#prev hawaiian music is so good!!!

[em-writes-imagines]

beach party | zuko

study group: a social media au where you work at iroh’s boba tea shop with zuko, try to keep up with your college courses, and stir up an irresponsible amount of chaos with the gaang 

prev. / part six / next

((author’s note: okay, so! this update wound up being over 3k words, oops! also, this one is just the written out scene, since none of this takes place over social media/text, and can be read as a solo piece if you aren’t caught up with the rest of the story! enjoy!!))

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You stare at yourself in Katara’s mirror, still second-guessing the cut of your swimsuit.

“Hey, you look great,” she assures you from across the room. “Besides, just think about all the fun you’ll have getting to swim again!”

“Yeah, you’re right,” you smile at the thought, giving yourself one more once-over before turning away from your reflection. “How do you always know what to say?”

“It’s a secret,” she presses a finger to her lips before laughing. “Now, come on, get dressed!”

You glance at the clock and your eyes go wide. “Shit, why didn’t you tell me it was getting so late?” you ask, moving across the room to pull on a hawaiian shirt and a pair of shorts over your swimsuit.

“You were kind of distracted by the mirror,” she laughs again. “Don’t worry, you still have time!”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The drive to the beach is quiet, but not uncomfortably so, a local rock station filling the silence. You’re not sure what kind of music you’d expected to hear, but it seems… fitting, especially with the way Zuko drums his fingers along the steering wheel in time.

You realize as the buildings go by that you haven’t travelled to this side of the city in ages, and a somewhat childlike excitement builds within you when you see the shoreline come into view. The ocean.

“How long has it been?” Zuko’s voice pulls you out of your reverie.

“Hm?”

“Since you’ve seen the ocean?” he explains. “You’re acting like you’ve never seen it before.”

“Oh, well, uh, I guess it’s been awhile?” You try to think back far enough. “It was before I graduated high school; what about you?”

He seems caught off guard for a moment, hesitant as he says, “I… haven’t been since my last family trip; so, yeah, awhile.”

Of course, you notice the edge in Zuko’s tone when he says family. Outside of Iroh, you know next to nothing about Zuko’s family. You’ve heard the name Azula thrown around a few times, usually in distaste or regret, but other than that… Zuko doesn’t talk about them, and you’re not going to pry.

“Do you think it’d be lame for me to pick seashells at a party?” you ask, only partly serious as you try to change the subject.

When you see the small upturn of his lips, you smile, even as he adds, “Yeah, I do.”

“Well, now I have to.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Oh my god! Zuko! Y/n!” you hear Ty Lee’s voice the second you step onto the sand, your bag and towel still in hand as she runs over to greet you. “It’s been so LONG, how have you been?? I’m so glad you could make it!!!”

Her smile is infectious, and you can’t help but grin as you reply, “Things are good! It’s so nice to see you again!”

“Why don’t you two find someplace to set up and then come join Mai and I for some volleyball! We’ve been trying to get a good game going, but no one can handle Mai’s serves,” she laughs, looking back toward her girlfriend affectionately before returning her attention to you. “What do you say?”

“That sounds like fun! What do you think?” you glance over to Zuko, whose expression is incredibly passive.

“Yeah… sounds fun.”

“Yay!!! I’ll go tell Mai!”

Ty Lee runs off toward the volleyball net while you find a place to set your things down, spreading out the beach towel you borrowed from Katara.

“Well, she’s just as sweet as I remember,” you comment, and Zuko shrugs. You watch him for a moment before asking, “Everything okay? We don’t have to go play—”

“No, it’s fine, I just… haven’t played in awhile, that’s all.”

You can tell there’s more to it, but again, it’s not something you’re going to press about, so you just smile instead. “I’m sure you’ll do fine! Now c’mon, get your ass into gear, we’ve got a game to win.”

He shakes his head, but follows you over to the net nonetheless.

“Just so you know, our games can get a little intense,” Zuko comments as you walk over, his tone somewhere between a joke and a serious warning.

“What, you don’t think I can handle it?” you ask with a laugh, not sure how to interpret the smirk he gives you.

“Just warning you, that’s all.”

Ty Lee enthusiastically waves as you approach, her other hand intertwined with Mai’s. She’s practically bouncing on tips of her toes, and you can’t fathom how a single human being is filled with that much energy… but honestly, it helps quell the anxiety you’ve been feeling all week.

“Hey Y/n,” Mai nods her head toward you, “Zuko.”

“Hey!” You don’t get the feeling that there’s any bad blood left, as you know Mai has never been much for words. The only discomfort that lingers in the air is emanating from Zuko, who still hasn’t said a thing.

So, you do the only thing you can think to do, and smile at him, trying to encourage him to loosen up.

“Hey,” he finally speaks, “so are we gonna get this game started, or what?”

Ty Lee laughs and claps her hands, and you can even see the smallest hint of a smile on Mai’s face as she rolls the ball over to Zuko. “Your serve.”

“Show us one of those killer serves, Zuko!” Ty Lee shouts, already in ready position, and you start to realize that this “game” might be a little more than you bargained for.

And when you hear the impact of Zuko’s serve, you know this is more than just a simple game of beach volleyball.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

After starting to sweat and realizing how limited your mobility is, you decide to take off your outer clothes, causing Ty Lee to pause the entire game to run over and get a better look at your swimsuit, overflowing with compliments. You can feel the blush rise to your cheeks, but again, her attitude melts away most of the anxiety you’d been feeling over the swimsuit.

You find it slightly easier to keep up with them after that.

At some point, Zuko’s shirt also gets tossed aside, and you’re having trouble concentrating on your serve. It’s game point, with both teams tied, and the pressure you’re feeling is uncomfortable to say the least. Everyone’s moves are so fast and intense; you feel out of place with your simple underhand serve and wariness toward diving for the ball.

You shake your head, doing your best to avoid looking at Zuko in any… less than platonic way, and serve the ball.

Ty Lee receives it with ease, and Mai sets her up for a spike aimed directly at you. In the span of a few seconds, you have to decide between two options: duck out of the way, or try to receive the ball as it moves at what seems to be 70mph.

While every survival instinct in your body tells you to avoid the hit, you find yourself wanting to… impress these people? Or, at the very least, not let Zuko down, so you move your forearms and try to send the ball toward him.

The ball hits your skin with an impact that leaves red marks behind, but you barely notice as you watch Zuko run toward the ball at its highest point and spike it over the net, his muscles flexing with the movement. It hits the sand on the other side, Ty Lee unable to dive in time, but you’re still staring at Zuko. Hell, how do you look away from that. 

He’s genuinely smiling when he looks back at you, a small but invigorated smile, and you do your best to return the look and play it off like you hadn’t just been eyeing him up. 

“Aw, man!” Ty Lee pushes herself off the ground, but her pout quickly turns into a smile. “Good game, guys! That was fun!!!”

“Yeah,” Mai agrees, rolling the ball back over to her bag before taking Ty Lee’s hand. “Thanks for playing with us.”

“We’re gonna go say hi to some other guests, but feel free to grab a drink!” Ty Lee gestures to the little set-up of coolers nearby, somehow still bouncing with energy as they walk away.

“So, you didn’t feel the need to tell me that you guys were beach volleyball masters?” you ask as Zuko walks back toward you, your voice winded.

He laughs under his breath. “I don’t know if I’d go so far as to say that; I did try to warn you, though.”

“Look at my arms, Zuko,” you hold out your forearms, showing off the marks left from Ty Lee’s last spike. “Look at them! You’re telling me that’s not the work of an absolute pro?”

He rolls his eyes, showing you the lingering redness on his own palm. “Maybe you just need to toughen up.”

“Oh?” You flex your bicep, trying not to laugh at your own dumb joke before you even say it. “This not tough enough for you?”

Zuko just stares at you incredulously, then breaks out into a laugh.

You try to ignore the heat that rises to your face.

“You know what? Fine, if I can’t best you in strength then… race you to the water!” You’re already sprinting away by the end of your sentence, and you giggle as Zuko calls out “Hey!” from behind you.

Despite your head start, you can hear his footfalls close behind you, and glance back to see him only a couple steps away. “Nuh uh, no way,” you mutter to yourself, pushing harder to reach the shoreline first.

By the time you’re only a few feet away from the water, you’re toe to toe with Zuko, and in a last ditch effort, you barrel your shoulder into him. He staggers to the side, most likely only because he was caught off guard by the action, but regardless, it gives you that extra few seconds to reach the shoreline before him.

“Cheater!” he calls out as you wade further into the water, now swimming away from him. You’re about to turn around and taunt your win, albeit dubiously achieved, when a hand wraps around your ankle and pulls you back.

Suddenly, Zuko is in front of you, arms crossed. “You know I should’ve won.” There’s a glare on his face that doesn’t hide the amusement in his eyes, and you feign innocence.

“Who said there were any rules involved, hm?”

His eyes narrow, and you take the opportunity to splash a small wave of water at him, attempting to swim away before he can retaliate.

You make it a little bit farther away from him this time, but again, he grabs your leg, this time pulling you into his arms so he can pick you up and dunk you back into the water.

You resurface sputtering, both from the water in your mouth and the sudden physical contact from Zuko. Deciding to firmly ignore any thoughts sparked by the touch, you frown at him, shouting, “Oh, it is on.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

By the time the sun goes down, you and Zuko are sitting beside one of the bonfires, listening to the chatter of everyone around you as you warm up. You both have your outer layers on again, the sea breeze carrying a chill that would make you shiver otherwise. Someone’s party mix is playing in the background, on a speaker small enough that the bass doesn’t sound right, but people are dancing around it anyways, drinks in hand.

 Neither of you add much to the conversation, instead opting to listen and shoot each other looks at particularly interesting quotes. It wasn’t all that different from your shifts at the Jasmine Dragon, overhearing the weirdest things from customers and judging them together. When Zuko’s eyes meet yours, brow raised after an incredibly stupid comment from a nearby frat boy, you have to stifle a laugh.

Despite all the strangers, it’s familiar, and it’s nice.

Zuko excuses himself a few minutes later, going to grab another drink, and you nod, watching the flames dance in front of you. Without someone there to make fun of everyone with, you find the fire to be a much more interesting sight, from the embers beneath the logs to the small sparks that float off the highest flames. It’s almost hypnotizing.

So, you hardly notice when someone takes Zuko’s place.

“Hi,” a voice pulls you out of your trance, and you look over to see a girl with dark hair and golden eyes. She’s smiling, but there’s something unnerving about the expression, something you can’t place. “I’m Azula, Zuko’s sister,” she reaches out to shake your hand. “You must be Zuko’s date.”

You finish the gesture, and her fingers squeeze just a little too tightly around your hand as you explain, “Oh! No, we’re just friends!”

She throws her head back with a laugh before looking you up and down. “Of course, that makes much more sense; I’ll admit, I was confused when I saw you two in the water earlier. I must say, it is so brave of you to wear a swimsuit like that.”

You feel your throat constrict, staring dumbfounded for a moment as you try to process her words. “Excuse me?”

“I mean it!” She smiles. “I admire the courage it must have taken just to put it on, let alone wear it to a party like this. You should be proud.”

There’s a glint in her eye that tells you she knows exactly what she’s doing, and you don’t know how to respond. Without Zuko next to you, you feel completely alone, surrounded by people who won’t take a second glance in your direction. It’s like you’re drowning, and the girl in front of you is holding you under.

“I— I should go,” you manage to get out, moving to stand up, but she grabs your wrist.

“No, please, stay until little Zuzu comes back! I’m sure we can find something to talk about, like how bold it was for you to show up without wearing any makeup, I mean, wow.”

The pure joy in her eyes as she meticulously picks you apart burns straight through you. “I really should go.”

When you try to yank your wrist away, she pouts, gripping it tighter. “Don’t you know it’s rude to leave in the middle of a conversation?”

Your mind struggles to keep up with the sudden change in atmosphere, how quickly the anxiety from this afternoon returns, almost doubled. Any hint of joy, any spark of laughter, it’s all fading under the piercing glare of those molten eyes… you feel trapped. 

“Azula? What the hell are you doing?”

Zuko’s voice has never filled you with such relief, and thankfully, she releases her grip. “I was just introducing myself to your new friend!” She shoots him a grin before turning back to you. “What was your name again?”

Your mouth goes dry as you try to answer, and Azula laughs.

“Oh, come on, don’t be shy now. All I’ve done is compliment your confidence!”

“What are you talking about—just leave them alone, Azula.”

“Fine, whatever you say, Zuzu.” She turns to walk away, sighing, “Sue me for being nice...”

“What was that—”

“Can we go?”

Your voice is small, and you’re staring at your feet, unable to look at Zuko. You want to fade away, or disappear into the sea, or sink into the sand—anything to get away from the eyes surrounding you.

“Yeah, sure.”

Whatever questions he has, he doesn’t ask, simply follows you back to where you left your bag and towels. You can feel your hands shaking as you gather your belongings and you bite your cheek, hoping the night helps to at least somewhat mask your trembling. Get it together, idiot.

You hate that you were letting a few comments get to you this badly. Somehow, Azula managed to hit every single point of insecurity and anxiety within seconds of meeting you, and it takes everything you have to keep from spiraling right then and there.

Once you’re back in the car, you let out a sigh. It’s quiet, the music from the party faint and muffled in the background, and you can feel Zuko looking at you.

Before he can say anything, you tell him, “I’m sorry I pulled you away from the party; it seemed like you were having fun.”

Even you can hear the shake in your voice.

“Don’t worry about it; I was starting to get tired anyways.”

He starts the car, and radio static plays for a few seconds before tuning into a local station. Old rock music pours from the speakers, and you’re thankful to have something to fill the silence.

But Zuko doesn’t put the car in reverse, doesn’t so much as move to take it out of park.

“...are you okay?” His voice sounds stiff, like he’s not sure how to phrase his question, or if it’s something he should ask at all.

When you open your mouth to try and come up with some little lie, you find yourself muted by that tight feeling in the back of your throat, and all that comes out is a strangled, “I...“

Zuko sighs, a bitterness to his tone as he tells you, “Whatever Azula said, she’s just— she’s just a narcissist that gets off on putting everyone else down, her words don’t mean shit.”

It’s not like you haven’t cried in front of Zuko before. After a particularly nasty burn at work, you couldn’t stop the tears from streaming down your face. He didn’t say anything when it happened, thankfully, just let you take your time taking care of it as he covered both register and tea-making for you. Now, though, it’s different. You don’t want to cry in front of him like this. This isn’t a burn or a bruise; it’s pure shame and embarrassment and frustration. It’s searing emotional pain and you can’t let him see you like this.

“I shouldn’t have dragged you to this—“

“No, I had fun,” you insist, despite the strain in your voice. “It was a lot of fun. I’m not gonna let one bad moment ruin an entire night.”

But that isn’t up to you. Your mind has been fast at work clouding every memory with the realization that you were out there, in front of all those people, in front of Zuko, looking like that. It hurts.

“Do you… still wanna get frozen yogurt?”

The idea of trying to eat anything, let alone something so sweet, makes you feel nauseous, your stomach already turning in unease. “I think I’m gonna have to take a raincheck.” You try to keep your voice steady, try to force a smile. “You still owe me, though.”

He doesn’t tease you back. There’s no amusement in his eyes, just… worry, and you have to look away. “Can you take me home? I’m feeling tired and I— I can just get my things from Katara’s place tomorrow.”

“Sure.”

The drive home is silent.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

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[d0gdaze]

3.

The body swap au a surprising amount of people asked for, actually.

Read on AO3 / Summary

Pairings: Eddie Kaspbrak / Richie Tozier

Warnings: swearing, sexual references

Chapter 3/?

Prev | Next

Word Count: 4676

Eddie’s playlist

Mother Nature must have had it out for someone in Derry, because the storm hit hard. Overnight, the roads were flooded, trees bared of their leaves, some smaller ones nearly uprooted from the harsh winds, and though it had since reduced down to a drizzle, the sky remained dark and threatening well into the morning.

Richie didn't like the rain. Everything was wet and cold and grey, and that one part of the roof in the hallway always leaked, and the thunder meant he barely got any sleep, and his midday smoke breaks with Beverly were compromised. But, rather than feeling miserable about the weather, he woke up on that Tuesday morning with a newfound appreciation for it.

The storm had blown the power out.

There wasn't any music, or horrid singing.

The window was still closed.

Eddie wasn't awake yet.

Holy shit.

The grin that took over Richie's face then and there was only comparable to a child's on Christmas morning. Giddiness bubbled up in his chest, and he giggled – actually giggled – at the feeling. He couldn't remember the last time he felt this unashamedly happy right after waking up – to be honest he thought this might be the happiest he'd ever been, maybe period. He chose to blatantly ignore how sad that fact was.

This was going to be a great day, he thought.

He practically skipped down the stairs at seven-ish, graffitied-to-all-hell backpack slung over one shoulder, wearing (relatively) fresh clothes and his favourite, most obnoxiously coloured hawaiian shirt over a white long-sleeved one, with his hair hanging over half his face, still damp from the shower. Morning showers, ah, how he'd missed those.

He hummed a tune absentmindedly as he went about collecting his shoes from where he had thrown them haphazardly into the living room the day before. He couldn't quite place where he'd heard it, for a while. He was just about to shrug it off, until he caught himself subconsciously singing.

“I used to think maybe you loved– FUCK,” he hit his palm against his forehead, as if he could physically dislodge the song from his brain. “Damn it, Kaspbrak.”

Beverly raised an eyebrow at him as he strutted out of his house, half a minute after Mike announced their arrival via car horn, smiling wider than she had ever seen him.

“What the hell are you so happy about?” she asked as he approached, faking a scowl.

“And hello to you too, gorgeous,” he winked, and proceeded to make a show out of taking her hand and bringing it to his lips, planting a kiss on her knuckles. She snorted out a laugh and yanked her hand back.

“Seriously, did you hit your head or something? Wait,” she did a double take, mouth falling open in an overly exaggerated gasp, smacking her hand over her heart, “did you actually shower? Who're you trying to impress, Rich?”

He shrugged, sucking in a breath through his teeth.

“Nobody, my dear,” he reached forward and took the cigarette from behind her ear, turning it over in his fingers before putting it in his own mouth. She made an annoyed sound in protest, but didn't actually stop him from doing so. “Today's just my day, y'know? I can feel it.”

“Well, could you bring it down a notch? You're making the rest of us look more miserable in comparison,” she brought her hand up to ruffle his hair. He laughed, jerking his head away. Something shiny caught his eye as he did.

“Would ya look at that,” he said, slightly muffled by the cigarette, and leant down to pick up the piece of copper. He held it up in front of his face, squinting slightly to make out the engravings.

“Lucky penny,” Beverly teased, crossing her arms over her chest, “guess it really is your day.”

“Yup,” he flipped it in the air and caught it, then shoved into the front pocket of his jeans, “guess so.”

“How goes it, Mikey-boy?” Richie asked as he squeezed himself into the back seat, without half the usual displeasure.

“It goes fine,” Mike replied, “you're very chipper this morning. Anything interesting happen?”

“Maybe,” Richie said, smug as anything, for some reason. Mike shot him a slightly confused glance in the rearview mirror but didn't press the matter. “Sadie's? We have heaps of time.”

“You still owe me for yesterday's,” Beverly reminded him as she swung herself into the car, “but I'm game.”

“Oh shoot, hold on-” Richie started patting himself down, searching his pockets for spare change. He reached into the back pocket of his jeans, awkwardly thrusting his hips up as he did. He pulled out what he thought was a dollar bill and dropped back down into the seat. “Here's- oh!” He held up the crumpled tenner, attempting to straighten it out a little.

“Aw, Richie! So nice of you to pay for everyone!” Beverly grinned before snatching the note out of his hands. Richie let her take it.

“Just give me the change, yeah?” he laughed. An old Billy Idol song faded in on the radio.

Oh yes, he thought, sneaking one look back up at Eddie's window – he could just see out the back windscreen that the curtains were still closed – this was going to be a great day.

Eddie was having what was possibly the worst morning that anyone had ever had in all of human history, and it was unbelievably unfair, because he had never done anything wrong in all his life and he did not deserve this to be happening right now at all, and the universe or whatever was making him go through this terrible fucking morning obviously had a personal vendetta against him. He may as well have just crawled into a hole and died because that would have had a better outcome than what was currently happening. Everything was SHIT and FUCKED and every other cuss word out there all rolled into one – and even then it wouldn't be enough to describe how downright awful this morning was for Eddie Kaspbrak.

His internalised tantrum came and went, only really lasting for five seconds before he unclenched his jaw and took a breath. Really, it wasn't that bad. Not great, sure, but not the end of the world, and he knew that, it was just good to let all the frustration out preemptively. His alarm hadn't gone off, and for the first time in four years his mother had woken him up, immediately jumping to the conclusion that he had contracted a debilitating illness overnight and that was the only reason why he would still be in bed at – god forbid – quarter past seven in the morning. He had spent a good five minutes trying to convince her that no, he was fine, his alarm just hadn't gone off, and he could still make it to school if he hurried, and she had reluctantly let him get out of bed.

Hurrying, he soon discovered, was not something that came naturally to him, nor was it something he was particularly good at, especially when factoring in the compulsivity he had when it came to his bathroom routine, the lack of power – and therefore light –, and his mother asking him if he needed help with anything every three seconds, making him feel more like an invalid and less like a kid who woke up an hour late. But he did the best he could do under the circumstances, which involved brushing his teeth with one hand and pulling his socks on with the other, and ended up leaving the house – albeit looking just slightly disastrous – with just enough time to make it before the bell rang if he turned his walking speed up a to a power-walk and didn't stop by his locker first.

So he walked, fast, granola bar shoved into his pocket that he only grabbed in a last-ditch effort to calm his mother's nerves so she would release her death grip on his shoulder long enough for him to bolt, one hand desperately trying to flatten his hair out to a mildly presentable degree and the other swinging wildly at his side in time with his steps. It had stopped raining for the most part, only spitting lightly now, but he could deal with that. He just had to keep the pace up, and get to school. Easy enough, right? Today was going to be an okay day, he thought, if he could just get to school without any issues.

But you know what they say, when it rains it pours.

Okay, so maybe it was kind of a dick move on Richie's part. But he deserved it! For what he did the night before! So it was okay! Right?

They had picked up their shakes – and damn, they were good, as always – and were on the way back to school when they saw him; head down, walking quickly, undoubtedly going to be late. He looked a lot less put together than usual, even from behind.

Richie knew he probably should have just given the poor guy a break, maybe just flipped him off out the window and let it be. He knew he probably shouldn't have done what he did, that he probably ruined the kid's whole day. And at the very least, he knew he probably should have felt some sort of empathy after the deed was done.

But the opportunity was just too good to pass up, and Richie was nothing if he wasn't an opportunist.

So yeah, he told Mike to drive through the puddle.

Okay, he may have ordered, and then begged him, and then bribed him that he would do all his homework for a month, and then bribed him with fifty dollars. And then lurched forward and grabbed the steering wheel anyway. Not that he was desperate or anything.

It was almost majestic, in a way. The wave of water – so much water, it really didn't look that deep, honest – sprayed up from the tires and hit Eddie – the poor bastard had turned around when he heard the car approaching – face on, absolutely drenching him from head to toe. And Eddie stood there, shocked expression, hands held up in a feeble attempt to block his face from the onslaught. And they drove away, Richie absolutely beside himself, howling with laughter and full of sadistic pride, Beverly with her hand covering her mouth as she tried not to spit vanilla milkshake all over the dashboard, and Mike just- well. Mike watched Eddie get further away through the side mirror, feeling guilt bubble up in his stomach. Because that's who he was, way too sympathetic. Sometimes Richie was worried it was going to rub off on him. He wasn't sure if he could handle being a good person.

“Oh, COME ON.”

Eddie watched after the car, at that four-eyed twit in the back seat, looking like he was going to piss himself from laughing so hard. He hadn't been driving, but it was so clearly his fault, judging by the middle finger that came flashing up through the window just before the car turned a corner, and by the fact that he was an asshole, and only he would think this was funny.

He was soaked, and dirty, and definitely covered in germs, and his books would be all wet, and his shoes were going to be soggy and uncomfortable all day, and his hair was going to frizz up and be all over the place, and it was cold out so he was probably going to get sick, and he was still fucking late for school.

He should have just turned around and gone home, had a shower and gone to bed, but that would have meant admitting defeat – and facing his mother, and possibly a hospital trip to check for water-born diseases, but mostly admitting defeat –, so he took a deep breath, swallowed his pride and kept walking. His shoes squeaked with every step, and he found himself pouting – actually pouting. And he wasn't crying, it's just that there was dirt in the water and it got in his eyes, and he was only sniffling because it also got up his nose. And he wasn't going to cry, because he was an adult and adult's don't cry because they get splashed with puddle water. He was going to go to school and change into his track uniform – thank god his mother made him bring it in a plastic bag, something he never understood nor appreciated until now – and he was going to miss some, if not all of first period, and he was going to feel miserable and uncomfortable all day, and people were probably going to laugh at him, and it was all going to go to absolute shit, but he was going to deal with it. Like an adult.

He was also going to murder Richie Tozier, but that could wait.

By the time he got to school, class had already started, and the hallways were mostly deserted. He made a beeline for the nearest bathroom, head down, trying to look unsuspicious, though he wasn't sure how well he was doing.

The thing with walking with your head down, with wet hair hanging down over your face, is you can't actually see where you're going, and eventually you're going to run into something. Or someone, in Eddie's case.

He fell back, rather unceremoniously, onto his arse. The person who's back he had just barged into only stumbled forward. Eddie thought, briefly, that that was unfair.

“Watch it,” the person spat, spinning around once they regained their footing. “Oh.”

He looked up, squinting against the fluorescent lighting. Of course it was Stan. Because the awkwardness from the day before wasn't enough, obviously.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, gritting his teeth. Stan swallowed visibly, then offered a hand out to help him up. He looked at it for a few seconds, before standing up by himself. Stan frowned, narrowed eyes scanning him as he brushed himself off.

“Did you,” he said, almost hesitantly, “take a shower with your clothes on or something?”

“Hilarious,” Eddie replied, deadpan. He straightened out the hemline of his shirt. “Obviously not.” He restrained himself from throwing an insult in.

“Okay. Really though, why are you all wet?”

“Why don't you ask your friends?”

Stan shifted uncomfortably on his feet. “Richie?” He winced slightly as he said it, almost compassionately.

Eddie gave him a look that he hoped said, 'No shit, sherlock. Who the fuck else?'

“Sorry,” Stan said, quietly, ducking his head and biting his lip. Eddie studied him for a drawn out moment.

“Why aren't you in class?” he said, his tone a lot less snarky and a lot more genuine. Stan's head shot up, frown dispersing, replaced with what could have been a smile if you looked close enough, side-on, possibly with the aid of a magnifying glass..

“Study period,” he answered simply.

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

They held awkward eye contact for what was probably the most uncomfortable five seconds either of them had ever experienced. Eddie sucked his teeth slowly, letting out an odd, slightly embarrassing squeaking sound.

“I should g-”

“I need t-”

They both spoke at the same time, cutting each other off. It was followed by incredibly nervous laughter from Eddie. Stan scuffed the toe of his shoe on the linoleum.

“I should be studying,” he said, a little loudly, then creased his brow, looking as though he had surprised himself a bit.

“Okay,” Eddie replied, almost breathlessly, for some reason.

“So,” Stan continued after a moment, “I should go. To the library. To study.”

“O- kay?” Eddie repeated, the end of the word raising up an octave.

Stan licked his lips, eyes darting around Eddie's face. Eddie suddenly regretted every choice he had ever made that lead to this exchange.

“Bye then,” Stan said, before turning and leaving faster than he had seen anyone turn and leave before.

“Bye,” he said, even though Stan was already out of earshot.

He regained himself, waiting for his soul to return to his body after it ejected itself out of humiliation, and started walking towards the bathroom, making a mental note to never look Stan Uris in the eye ever again. Not that he thought that would be possible now.

“I feel bad.”

It was lunch, and Richie and Mike were sitting at their table in the corner of the cafeteria, closer to the food line and away from the doors. It was situated directly across the large hall from where Eddie and his two nerd friends sat, and when Richie positioned himself just right in his seat he had a perfectly clear view of the sad-sack himself, who appeared to have switched out into his gym clothes – and gym shorts, damn them to hell –, hair still a bit wet and unkept – a very unfamiliar sight – and looked downright depressed, hunched over a seemingly untouched wholemeal sandwich. Not that Richie was looking, or anything.

“Well, ya shouldn't,” he said, pointing a plastic fork in Mike's direction, who hadn't been able to rid himself of his guilty, vaguely queasy expression since that morning. “He was one-up last night, and now the score is even. It was a fair shot.”

“Yeah, but look at him,” Mike glanced over, and Richie's eyes followed. His friend – Barry? No, Ben, yeah. The one with the stutter, or was that the other one? Anyway – whats-his-face had moved to put an arm around his shoulder. “We should apologise.”

“Don't you dare,” he said, ungraciously shoving a forkful of mac and cheese into his mouth, “no apologies. It's a rule.”

“What's a rule?” Beverly slotted herself in next to Richie, while Stan appeared beside Mike, dropping a chemistry textbook on the table. “Am I missing out on something?”

“Not a thing, sweetcheeks,” Richie said, leaning over to kiss her on the cheek before she pushed him away with a look of disgust, “s'just Mikey here,” he swallowed his mouthful of pasta, “Mikey here wants to go say sorry to Kaspbrak. But we don't play like that, and he knows it. Ain't that right, Stan the Man?”

Stan glanced up from the book, eyebrows raised.

“Oh, I was actually gonna bring that up. What did you do to him?.”

“Nothing, just drove through a puddle that he happened to be standing next to and he may have gotten a little rainwater on his cardigan. Not even a big deal.”

“He was drenched, Richie.”

“How would you know? You talk to him this morning?”

Stan looked back down at his textbook.

“Maybe.”

“You're not going soft on the fucker, are you Stanthony?”

“Don't call me that,” the tips of Stan's ears flushed pink, “I just think you should apologise for this one. You know how he is about-” he hesitated, just for a second, nose wrinkling, “hygiene and stuff. This might have been a step too far.”

“Stan, are you- fucking hell,” he exhaled sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose, “Guys, no one's saying sorry, got it? It's done. It's over. I got my kick in, he'll get me back with some pathetic bullshit tomorrow. That's how it works. We fuck with each other. No one's allowed to feel sorry for him.” “But-”

“No, Mike! So fucking what, he got his clothes a little wet. Boo-fucking-hoo. Maybe it'll teach him to dress better.”

“He dresses pretty much the same as Stan,” Bev pointed out, “if you think about it.”

“Nah,” Richie rebutted, “Stanley dresses like, like,” he gestured his hand towards Stan, lip pursed as he tried to think of an analogy, “Stan dresses like your cool english teacher, you know? Like that one that every one likes and he's kinda chummy with you and lets you call him by his first name, you feel? He pulls it off. Kaspbrak looks like your shitty math teacher who probably plays golf on the weekends and gets pissy if you use your phone in class. Scratch that, he confiscates your phone if he even sees it. You know the type. He's probably gonna buy a station wagon in the future.”

There was a moment of silence, all three of them looking at Richie with varying expressions of confusion.

“That was-” Beverly said, “oddly specific.”

“Thank you,” he smirked, smug, as if it were a compliment. “Now are we done? We all agree to not apologise?”

He looked between Mike and Stan. Stan rolled his eyes, returning full attention to his textbook. Mike opened his mouth, no doubt to protest, but shut it after a moment and nodded, dropping his gaze to the tray of food in front of him with the same guilt-ridden expression.

“Great! Now that we're all on the same page,” Richie stood, picking up his tray of half-eaten food, “I'm gonna go chain smoke under the bleachers, like the good christian boy mama raised me to be. Miss Marsh?”

“M'eating,” Beverly replied, stuffing another tater tot into her mouth.

“Right,” he took a step out, not at all looking where he was going, “see you losers la- OOF.”

Eddie Kaspbrak was not an intimidating person. It was practically impossible for him to scare people. He was barely five foot five, standing much shorter than his friends and most of the other boys in the school, and quite a few of the girls, and despite being rather fit, he looked quite frail. When he was a kid, his mother use to say it would be easy for someone to pick him up and snap him like a toothpick, and he believed her, because back then anything his mother said was basically god's word. He wasn't hit with the same puberty truck that Bill and Ben were – instead it was more like a puberty tricycle. He never quite shot up, never quite lost the roundness in his face or had his voice drop an octave like his friend's had. He didn't necessarily still look like a child, but he definitely wasn't going to be fooling any liquor store employee or nightclub bouncer any time soon. And the clothes he wore only aided to accent his non-intimidating qualities, the light coloured sweaters, the faded jeans, he knew his wasn't exactly the manliest of wardrobes.

All in all, Eddie was the last person you would expect to be able to make someone feel small.

Richie Tozier had never felt smaller in his entire life than in the moment that followed.

As timing would have it, Eddie had gotten up and travelled across the cafeteria to the garbage bins to dispose of the sandwich he wasn't going to eat. He knew he would unavoidably have to walk right past Richie's table, so he made sure to do as he always did when needing to avoid confrontation; head down, walk quickly.

Richie had stood up, lunch tray in hand, unaware of his proximity to the other, still busy conversing with his friends. He had taken a step, then another, out into the walkway. Eddie hadn't looked up. Head down, walk quickly.

Richie took another step, and turned around.

Eddie looked up, only a split second too late, but too late nonetheless.

Richie sentenced had been cut off by the sound of his lunch tray first hitting Eddie square in the chest, and then clattering to the floor.

The collision drew attention from only the immediately surrounding tables, hushed whispers replacing whatever conversations were taking place previously.

He didn't react, at first, just froze, jaw tight, gaze stuck on the floor, midway between the yellow plastic tray, face down with bits of food splattered beneath it, and Richie's worn down combat boots. His breath was so slow and shallow, there was a point that he wasn't even sure he was breathing.

Richie, for a moment, was sure Eddie had died standing up. He was unnaturally still, just staring at the ground, completely stone-faced. I broke him, he thought, I actually fucking broke the kid.

Eddie looked up, finally, at Richie's face. He decided, seeing as his brain had apparently tried to reboot itself, to base his reaction on Richie's next move. He raised one eyebrow, oh so slightly. It said; this is a test. Answer it wrong, and I will kill you.

Richie was unbelievably put off by the look that Eddie gave him. It wasn't angry, upset, annoyed, anything he was expecting. It was a challenge. The fucker was challenging him. And he really wasn't going to like what would happen if he lost.

“So,” he started, thinking harder about his word choice than he ever had before, “I know you're not going to believe me, but,” he paused, slowly raising his hands up in front of him, as if a gun was being pointed at him, “that was totally an accident.”

The calm before the storm, as they say.

“What,” Eddie said, barely a whisper, “the,” his hands balled into fists at his side, so tight they started shaking, “fuck.”

“Oh Richie,” Beverly muttered from the sidelines, “you poor son of a bitch.”

“Are you actually kidding me, Tozier? Wasn't this morning enough? You have to get your fucking chucks in twice in one day?” Eddie decided then and there, that being an adult was overrated. He was a brat, and he was going to be a brat.

“Chill out a bit, man,” Richie took a brave step forward, snapping his head around to the growing number of spectators, “It's just a stain, it'll come out.” His voice was hushed, praying to every god he knew that this wouldn't escalate in front of everyone.

Eddie was fuming by now – and, ironically, kind of having the time of his life –, his face heating up, and chest heaving. He saw Richie flinch, for a fraction of a second, and felt proud.

God, he was a sadist.

“Just a fucking stain, are you serious? Are you actually fucking serious, Richie?”

Richie wanted nothing more than for an eighteen-wheeler to come crashing through the wall of the school, killing him instantly. “Calm your shit, Kaspbrak, I'm sorry.”

“Sorry? You're fucking sorry?” Eddie had to remind himself that he wasn't supposed to look happy while this was happening, purposefully deepening the scowl on his face. “You are the most inconsiderate, infuriating, irritating,” fuck, running out of synonyms, “disrespectful, single-minded, asshole-piece-of-shit-stoner dickwad,” dickwad? “that I have ever fucking met and I hope you burn in hell, you absolute fucking-” “KASPBRAK.”

Both the boys jumped, as did quite a few of the onlookers who had gathered around their little love spat. Mr. Wagner, the school principal, had pushed his way to the front of the crowd, looking red-faced and mildly disarrayed, to say the least.

“Sir, uh, we were just-”

“Can it. Detention,” he pointed a spindly finger at Eddie, who scoffed a high pitched scoff, and then at Richie. “You too.”

“But I didn't-”

“No but's.”

“BUT SIR-”

“TOZIER.”

Richie let out a defeated sigh.

“Yes sir.”

The man took a deep breath, shooting a look between both of them.

“This,” he gestured to the tray and the food on the floor, “cleaned up.” He turned to look at the crowd of students. “Nothing to see, git.”

Everyone dispersed, going back to their own seats, leaving only Richie and Eddie standing there, pretty much robbed of all their dignity, staring each other down like they could set fire to the other with their eyes.

“I hate you,” Richie spat, top lip upturned to show his teeth.

“Go to hell,” Eddie returned, with the same amount of passion.

“I'm already there, princess.”

“Oh, fuck off, asshole.”

“You fuck off.”

“How 'bout both of you fuck off!” Beverly stood, grabbing Richie by the arm and pulling him away towards the doors of the dining hall, but not before shooting Eddie a look over her shoulder. “He'll see you in detention, hotshot.” She punctuated her sentence with a wink.

This is the worst fucking day of my life, he thought.

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