#Right To Light Derry Downs London

[righttolightsurveyors]

Delva Patman Redler

Delva Patman Redler - Renowned specialists in Party Walls, Rights of Light, Daylight/Sunlight and neighbour disputes.

Right To Light Ickenham London

[aweecrush]

As soon as she opens the glass door, the October chill immediately comes to tickle her face. She sighs in delight - feck, it's hot in that apartment. Between the room full of people dancing, the various groups scattered all around the place, the smoking and the booze, it's like a damn volcano in there.

The balcony is not actually what you could call small, but even so, she can hear the drunken advice of Orla’s roommate clearly from the other side of it. She doesn’t know the friend she’s talking to, but the sight of the both of them half shouting how great the other is while trying - and failing - not to spill all their wine is as sweet as it is funny. Ah, the outbursts of love of the shitfaced.

A smile on her face, Erin turns towards the other side of the space where, as predicted, she spots the special someone she loves, shitfaced or not.

Her heart immediately drops at the sight of him.

Leaving her glass on the first table she finds, she makes her way towards his dark figure leaning over edge as he gazes at the city. She can’t see his face yet, but his hunched shoulders are indication enough. Not that she needs any, really.

When she wraps her arms around him from behind, James straightens up to make it easier for her. She holds him as close as she can and rests her cheek against his back, breathes him in. He takes one of her hands and kisses it, then laces their fingers together and places them back on his stomach.

There’s the muffled music and the laughs coming from the inside, the shouts from the girls not far. The sounds of the city night life beneath them.

“I’ve missed you tonight,” he says after a while. They’ve barely seen each other since they arrived.

Erin holds him even tighter. “I’ve missed you too.”

But both his hands are covering hers, one of his thumbs drawing slow patterns on her skin, and he’s warm, and he smells good, so good. It’s all perfect now.

“You drunk?” She can hear the smile in his voice. She turns her head just enough to bury her nose between his shoulder blades, a giggle that betrays her current state escaping her lips.

“Yep,” and she feels his chuckle against her chest. “Clare’s much worse though. She’s currently alternating between telling our non-France going story to that French girl and burping in a very horrific and worrying way, so it’s safe to say there's a disaster looming.” James snorts. “You?”

“Not really, no. Although Nick’s waiting for me with a shot competition when I go back inside, so that should change really soon.”

Thanks to her heels, she can drop a couple of kisses on his cheek without having to raise on her tiptoes, a smirk on her lips.

“As much as I love you, and that’s quite a lot to be honest, you do know that there’s no way you’re winning said competition, right?”

He nods, faking seriousness. “Oh yeah. I mean, he’s like a magician or something.”

“Unbeatable.”

“Uh uh. He and Michelle really did find each other, didn’t they - he’s probably the only person I know who can actually drink more than her. I mean, the Halloween party...”

“Clare’s birthday.”

“That Christmas break party.”

“That was impressive.” She feels sick just remembering the amount of vodka involved.

She lets their laughs slowly die down before nuzzling him, dropping a wee kiss behind his ear, another just a bit lower.

She figures now is as good a time as any, isn’t it. “I heard you and Michelle talk in the kitchen earlier.”

The moment the words leave her mouth, she feels him tense against her. Of course he does.

She trails kisses down his neck as an apology for approaching a subject she knows he doesn’t want to. As an encouragement. She buries her face there, waits for a bit. Then, mumbles softly against his skin, “You know she didn’t mean what she said.”

“You know she did.”

Well. He’s not exactly wrong on that one - they both know it.

“She’s just angry, that’s all. You know how she gets.”

She lets one of her hands leave his, and travel on his forearm lazily. Soothingly, she hopes. “She’s just very protective of you. But she shouldn’t have said that.”

“Yeah, well.”

He does that, when he’s upset. Shuts down, coming up with only short answers to let you know that he’d rather not continue this conversation - short, but answers all the same, because he wouldn’t go as far as shutting you out completely. That he'd consider mean, hurtful, and James doesn’t hurt people - he never would.

That’s why it sucks even more to have to watch when people hurt him.

She wants to tell him that Michelle will come back to her senses in the morning, that she’ll regret her harsh words and apologize for them, sincerely. That she’ll hit him in the shoulder for good measure, and that it will be that, over in a second. Because well - it will, really. There’s no doubt about that.

But the thing is, he already knows all that. The thing is, Michelle’s usual lack of delicacy and moderation isn’t the problem here, far from it. She wishes that it was. Much easier to deal with, wouldn’t it.

Pressing her whole body against his, Erin brushes her lips on the back of his neck, and lets the hair at his nape tickle her nose as she lingers there a little.

“I’m sorry your mum isn’t coming to the wedding, baby.”

“It’s fine.”

An answer too fast, too rehearsed to be sincere. Not that she would have believed it had he been more convincing.

She rests her chin on his shoulder, brings her hand back over his own. “No, it’s not - not at all.”

He snorts. “Of course it is, Erin. It makes sense, really: I mean, who wouldn’t choose a vacation that may or may not happen with a guy they’ve known for five minutes over the most important day of their son’s life?”

The irony in his voice does nothing to cover the bitterness underneath it. The pain.

Feck, she hates this.

After a few seconds, he huffs. “Whatever - I don’t care.”

Ever since the day he had changed his mind about going to London all those years ago, since that moment he’d decided to stay in Derry and she’d been able to breathe properly again, James had started to see things more clearly when it came to Cathy. He’d told her so - told her what Michelle had said to convince him not to go with her, told her how it felt to finally understand how right she was. That day, and after.

In the days, the weeks that had followed, it had stayed with him, turned again and again in his head. How she’d only take care of him when there was nothing more distracting to do when he was a kid. How his stepdad Paul had been the one raising him, playing with him. Caring.

The reasons - excuses - he had made to explain her leaving him in Derry without so much as a goodbye had started to fall apart one by one, leaving what she did only for what it was: an abandonment. She’d abandoned him, plain and simple.

And it had hurt, really hurt, but yet, he hadn’t blamed her - never would. Again, he was just far too good for that. She was still his mum, and he still loved her.

So he hadn’t said anything when she called to say she wouldn’t be able to take him the Christmas, then the summer after her visit. He never complained that she actually never visited him again in Derry after that. Michelle would fume everytime he called her, hating that he was always the one doing the effort (but she never said anything to him, only to them girls - none of them would ever say anything, because none of them wanted to make him sadder than he already was).

Things never changed. Not when he finished high school, not when he finished Uni. To this day, she hadn’t really congratulated him on his first nor his second job, least of all learnt what it was. And again, James never complained, because again, he loved her, and he could never really resent her. He’d lowered his expectations more and more over the years, learnt to be disappointed each time anyway. But he never said anything.

It affected him, though. She knew, she was there to see it. They all were. Ma Mary won’t even let the name of ‘that heartless woman’ be uttered in her house, even though she always makes sure never to show or say anything in front of James.

He cared - still does, always will. How couldn’t he?

Desperate for something, anything to make him feel even a tiny bit better, Erin leaves a hundredth kiss against his skin, painfully aware that that won’t be enough.

“You do care. Hey - ” She grabs his hips to turn him in so she can face him when he snorts, and he obliges. She waits until he’s looking at her to speak again. “Of course you do.”

Anyone would be affected by something like this, but him? He’s so sweet, her English, so sensible, and he wears his heart on his sleeve, and she hates how even in the darkness of the night, she can see just how much he does care. Just how heavy his heart is right now.

It was palpable, evident ever since Kathy had called this morning to tell him, but now, as he slowly let his defenses down, sadness and defeat taking over with each second, it’s written all over his beautiful face, and it just breaks her fecking heart.

“I should have expected it, right?”

He chuckles, not an ounce of humor in it. “I mean, missing birthdays - including my 25 and 30, not showing up at graduation, not visiting our flat even once, not this one, not the one before that...That was the next logical step - nothing to be surprised about.”

He shakes his head, and as he looks away, the lights of the balcony reflect on the watery green of his eyes.

His voice is so small when he speaks again, she barely hears it. “I don’t know why I thought it’d be different this time.”

Erin runs her hands up and down his back, hating herself for not being able to do more, to take the pain away from him, just like that.

“Because it should have been," is all she finds to say.

Aye, of course it should have been - just this once, for Christ's sake.

“It’s just...How little do you have to care about your own child to do that, you know. Over and over. Even now - even for this. I told her, once - I told her what you mean to me. I guess I just thought...I guess I thought that it was something every parent wanted to see for their kid, and that for once, that would include her, too.”

He finally looks back at her at that, and suddenly, she sees the fifteen year-old sitting next to her in Sister Michael’s office the day they met again, the heartbreak clear in his eyes as he understands that his mum left him.

She fecking hates all of it.

Helpless, Erin brings their foreheads together, her arms firmly wrapped around his torso as he lets out a heavy sigh.

“She does care, James.”

“You don't have to lie.”

“I’m not - of course she does. And she loves you. She's just- "

“Selfish? Self centered? I’m running out of the polite words used by Michelle now, the others were much more colourful,” and Erin backs away slightly, smiling at him knowingly.

“In her own world, let’s say. I don’t think she realizes just how much damage she does. And I’m not going to try to make excuses for her, for this or for everything else - it is shitty, and she’s an adult and she should realize what she’s doing and do better. I’m just saying...She doesn’t. But that doesn’t mean that she doesn’t love you, because she does.”

He looks away again at that, and it’s a punch to the stomach to realize that yeah - the thought did cross his mind. It really did.

Slipping her hands from his back, she brings them to his cheeks, gently making him look at her again, hating the sadness she finds in his eyes.

She smiles. “She does love you. And it sucks so bad that she doesn’t show it to you, because she should, and she should realize just how lucky she is to have you, for feck sake, but...But please don’t forget that you do have a family who makes you their number one priority, and who always will. I mean, I think that was a smile I saw on your Aunt Deirdre’s face when we told her - an actual smile!”, and she’s proud of herself when he chuckles at that, a true smile of his own lightening his face.

“And we all know that Michelle punching you harder than usual that day was her stupid way to cover the tears I definitely saw in her eyes - even though true, there were nothing compared to the way Paul just - well, broke down, really.”

He smirks. “Even Clare didn’t weep this much.”

“Which really, is saying something. Also, my family loves you more than they love me, Ma, Anna and Orla don’t even bother to pretend otherwise at this point, and I think at least one of us should take pleasure in that.” He’s laughing now, and yeah, this - this is how she wants him to be for the rest of their lives. Laughing, his squinting eyes shining - that’s what he deserves.

Biting down her own smile, Erin draps her arms around his neck, bringing him close. “And for what it’s worth, you also have me. You’re my person, remember? My favorite one in the whole world. I’m here - I’ll always be here.”

Always.

“Also, it will still be the best party ever, because I didn’t want to say anything, but I’ve prepared a massive, massive surprise, and - ”

But then his lips are on hers, and Erin just holds him closer, fingers tangled in his brown curls, and kisses him back.

Aye - more than fifteen years she's known him, and that boy still manages to leave her light headed. It vaguely occurs to her that maybe she should be worried about that.

“Thank you,” he says when they eventually part, still so close that she feels his words on her lips. She smirks.

“For what, the surprise? Because to be honest, I haven't actually figured out what it would be just yet: I just know it will be so grand, you'll - ”

She’s not exactly surprised when James kisses her again to shut her up - she definitely doesn’t mind, either. She can feel his chuckle against her as he pecks her once, twice, then moves to her cheek, her jaw, and her heart swells in her chest.

“For everything," he smiles, looking back at her and pinching her side playfully. "For not piling up on Michelle's heartfelt opinions about my mum, tonight or ever, even though I know that you hate her too."

She frowns. "Hey, I don’t hate her.” There’s no accusation in his tone or in his eyes, but she needs him to know. “I swear, I’ve never hated her. I just hate the situation, and you being sad.” She lets her fingers run on the back of his neck, lets her eyes travel over that handsome face of his. “I mean, we have her to thank for you, haven't we? How could I hate her, silly."

He’s looking at her that way now, that way that’s far too soft, too - something, and that always makes her cheeks redden. Tonight is no exception.

She’s not exactly sure how long they stay out there, kissing like they’re teenagers at a party again. She does hears herself moan in disapproval when he eventually leans back, and he nuzzles her to make amend, amused.

“Come on, let’s go back inside - you’re going to catch a cold out here.”

To be fair, she is freezing her arse off. But -

“You sure you’re okay?”

He’s got that wee soft smile of his on his face now, and, before she can say anything else, James brings his warm hands on her neck and puts an even softer last kiss on the corner of her lips.

“Of course I’m okay - I’m marrying you.”

Truth is, she’s pretty sure she looks like an eejit, beaming and blushing like she is. Again, she can’t bring herself to mind.

Lacing their fingers together, Erin leads the way back inside. “Come on, then - let’s get shitfaced, my love.”

[anxiouslymalicious]

Losers Club Plus One Part 4

Richie Tozier x daughter!reader series

Read the previous part here or go here for the series Masterlist!

A/N: Thank you guys so much for the lovely support! I have had an amazing weekend in London, but my tumblr app kept on crashing and turned off my whole phone every now and then so I couldn’t reply to everything on time. I hope that I have put everyone on the taglist who wanted to be added, but if I missed you, please message me again! It really wasn’t my intention to do so, it was more tumblr fucking me up big time. 

Anyway, here we go with the fourth part! There is a mention of a panic attack in here, it is kind of descriptive but not fully graphically realised so I just kind of wanted to throw a warning out here.

I hope you enjoy!

Y/N was stiffly following the adult losers to the Barrens. Richie had already tried to figure out what was going on with his daughter, but she refused to tell him. She was scared, yes, but she knew that the losers had already fought IT – and all of them had come out of that alive – so she assumed that she would be safe with them. With her father. And she didn’t want Richie to freak out even further and actually drag her ass home. His friends needed him, so she would be able to suck it up and sit through all that.

Bill slowed his steps a little and stayed a bit behind with Y/N. All the other losers had tried to get her to talk on their walk into the woods in the Barrens, none of them being successful. Richie, at last, asked Bill to try. He was the unspoken leader, Big Bill, of the losers club. Maybe he had the same kind of effect on her as he had on the other losers. Like they were safe with him and could trust him, his intuition and his usually well-chosen words, even when they were down in the sewers, with only a few matches left to light the way, facing Patrick Hockstetter’s body, stumbling through the disgusting greywater.

“Y-you’re awf-f-fully quiet.” Bill said to the girl, hands in his pocket. His stuttering had come back, it was easier to control when he was talking with his friends but with his friend’s daughter, it was strangely difficult. Bill told himself that it was just because she was practically a stranger and he didn’t trust her like the people he had faced IT with. How could he? Surely, no one would blame Bill if he confessed to feelings this way, but he was too ashamed to do just that.

“And you’re stuttering.” She replied, a smirk on her lips, curious to see whether he could take the joke. Bill scoffed.

“Are you alright? All of this is probably a bit much-“

“I’m fine, okay? Please stop asking me. I’m as good as you can be when you’re meeting friends your father couldn’t remember until a few hours ago, bloody and full of your own vomit because your fortune cookie was bleeding on you and some strange creature keeps threatening you that you’ll float with some Stanley and Georgie.” Y/N stopped walking, growing irritated at the many attempts. She appreciated that they were taking care of her, but she didn’t feel like talking, she felt like she couldn’t talk. Because she couldn’t understand, couldn’t express what was going on.

“G-g-Georgie?” Bill asked, tears suddenly springing to his eyes, a little sting in his chest, his heart. The girl just nodded, her arms crossed as she watched him with great caution and confusion.

“Is everything alright?” Ben asked the two, looking back at them, stopping in his tracks. All eyes were on Bill and Y/N now. Curious, nervous, anxious. 

“Who told you about Georgie? Did you see him?” Bill suddenly seemed much more serious to Y/N, it was almost scary. Scratch that, Y/N felt a shiver run down her spine. And, although she would later tell herself that it was just her ears playing tricks on her, that it was just the wind rustling the leaves of the trees and bushes, but she could swear that she heard the quiet, happy giggles of a child somewhere in the distance.

Y/N took a step back. “I-IT mentioned him. Is he dead?” She now looked from Bill to her father, who looked at her, his face one of confusion, while Bill tried to swallow his tears. The pain of losing Georgie came back to him, the little boy whose teeth never grew back. The little boy whose photo album wouldn’t be filled with more pictures. The little boy who would never walk through the doors of their house again, in his yellow raincoat and with that stupid little boat in his hands as their beloved mother played ‘Für Elise’. The little boy whose death changed Bill’s whole life. And Bill knew that it was necessary for him to move on, to know that he wasn’t the one to blame for George’s death, that it was that stupid clown and him only, but the guilt was overcoming Bill once more.

“Y/N, George was Bill’s little brother. He died when he was 6 years old. He was killed by Pennywise the clown.” Richie said, stepping closer to his daughter to pull her close. “But when did IT tell you? You didn’t mention him in the bathroom.”

Y/N grew nervous, hands growing sweaty as she subtly tried to touch the phone in her jeans pocket to check that it was tucked away safely, out of reach from the losers. She wiped her hands on her jeans, trying not to act suspiciously, but she knew that her father was looking right through her.

“But IT mentioned him. I’m pretty sure I told you.” She said, crossing her arms in front of her chest again, taking a step back to put some distance between them.

“Y/N, did you see IT again? We need to know. We can’t protect you if you don’t work with us. IT is dangerous and will not hesitate to kill you.” Mike said, trying to be the voice of reason, but she shook her head vehemently.

“Y/N, please…” Richie was now pleading with his daughter to just tell him. But she shook her head, trying hard to suppress the tears she already felt welling up in her eyes. “I’m good, don’t worry. Nothing happened. IT is not after me.” She finally said with a small, clearly uncomfortably forced smile before she passed the adults and walked deeper into the Barrens.

“Are you guys coming or what?” Y/N yelled after a few steps, when she noticed that she was the only one walking into the unknown area ahead of her. The losers looked at each other, Richie feeling his heart hurt in his chest. It was obvious to all of the losers that she was lying, they didn’t need to know her to see that she was more antsy than she had been before, always fumbling with something, her hands shaking, and she was nibbling on her fingernails when she thought no one was looking. The last one was especially an exhibit for Richie. He had raised her. He had seen her do that more often than he liked.

He saw her nibbling at her fingernails on her first day of school, before she walked into the classroom for the first time. 

He saw her nibbling her fingernails when she was about to go on stage in a school play. 

When he included one of her jokes in his set for the first time. 

When he watched as she tried to tell him about her crush for the first time. 

When they tried to contact the woman they thought might be her mother. And in all those situations, the girl was open and honest with her father, telling him how she felt, telling him that she was nervous or scared and Richie felt his chest grow warm at how much his daughter trusted him. He felt like he had done something right in his messy life. But now, now that they were in Derry, trying to fight something they weren’t sure how to kill – if they even got that far – she was shutting Richie out. And that scared him just as much as it hurt.

Eddie laid his hand on Richie’s shoulder, mustering up an encouraging smile.

“She is your daughter. Obviously, she inherited some of your stupidity. But I’m sure she’ll come around.” Eddie grinned at the taller man, making Richie scoff playfully.

“At least I have a child, fuckface.” Richie smiled back and the group continues their way. That was, until Ben fell through the door, making everyone shriek, Y/N being the loudest, and, due to the shock, she and Eddie jumped to Richie, holding onto his arms. Eddie glanced at the girl, meeting her gaze before his gaze wandered to Richie for a second, to where Richie’s hands gripped the smaller man’s shirt like he had done many years before when they were children, almost anytime surprised them. Both Eddie and Y/N stepped away from Richie. With a sad sigh, Richie watched as Y/N regained her cold composure.

One after another, the losers climbed down into the clubhouse. The losers were so entranced by the familiar, now dirty and fragile looking place they had spent hours upon hours in, they didn’t even notice that Y/N wasn’t joining them down there. She opted to watch them from above. Something about following them didn’t feel right to her. She wasn’t a loser, she had never been a part of their group and so, she was afraid of interrupting that moment of peace. The sweet nostalgia. The cosy memories.

Y/N was watching from above, sitting at the ladder, legs dangling through the hole, as the losers talked about the paddle board incident. About Stan. What a person he was. And, suddenly, she felt a pang of guilt in her chest. Y/N didn’t feel like she should be there. Stan should be here. Stan should be down there, catching up with his friends, laughing about stupid memories, making a plan on how to kill IT.

 Rustling leaves. Stones shifting against each other. Twigs breaking under the weight of something.

Y/N’s head whipped around, trying to make out whatever pulled her out of her thoughts. Her nails dug into the soil below her. Heart hammering against her ribcage like it wanted to break out, like it was desperate to break out.

It’s that clown, she thought, hoping to spot something between the trees, it’s coming for me again, but why is it always me?

Finally, she registered a movement in the corner of her eye. A bush. Rustling, shaking lightly. Something was in there. Something-

Richie groaned. His glasses landed somewhere in the room, being harshly pulled from his nose. The palms of his hands pressed against his eyes. A burning pain, the burning pain was back. Worse. More real.

Y/N had turned her head back just in time to watch her father’s figure crumble to the ground.

“DAD!” she screamed, pushing herself to fall through the hole, stumbling towards her father. A sharp pain shot through her knees as she dropped to them, but she barely noticed it as she tried to pull Richie’s hands away from his eyes.

“Dad, it’s alright, you’re alright- Breathe. In and out. Like you taught me. Slowly! Slowly! Dad, please!” she tried to calm her father down, voice shaky, mind racing. Painful gasps escaped Richie’s lips as his daughter comfortingly placed a hand on his shoulder, using the other one to hold onto his hand, squeezing it to help him get into a breathing rhythm. Next thing Y/N knew, as she had helped Richie calm down, Mike was down, groaning in pain and pressing his hands to his eyes in hopes to ease it. Richie, still halfway out of it, stumbles towards Mike, who was taken care of by Bill and Beverly. Eddie, meanwhile, was desperate for his inhalator but tried to resist the urge to shove his hand into his pocket and whip it out as Ben was trying to make sure that Eddie wouldn’t pass out any second.

“Mike, do you remember the smoke-hole bullshit? This is it. The turtle, the-the part when we were going crazy and time travelled right here?” Richie asked him, grinning like a maniac. “This is it. The memories are coming back. Holy shit.” Richie said as he leaned against the wall next to Mike, Bill helping him sit up. Y/N was sitting in the dirt, under the hole, just watching as realisation dawned on each of the losers’ faces. All of them subtly tried to rub their eyes, remembering the stinging sensation that most of them couldn’t endure for too long, opting to flee instead.

Y/N could swear that she heard something moving outside, suddenly remembering what had happened before Richie broke down. She sent a look towards the four adults on the ground, seeing that they were busy trying to pierce together the smoke-hole-ritual, then glanced at Eddie and Ben. Eddie was leaning against the unsteady pole, also slightly leaning against Ben in need of support, eyes closed. Ben, feeling like he was being watched, looked up briefly, spotting Y/N climbing up the ladder.

“Where are you going?” his rough voice echoed through the room, breaking the other losers’ focus. Y/N had climbed up far enough to carefully examine the upside world. She was hoping that she would spot the source of the earlier noise, or something she could use as an excuse. A squirrel or bird or something that would give her the opportunity to breathe and not feel hunted for once since she arrived at the hotel. To her utter relief, she heard another sound, this time clearly spotting a fat squirrel climbing up a tree. An involuntary laugh bubbled up deep in her chest, too quickly to suppress, and she smiled at the group as she jumped off the ladder, facing the adults.

“Nowhere. Absolutely nowhere.” She grinned, walking over to her father, helping him get back to his feet as Richie babbled on about a turtle, how IT arrived and whatnot. But Y/N didn’t listen. The relief was too deeply rooted in her. She was thoroughly enjoying the blissful moments of what felt like freedom. Blissful unawareness was a better word though. Because, what Y/N didn’t know, had she stayed up on the ladder just a little longer, had she watched the outside world just a moment longer, she would have spotted a single red balloon rising up into the air, slowly but steadily. To her, it might not be too much of a worry, had she seen it, but each of the losers knew better.

Pennywise was close.

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[meginoi-writes]

Spotlights Will Guide You Home - Chapter 3

Summary:  Richie meets up with Beverly, then has his world turned upside down.

Previous 

Next

Pairing: Reddie

Words: 1274

The coffee shop was quiet but not empty. A few students from the college down the road were tucked together in corners, slouched in armchairs with their heads tucked deep into thick textbooks and numerous papers fanned out around them. The sky outside was grey from a gathering of storm clouds, an indicator of the oncoming rain. The distant whirr of the working coffee machines was a welcome background noise, the rich and comforting aroma of the coffee invading his senses.  

Richie had always liked it here, it was calming, the atmosphere always managing to soothe his racing mind when he needed that relaxing silence the most. The park over the road was a nice view, watching people go about their daily lives while his felt like it was constantly crashing around him.

A figure hurried past the large glass windows and into the shop.The bright red hair caught his eye, a comforting constant in the ever changing whirlwind he called his life. She smiled when she saw him, stepping across the tiled floor to pull him up and into a tight hug.

“It’s so good to see you again, Rich,” She smiled, her hair had become lighter since he last saw her, the caramel highlights shining under the soft lighting. She grinned, sticking her hands into the back pockets of her jeans, she seemed relaxed, happy.

Everything that Richie wasn’t.

“It’s good to see you too, Bev,” He replied, returning to his seat, a wordless offer for her to do the same.

“How longs it been? About six months?” Bev reached for the coffee Richie had ordered for her, cradling it between her hands. Even after so long apart he could still recite each of the losers’ coffee orders off by heart.

“Something like that,” Richie replied, thinking back to the last time he had seen any of the losers. They had all flown out to New York for Bill’s latest book release, about three months after the engagement party. It had been good to see them all again, like a breath of fresh air, a much needed reprieve from the stuffy streets of LA.

“You holding up okay?”

He knew what she meant. Bev had always been able to read him, when he was younger he secretly thought she could read his thoughts. She could tell how he was feeling from the quirk of his lips, the finger that tapped absentmindedly on his coffee cup, the bags under his eyes that he hoped the rim of his glasses hid. She knew he wasn’t fine.

“I’m fine, really i am.” He wasn’t “But what about you? How’s the future Mr and Mrs Haystack spending their days? And please, don’t spare any of the juicy details, i’m recording this conversation to sell to Hello! after this.”

Bev rolled her eyes. “Everythings just been so crazy lately, what with planning the wedding-”

Of course, the wedding. It was the easiest thing to distract Bev by turning the conversation to. Ben had proposed exactly one year after they had rekindled. One year to the day. Which also happened to be one year to the day of Eddie’s death. No one had noticed that but Richie. At the time, he had resented Ben and Bev for it, for being so happy. Why did they get to have the happy ending? The white picket fence with the kids and the dog, while his lay decomposing in the Derry sewers.

“You don’t need to explain yourself to me, Bev, it’s fine. I’ve been busy too.” It wasn’t technically a lie, he had been busy. Another tour was lined up, hopefully one that would help him to successfully draw in a european audience. So, when asked, he went on stage, smiled, laughed and became Trashmouth Tozier, before lapsing back into what he had become now, a shell of the person he was. The jokes and quips had become harder to think of after returning from Derry, like he’d left that part of himself back in the sewers to fester and rot away. Sure, there were times when one slipped into his mind but it was… rarer than it used to be. “I have a Netflix special coming up, flying out to London tomorrow to film it.”

“Oh, Richie, that’s great!” Bev gushed, reaching across to place a friendly hand on his wrist. Richie smiled softly, he knew he should share his friend’s enthusiasm, yet he couldn’t bring himself to.

“You are excited about it, aren’t you?”

“Oh of course. I’ve heard Brits are a tough crowd but if Trashmouth can’t make ‘em laugh, nothing will!”

Bev laughed, light and airy.

And he did, within five minutes of the lights going down at the O2 Arena he had them eating out of the palm of his hand. Turns out Brits liked dick jokes and toilet humour as much as Americans did. The lights that beamed down on him were overwhelmingly hot, a thin layer of sweat coating his forehead from them. The brightness of the spotlight was always the worst part about performing, it turned him blind, the faces of the audience fading into the darkness beyond the stage, all he could hear was their laughs, a faceless beast that existed to provide him with a cynical sense of validation.  

The show passed by in a blur. If you asked Richie what he remembered of it, he would say nothing. It was another nameless show. Sure, one where TV cameras caught his every move, but still one that had instantly faded into the back of his mind. No heckles that had caught his attention, no diversions from his normal stand up routine. It was just… normal.

And that what Richie hated about it. He hated that this had become normal for him. To only feel anything when an audience laughed at his jokes. He hated that the routine he had once loved had become so mundane to him. He hated it, yet he was stuck.

“Rich! You were great, pal! As always,” His manager exclaimed, awkwardly throwing an arm around him. Even though he was a full foot shorter than Richie - but who wasn't? He had always been obnoxiously tall - it was a habit they had started right off the bat. “Now, there’s a guy here i want you to meet. He’s an actor, trying to break America. For now, America is still very much intact. You could do great things for each other. His name is-”

“Eddie?”

Edward Kaspbrack stood in front of him, very much alive and breathing. The same beautiful boy he’d left in Derry years ago.

Richie felt like he was going to pass out. This was all too much. It had to be some sick joke. That, or he had finally lost it, hallucinating the entire thing. But there Eddie was, as alive as he had been back in Derry.

“Richie, right? Good to meet you, man,” Eddie smiled, offering his hand.

Richie stared, bug eyed. If he took Eddie’s hand would all of this just fade away? Was this just a dream? A cruel dream, yet one that was intoxicating at the same time. And as soon as he took that hand Eddie would fade away again, once again just existing alive and warm in his mind.

“Yeah, uh, good to meet you too.” He shook Eddie’s hand. “I’ve, um - sorry i’ve got to, um, i’ve got to go.” He rushed past Eddie, making a beeline for the restroom he knew was nestled in a little alcove around the corner.

“Rich, wait-”

The slam of the door muffled the rest of his manager’s shouts.

[octothorpetopus]

Daylight (Part 1)

Sequel to I Forgot That You Existed (Link to Part 1)

Richie’s rental car (a red Mustang convertible, much like his own car) pulls into the Jade Of The Orient parking lot at half past eight the day after Mike calls. He sits in the driver seat, Eddie in the passenger seat beside him. They stare in silence straight ahead at the neon Jade Of The Orient sign before them, their hands entwined together, resting on the console.

”We don’t have to do this, you know,” Eddie says, turning to look at his boyfriend of these last six years. “We could turn around now, drive back to Bangor, and be on the next flight back to LA. We could be spooning in bed before the sun even comes up.” Richie smiles, but doesn’t meet Eddie’s eyes. The purple and green neon lights up his eyes, so gray that they’re almost black.

”Yeah, we do. We can’t leave them.” Eddie squeezes his hand once before opening the car door and stepping out into the cool Maine evening. A breeze cuts through his thin shirt and jacket, and he shivers. On the other side of the car, goosebumps run up and down Richie’s arms, only partially because of the cold. He meets Eddie in front of the doors, and takes a deep breath before pushing them open. There is no dramatic silence, no cheering, no... anything. There are families in the middle of dinner, couples in quiet conversation, a group of friends clustered around the bar. It is so utterly normal that they almost, for just a second, forget that this is Derry.

”Are you ready?” Eddie snorts and shakes his head.

”I don’t think I ever could be.” He takes Richie’s hand, and they follow a sign directing them to the private room in the back corner. They pause, just out of sight, already hearing muffled voices that are familiar and unfamiliar in equal measure. “Kiss for luck?” He asks, almost joking, mostly not. Richie pulls him close and kisses him with more fervor than maybe ever before in their entire relationship except for that first kiss on the sidewalk outside Eddie’s hotel. Eddie’s hand comes to rest in a familiar position, cupping Richie’s stubbled cheek. They do not break until someone clears their throat behind them. They jump apart like high schoolers caught making out behind the school gym.

”Hi, guys,” Mike says, his eyes slightly wide in surprise.

”Hey, Mike.” Richie bows his head sheepishly, and Eddie feels his face flush in embarrassment. He’s not sure why he’s embarrassed. Maybe it’s that he feels like he’s 13 again, in love with his best friend, unable to tell anyone else. He thinks that’s what Richie’s feeling too. They look at each other, then back at Mike, bracing for questions or shock or maybe even disgust, but they receive none. Mike just smiles that gentle, close-lipped smile of his, and takes Eddie into a tight hug, then Richie.

“It’s nice to see you guys again.” Richie visibly relaxes.

”It’s nice to see you, too.”

”I guess that makes sense why you picked up Eddie’s phone.” Richie smiles, but his eyes flick over to Eddie, and the love in them is insurmountable.

”I just wish you would have called sooner.” Eddie clasps Mike’s shoulder tenderly. He leads them into the room, where everyone else has already arrived. There are hugs and high-fives and inside jokes all around (“beep-beep, Richie” must be said at least ten times). They take their seats around the table, leaving one empty as if on instinct.

“What do you all do now?” Mike asks as they settle into their seats. “Bill, you’re obviously a writer.” Bill flushes and shrinks down into himself.

“I’m an architect. My new building in London just opened,” Ben says, a little self-importantly. It’s for Bev, obviously, and Richie and Eddie share a secretive grin over it. Not everyone got as lucky as they did.

”My husband and I have a fashion line. Rogan-Marsh,” Bev says, and when she says “husband”, both Ben and Bill’s heads snap up.

”That’s great, Bev,” Mike says before the moment gets any weirder.

”I was gonna be a voice actor, but apparently to work on movies you have to be ‘personable’ and ‘dedicated’ and ‘not talk about how the characters are probably furries on live television.’” This cracks everyone up for awhile.

"Beep-beep, Richie," Eddie mutters, jabbing a knee into Richie's thigh under the table.

“Yeah, so that didn’t work out. And now, like every other failed actor, I do stand-up.”

”Hey, I think I saw one of your specials once,” Bill says, his eyes sharp with memory.

”Was it any good?”

”Nah.” This sends them into another bout of laughter.

”And you, Eddie?” Everyone turns to look at him expectantly. Richie gives him a nod and a smile, almost imperceptibly. Eddie clears his throat.

”Well, I went to New York, and I was gonna start a limo service, but then one thing led to another, and now I’m the Los Angeles city planner.”

”You married?” Bill asks, and Richie loses his shit, howling with laughter.

”Eddie? Married? Come on, Bill-“

”Shut up, Rich.” Eddie elbows him hard in the ribs.

“So, you two look like you just fell right back into old patterns,” Bill says, his eyes twinkling with mirth as he leans back in his chair. Richie and Eddie exchange a look and nearly burst out laughing. “What? What’d I say?” Bill asks Bev, who just shakes her head and takes a sip of her beer.

”Actually-“ Richie snorts again, interrupting himself. “Actually, Bill, there’s a little more to it than that.” Everyone goes silent in intrigue. He turns to grin at Eddie, and their hands slip together in a position so comfortable it almost feels weirder to be separated. “We met up again about seven years ago, and we’ve been together ever since.”

”Together as in-“ Ben silences Bill with a smack to the back of his head.

”Together as in together.” Eddie looks at Richie, and the love would have been clear even to someone who had never met either of them before. “For seven years in July.” Mike lets out a low whistle.

”Congrats, guys,” Bev says, beaming. Ben sneaks a furtive glance at her before repeating the sentiment. Richie bites back a smile. He was worried, Eddie can tell. Eddie can always tell. Worried that their friends wouldn’t accept him, or accept them, or maybe that they’d think he was joking. But the worry is gone. He is fearless for the first time in his life.

In their car, Eddie switches on the radio as they take the long drive back from the Jade Of The Orient. Richie's jaw is clenched, and there is no light, no joy on his face. He is not Richie, at least not the Richie that Eddie knows.

"Baby, I-"

"Don't," Richie interrupts. "Let's just get our stuff and go home." His voice is soft, and it breaks Eddie's heart. They drive the rest of the way in silence. The lights of the Derry Town House are on, but there is no one else there. Richie supposes that Ben and Bev and Bill are not far behind them. He crosses the foyer in long strides, Eddie struggling to keep up behind him. Their room is on the 6th floor, and Richie runs up the stairs without pausing even for breath. He waits for Eddie, but slams the door behind him, and doesn't wait even a second before pulling their suitcases out of the closet. He throws them on the bed and does not move, just stares at them, breathing heavily. Eddie approaches him from behind and rests a hand on his shoulder.

"Richie." Richie turns around, and Eddie can at last see what the dark streets and thick glasses prevented him from seeing earlier: Richie's tear-streaked face, a picture of the conflict that tears through him. Wordlessly, Eddie wraps his arms around him, and Richie falls into him, shoulders wracked with sobs. "It's okay," Eddie whispers as he strokes Richie's hair. Before long, Richie stills, and Eddie's arms, which had been a vice grip around him, relax. Richie leans down to rest his forehead against Eddie's, and Eddie wipes the remaining tears from his cheeks.

"I'm sorry," Richie murmurs, to which Eddie laughs a bitter, surprised laugh.

"What are you sorry for?"

"I don't know, I just... am." Eddie presses a gentle kiss to his lips and cups his cheek tenderly.

“You have nothing to be sorry for. Look, there’s a bar downstairs. Go get a drink, calm down a little, and I’ll meet you down there when I’m done packing, okay?” Richie nods, and his heart swells with love for Eddie, who knows him better than anyone else on earth, even himself.

“I love you, Eds,” he says, and means it more than ever.

”I love you too, Trashmouth.”

"Fuck you," Richie says, and kisses Eddie back.

The six of them are all down in the clubhouse now, and Richie is more annoyed than ever at himself for coming back. In fact, he is so upset that for the first time in months, he has forgotten about the tiny wooden box in his jacket pocket.

"Seriously? You want us to go out there alone?" Eddie clings to his arm and repeats the sentiment. "Have you never seen a horror movie, Mike? Or read one of Bill's books?"

"Yeah, I'm with Richie on this one," Eddie says, nodding.

"Of course you are," Bill says, rolling his eyes.

"Hey, what the fuck is that supposed to mean?" Richie asks, stepping in front of Eddie, eyes blazing gray fire.

"Of course he'd agree with you, you guys are-"

"Hey! Cut it out!" Bev steps between them, physically pushing them apart with a surprising amount of upper body strength. "Richie, I'm sorry, but Mike and Bill are right." If it had been anyone other than Beverly to tell him that, Richie probably would have laughed and tried to leave again, probably to much better avail. But he trusts her, and so he steps back, if a little resentfully.

"So... where do we go?" Eddie pipes up over Richie's shoulder. Mike shrugs.

"Only you know that. We'll meet back at the library tonight, with your artifacts, okay?" Everyone affirms, and they split off to revisit the most painful moments of their past. Everyone except for Eddie and Richie, who stay in the clubhouse a moment longer. Richie lowers himself gently into the dusty hammock, which creaks but does not break under his wait. Eddie sits beside him, and it sinks lower as they lean into each other.

"This sucks," Eddie says, and Richie brushes the hair off his forehead to place a gentle kiss on it.

"Yeah," he mutters, his mouth still pressed against the smooth skin of Eddie's face. "It seriously does."

"Still want to leave?" Richie sighs and thinks a moment.

"...no. Not really."

"Want me to come with you?"

"Yes. But..."

"I can't. I know. Worth a shot." They sit, swinging back and forth just a little bit, looking around at the discarded memories of their childhood. A stack of cassette tapes all labeled 'Richie Tozier's All-Dead Rock Show'. Row after row of comics organized from favorite to least favorite, the way all kids sort their treasures. There is one post with what must be dozens of photographs tacked to it: Richie and Beverly at a midnight showing of Rocky Horror Picture Show; Eddie, Bill, and Mike at the quarry; Ben, Stan, and Richie working at the ice cream shop; finally, Richie and Eddie in the Ferris wheel at the Canal Days festival. It is faded and covered in dust, but Eddie plucks it off the wall and slips it into his pocket. "There. Now you'll still be with me." Richie's lip wobbles, but he doesn't cry. He refuses to cry more than once in 24 hours.

"That's... so fucking cheesy, Eddie."

"Yeah, I know." They share one last kiss in that hammock, long and slow and almost painful to break, before they climb the ladder and go their separate ways.

Eddie’s head is still spinning when he returns from the pharmacy. He takes the steps two at a time, desperate for a shower or bath or hell, a jump in the quarry. But he doesn’t get any of those, because the second he steps foot in his room, he stops in his tracks. Richie sits on the bed his face in his hands. He doesn’t look up when Eddie enters. Ben, who is sitting beside him with a comforting hand on his back, does. Before Ben even says a word, Eddie can see his eyes, and they are terrified. Not for himself, although there is some of that, but the way they consistently flit back towards Richie tells Eddie everything he needs to know. No longer worried about the leper’s vomit that is soaking him from head to toe, Eddie sits on Richie’s other side, bouncing his leg in that familiar nervous tic as he thinks of what to say. His mind is blank. He does not know what Richie encountered, what moment of his childhood could have reduced him to this. He literally looks smaller.

“I... are you okay?” He asks finally, and regrets it immediately.

”No, Eddie, I’m not fucking okay!” Not once in the last six years has Richie ever raised his voice to Eddie, and as soon as he does, a horrified expression appears on his face. Ben stands abruptly.

”I’ll leave you guys alone.” He leaves Richie and Eddie sitting on the bed I’m resigned quiet.

”Richie, what-“

”Don’t.”

”Rich, please-“

”Don’t you see, Eds?” Richie is on his feet now, and he begins to pace back and forth in short bursts. “I can’t tell you. I just went and relived the worst moment of my entire childhood, alone.”

”And? We all did, Richie.” Eddie was angry now. “We all just went through hell to get this shit. I love you, but you’re not the only one who’s in some pain right now.” Richie looked down at Eddie. Literally, because he was standing and also much taller than Eddie, but also figuratively. Eddie laughs bitterly before Richie can say another word, because he knows, he knows just what Richie’s thinking. He thinks that no matter what Eddie went through, no matter what horrors he faced, they can’t possibly be as horrible as what he went through. No way, no how. “Sorry, Richie, but the world doesn’t fucking revolve around you and your childhood trauma. The rest of us went through the same shit.”

Richie snorts, a caustic sounds that burns Eddie’s heart like acid.

”Really?” It sounds like an innocent enough question, but Eddie has known Richie long enough to know that when he’s really truly angry, his sarcastic tone almost sounds sincere. It’s the only thing about Richie that Eddie finds legitimately terrifying. It’s just never been directed at him before.

“Yeah, really,” he says, standing his ground. “I love you, but don’t forget that you’re not alone.” Eddie is too tired to be furious now, and his voice wavers.

”’I’m not alone.’” Richie scoffs. “Don’t you get it? That’s exactly it.”

”Huh?”

“Pennywise, he knows... my greatest fear is of my love for you.” Eddie’s brow furrows in confusion.

”What, that you won’t love me? Richie, that’s bullshit. Total bullshit.” But Richie just shakes his head.

”Not that.”

”Then what?” Richie watches Eddie’s face as it dawns on him. He thinks maybe he can see Eddie’s heart break in the clear black of his eyes. “You’re afraid...” he chokes on the words hardly able to get them out. “You’re afraid you will love me,” he says finally. Richie says nothing, just nods. Eddie stammers noiselessly for a moment. “Richie, I don’t understand.”

”Not you. Necessarily. Just... someone like you.”

”Someone like... you mean, a man?” Richie nods miserably. “But... I mean... you seemed so sure when we got together.”

”I was, but being back here reminded me how unsure I was then. Somehow It knew, and It made me feel so-“ Richie cuts off as he bursts into tears again. Without thinking, Eddie wraps an arm around his shoulders and squeezes him tightly, just as he used to do when they were kids.

”Richie,” he murmurs, burying his face in Richie’s hair. “Richie, you can’t listen to It. You can’t.”

”How?”

“I don’t know. But It attacked me too. And all of a sudden I was thirteen again and I was just so... small. But then I got my hands around Its neck, and then it was the small one. You just have to take yourself back. Take back the parts that make you yourself. All of them.” Richie sniffles, but the tears taper off. “I’m sorry for what I said. You deserve to deal with what happened in your own way.” Richie removes his tear-streaked face from Eddie’s rumpled, soaking shirt, kisses him as warmly and fully as he can.

”I’m sorry, too,” he says when they part. “I think I’m just being dramatic.” Eddie laughs a little.

”You think?” He stands and opens the bathroom door. “Look, I’m covered in leper puke, so I gotta take a shower.” He pauses. “Care to join me?”

“Well, as fun and sexy as cleaning vomit off of you sounds, I need a hell of a nap before we meet the others at the library tonight.” Eddie nods. He’s not really disappointed. He didn’t think Richie would say yes.

”Right. Get some rest, my love.” Richie swallows hard and almost starts crying again.

”I will. Because you’re here.” With that, Eddie shuts the bathroom door behind him and goes to splash his face with water. Richie drifts off, while his face is submerged in the freezing water from the Kenduskeag, which is why neither of them hears Henry Bowers slip into the room behind Eddie. In fact, Eddie doesn't notice until Bowers's knife is being plunged hilt-deep into his face. He screams in pain, and in a moment of odd clarity, regrets it. It will wake Richie, and as much as he'd love some help right now, he doesn't want to wake the sleeping man in the next room. He deserves a rest. Eddie stumbles backwards, his normally droopy and vaguely sad eyes wide with hysteria, and steps into the bathtub, swinging the shower curtain between himself and Henry. He hears raspy breathing through the gray-green fabric, and nearly chokes on his own breath. He does not know anything that's happening, except that his upper jaw seems to be paralyzed somehow. It's the knife, he realizes, and laughs a mad, high-pitched laugh. The knife is stuck in the bone and that's why he can't move. It would be funny, except that he almost wants to puke thinking about it.

But he doesn't. He pushes down the bile and the terror overtaking him, takes the handle of the knife in one hand, grits his teeth (as much as he can, again, the knife is shoved through the joint in his jaw), and pulls. It takes everything in him, but he doesn't make a sound. He feels sweat pour down his face, but he keeps pulling a little at a time, inch by inch, until he's holding the knife entirely in his hand. Blood trickles down off the blade and onto his fingers, which are muddy and vomit-covered and good lord does he need an actual shower. And then, without a thought, he stabs blindly at the vague shadow through the curtain. The blade drives home directly into Henry Bowers's sternum, and the shower curtain snaps off the rings as he topples backwards with his own knife sticking out of his chest. It isn't until he hears the loud thump of Bowers hitting the floor that Richie actually rouses, at which point he races to the bathroom.

"Eds? Are you- JESUS FUCK!" He staggers backwards, tripping over his own feet and landing on his ass. Eddie hurries to him and offers him a hand up, blood pouring out of the open wound on his face. "Holy fucking shit, Eddie!"

"What? Is it bad?" Richie barks out a laugh.

"Yeah, baby, it's bad. Also, is that fucking-"

"It's Bowers." With all of the blood in Eddie's mouth, it comes out more like "It'sh Bowersh."

"Holy fucking shit," Richie repeats again, softer. "Come on, let's get you patched up." Richie takes Eddie by the arm and leads him to the bed. He scrambles through Eddie's bags until he finally finds the massive first-aid kit Eddie insists on taking with them everywhere. Turns out, he had the right idea.

When the cut (which is actually not too bad- the blade didn't actually go through the bone, and it went in a mostly straight line) is held together with a decent number of butterfly bandages and a strip of gauze has been taped over it, Richie and Eddie finally turn their attention back to the body in their bathroom. Except-

"Uh... Richie?" Eddie says.

"Hm?" Richie is putting away the medical supplies.

"...Where's Bowers?"

"What the hell do you mean, 'where's Bowers', he's right-" Richie looks over Eddie's shoulder at the empty spot on the tiled floor where Bowers should be. Because he should be dead. But evidently, that didn't happen, because he’s not there. There is a streak of blood across the floor leading to the window, which is wide open, the curtain billowing in air that suggests a storm is on its way.

”Motherfucker,” Eddie says, barely above a whisper.

”Fucking... fuck!” Richie slams his fist into the door frame, then winces as he shakes it out. He takes off running, first through the room, then down the stairs. Eddie struggles to keep up with him, pausing at the top of his stairs to use his inhaler.

“Richie, where the hell are you going?”

”Where do you think?” Richie asks, still running for the doors. “I’m going to kill Henry Bowers!”

“Fuck,” Eddie mutters, but doesn’t run after him. He won’t be able to catch up, and then he’ll just be tired. And he shouldn’t stop Richie. Henry Bowers is a piece of shit, and he knows that Richie’s got his own grudge match with him, not just Eddie’s to think about. He sees Ben standing on the landing below and races to him. Ben, who is still staring puzzledly, jumps when Eddie grabs his arm, and takes Eddie by the shoulders to steady him before he can topple over.

"Whoa, Eddie- wait, what the fuck happened to your face-?"

"Never mind that. Henry Bowers showed up, he- he attacked me- I stabbed him- thought he was dead but- and now Richie's- Richie's gonna kill him," he finishes finally, the words coming in short, clipped bursts.

"What?!" Bev comes into view. She has heard everything, and her face is washed pale. "Jesus, first Bill, now Richie?"

"Wait, where's Bill?" She explains how Bill ran off to the carnival and Eddie runs his hand over his face. "Fuck. Okay, Bowers came here, which probably means he meant to kill not just me, but all of us. The three of us are here. Richie, Mike, and Bill are all on their own. Richie went after Bowers, Mike is at the library, and Bill is at the carnival." Ben and Bev share a confused glance, but Eddie doesn't see it. He sees a map of Derry stretched out before him, and each of them are a red dot on the map. He sees Mike sorting through stacks of books, Richie hunched over the Mustang's steering wheel, Bill racing Silver down the streets of Derry, fast enough to beat the devil. He can visualize it all in a way that is impossible to explain to anyone else, but that's truly incredible to watch as he points in seemingly random directions, tracing the lines of the streets. "It won't be Bill. The carnival is too crowded for Bowers to try anything there. Richie, Richie's in his car, but-" Eddie has a thought then. Richie's not dumb, as much as he likes to act it. "Richie's probably figured out the same thing I just did, which is that Mike is alone and totally unsuspecting. That's where Bowers'll go, and when he gets there, he'll get both of them. We have to go. Now." Eddie pats his pockets and groans. "Fuck. Richie's got the car keys.

"I've got it," Ben says, and they rush the doors. "Let's go."

[londone-fog]

Heart Songs- Reddie Genderbent AU

AO3 Link

In which Ellie is really confused, Ruth throws a party, Bea reads some stuff, Billie does some cool skateboard tricks, Steph is secretly cool, Beau is an amazing human, and Mack just wants to have a good time.

Also prom, sort of.

Notes: Hey guys, I'm back. I really hope you like this, because I've been working on this for a while now. If you have any questions about the AU or just in general, you can find me on tumblr at either cacti-cool (main account) or londone-fog (writing account). Have fun! Edit: I changed a few things. First off, the rating is now mature as there is a masturbation scene and some non-explicit sexual content in later chapters. Second, I changed the name of the fic, as well as the chapter names. Every chapter is named after a different Weezer song, as well as the fic name. I recommend you listen to the title song as you read the chapters! Thank you for understanding!

Part One- Rosanna

Ellie Kaspbrak was what you might refer to as “aggressively ordinary.”

She was an ordinary girl, from a little ordinary town, in the ordinary state of Maine. She lived in a small house with her dad. He had a boyfriend of sorts.

She thought of that one Monday morning, staring at her reflection in her vanity mirror. Her brown hair framed her tired face, eyes gaunt from lack of sleep. She fiddled with her hands, picking at the dry skin around her knuckles before looking around her room. Her light grey walls were decorated with a few sparse photos. Her furniture was wood, with a white floral bedspread pulled loosely over the twin mattress in the corner.

Ellie’s eyes stopped to look at the clock on the bedside table with a sort of anxious anticipation. It was 7:33. Her boyfriend would be picking her up at 7:45, like he did everyday.

Ellie’s boyfriend was a strange staple in her life. His name was Mason. He was a football player from the high school team, and therefore very large. If not for the constant workouts he underwent with the rest of the team in anticipation for the next season, he might have been obese. Ellie liked him well enough. He wasn’t particularly interesting; if Ellie herself was ordinary, then Mason was downright bland.

Suddenly, Ellie’s phone buzzed in her pocket. She held her breath, but was pleasantly surprised to see it was Ruth texting her.

Garbage Human: prey tell, my swellest el, is my contact name still garbage human in your phone

Ellie: Depends on why you’re asking.

Garbage Human: well i might not be so garbage anymore ;)

The text was then followed by a picture of Ruth standing next to a car. Well, car might have been too glamorous a word. It was a bright orange monstrocity on wheels, the paint sunbleached and peeling in places. One of the wheels was missing a hubcap. There was a long crack running across the length of the windshield. And finally, squatting near the front tire, was Ruth. Her curly, bobbed hair was pulled away from her face, large wire-framed glasses sitting on the end of her upturned nose. Her mouth was pulled into a mock-serious line; dangling from her fingers were the keys.

Ellie: Please tell me that isn’t a car.

Garbage Human: el you wound me

Garbage Human: yes that is my car her name is bessie

Ellie couldn’t help but nearly roll her eyes to the back of her head. Ruth was an interesting person. She was loud, with wild dark hair and even wilder eyes. Her mouth never seemed to close, even when she wasn’t talking (which was rare). She only seemed to wear clothes that had a pattern in some way, with cigarette smell clinging to every fibre. Her knees, elbows and palms were always riddled in scrapes and bruises from countless tumbles with her longboard. Yes, Ruth was very interesting.

It was anyone’s guess as to why they were each other’s best friends.

Garbage Human: i could start giving you rides now if you want

Ellie could practically hear the secret pleading in Ruth’s voice. The truth was, Ellie hadn’t seen her friends nearly as much as she used to. Since Mason and her started dating a few months back, it seemed like more and more of her time went to humoring her boyfriend; going to games and practices and movie dates. She missed their group of seven and the time they used to spend together. Especially when it came to Ruth. That was why she barely hesitated to type out her response.

Ellie: I guess. Just promise me I won’t end up dying in that thing

Garbage Human: you have my complete honor as a cub scout

Ellie smiled to herself; a small secret thing she’d never admit to. A sudden, loud honk from outside surprised her out of her moment, her spine straightening harshly. She looked out the window to see Mason sitting in his car, the same as every morning. Ellie sighed, gathering up her supplies and racing down the stairs.

Her father sat in his chair, the television nattering on in the background. He saw her, and motioned for her to come over.

Ellie and her father had a somewhat odd relationship. This was largely in part to Ellie’s mother dying when she was young, making her father somewhat… overprotective. Their relationship had become somewhat strained the older and more independent Ellie got. He didn’t like her being around boys, but he especially didn’t like her being around Ruth. He still to that day had no idea that she even spoke to Beau Marsh.

“Do you have your inhaler?”

“Yes, dad.”

Ellie didn’t actually need an inhaler. She’d known for a long time, since she was thirteen years old. Her father didn’t know that she knew, because Ellie had never brought it up to him. It didn’t just stop at the inhaler. He’d been trying to get her to take other bullshit medicine since she was small. Now that she knew better, she’d developed a complicated series of lies and sleight of hand to avoid taking the pills.

“You took your pills too, right?”

“Yup.” She’d taken them, alright. They sat heavy in the front pocket of her overalls, like a collection of riverstones. She could safely say that her father knew next to nothing about who she really was; his “little girl” was a facade created to keep her sane.

“Alright, sweetheart. Have a good day at school.” He leaned his cheek out, and she pressed a quick peck to the stubbled skin there.

Ellie didn’t breathe until she slammed the door of Mason’s car behind her.

“Jesus, you’ll break a window doing that, Ellie. What’s got your goat this morning?” Mason said, voice riding the line between scolding and whining.

“It’s just my dad. He’s been pestering me.”

Mason sighed, a patronizing little thing.

“You’re cute when you’re annoyed. He’s just trying to protect you.” He leaned over and placed a kiss to her cheek. Ellie resisted the urge to lean away.

They’d had the fight before; Mason believed that Ellie needed to be protected. She was small, she was skinny, she was feminine. Ellie knew that none of that was true.

“Mason, I need to ask something,” Ellie said quietly, car rumbling to life and pulling away from the house.

“Hmm.”

“I, uh…” She traced the outline of her phone through her pocket. “... well, my friend just got a car. And she lives closer to my house than you do-”

“Just spit it out, already.”

“Ruth is going to start giving me rides to school. It’s just… it’s more convenient, and I don’t get to see her as much as I used to.”

The car became deathly silent.

“So I’m taking up too much of your time? Is that it?”

Ellie’s fist clenched where is lay on her leg.

“I never said that. I just said that it’s more convenient for Ruth to pick me up in the mornings.”

“Why do you even want to spend so much time with her, anyway?”

Ellie looked away from the dashboard to her whitening knuckles, where a simple band of gold lay wrapped around her little finger. It was a ring that Ruth had given her on her sixteenth birthday, to replace the plastic cereal box ring that Ellie used to wear in childhood. It was the only jewelry that she wore everyday.

“Because she’s my best friend, Mason, and she lives closer to me than you do. Nothing more.”

The outline of the high school was rapidly approaching, and Ellie felt a little tension leak out of her body. Mason rubbed a thick hand over his face, letting out a long tired sigh.

“You know what, fine. Fine. On one condition.”

Ellie unclenched her hand slowly, quietly syphoning the air out of her body.

“What’s that?”

Mason quickly jerked the car into the parking lot, the sound of old soda cans clattering around the back seat as they pulled to a somewhat jarring stop. He pulled up the parking brake and rounded on Ellie with all the surprise of a tiger leaping from the bushes. He placed a meaty hand on her shoulder as if to keep her there, pinned, with no option but to listen to him.

“Go to prom with me.”

“What?”

“I don’t care who the hell gets you to school, as long as you say you’ll go with me.”

Ellie stared into Mason’s eyes, a nearly clear blue. Basically colorless, like looking through window and seeing absolutely nothing on the other side. Devoid of any personality or interest. She could feel her throat closing and her eyes sting, and she wondered briefly if she was going into anaphylaxis.

She wanted so badly to say no. She wanted to run out of this car and never come back. Maybe she’d just suffocate from anxiety right then.

“Sure, sounds great Mason.”

What the fuck am I saying? What is wrong with me? she thought as Mason leaned in and kissed her; it was sloppy and hit the corner of her mouth more than her actual lips. She quickly pulled away, muttering some sort of farewell as her feet hit the asphalt.

The parking lot was filled to the brim with students and shitty cars. Ellie kept her eyes to the ground, white knuckling the straps of her backpack as strangers hollered all around her. She only looked up when she heard the characteristic bark of her best friend’s laugh.

The loser’s club, as it had been known for years, consisted of the most ragtag group of teens that Derry, Maine had to offer. They all stood around Ruth’s new car, which was even more horrible in person. Billie Denbrough, their unofficial leader, was making a valiant effort to let loose with a would-be impressive string of cuss word from her place on the ground. Closer inspection showed a new hole torn in the knee of her jeans, with blood weakly dripping from the wound. Her trusty skateboard lay upended a few feet away. Ruth, as opposed to helping their friend, was laughing so hard she was nearly bent in half, black hair falling over her face. The other losers stood around in a sort of shell shocked state, not sure whether to help Billie or laugh along with Ruth.      

They all seemed to make up their minds the closer that Ellie got.

Bea rushed to check Billie’s knee, Mackenzie following with chuckle. Beau held out a hand, which Billie used to hoist herself to her feet. Steph stayed firmly in place, arms crossed with a stern look and secret smile in her eye. Ruth was practically on the ground herself at that point, Ellie’s shadow reaching across her as she approached.

“Ruth, you fucking idiot, what did you do this time?” Ellie asked, already rummaging through her bag for a band aid.

“Our darling Billie Jean can’t even do a kickflip without busting her ass,” Ruth said once she caught her breath.

“I c-c-can t-t-too, you a-a-a-fuck. I d-did this m-morning.”

Ellie shook her head, leaning down to press a bandage over the wound. If she’d been home, she would have dowsed it in hydrogen peroxide and used real gauze and bandage, but this would have to do. It was probably best, considering how dry and cracked her hands were these days.

“Thanks E-ellie,” Billie finally said.

And, at that, the bell for first period rang out, abruptly ending all shenanigans. Ellie slung her bag back over her shoulder, trying to ignore the itch under her skin from being so close to another person’s blood. Luckily, the thought was knocked out of her head by the slap of a hand against her shoulder.

“So, you seem tense. Did you have to flush yourself down the toilet to even get out of the house this morning?”

“Shut the hell up Ruth, I’m not in the mood for jokes.”

She didn’t have to look to know that Ruth’s permanent smile had faltered. Her hand went from a heavy weight to a soft comfort in a matter of seconds. In a rare moment of genuity, Ruth dropped her voice so only Ellie could hear.

“You okay, El? Is it your dad or…?”

“No, no, not really. Just kinda stressed out. And for the last time, stop calling me that. That’s a kid nickname.”

“Yeah, not happening. I know you secretly love it. You’ll thank me someday.”

She paused a moment to chew on her bottom lips, allowing a scarce ray of anxiety to shine through.

“You know what’ll make you feel better? I’m driving the losers to the quarry today, break in Bessie and all that. I know you’re probably busy with your boy toy, but you’re more than welcome to come.”

Ellie’s stomach dropped. She wanted so badly to see her friends, but she felt obligated to see Mason after everything that happened that morning. But one look at her friend’s face, and she knew where she should really be.

“I’ll see what I can do.”

Ruth’s eyes lit up, and her mouth cracked open in a wide grin.

“Oh, Ellie-Belly, you won’t regret it. I knew you wouldn’t miss the chance to see my blinding white thighs.”

Ellie rolled her eyes, but allowed Ruth to throw an arm around her shoulders as they walked to class.

---

Ellie had never been a fan of spit.

She distinctly remembered the first time she’d had a panic attack. She had been about seven years old, and some boy in her class had decided it was the perfect time to let loose with a spit glob worthy of the gods. Unfortunately, Ellie had been standing near enough to be in the splash zone. It somehow was so much different than playing loogie at the quarry with with Billie and Ruth. This time, there was a wet splatter across the skirt of her jumper, and she lost it. Some combination her fathers instilled fear of germs and her own anxious tendencies brought about a cascade of tears and snot. It took a trip the restroom with both Ruth and Billie to get her to calm down enough to go back to recess.

Ellie thought of this as she sat in Mason’s car after school, his tongue making a valiant attempt to fight her tonsils.

This was an activity that took up much of her time after school. She’d never admit it to herself, but it was probably one of her least favorite parts of the day. Ellie genuinely struggled with physical contact; she’d gotten used to the losers touching her, but anyone else made her uncomfortable. Kissing Mason fell under the umbrella of uncomfortable.

Mason, on the other hand, was having a great time. Ellie was pushed further and further into the seat as he grew more and more eager. His hand was wrapped loosely around her thigh.

Ellie’s eyes opened, trying to look at the time on the clock and pretend she was interested in kissing. It was 3:24. School had ended nearly thirty minutes ago. The losers had all surely left to go to the quarry by then.

Suddenly, as if her mind had been read, she felt her phone buzz in her pocket. She slowly, carefully, reached her hand into her pocket to pull the phone out and held it behind Mason. The message was from Steph, saying that she needed to get to the quarry ASAP. Apparently Ruth wouldn’t stop complaining that Ellie had abandoned them.

Ellie’s mind was quickly snatched from the message when she the hand on her thigh move to cup her breast. She pulled away quickly, smacking Mason’s hand away.

“What? I thought you liked that.” he whined.

She didn’t like it. There was never a time where she said she did. Ellie tried to quickly think of an excuse.

“I, uh…”

“Come on, don’t be nervous.” Mason reached over and fiddled with one of the buckles on her overalls, trying to subtly unhook the button from the catch. An idea suddenly appeared in Ellie’s mind, and she pushed his hand away again.

“Uh, I’m wearing overalls.”

Indeed she was. They were her favorite pair, with the floral appliques on the legs that Steph had ironed on for her.

“What does that have to do with anything.”

“Well, uh, that would violate my rule.”

Ellie had the forethought when her and Mason started dating to put a rule in place: He was not allowed to touch her underneath her clothes, specifically when it came to pants.

“How’s that?”

“Overalls are like a shirt/pants combo. That breaks the rule.”

She could tell that it was a half-baked excuse, and Mason knew it too. His eyebrow was raised in confusion, but he relented and moved away. Ellie breathed a sigh of relief.

“You’ve been acting strange today.”

“No I haven’t”

Silence. Mason sighed, scrubbed at his face with his hand.

“Look, I have to do some conditioning today. You can either walk home or stay and watch. It’s up to you.”

Ellie resisted the urge to pump her fist in victory.

“I’d like to stay, but I have a lot of homework. Maybe tomorrow?”

Mason nodded, but Ellie was already out of the car.

She didn’t start running until she was sure he couldn’t see her anymore.

A genuine smile burst across her face as she pumped her legs. The air was beginning to warm, spring chill giving way to summer heat. The end of junior year was rapidly approaching, and the feeling of true freedom spurred Ellie on as she raced toward the quarry.

[yallreddieforthis]

I Can’t Believe It’s Not Richie

Fandom: It (2017)

Pairing: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier

Rating: T (for language)

Words: 2.7k

Pre-relationship. Movie canon-compliant but not book. Also posted on AO3

The Greater Fool Series: Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 4.5 (NSFW) | Part 5

It seems impossible that a person can be both that shitty and the shit at the same time but like...it’s Richie. And since Richie doesn’t give a single fuck about following any kind of rules, Eddie guesses the ones that govern Eddie’s emotions don’t apply to him either. Greaaaat.

Sometimes Eddie can't believe it's Richie.

Maybe even most of the time, like when everything out of his mouth is your mom and my wang and it's just words, it's not even funny, and Eddie can only tune him out or try to talk over him. Richie cannot shut the fuck up for one goddamn second. And it's not even like Eddie can pin it to anything specific—like, oh, Richie talks more when he's angry or nervous or excited—because he does it when he's every one of those things and any other thing besides. The tone may change—the subject matter even—but the talking. Never. Stops.

Eddie doesn’t really consider himself a beacon of cultural knowledge, but he does own a TV. So he at least has a vague idea of what a British person might sound like, which is more than he can say for Richie. Richie also owns a TV, and yet his British Guy impression is so god-awful that Eddie has to assume he’s basing it on someone’s description of a fever dream they once had about a London street urchin from the eighteen hundreds. This only applies to the actual words though, not the pronunciation—which is pretty much indistinguishable from just Richie being Richie—and that’s across the board for all the voices, not just the British Guy. For someone who loves imitating other people as much as Richie does, it’s unbelievable how remarkably all his Guys sound like they’re from Derry, Maine. Because shouting out mangled phrases he half-remembers from the time he watched Mary Poppins six years ago—in the most American voice imaginable—is still somehow Richie’s interpretation of a British accent.

That isn’t even the worst part of The Voices though. The worst part is that Richie seems to have a sixth sense that alerts him to the exact moment at which it would most infuriate Eddie for him to do one, and invariably it’s as if a little light goes off in the least-developed part of his brain that says Time To Be Italian! (or Southern, or German—he has a constantly expanding, but not noticeably improving, repertoire) and it’s like he just has to do it right then. Sometimes it makes Eddie want to scream at him. Sometimes Eddie does scream at him. But screaming makes no difference; Eddie knows perfectly well that Richie will absolutely do it again the second the urge strikes him, no matter how inappropriate the timing or what Eddie does in reaction.

He's fucking gross too. Not necessarily grosser than the rest of them, but he certainly subscribes to the teenage boy brand of hygiene that dictates that he only really has to shower when Eddie finally shoves him away with a you smell like a sweaty nutsack. Of course then Richie inches closer and it's all how would you know, huh? and Eddie has to be like because I have nuts too, dipshit, and if you never wash them you'll—

And then all his warnings about bacteria and fungal infections are drowned out in the your mom and my wang and vague, half-heard rumors Richie repeats about people from school that Eddie knows aren't true, and he's pretty sure Richie doesn't even believe himself. Fuck him and his terrible, nasty-ass jokes.

Some days he thinks Richie purposely doesn't shower specifically so that he can torment Eddie with his unbearable boy stank. Or how he'll like, step in dog shit and just sort of shrug and wipe the sole of his shoe in the grass and then keep going with whatever he was doing like he's not literally tracking shit everywhere. If Eddie were to step in dog shit—which he wouldn't because he watches where he's going like a sane person—it would bring his entire day to a screeching halt. He gets that he's in the minority when it comes to these kinds of things, but he doesn't get why.

And then Richie has the audacity to suggest that Eddie's just as bad as the rest of them—when he says things like you’re convinced your shit doesn't stink, or it’s the smell of your own breath wafting back in your face—like he thinks Eddie is kind of gross too. Which shouldn't bother him, but it does. Somewhere very, very deep down in his gut he has a nagging suspicion as to why that might possibly be, but he's hell-bent on ignoring it at least until the inevitable destruction of the planet Earth, if not even longer. And that’s going like...pretty well for him. Reasonably well. Maybe a little less well than it used to be, but he's almost fourteen now and he thinks he should probably have a solid handle on the whole thing within the next couple of years.

But even if Richie wasn't either of those things—annoying, disgusting—there's nothing really exceptional that he is. It's not like he's a genius; the gigantic, goofy glasses make him look smarter than he actually is, and he gives as few shits about school as he does about anything else. Eddie is sure that Mrs. Tozier has never been to a parent-teacher conference where she didn’t hear the phrase if he only applied himself, and he’s equally sure that every one of the teachers who said it knew that they were wasting their breath. If Mrs. Tozier—or anyone else—stood even the slightest chance of motivating Richie to care about pre-algebra, there would have been upward mobility in his GPA long before now. Eddie has to assume he does at least some homework—if for no other reason than because he hasn’t been held back yet—but as far as he can tell, Richie bent over a textbook at home is a sight as yet unwitnessed by mankind.

Richie’s not athletic either—by any definition of the word—at least not until they decide to make Competitive Talking an Olympic sport. He’s really good on his bike, but that’s a skill he developed out of practicality because the alternative is being stuck walking all over Derry, and it’s not like being able to ride a bike is something to brag about because even Eddie can do that. But Richie’s not a fast runner. He can’t do a push-up unless it’s the kind that only count as push-ups when girls do them, knees on the ground. He can’t even throw a spitball into a trash can from three feet away (his performance in the Rock War against Bowers and his goons was a crazy, adrenaline-fueled exception)—and like, okay, the bad aim can probably be chalked up to his horrendous eyesight, but even beyond that there’s this general, overall lack of coordination. Eddie has what amounts to a universal pass that effectively excuses him from participating in PE for his entire school career, so he’s never been physically present for what goes down on the yard, but he can pretty much piece it together from the scrapes and bruises all over Richie’s arms and legs. It doesn’t matter what unit they’re on—dodgeball, baseball, soccer, tetherball—Richie plays only one position: target.

He doesn’t fare any better in the kind of extracurriculars that teachers and parents care about, like music. Richie is an aggressively bad singer—a fact Eddie is forcibly reminded of every time anyone has a birthday because Richie always makes a point of sandwiching Eddie between himself and someone who won’t run away (usually the birthday kid’s mom) while he belts out an eardrum-shattering rendition of Happy Birthday at the top of his lungs. Richie seems to interpret birthday party invitations as personal challenges for him to sing louder and worse, challenges he has so far risen to spectacularly on every occasion. The song gets longer each time too, because he never forgets to include Frankenstein on channel nine and the big fat lady on channel eighty and whatever new, ruder verses he’s scrounged up out of nowhere between the last birthday party and this one. Richie’s singing is actually one of the most obnoxious things about him, in Eddie’s opinion, which is really saying something.

He is so unrestrainedly, deliberately awful that Eddie could honestly imagine some idiot adult who doesn’t know Richie listening to him screech the chorus of Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go over and over in Eddie’s ear (the newest sabotage tactic he’s been deploying at the arcade to try to make Eddie lose at Street Fighter) and thinking wow, maybe that kid actually has a beautiful singing voice but doesn’t want anyone to know because he’s worried people will make fun of him. They would be wrong, of course, because even when he’s not actively trying to suck, Richie can’t sing for shit. Eddie doesn’t have to know anything about music to be able to tell that Richie’s real singing voice—the one he almost never uses—is flat and off-key. And forget about instruments because whenever someone makes the mistake of letting him get his hands on one, he immediately tries to shove it down his pants—or worse, Eddie’s pants—and pretend it’s a wang.

There’s art—and Eddie has noticed that being a really good artist can absolve someone of the sin of sucking at everything else. Bill, for example, is talented enough with watercolor pencils that if he drew people’s attention to his sketches, he could probably get away with not knowing how to write a half-decent thesis statement or multiply fractions (even though Bill does know how to do those things) because people would just affix the tortured artist label to him and stop giving him shit about the stutter. And Richie actually draws a lot—probably as much as Bill if it’s purely a question of quantity over quality—it’s just that the only things he seems to be interested in drawing are dicks, and the places he chooses to draw them are all technically the property of the Derry Public School District. Also, his fine motor skills are at least as bad as his gross ones, because his handwriting looks the way his singing voice sounds, and the dicks he draws make Eddie question if Richie has ever even looked in his own pants before.

And yet, despite all of the incontrovertible evidence that Richie is actually a walking disaster, there are other times that Eddie can't believe it’s not Richie to everyone else. Or even like anyone else.

It could be argued that it’s almost inevitable due to the sheer volume of jokes he tells, but every so often Richie will get one absolutely, unassailably right. His timing, his word choice—the heavens open, the planets align, and suddenly everybody around him is laughing so hard they can't breathe, Eddie included. His eyes usually end up watering when it happens, but he squints through them to look at Richie because in those moments, Richie glows like nothing else. He tries to act like it isn’t a big deal that everyone is pissing themselves from whateverthefuck he just blurted out of his incessantly flapping mouth hole, but Eddie can tell how thrilled he is when people actually find him funny. It's happening more and more often nowadays, enough so that Eddie sometimes wonders if maybe Richie is wasting his time at school after all. And who needs sports or music or art anyway?

And he could be a whole lot worse about Eddie’s germ thing if he wanted to be, like how some people give him hell about the pills and the inhaler and the hand washing. Richie doesn’t have detergent hands but he sure as shit will mouth off to anybody who gives Eddie a hard time about his. He can’t say Richie doesn’t at least try to look out for him, in his own weird way. Or Bill, or Stan, or Mike, or any of them. It causes more trouble than it’s worth more often than not, especially because Richie doesn’t have any discernable muscle with which to back up his shit-talking, so it probably would honestly be better if he would just like...not. But Eddie can’t really help appreciating it all the same.

But the hardest thing to ignore about Richie—and Eddie wouldn’t admit this to anyone, even under threat of death by clown—is that his memories of what Richie did for him over the summer have become a kind of personal, private shield against fear. They all try to avoid thinking about It as much as they reasonably can (which isn’t much; it’s not like you just go and forget about the time you and all your friends climbed down a haunted well so you could almost get eaten by a demon clown in the sewers), but Eddie’s positive he isn’t the only one who lies awake at night when the sound of his own pounding heartbeat is making him too nauseous to sleep.

The lights are off because it’s almost worse when they’re on. Maybe if he can’t see It coming, it’ll just eat him real fast and get it over with before he even knows what hit him. Still, he doesn’t want to die—instantly is preferable to slowly, but even better is not at all. So he’s developed a set of dozens of little rules for himself to follow—like no turning over, no breathing too deeply, no limbs outside the covers, no long, slow blinks (quick ones are okay; otherwise it’s eyes all the way closed or all the way open). Realistically he knows that not a single one of these rules means jack shit to anyone outside his own brain, but somehow no-ing himself into what amounts to a vegetative state eventually bores him to sleep. Okay, usually it does. More like occasionally. Actually it’s only worked like twice, but whatever. He’ll take what he can get at this point.

Sometimes Eddie thinks he has it worse than anyone else. Well, maybe not worse than Bill. But the rest of them—he isn’t sure if any of them can really understand exactly how fucking useless he felt down in that god-forsaken lair with his arm in a cast. Bill and Beverly were awesome, Mike was like a goddamn soldier, Stan was great after he’d finished crying and even Ben, who Eddie basically thinks of as the most inoffensive kid on the planet, was tough as balls. And Eddie felt like a worthless piece of shit. He hates his arm for being broken, and he hates his nightmares for always including the broken arm. It’s coming at him—just him—and his arm is hanging limply and there’s not a goddamn thing he can do—

And that’s where Richie comes in. Only when he thinks about Richie bitching Bill out for getting them all into this shit situation while inching toward the mountain of broken toys, Richie grabbing a baseball bat and saying now I’m going to have to kill this fucking clown...only then does the terror that surrounds him all through the night start to ease up.

And then he thinks a little further back about when he fell through the floor and broke his arm in the first place, about how all his friends were crowding him and freaking the fuck out, and Richie just looked at his arm and said he was going to set the break and snapped his bone back into place while Eddie shrieked at him to do not fucking touch me. Just like, grabbed his arm where it was dangling the wrong way and fucking did it.

Sometimes… Sometimes Eddie is positive that if It were to show up in his house on any given night, Richie would immediately come crashing through his bedroom window, swinging a baseball bat. Because somehow Richie would know if It returned, would know It was coming for Eddie, would show up in time. He’d show up and keep his shit together while Eddie couldn’t. He’d probably sometimes miss with the bat, but Eddie kind of suspects that it wouldn’t matter. Richie would stand between Eddie and It and just sort of suck all the scary out of the room with his endless, pointless trash-talking. And when Eddie thinks about it that way, it’s like you know what? Screw John McClane; Richie Tozier is Eddie’s hero.

And then Richie sticks his sweaty armpit in Eddie’s face and goddamn it Eddie can’t believe it’s Richie.

[stardewxcrossing]

Moved On - pt 3

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

Word Count: 1,531

It has been almost two hours since he’s left the airport. Bill and Stan had offered to keep him company, but Richie had refused. He really just needed to be alone. He thought about going home, and but that would’ve been too much for him. Because the truth is, even though Eddie hasn’t stepped foot into the apartment in over a year, his presence still lingered. Sometimes Richie would come home, and the scent of the other man’s cologne was in the air, like he had just walked across the room. Sometimes, Richie would wake up in the morning to the faint sounds of pots and pans clanking in the kitchen, only to see an empty room when he stepped outside. Sometimes, he swore he heard the shower running, and if he listened hard enough, he could almost hear Eddie humming one of his tunes.

Richie was now laying down on a park bench, staring up at the sky, the moon barely visible through the clouds. This park was his place to go to when he wanted to escape the rest of the world. Back when he and Eddie were together, he would go here when they got into their fights, and Eddie needed to be alone. It was where he went to clear his head, and the only place that didn’t have a strong lingering memory of Eddie. It was almost 10:00pm now, so the park was pretty much empty, except for a few homeless people scattered around. It cold tonight, and he cursed himself for forgetting to bring his pack of cigarettes with him. With the excitement of running to the airport and confessing to his lover, Richie had only remembered to grab his jacket and keys. He thought back to everything that had happened to him in the past hour, and he felt like an idiot. He should’ve listened to his gut feeling and stayed away from Eddie. How could he be so stupid to think that the romantic gesture was going to change Eddie’s mind? He thought back to the moments when they first broke up. Richie had never felt pain as badly as when Eddie dumped him, not even when Henry Bowers almost killed him.

The first few months had been the hardest for him. Eddie had simply said that the relationship was becoming too much for him to handle. He had a job offer in London, ad he was going to take it. His flight was in a week. Richie remembered how hard he had cried, apologizing over and over again. He remembered telling Eddie he wanted to go with him. He remembered pleading with him that he would change, that he’d fix his habits for him. But Eddie had been resolute. He had said he needed to get away from everything, to get away from Richie. That was what hurt him the most. Because for as long as he could remember, Eddie had been the only one to stick by Richie’s side. Eddie was the one that comforted him through the hard nights when he felt like he wasn’t worth anything. Eddie was the one that patched up his wounds when he got into fights. Eddie was the one beside him, stroking his back, when he was bent over a toilet from too much alcohol. Eddie was the one he woke up to the next day when his head was pounding. And Eddie was the one Richie always ran to when life was too much for him to handle. He had been so fucked up that the one person with the most patience in his life couldn’t bare to be with him.

The only way for Richie to cope with the lost of Eddie was to be drunk, or high, or both. For the first two months of the break up, he was probably sober for a combined total of seven days. He knew it was hard for his friends to see him the way he was. It was probably the hardest for Stan, because Stan had been by his side during those times, and he was thankful. Because without Stan, Richie doesn’t think he could’ve made it through this past year. It was Stan who Richie called at 3:00am, intoxicated and crying about how much he missed Eddie. It was Stan who picked him up from bars at the early hours of the morning when he was so far gone, he could barely recognized his best friend. It was Stan who took him home, and put him to bed, and comforted him until he fell asleep. Stan the Man may have an icy cold exterior, but deep down, there was nothing he wouldn’t have done for his friends.

Richie pulled his phone out to check. He had put it on silent after receiving a few calls from Bev and choosing to ignore them. He figured it was time to at least let his friends know he was okay. He had gotten a dozen texts and missed calls from his friends, but there was one notification that caught his attention. One new voicemail from Eddie Spaghetti, sent over forty five minutes ago. He pressed play and put the phone to his ear.

"R-Richie..." Eddie's voice was shaking. “Rich, I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. For everything. F-for leaving you last year. For walking away earlier, without saying anything. I-,” he paused, trying to calm his breathing, “Please understand. I have a life in London that I can’t just drop.” You dropped everything you had in New York to go to London, Richie thought bitterly. “I’m doing what I’ve always dreamed of, Rich,” his voice was breaking. Richie felt his own tears fall down his face and closed his eyes, clutching onto the phone. “I just wish it was easier for us, you know? Like how it was in the beginning. I mean, it wasn’t easy in Derry, but we had each other, and it was enough,” he could hear the soft crying on the other end. “Y-You have no idea what this weekend meant to me. To see you, and to be with you. Us together, with all our friends, like old times. It was-,” Eddie sniffled, “It was perfect.” There was a pause, and Richie thought the voicemail had ended, but Eddie spoke again. “You were my first love. My only love. I’ve never felt about anyone what I felt with you. You were my first kiss, my first… everything. I have so much that I want to say… so much I should say… But I-” Eddie’s breathing grew heavier, and there was another long pause. “Oh, fuck this.”

Richie’s eyes shot open, he could hear shuffling on the other side of the phone.

"Sir, please take your seat and put your seat belt back on. The plane will be taking off shortly."

"I need to get off."

“I’m sorry, sir, but-”

“I need to get off this plane!”

"Sir, you can't-"

The voicemail ended abruptly. Richie frantically tried calling Eddie back, his heart beating out of his chest, fingers fumbling to dial the phone. He didn’t know if he was shaking from the cold or nerves. The first call went straight to voicemail. So did the second. And the third. “FUCK!” Richie yelled. “Eddie, Eds, baby, please pick up. Please tell me you got off the plane. Please, Eds, just-”

“I got off the plane.”

Richie spun around so quickly, his phone almost fell out of his hands. Standing a few feet from him, a faint light from the street lamp shining upon his face, was Eddie Kaspbrak. They both stood still, not knowing what to say.

“I-”

“How-”

They both went silent, waiting for the other to speak first.

“How’d you know I was here?” Richie finally asked.

Eddie shrugged and slowly started closing the distance between them. “I… I don’t really know. I remembered you used to come here whenever you had a bad day and… Bev drove me everywhere, but we couldn’t find you. I was just hoping…,” he sighed. “Richie,” his voice cracked, “Richie, I love you. I love you so much. I’m sorry I didn’t say it earlier. And I’m sorry I left last year. I’m sorry for everything. I-”

Richie rushed forward and crashed his lips onto Eddie’s. His hands reached up to hold onto the smaller man’s face, as he felt his arms wrap around his waist. Richie could smell Eddie’s cologne. A smell that was both foreign and familiar. A smell that somehow still lingered in the apartment they used to share. A smell that Richie had missed so much. He felt rain falling lightly around them, but he didn’t care as he pulled Eddie closer to deepen the kiss, only breaking apart briefly to breathe before diving back in. When they finally broke apart, they were both breathing heavily, still holding each other. “Is this real? Please tell me this is real. Tell me you’re actually here with me right now. That this isn’t another dream because I’ve had too many like this, and I don’t think I can handle another one, Eds.”

“I’m here, Chee. It’s real, I promise.”

A/N: let me just tell you that it was actually very hard to decide on whether to write a happy ending or a sad one, but I opted for the former (: I do want to thank everyone’s support for this fic, because honestly I have no confidence in my writing, so thank you for all your kind words <3

tag list: @beepbeeprichiellc @prettyblossoms @richietoaster @frncsfields @lizwillstealyourgirl @eddierichietozier @starstrucknerdgirl @itsway-past-mybedtime @11roses // I hope I tagged everyone?

[topiom]

UK weather forecast: Snow on the way in -8C freeze - will it fall in your area? - Mirror Online

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Parts of Britain have been hit by their first snowfall of the season - and more is on the way as temperatures plunge to -8C.

The UK is set for its first cold spell of the season as towns in Yorkshire and the Midlands remain underwater amid severe flooding that has killed at least one person.

After parts of Wales, Scotland and England were left looking like a winter wonderland on Saturday, the Met Office said the weather will remain cold and unsettled and the main risk of snow will likely be late Sunday night into Monday morning.

But further spells are expected through the week as much of the country sees overnight temperatures near or below freezing on some very cold nights.

Sleet, rain, frost, fog and strong winds will also pose problems for commuters next week.

Met Office meteorologist Luke Miall told Mirror Online that any snow on Sunday night and Monday morning will likely be confined to high ground in Scotland.

He said: "It’s going to stay cold and quite unsettled across the UK, similar to what we’ve had this week.

"The main risk of snow is probably going to be on Monday morning or Sunday night into Monday morning.

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"Some places could wake up to covering by rush hour.

"As the week progresses the main risk of any wintriness will be confined to the higher ground in Scotland and perhaps over the Pennines and the mountains in Wales, especially North Wales."

Here is what the Met Office forecast looks like in your area.

Central, Tayside and Fife

Temperatures will drop to -7C on Sunday morning, bringing another frosty start before a dry day.

There will be plenty of sunshine and light winds as temperatures remain cold at 7C.

Rain sleet and hill snow will clear on Monday morning. There will be some showers on Tuesday and Wednesday.

The Grampian region will see an overnight low of -8C and frost into Sunday morning.

A high of 7C on Sunday afternoon will be followed by another cold night with snow over high ground.

Showers are expected on Tuesday.

Highlands and Eilean Siar

Another widespread sharp frost will develop as temperatures plunge to -6C on Sunday morning.

Rain and snow will start falling over high ground in the evening.

Blustery showers will be wintry on high ground from Monday and they will be most frequent near the west coast with a chance of thunder.

Orkney and Shetland

Isolated showers are possible across Shetland, along with a slight frost and icy patches as the temperature falls to -2C.

Sunday will be mainly dry with sunny spells and a risk of a few isolated showers.

A southeasterly breeze will sweep in at night and it will remain breezy on Monday with outbreaks of rain and further showers on Tuesday and Wednesday.

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Dumfries, Galloway, Lothian and Borders

Rain along the coast will clear and give way to a dry, cold night and a frosty start to Sunday.

After a daytime temperature of 7C, snow will begin falling over high ground on Sunday night.

The Met Office is predicting blustery showers from Monday.

Frost will be widespread on Sunday after a night of -6C lows.

Sleet and hill snow will move in later in the evening.

After that, it will be a cold, wet and windy few days with occasionally wintry showers on high ground.

Northern Ireland

Rain and hill snow will clear on Saturday night and be followed by frost, ice and freezing fog on Sunday morning.

The temperature will drop to -3C before rising to 8C in the afternoon.

An ice warning is in place from 2am to 10am on Sunday for counties Antrim, Armagh, Down and Derry.

A cold and windy few days will follow, with showers that could turn wintry over high ground, the Met Office said.

Mid and North Wales will see rain and hill snow on Saturday night, but it will peter out in the early hours of Sunday.

There will be some frost patches as the temperatures remains near zero.

Sunday will feel milder, at 9C, but Monday and Tuesday will bring possibly thundery and wintry showers.

Rain and hill snow will clear in Cheshire and Lancashire, leading to a very cold night at -4C.

Residents will wake up to frost on Sunday morning before a fine and sunny afternoon at 8C.

Things will take a turn with possibly thundery and wintry showers on Monday and Tuesday.

North East

Frost will be widespread on Sunday after a night of temperatures near freezing.

Sunday will bring a chance of showers and a high of 8C.

Showers are possible in the east on Monday and Tuesday along with strong winds.

West Midlands

Rain and hill snow will clear in most places by the early hours of Sunday, with a minimum temperature of zero.

Patchy frost will form but Sunday afternoon will feel mild at 9C.

Monday and Tuesday will be windy with blustery, possibly thundery and wintry showers.

East Midlands

A minimum temperature of 4C is expected on Sunday morning as showers clear while flood-ravaged towns wait for swollen rivers to recede.

Sunday will be dry with patchy cloud and some showers in the east as the temperature rises to 8C.

Monday will get off to a wet and blustery start, and Tuesday will have some scattered showers.

Yorkshire and Humber

People in flood-hit areas in Yorkshire will wake up to frost on Sunday morning after a low of 2C.

The high for this region will be 8C with a chance of some showers along coasts.

Monday will be wet and windy. Further showers are possible on Tuesday.

East of England

Showers will clear as the temperature drops to 2C on Sunday morning.

Light showers will continue through the day amid a high of 10C.

Monday will get off to a wet and blustery start, and Tuesday will be drier with a few showers.

London and South East England

Heavy rain is expected into Sunday morning along with a low of 4C.

A few showers may occur in the north of the region later as the temperature rises to 11C.

Heavy rain and strong winds could pose a threat on Monday and into Tuesday.

South West England

The Met Office is predicting showers overnight into Sunday morning, but it will be milder than recently at 3C.

Frequent sunny spells and a high of 10C are expected on Sunday afternoon before thicker cloud arrives in the evening.

Monday will be windy with blustery, possibly thundery showers for many, and conditions on Tuesday will be similar.

This content was originally published here.

[righttolightsurveyors]

Right To Light Totteridge London: Your Comprehensive Guide to Achieving Maximum Light Exposure in Your Home

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[viralhottopics]

Tony Bellew stops hobbling David Haye in extraordinary boxing upset

Tony Bellew stopped a hobbling David Haye in the 11th round to ruin the former world champions return to the ring and shock boxing

Tony Bellew, no stranger to Hollywood, ripped up the David Haye script he had always considered a sham, and belted the former world heavyweight champion into unwilling submission less than four minutes from the end of a fight that will occupy highlights reels for years to come.

There was no title at stake, but a lot of money and bags of pride after the two fighters had swapped increasingly tedious insults as well as the odd handbag for five months. That Haye was crippled for the last half of the fight only enhanced the drama and, of course, they embraced at the end, the winner generous in his praise of an opponent he had affected to despise in pursuit of pay-per-view sales as much as gaining any psychological advantage.

I wanted to really beat him and he really wanted to beat me, Bellew said, glowing like a man who had proved the entire world wrong. Hes a brilliant boxer. Who wants to see it again?

There was a slim consensus for a rematch among the crowd, but it surely makes sense. This was a strong contender for fight of the year.

Haye sneaked into the London Arena in Docklands 17 years ago without a ticket to watch Lennox Lewis knock out the South African Frans Botha, and left this grander venue with considerably more than the price of admission in his bank account, probably 4m of the roughly 7m pot left from the estimated maximum revenue of 13.5m. But he did not get the result.

Victory might have earned him a payday approaching 10m with Anthony Joshua who was ringside on Saturday but that hope is as shredded as the right achilles tendon that appeared to give up on Haye when he slipped on a wet patch of canvas during a wild exchange in the sixth round.

Bellew remains the owner of the WBC cruiserweight title and will boil down to 14 stone to make a second defence of that belt after a suitable rest. He has earned it. It is unlikely, however, that he will risk fighting the much bigger Joshua or Wladimir Klitschko if the Ukrainian beats the Londoner next month.

Old-style family man Bellew who still enters the ring to the nostalgic Z Cars theme tune was determined to bring down the playboy Londoner, who prepared on a Miami yacht and saunters through his sport like a film star. A quietly thudding irony played in the background, though: Bellew, Scouse to his fingertips, has starred in a Hollywood film, as Pretty Ricky Conlan in the Rocky spin-off, Creed, in 2015; Haye, who once boxed at the Playboy mansion, never did realise his dream of cracking the film capital of the world.

All that was forgotten in the heat of an enthralling battle. From the opening bell, Haye, who had had only eight rounds of competitive boxing in five years, stalked and swung with vicious intent but curious impatience. Did he trust his stamina? Was he desperate for an early night? Certainly there seemed little wrong with his suspect achilles at this point, or the old shoulder injury that kept him out of the ring for two years. Bellew, nearly a stone lighter and no body-beautiful, picked his sculpted rival off on the counter, and broke out of his back-pedalling shell to land some telling head shots in the second.

The Evertonians dodging and dipping served him well until the fourth, when Haye dazed him mid-ring with four good swipes to the head, but he did not follow up. Bellews corner had to work on a cut over his left eye as the contest drifted towards halfway without a defining moment.

And then it exploded. Drawn into a bar-room brawl after mistakenly thinking he had his man hurt, Haye lost his cool and his footing three times the last one for a count and limped back to his corner at the end of the sixth round, the injury now a genuine hindrance to his every movement.

David Haye looks dazed after being knocked out of the ring in the 11th round. Photograph: Andrew Couldridge/Reuters

Emboldened by the sight of his stricken prey, Bellew poured it on when they resumed, landing one crunching blow after the other as Haye sought refuge on the ropes. Haye was shot to pieces and gasping for air, but Bellew could not find the finisher. Again, Haye staggered drunkenly to his stool.

His right ankle heavily strapped, Haye showed tremendous fortitude to even remain standing after giving up two 10-8 rounds and a good portion of his senses. Wounded and exhausted, he must have dreaded the next assault but Bellew, curiously, granted him respite. Husbanding what little was left of his resources, Haye broke briefly into life in the ninth but his cause looked doomed. Now Bellew was the stalker. Showing discretion that has not always been part of his repertoire in the past, he took a low blow and gave one back in the 10th.

Derided for complaining about a bruised toe when outpointed by Klitschko, Haye was surviving now on one leg, unable to push off on his right foot, and the more knowledgable fans recognised that. But when Bellew barrelled him through the ropes untidily in the penultimate round Haye beat the count but his trainer, Shane McGuigan, threw in the towel to save his man. Haye was later taken to hospital for a precautionary examination of his injury.

There will be far worse losers.

On a varied undercard, Katie Taylor, in her third professional bout after a long amateur career garlanded in medals and unstinting praise, is still in six-rounders and was way too good for the 39-year-old Italian Monica Gentili, who did not go so gentle into that good night, floored and stopped in the fifth. It was Taylors second stoppage win, and she looks well settled in the paid ranks, buoyed again by a good reception from a largely blokeish constituency steadily warming to the 30-year-old Irish boxer.

Earlier, freewheeling Yorkshire heavyweight David Allen not quite as funny as the late Irish comic, but he tries proved there was more to him than the sock he pushed down his shorts at the weigh-in when he knocked out Sheffields David Howe in the second round of six. Allen, who improved to 11-2-1, joined the bulging Matchroom roster recently, probably as a spare, but a couple of good wins and he could be in the mix for some sort of title.

The world super-featherweight champion Lee Selby, treading water between defences, looked sharp pounding out a ninth-round stoppage of the Spanish trier Andoni Gago. The Welshman is always a joy to watch, but he might need a bit more pop in those quick fists to prosper at the highest level.

The sweet science took a back seat when the former WBA lightweight champion Derry Mathews challenged the flashy Londoner Ohara Davies for his WBC light-welterweight belt and was decked three times before the referee rescued him in the third. There probably arent many working options for the 33-year-old Liverpudlian, who has had a grand 51-fight career spread over 14 years. Davies, unbeaten now in 15 bouts, should make inroads from here.

Paulie Malignaggi, a very former world champion who operates better behind a microphone these days and has a considerable UK fanbase, needed every ounce of his skills to stay clear of Sam Eggingtons heavier and younger fists but could not rise from a body shot in the eighth of 12.

Read more: http://bit.ly/2n1pDAw

from Tony Bellew stops hobbling David Haye in extraordinary boxing upset

[meginoi-writes]

Spotlights Will Guide You Home - Chapter 4

Summary:  Eddie wakes up. 

Previous 

Next

Pairing: Reddie

Words: 1675

The boy gasped, his chest heaving as he lurched forward. His stomach churned, sending him onto his knees as he dry heaved onto the ground. He sniffed, wiping the tears from his eyes as his stomach settled, giving him his first proper chance to take in his surroundings. 

Where the hell was he? 

Better question, who the hell was he? 

He racked his brain, desperately searching for an answer. Yet, all he was met with was an inky blackness where his memories should have been. There was obviously a story to how he had ended up here, lying against a rock in… where even was he? A sewer? His hand instinctively went to his chest, fingers tracing the ragged outline of the tear in the fabric of his shirt.

He felt like the world's worst detective trying to piece together what little he did remember. It reminded him of that one time he tried to do a Rubik's cube blindfolded: impossible and frustrating. A flash of a memory crossed his mind before just as quickly disappearing. 

Soft hands cupping his face, gently pulling down the blindfold he wore to come face to face with brown eyes, those big, beautiful brown eyes.

“That was a good attempt, Eds. Too bad you’ll never be as good as moi”

Ed’s, no, no. He didn’t like the sound of that. Eddie, however… that must be his name right? But who did that voice and those intoxicating eyes belong to? 

He pushed himself up onto shaky legs, one hand braced against the wall for support. He needed to get out of this hellhole, despite only spending a short while conscious in the morbid cavern, he knew it was not a place he should linger. 

There were people who would be worried about him, faces, some with names and some without, who would come looking for him eventually. His wife for one. 

His wife? 

Of course, fuck, his wife. Myra, was it?

He could remember their wedding, a day that felt stuffy and plastic, as though it would melt and burn away if placed under a hot flame. However, the months and years leading up to it were a blur of colours and numbness. He couldn’t actually remember falling for her. 

And that’s when he realised. 

He never actually had. 

He staggered over to the large gap in the wall, what he assumed was hopefully the exit, at the other side of the cavern. His steps echoed as he sloshed through the water. It seeped through his socks and shoes, making him release a disgusted shudder. 

The dim light in the cavern did little to aid him in his task. He stuck close to the wall, lest he should stumble into something he would rather avoid, something that would be better off fading into the inky blackness, never to be known again. 

Eddie guessed that was almost where he ended up. And then where would he be? The people that knew him would forget about him eventually, his face would fade from their minds like leaves that decayed as they fell from the trees, slowly until nothing remained. 

He would go out of the blue and into the black. 

His footsteps echoed in the tunnels of the sewers, bouncing off the walls and down into dark places unknown, places that were probably better to stay that way. His feet moved automatically, guiding him down the twists and turns that he wasn’t even conscious of. 

Yet, deep down he knew of their existence, as though he had travelled them before. Had he? And his feet had never forgotten the path, leading him out of that dark, desolate place and into the sunlight of Derry. 

Yes, that’s definitely where he was, Derry, Maine. The streets were thankfully empty as he stumbled aimlessly along, the sun was just on the cusp of rising as people were not yet called from their beds. It was a blessing he should be thankful for, he cut an unnerving figure in his bloodstained shirt - whether it was his blood or another’s was an answer he was yet to find - and caked in dirt and grime from the sewers. Someone would surely notice something was wrong, and then where would he be? Taken away to some hospital to have test after test - 

“You’re sick Eddie-bear! This will help you feel better!” 

No. No tests. He knew he had visited enough hospitals in his lifetime to never set foot in one again, though the reason why still escaped him. Though who the shrill, piercing voice that reminded him of the fact belonged to still escaped him. 

A three story townhouse came into view, a weather worn sign swung on its hinges outside, announcing it as ‘Derry Townhouse.’

The hotel, if you could call it that, was seemingly abandoned from the outside. Only one car was parked outside it, a large black SUV, one that Eddie immediately recognised as his own. 

Wasn’t someone else supposed to be here? No, not just someone, multiple someones. 

Nevertheless, here he was, standing on an empty street with fractured pieces of memories floating around in his head like pieces of debris from a particularly violent storm. He knew this car was his, and he knew he had drove all the way from New York to this sleepy little town for some reason. 

But putting his finger on why seemed to be the problem. 

He rooted through his pockets, fishing out a car key that had stayed surprisingly intact throughout the fight. 

Wait, what fight? Had he fought someone?

Or something? 

That was all his mind seemed willing to give at that moment though, so he unlocked the car with a loud beep and threw open the door. 

Beep…

Beep Beep… 

Beep Beep R- 

‘BEEEEEEEEP’ 

“What the fuck?!” Eddie shouted, launching himself back out of the car, removing his shoulder from where it had subconsciously moved to rest against the horn. He slapped a hand against his chest, desperately wishing for his racing heart to return to it’s calm, almost sluggish you might say, pace. 

He laughed to himself as the terror faded, the only rementants of it being a skittering feeling along the surface of his skin. He jumped back into the car, fingers wrapping around a little card that sat in the compartment that separated the driver and passenger seat. He turned it over in his hands, a picture of himself looking miserable greeting him on the other side. He squinted, eyes roaming over the information printed in block letters. 

Edward Kaspbrack. So that was his name. He lived in New york? Why? It was chaotic and dirty and not his scene at all, he knew that much. 

Sighing, he punched the address into the sat nav and turned the keys in the ignition, bringing the car roaring to life. The sooner he got out of Derry, the better. 

—-

“Eddie, is that you? Where the hell have you been? You were supposed to be back- Oh my god,” The accusatory tone in Myra’s voice failed her as she hurried round the corner, coming face to face with her husband for the first time in a couple of weeks. 

Eddie could understand her shock, after going radio silent for god knows how long it had been, now he turned up on their doorstep covered in dirt and grime from the sewers, it was bound to be disorientating. 

But he couldn’t focus on that right now. He thought the feeling of needing to run would dissipate the further he got from Derry, yet it only became stronger, more panicked. He needed to go further, faster. 

He barged past her into their apartment. Her footsteps echoed behind him as he rushed through to their bedroom.

“Eddie! Answer me! They told me you were-”

“I can’t stay here. I’ve got to go.”  Eddie delved into the wardrobe, pulling out a large canvas bag identical to the two already sitting in the back of his car. 

“Go? Go where?!”

“I don’t know. Anywhere that’s not here.”

“Eddie, you’ve got to tell me what’s going on. I don’t understand!” Myra screeched, tears now spilling down her cheeks. 

“You wanna know what’s going on? I just woke up in a goddamn sewer with no clue of how i ended up there. Now I've got to go, I don't know why, just something is pulling me. Telling me to get as far away from Derry as possible.”

“You sound crazy, you know that? So you’re just gonna come home, after supposedly being crushed to death, or at least that what they told me, and just jet off again. What about everything you’re leaving behind Eddie? What about me?! What about your wife?”

Eddie turned to where she stood in the doorway, the black pair of trousers he held dropping into a crumpled heap on the floor. He walked towards her, slipping off the gold band around his ring finger and pressing it into her shaking palm. 

“It was never real for either of us. You know that,” Eddie whispered, staring at the ring that now lay in Myra’s hand. He instantly felt lighter, as though he had finally been unshackled for the first time in years. “Goodbye, Myra.” 

He zipped up the canvas bag and carried it through the apartment, antsy to get out of that suffocating apartment. He knew what he was doing was harsh, but it was best for both of them, living a lie was pointless, and Eddie was done watching his fly by in a whirlwind of moments that held no deeper meaning. 

The airport seemed like the best place to go, yes, jump on the first plane leaving, the visa he’d found tucked neatly beside his passport would cover most places. His poorly formed plan was rash and could fail spectacularly, but it was just the kind of adrenaline kick he needed. 

And so, he jumped on a plane to London. Ready to start rebuilding a new life from the ashes of one he barely remembered.