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“Man, he had hated it when Richie called him Eds … but he had sort of liked it, too. […] It was something … like a secret name. A secret identity. A way to be people that had nothing to do with their parents’ fears, hopes, constant demands.”
-Stephen King, IT
“The Teenage Werewolf was somehow scarier, though… perhaps because he also seemed a little sad. What happened wasn’t his fault […] the kid who turned into the werewolf was full of anger and bad feelings. Richie found himself wondering if there were many people in the world hiding bad feelings like that.”
– Stephen King, IT
*
If you asked Edward ‘Eddie’ Kaspbrak at the ripe age of 27 why he wanted his name to be Edward, he would have first told you to fuck off for imposing on private matters, and secondly told you to go fuck yourself for prying into his life. Now, if he’d had friends, been the type to actually connect with people outside of work pleasantries, he might have spun something about how he wouldn’t have to relearn his signature as much, it’d be easier to make the switch, so on and so forth. Whatever bullshit he could spin, really.
If he had memories past his fifteenth birthday, he would say It’s the one thing in my life I’ve ever wanted to keep. It made me feel seen, recognized, like I was somebody real for once.
But he doesn’t remember, and he doesn’t have anybody to ask him those kinds of questions, so when he gets the letter from the judge in his P.O. box, he doesn’t throw a party, go out to any bars, or anything of the kind. He just sits in his car afterwards, hands shaking around his inhaler as the letter sits in the passenger seat. The gold embossed seal next to the judge’s signature at the bottom shines in the sunlight, and he takes a deep breath with help from his inhaler.
His sight is still blurry, heart hammering in his chest like he’s run a marathon, but he did it. It finally happened. He’s fucking Edward Franciszek Kaspbrak, now and forever, and no one can take it away from him. Sure, he’s looking at a mountain of paperwork, fuck knows how many fees on top of rent and utilities and groceries and his mother’s medical bills, but-
Everything will fall into place now that he’s got the ball rolling. It’s gonna be fucking fine, even if his heart still feels like it’ll crack through his chest any minute now.
*
Richie calls it the werewolf feeling, those fleeting days where he wants to rip open his shirt and scream instead of do his sets. Those weird times where the ghost-written jokes taste more like blood in his mouth instead of cardboard, the nights where even feeling the rasp of his own stubble against his fingertips isn’t enough to settle this skittering part of him.
It just feels like, no matter what he does, there’s still a part of him screaming and he doesn’t know how the fuck to shut it up. Isn’t it enough that he’s slamming back man juice that’s doctor certified? Isn’t it enough that he’s managed to make a living as Richie Trashmouth Tozier, and no one ever asks after that Tozier girl anymore? Isn’t it fucking funny that he’s basically living inside the skin of someone else, this ideal he’s always craved, but every single time he gets up onstage he’s screaming-
The werewolf feeling doesn’t give a shit that Richard Harry Tozier has nailed down a dream career, gotten rid of the body shit he doesn’t need. Doesn’t fucking care that when he speaks, his voice sounds right in a way he’d only dreamed of before.
It only cares that something is still wrong, something about him will always be wrong, and if he doesn’t sink himself then someone else will do the job for him. People can smile at you, laugh at your jokes, and still want to kick your teeth in anyways.
The werewolf feeling sinks its teeth into his throat whenever it wants, makes him drown in his own blood no matter where he is, but it’s fine. It’s fucking fine, because it always leaves as quickly as it sweeps over him, and no one needs to know about it.
It’s not like his manager would care anyways, and it wasn’t something his writers could carve a joke out of easily.
*
It isn’t until Richie sees Beverly’s hair catch the light that he can even put a face to some of the vague names bouncing around in his head, and his stomach twists. If he’d eaten fucking anything on the drive from Bangor, it’d be coming up right now. He’s doing great besides that though, he’s fine! Everything’s fine, it’s not like if they hate him or turn out to be fuckheads that he’ll crawl underneath his bed at the inn and die or anything.
“Wow, you two look amazing, what the fuck happened to me? I turned into a fucking frog.” Richie says before he can lose his nerve, slipping back into Trashmouth’s Voice as he tries to keep a twist of humor in it. Trashmouth says whatever comes to mind first, lives by the rule of funny. Richie Tozier? Poor guy is still screaming outside the town border line, yelling at the ‘DERRY Maine’ sign and terrifying a deer in the process.
Again, he’s fine, he swears!
Beverly turns around first, her face lighting up and Jesus, how the fuck could he ever forgotten her. How could he forget shared cigarettes underneath the school bleachers, passing Bowie cassettes back and forth until Low started slowing to a warble? How could he forget being sixteen and scream-singing Call Me in the Barrens as they fucked around in the river, how steady her hands were when he lost his balance and she dragged him out in a heartbeat. Miss Beverly fucking Marsh, closest thing to a sister he ever had besides-
He recognizes Ben just as quick, memories hitting him like a frying pan to the brain. Same shy smile, same kind eyes and short hair, and she’s broad now, a little soft around the edges maybe but broad nevertheless. The same human-shaped teddy bear who let teenage Richie borrow poetry books off of her and didn’t complain when they came back dog-eared and rumpled, didn’t even sell him out when he was so fucking obvious trying to figure out Eddie’s favorite bands through her because they traded tapes so often.
(God, is that why he couldn’t listen to Down Under without tearing up? Fuckers. They’d been fucking up his ‘Focus and Move Clothes Around’ high energy mix on Spotify for years now.)
Christ, Eddie, that’s a fucking name he hasn’t thought in years, and that’s wild, isn’t it? Eddie, good ol’ Eddie No-Name, a blur of dark hair and dark eyes, and all Richie can remember about him is stolen Erasure tapes, a flash of bike spokes, Stevie Nicks belting how she can’t wait, wait for what? For him it’d been fucking leaving, figuring out his life, but for Eddie-
Richie sure as hell doesn’t know, and the realization sits oddly heavy on his chest. His hands bunch up in the lining of his coat pockets, the silk having not enough give to feel satisfying, and god he’s starting to hunch in on himself, fuck, what is he, eighteen again-
“Like I said, you grew into your looks, Tozier,” Beverly says, an edge of teasing to her words that’s achingly familiar as she grins at him, touch light on his shoulder. Ben goes right in for the hug after saying “Richie!”, the gutsy gal, and Richie hesitates for a moment with a flickering thought of ohgodmyfuckingchest before kicking it aside and accepting the goddamn hug which he all but melts into. How long has it been since he was held like this, longer than one of those bullshit manly-man hugs with slaps on the back? Hell, how could he ever fucking forget Ben’s hugs?
It feels like too much and not enough when Ben pulls away from him, the urge to cling kicking Richie right in the teeth. All that manly macho shit he’d swallowed down to be Trashmouth, the fratboy he never was, and here he was throwing it right out the window the second he saw them again.
That doesn’t feel bad though, leaving that at the door. Falling back into step with them comes as easy as breathing, and it’s like something slotting into place. He’d always felt vaguely unmoored, like he was constantly one step from drowning, and now-
He knows that there’s at least four people in the world who wouldn’t let him sink. Mike and Eddie might still be blurry around the edges, but if the way he felt seeing Beverly and Ben means anything, he’ll love them just the same. Love them in that terrifying overwhelming way that made his stomach threaten to twist on itself, made his heart hammer, but that was- that wasn’t anything unusual, not really. Just his goddamn nerves all out of whack again, not sure how to deal with the thought that people liked him for once.
Not Trashmouth, that shithead asshole on-stage who parroted about a life that wasn’t even real. Just plain old Richie Tozier with his messy thoughts and unfiltered mouth.
They amble on in, Ben asking for the Hanlon party in one of the most iron-clad customer service voices Richie has ever heard. He nearly laughs but swallows it down. Ben had always been a sweet kid, would rather die before she disappointed her friends, and this was no different. Who’d wanna disappoint good ol’ Mike, after all, Mike who none of them had seen in over twenty years and left alone in this shithole-
There’s three guys waiting for them, and Richie can pick Mike out in a minute. It’s not just for the obvious reasons, but Mike’s gotten taller, hell, more handsome even, and what a goddamn thing. Mikey with his shy half-smiles and worn-in flannels now this tall beaming guy in front of him, bold and delighted. Richie can feel another B-name rolling around his mouth with the next guy, the shortest one of the bunch, blue eyes, darkish hair with a streak of silver at the brow, Hi-ho, Silver, away! and-
Bill! Billy, good ole Bill, with that same kind of look in his eyes as when they were kids, like he could look through the world and see other things there. He was like somebody else in that manner, seeing things in some different way, but that was curly hair, birdcalls, muddy sneakers, somebody else-
But the second Richie sees Eddie, it feels a little bit like that one Spider-man picture with the two of them pointing at each other. He and Eddie aren’t pointing at each other, but the way their eyes immediately go to each other fits the bill just the same, feels like he just got shocked by an exposed wire. He wants to laugh, he wants to scream, hell, maybe he just wants to bawl his eyes out while gesturing wildly between the two of them because You, me, us! Look at us, Eddie Spaghetti, look at our fucking scruffy faces and the hairy back of our hands, the shape of our jaws and shoulders! I wanna hear your voice, fuckface, waited years to do it, I interrupted you, so bawl me out already!
And just like every time, a call and response they’d never forgotten, Eddie does. Eddie fucking chews him out, mouth moving a mile a minute, and god Richie had never thought someone’s voice fit their face before but Eddie’s absolutely does. There’s something unbridled about it, the undercurrent of someone ready to gnash their teeth, and it’s just so fucking Eddie that Richie laughs before he can stop himself. It’s loud, sure, probably obnoxious with its nasally twinge, but goddamn if it isn’t Richie’s all the same.
“God, get a load of the fuckin’ mouth on this guy, huh? Eds, this is a family restaurant, think of the children,” Richie shoots back while Eddie’s paused for a breath, pitching his voice higher for his best WASP housewife as he shares his concerns for the youths. Anita fucking Bryant, eat your heart out.
He laughs again when Eddie snaps while pointing at him “Oh, fuck off, dickhead, you’re just as fucking bad, Trashmouth,” like an accusation. A moment later, there’s a grumble of “And don’t call me that, Jesus, we’re adults, Richie,” as Eddie scrubs a hand down his face. “Shit, I’m sorry, I don’t even remember if you’re still going by that-”
“Oh, I absolutely fuckin’ am, it’s my brand, or- well, it used to be. Dick Tozier just doesn’t have the same ring to it that Trashmouth does, y’know? No panache, no flavor, just like your mom’s-” Richie replies, grabbing hold of those wires, refusing to let go even when Eddie’s expression twists into something truly angry, his hands doing that little karate chop that still, against all odds, makes Richie want to swoon a little.
Even Eddie’s hiss of “I’ll fuck your sister on your grave,”- his nonexistent sister, imagine that!- makes him feel light-headed and giddy. Eddie Kaspbrak, his favorite little shithead. His first goddamn crush even with knobby knees and a Day-Glo fannypack, kicking his ankles and hissing “shut the fuck up, Tozier, shut up” when Richie got on a roll with his Voices during class-
“Alright, alright, boys. There’ll be plenty of time to maul each other later,” Beverly jokes, clapping a hand to his shoulder, and Richie practically honks at it. God, he’s fucking missed Bev, missed all of them like a phantom limb that’s finally been reattached again. “How ‘bout the rest of us catch up too?”
The atmosphere after that is intoxicating, which is probably partially from the booze involved. A beer here, another there, but it’s- it’s fine, really, as Richie knocks back another shot, catches Eddie’s gaze by accident, and flushes. Fine as Bill gets pelted with straw wrappers from being fucking Black Rapids guy, and Mike gestures wildly as he explains the intricacies of the thesis he’s been working on. Ben shyly admitting that yes, she is that architect that got profiled in Times magazine, which earns another round of drinks and some hooting and hollering.
Things are good.
*
Then the fucking clown comes in, and it all goes to shit.
Plenty of ‘em get new scars for their collections afterwards. Ben has raw knuckles from clawing her way out of a grave. Mike needs stitches from fucking Bowers getting him in the side. Bill’s bleeding like a stuck pig from hitting his head on one of the walls. Beverly’s hands are ripped up to hell and back, but the blood all over her just means her smile looks all the sharper when they kick the clown to hell.
Eddie loses an arm.
Stan has bandages still wrapped around his wrists when he comes hustling into the hospital, wide-eyed and a weird kind of desperation as he rattles off names in an attempt to find one of ‘em. Patty is sweet, though. Doesn’t mind Richie fucking sobbing into her shoulder when it all finally hits him, the fact that this is- this is it, now. No take-backs. Stan, Eddie, they both died, but they had this single shot, and-
It worked. This fucking psychic cockamamie bullshit worked, and Stanley Uris still shakes his head a certain way when he’s holding back a laugh, unwilling to give Richie an easy pay-off. Eddie still laughs hard enough he fucking wheezes a little, no inhaler needed to even shit out. They were these nobody kids, just desperate to survive, and….
And they’ve made it. Today’s the first day of the rest of their fucking lives. Nowhere to go but- somewhere else, instead. Maybe somewhere better, even.
A guy’s allowed to hope, ain’t he?