Chapter Text
It was a blustery Illinois evening in the suburbs. Grey clouds spat out rain in thin, freezing bursts and the clear part of the sky was streaked with the sun’s blood. Richie, home from a meeting in the city, parked his rattling Volvo and killed the engine.
His stomach growled, low and painful. Pressing a hand to the softness there, he whispered, “hang in there, señor estómago.” He didn’t bother to lock the doors when he got out. If someone wanted the hunk a junk, more power to ‘em. His CDs were starting to skip in the cassette converter anyway.
When Richie got to the house, he locked the door behind him, kicked off his shoes, and threw his faded leather jacket at the stand. It slid to the floor with a hollow whoosh. Richie shrugged; the floor was dinner plate clean, so who cared? Leaving the jacket to its fate, he slouched down the hallway to the kitchen.
Ben and Bev sat at one end of the long table, bathed in the warm glow of the glass chandelier. They were working, each sketching something on their pads. Ben in graphite. Bev with a colored pencil. They didn’t speak, but their bare feet tapped together under the table.
“Hey guys.” Richie grabbed a granny smith from the bowl on the island and took a bite.
“Hi Rich.” Ben gifted him the slow, sweet smile that always flipped Richie’s stomach. Whatever crafted his Haystack sure had an eye for design.
Bev grunted her hello and didn’t look up.
“Hey Bev,” Richie prodded, mouth full of apple.
Bev lifted her head and quirked an eyebrow. The purpling bags under her eyes made their luminous blue even more striking. How long had she been at it without a break?
“I once heard a joke about a red herring,” he said with a grin.
“Yeah?”
“Maybe I’ll tell it to you sometime.” Richie finger gunned her.
Bev shook her head, the ghost of a smile gracing her lips, then leaned forward and pinched his cheek. “Come up with some new material, honey.”
“Eviscerated. Ten points to Miss Marsh,” he said with a grin, catching her fingers in a quick kiss. “I actually—”
“Hey Rich,” Ben cut in. “We’re kinda in the middle of work, here. Can you tell us your jokes later?”
Richie glanced between him and Bev; their expressions of impatience were like slammed doors. “Yeah, sure. Of course.”
Without so much as a ‘see-ya,’ they returned to their work. Tossing the rest of the apple at his kindred spirit, the garbage can, Richie granted their wish.
He beelined to Bill’s office, a headache creeping in at the edges of his eyes. His table lamp was on, casting a warm glow into the hallway.
Richie let himself in, but Bill wasn’t alone; he and Mike sat on the sleek leather sofa, leaning into each other. Mike typed on a laptop while Bill read aloud from a massive book with deep cracks in the spine. Though he had improved his fluency with therapy, Bill’s stutter still made occasional appearances. Richie secretly treasured each one.
Richie plopped on the sofa and dropped his head on Bill’s shoulder. This was his favorite place to be, especially when he didn’t feel good. Bill usually let him stay for hours, his inky fingers tangled in Richie’s hair. It was downright magical.
“Hey, Richie,” Bill and Mike said together, without tone, like creepy twins from a horror movie.
“Hiya,” Richie said. “What’s up, buttercups?”
“W-Working on our book.” Bill patted Richie’s cheek. “We’re going outside in a minute. Fresh air.”
“Oh.” Richie sat up.
“You can come if you want,” Mike said, removing a flash drive, “but we have a lot more book stuff to talk about.”
“That’s…that’s okay.”
Bill stood and stretched, strands of hair falling into his ever-changing eyes. Right now, their blue was the calm stretch of a clean lake.
Mike smiled blearily, tousled Richie’s hair, and then he and Bill were gone and Richie was alone again.
Richie slumped on the couch and buried himself in the warm places they left behind.
“What did you do today, Richie? How was your day Richie? Oh wait, we don’t care.” His stomach growled. “Yes, I know!”
Richie got up and rifled through Bill’s desk. In the third drawer down on the right side, he found what he was looking for: the Kaspbrak-condemned secret snack stash. Richie pinched a package of Swiss Cake Rolls and wolfed them down.
Bill’s cherry desk was covered in Rorschach ink spills. A bird. A dick. A demon’s grin winding around the gold-framed picture of Georgie. Georgie, his little face smiling, arms wrapped tight around his stuffed turtle.
The cakes turned to ash in Richie’s mouth. He swallowed hard, threw the plastic away, and hurried from the room.
Muffled TV noises wafted like a smell down the hall from the open living room door. Richie squared his shoulders. Surely, the Trashmouth was preferable to TV.
Eddie and Stan lounged on the overstuffed couch, devastating as ever in their high-buttoned work clothes, ties loosened. Stan’s tie was a dull, mossy color that brought out the green in his eyes. Eddie’s was a silky dark blue that almost made his skin glow in contrast, even in the yellowish lamplight.
Leaning on the doorframe, Richie watched them. They weren’t really cuddling, but there was no space between them either. It was like they were magnets, drawn together in a sort of fated apathy. Their dark eyes focused on the television as if it held the secret to life or some shit. So serious.
“Hey, Hannibal,” Eddie said, not once taking his eyes off the screen. “You coming in or you gonna keep staring?”
“How did you know I was there?” Richie demanded, plopping down next to him.
“Peripheral vision?”
On the TV, a man ladled liquid soap into molds. Richie scoffed to himself. These nerds were watching a documentary on soap—fucking soap!
"Oi, guvna, tha's a lotta jizz." British Guy cackled.
"Beep beep," Eddie said, voice as flat as his eyebrows.
"But Eds, even you have to admit that—"
"—It’s just soap, ya fuckin' weirdo. Not everything that looks like jizz, is."
"But what if it is jizz? What if that's the secret ingredient?"
Eddie buried his face in his hands. "That's fucking disgusting."
"That's not—"
"—Can we please watch our documentary? Stan's been looking forward to it all week.”
"Why?"
"For my…for my episodes,” Stan said. “I want to know what type of soap is best for removing bacteria without stripping all the moisture from my skin. I might make my own." Stan held out his hands, which were bright red and cracked.
It was like a punch to the gut. Richie was so fucking selfish. Of course Stan wanted to know about soap.
Eddie grabbed Stan’s wrists and examined his hands. “What the hell, Stanley? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I didn’t want you to worry, baby.”
"Sorry," Richie whispered, standing and striding from the room.
There was nothing left to do but go to bed. In his own bed. Better to stare into the shadows, wondering, rather than being underfoot, as his mom would say. It’s funny how even the nicest moms have a way of slipping splinters under your skin.
Eventually, everyone else would go to bed, too, either in the shared room or paired off in their own. Then, Richie, painfully awake, would open his door and play the game of identifying his loves by their snores, sighs, and moans.
Inevitably, he’d take his loneliness in hand and wring his cock dry, hoping the orgasm would knock him out. It probably wouldn’t.
Richie climbed the stairs with a painful slowness. Really, he was lucky they even let him be here. A guy like Richie would die alone if he didn't kill an alienspiderclown dead before he'd grown his third pube.
Richie Tozier, annoying trash man, his whole life—literally every fucking thing he loved about his life—built on trauma bonding. He knew the score.
Fuck, he was tired.
They each had their own space in the house, but it only had five bedrooms. Converted from an old den, the shared room, Richie’s favorite, had the Alaskan King and the nest of soft blankets and pillows. Ben and Bev; Mike and Bill; and Stan and Eddie bunked together in the three real bedrooms.
Richie's room was the attic. The floor, walls, and door were all soundproofed. It made sense, they said. Richie could practice his routines and play his music all he wanted without bothering anyone.
But he knew they wanted to be able to close the door on him sometimes, to pretend he wasn’t there. Not because they didn’t love him at all, but because they loved him least. Too much trash in his mouth for him to qualify as a real partner.
He climbed the narrow staircase to his bedroom, closed the door, considered locking it. Couldn’t.
Two thirds of his room were devoted to music. His walls were lined with records, and his drum set, electric bass guitar, and keyboard sparkled in the stark white throw of the bare ceiling bulb. Part of Richie wanted to play, to jam out on the drums until he was covered in sweat and bleeding endorphins, but he just didn’t have the heart.
On the other side of the room, shoved against the wall under the tiny half-moon window, was his bed. It was unmade, the grey fitted sheet springing up at the left corner to expose the yellowed, full-size mattress that was old when his parents gave it to him ten years ago.
He turned on his bedside lamp and turned off the overhead light. Leaving his clothes haphazard on the floor, he stripped to his boxers and slid under the comforter. It smelled stale and was heavy with all the things bedding collects when it’s never washed.
The shared bed always smelled good, and it was always clean.
He rolled to his side and the mattress crunched and dipped dramatically under his hip. He should replace it, but that felt like defeat.
Richie opened the comic he kept on the nightstand: an old Spiderman that had bent in half one of the times Eddie jumped up in the hammock with him. He wished Eddie would do that now. He would be horrified at the state of Richie’s bed and make him sleep somewhere else.
But Eddie never came up here. No one did.
Richie tossed the comic across the room. Might as well sleep, make this night end faster. He set his glasses on the nightstand, turned off the lamp, and closed his eyes.
Of course, like his mouth, his trash brain never shut the fuck up; it conjured images, scenarios. Coming home. Them sitting him down at the kitchen table.
“Richie, honey,” Bev would say, taking his hands in hers. “We had a long talk while you were gone. We all love each other very much, but we think it would be best if we split up.”
“What?” He would demand, tears already stabbing at his eyes. “Why?”
Ben would wrap his arm around her shoulders, offering comfort, sending a message.
“This relationship—everyone being together—was so much fun. But we’re twenty-eight. That’s almost thirty. It’s time to grow up and think about our futures.”
“Why does that mean we have to break up?”
“Adults don’t have six partners, Richie,” Ben would say. “It’s time to be monogamous. Start planning our families.”
Richie, looking around for support, would notice Mike and Bill holding hands, Stan and Eddie leaning against each other.
“We’ll always be friends.”
“But there are seven of us,” Richie would point out, hoping he misunderstood.
Mike, jumping in, voice smooth and inoffensive as cream, would say, “we want you to stay here as long as you need. Obviously, we’ll all start finding our own places, but there’s no rush.”
“W-We already t-turned the shared b…b-bedroom into a game room,” Bill would add, looking pleased.
“So. You’re all breaking up with me.” Richie would drop his head in his arms and start sobbing. No one would comfort him.
“I’m afraid so,” Stan would say. “It’s for your own good. Now you can focus on your career—”
Someone knocked, breaking through Richie’s thoughts. He considered snoring.
"Richie?" Stan whispered, a sliver of yellow light slicing through the darkness. "You awake?"
Richie grunted.
Opening the door, Stan flicked the switch, burning Richie’s eyeballs. Eyes closed, Richie fumbled for his glasses and slid them on.
Apparently, Stan’s maiden ship had capsized. His tie was gone and his work shirt was unbuttoned to the sweet dip of his naval. His reading glasses dangled precariously from his shirt pocket, and his chest was flushed.
“What did Eds do to you?”
Color rose high in Stan’s cheeks.
“You look like you’ve been attacked by a mongoose in heat,” Richie continued.
“He did that thing where he…you know.” Stan looked down, flush deepening, like when they were kids and Beverly would aim her neon sign charm at him until he melted into an embarrassed puddle. “I came to see if you would join us.”
Richie’s heart beat out a wild yes, then sunk back into his stomach. "You know, that’s okay. I’ll just sleep here tonight."
Stan’s forehead wrinkled. He slid his reading glasses on.
“You never want to sleep in here,” Stan said. The bed crunched under his weight. He pressed his cool hand to Richie’s forehead and peered down at him. “Are you sick?”
“No.” Richie batted his hand away and sat up against the headboard.
Stan’s forehead wrinkle deepened. “Then…why? It’s disgusting in here.”
“I love trash,” Richie blurted.
“What?”
“You know, Muppets! Sesame Street! You and Eds are Bert and Ernie and I’m Oscar in his friggin’ can.”
Stan blinked very slowly. “Am I Bert or Ernie?”
“I dunno, Staniel. You do the math. You like baths and have a grumpy boyfriend with the world’s flattest fucking eyebrows.”
“So do you.”
“Yeah, but I’m in the trashcan!” Richie crossed his arms, hard.
Stan stared at him. “You don’t…you don’t have to be in here. You can come downstairs.”
Richie looked at the thick patina of dust on the windowsill. “I’m trying to stay out of the way.”
“Why would you be in the way?”
Richie shrugged.
Stan rolled his eyes and smoothed a hand over Richie’s head. Like a lonely dog, Richie leaned into the touch.
Stan smirked. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing! I’m fine and dandy. Super stoked to get some alone time, ya know?”
Stan stroked Richie’s hair, leeching tension from his muscles against his will.
“Richie, you slept in your parents’ room until you were eight years old. Your father had to lock you in your bedroom every night for a month. And then you had sleepovers almost every fucking weekend until we moved in together. Last time you tried to sleep up here, I woke to you on top of me and Eddie because you couldn’t fit between us.”
Richie’s face heated. “What’s your point?”
“You hate being alone,” he said, rolling his eyes. “Obviously.”
“Well maybe it’s time I learned to like it.” Richie picked at a hangnail.
“Why?” Stan ran his fingernails over Richie’s scalp, sending tingles of pleasure through his body.
Richie would miss this, him.
“I’m an adult and stuff.” Tears burned behind Richie’s eyes. He blinked them back and tried to duck away from Stan’s hand. “Eddie’s probably waiting for you.”
"You know, you’re not very subtle.” Stan traced Richie's lower lip with the lightly calloused edge of his thumb. “Tell me what’s wrong.”
Stan looked at him with the kind of studied peering he normally saved for birds and puzzles. Like a knife to the gut, the attention flayed Richie open.
“I had a rough day, alright?” Richie said. “And then I came home and you were all paired off and no one…none of you wanted me around.”
Stan frowned.
“It’s fine! I get it.” Richie gestured wildly. “You need a break from the Trashmouth. You can say.”
Stan muttered something to himself, then grabbed Richie’s hands. Stan’s hands were still pink, but they were soft, and all his cracks were closed. Eddie took good care of him.
“I don’t need a break from you, you dumbass,” Stan said. “You should have stayed.”
"Eddie didn’t seem to want me there.” Stan’s hands were so warm. What would Richie do when there was no one left to hold his hands?
"He did. He was upset you left."
"Oh."
"What's really going on?” Stan asked gently, his expression so soft Richie had to look away. “It’s not like you to isolate yourself.”
“I didn't want to interrupt your soap thing."
"That's never bothered you before.” He rolled his eyes. “I will deny this if anyone asks, but I like your stupid jokes.”
“You do?”
“Uh, yeah. I record my shows for a reason, you moron.”
"I'm sorry," Richie blurted.
Breathing faster, Stan tightened his grip until Richie’s knuckles ground together. "It's…it’s okay, Rich. Please, just…what happened today?"
"I found out I'm going on tour," he whispered.
Stan squinted. "But…isn’t that what you wanted?”
“Yeah, but I'll be away four whole months. Just me and empty hotel rooms."
“I see.” Whole body relaxing, Stan pressed a kiss to Richie’s knuckles that half-melted his insides. “And you came home, saw us paired off, and decided we wouldn't miss you, right?"
Richie's face flamed. Why did Stan have to be so fucking smart? Egghead.
“Oh, Richie.” Stan tugged on Richie’s hands. "Come here, doofus."
Richie crawled out from under the covers and straddled Stan’s lap, slipping off his glasses and tucking his face in the crook of Stan’s neck. With his warm cedar smell blanketing him, Richie almost felt safe.
"I am so proud of you,” Stan said, wrapping his arms around his waist.
Richie swallowed his tears, but couldn’t stop himself from saying, “I’m scared, Stanley.”
“Oh, baby.” Stan kissed his head softly. “It’ll be okay. We’ll miss you so much, but we’ll come see you when we can, and we’ll talk every day.”
"What if...what if the others don't…don’t want to?" Richie cringed into Stan’s neck. He sounded about five years old. Actually, Richie was probably more emotionally competent when he was five.
"They’ll want to. They love you.”
“But—”
“Richie. Look at me.” Stan leaned back until Richie let go, then gently cradled his face.
Everything narrowed to Stan. The heat of his hands, the green flecks in his eyes, the curl spiraling across his forehead.
“They will, I promise.”
“But what if you’re wrong?" Richie whispered.
“I’m not,” he said flatly. “But even if I was, do you think I would leave you alone?”
“No,” Richie said, wishing he could disappear. He would deserve it.
“Good. If all else fails, you have me. I’m not going anywhere, okay?” Stan’s hazel eyes were liquid and fierce, fixed on Richie like he was the only person in the universe. “I promise.”
Richie’s heart pounded. “I love you, Staniel.”
"I love you, Dick." Stan tugged Richie down and kissed him. At first, it was the honey sweet kiss of lips closed, but then Stan deepened it, licking into Richie’s mouth.
Electricity sparked down Richie’s back and into his groin. He opened his mouth wider, accepting everything, anything. Grateful for the distraction. Grateful for the slick press of Stan’s tongue that meant he wanted Richie.
Stan pressed closer and slid his hands down the back of Richie’s boxers, squeezing his ass in aching handfuls that spread him open and sent a wave of heat to his belly.
Richie would never get tired of the way sex set Stan loose, like a regal housecat dosed with catnip. Feral. He ground his already hard cock into Stan’s firm, toned belly. Stan moaned low in his throat and sucked the tip of Richie’s tongue into his mouth.
God, Richie could die right now and it would be perfect.
Stan squeezed again, then pulled back from the kiss, panting, mouth wet. Like a magnet, Richie was drawn back for several more small kisses, peppering them like rainfall on Stan’s slick skin.
Too soon, Stan smacked Richie’s ass and nudged him off his lap.
"C'mon funny man,” he said, voice pitched lower, grin lopsided. “Let's go tell the others how brilliant you are."
Richie got up, slipped his glasses back on, and pressed a hand to his cock, willing it to go down. Thinking of Eddie’s mom. Of Eddie’s mom calling him a monster, calling him—
“Nope.” Stan pulled his hand away. "You're going like this."
Richie blushed. "It's like that?"
"Yep." Stan landed another stinging slap. "And fuck you, by the way. I am not Ernie.”
“Okay, Scooter.”
“Animal.”
“Stan the man gets off a good one!” Richie whooped. For someone with like, three facial expressions, Stan was a goddamned chuckspert. He should be the one going on tour.
Stan rolled his eyes. “There you are.”
As they made their way to the shared bedroom, Richie’s erection began to flag. Nerves coursed through his veins and tightened like a vise around his stomach. What if Stan was wrong, and the others were happy to be rid of Richie? Would Stan pick Richie over Eddie? Fuck, Richie couldn’t let that happen. Then Eddie would be all alone and he wouldn’t have anyone to reassure him when he was sick that he was actually sick or rub his back when he couldn’t sleep or watch dumb documentaries. And he couldn’t let Bill, Bev, Ben, or Mike be alone either. Fuck.
Stan, one of the sharpest pencils in their box, sighed and pushed Richie against the wall next to the bathroom door. Forearms on either side of Richie’s head, he leaned his whole weight against his front. All at once, the screaming in Richie’s brain lowered to a murmur.
“Richie,” Stan whispered, his face so close that Richie could feel the wet heat of his mouth, “we’ve been together since we were kids. Why would we want to get rid of you now?”
“Opportunity? I’ve never been gone that long.”
“So?”
“So maybe you’ll realize that killing a space clown isn’t a reason to keep an annoying asshole around.”
Stan rolled his eyes so hard Richie thought for sure they’d pop out. “There’s a difference between being insecure and deliberately obtuse, you know.”
“What do you mean?”
“Here’s a pop quiz, genius. How long have I been in love with you?”
Richie squirmed. “Uh, well, Bev says we all fell in love that horrible summer with…with…you know. Space clown.”
“Nope.” Stan smirked. “It happened when we were ten.”
Richie’s heart dropped to his feet. “What? Why?”
Stan wound one of Richie’s curls around his index finger. “My OCD was especially bad, but no one knew I was sick yet. Everyone treated me like I was being unreasonable on purpose. Except you.”
“I know what that’s like,” Richie muttered.
“I know.” Stan smiled. “You’d forget sometimes and make fun of me, but you tried. On this particular occasion, I dropped my fork on the table during lunch. I couldn’t pick it up, because if I did I would have to wash my hands, and we weren’t allowed to leave the cafeteria. I couldn’t keep eating, because I thought spoons were evil at the time. I couldn’t do anything but sit there.”
“You were right. Spoons are evil.”
“Shh. This is the good part. You scooped up the fork and left. A few minutes later you came back with a new one, rolled in a napkin so I knew it didn’t touch anything. I thought I was dying, my heart beat so hard. Then you told one stupid joke after another until I snapped at you.”
“I wanted you to eat,” Richie said, voice sounding weak to his own ears. “I knew I could help, so I did. I wasn’t trying…I wasn’t trying anything.”
Stan smoothed Richie’s hair back from his face. “I know. You were just being you. And I love you. I will always love you.”
“I love you, too,” Richie said, chest swelling with pride for his Stanley, both as a little boy and now. So full of fear and anxiety, so brave to keep trying, to keep fighting the good fight against the monsters that lived inside him.
“It’s not just me.” Stan smirked. “All of us love you for exactly the screwball you are. You’ll see.”
Richie nodded, swallowing against the thick knot in his throat.
Stan stepped back and held out his hand. “Trust me?”
Richie took it, careful of the cracks. “I do.”
Smiling his shallow, beautiful smile, Stan tugged Richie through the open door that lead to the shared bedroom.
Everyone else was already there, in various stages of dress. Eddie, in long red shorts and a black tank top, sat in the middle of the bed, Bev’s head in his lap. He stroked her short, flaming hair with his usual deliberateness as he ranted.
Bev, eyes closed, smiled peacefully. One of her hands scraped through Eddie’s leg hair, the other was tucked in the pocket of her long, pink silk robe. Her feet, bare except for purple polish, were in Bill’s lap.
Bill, clad in full black sweats and a blue flannel shirt, was sketching, his eyebrows drawn together in concentration.
On the loveseat, Ben leaned against Mike’s chest, holding the novel they were reading. Mike turned the pages with one hand and held Ben with the other. They both wore tan cardigans like the sweet nerds they were.
It was a beautiful scene, fit for some renaissance artist to paint. Richie hated to disturb it. He wanted to sit and watch and love them where they could not touch him.
Stan sighed and shot him a stern look. "Richie's got news, guys.”
Everyone snapped to attention like puppies offered treats. Ben even closed his novel, marking his place with his index finger.
Richie longed for the dusty confines of his room. He could have been playing drums, losing himself in the physicality of music, endorphins surging through his veins. But he wasn’t. He cleared his throat. “Uh, well…you guys are gonna get rid of me for four months.”
They stared at him. Eddie’s eyes almost popped out of their sockets. Bev sat up, frowning. Face flushing, Bill dropped his sketchbook on Bev’s feet. Ben and Mike untangled, setting their novel aside unbookmarked.
Richie stared back, terror clogging his throat.
“Oh, for…” Stan pinched Richie’s ass. Hard.
Richie jumped. “Ow, Stan, holy shit, fuck you.”
“Tell them where you’re going, dipshit,” he hissed.
“Oh, uh.” Richie pushed his smudged glasses up the bridge of his nose. “I’m going on tour.”
There was a pause. Then, the room exploded into cheers.
"Richie! That's amazing." Bev hopped off the bed and launched herself into Richie’s arms. He caught her by the waist and buried his face in her soft, jasmine-scented hair.
“Thanks, Bev,” he said. Eyes misting over, he set her down.
“I knew you could do it,” she said fiercely, grabbing his face and kissing him hard. “I am so fucking proud of you.”
When Bev finally stepped back, smiling so hard it looked like it hurt, Bill was there.
“Congratulations,” Bill said, wrapping his arms around Richie’s waist and pressing a kiss to the underside of his jaw. “I’m p-proud of you.”
“Thanks, Big Bill,” Richie said, leaning down to kiss him, soft and wet and a little desperate. Bill always smelled inky from writing longhand and sketching in pen. The scent took Richie right back to childhood, to golden summers spent in the grass with him and Georgie.
After a brief, sweet moment, Bill stepped back and clapped Richie on the shoulder. “Finally, the nation will get to appreciate your Class A dick jokes.”
“It’s about time, man.” Richie forced a grin.
"That's awesome, Rich," Eddie said, half-hidden behind Bev. "Really. But...how does that work? Are we not gonna see you at all for four whole months?"
"Why? Gonna miss me or something, Spaghetti-man?"
"Maybe, asshole." He kicked the ground.
Stan reached over, fingers like pincers, but Richie jumped out of the way.
“Hold your fire Stanmiral Urine! I get it.”
Stan raised his eyebrows, but his hand retreated.
“I don’t know, Eds. It depends. I might be able to come home every now and again.” Richie took a deep breath. “You guys can always come see me. If you want.” Richie tried to smile, but it was not his best work.
"Of course we want, dumbass." Eddie's eyebrows were a flat line. He pulled Richie into a rough, motor-oil-and-leather hug. "I’m really gonna miss you, you fuckin’ idiot."
Richie, bent like a question mark, buried his face in the warm, scratchy line of Eddie’s neck, traitor tears leaking out of his eyes. Eddie tightened his grip, pressed a kiss to Richie’s forehead, then pulled back.
"I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay,” Eddie murmured, producing a tissue and dabbing at his cheeks. Richie counted and recounted the burst of freckles on Eddie’s nose until the tears stopped and he could breathe again.
Eddie kissed him, sort and sweet. “I’m proud of you, Rich.”
“Thanks, Eds.”
“We’re all so proud of you,” Mike said, gently turning Richie around, “and we will miss you so much.”
“It’s t-true,” Bill said.
Mike cupped Richie’s face in his big hands, which were thickly callused from years of farm work and taking care of their garden. “I love you.”
“I love you, too,” Richie said, tears building up behind his eyes again. “I love you all so fucking much.”
Mike kissed him softly, flooding his nose with the must of old books and the musk of Mike. When the kiss ended, Richie leaned against his broad chest. He always felt safer in Mike’s arms than anywhere else.
Too soon, he released his grip and Richie had to step back. As soon as they separated, Ben wrapped his arms around Richie’s waist and pulled him into a strong hug.
“You don’t have to worry, you know,” Ben said, voice muffled by Richie’s shoulder. “We’re not going anywhere.”
“You…you promise?” Richie cringed at himself, face flaming.
“Of course. Of course I promise.” Ben pulled away and grabbed Richie’s shoulders, looking him dead in the eye. “We will be right here, waiting for you, when you come back. I promise, Richie.”
It was all too much. Richie buried his face in Ben’s shoulder, glasses and all, and cried. He tried to be very quiet and stop shaking, so the others wouldn’t know, but there was nowhere to hide and soon they all crowded around him.
Ben ran his fingers along Richie’s spine in soothing lines. “You were really worried about that, huh?”
He nodded, biting back another sob. Someone wound their fingers in his hair.
"Oh, baby." Bev tucked herself into Richie’s side and kissed his ribcage. "It's okay.”
He took deep breaths until the tears stopped again. He wanted to stay in the warm tangle, but the voice in his head, the one as familiar as his own, was screaming that it was too much, that he was too much. If he allowed himself to be as needy as he was, as bloody-knee raw, their love for him would rot in their hearts and they would learn to hate him.
“Wow.” Richie sniffed, pulling back. “Sorry to ruin the upholstery, Haystack.”
Ben rolled his eyes. “I’ll wash.”
“Are you okay?” Eddie asked, gently untangling a knot in Richie’s hair.
Richie faced him, grinning like a skeleton. “I’m just fine and dandy, Spaghetti-O, how ‘bout you?”
“Oh, you know. Just wondering where my partner got the idea I wouldn’t miss him. Any insights?” Eddie’s voice was hard and flat as pavement, but Richie knew well enough that the ground beneath was soft.
“Dunno what to tell you, Edster. Guess I got jizz for brains.”
Eddie rolled his eyes. “You’ve got something. That’s for sure.”
“Exactly, man. I’m just…I dunno, wired wrong. It’s why my charm is so devastating.”
Eddie pinched the bridge of his nose and took a deep breath, his battle stance. The knots in Richie’s stomach tightened; he wanted them to laugh at him so much it burned.
“Well then, tell us where your wires got crossed,” Mike broke in, smooth as cream. “Please.”
Suddenly too hot, Richie nudged out of the cocoon of their bodies and plopped on the loveseat. “I’m a comedian, Micycle, not a mechanic.”
Bev stomped through the group and grabbed Richie’s face, staring at him with laser focus. “We are your family. If you don’t feel comfortable telling us what’s wrong, that is fine. But I wish you would.”
“W-Why?”
“Because I love you. And it hurts me to know I might have hurt you.” Her blue eyes gleamed against her pale face. “I want to know what I did so I don’t do it again.”
“You didn’t hurt me, Bevs,” Richie whispered, throbbing with pain at the look on her face. “Nobody did. It’s just my brain being dumb.”
“What’s your brain telling you, sweetheart?”
Richie looked down, tried to focus on the way her clavicle cut across the neck of her robe. “That one day you guys’ll pair off and leave me alone.”
Bev dropped her hands. “What are you talking about?”
“You guys all have your special someone, ‘cept me. I’m number seven. ‘S cool. I’m happy I’m here at all.” Legs shaking, Richie gnawed on his inner cheek and kept his eyes down. He could tell everyone was staring at him. He wished he could melt into the couch, slip through the cracks and disappear.
After a beat of silence, Bill spoke up, voice roughshod and fierce. “What do you mean, we all have our ‘special someone?’”
“I don’t know,” Richie said, throat tightening. “It’s just…you and Homeschool got your book writing, Bevis and Haystack are their own little married couple…fuck, Edwardo and Stándale are already grumpy old husbands yelling at kids to get off the lawn.”
“But we all have things like that with each other.” Bill frowned deeply.
“I know.” Richie pulled off his glasses and rubbed his eyes so hard his vision was still blurry when he put them back on. “Can we forget I said anything, please?”
“Why?” he demanded. “So you can go back to bottling it up?”
Richie felt a kinship with cells under a microscope, pinned on a slide so people could look inside them. He wished he was wearing more clothes. “I don’t know.”
“I can’t forget.” Bill knelt, hands on Richie’s knees. His eyes were a gas flame, burning out of their sockets. “I can’t forget you’re in p…p-pain.”
“I’ll be fine.” Richie sighed. “I’m just being dumb. What else is new?”
“You’re…you’re not dumb, Rich.”
“That’s a laugh and a half,” he muttered.
Bill closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “Will you p-please just explain?”
“Explain what? Why I’m a dumbass fuckup? You’ve known me most of our lives, man, you tell me.”
“You’re not dumb or a fuckup,” Bill said, his voice wound tight, like he was holding his breath, like he was holding himself in.
Richie never could keep his fingers off a bruise. “A liar, methinks the young master is,” he croaked.
“Jesus Christ,” Bill exploded, and god, it was like fire in Richie’s gunpowder. “Why the fuck do you think you’re number seven?”
“I don’t know, Billiam. Why does everyone else get a roommate, and I’m alone in the attic?” Richie demanded.
“Rich—” Bev tried to break in, but Richie couldn’t stop the words, they were flowing out like lava, uprooting trees and blanketing the world in ash.
“Just face it. You guys are only with me because of that stupid clown. I’m lucky to be number seven. It’s the best goddamned thing that ever happened to me. I’ll remember it fondly when I’m the creepy gay uncle to your children.”
“Rich—”
“And now I’m leaving for four months. Think that’s enough time to figure out how to let me down easy, or should I try to make it five?”
“Richard!”
“Oh my god, what?”
“Let me get this straight,” Bev demanded, hands fisted at her sides. “You think that our love for you, that this whole relationship, is a lie? That we’re just gonna…what? Pick a person?”
“I…”
“Is that how you feel? Are you gonna pick someone and stop loving the rest of us?”
“Of course not.” Richie shrank back against the cushions. What the fuck was wrong with him? Why couldn’t he just keep his stupid thoughts in his stupid head?
“Who’s your number one? Who’s your number six?”
“I can’t…”
Bev burst into tears.
“Oh, Bevs. Please don’t cry.” Richie itched to hold her. “I couldn’t choose. I love all of you. I don’t want to be without any of you.”
“Why can’t you believe we feel the same way about you?” Bev demanded.
Glaring at Richie, Bill handed her a tissue and wrapped an arm around her waist. Dabbing her eyes, she leaned into his body. A tear rolled down her cheek.
“I don’t know. I’m sorry.” Richie scrubbed at his face, hands coming back wet. “I didn’t mean to upset anyone. I’ll…I’ll go back to my room.”
“Please don’t go,” Eddie interjected, face pale. “We—I don’t want you to go. I just…I don’t…”
As Ben pulled Eddie close, something in Richie’s gut shattered. Richie buried his face in his hands and failed to stop his face from leaking.
“I think I understand,” Mike said after a long moment. He sat and rubbed long, warm circles down Richie’s bare back. “This isn’t really about us, is it?”
Richie shook his head slowly and sat up a little, but not enough to dislodge Mike’s hand.
“You feel like you’re not enough, like you’re our annoying friend we just put up with because we’re too polite to tell you to fuck off, right?”
Richie nodded, face blazing.
“You can’t imagine why we love you, so instead you imagine that we don’t.”
Mike’s tone was so gentle it wouldn’t blow the dust off a butterfly, but his words were like sharp knives, flaying Richie the rest of the way open. He couldn’t stop the tears anymore, so he just let them come.
Bev’s face softened, but Bill looked even more murderous. Eddie’s eyes were glassy. Ben stroked the back of Eddie’s neck, pale and frowning. Stan was gone.
Richie took off his glasses and cried harder. Mike pulled him into a hug and stroked his hair until the warmth and pressure quieted his sobs.
The couch dipped next to Richie.
“Sit up,” Stan said.
“Where’d you go?” Richie sniffed.
“Just to get this.” Stan held up a wet washcloth, then began gently wiping Richie’s face clean.
“Oh.”
“You’re very messy,” Stan said. “But that’s okay, because you’ll always have us to help you clean up.”
Richie swallowed back fresh tears. “I hope so.”
“You will.” Stan dabbed at his nose. “I promise. Now blow.”
When Stan finished, Mike pulled Richie close again, tucking him under his arm.
“When did these feelings start?” Mike asked.
Richie buried his bare, still-burning face in Mike’s chest. “When I was a kid, I guess. I get them on and off. But today I got home and…I don’t know. This is really stupid. Can we please pretend I didn’t say anything?”
“We can’t. I’m sorry.” Mike’s voice softened and deepened, rumbling through his chest like a lullaby. “Will you please let us help you?”
“Fine.” Richie sighed. “You guys pair up a lot, okay? It’s usually fine, but today I got home and no one seemed to want me around. It hurt my feelings and brought up some shit.”
“Like what?”
Richie blew out a long breath. “I guess I’m scared you guys’ll realize you’re better off without me while I’m on tour and when I come back all this…my whole life…will be over.”
Mike stroked his arm.
“I told you it was stupid.”
“I don’t think it’s stupid,” Mike soothed. “I just think your perspective is a little skewed.”
“What do you mean?”
“I think we all feel like ‘number seven’ sometimes, but it’s not true. You’re an essential part of our relationship. We wouldn’t work without you.”
“Do you mean that?”
“Yes. You’re so smart and kind as well as funny.” Mike smiled and smoothed a hand over Richie’s face. “I know I can come to you with any problem and you’ll be there for me, even if all you can do is make me smile.”
“You are my favorite person to hang out with,” Bev said, voice thick. “You dance with me even though we suck at it, we have the best talks, and you always put me to bed after with an orgasm and a story from Lederhosen Larry because you know I like him best.”
“We would be lost without you, man,” Ben added. “We’re a family. I couldn’t…I couldn’t be with just one person after having all of you.”
“Then why do you make me stay in the attic?” Richie asked, hope blossoming in his chest.
“You play, like, ten instruments, remember?” Bill said, an edge to his voice. “You needed a music room. You never have to sleep in there if you don’t want to. Have any of us ever kicked you out of any of the beds in this house?”
“I guess not,” Richie whispered. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay,” Mike said. He kissed the top of Richie’s head. “Just next time, please talk to us. We can’t help you if we don’t know what’s going on.”
“I’ll try, but you know comedians. Sad, dramatic assholes, every single one of us.” Richie sat up.
“Maybe you should consider therapy,” Ben said.
“It wouldn’t be a bad idea.” Stan shrugged. “It’s really helped me deal with my OCD.”
“And Eddie and me with our…our parents,” Bev added. “Maybe all of us should go together.”
“Guys, I can barely talk to you about my feelings. How am I supposed to talk to some stranger?”
“Sometimes it’s easier to talk to a stranger than to someone you love.” Stan pressed a kiss to the hard place between Richie’s eyes. “Just think about it, okay?”
“Okay.”
A silence fell. No one seemed to know what to do next. Hell if Richie had any idea.
“Do you guys want to go to bed or are you still up for some fun?” Stan asked finally.
“For the love of Christ, some fun, please,” Richie said.
“Yes. Fun,” Ben agreed.
“I think I need some fun,” Bev said.
Stan kissed Richie, open and wet. When he pulled away, he ran his fingers through Richie’s chest hair. “Go prep thoroughly while we set the scene.”
Richie slid on his glasses and hurried to the ensuite. He closed the door, sat on the toilet, and put his head between his knees. His breathing was wrong, his glasses were too smudged to see out of, he needed to fix it, he didn’t know how…
Then there was someone knocking on the door. Why? Didn’t they have enough of him? Couldn’t he have five minutes to process how awful a person he is without an audience?
Without waiting for a response, the door opened, and Eddie slid inside, clicking the lock behind him. “Richie,” he breathed, sounding almost surprised, “what’s wrong?”
His thick brows were drawn together, all the hard lines of Eddie softened into worry. More guilt pulled Richie’s guts into his groin.
“Nothing, Spaghetti. Don’t you worry your pretty little head over me.”
“Too late, numbnuts.” Eddie plucked the glasses from Richie’s face, bridge first. “These are really gross. How can you see anything?”
“I can’t.”
Eddie sighed heavily and rummaged around in the medicine cabinet, muttering to himself. Richie stared at his knees, guts heavy and squirming.
After a few minutes and more noises, Eddie slid the glasses back on Richie’s face. They were damp, and Eddie did not get the frames tucked behind his ears properly, but they were completely, frightening clean in a way Richie had never been able to achieve.
“Yowza.” Richie said, straightening them. “I might have to hire you as my official cleaning guy.”
“Only if that means I get to come with you on tour,” Eddie muttered.
Richie’s heart skittered. “Would you really come with me?”
“I can’t, because of my job.” He sighed and sat on the edge of the bathtub. “But yeah. I would.”
Tears pressed against the back of Richie’s eyes. He blinked them away.
“I’m not…I’m not good at this stuff, the way the others are. I didn’t…my mom…she didn’t really encourage emotional honesty, you know?” Eddie fiddled with the hem of his shirt.
“I know.”
“And it’s hard, with all the others. They…you know, everyone wants to talk at once.” His deep brown eyes bored into Richie. “But I need.” He swallowed. “I need you to know I’m gonna miss you.”
“Aw, Eds. I’m gonna miss you, too.”
“Another thing.” He grabbed Richie’s hand and squeezed so hard his knuckles whitened. It hurt, but Richie would rather lose his hand than make Eddie feel bad about expressing himself. “I know I’m not Stan, or Bill, or Mike, or anyone. But I want you to feel like you can talk to me about anything.”
Eddie’s face was set in that hard-determined way it always was when he was being extra brave, like when he would jump in the quarry or play a losers-only game of Post Office. Richie’s heart swelled. He tugged on Eddie’s arm until he softened and allowed Richie to pull him onto his lap.
“Spagheds, love of my life, frost to my flake.”
A flush slid up Eddie’s face even as he wrinkled his nose.
“It’s not that I didn’t want to talk to you. I knew my feelings weren’t exactly, uh, rational, so I didn’t want to tell anyone.”
“How’d Stan find out, then?”
“He came to get me and saw that I was all not happy and shit and pestered me until I talked.”
“It should’ve been me,” Eddie said fiercely. “I noticed something was up downstairs. I should have checked on you.”
“Baby, it’s okay.” Strands of Eddie’s hair slipped through Richie’s fingers like corn silk. “I should have been honest about my feelings. I just didn’t want to hurt you.”
“I’d rather be hurt than in the dark.”
“Noted.” Richie pressed a smacking kiss to Eddie’s left dimple. “I promise I’ll do better, okay?”
“Me too.” Eddie kissed him. It was sweet and short, a glittering thing Richie wanted to put in his pocket.
“I should probably prep so Stan doesn’t pop a vessel,” Richie grumbled.
“Want some help? I kinda…you know.”
“Me too.” Richie kissed the best freckle on Eddie’s nose. “You’re better at it than me, anyway.”