a little bit guilty, like he wants to protest, but that guilt quickly melts into gratitude as he nods once and scoots his body down the sofa until he can settles his head in Eddie’s lap. His cheek presses to Eddie’s thigh, and with a sigh of content, he lets his eyes shut and murmurs, “Thank you.”

            “Get some sleep, Rich,” Eddie tells him softly, the words feeling so strange on his tongue, and he feels like he’s in some kind of dream. He just- his mind hasn’t fully grasped that this is real quite yet, that he is really here, and that Richie is with him, that this is actually happening. For a moment, he grins, blinded by the joy running hot in his veins, only to sober up a second later when he sees Richie scrub tear tracks from his cheeks, brows creasing together and features pinching up. It’s kind of cute, how childish he looks like that, but Eddie thinks it’s more concerning than anything else. They’re fourty now, yet Richie still shows some of the same behavior he had when he was seventeen, tapping his fingers and scrunching his nose as a subtle sign of distress. Putting it on the back burner for now (along with many, many other things), he gently runs his fingers through Richie’s hair, watching as Richie starts to relax, but not completely. Suppressing a frown, Eddie quietly promises, “We’ll all be here when you wake up, okay? I swear to you, no one will leave while you’re asleep.”

            Everyone is looking at them, Eddie can feel it. For the most part, the others have quietly been chatting to themselves, leaving the two of them in their own little bubble of peace, but now nobody is talking. They’re waiting on bated breath. Then Richie’s features smooth out, relaxing completely, and they all seem to exhale at the exact same time – perhaps with relief, perhaps something else. Around him, Eddie hears the others go back to their quiet talking, though now they speak even softer for the sake of Richie, no one wanting to keep someone who looks so exhausted from getting the rest he clearly needs. As for Eddie, he only watches, still idly running his hands through Richie’s hair, until Richie’s breathing has evened out and any ounce of stress or tension has drained from his body. Only then, when he is one hundred percent sure that Richie is asleep, does he let out a slow sigh and look away.

            “I have a question,” he announces, loud enough to draw everyone’s attention, but not so loud that it could cause Richie to stir. He waits until everyone has turned to face him before shifting his gaze to Mike, making it clear who the question is intended for, and asking, “How did… this happen? Like… what was the phone call like, how did you end up calling him in the first place, where was he, and other shit like that. Just, what do we know for sure about all of this?”

            “Nothing, really,” Mike answers honestly, shoulders slumping as he sucks his lower lip into his mouth to gnaw on it momentarily, pondering over his words. With a slight huff, he releases his lip, glances down at Richie, and says, “I have no clue how I ended up calling him. I mean, I didn’t even dial or anything, you know? I was going to call you, and I went to your contact to make the call, and Richie picked up. And he was… I mean. You heard how he sounds. And it took a few minutes of coaxing before he was able to tell me where he was, and he- he was at his house. The house he grew up in. He was just sitting in his room when I got there, and he wouldn’t talk to me, and when I tried to hug him he freaked out and pushed me away. And he…”

            Mike trails off, and something about his demeanor shifts, becoming tense. His features harden, eyes turning away, hands pressing to his knees. Eddie blinks slowly at this, unsure of what to make of it, and carefully questions, “And he what, Mike?”

            For a minute, Mike makes no move to respond, gaze glued to the wall and teeth sinking into his lower lip anxiously. Just when Eddie is about to demand an answer, Mike lets out a ragged sigh, abruptly lifting a hand to scrub over his face, quietly explaining, “When I walked in, I didn’t… I didn’t see it at first, ‘cause I was so focused on Richie, you know? I didn’t- I didn’t notice the other things in the room, not until…” He pauses, exhales slowly. “When I went to walk out of the room behind him, I… I saw it, sitting on the bed. I don’t know why he had it, but there was- there was a gun. Richie had a gun.”

            That statement hangs in the air for a moment, heavy and bitter and overwhelming. Then, with an exhale, Eddie murmurs, “Why would he need a gun?”

            “Maybe he thought he was in danger,” Ben offers, sounding unsure.

            Bill nods his agreement. “Yeah. Like, protection. Maybe from whatever caused him to go missing in the first place. That makes sense, right?”

            Slowly, Mike shakes his head, gaze sliding over to Stan. Sighing heavily, Stan says, “We didn’t want to bring it up in front of Richie, but Mike and I have been texting about it, and I think…” He stops, releasing a slow, strained breath, then finishes with, “I think he was going to kill himself.”

            “No,” Beverly murmurs, struck frozen with shock. “No.”

            “We don’t know for sure, obviously,” Mike says, raising his hands in front of him in some kind of defense, his eyes sad. “I just… looking at him, and thinking about it, it makes sense. He’s clearly been through hell the past two decades. That’d be more than enough to make me want to off myself.”

            In his chest, Eddie can feel his heart chipping away into broken pieces, gaze dropping to take in Richie’s appearance for what is likely the hundredth time since arriving. Even when asleep, Richie looks stressed, brows creased, lips tugged down in a slight frown. And he doesn’t want to consider it, doesn’t want to think about Richie giving up like that, but he can’t deny the obvious. “If that’s what he was planning to do,” he starts, sounding a little choked up, breath stuttering in his chest, “then it’s a good fucking thing that you called him when you did.” Tearing his eyes away to glance around the room, he sniffles once and states, “What matters is that he’s here, and he’s alive.”

            Nodding along, Ben adds, “And he’s talking a little bit now, too, which is good. He still seems skittish about anyone other than Eddie touching him, but still. That’s some improvement, at least.”

            “Let’s just hope he’ll be able to tell us what happened to him,” Stan mumbles, frowning at Richie’s sleeping figure with confusion and sadness.

            Bill lets out a sigh, scrubbing a hand over his features tiredly, and glances down at his watch with disdain. “I think we all need to get some rest before that happens,” he says around a yawn, offering a small smile to Audra when she settles a gentle hand on his shoulder. Glancing over to Stan and Mike, he asks, “Did you guys have any specifics for where we’ll be staying, or is it just first come first serve to the guest rooms? ‘Cause we can get a hotel room or something if—”

            “I just promised that no one’s going to leave while Richie’s asleep,” Eddie cuts in firmly, brows raised. “I don’t care if half of us have to sleep on the floor. No one’s leaving this house.”

            “We have enough room for all of you,” Mike laughs lightly, shaking his head in amusement. “You guys know where the guest rooms are. Stan and I should probably go lay down, too, so you can figure it out yourselves.” Pushing himself to his feet, he adds, “Also, me and Patty have to be up at eight to go feed the animals, so we’ll probably be making breakfast around nine, if any of you think you’ll be up by then. Eight is actually pretty late for us, but you guys don’t all live on a farm, so we totally get it if you need to sleep in for longer.”

            Snickering, Beverly throws a crumpled up napkin in Mike’s general direction, telling him, “Yeah, yeah, we know the damn drill, Hanlon. You two, go to your poor wife, sleeping all alone upstairs. We’ll get ourselves to bed just fine.”

            Rolling his eyes, Mike doesn’t bother responding, just gesturing towards the door in a grand, overdramatic way, grinning wide at everyone as they start to shuffle out of the room, following after when a majority of them are out. Stan hangs back for a moment, looking at Richie, still sleeping soundly with his head in Eddie’s lap. “Should we wake him up and get him to an actual bed?”

            “I don’t really want to risk waking him up,” Eddie admits, offering a tightlipped smile. “Just feels like he’d have a hard time falling back asleep.”

            Stan hums, arms crossed over his chest, brows pinched together. “I can go set up one of the guest rooms for you,” he offers meekly, looking as though he already knows the answer he’s going to get.

            As expected, Eddie shakes his head, gently carding his fingers through Richie’s hair, pushing away the fact that he’s in dire need of a shower, and says, “No, I think I’m good. Thank you, though.”

            “If you’re sure,” Stan murmurs through a slight smile. “You know where we are. Just come get someone if you need anything. Or just shout really, really loud, and you’ll probably wake at least one person up.”

            Eddie snorts, shakes his head and lifting a hand to gesture towards the door. “Go to bed, Stanley. I’ll be just fine, promise.” Raising his hands in surrender, Stan offers no verbal response, only looking at the two of them for a moment longer with a fond glint in his eyes. Then, with a soft exhale, he spins around on his heel, and he walks away.

            He realizes that it had been a close call, waiting so long to bring that Tozier boy back from the dimension his brother had cast the poor boy to. Had he waited even just a moment longer, there would have been no one to save, but he knew that he needed to wait for the exact right moment. Too early, they would have been so focused on the return of their friend that they would have completely dismissed his brother waking up from It’s long sleep. Too late, and Tozier would have returned to tragedy. The timing had to be perfect, and he feels as though he accomplished just that.

            For what appears to be a long time for humans, but had felt like the blink of an eye to Maturin, he watched as Tozier was forced to grow old alone. He considered bringing him back sooner, considered reversing this petty use of power that It had used the very same day It had done it, but he had known, deep within himself, that he could not do that. The way things work is strange, certain things needing to happen for other certain things to occur, and he had seen it all in his mind’s eye – he had seen when he had to interfere, and he had seen when he had to die.

            Now, he has done what he must, has returned the final member of these exceptional people to the group, and now he knows that they will do what needs to be done. Together, they harness the power that he had given to them when they were only children, and together, they will use that power to defeat the evil festering beneath their town. His job is done, and he has no other reason to stick around.

            With an absent thought wishing them the best of luck, he closes his eyes, and he fades away.

            Richie looks uncomfortable, his head ducked and his eyes low and his hands clasped together in his lap. The back of his throat aches from him forcing himself to talk, and part of him wants to curl up into a ball in Eddie’s lap and disappear while the rest of him is still timid about touch, though not nearly as much as he had been yesterday. Everyone is looking at him, their gazes confused, features bewildered, and no one speaks, not until Bill slowly shakes his head and says, “That’s not possible.”

            Which is about what Richie expected when they sat him down and asked him to tell them what happened, but it still hurts a little bit, seeing the disbelief written into the crease between Bill’s brow. Voice scratchy, throat complaining, Richie just lifts a meek shoulder and whispers, “It’s true.”

            “But…” Beverly trails off, shaking her head with a frown. “But how? It doesn’t make sense, Richie. How could everyone else be gone when we never went anywhere?”

            “Are you sure you weren’t somewhere else? Maybe just somewhere that looked kind of similar?” Ben offers, his eyes reflecting the way the cogs turn in his head as he tries to rationalize what he’s been told. It’s not that he thinks Richie is lying – none of them do, at least he hopes so – but he assumes there’s just an issue with perspective. And Richie thinks that is the problem with growing up. When they were kids, what they said happened, happened. There was no what if’s and are you sure’s. There was only nodding and acceptance and figuring out what to do about it. That’s what he was hoping for here, and he’s not surprised that this isn’t what he hoped for, but it’s not a pleasant feeling, seeing the way they look at him now. Like he might just be crazy, like he might have just imagined it all.

            Swallowing back something acidic and foul, Richie shakes his head once and says, “I’m positive. I just… I woke up, and everyone was gone.” He takes a moment to clear his throat, and it hurts, talking like this, but he refuses to backtrack and start writing again. This is why he had spent so long talking to himself, to avoid this exact thing, yet he’d still allowed himself to get to this point. Beside him, Eddie silently hands him a glass of water, which he quickly and gratefully accepts. After taking a quick drink that help to ease the aching in his vocal chords, he lets out a long sigh and continues with, “I looked everywhere for someone, all over Derry, all over Maine. All over the fucking country. No one.” He can still see the disbelief in their eyes, though, the fact that they just don’t think what he’s saying is real. Which is why, after a short moment of hesitation, he meets Stan’s gaze and tells him, “I went to your house, in Georgia. Took forever to find it, but I did. I wanted… something, from all of you, to keep with me, you know? I had Bev’s necklace, Mike’s journal, Ben’s poetry book, some random flannel that kind of looked like the one Bill used to wear because I couldn’t actually get to London, a polaroid from Eddie’s room, and… and a sketchbook from yours.”

            For a moment, Stan blinks slowly, looking a little shocked. “A sketchbook?”

            “Yeah,” Richie breathes, his voice getting weaker with every second that he forces himself to keep speaking. “Had your drawings in it, of nature and animals and us. Found it hidden behind your dresser. Like you… didn’t want anyone to see them, or something.”

            “Huh.” Stan breaks their eye contact, brows raised high and eyes angled up towards the ceiling in bewilderment. “I forgot that I used to hide that there. Pretty sure the only person who knows about that is… fuck. No one, I guess. I might have mentioned it to Patty when we were in college, but…” He trails off, shaking his head slowly, before glancing at the rest of their friends. “I believe it. I don’t know how it happened, or… or what the fuck happened, but he wouldn’t lie about it, and I don’t know how he would have known about that otherwise. So, I believe him.”

            It’s simple, but Richie’s shoulders sag in silent relief. At least that’s one person who’s listening to him instead of questioning him. Better than nothing, he supposes. However, that relief doesn’t last long, as Bill quickly speaks up to say, “It’s not that I don’t believe him, I just- I don’t think it’s what he thinks it was. There’s no way that he was the only person on Earth when we’ve all clearly been here the entire time. If anything, he’s the one who vanished into this air.”

            Thankfully, Richie doesn’t have to try and defend himself this time, as Eddie quickly lets out a scoff and casts a glare in Bill’s direction. “I’m sorry,” he starts, “but did we or did we not fight a fucking demon clown when we were thirteen? Pretty sure this is entirely in the realm of possible here. And stop interrogating him like he’s done something wrong, you’re just gonna make him feel bad when literally none of this is at all his fault.” He shuffles closer to Richie until their shoulders brush together, chin up and eyes narrowed, before he states, “You’re the one who asked to hear what happened, so there’s no reason to get so fucking upset about the answer.”

            Slumping back in some kind of surrender, Bill nods, letting out a slow, tired exhale. “You’re right, I’m sorry. I just… don’t understand. But that’s not your fault.” He addresses the last part directly to Richie, his eyes gentle and apologetic, and there’s something so boyish in that look, for some reason. In his mind, Richie can envision a younger Bill, fourteen, maybe fifteen-years-old, giving him that same exact look after accidentally breaking his glasses or before leaving to fly back to his house in London.

            “I don’t understand, either,” Richie offers meekly, keeping his voice as quiet as he possibly can while still being heard, wanting to avoid causing any more pain. “If that helps.” It doesn’t, and they all know it, but it does draw out slight chuckles from everyone. Richie thinks that this is as good a time as any to bring up the thing that’s been lingering in the back of his mind since he woke up a few hours ago and realized the previous day had not been a dream. Clearing his throat lightly, wincing at the way it slightly burns when he does so, he timidly glances around at everyone and admits to them, “I have a question, too, if that’s okay.”

            “Of course it is,” Mike tells him, leaning forward in his seat.

            Richie’s brows twitch up slightly before drawing together in though, a hand lifting to his mouth so that he can nervously gnaw on his thumbnail. He’s afraid of the answer, but he has to know. After a moment of nothing, he lets out a sigh, lowers his gaze to his lap, and softly asks, “Are my parents still…”

            Alive goes unsaid, but they seem to understand, as he can hear the six of them (Audra and Patty are wandering around somewhere, giving them the privacy they need) inhale sharply at the exact same time. That should be an obvious give away, but Richie still feels significantly unprepared when Eddie settles a warm, slightly shaky hand on his shoulder and answers, “No, they’re not, Rich. I’m sorry.”

            It’s the answer he expected – he is fourty, after all, and his parents unfortunately went a long time not taking proper care of themselves and knew they wouldn’t be living very long lives – but the words feel like a dagger to his chest, piercing his heart. Pressing his lips together to try and hide the way Richie’s lower lip trembles, he ducks his head once in a half nod, trying to hold back tears.

            “They never stopped looking for you, though,” Eddie goes on. His hand slides up from Richie’s shoulder and gently cups his chin, coaxing him to lift his head and meet Eddie’s slightly watery gaze. “I spent every holiday with them, every single year, and they never gave up hope on finding you. They loved you so fucking much, Richie. You know that, right?”

            And that’s what breaks Richie’s resolve.

            He’s known this entire time that he does not look strong. His body is frail and lanky and underweight, his overall appearance is scraggly and unkempt and the definition of disarray. The clothes he’s wearing are the same ones he’s had on for at least a week or two, his hair is a knotted, unwashed mess that should probably just be shaved off and given a fresh start, his skin is pale and covered in a layer of dirt and grime and filth that he hasn’t bother washing away. Ever since arriving here, he’s been completely aware of how pathetic he must look, especially in comparison to his well-dressed, squeaky clean, professional looking friends. However, he knows he must look the most messy right now, as he hunches over against Eddie’s side and buries his faze in Eddie’s chest with a sob that’s more physically painful than anything else. Because he gave up hope on ever seeing his parents again at least a decade ago. Because he remembers specific days where his heart ached in a certain way that felt like sudden grief, though he had been unable to pinpoint where that grief came from. Because, even if he stopped believing it would happen, he had always wished that, somehow, he’d get the chance to tell his parents he loves them at least one last time. He’d assure them that he’s long since forgiven them for those few years where they lost their grip and weren’t as attentive as they should have been. He hopes, with an aching heart, that they did not die feeling guilty.

            And when Eddie hugs him closer, he wishes, with every single fiber of his being, that they died loved. Content. Happy, or as happy as they could be after the world mistreated them so horribly for so long. Perhaps it’s not a comforting wish to make, but in this situation, it’s all he can do.

            That night, Patty approaches Mike with a look of disdain, lips tugged down in a frown and brows pinched together. “Look,” she murmurs, handing over the daily paper with a sense of reluctance, as if she doesn’t really want him to see what is printed on the front page. And that much, he realizes, is true, as his eyes scan over another ad for a missing child, as well as an article about a child’s body being discovered in the Kenduskeag. It’s strange, really, because the original reason he had gone to make that call to Eddie was because of this – because of the missing kids, the dead bodies, the funny feeling hanging heavily in the air – but with the chaos that came with finding Richie, he had damn near forgotten about it.

            “Shit,” he sighs, eyes closing briefly as he lets his head thump against the back of the sofa. The others are in the kitchen currently, all of them chatting over plates of food and working on helping to draw Richie out of his shell some more. He’s getting better with every hour that passes, but the progress is slow, a little tantalizing in a way. Either way, improvement is improvement, and Mike is proud of him. And he thinks, with a sudden burst of dread, that he does not want to ask Richie to face these horrors with them. He’s just spent his entire adult life in his own personal hell, though none of them can understand how that’s possible, and the last thing Richie needs is to face the same otherworldly being that had traumatized them so much when they were kids. Along with that, though, Mike knows that it has to be the seven of them, that they need to be together when they go back down into those sewers, or else they won’t be as strong as they need to be to get the job done. Momentarily, he considers postponing this for a month or two, just to give Richie more time to get more comfortable and the give the rest of them more time to adjust to having Richie with them again, but one more look at the innocent eyes on the missing poster tells him that he can’t do that. Besides, if it’s too much for Richie to handle, he doesn’t have to go down to the sewers with them. Him being here will be… almost enough. Maybe. Fuck, Mike doesn’t know.

            He doesn’t really know about any of this. All he knows is that, if they’re able to finally bring this to an end and save the lives of children for generations to come, they have no other choice.

            Pushing himself to his feet, he clutches the paper in one hand and takes Patty’s hand in the other, seeking comfort in her presence as they make their way to the kitchen side by side. He remembers when Stan told Patty about everything that had happened to them as kids, before the three of them were together and he was left to watch the two of them with a heavy heart and uncertainty running thick in his veins. Patty had called him and demanded to know every detail of what they went through, wanting to see if all the details would match up and prove that Stan was telling the truth. And she had believed them as soon as she saw Stan cry and heard Mike weep over the line, though she still sounded a little skeptical for a little while longer, but in the long run, she is here with them and ready to support them through all of this. She’s expressed how badly she wishes she could help in some way, but she knows she isn’t part of the lucky seven in the same way that’s needed to win the fight. Mike is beyond grateful for her support and understanding alone, and has told her so on plenty of occasions. In this moment, as they stand at the end of the kitchen table and everyone’s eyes fall to them naturally, he is even more grateful, and squeezes her hand once to try and convey that sentiment to her. She squeezes his hand in return to convey her understanding, and he almost smiles despite the heavy feeling in his chest.

            But then Stan spots the newspaper in his hand and lets out a long, shaky sigh. “Another one?”

            “Unfortunately,” Mike tells him, handing the paper over to him to let him see for himself. He can see the moment the majority of them understand what he’s talking about, sporting similar frowns as they crane their necks to try and get a peek at the article themselves, but Richie just looks at him in confusion, a silent question brewing in his eyes. He waits until Eddie catches on and settles a comforting hand on Richie’s arm before quietly explaining, “It’s back. That’s the original reason why I was trying to call everyone when I ended up calling you.”

            “It…?” Richie repeats softly, looking even more confused, before realization dawns on his features like a dark shadow. He sinks his teeth into his lower lips so hard that Mike is almost certain the action must breaks skin and draws blood, and he can see the distress in the crease between his brows. “Oh. It. Right.”

            And Mike hates how fragile Richie looks, how fragile he is, how it feels like a slight shove will shatter him into a million pieces. Releasing Patty’s hand, he steps forward, lowering himself into the empty seat on the other side of Richie, and assures him, “You don’t have to do anything, okay? You don’t even have to come with us, you can stay here with Audra and Patty.”

            Eddie nods, his hand now rubbing slight, soothing circles against the small of Richie’s back. “We completely understand if it’s too much, going back down there after everything else.”

            “No,” Richie protests weakly, shaking his head and releasing his lower lip from between his teeth in order to set his jaw in a look of determination. “No,” he repeats more firmly, voice a little bit louder. “I have to go with you. It has to be all seven of us. I’m not… I can’t sit here and hope you guys don’t die just because I wasn’t there.”

            He sounds so sure, and they all see it then, the flash of the guy they knew. The one that taunted Henry Bowers just to make sure that he would receive the brunt of the pain and give his friends a chance to run away or get the upper hand in the fight. Richie always protected them in his own way, putting himself in danger for the mere chance to get his loved ones away from it, and even now, that’s no different. Still, Eddie asks him, “Are you sure?”

            But Richie looks more than sure. He looks dead set on his decision, like nothing could ever convince him to change his mind. “I’m going,” he states, no room in his voice for argument.

            “Okay,” Mike murmurs, and he thinks he could cry, but he isn’t sure exactly where the tears would come from, so instead he gets to his feet again and looks around the room. “When should we go?”

            It takes a lot of coaxing, but eventually, Eddie leads Richie to the bathroom, a pair of kitchen scissors tucked into his back pocket and a chair from the dining room in hand.

            Underneath the florescent light, it’s even more evident that Richie has neglected to take care of himself for quite some time now. He’s in need of a long, hot shower, but Eddie had promised him a bath, and he plans to fulfil that promise. As the tub fills with steaming water, he gets out everything he thinks will be necessary, a few towels stacked on the counter with the scissors and the electric razor that Mike had quickly agreed to let them use placed on top. On the closed toilet lid, he places the folded pajama pants and sweatshirt that Ben lent them, ready for Richie to change into once this is done.

            Richie watches him set this up with strained features, looking almost ashamed, and softly tells him, “You don’t have to do this, Eds.”

            “I know,” Eddie replies easily, offering a small, reassuring smile. “But I have a feeling you don’t want to be alone, not even for this, and I really don’t mind. Besides, I used to cut your hair for you in high school, remember? This is nothing new.”

            “Bathing me is definitely new,” Richie points out, looking down at the bathtub with a frown. “I just… you don’t have to take care of me like this. I can do it myself.”

            Eddie hums, shutting off the water once he deems the tub to be full enough, and faces Richie fully, brows pinched together and head tilted slightly to the side. “Do you want to do it yourself? Because I’ll leave you alone, if that’s what you want, but if you want company, then I’ll gladly stay.”

            For a moment, Richie just squints at Eddie in consideration, his mind a whirlwind of conflicting thoughts, until his shoulders slump and his reluctance bleeds away into an aura of gratitude as he admits, “I don’t want you to leave.”

            “Then I’m staying,” Eddie states simply, propping his hands on his hips and glancing around the room momentarily. After a few seconds of pondering, wanting to make sure he hasn’t forgotten anything, he gives Richie a wide, toothy grin that looks incredibly boyish for a fourty year old man. “Don’t worry, I’ll cover my eyes while you get in the tub,” he says, partially teasing, partially asking if he should turn around or not. All Richie does is shrug, only looking mildly anxious and mostly indifferent as he faces his back to Eddie and reach for the hem of his shirt, only to freeze momentarily, hands hovering over the material, fingers flexing slightly.

            “Um.” He sounds sheepish, suddenly, quiet and unsure. Eddie can’t help but frown, resisting the urge to shuffle forward and try to offer comfort despite not knowing what the comfort is needed for. Letting out a slow breath that makes his shoulders shake, Richie tells him, “Just, a warning, I… I’m not exactly… nice to look at. There’s a lot of, um…” he trails off, shaking his head, and grips onto his shirt, preparing himself to lift it up and away. “You’ll see, I guess.

            And Eddie doesn’t understand what he’s trying to say at first, because his eyes don’t find anything out of the ordinary when the piece of clothing is removed, but then the light catches on some discoloration, and then he sees it. The scars, plenty of them, some small and some large, littering Richie’s skin in various places – most of them are simple little lines, likely left behind from falling on a rock or something like that, but others are long and jagged and look painful despite already being fully healed. He steps forward on his own accord, mind going blank, and blinks heavily in surprise. “Oh my god…”

            Richie lets out what could be a laugh, only it sounds too strangled and humorless to really come across as one. He drops his shirt by his feet carelessly and shrugs again, but doesn’t provide an explanation as he shimmies out of his pants as well. Eddie forces himself to look away when he steps out of his underwear, though his mind continues to conjure images of the scars, scrambling to come up with where they could have come from. When Richie told them about what happened to him, he never mentioned anything about getting hurt, at least not physically. Eddie wonders why he had kept that information to himself. Before he can get too lost in his head, however, Richie clears his throat meekly, bringing him back to the present. When Eddie looks back over, he sees that Richie has already lowered himself into the water and is looking up at him with wide, timid eyes, magnified behind his old, taped together glasses, and he almost looks guilty, like he should feel inherently ashamed for his appearance.

            “Let me take those,” Eddie mumbles, partially to Richie and partially to himself, stepping forward to pluck the glasses off the bridge of Richie’s nose. He folds them up, sets them gently on the counter, and then lowers himself into the dining room chair he brought with them, positioned besides the bath tub for exactly this. And he realizes how young Richie looks, staring at Eddie like that, like he just doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do, like he needs the answers spelled out for him. Maybe he does, at least in this moment. Eddie just smiles at him gently, grabbing the luffa and dipping it in the water, not yet bothering with soap just yet. The bath is meant to help get rid of the initial layer of grime on Richie’s skin – after this, he will take a quick shower where he’ll actually wash both his body and his hair with the soaps that Stan, Mike and Patty handed over to them a mere twenty minutes ago. As he retracts the luffa from the water and starts carefully scrubbing Richie’s shoulders, he asks, “Is it okay if I ask you where the scars came from?”

            He asks because he’s curious. He asks because he’s worried. He asks because he feels as though he needs to know. Richie his lifts the shoulder that Eddie’s isn’t currently cleaning in a half shrug. “Sure, I guess. Just tell me which one you want to know about.”

            With a slight, airy laugh, Eddie moves to the center of Richie’s back, between his shoulder blades, and murmurs, “All of them.” Even as he says this, though, he finds his eyes lingering on one in particular – the nastiest of them all, stretching from the bottom left of Richie’s back and stretching up, across his spine. Slowing his movements to a snail’s pace, he pulls back a hand and traces a finger fingertip over the scar, brows creasing together. “This one,” he decides. “The big one.”

            Richie doesn’t need to ask for clarification, apparently already knowing exactly which one Eddie is talking about. “Crashed the car I was driving,” he answers simply, quietly, sounding as though he’s confessing his sins rather than telling a story. “When I was twenty-two, I think. I, uh… I had this period, probably about a year or so, where I was convinced I was in a coma or just… stuck in a nightmare, or something like that. So, I started doing reckless shit, trying to get myself to wake up.”

            “Oh,” Eddie breathes, chest aching as he continues to trace over the scar, unable to tear his gaze away from it. “How’d you crash?”

            “I was speeding.” Richie’s voice is so small, hard to hear, but Eddie listens intently, wanting to take in every single word. With a humorless, strained sort of chuckle, he adds, “And I think I was drunk, too. I didn’t really see the point in being careful ‘cause there was no one else for me to put in danger other than myself. And I… I don’t know, really. I was just outside of Detroit, and I was fine one second, then the car was upset down the next and I was in so much pain that I think I went numb at one point. Had to drag myself to the closest hospital I could find and stay there for a while.”

            Eddie doesn’t respond right away, pulling back his hand slowly and blinking once to try and focus back on the task at hand. He goes back to the luffa, moving it around in small circles, occasionally dipping it back in the water before continuing where he left off. Richie doesn’t try to talk more, waiting to hear whatever it is that Eddie will have to say. After a few minutes of nothing, Eddie lets out a long, slow exhale, one that almost sounds like a sigh, and asks, “Did you crash on purpose?”

            He expects immediate denial, but Richie doesn’t even tense up at the question. He looks down at the water, flutters his eyes shut, then opens them again. “Maybe,” he answers eventually. “I don’t know. I can’t… I can’t remember.”

            Slowly, Eddie nods, dipping one of his hands into the water in order to grab Richie’s left wrist and lift his arm up, extending it out in front of him. As he continues to use the luffa to wash away the dirt and the sweat and the mud, he glances up, meeting Richie’s gaze briefly. “Mike saw the gun,” he states then, unsure of how else to approach the subject. “When he went to pick you up, he saw it. He said it was sitting on your bed.” Richie’s doesn’t respond, only blinks at Eddie slowly, eyes going wide and lips pressing together. Turning his eyes back to luffa, Eddie quietly tells him, “Bill thinks you had it to protect yourself, but Stan and Mike both think you were planning to shoot yourself with it.”

            It’s not a question, not technically, but Richie still answers with a heavy, “I was planning to, before the phone rang.” He doesn’t sound ashamed about it, not a hint of guilt or regret in his tone.

            “Why?” Eddie asks, not in an accusing or angry way. He just wants to know.

            Richie purses his lips slightly, squinting at the white wall of the shower. “I gave up on ever seeing you guys again,” he tells Eddie with a hum. “I guess I was just tired of waiting for something to change.”

            Which is more than fair, Eddie thinks – after all, no matter the how or the why, the simple truth is that Richie was completely and utterly alone for twenty-three years. To be completely honest, Eddie isn’t sure how he had managed to keep himself on his feet for that long, how he hadn’t lost his mind and given up years earlier. He knows how much Richie despised being alone when they were younger, remembers how often he’d be awoken by his window opening at some ungodly hour just because Richie couldn’t sleep and wanted some company. So, he could say a lot of things here – he could tell Richie that he’s glad he hadn’t done it, could tell Richie that’s he’s strong. He could ask Richie how he did it at all, too, if that’s what he wanted to do. All of these things would be perfectly reasonable right now. What he settles on saying, however, is a very soft, very warm, “I’m proud of you.”

            It’s clearly not what Richie is expecting to hear, if the way his head snaps to the side to looks up at Eddie in bewilderment is any indication. “You… what?”

            “I’m proud of you,” Eddie repeats simply, taking Richie’s other arm and taking the luffa to it, just as he had done with the first. When Richie continues to silently gape at him, Eddie continues, elaborating with, “What you went through… you survived it. And even if you didn’t survive it, if you had given up sooner or went through with shooting yourself before getting that call, I would still be proud of you, because you still survived it for as long as you could have handled to. That’s something to be proud of.”

            For the rest of the bath, Richie doesn’t speak, only shifting his gaze from Eddie to his hands and back again in silent wonder, doing as Eddie asks him to in order to make sure all of him has been carefully scrubbed clean. Once he’s satisfied, Eddie puts the luffa back and dries his hands on one of the towels he had taken out earlier, pushing himself to his feet as he does so. Richie just watches him, unsure. But then Eddie smiles at him, the same small dimples that he’s had since they were in Kindergarten appearing on his cheeks, and Richie relaxes again. There’s nothing to be unsure of.

            Although Eddie offers to help wash his hair, Richie insists on taking the shower alone, so long as Eddie promises not to leave the room. Clearly unbothered, Eddie agrees, and even makes sure to keep some kind of conversation going the entire time to make sure Richie knows he’s still there. By the time he steps out of the shower, already using the towel that Eddie handed him upon him shutting the water off to start patting himself dry, he feel more relaxed than he has since he was seventeen. His entire body feels loose and light, perhaps a result of being thoroughly cleaned for the first time in who knows how long or a result of allowing himself to enjoy something he never thought he was have again (the company of someone he loves), and when Eddie grins at him, as if already detecting the lack of tension in Richie’s muscles, he grins back, feeling kind of giddy in an odd, childish sort of way.

            Once he’s dried himself off enough to put on the clothes Ben gave him, Richie allows Eddie to guide him to the chair, which is now positioned in front of the mirror. Richie scans over his reflection quickly, and he looks almost normal now, not nearly as worn down and tired as he had before. The only thing that’s left is his long, unkempt hair and scraggly beard, which Eddie clearly has plans to deal with.

            “Which should we do first,” Eddie asks him, brushing his fingers through Richie’s hair gently. “Cut the curls, or trim up this facial hair?” When Richie merely shrugs, having no real preference, Eddie hums and bobs his head in a nod, nose scrunching slightly in consideration. “Beard,” he decides out loud, withdrawing his hands from Richie’s hair in order to round the chair and plug the electric razor in. He faces Richie fully, smiles wide, and carefully angles Richie’s head upward with an index finger to his chin before instructing, “Don’t move unless I tell you to. Okay?”

            “Okay,” Richie agrees in a whisper, closing his eyes and giving Eddie every ounce of trust that he has to offer. When Eddie softly turns his head from side to side, he doesn’t resist, following whatever movement he’s supposed to, tilting his chin higher when he’s asked, until he hears the sound of the razor shut off and he feels Eddie tap his cheek lightly, just to get his attention.

            When he opens his eyes, he does not look at his reflection, feeling no real need to see how he looks quite yet. He only gazes up at Eddie and waits as Eddie examines his work, brows drawn together in concentration. “I think that’s good,” he murmurs to himself, hovering there for a fraction of a second longer before nodding in satisfaction and moving back around until he’s standing behind Richie once more. Meeting gazes in the mirror, Eddie purses his lips slightly in thought, once against running his fingers through Richie’s hair, the action almost absentminded as he asks, “How much do you want to have chopped off?”

            Having no real preference, Richie just shrugs and says, “Whatever you think is best.”

            “Hm.” Eddie takes a moment to consider this. Then, apparently coming to some kind of decision, he picks the scissors up from where they’re still sitting on the bathroom counter, and he gets to work.

            It’s quite an odd feeling, the strange relief that comes with each strand of hair that’s cut short. The weight being lifted off his shoulders (both figuratively and literally) is almost therapeutic, in a way he’s never really imagined before, never experienced prior to now. He can’t help but to close his eyes, much like he did while Eddie had been shaving his beard, only now he feels his heartrate slow peacefully with every breath he takes, seeking comfort in the brush of Eddie’s fingertips against the curve of his neck, finding shelter in the sound of Eddie’s soft breathing.

            He isn’t even sure how much time has passed when Eddie brushes a thumb over Richie’s cheek with a featherlight touch. “All done,” he murmurs, and Richie isn’t expecting him to be as close as he is when he opens his eyes, Eddie’s nose mere centimeters away from his own, and there’s a sudden little ache in his chest, one he can’t ignore, one that’s been festering for decades.

            And he doesn’t mean to say it, but he looks directly into Eddie’s eyes, and he tells him, “I was in love with you, back when we were kids.” Eddie just blinks, stunned, but he doesn’t l recoil, doesn’t lower his hand or flinch away. Leaning into Eddie’s touch subconsciously, Richie adds, “And I don’t think that’s changed. Even after… all of this.”

            “You were…” Eddie trails off, brows pinching together before twitching up, nearly disappearing behind his hairline. “You… You are…?”

            “I am,” Richie practically whispers, partly because he doesn’t want to speak too loud and risk ruining the moment, but partly because his voice is simply overused and in dire need of a break that he refuses to allow himself just yet.

            Eddie lets out a soft, incredulous laugh, shaking his head slightly. “Wow. Wow. I’ve been wanting to hear you say that since we were thirteen, you know that?”

            A good reaction, Richie believes, and most definitely ideal. “I wanted to tell you sooner, but…” he trails off, gesturing vaguely with his hand. “Sucks, ‘cause I had it planned out, too. Wanted to confess on my birthday. Make it romantic. Not… this.”

            “This is a little late, but I kind of like it more,” Eddie shrugs, bringing up his other hand to cup the other side of Richie’s face in his palm, albeit gently, almost afraid that Richie will pull away. Eddie is the only person he has yet to pull away from, however, but that doesn’t help the anxiety bubbling just beneath the surface of his skin. Richie stays put, though, looking content (and much better now that he’s showered and had his mess of untamed hair taken care of), and offers a questioning hum, spurring Eddie to explain, “I just mean that… as much as I would have liked for things to be different, I kind of like the idea that, even after everything, we still… you know?”

            “Still… what?” Richie asks, though he’s fairly certain he knows that answer already. Even so, it’d be nice to make sure, especially since he’s been dreaming about a moment like this for as long as he can remember.

            Sounding only mildly sheepish, Eddie tells him, “Still meant to be together. Like… the world didn’t change its mind or decide that we’re not compatible anymore or something like that. I always thought that… I don’t know. I just always had a feeling that there was no question who I was supposed to be with, but then you disappeared and I started thinking that maybe the world had different plans. But now, you’re… you’re here again, and I feel like the world is fixing itself, you know? Does that… I mean, does that make sense?” Richie doesn’t answer, only smiles and nods once, leaning even more into Eddie’s palms. And it feels so high school, but Eddie knows that he can’t make any sort of next move without communicating about it first, knows that not doing so while Richie is still so iffy about touch would be a horrible idea. Which is why, after swiping a thumb beneath Richie’s eyes, over the curve of his cheekbone, Eddie asks him, “Can I kiss you? Is that okay?”

            Richie looks elated as soon as he hears those words, but he looks thoughtful, too. In a tone that’s equal parts awe struck and scarily serious, he responds, “We could die tomorrow, when we go back down there. I’m not dying without kissing you at least once.”

            “Is that a yes?” Eddie questions, a little confused.

            “That,” Richie says, leaning forward just enough for their noses to brush together, “is a fuck yes.”

            He sounds so much like his younger self when he says it, a somewhat teasing yet urgent lilt in his voice, one that makes Eddie feels weak in the knees. Not wanting to wait even a fraction of a moment longer, Eddie ducks his head further, tilts it to the side, and presses their lips together, movements languid yet rushed, heart thundering in time with Richie’s within his ribcage.

            It has pictured an infinite number of ways that this could have gone, but not a single time had It considered the Turtle bringing Tozier back from the realm It had sent him to.

            Of course, It isn’t really surprised. It’s brother has always interfered with what It wants to do, has constantly gotten in the way and made things far more difficult than they’re supposed to be. However, It is angry – angrier than It has ever been before, because this interference has the potential of leading to It’s demise. Bringing Tozier back, completing the stupid Lucky Seven… oh. Oh, It had not considered this. It has not prepared well enough, but It will not lose.

            It can’t lose. It losing is simply just not a possibility. It has to survive, to thrive, to live on and continue to feed on the children of Derry. There is no other option.

            Only, as they draw closer, the seven of them, It starts to think… no, It starts to fear that perhaps, somehow, It is wrong. It starts to think that perhaps, somehow, It may end up losing anyway.

            But if It can’t win, the least It can do is go down with a fight.

            Their morning had been pleasant, laying intertwined on the bed in one of the various guest rooms that the farmhouse has to offer. Richie’s hair was finally dry after his shower from the night before, no longer weighed down by water or dead ends, making it as light and fluffy as Eddie could remember it being. For a long time, neither of them spoke, only laid together with Richie’s head resting on Eddie’s bare chest and Eddie’s fingers carding through his unruly bedhead. From the window, the sun shone down on them in soft, golden streams of lovely light, both of them soaking the feeling of the natural warmth that came with it. Eventually, however, the comfortable silence shifted into something just as comfortable but not as quiet, as Eddie tapped a gentle finger against Richie’s temple to draw his attention and asked, “Do you regret it?”

            “Hm?” is all Richie responded with, unsure of what Eddie was talking about but not wanting to start straining his vocal cords until absolutely necessary. It’s become less painful since his first day, sure, but it’s still not pleasant, the way the muscles in his throat burn when he speaks.

            “Doing this,” Eddie explained, shifting a leg over to bump his knee into Richie’s side to remind him of their current state – of the lack of clothing on their bodies, of the way things had unexpectedly escalated after they had tried to retire to bed for the night. Emotions had been high, though, and minds had been lingering, and with tentative questions and murmured assurances, they had gone from simply laying together to melting into each other’s touch. And Eddie did not regret it – does not regret it now, hours after they had this conversation – but he had an odd feeling that it had been irresponsible, due to how serious of a situation they were in.

            But Richie did not look concerned about that when he propped his chin on Eddie’s chest and crinkled his nose slightly. “There’s nothing to regret,” is all he had said, but his eyes conveyed so much more. They told Eddie that he was glad they had done what they did, because neither of them knew if they would live to see another day. They told Eddie that he would do it again in a heartbeat, if the situation were to repeat itself and he was given the choice.

            So Eddie nodded, satisfied by that response, and said, “Okay. Good.”

            He thinks about that now, as they make their way down the rickety steps leading to the basement of the house on Neibolt. Richie’s hand is clutched tightly in his own, their fingers intertwined and shoulders pressed together. So far, he hasn’t spoken to anyone other than Eddie, and even then he only spoke when they were still lying in bed and postponing get out from under the duvet for as long as they possibly could. Eddie thinks it’s because of a mixture of things, of nerves and anxieties and uncertainties hovering over him like a dark cloud. The others have been giving him silent, worried looks ever since they came downstairs for breakfast, but no one has tried to ask what’s wrong, already aware of what the answer would likely be.

            What’s wrong is this entire situation. What’s wrong is the fact that they’re in this god damn house again, getting ready to descend that rope and navigate the sewers and fight for their lives in order to stop this from happening to anyone else. What’s wrong is that Richie only got two days with them before having to come down here and face his worst fears all over again.

            So no one asks, and he doesn’t speak, and Eddie holds his hand just a little bit tighter to silently let him know that they’re in this together. Perhaps a childish move, but it seems to help, seeing as Richie quickly flashes him the smallest of smiles and lets some of the tension bleed out of him, shoulders slumping slightly and a long breath puffing past his lips. Eddie’s gaze lingers on him a moment longer, wanting to do more than just help him relax – wanting to take him away from the danger entirely.

            He looks away when Bill says his name, holding the rope out in his direction with an expression of pitiful sorrow, of guilt and pain and wariness. “You went first last time,” is all he says, but there’s a twitch in his brows that tells Eddie he doesn’t have to be the first now. Eddie frowns, but he takes the rope, releases his grip on Richie reluctantly, and makes his descent with a bitter taste in his mouth.

            Being back in the sewers feels like a bad dream. For a moment, Eddie considers pinching his own arm just to see if he’ll wake up and be in bed with Richie all over again, but his mind would not be able to conjure up the vile stench that’s wafting through the air. As much as he doesn’t want it to be, this is real – they are here, in what he believes is the worst place in the world, illuminating their path with their flashlights and following Eddie as he leads the way. And they don’t mean to, but all of them feel obligated to keep Richie protected, so while he holds Eddie’s hand and trails behind him, the rest of them form a kind of half circle around him, creating a slight barrier between him and the rest of the sewers. If he had noticed, he would have told them that it’s unnecessary, but his mind is too occupied with shuffling through the mucky water to realize what they’re doing.

            At least, not until It makes It’s first move, and far ahead, the sound bouncing off the stone walls and causing ripples in the water, they hear a loud laugh. The sound is twisted and gurgled and horrible to listen to, making all of them freeze mid step and finch away, but it seems to get louder anyway, as if the source of the noise is getting closer. Sure enough, after only a moment of waiting, their flashlights are able to pick up on some movement right at the edge of the light – at first, a foot, then legs, then the entire, looming figure of Pennywise, just standing there with a grin, presence alone threatening and unnerving.

            “We’re not scared of you,” Beverly tells It, and her voice is steady, her eyes are steeled over. Everything about her radiates strength. It just smiles wider, razor sharp teeth glinting, yellow eyes looking joyous and bright and intimidating.

            “Some of you are,” It coos teasingly, taking another step forward. Mike shifts, looking like he wants to start fighting It now, but he knows better – he knows that the thing they have to fight, the actual body of It, is further down these tunnels, laying cowardly in It’s next and protecting It’s eggs. It doesn’t seem to mind that, however, only taking another large step forward, closing in on them slowly as It says, “Actually, it’s only one of you. Oh, but which one of you is it? Could it be…” It vanishes suddenly, unexpectedly, and reappears behind Ben, mouth hovering besides Ben’s ear as It whispers, “You?”

            Ben jumps, but when he turns his head, he looks more pissed off than afraid, tightening his grip on his flashlight, looking ready to swing it directly into It’s skull. “Fat fucking chance,” he spits.

            It tsk’s condescendingly, backing away to slink into the shadows, only to once against step forward next to Stan, It’s head cocked to the side. “Is it you?” It asks with a low hum, and Eddie hates how human It sounds, voice even and features dancing with amusement. It brings up a hand, presses a gloved finger to the side of Stan’s face, where the faint scarring still remains. With another distorted laugh, It muses, “You know, I saw a different future for you, Stanny boy. I never thought you’d live to make it down here. Are you the one that’s afraid?”

            Stan huffs, eyes narrowed down into a glare. “You wish,” he says easily, squaring his shoulders and crossing his arms defiantly over his chest. It properly cackles at that, but backs away once more, fading into the darkness surrounding them. For a moment, they all shine their flashlights around, trying to find It, and they’re so busy looking outside of their group that they don’t bother to look in.

            “But I think it’s you,” It whispers into Richie’s ear, one hand curled around his shoulder and the other pressing against his windpipe, making his breathing stutter in his chest. Eddie feels the way Richie tightens his hold on his hand, and he sees Richie’s Adam’s apple bob with a rough swallow, face going pale, eyes squeezing shut. It chuckles harshly, pressing down on Richie’s throat just enough to make him release a choked off noise, and practically purrs, “Oh, you’re terrified, aren’t you, Trashmouth?”

            “Get the fuck away from him,” Eddie snaps, tugging lightly on Richie’s hand to pull him out of It’s grip and step between them. It’s twisted grin falls instantly, yellow eyes burning bright with anger and lips drawing back in a sneer, but It doesn’t say anything else, only disappears again, this time for good. Once Eddie can feel the pressure of It’s presence leave the air, he spins back around, facing Richie fully and cradling his face in his hands, brows pinched together. “Are you okay?”

            And Richie looks devastated, his features scrunched up and exhales shaky. For the first time since this morning, he actually speaks, breathing out a quiet, guilt-ridden, “You shouldn’t have to protect me like that. I can- I know I can be- be stronger than this, I know it, but I just- I’m so fucking scared—”

            Eddie shushes him, pulling him in and enveloping him in a hug, softly promising, “I won’t let anything happen to you, okay? I’m not fucking losing you again.” It’s not a promise he can make, not really, but he does it anyway, and Richie melts into him with a nod, sniffling slightly and ducking his head in order to tuck himself beneath Eddie’s jaw. He doesn’t see them move closer, but he feels the rest of their friends besides him, warmth radiating from their bodies and love soaked into their gazes, and he decides that, afraid or not, there’s no way he’s going to let this clown ruin the life he just got back.

            It is not a pretty sight, the seven of them crowding around the weakened, trembling body of what It truly is. Eight long, unsteady legs kick out to try and take them down, unable to summon more strength after already using so much energy attempting to overpower them in the Ritual of Chüd. A feeble attempt, because these are not kids – they are not afraid by such trivial things anymore. Using mummies and lepers and werewolves and other common nightmares will not make them lurch back and cry out in fear. No, the only thing they are afraid of now is not winning this fight, and that is a fear that It cannot use against them properly, one that It cannot manifest.

            PLEASE, It begs them, pleading and wishing and hoping, because It is the one that is afraid now – It is falling apart and crumbling in on Itself, and It knows that the Turtle is dead, but It swears It can hear his low, condescending chuckle, as if watching this battle from somewhere past death. PLEASE DON’T DO THIS I’LL DO ANYTHING I’LL DO WHATEVER YOU WANT PLEASE STOP THIS—

            Bill steps forward, dodging another flailing spider leg and flexing his hands before curling them into fists at his side. “You can beg,” he says coldly, “but it won’t help you.”

            It properly wails when the rest of them start to move forward, all of them feeling much taller than It despite the fact that It is multiple times larger than any human could ever be. This can’t be happening, It cries, pushing Itself back until it hits the wall of the sewer, rendering It stuck and at the mercy of them. You can’t DO THIS! YOU CAN’T DO THIS THIS WASN’T SUPPOSED TO HAPPEN HE WASN’T SUPPOSED TO COME BACK THERE WERE ONLY SUPPOSED TO BE SIX OF YOU THIS CAN’T HAPPEN THIS ISN’T SUPPOSED TO HAPPEN PLEASE JUST LET ME GO I’LL LEAVE YOU ALONE I PROMISE I’M SORRY JUST LET ME GO LET ME GO PLEASE LET ME GO—

            It’s words make them freeze, and with a sudden burst of obvious, dizzying clarity, they understand. They realize, with a furious certainty, that what had happened to Richie was done at the will of this monster before them. And Richie feels any lingering fear drain away, turning into bewilderment, then bubbling into boiling hot, uncontrollable anger. “You took my life away from me,” he murmurs, shaking his head slowly. “It was you. You did that.”

            I can give it back, It tells him instantly, desperate to do whatever it takes to spare It’s life. I’ll send you back, all of you, and it’ll be like it never happened. I can do that if you don’t kill me. You’ll get to grow up with your friends and I will never do anything to any of you ever again! Please!

            “No,” Richie says, chin up, shoulders squared, and with that, the seven of them charge forward, eyes murderous and fists raised. It lets out a scream, trying with the best of It’s ability to kick them away, occasionally snagging one of them in the leg or the side, drawing some blood here and creating bruises there, but none of that is enough for It to escape. None of them know how long it takes, but eventually, they back away from what is now a lifeless corpse, It’s heart ripped from It’s body and laying on the ground, blackish blood coating their arms and soaking into their clothes. And, with a simultaneous exhale, they let the tension drain from their bodies, and they realize that it’s over.

            They realize that they’re free.

[June, 2018]

            Eddie’s eyes are closed, palms pressed against his eyelids to block out the light as he rocks back and forth on his feet, unable to suppress his grin. Around him, he hears a mixture of voices, giggles and laughter and the splashing of water. The sun warms his skin as it shines down on him, pleasant and relaxing and nice, and he thinks he could just stand here all day and be perfectly content. But then he feels something poke him in the side, followed by a high pitched, gentle voice saying, “You can look now.”

            From where he’s sitting, Richie watches Eddie drop his hands, momentarily squinting as his eyes adjust to the bright summer day, then immediately release a dramatic gasp at the sight of the small sand castle in front of him. He drops to his knees, taking on a very serious look, and murmurs, “If you want me to be honest, this is, without a doubt, the best sand castle anyone has ever built in the history of all time. How did you do that, Mandy? Are you a secret professional sand castle builder?” He gasps again, eyes going wide, and lowers his voice to whisper, “Have you be lying to us this whole time?”

            “No!” Mandy protests, laughing brightly, her grin wide and toothy as she looks up at Eddie.

            “She’s just naturally talented,” Ben calls out from where he’s sitting at the edge of the water, his hands held out in front of him as he watches Ricky amble into the small waves.

            Beverly nods her agreement, sitting in the water on her knees, her hands also held out just in case Ricky trips, ready to catch him and pull him to safety if need be. She only flashes Eddie a quick look, not wanting her eyes to stray away from her two-year-old son for too long, as she tells him, “Her dad’s the best architect this country has ever seen, after all. You should see the things she builds when she’s playing with the Legos that Patty gave her for her birthday.”

            Scoffing, Ben lowers a hand just enough to splash Beverly, his cheeks dusted pink. The action makes Ricky jump in shock, then release a shrill kind of giggle, apparently thoroughly entertained. Richie grins at the sight, then shifts his gaze over just in time to watch Bill and Audra burst into loud cheers as they watch their son do a cartwheel in the sand, his smile wide and beaming. A few feet away from them, he sees Patty teaching Miranda how to skip rocks, encouraging her to try again when she doesn’t quite get it. Mike cheers her on from where he’s helping Stan, Robin and Debbie dig for seashells, placing the ones they like in a plastic tub that Stan had brought for that exact reason.

            This trip had been Mike’s idea, suggested over a celebratory dinner when him, Patty and Stan packed up their things and finally moved over to the west coast, joining Richie and Eddie in San Francisco. Ben and Beverly had moved to L.A. about a year ago, no longer needing to stick around in Boston in order for their architecture firm to thrive and wanting to expand their business elsewhere. They’re still not all together, not really, but they’re a lot closer and spend every holiday and every birthday together. When Mike brought up this concept, all of them renting out a beach house and spending an entire week secluded from the rest of the world, there had been no objections.

            And now they’re here.

            There are a lot of days where Richie feels like he isn’t really here. Often, he fears he will simply blink and everyone around him will disappear, fading into nonexistence and leaving him all alone again. He’s gotten a lot better about it, but he doesn’t think it will ever really go away, no matter how much time passes. It gets easier with every passing day, however – even more so when he allows himself to enjoy the family he has, the life he’s been gifted. Like now, for example. As his mind tries to wander into overwhelming uncertainties, he just makes himself focus on where he is, sitting on this beach, his two-year-old daughter on his lap and his three-year-old son trying to draw in the sand using a stick he found on the walk from the house, watching his husband build sand castles with their niece and soaking in the sun. This is what he dreamed of every single day, what he wished for, and now he has it.

            In fact, it had been on a beach much similar to this one, exactly six years ago, where he imagined this very moment. A lot of the assumptions he made had been right, too, save for a few exceptions – he never considered Mike and Stan being in a three-way relationship, and he never guessed that Bill would name his child after Georgie, though that much felt obvious as soon as he learned about it. And it’s surreal, comparing the lives he pictured to the lives in front of him, seeing the ways they line up and the ways they differ, his heart aching as he realizes that one of them had been wishful thinking and the other one is very real, present and vivid and bright. Lizzie grabs his hand tiredly, playing with his fingers as she curls up in his lap and rests her head on his chest, and in front of him, Cole points at his drawing in the sand, his voice lilted with pride.

            “What’s wrong?” Eddie asks him, sitting next to him and taking his other hand into his own, and it’s now that Richie realizes he’s crying, tears welling in the corners of his eyes and trickling down his cheeks silently. Richie doesn’t answer at first, only glances around him again, taking in the scene while swallowing the lump in his throat. Eddie reaches up, brushes some of his tears away. “Richie?”

            “I just…” Richie sniffles, letting out a quiet laugh, not wanting to disturb the now sleeping child leaning on him. He grins at Eddie, wide and wobbly and heartfelt, and tells him, “I- I never thought I’d ever get to have… all of this.”

            Eddie’s worry melts into a soft smile. He leans over, brushes a gentle kiss to the curve of Richie’s cheek, conveying the things he cannot think to say in that one action. When he pulls back, he doesn’t go far, wrapping an arm around Richie and shuffling back until Richie can lean against him comfortably, head resting on his shoulder. Neither of them speak, finding no reason to. Instead, they sit together, and they watch as their family enjoys their day in the sun around them.