Archive of Our Own ^beta

Connor Bowers grew up better than Richie expected.

He used to think about it sometimes, back in middle school – what Connor would look like when he was older. When they were kids, he’d been nothing much to look at. A little shrimp of a kid, notable mostly for the wild blonde curls that sat atop his head like a bird’s nest. Connor was one year older than Richie, which meant that they were never in the same classes, and it’s not like Richie wasted his time on team sports when no one even wanted him around. Instead, he spent his time watching Connor from afar – usually from a corner table in the cafeteria, or from the bleachers at recess, stealing glances of him running across the playground from behind a comic book. 

The closest he’d ever gotten to being near Connor was all the way back in the fifth grade. He remembers the memory like it was yesterday – the fresh beating from Henry Bowers and his fucking goons the day after his birthday, their idea of a gift for turning eleven. Embarrassingly, Connor had been behind them the entire time, unlucky enough to be Henry’s cousin and stuck trailing after him on the way home that afternoon. He can still recall the expression on Connor’s face – a mix of shock and disgust frozen in place, blue eyes blown wide while he bit his lip, worrying the skin beneath his teeth. 

He was beautiful. Richie couldn’t look away even while fists pummeled into his skin. Connor stood like an angel behind them, the sunlight beaming around his curls in a golden halo. Staring at Connor in that moment had felt like some kind of salvation. Some brief respite from being beaten like it was his sole purpose on this earth. Maybe he only seemed angelic to Richie, already floating towards a state of unconsciousness. Or maybe Connor was truly different, separate enough from the rest of the kids in town that Richie believed he would never treat him the same way. 

There was enough anecdotal proof it was true, after all. The other kids all jumped at the chance to bully and torment Richie, but not Connor. Never Connor. Maybe he was there, another face in the crowd, watching it all go down, but he’d never once joined in. It’s not like Richie could blame him for watching. There’s a reason people slow down on the road to observe an accident. Richie’s life was a fucking disaster, and watching other people suffer was just what happened in school. You spend your time observing other kids and trying to do the opposite of whatever gets them noticed in all the wrong ways. So, no, Richie didn’t care that Connor had never helped him. He didn’t know a world where he could treat Richie with kindness and come out alive on the other end. But at least he didn’t contribute to his misery. Connor stood out because he was kind enough to leave Richie alone, and because he was beautiful, and there was a limited supply of pretty boys who didn’t seem to hate his guts for merely existing. It was no surprise that he ended up developing a hopeless, one-sided crush. 

Embarrassingly, Richie had been slightly devastated when Connor and his family moved away from Derry not long after his eleventh birthday and that memorable beating. He’d felt silly for months afterwards, clinging to the image of his crush to get him through the days, picturing that angel standing behind Bowers, or Greta, or whoever else deemed Richie a waste of space. Maybe it was stupid, but that crush mattered to him. He took it as a sign that there was something to hope for in the world – even in a hellhole like Derry, a place where Richie was sure happiness went to die. 

In time, his crush strayed from memory and became a form of escape. Richie was not above projection, and what started as fond remembrance faded into a soft, gossamer-spun daydream. He allowed himself to dream about them meeting again, creating scenarios and playing out the story a thousand ways. Richie pictured running into Connor in the halls of Derry High, building a slow-burn story where they become friends and then boyfriends, sharing a sweet kiss in a darkened corner. He imagined seeing him at the Freese’s counter afterschool, slurping on a milkshake with a second straw waiting for Richie to share. Hell, he even dreamed of alternate worlds – worlds where Richie didn’t live in Derry, where they met as adults and kids, first kisses and first times. 

Connor became fodder for most of Richie’s fantasies, but even Richie could only stretch his imagination so far. The older he got, the more tenuous his vision of how Connor would age alongside him felt, until their ages seemed far enough apart that twelve-year-old Connor couldn’t possibly compare to the real thing. Richie couldn’t quite imagine how he’d appear. Surely he wouldn’t be too different, but he’d never been brave enough to search him on social media before, too scared to shatter the tentative illusion he already held. By then, Connor felt more dream than reality. If not for him being a Bowers, and that one afternoon where he stood there, savior of Richie’s sanity, then Richie might believe he’d made him up entirely. Hard to believe there had ever been a single person in Derry who hadn’t done something to Richie just because he existed.

Eventually, he decided it didn’t matter if Connor’s hair was still curly and blonde, or if his eyes were that same shade of sea glass blue. It didn’t matter if his voice might be deeper now, husky instead of sweet. Sure, he wondered – he couldn’t help it. But wondering hadn’t done him any favors. It didn’t save him from Derry, and it sure as fuck didn’t make his life any easier when his naivety died and he saw glimpses of his future here if he couldn’t get the hell out. 

So Richie tucked his fantasies away. He let his childhood crush die, rotting in a graveyard of pointless dreams, because dreams didn’t matter. Wishes weren’t real, and he’d never see Connor again. All he could do now was work hard to do well in school, and get into a good college, and put Derry into his rearview mirror where it belonged. 

Richie feels content with this decision. But on the first day of summer vacation, Connor Bowers walks into the Aladdin LAN Gaming Center, and everything changes in an instant. 

Like a switch flipped, he feels himself falling back into old habits, a kid with a stupid crush hopelessly wishing for something he’ll never have. Turns out life regularly enjoys making a fool out of Richie, and he’s got no choice but to play along, eternal jester to a freak show. 

He can hardly believe what he’s seeing when the door chimes. Richie always looks up when the bell rings – too skittish, a result of years of beatings, always checking over his shoulder to see who’s around. But it’s definitely Connor. Same curls, same tan skin, same wide blue eyes that don’t bounce around the room when he walks inside, like he’s confident in merely existing. 

Richie watches him walk across the room as if he’s moving in slow motion. It’s like the second coming of Christ, a resurrection of Richie’s hopes and dreams in the flesh. Connor Bowers being back in Derry seems just as implausible as Jesus walking out of his own tomb, which is something Richie is pretty sure he’s allowed to think. He’d gone to the synagogue for three years straight with his mom before she got tired of schlepping him around to Bar Mitzvah prep and Hebrew lessons and promptly gave up before Richie achieved manhood – at least, according to Jewish tradition. He was pretty sure he achieved manhood three years ago when he had his first orgasm, but he didn’t think God gave credit for stuff like that.

Connor standing in front of him seemed just as miraculous as a resurrection. Impossible, somehow, but Richie’s glasses were clean enough that he knew this wasn’t a trick of the light. Connor walks up to the counter with an air of self-confidence, very much real, made of flesh and bone. He speaks to the clerk about reserving a computer, but the words are a low hum in a room filled with clicks and clacking keys.

He’s still beautiful. Richie takes advantage of his position in the room, angled in a way where he’s out of Connor’s line of vision but can perfectly observe him, slightly angled against the counter while he waits. He compares his features against the image in his head, cataloging the differences. His jawline is sharper now than when they were kids, but his cheeks are still round, flushed soft red in the fluorescent lights. Connor’s hair still flops around his head as he speaks, curls wild and unruly even now, and yet they form perfect ringlets around the front of his face, making him seem even more angelic. Richie can’t see his eyes from here, but he can trace the soft curves of his nose, down to the plush pillows of his lips that seem inviting to Richie even now.

Richie hadn’t allowed himself to imagine that Connor was pretty. It was too raw to hope for him to stay beautiful. Instead, he’d pictured those features melting into stereotype, aggressively masculine – like even his own imagination couldn’t give him a reason to fall too hard and fast. But the real Connor was better than his imagination could conjure. It felt exactly right that he defied all of Richie’s meager expectations.

He startles when Connor turns away from the counter, his exchange with the clerk apparently over. Richie quickly turns back to his computer, pretending as if he’s focused on Minecraft. But he’s already forgotten whatever the fuck he was trying to do before Connor walked in, and his avatar runs around the blocky grass in mindless circles. Out of the corner of his eye, he watches Connor walk towards the bay of computers where Richie sits, and his heart starts beating so fast he can feel his pulse jumping in his throat. Everything seems hazy like a good dream. Connor moves through the room with a surprising amount of uncertainty, face furrowed as he scans the number assigned to him and glances around the room. 

When his eyes land on the space near Richie, he feels like he’s gone into cardiac arrest.

If seeing Connor was a dream, then watching his eyes lock onto Richie is like a wish come true. He nearly glances past Richie, but something like confusion crosses his expression, and his face furrows deeper. Richie watches warily while he stares, waiting for the other shoe to drop, some sign this is just another one of the universe’s cruel jokes. There’s no way that Connor remembers him. Richie isn’t even sure that he wants him to remember, because then he’s sure to recall all the beatdowns that he’d witnessed – faggot and red blood trailing from his orifices, purple bruises beneath his eyes that ached beneath his duct-taped glasses. One single flashback would be enough to make him ignore Richie completely. He’d turn around and go back to the counter, asking for a computer that’s closer to the door so he can make a quick escape. Plausible deniability, Richie thinks to himself, because he can’t fathom any other scenario. Any kid who’s ever been close to him claims it soon enough, eager to avoid being associated with the local fag. Connor can’t be an exception to the rule. 

Richie almost wants this scenario to come true because he knows that it’s better for them both. Better if Connor keeps walking and ignores him entirely. He’s not naïve anymore – he knows what his life is like, and he knows it could be worse. He could lose his favorite place in an instant, marred by a crush he can’t have. Of course his fantasies won’t become reality. Of course he’ll never have a real friend. If anything opposite happened, he’d lose the only safe place he’s ever known to a feeling both tortuous and tantalizing.

The kind of thing that Richie knew he’d never be able to keep himself from running back to, no matter how much it hurt.

But Connor’s eyes linger, and anticipation rushes through Richie’s veins like a sugar high. He braces himself for an insult at worst and prays for no interaction at all – whatever is most likely to keep him sane. Yet despite his hopes and beliefs, Richie watches recognition dawn across Connor’s face, his expression thawing in favor of an easy grin that slices across his face like a fresh cut. “Is that Richie fucking Tozier?” he asks, moving closer to where Richie sits, trapped in his seat like easy prey. His eyes – still so fucking blue, holy shit – spark to life like a Bunsen Burner flame. “I almost didn’t recognize you,” he continues, still smiling. Richie’s world might be ending. Connor points to his own eyes and continues speaking. “Except for those frames. Dead giveaway.” 

Richie can’t believe Connor recognizes him. He’s also mortified that the image he seems to remember most are his chunky black glasses, no longer duct-taped but no less of a target. But Richie is thankful that he’s got poor vision for the first time in his entire life. It gives him the perfect excuse to play dumb, as if Richie hadn’t known who Connor was from the moment he arrived. “Wait… Connor?” Richie exclaims, sounding reasonably shocked to his own ears. Probably because it’s the most honest thing about him right now. “What the fuck are you doing here, man? Thought you got the hell out of Derry a few years back.”

“Back for the summer,” Connor answers, dropping his hand from his face. He shrugs his shoulders slightly, looking uncertain again. Richie kind of wants to press on that feeling and dig deeper into his barely thoughts, but he’s barely known him again for five minutes. It’s a habit he’s tried – and failed – to break: wanting too much too fast. He’s gotten beatdowns just for asking questions in the past, and even if he hadn’t quite lost his curiosity, at least he’d learned the value of deflection and well-placed questions instead of running his fucking trash mouth nonstop. 

Connor keeps speaking, distracting Richie from his boundless desire to learn everything about him. “I wasn’t really sure what there was left to do around here. Henry’s off in the military now, so there’s not really anyone to show me around. But I heard about this place, so… oh hey, are you playing Minecraft?”

Richie startles a little beneath his direct attention, not used to anyone displaying any interest in his hobbies. He glances at him, unsure, but Connor seems genuinely intrigued, his gaze directed towards the screen. “Oh, um, yeah,” Richie says slowly, his hands moving back to the keyboard to direct his avatar on the screen. “I’m just, I don’t know, fucking around with some new building layouts.” He pauses for a second, wishing he had something more interesting to offer, but his curiosity wins out and he redirects their conversation back to Connor. “What about you? Do you like Minecraft?” 

Connor shrugs, eyes glazing over slightly. “I used to, a couple years back, but it gets kind of repetitive, doesn’t it? Like you said, mostly just the kind of shit you wanna fuck around on from time to time.” 

It’s not really what Richie had said at all, but at least Connor is paying attention. Plus, he doesn’t want Connor to think that he’s childish for enjoying Minecraft. “Yeah,” he says with a forced laugh, saving his progress and exiting out of the game. “Just killing time before I do something more interesting. Hey, what’s your poison, anyway?”

Connor huffs out a sound that’s dangerously close to a laugh. “I play League. Way more fun. Have you ever played?”

“No, not really,” Richie says. “I mean, I tried it a couple times, but you really need a team and I haven’t had the time to find other people to create one.” It’s a bold-faced lie. No one would want to play with Richie. But he doesn’t want Connor to see him as any more of a friendless loser than he might already.

“Yeah, it’s tough to find a good group,” Connor admits, and Richie’s heart speeds up in his chest again. Bonding. Agreement. Totally normal friend things. Maybe Richie isn’t so fucking hopeless at conversation and making friends after all. “Well, we could team up,” Connor offers. Richie’s breath catches in his chest. “You know, if you want. I can teach you the ropes. It’s not that hard to form a good team. I bet you’re a natural at Support.”

“Support?”

“Yeah, like…” 

Connor keeps speaking, but Richie doesn’t hear a single word. He’s familiar with the concept, but he’s never been in this position before. Never been asked to play with someone in real life, let alone asked to be someone’s partner. No one’s ever wanted Richie to support them. Mostly because Richie doesn’t have friends, and even online he struggles to get people to like him, like his queerness and oddities are somehow obvious in both real and digital worlds. He stares at Connor while his mouth moves, utterly speechless. No one’s ever considered him reliable enough to be their partner. Richie has spent years begging for a friend, someone to play with, a corner of the world that doesn’t belong to him alone. The fact that Connor is standing in front of him, offering companionship, is a complete and total mindfuck.

“So? What do you think?” 

Richie panics when he realizes that he’s been lost in his own thoughts the entire time Connor was talking. Now, he’s asking for an answer that Richie can’t provide because he wasn’t fucking listening. Fuck . Just like him to ruin things before they ever begin. 

“I – sorry, what?” he asks, sure that Connor will just scoff and walk away to find another computer and a different friend.

But Connor does something Richie doesn’t expect – he laughs. His laughter is the sound of the perfect gift opened on Christmas morning. It’s dawn breaking over the sad, lonely shadows of Richie’s summer, illuminating possibilities that he would have never dreamed up. “So you’re, like, a total newb to League? That’s cool, dude. I’ll teach you. Be my partner, okay? I’ll help you learn the ropes and then we’re gonna be un-fucking-stoppable.” 

Richie swallows against the emotion rising in his chest, too big to nestle comfortably behind his ribcage. It devours him instead, flooding through his veins and bubbling under the surface of his tentative smile. He’s still waiting for the other shoe to drop – it always fucking does – but for now, Connor doesn’t waver. He doesn’t call it a joke or throw a punch. Instead, he drags the chair next to Richie out and takes a seat, leaving Richie helpless to do anything but watch dumbly as Connor pulls up the website. He launches into a description of what to do and how to play, explaining things that Richie already knows. But he lets the information wash over him like it’s brand new, asking questions and blooming beneath the weight of Connor’s attention.

It might as well be brand new. Richie has never known a single person who even wanted to talk to him like this. He’s used to jeers in the hallway and slurs on the walls of bathroom stalls. He’s used to blood and iron, fear and sweat, greedy glances at boys before his eyes bounce away, worried that one wrong look is going to get him beaten to a pulp. 

He keeps waiting for things to go wrong, but Connor never wavers. He laughs and smiles at Richie, prods him for assistance, and even praises him the one time he saves his ass and wins them a match with his quick thinking. They spend hours playing the game until the clerk warns them all that the computers will shut off in fifteen minutes, and Connor realizes he has to run home for dinner. But before he goes, he raises his hand for a high-five, and the warm smack of their palms against each other sends butterflies rioting in the pit of Richie’s stomach. 

He’s going to do whatever it takes to keep Connor here as long as he’s allowed. He knows that it’s going to hurt when it’s over, just like he knows that he won’t be able to keep himself from rekindling that old crush, a flame that never quite burned out. But Richie is greedy, despite being hurt a thousand times, because he wants to have a friend more than he wants to keep himself from being set ablaze. It’s the thing that’ll do him in, eventually. But he's going to enjoy every second before it kills him. 

Summer flies by faster than it ever has before. For the first time in his life, Richie doesn’t want summer vacation to end. But he knows that it will, just like he knows that he’s going to lose Connor when he goes back to whatever town he came from. He doesn’t know exactly where that is, or when he’s going back home, because he’s kept those details deliberately vague. Not that Richie blames him. Who’d want the faggot to know where you’re gonna be next? That seems like a stupid risk to take – even to Richie, desperate as he is. 

Richie has never enjoyed summer before Connor. Summer meant long stretches of loneliness – an empty house, eyes glazing over while he trades one screen for another, all his time rotting away at a slow, seemingly endless pace. But this summer has been different. It’s been nothing but highs, a montage of teamwork and friendship in equal measure. Time slipped through his fingertips, but Richie found the energy to savor every single moment anyway. The laughter, the inside jokes, the hours logged into League, but the small moments, too. He’d memorized each time their hands brushed against each other and the way Connor’s shoulder often pressed innocently into his own when they shared a pair of wired earbuds between their PCs. Richie knew he was a freak, but this summer proved that there were depths to that he’d yet to fully discover. Richie went home each night and jerked off to fantasies of Connor’s shoulders, and his arms, and his hands, fingers, and even–

Well. It was the kind of shit he couldn’t think about here, right next to Connor, half-dreaming about him staying forever. He’d never been more raw in every sense of the word. It was stupid because he knew that nothing would ever happen. But every fucking thing made his heart skip a beat – even shit like Connor giggling and screaming for Richie to use items from his inventory on him mid-battle. Richie can still remember him shouting “HEAL ME! HEAL ME!” chanted at full volume, totally uncaring of the dirty look from the attendants and the other gamers blinking towards them with annoyed expressions. 

Richie hadn’t been able to pay attention to the game at all that day. Instead, his eyes were drawn to Connor’s face like a moth, all lit up like the surface of fucking sun. Back when Richie was a kid and his mom still gave a fuck about him, she’d warned him that looking into the sun was dangerous. Blinding . A health risk and a hazard – the kind of thing you learn to avoid. Looking at Connor felt the same. It was a hazard for both his heart and mind, working together to create delusions that Connor was going to stick around or that he liked Richie even half as much as Richie liked him. Connor was dangerous, but he was also bright and beautiful, his smile a blinding sunbeam slicing through the darkness of Richie’s life. 

If Connor was the sun, then Richie would risk going blind just for one last look at his face. He never wanted to look away.

Despite the revelation and Connor’s disruptive yelling, Richie’s attempt to heal Connor didn’t work. He died thirty seconds later in the game, but in real life he had laughed, chest heaving while he tried to catch his breath. He’d dropped his head on Richie’s shoulder, warm breath ghosting against the hollows of his collarbones like a prayer. So Richie couldn’t help it – he burned. He pined, and he wanted, and he craved his attention and his touch. Nothing he told himself seemed to stop the feeling. He was a runaway train headed right for a cartoon tunnel, and he didn’t have enough sense to pull the emergency brake before he smacked against the wall. Frankly, he wasn’t even trying to avoid the crash. Richie ran towards Connor like a fool – headfirst into danger, uncaring of his own self preservation. Connor would ruin him and Richie would be grateful, because at least it was proof someone once found him interesting even if it could never last. 

It’s the end of yet another match of League, a perfectly ordinary day in an otherwise extraordinary period of Richie’s life. The afternoon seems to dissipate like water on hot pavement, and it reminds Richie how summer always seems to end with a whimper. He’s usually more indifferent to its coming and going, but he wishes that this one summer was everlasting. He wants to freeze time on this moment and keep all the little details: the feeling of the air conditioning creating goosebumps on the back of his neck, the smell of the fries from Freese’s that Connor always brings, and the mindless, soothing counts of fingers on keyboards, clacking keys with expert precision. The chairs were uncomfortable and he was always tired when he went home, body sore from doing nothing at all, but he’d gladly sit there if Connor were at his side forever. He’d let his eyes go dry behind his glasses, peeled wide open to watch Connor just as much as he watches their matches, always there to have his back. Like partners do.

He can’t stay seated forever though. Unfortunately, he’s human, and sometimes he has stupidly human things to do. Richie groans loudly, pleased when Connor’s attention falls on him immediately, expression curious and only slightly distracted. “Okay man, gonna go piss. Don’t fucking finish them without me,” he warns, slamming his headphones down. Connor gives him a sharp little nod – the kind cool people always seem to do effortlessly. Richie has practiced it a thousand times in the mirror and never managed to pull it off. 

Connor redirects his attention back to the screen, loudly clicking as he swaps out items in his inventory before their next match. He’s been jittery all day, but Richie has tried not to let it make him nervous, content just to enjoy whatever Connor has left to give. He doesn’t know what’s going on in Connor’s head and, truthfully, he’s a little scared to ask. They’ve been friends all summer, but that friendship had rarely extended into anything deeper than their interests save for the one time he had the courage to ask if Connor was seeing anyone. He wasn’t, which makes Richie’s heart skip several beats every time he remembers. Not like it matters since Connor is leaving soon anyway, and also he’s not fucking gay, so it’s all a moot point. But that doesn’t stop Richie from allowing himself to fantasize even harder after that confession; he never said he wasn’t a fool.

He speed-walks to the restroom, putting thoughts of Connor leaving aside in favor of envisioning their next match and the inevitability of them demolishing yet another team. The two of them make for a surprisingly adept pair; Connor’s knowledge and Richie’s quick reflexes are a deadly combo, and they’d made quite a name for themselves over the summer by racking up dozens of victories. Richie hurries through the motions, eager to rush back out to the chair and soak in every second he has left with Connor before he slips through his fingers for good. 

He zips his pants up when he’s done and makes his way to the sink, washing his hands clean like he doesn’t know the second he puts them back on the keyboard they’ll be sticky from the remnants of spilled soda from weeks ago that never quite lifted from the keys. While he stands there, focused on scrubbing the dirt out from beneath his fingertips, a loud bang reverberates through the space when the door opens and slams shut again. Richie doesn’t look up, following bathroom etiquette – also known as common sense, since he learned at an early age that looking at people in bathrooms tends to lead to his ass getting kicked. While he wraps up washing his hands, rinsing away the last of the soap, he waits for a familiar sound in the space – a stall door locking, maybe, or at least the sound of an unzipped fly – but there’s nothing audible besides the light scuffle of shoes against the tiled floor. Footsteps that move closer to Richie, creating a sense of unease in his gut that sends his heart beating twice as fast. 

There’s only one sink – somehow, that detail feels important. Richie opens his mouth – simultaneously his best trait and most fatal flaw – to say something about it, like drawing attention to it will keep him out of trouble and get him back to Connor faster. But then the shoes come to a stop in his field of vision, and Richie frowns in confusion. “Connor? What are you doing, dude?” 

It’s probably strange that he knows Connor by his shoes, but he’s spent most of his summer staring down at his navy blue Converse when he was too shy to stare at his face. He pauses for a beat, waiting for a reply, but there’s no answer. “Are we discussing strategy, or–?” Richie turns off the sink and steps away from the counter quickly, so it doesn’t look like he’s lingering there to be close to him. He glances up, another question poised at the tip of his tongue, but his words fail when he reaches Connor’s face. He seems… nervous. Richie can’t understand why. What’s he nervous about? It's just a bathroom. It's just Richie.

Connor averts his eyes when Richie meets them and bites his lip, worrying it between his teeth. Richie has a momentary flashback to that long-forgotten memory – Connor framed by sunlight, looking worried and afraid. It’s a bizarre deja vu, though there’s no light here to frame Connor now but the meager, flickering fluorescents. They don’t make him look angelic though – just sickly and pale. “No, it’s not about the game, Richie. I have… I wanted to ask you about something else.”

“Yeah? Are you wondering how to be as cool as me? Best player in League!” His attempt at humor sounds flimsy even to his own ears, but Richie has this urgent need to deflect. He feels unsettled, like he’s walked into the middle of a story without understanding how he got here. He doesn’t know what else to do but crack a joke, anything it takes to dispel the tension. And there’s definitely tension – Richie just can’t decide if he’s projecting it from his own fear or if there’s really something serious on Connor’s mind.

He gets his answer seconds later. “They call you Blowjob Mouth, right?” 

Richie freezes. His hands are still wet. There’s a chill in the air, and it’s not from the fucking bathroom, because it always runs a good ten degrees warmer than the rest of the building. “What?” he asks, voice faint and feeling dizzy. He stares at Connor intently, like his face can somehow answer how he arrived at this exact question. But there’s no signs, no map to follow. Just Connor’s wide eyes going dark, more pupil than blue, lips still displaying a bright red mark where his teeth bit into the skin. 

“Don’t make me repeat it,” he mutters. It’s then that Richie notices the pink flush creeping across his cheeks towards the center of his face, even his earlobes turning red. “They call you that, right? That’s what my cousin said.”

“They?” Richie echoes distantly, still trying to wrap his head around hearing those words from Connor’s mouth. Sure, they called him that. All the way back in middle school, a nasty rumor spread by Greta about some bullshit she’d heard from her older sister. The nickname stuck for a whole two years before they resorted back to faggot, and Richie had never been happier to hear regular old slurs in his entire life. Hearing the old nickname now is enough to throw him off completely, sending him right back to how he felt standing in the cafeteria when the name was born. The butt of a joke he didn’t see coming. “You… did you tell him that we–”

“Of course not,” Connor hisses, sounding harsh. Richie guesses he can’t be too offended – he’s thought the same shit about himself all summer. If anyone knew Connor was with him, he’d be just as much of a persona non grata. He looks around the bathroom like there’s a hidden camera in the stall, even though Richie is pretty sure that if anyone is playing a joke, it’s squarely on him. “My cousin doesn’t know shit, okay? We don’t fucking hang out because he’s barely been home, but he dropped by a while back for a weekend. And, you know, I’m staying there, and he’s always talking stupid shit with his friends. So I just… I know, okay? It came up.”

Richie feels his heart drop into his stomach, sinking like a stone. He’d been so fucking naïve all summer. He was sure Connor hadn’t known – sure that he was the one exception to the rule of Richie’s life. He’d truly believed that just once he could escape his unearned reputation, the mean joke that’s followed him for years and keeps haunting him even here, in the one safe place he has left. 

His fear roars loud at the forefront of his mind, but there’s another persistent thought crowding his brain, demanding to be heard. Connor had known for most of the summer. He’d known, and even though that thought made Richie want to throw up and disintegrate, it was also true that Connor had never mentioned it before now. He had known for a while, but he still hadn’t shied away from Richie in fear of catching his disease. He’d suspected that Richie was a fucking faggot and he sat next to him anyway, laughing and smiling as he threw his head into Richie’s shoulder so often that he thought there might be a mark there permanently shaped like his chin. 

Maybe it’s not a bad thing, Richie tells himself, staring into Connor’s eyes. Maybe Connor is different. Maybe he wants to apologize for keeping it a secret, or tell him that he never believed the rumors, or… 

It costs so much to hope. Especially after years of never wishing for more because Richie knows that all his wishes got lost on their way to whatever higher power controls his life. Yet he finds himself wishing all the same, some desperate part of him sending out prayers like an emergency flare, hoping just once he’s saved instead of tossed aside like nothing. 

“Okay,” Richie says quietly, his heart still pounding in his chest, this time with something far more dangerous than fear. Blind optimism as bold as Icarus, flying directly towards the goddamn sun. He always was a fool. “So you know about the rumors. Does that… I mean, do you care?”

He holds his breath while he watches Connor consider this, but even when he shakes his head a clear no, Richie doesn’t feel relieved. Connor tugs his bottom lip back between his teeth, worrying the already red and swollen skin. He averts his eyes again, but there’s a palpable kinetic energy in his motions, nervous energy trapped beneath his skin. Richie feels like he is handling glass. One wrong move and he’ll startle Connor, send him running for the hills – and maybe for good. He absently wonders if that’s why he’s asking now, but he instantly writes that thought off. Connor wouldn’t leave him without a proper goodbye. He’s just nervous, and Richie doesn’t want to assume why that might be even though he knows what he’s delusionally hoping for.

“Will you…” Connor asks, slow and unsure. He shifts his body, Converse scraping against the while he crosses his arms against his chest, defending against something Richie can’t see. 

“Will I what?” Richie repeats, prodding him gently for the full question. He desperately wants to move closer and narrow the gap between them, but he can’t get a read on Connor. He doesn’t know what he wants . But he’s not naïve enough to hope that it’s Richie. “Not a mind reader, dude, so either spit it out or–”

“Will you suck my dick?”

Richie falls silent in an instant, going still like a deer caught in headlights. He blinks behind his glasses in rapid succession, shock and despair flooding through his body all at once. Connor’s flush deepens, but his energy shifts now that he’s gotten the words out. He lifts his eyes and pins Richie with a determined stare, tipping his head up enough that his chin juts out. He seems unafraid to Richie’s eyes even though he notices the way Connor’s body tremors slightly. 

“I’m not – I don’t – what the fuck?”

Richie doesn’t know what the right answer is to a question like that, but his reply causes Connor to roll his eyes. He exhales a frustrated little huff and curls his arms tighter against his body, looking defensive. “That’s not what I hear. Why would they call you that if it wasn’t true?”

“They’re assholes,” Richie says sharply. “It’s not fucking true!” he protests, voice sounding too weak for it to be convincing. “I’ve never done it before, I swear. I wouldn’t want – I wouldn’t even know how.”

Connor lets out a low laugh, disbelief evident in the single sound. “Dude, it’s just me. No one’s going to fucking know.” Even as he says it, he glances around the room again like he’s searching for someone hidden in the walls. It’s then that Richie realizes anyone could walk into the bathroom, and they’re standing in plain sight of whoever walks in – right in front of the sink, door unlocked. Yet Connor is asking him to suck his dick like there’s nothing to fucking lose. It’s just a game for him – a boy in town for the summer willing to do anything for a bit of pleasure.

It’s not so simple for Richie. This is his life. He’s not sure what he’s willing to risk for this – how much he has left to lose. But a sick part of him wants to accept this proposition and burn everything down to the ground if that’s what it takes to make one of his wildest fantasies come to life. Sure, it appears before him like this, distorted and wrong, but it’s still what he dreamed of, isn’t it? This is what he wants.

“Would it help if I tell you I’ve been thinking about your mouth for weeks, Tozier?”

Richie shudders, feeling warm and cold all at once. Even his own mind couldn’t have conjured up something so explicit. Connor steps closer until the tips of their sneakers are nearly touching. Richie can feel the warmth of his body like a summer heatwave. He should move away, maybe – plausible deniability – but he stays rooted where he is. If this is a dream, then he doesn’t want to wake up. “Come on, Richie,” Connor murmurs, blue eyes wide and convincing. “Don’t make me beg. You’ve done it before, I know you have. I want you to do it to me.” 

Richie needs a second to think, or breathe, or anything that lets him process this before he makes a choice. He wants time. But Connor doesn’t allow it, his hands dropping to his own jeans, slowly undoing the button and tugging down the zipper. He moves quickly, without fanfare, and Richie is aware of how quiet it is when he gets his pants open just wide enough to expose his underwear-clad dick. He’s hard already, which is absurd, because Richie is just… standing there. Doing nothing at all. But Connor’s cock strains against dark blue boxer-briefs noticeably, close enough to touch. There’s a tsunami of emotions swirling in Richie’s mind – shock, disbelief, confusion – but a small wave of want crashes through it all, banishing all his logic in the face of instant lust.

Everything about this situation is wrong. It’s fucked up that Connor assumed Richie was gay – or, even worse, that he saw through him just like the rest of them, finding that rotten thing at his core that Richie can’t escape. It’s wrong that Connor propositioned him here, and it’s wrong that he’s asking for something Richie’s never given, and it’s wrong that his first time won’t be sweet like he always dreamed. He knows of all of that and yet a part of him still roars, animal and starving, daring him to take advantage of the situation. Yes, Richie is inexperienced, and yes, all of this comes as a brutal surprise. But Connor is hard because of Richie. He wants Richie, and Richie isn’t dumb enough to stand here questioning his intentions for long. 

He doesn’t care if it’s not pure the way he always wanted it to be. He just wants . Connor is a solar flare, and Richie is on fire. He wants to burn. 

It’s a risk. Of course it’s a risk, because being himself has always gotten Richie into trouble. His entire life is proof. But Connor is going to leave and when he goes, he’ll take his secrets with him. Richie can be one of those secrets. He can get what he wants even if it’s like this, desire torn into a digestible scrap and masked by a reputation he never earned.

But he could earn it today. Despite everything, this is something he truly wants. 

Richie strengthens his resolve and moves closer instead of away, narrowing the distance between them. He relishes the way Connor’s eyes widen as if he’s surprised Richie is willing to do what he rudely asked for. It makes Richie feel… powerful. Like maybe he’s not so fucking predictable after all. Unlike Connor, he has enough sense not to do this out in the open. He grips Connor’s shoulder and drags him backwards until they get inside the handicap stall, large enough for the two of them and further back so that some guy who walks in might think a dude is fighting for his life on the toilet instead of getting blown. Richie might be willing to risk all he has left, but he’s not dumb enough to stand there and invite a beating. 

Richie locks them both inside the stall, the sound of the sliding metal echoing loudly against the tiled walls. He takes a deep, steadying breath before turning around to Connor where he’s pressed against the wall, looking equal parts nervous and starving. His crotch is still visible, and Richie’s mouth kind of waters at the sight even as his pulse starts pounding. “Can I…?” he asks. He’s trying to sound brave, but he can't help but feel shy. He keeps his voice down and avoids saying anything out loud, just in case someone walks in and overhears. As if there’s plausible deniability in just not saying it out loud, like the act is less explicit if he doesn’t verbally agree. 

“Yeah,” Connor rasps out, voice dry. He stands still as a statue against the wall, his eyes growing darker after Richie’s half-spoken suggestion. “Yeah, you fucking better.” 

Richie swallows, throat clicking, the sound amplified by the echo of the small bathroom. He hesitates for a few moments, still trying to parse through the reality of this moment. Connor asking for a blowjob, Connor’s dick half-out and hard, Richie locked in a bathroom with Connor while the rest of the gaming cafe plays on, blissfully unaware. It’s entirely absurd, and there’s a litany of what ifs bouncing around his mind, but it fades away when his eyes zero in on Connor’s crotch and watches as his dick jerks beneath the thin fabric. He’s so fucking eager, too, and that’s more than enough encouragement to disregard his fears. 

Richie drops to his knees almost without realizing he’s doing it, just as surprised as Connor seems when the dull thud of bone smacks against the bathroom tiles. He nearly gags thinking about how disgusting the floor must be – his jeans will have to be burned when this is over. He tucks that thought aside for later and focuses on the task at hand – literally – and reaches out with shaking hands towards Connor’s dick. He hesitates again for a moment, suddenly nervous, so he directs his attention to Connor and tips his head up to meet his eyes. The way Connor looks down at him through his lashes, eyes smoldering, biting his lip again like the anticipation just might be killing him, is enough to make Richie’s own dick twitch in interest, starting to fill out behind his fly. “Go ahead,” he orders, voice steady and eyes flashing.

The quiet command sends a shiver down Richie’s spine. His dick twitches again but he ignores it for the time being, more focused on pleasing Connor. He isn’t stupid enough to think this opportunity will ever present itself twice, and he’s not going to waste it. Finally, he closes the gap between his hand and Connor’s dick, gasping slightly when he makes contact. The hot press of him against Richie’s palm is a kind of revelation. Not the kind from the Bible, probably, but equally as damning – a deconstruction of Richie at his very core. His own personal mark of Cain. He’s touched his own dick before – too many times to count, chafed beyond believe after this summer – but Connor’s feels different. He cups his hand around the shaft where he’s bunched in his underwear with a loose grip, marveling at the warm hardness beneath his hand. Slowly, he slides his palm up and down the length of him, hyper aware of the blood pumping beneath the skin that keeps him hard. Connor twitches slightly beneath his touch as if even this small amount of attention is pleasurable. He’s not used to eliciting that reaction from anyone – people usually tell him to fuck off and get lost. But Connor likes this. He likes Richie, apparently, if he can take the tiny gasp that escapes his mouth when he brushes against the head as any indication. 

Part of Richie wants to tug Connor out of his briefs immediately, but a bigger part of him wants to drag this moment out until it shatters, soaking in every second. He takes his time rubbing him above his briefs, cataloging the sensations and feel of him instead. It feels like he has a decently sized dick; not as big as Richie’s, and definitely not nearly as thick. But there’s a good amount of length there, maybe six or seven inches trapped beneath the fabric. Richie doesn’t think he really cares what size he is – he’d have done this no matter what, eager to explore the very thing he’s been hated for wanting, but it’s a nice perk. 

He drags his hand up to the head of his cock, pushing against the center of his underwear. There’s a growing damn spot where his slit leaks into the fabric and he can’t help but press his thumb into it. Connor hisses immediately, hips jerking away from Richie’s touch. “You gonna fuckin’ tease me the entire time, Tozier?” Connor grits out from above, voice hard and raspy. Richie tips his head up to look at him, pleased by the warm flush spreading across his cheeks and down his throat. He likes this, Richie realizes, marveling over his reaction. It’s like touching is dick is some kind of fucking miracle. Maybe it is in a place like Derry and to someone like Richie, desperate for a sign that he’s not dirty or wrong or broken. 

Richie doesn’t answer his question. He slides a hand up Connor’s hip and hooks two fingers into the waistband of his briefs. He glances up one last time and watches as Connor releases his bottom lip from where it’s been trapped beneath his teeth with a heavy sigh. It’s all the encouragement Richie needs to tug his underwear and jeans down, far enough that his dick springs free. The sight of Connor fully hard for Richie is mesmerizing. He leans back on his calves and stares for a long moment, taking in the flushed skin and blush red tip, the slight vein zig-zagging through the shaft on the right side. While he watches, a couple drops of precum bead at the tip and dribble down the shaft, tantalizingly slow. 

The sight makes Richie’s mouth water, overcome with sudden and desperate desire. He feels like he’s going to die if he doesn’t get his mouth on his dick soon. But he wants to take his time almost as much as he wants to take Connor down his throat, so he makes himself slow down. He leans back to avoid temptation before he can get too ahead of himself and stretches out his hand instead, swiping his thumb gently across the liquid pooling at the tip. He gathers it in his palm and curls his palm back around the shaft to pump downwards. It’s still a little dry at first, but Richie increases the speed slightly, and more precum drools from Connor’s cock. The extra lubrication changes the sensations – Richie feels the hardness and warmth, but he’s captivated by the slick and easy slide, wet sounds slowly filling the space between them. 

Richie holds his breath as he drags his hand across the sensitive skin, testing rhythm and grip and speed until he starts to figure out what Connor likes. He’s not as responsive as Richie might have guessed – he has to read cues from sharp gasps and quiet moans. He can especially tell he’s done something right when Connor hisses, sensitive and on edge, while his slit continues to weep precum against Richie’s palm. Each time it happens, Richie finds himself licking his lips like a cartoon wolf, feeling insatiable. It doesn’t take long to gather a pattern of what Connor enjoys – a squeeze on the upstroke and fast, relentless pumps of Richie’s fist against him. He likes it when Richie tugs on his balls, and he really likes it when Richie presses his thumb into the head and twists just slightly based on the curses he spits out afterwards.

The entire time he works Connor’s cock, his own dick gets harder, suffocating between the fabric of his clothes. But his own arousal feels like a distant need with his attention focused on Connor, watching his reactions. He soaks in his reactions, each sound quiet praise for Richie’s ego. When he thinks Connor is getting too close, he slows down and circles the base of his dick, easily fitting in the circumference of his pointer finger and thumb. It doesn’t take much for Richie’s hand to cover Connor completely, and even when he’s barely touching him at all, he plays with his balls or traces his fingers around the head, teasing and enjoying every second. It’s rare that Richie is handed power like this – complete and utter control – and he can admit that it gets to his head, a bit, knowing that he’s this wanted for something only he can do. 

Richie loses himself to the rhythm of it all. He’s drawn in by Connor’s beauty, watching his face contort in pleasure when he’s not eyeing his dick with the hunger of a starving man. His eyes are intense whenever Richie dares to meet his gaze, chest heaving and face almost as red as the tip of his dick. He’s visibly going insane, and it’s because of Richie, which is a heady feeling that he thinks he could learn to love. His hands flex absently at his side, like he wants to anchor himself on Richie somehow – grab at his hair or cling to his shoulder for support. Support, he thinks to himself wildly. How strange that being Connor’s partner in League led to him now, kneeling on the bathroom floor with a dick in his hand, waiting for the right moment to take it in his mouth. 

Richie has half a mind to ask Connor to just grab him already – use him, take what he needs, whatever is going to get him off – but he doesn’t want to beg. He wants Connor to want it, too, as pathetic as that seems. He can’t look at that thought too closely at this moment, overwhelmed by how much he wants to be something to Connor and nothing all at once. His desire to matter wars with his desire to be objectified completely, turned into something useful for the first time in his entire life.

Connor throbs beneath his palm, hot enough against Richie’s skin that he imagines it like a brand, marking his skin permanently. Visibly. He’d reach out to shake someone’s hand only for everyone to see the shape of Connor imprinted there, equal parts ownership and a scarlet letter. The entire world would know what Richie was – a disgusting gay freak, one worthy of his exile. 

None of it matters anymore. Connor is going mad just from his touch, and Richie enjoys every second. He drags his hand slowly down Connor’s shaft, not seeking to please him even as he relishes the way that Connor hisses in near-pain. He squeezes the base of his cock in warning, almost laughing at how easy it is to work him up. The red flush of his face spreads down his neck and lower still, probably visible beneath the collar of his shirt. Richie kind of wants to push the hem of his t-shirt up and ruck it up the flat expanse of his stomach, eager to expose the smooth, toned skin, but he already feels like he’s pushing his luck. Connor asked for a blowjob. Nothing more, nothing less, and Richie was going to provide what he’d so desperately begged for. He plays the part of experienced well, he thinks – or at least well enough that Connor doesn’t know that he was telling the truth earlier when he said it wasn’t something he’d done. 

Lost in his own thoughts, Richie loses track of Connor’s reaction and focuses on his own fantasies. He takes his free hand and gently cups Connor’s balls before catching them between his fingers and rolling them with a firm grip. Connor reacts almost violently – his hips jerk forward hard enough to shock them both, and the tip of his dick smacks wetly into Richie’s bottom lip before ricocheting off his jawline. Richie leans back on instinct, blinking rapidly behind his glasses as he processes the new sensation. The smack of his cock had been heavy and loud, and he can feel the smear of his precum against his bottom lip, warm against the skin. He desperately wishes that he were standing or that he could look at himself in a mirror at this exact moment to see how he must look right now. 

Tentatively, he raises his hand to his mouth and swipes his thumb through the liquid. When he pulls it away to look at what he’s gathered, it shimmers like a pearl beneath the harsh fluorescent lights. He risks a glance at Connor, who’s been disturbingly quiet this entire time, worried that this somehow scared him off. But when their eyes meet, Richie finds himself instinctively shivering beneath the weight of his hungry stare. He looks at Richie like he’s the last supper, a feeling that’s new and achingly familiar. He’s more used to feeling like a freak show on display – a free-for-all for mockery. But Connor stares at Richie like he’s an exhibition, merely a curiosity that he can’t help but indulge. 

It strikes Richie then, suddenly, that Connor might not be as straight as he likes to pretend, which feels like an absurd thing to realize when he’s had his cock between his hands. But it does surprise him – as if the hand job has been a game of chicken and they were both waiting to see who called it a joke first. 

It doesn’t feel like a joke now. Connor keeps staring at him, mouth popped open just far enough that Richie can see the soft pink of his tongue laid flat in his mouth. He thinks he’d like to feel that, too, and he can’t decide if he’s thinking of Connor’s mouth on his dick in return or just a chaste kiss, lips and tongues exploring each other. Another thought he can’t entertain – there’s not enough space left in his chest for an emotion that’s not raw, unbridled lust. 

He half-expects an apology for the accidental intrusion of his cock against his mouth, but Connor surprises him again. “You like that?” he mutters, rough and low. “I bet you do. Dropped to your knees like a fucking pro.” 

Richie lets out a soft, involuntary gasp, the words tugging at his stomach like a hooked fish. A flash of heat shudders through him, and again Richie feels seen – like Connor looked at him and knew exactly what he would want to hear. He can tell that Richie wants to feel competent. Or maybe he genuinely believes all the fucking rumors. But Richie doesn’t want to think about that right now. He focuses on the good feelings again, that buzzing warmth beneath his skin, his senses sharpening to hang off Connor’s every word. 

“I knew you’d be good for it, Tozier,” he continues, eyes dark. He reaches down and grabs his own cock by the base, hand curling around his own skin with familiarity in a way that Richie knows he will never forget. He exhales a soft moan and Richie has to bite back a whimper, his body gravitating back towards Connor with a desperate urge to touch him again. “Are you gonna wipe it off?” Connor asks, and that question hangs in the air for a long moment while Richie tries to process the meaning, too hypnotized by Connor’s dick to think. He smirks at Richie’s reaction, slow and sweet, like his desperation is amusing. It sets Richie’s veins on fire, makes him want to squirm beneath his gaze impatiently. “Or do you wanna taste it?”

Richie blinks again, letting his gaze drop back to his thumb. He opens his mouth to speak but words fail him completely, overcome with an intense want once again. “You do,” Connor comments wryly. Richie doesn’t know how he’s so good at identifying what Richie can’t even name. “Bet that’s your favorite part, isn’t it? Is that how you got the nickname?” He pauses as if Richie might answer – as if Richie’s brain isn’t white noise and the cadence of Connor’s statements, washing over him like a dedication. “Go ahead, if you want it so bad. Taste it.”

There’s a command there that Richie can’t disobey. He shudders again, feeling hot despite the cool tile pressing into his clothed knees. He doesn’t allow himself to think about it when he opens his mouth and presses his thumb into the base of his tongue. He sucks around the digit hard, making sure he swallows every last drop. He fights the urge to wrinkle his nose at bitter, salty taste, but he finds within a few seconds that after he catalogs the flavor, he wants more. Reluctantly, he drags his tongue back out of his mouth with an audible pop that echoes against the walls. 

When he’s done, he lifts his head and stares back at Connor with wide eyes, his mouth still open, wondering if he can see anything left on his tongue. “Fuck,” Connor hisses quietly. He takes his spare hand and cups it against Richie’s jaw, and it’s so fucking gentle that it almost feels romantic. “You like that?” Richie nods against his hand, feeling almost shy. “You want more?” Richie hesitates, then nods again, even shier than before. If Connor finds it charming, he doesn’t let on, his eyes laser-focused on Richie’s mouth rather than meeting his gaze. “Yeah,” he murmurs, though it doesn’t feel quite like an agreement. “You’ll take it. I know you’ll be good.”

Richie whines at that, completely taken off-guard. He feels oddly shaken by the simple adjective, thrown off by the dichotomy between the implied whore he’s become with his knees on the floor and the verbal reward for it, confident praise. It makes him feel like a dog waiting patiently for scraps off the dinner table. 

Connor stares down at him, considering, before shuffling closer without warning to push his dick into the open cavern of Richie’s mouth. He nearly chokes at the intrusion and it scrambles his brain for a second when he forgets how to breathe, trying to suck in oxygen through his occupied mouth. But then he remembers his nostrils, and he sucks in a greedy pull of air, trying to steady his swirling mind and heaving lungs. While he gathers his bearings, Connor doesn’t rush to shove himself any further inside. He slides his cock along the flat expanse of Richie’s tongue slowly, hissing when the sensitive skin scrapes against the bottom of Richie’s front teeth. His pain ignites some primal instinct in Richie, causing him to wrench his jaw open further still to make it easier. Connor slides further inside with a sigh, but he doesn’t move, allowing the weight of his dick to settle there against his tongue. 

Richie stays still and silent, taking a beat to catalog the sensation of what it feels like to have a dick in his mouth. Within minutes, his jaw starts to ache, but the heavy warmth of his member against his tongue is tantalizing. He can feel it pulsing in his mouth, throbbing against his tongue. The head nudges just far enough inside that it teeters on the edge of uncomfortable, but it’s not unpleasant. Richie realizes that he would do this every opportunity he could if he was given the chance, already obsessed with the way it makes him feel, warm and pleasant and free. 

Richie breathes sharply through his nose as he processes his own hunger for this, and Connor seems to take that as some kind of sign. He pulls his hips back, slowly sliding his cock back until the tip rests at the edge of Richie’s tongue, closer to his teeth again. He keeps his hand wrapped around Richie’s jaw, but he doesn’t use it to guide or comfort him. His grip is steady, like Richie is nothing but something to stabilize him with, and it makes that objectified feeling creep back into Richie’s consciousness. He can’t quite decide if he likes it or hates it – maybe both, all at once – but at this moment, he doesn’t want to stay a passive participant. He wants Connor to remember him when he’s gone, wants him thinking about this moment when he jerks himself off in the darkness of his room. 

He wants Connor to remember their summer – to remember Richie – as more than just a good fuck. But if a good fuck is all he can be, he’s damn sure going to make sure he’s remembered for that, too. 

Without warning, Richie moves his tongue and presses the tip into Connor’s slit, relishing the sharp, wounded sound Connor makes in answer. He takes his time there at the head, licking slow and deliberate, pressing his tongue in alternating shapes and directions against the sensitive head. He gathers each salty drop of precum that beads at the tip, growing more fond with each taste, before caressing the circumference of his head and licking against the most sensitive parts. Connor jerks forward in his mouth each time Richie does that, and it drives him crazy to know that he can elicit that reaction just from something as simple as his tongue. While he unravels Connor with his mouth, he reaches out and tentatively places a hand against Connor’s waist. He’s worried that Connor might bat that away, but he only grunts encouragingly, so Richie uses his touch as a guide and encourages Connor to slide further into his mouth with a deliberate squeeze. 

As he slides inside Richie’s mouth, he moves his tongue out the way and traces his tongue against the length of his shaft, mapping the territory. It doesn’t seem to do much for Connor’s own pleasure, but he moans appreciatively anyway, eager to let Richie take control for the time being. Truthfully, Richie suspects he’s a bit insecure about demanding too much. Asking Richie to blow him had taken every ounce of his courage, and even if he’d asked based on lies, Richie was pathetically eager to please. He wanted to prove himself despite the fact that it never works out in his favor, but he can’t seem to kill that side of him no matter how hard he tries. It rises from the ashes like a phoenix, desperate to make the only boy he’s ever come close to loving see him as valuable even if it’s only a fond memory in his rearview mirror. 

After a while, Richie slides off his dick completely, letting Connor pop out of the warmth of his mouth and bounce against his bottom lip, smearing more precum there. Connor’s eyes go dark and he grips the base and Richie’s jaw tighter on instinct, his knuckles going white from the force of his grip. Richie can’t help but note the reaction eagerly, an image already building in the back of his mind. Before he can get ahead of himself though, he leans forward and wraps his mouth around Connor’s tip, sucking hard. Connor gasps and jerks away from the sensation. “I’m gonna cum if you keep doing that.”

Richie leans back and smirks unevenly. “Wasn’t that the point?” he asks. His voice sounds hoarse, throat raw from so little. He has a vision of how much worse it could be if Connor fucked into his throat, and he wishes that he could make that happen here, wishes that Connor would take Richie apart piece by piece until there was nothing left but pleasure, wrapping around his body and drowning out his thoughts. “Let me make it good,” he pleads, squeezing his hand tight against Connor’s hips and ushering him even closer. His dick bumps against Richie’s mouth before sliding down his and smacking against his chin. It’s not purposeful, but the sensation makes Richie’s own dick jerk hard beneath his pants. He reaches his free hand down to press against his erection, trying desperately to keep from creaming his underwear.

“You’re so fucking desperate for it,” Connor remarks casually. He talks like he’s noticing something as simple as the weather, but Richie feels the impact of his words like a thunderclap through his whole body. Richie drags him in closer, proving his point immediately, and lets the head of his cock back inside his mouth. He sucks softly against the tip, lapping at the skin and sliding his tongue across it from edge to edge. Each ministration makes Connor’s breaths come faster. Richie can feel the restraint he must be exhibiting to keep from plowing into his throat completely. But his hips still jerk and twitch in Richie’s mouth, and it’s enough to drive him insane. But he keeps his cool, his own pleasure far down his list of priorities. Instead, he leans back on his haunches and detaches from his cock. Connor hums a sound in protest, but Richie doesn’t leave him waiting long before he lifts his free hand to wrap around Connor’s shaft. He slides the mess of precum and spit down the length of him, and they both watch the pump of Richie’s fist against his dick, equally mesmerized. The wet glimmer on his skin is beautiful. Richie’s mouth waters at the sight of it, no longer content by touch alone. He wants his mouth back on him in an instant.

Richie slides his hand all the way to the base and leans forward to take Connor in his mouth again, as deep as he can possibly go. Connor forgets himself and lets out a sharp cry, loud enough that Richie can tell he’s rapidly losing control. Richie doesn’t hesitate before trying to take him completely, which makes for an awkward and clumsy first attempt when Connor hits the back of his throat at the wrong angle. He nearly chokes on it, gag reflex activated for a split second. Everything about that initial moment is overwhelming, but Richie tells himself to take it slow and breathe. He takes shallow breaths through his nose, swallowing around Connor to distract himself from the slight urge to throw up. 

The constriction of his throat swallowing around Connor must be pleasurable, because he grits out another groan at the feeling of Richie’s throat convulsing. His hand tightens on the side of Richie’s face, pressing hard enough into the skin that he thinks it might bruise, and Richie loses himself for a moment to the idea of being marked visibly yet again. He’s quickly realizing how obsessed he is with the idea of being marked – how it’s sexy to him, and emotional, too, as if a physical remnant of the encounter will be enough to convince him it wasn’t just a dream once it’s over. 

He refocuses on the task at hand, shifting his head and Connor’s dick simultaneously to fix the angle. This time, Connor slides more comfortably down his throat rather than pushing up against the back of it, and things improve dramatically after that. They both moan at the sensation instantly, and then Connor moans again when the vibrations of Richie’s vocal cords vibrate against his cock. 

“Fuck,” he mutters, “you feel so good, what the fuck, you were born for this shit.” Connor’s hips jerk as he speaks, his dick pressing further into the tight heat of his throat. It’s so fucking hot to have him lodged there, all the space he takes to breath and run his fucking mouth used for such filthy reasons. Turns out his trashmouth is good for more than he’d imagined. For a split second, shame washes over Richie’s body – shame that he loves this so much, and shame that the rumors were right, that Greta and the other girls saw something in him that he hadn’t known existed. But he brushes that thought aside for now, determined to focus on Connor and this moment. 

He starts to bob his head on the length of Connor’s dick, building a slow rhythm as he teaches himself to relax and tighten his muscles as needed to make the experience better for Connor. He can tell that his efforts are finally unraveling Connor, his quiet façade shattering as his breaths gain speed, louder and faster until his pants echo off the walls. Connor loses the ability to say anything in a full sentence other than a few sporadic curses, and a few praises of “so good” that makes Richie feel like he’s on fire. Eventually, those slow down, too, and all that’s left are his moans, slowly rising in volume as he forgets to be quiet. Richie takes this as proof that he’s a natural at sucking dick, even if it’s his first time. This motivates him to try even harder, and he puts all his energy into making a show of how he moves his mouth against his cock, swirling his tongue around the head and mouthing at his skin with his lips and tongue. He uses his hand at the base and his balls, wherever he can’t reach with his mouth, just to achieve peak stimulation.

Except… well, Connor is a nice size. But Richie feels like he could take him all the way down his throat if he wants, and fuck it if he doesn’t want. He’s pretty sure Connor wants that, too, even if he doesn’t know how to ask. But just because he won’t take lead on that urge doesn’t mean that Richie can’t. Without warning, he removes his hand from the base of his cock and uses it to brace himself on the other side of Connor’s hip. Then, he sucks in a deep breath through his nostrils and forces himself down the entire length of his dick, pushing him as far down his throat as possible until he bottoms out, nose pressing into his pubic bone. 

For one brief, beautiful moment, it’s heaven. Richie can smell Connor’s scent from this close – sweat-salty skin and a warm musk that he likes. He manages to angle his nose in a way that still lets him breathe, but his face is pressed entirely against his pelvis, mouth speared on his cock the way that Connor might fuck him if this went any further. Deepthroating him like this is a heady sensation, one that Richie relishes – the tight yet relaxed feeling of his throat, and the throb of Connor inside him, salty precum dripping down his esophagus. But it’s that fleeting thought of getting fucked that makes Richie’s dick throb, straining against the crotch of his clothes, as heat whirs through him like an overheated PC. He swallows before sucking against his dick, relishing in the strained cry Connor lets out. If this is hell, then Richie thinks he won’t mind being sent here to burn. Maybe everyone in Derry is right; maybe wanting this is a sin. Because the way Richie feels right now goes beyond holy. The sensation of loving this act is too strong to be anything but sin. 

Richie could suck him off forever, but the combination of what he’s just done abruptly sends Connor over the edge. “Fuc–” he begins, but the rest of the word is lost in the force of his orgasm. His dick jerks once, sending a thick glob of cum down that sticks to the back of his throat, before he pulls it out of Richie’s mouth completely. The sudden absence of his dick feels like a gaping wound, and Richie acts on instinct, opening his mouth eagerly to try and suck him back inside, feeling empty without the feeling.

He doesn’t make it there in time. He has half a second of motion before he freezes in place at a sudden warm and wet sensation that splatters across his face. He watches as Connor’s hand pumps against himself while he cums, and Richie tries to track the ropes of cum as they shoot on to his skin. He stays frozen in place, still wanting to suck every last drop from his cock yet enamored by the feeling of his cum marking Richie’s skin the way he wanted. Connor doesn’t give him a choice anyway. He lifts his cock so that the tip aims right at Richie’s glasses, and another spurt of cum shoots across his left lens and blurs his vision. Another pump lands more on his cheeks, dripping towards his mouth, and Richie absently darts his tongue out to lick away what he can, testing the texture and taste of his cum. Still salty, more bitter, but thicker in consistency and heavy against his skin. He finds that he likes that, too – no limit to his desire for more. 

Finally, Connor places the tip of his dick against Richie’s mouth, his fingers brushing against his bottom lip. Richie greedily licks at his fingers for whatever ran down from the tip, and then tongues the slit for good measure. Spit and cum smudge across his lips like a gloss, and though he can’t see himself right now, he knows that he must look utterly debauched. He likes it, though, the feeling of Connor’s tacky cum drying on his skin like a temporary tattoo. Proof that it happened. 

Connor rests his dick there on Richie’s mouth for a few moments, catching his breath, unmoving. Richie doesn’t dare to disturb this fragile moment even though he desperately wants to shove his own hand into his pants to relieve his aching dick. But he waits patiently for Connor to move first, desperately trying to be good. As if he can read Richie’s mind, Connor finally steps away, hurriedly tucking his slowly softening dick back into his pants. The sound of his zipper is a harsh intrusion in the silence of the bathroom – almost final.  

Richie leans back on to his haunches, observing the moment Connor glances down at his sticky hands and winces, clearly disgusted. But when he looks back down at Richie, his disgust melts away again into something dark and possessive as he surveys the mess he made of him. He bites his lip again, looking more devil than angel now, and rolls the plush skin between his teeth, considering. When he lets go, he offers Richie a smirk and mutters out two words that melt Richie in an instant: “Good job.” 

Richie gasps sharply and squeezes his eyes shut, overwhelmed by the simple praise. He drops his free, clean hand back to his cock and presses against himself yet again, trying to keep from completely blowing his load. He feels like he could cum untouched like this, which is insane – he’s never been this hard in his entire fucking miserable life. 

While his eyes are shut, he hears the door unlock and slam shut again, Connor’s shoes shuffling against the tiles and the sound of running water. Washing his hands, Richie realizes. That sounds like a great idea. Not that he’s going to get the fuck up right now, because his legs probably couldn’t even carry him right now if he tried. But then he considers that Connor is cleaning himself up so he can come back and take care of Richie – maybe he’s just got a thing about his own cum, totally normal – so he hauls himself up anyway, wobbling like a newborn. 

He walks over to the toilet paper holder and unspools a long string of it, immediately pressing it into the glob of cum on his glasses. Stupidly, he’s a little sad that he’s wiping it away instead of licking the glass clean, but even Richie has a limit to how pathetic he’s willing to seem in one single session. He does his best to remove the substance from his glasses before it dries completely, but he makes no effort to wipe off what’s still streaked across his face. He wants Connor to come back and see that mark, and then jerk Richie off for a job well done.

Halfway through wiping the mess from his glasses, he hears another door slam that ties his stomach into knots. “Connor?” he murmurs quietly, waiting for a reply. No one answers, and a sense of unease begins to unfurl behind Richie’s rib cage even as his mind tries to convince him that his paranoia is unfounded. “Hey, man,” he continues, trying to sound nonchalant as he opens the door. “I thought maybe you could, you know – oh.”

He tries not to feel disappointed that Connor isn’t there. He tries, and he fails, because it feels like a fucking knife in the stomach to find the bathroom completely empty. Connor gone, a thief in the night, having gotten what he wanted from Richie. Just like everyone else. He wants to believe that Connor is coming back – that he wouldn’t actually go without a goodbye, not after this , not after everything – but the door stays closed. Connor doesn’t come back. Richie stands in the middle of the bathroom, stupefied, harder than he’s ever been in his life with cum drying on his cheeks.

Alone. Always alone. 

There’s a distant urge to cry tucked in the back of his mind, the sting of rejection familiar and more bittersweet than it’s ever felt before. Richie tries his best to console himself. Sure, Connor was gone, but he’d still let Richie blow him. He’d wanted Richie so badly that he had him take his dick, right there on the dirty bathroom floor, chasing after him with only one goal in mind. He’d made a mess of Richie that anyone could see if Richie was brave enough to show it. Yeah, it fucking sucked being left behind and feeling… feeling used, but wasn’t that what Richie wanted? Didn’t he go into this hoping to be a good memory and a better fuck, eagerly objectified under Connor’s gaze? Wasn’t it worth it anyway, even if he hadn’t stuck around to return the favor? 

Richie walks over to the sink to throw the wad of toilet paper in the garbage nearby. He glances up absently and then nearly jolts back in shock at his own reflection in the mirror. He couldn’t see himself before, covered in Connor’s cum, but now he finds himself drifting closer towards his image, openly intrigued by what he sees staring back. He knew that he probably looked like a mess, but it’s an almost out of body experience to see his reflection now. Thick ropes of white cum streak his face, and it should probably be disgusting, but Richie’s mouth drops open in pleased surprise, heat shooting right to his dick. It throbs in his pants again, this time demanding to be felt now that there’s no other distractions. 

Instinctively seeking out friction, Richie presses his hips into the hard porcelain of the sink basin, absently grinding into the cool stone. He feels like an animal in heat, rutting against something lifeless just to feel better. But it does feel good . The difference in temperature between his body and the counter turns him on even more, and he’s so close already that just grinding is enough to get him worked up. While he thrusts his hips into the ceramic, he hears a dull, rhythmic thump that he eventually realizes must be his phone. He reaches into his pocket to drag out the device, planning on putting it aside on the counter for later, but then his fingers act on their own accord and shakily open the camera icon on his homescreen. He definitely isn’t thinking when he flips the camera to face the mirror and presses the shutter button over and over again, capturing a burst of photos of his face, cementing the image of his cum-marked expression to his gallery forever.

Richie hesitates only for a second longer before he flips the camera to selfie mode, nervous somehow to see himself even closer. But once he’s staring at his image on the screen, he lets out another whine. He looks fucking wrecked, utterly destroyed, and knowing that it was Connor who made his mark on him is the hottest thing that’s ever happened to Richie. He looks like a whore. He looks like someone who enjoyed being cum on like a slut, and the moment he thinks about it, he knows that it’s true. Click! He takes another photo, mouth hanging open, cum still smeared on his left glasses lens from where he didn’t get all of it off before it dried. 

Click! Richie consider that maybe he was born to take dick – made to suck it, for sure, drawn to it like a fucking addict. He’d been so eager to get on his knees that he’d done it of his own free will, not even requiring a command. He grinds his hips into the sink even harder at the memory. The pressure is enough to drive him towards the edge but it’s not enough to get him off. Fuck. He stands there, humping the bathroom sink in the fucking Aladdin LAN gaming center, knowing that Connor is probably long gone in the other room. Even so, all he can think about is his cum on his face and the mess he’s about to make in his underwear, desperately mashing his dick against the counter like a desperate fucking whore. He can’t stop himself from getting off even if he tries.  

Finally, he closes the camera app and places his phone down on the sink, turning his attention back to his reflection in the mirror. He’s so hot and bothered that he’s panting heavily, his breath leaving a spot of condensation on the glass with each gasped breath. He wishes he could get off with Connor’s hand on his dick like he wanted, but he can’t. He’ll have to take care of things himself, like always, using the scraps of his memory as the fodder that takes him over the edge. 

Richie unbuttons his pants hurriedly and rips the fly down the zipper track so fast that it nearly breaks beneath his grip. He shoves his hand between the two layers of fabric and yanks out his dick, gasping when his fingers brush through the precum pooling in the fabric of his briefs. He doesn’t waste time taking it slow, setting a relentless, almost violent pace immediately. He needs this to be over quickly, a distant part of his brain still aware that anyone could walk in and find him bent over the sink with his dick out. It might not be so weird to the losers on the computers if not for the fact that he had thick spots of cum covering his cheeks – an immediate sign that whatever he was up to at the sink wasn’t normal. It was weird, it was perverted, and Richie was the fucking freak sucking cock that everyone always knew he was.

The reminder of sucking cock brings flashes of Connor back to his mind, and he lets them play out like a movie, each flash of the scene from his perspective pushing him closer to the edge. He groans, squeezing his dick as he pumps his hand fast and dirty, twisting sharply at the base and tip. But he needs more friction; he’s never been particularly wet when he does this. Not like Connor. Normally, he’d spit in his hand, but something seems particularly pathetic about doing it now. It’s then that Richie remembers the cum on his face, and an idea sparks almost as quickly as he moves to bring it to life. He unwraps his hand from his cock, gasping slightly at the increased blood flow when he stops squeezing, and swipes hurriedly at the cum on his face. He gathers every last drop until the white substance coats his fingers, thick and glimmering in the too-bright fluorescent lights. Satisfied, he resumes jerking himself off with his cum-coated hand, and it’s practically a holy experience now. The wet squelch of the cum on his cock elicits some sick satisfaction in his stomach, and it’s yet another way that Connor can mark him even if he’s not there to watch. 

He jerks himself off faster, snapping his hips into the tight, wet heat of his fist, and the wet noises alongside the friction and the reminder that it’s Connor’s cum on him is enough to send him over the edge. He comes fast and hard, just enough foresight to slide his hand up to the tip and catch most of his own spunk, hips thrusting pathetically as he shakes through what might be the most violent orgasm of his life. He keeps his eyes shut and tries not to feel pathetic that he imagines it’s Connor’s hand milking the last dregs of his cum from his cock, desperate for the happy ending he wanted even as he settles for good enough. 

When he’s done, he nearly collapses to the floor. His bones feel like jelly and his knees shake, almost too much to keep himself upright. He hisses when he detaches his hand from his dick, feeling sensitive and completely wrung out. Absently, he lifts his hands into the light to observe the slick mess that drips down his fingers, and for one moment, the mix of their cum is the hottest thing he’s ever seen.

But then the moment passes, that sick feeling bubbling back up his throat until he can’t stand to look at it another second. Strange, how he wanted to be marked forever, and now he feels dirty in all the wrong ways. Richie turns on the sink and messes with the tap until the water is scalding hot before he plunges his hands beneath the water, washing every last remnant of their mixed cum down the drain. He doesn’t need the physical mark to remember it happened. He’s got proof of that – his memories, especially. As if he could ever fucking forget Connor, or his first time, or the swirl of emotions churning in him now, hot pleasure and satisfaction wrestling against the sickness and familiar rejection. 

He’s less excited to leave the bathroom than he’d been to drop to his knees and suck Connor’s dick. He’d spent an entire summer feasting on the crumbs of his attention and spent the last fifteen minutes begging for scraps. He knew now that when he re-entered the main room, there would be an empty  table. No feast, let alone second helpings. Richie would be alone again, left with nothing but memories. 

He hopes that Connor remembers him too. Richie tucks away his softening cock, wincing when his skin drags against the wet spot of his briefs, and zips and buttons his pants until he looks presentable again. He wets a paper towel and scrubs away what’s left of the cum on his face, taking great care to soak and scrape his glasses until they’re cleaner than they’d been when he first saw Connor again. It feels like a baptism, almost, except Richie doesn’t feel purified. He feels damned. Perverted and going to hell for loving it as much as he does.

He walks back into the gaming center with trepidation, but everything stays the same. None of the other kids bat an eye when he reenters, half an hour later, completely changed. But Connor is gone. His computer is turned off, jacket missing from the back of the chain, personalized headphones taken with him. There’s not a trace of him left – nothing for Richie to keep or examine. The only sign he’d ever been there at all is Richie’s own computer screen flashing at him, still declaring VICTORY on their last shared match. 

Richie has never felt like more of a loser in his entire life.

Richie has his hand on his dick when it strikes him, weeks later, that his memory of Connor has soured.

It had been hot, no question. But in hindsight, Richie had allowed himself to get lost in the moment. He’d told himself he was only taking what he wanted, that he enjoyed diving headfirst into sin. He hadn’t cared about the fact that Connor had used him and, in a way, he still didn’t. Richie made a choice there, damning himself to a life of loneliness for being a faggot and a freak. He took what he could get, and at least it allowed him to embrace his perversions. At least he felt less alone, just for a moment, because it was proof there were other people in the world with the same sickness as him. 

It wasn’t a regret at first. For an entire week after that encounter – when he’d gone home, still half-hard, collapsing into bed with his hand wrapped around his dick before he even registered what he needed – he had found himself jerking off to that moment as often as he could. The obsession over it was made worse by the photographs of himself that he couldn’t seem to make it a session without pulling up on his camera, hot over the memory of how it happened. The mark of Connor across his face drove him crazy, but it was the look in his eyes that really got him. Broken innocence, desperate longing. It was like looking at a stranger. Richie kept glancing at his reflection for days after it happened, searching for that part of him again, but it stayed frustratingly distant. Nothing more than a tease of what he could be – not who he was. 

He jerked himself off to those memories so much that he basically chafed himself raw, and even then he kept going. It didn’t take much but a flash of memory or one glance at those selfies to remember the way Connor had called him good, or the hand on his face that felt sweet even though Richie knew it was nothing more than a mindless action. He traced himself over the memory so many times, the easiest jerk-off material of his life, to the point that it was a well-worn path. He’d even tried to recreate the memory once, aiming his dick to cum across his own face, but the photograph he’d taken after hadn’t looked the same. It definitely hadn’t felt sexy, either, because his own mess wasn’t the same as how it felt knowing that he’d been wrecked by Connor. 

But those memories weren’t working tonight. Richie kept trying to focus on the good parts, like sucking Connor into his mouth and the hot, velvet feel of him against his hand. The weight of him on his tongue, bitter salt like a delicacy he’d do anything to try again. He stared at the picture, willing it to spark arousal, but he couldn’t manage to get excited for anything but a little friction once he spat into his hand to speed things along. 

Frustratingly, Richie’s thoughts kept drifting to reminiscing on his own complicated emotions about that moment. It had been the best thing to ever happen in Richie’s entire pathetic life. It also left him wondering harder than ever before, and in the early days, he couldn’t help but dip back into his fantasies. He’d take their encounter and twist it into those childish plots from when Connor first moved away. He pictured running into Connor at a football game and stumbling with him towards a shallow shower stall. He pictured Connor jerking Richie off in janitor’s closets, one big hand wrapped around his mouth to keep him quiet. They’d meet on the first day of school and find an empty classroom where they could fuck. Sometimes, Richie let himself imagine that their encounter at the gaming center bathroom went further. He squeezed his eyes shut and let his hand drift down to his hole, fingers curious and tentative as he imagined what it might have felt like if Connor had been brave enough to fill him in another way. 

He would have been brave enough to let him. Or stupid enough, perhaps, because everything about fucking Connor had been a dangerous risk. But did it really matter when Richie had nothing left to lose? The entire town already hated him; he was an outcast. A loser. A freak. 

After it happened, Richie couldn’t walk into the Aladdin again. He had a feeling that the place was ruined for him forever, that it would always feel haunted by Connor. He could close his eyes even now and recall with perfect clarity the sound of his laugh and the weight of his head against Richie’s shoulder. Connor smiled at him there, in his memories, curls bouncing like an angel, glowing golden like the goddamn sun. 

Richie sighs and tries to shake the memories away. He attempts to refocus on himself, speeding up the pace, twisting at the head the way he likes. But that just makes him think about what Connor likes, and he can’t help but wonder if anyone knows Connor the way that Richie does. It’s something else he’s been desperately trying to avoid thinking about because he doesn’t want to imagine a world where he has to share this experience with some other guy. Someone that Connor might actually stick around to help get off. 

Not that he’ll ever know. He finally found Connor’s social media only to discover that, at some point since they re-met, Connor had blocked him. A sick part of him wonders if he did it before they ever even hooked up – plausible deniability, of course he doesn’t know Blowjob Mouth –  but Richie can’t handle imagining that their friendship was a lie. He hoped that Connor was just more scared than Richie. It made sense, after all – he had more to lose. Why else would he have wanted to fuck around with Richie, after all? He was just the town joke. Rumors followed him, and Connor knew that. 

Everything seemed less romantic in hindsight. Hell, everything seemed less sexy, too, no longer just some forbidden fruit. Connor didn’t want him in spite of the rumors. He chose him because of them. He wanted the target on Richie’s back as some kind of armor, shielding him from the worst if word ever got out. 

He squeezes his eyes shut, trying to ignore that thought, but it echoes through his mind even as he reaches down and drags hard and slow up his shaft, trying to redirect his attention. No matter what he wanted Connor to be, the facts were that he’d never been any different from the rest of the people in this sorry town. He’d used Richie, and he’d meant it, and that hurt him worse than anything else he could have said or done. It’s not that he thought they had something special – not in any real sense, despite his grandest delusions. But giving himself up to Connor in the bathroom had been special to Richie. He’d still never been kissed, but he’d sucked a dick and fallen to his most base desires. He’d done it eagerly, too, desperate for Connor’s attention. Dying for some kind of acknowledgement that Connor had fantasized about him too. Maybe he got that in the end, but he didn’t feel better once he realized it was just another cruel joke on Richie. 

Some things never change. 

He’ll never know why he left him there, desperate and wanting. Richie knows that he might never see him again. He’s not sure he wants to anyway; he’d never be brave enough to bring up their past if they did cross paths. But he knows that he’ll never, ever forget.

He glances back down at the photo of himself, shame and desire warring in his stomach. Shame wins. These days, staring at the mess that Connor left behind makes him feel unloved and worthless. Not good enough – he couldn’t even stick around to finish him off. He’d gotten what he wanted from Richie and left him there, no goodbye, no thank you. Just a good job for getting him off, obedient as a dog. Disgusted, Richie locks his phone and throws it aside, face-down on the bed. Maybe tomorrow he could turn this around and make this material sweet again, but for tonight it’s just another cut among thousands. One more nail in the coffin on Richie’s miserable life. 

Or maybe there’s nothing to fix. Maybe Richie is just a goddamn fool. He jerks himself off and feels tears spring to his eyes, a tightness at the back of his throat that has nothing to do with a dick being shoved there recklessly, desperate to fuck into the tight heat of his mouth. Connor was like the fucking sun and Richie was Icarus, dumb enough to fly right towards it without any real protection. Too proud to admit that he hadn’t been flying towards anything at all but instead falling, dropping at a speed so slow that he’d convinced himself he was experiencing something different altogether. But it had been a fall, and now here he was in the aftermath of the crash. 

He’d been naïve then. Some part of him is naïve even now, and as he increases his speed until he feels an orgasm crash over him, born of nothing but friction and a particularly good twist at the head, he feels nothing.

Nothing but emptiness in the pit of his stomach. Nothing left behind but a broken heart. Richie hadn’t known he had enough of that left to break. 

He moves mechanically through the motions after his orgasm ends, thoughts still swirling. He wipes his hand off on a tissue and crumples it, tossing it towards the wastebasket. It misses, of course – everything in his pathetic life is a fucking miss. He tucks himself away and picks up the phone, unlocking the screen to the stupid fucking selfie of his face again. It’s not sexy anymore; it’s mocking . 

Fuck Connor, he thinks, and even though he means it with anger and something close to hatred, his dick twitches pathetically like even it knows he's just kidding himself. The worst part is that he has no idea who's he angrier at – Connor, for cornering him and asking him to do it, or at himself for wanting to do anything to earn his interest and approval.

But he wanted it, too. Even if he’d been used, even if Connor had plotted it all from the very start… Richie didn’t waste the opportunity. He'd fully realized that being a fag was something inescapable for him. Maybe that wasn't the case for Connor, but Richie knew better than to hope otherwise for himself. Because Richie had known a long time ago when his parents wanted nothing to do with him, and kids laughed in his face, and his belongings and body were wrecked and destroyed with equal measure, that there was no future for him as anything but a mistake. Richie was a fuck-up with no future – not if he stayed in Derry. 

He vows, then and there, that he won’t let this be his future. He’ll do whatever it takes to get the fuck out and prove everyone wrong. His parents, his classmates, Connor… everyone who thinks he can be used and tossed aside. Maybe, just maybe, if he does this for himself, then he can be saved. Redeemable. And even if he couldn’t be saved, he’s damn sure going to try anyway. Because whatever innocence he had left to lose vanished in the bathroom of the Aladdin, lost to soft hands and blue eyes, incinerated in the face of his naivety by coming too close to the sun where he’d never belonged.