Mixtape

19

19

2:02 am.
Who would be calling so late? Sure, it's a Friday night, and it's not as if Richie was sleeping anyway, but still. If it's someone calling the Tozier residence to make an emergency appointment with Went like they so often would; why would they call at this hour? Richie answers the phone anyway, his father would kill him if he were to cost the man a client.
"Richie?" Stanley Uris' voice greets Richie on the other line.
Normally, Richie would be more than happy to hear from his new friend, but the clock hanging above the wall phone reminds Richie that this is a time of night that people like Stan Uris should not be awake. Something must be wrong.
"Yeah?" Richie asks, his voice quiet and lacking any of the humor or teasing it usually carries for Stan.
Halfway across town, standing in the middle of the kitchen and only wearing a pair of pajamas pants and his Christmas robe, Stan Uris begins to cry. He doesn't know why he's calling Richie Trashmouth Tozier of all people, but he needs to say it. He needs to say it. He feels like he's lying, worse, he feels like he himself is a lie. A sham. He can't take it anymore.
Stan Uris breathes rapidly, his fingers tightening around the phone cord as the kitchen tiles beneath his bare feet freeze his tiny toes. Even in his frantic state of mind, he still finds the time to reach out and straighten the pen clipped to the notepad on the wall. Written in his mother's handwriting is a grocery list, and then his father's note about meeting with Mr. Jenkins. Stan doesn't know what it's about, but he does know his dad comes home angry each time that he goes out with Mr. Jenkins.
"Stan?" Richie's voice brings the boy back to reality, and it almost feels as if he is over at the Tozier house in the kitchen with Richie beside him. Richie's kitchen is smaller, but it's more organized. Stan especially likes the spice rack. Richie presses on, feeling more and more concerned by the sobs breaking through the telephone line. "Stan? Stan?"
"Today with Henry Bowers," Stan cries out, keeping his voice low so that he doesn't get caught. Richie feels bad, but there's nothing he can do about it. Stan wouldn't let Richie come sneak in the way that Eddie does, the two boys are just too different. Maybe Stan still respects his parents, or maybe he just respects the authority. Either way, he's no rule breaker. Richie's knows this. "W-What did he... what did he mean? About you?"
Richie pauses, his body growing cold as he stares out the kitchen window at the hanging paper moon. Silk light lays down on every kitchen surface, going to sleep over countertops and cutting boards. The room feels cold, but maybe that's just Richie's fear taking shape in his mind.
Stanley and Richie had been walking to class together, Richie having biology in room 304 while Stan's history lecture takes place in 305. When they realized their paths crossed, the two began walking to class together daily and usually telling each other about their uneventful mornings and unfair loads of coursework. Today, however, the two were plucked straight from the hall without a single head turning to see where they went.
Patrick Hockstetter and Victor Criss shoved the two into the boy's bathroom, Richie hitting the side of a urinal and falling to the floor while Stan was held against the sinks. He looked terrified, that much was obvious, and seeing such a look cross his friends face (even if just for a moment) made Richie shift gears into defense mode.
"What the fuck, Hen?" Richie scoffed, standing to his feet just to be shoved back down by Belch's fat boot colliding with his chest.
Henry emerged from a stall, twiddling his beloved knife between his fingers with a unicorn delicacy to his fluid motions. He walked by Stan with a dirty look, but paid the kid no attention. He had crouched in front of Richie, placed his knee very carefully between Richie's thighs, and then pressed the blade right to the spectacled kid's cheek. Stan cried out, but Richie felt nothing. No fear. He knew Henry wouldn't do it, he doesn't have the balls. He never will. Maybe he'd find the nerve to cut some other kid like Ben Hanscom, but Richie knows that he will never fall victim to any pain exceeding a punch or two when it comes to Henry Bowers.
"Now I thought I made myself fucking clear, you faggot," Henry growled as the tip of the knife dug into Richie's skin. He said, "I thought I told you I don't want to see you whoring around with little girly boy."
Stan cried roughly, terrified of what would happen to Richie. He doesn't know what history the two had shared, so all Stan knew in that moment was that Richie had a knife pressed to his face, and that Henry was crazy enough to push it right on through. Stan was convinced he would have to carry Richie to the nurse afterwards, but his brain was making plans of action and deciding which adult to run to first.
"Fuck you," Richie hissed stubbornly, and Stan was convinced that the boy had lost his mind. Then, to make things worse and to diminish any chance of making it out alive, Richie spat directly in Henry's face. "Fucking hypocrite."
Henry had pulled back and wiped the saliva from his face, his eyes flashed furiously but also... excited. Like he was getting off on this interaction with Richie. Henry pulled back, pocketed his knife, and then brought a fist right into Richie's stomach.
Stan jerked forward, his body moved roughly against the two pairs of hands that had held him down, and he tried to escape so that he could get to Richie's side and help him. He couldn't. He didn't.
Richie grinned, then said "You jealous, Hen? Is that what the issue is? You're fucking jealous of him?"
Henry punched Richie again, this time in the face. Stan didn't know exactly what Richie was saying, but he assumed that Richie was implying Henry was jealous of Stan. Why else would the two be in this situation?
"You're fucking disgusting. You queer, you fucking queerboy, you faggot," Henry's voice had dropped low, which Stan knew meant danger. Yet Richie grinned. Was Tozier really crazy? "You fucking gayboy. Faggot. Faggot. Queer."
"Wow, Hen, you know you're looking at the wrong person, right? Mirrors are over there," Richie nodded his head towards where Stan was being held against a sink. He had caught Stan's eye, and while Stan looked absolutely terrified, Richie only winked.
"Shut the fuck up," Patrick spoke up, his voice sounded flustered and embarrassed. "Fuckin' queer."
"Jeez, guys, I-" Richie started, but he was cut off by Henry's knife pressing to his throat. Henry held it close, so close that it could cut, and for a moment, Richie was sure that the history didn't matter anymore. Henry was certainly going to cut him.
But he didn't.
He said, "I don't want to fucking see it again, Richie. Next time I see you parading around my town with fucking fagboy, I will cut your spine out."
Richie only nodded, his Adam's apple bobbling against the blade as he swallowed. He was completely silent, eyebrows furrowed, and if Stan didn't know any better, he would guess that Richie was genuinely scared in that moment.
Cut to later that night, where Stan is now sobbing on the phone as he relives the memory for the hundredth time this night. It's not the knife that he's scared of, it's the words.
"Did he really mean it?" Stan cries, his voice trembling in the silence of the air. He holds the receiver to his ear with two hands, his knuckles blooming moon-white from how hard he clutches the handle. "Are you really a queer?"
"Jeez, Stan," Richie breathes out, a bit of tension forming between his shoulders. "What kinda question is that? Can't this wait till morning?"
"No, Richie," Stan blurts out. He's tired of lying. He's tired of not being... him. He's tired of not being him. He just wants to be honest, and he needs Richie to listen to it. Not to accept, just to listen. "How did he know, Richie? How did Henry know? How did he know that I'm gay?"
Richie's house drops to a silence that is more quiet than what it sounds like in deep space. If he were to listen, Richie would be able to hear his neighbors snoring from across the street. If he were to strain his ears, he could hear Stanley Uris crying in his own kitchen halfway across the town.
What is he supposed to say to that? Why did Stan tell him? How does he respond? How does he react?
"Say something!" Stan whisper-shouts.
Richie blinks, but still no words come. The only thing he can think of is little Eddie Kaspbrak running around in the field yesterday, but more specifically, how little Eddie's thighs looked when his shorts would ride up from each stride. Does Stan notice these things too? Is that how he knows he is this thing he claims to be?
"Are you... sure?" Richie asks.
"I don't know!" Stan cries, then starts sobbing again. After a moment of incoherency, he finally blubbers out "I think I am! I... I can't pretend anymore- I can't pretend I'm not!"
"You don't have to," Richie shakes his head. "At least not with me. It's okay if you are, I don't mind."
"Are you?" Stan then asks, his tone hopeful but afraid. The kitchen around him seems tight, he can't seem to get enough air. He wants to stretch the cord out to the living room like his mother so often does when she wants to talk to her girlfriends while also standing beside her husband and giving him back rubs, but alas, the fear plants his feet to the spot and he is rendered frozen.
"Am I, what, gay?" Richie asks. He opens his mouth to laugh, and then it hits him; what's so funny about that?
What if I am?
"Don't know," he says honestly, and the following words that come out of his own mouth genuinely surprise him; "Never tried with a guy, maybe. Could be."
What? What? Did I just fucking say I could be gay? Did I just say I could be gay?
Of course I did.
Have I seen Eddie Kaspbrak?
Of course I could be.
"Are you just fucking with me, Richie?" Stan asks in a voice so shaky, so insecure, that Richie's heart hurts at the mere sound of it. He can't imagine what the boy is feeling right now, and he can't imagine that most of it is probably a fear of him rejecting the vulnerable kid.
"No, no, of course not, god no," Richie shakes his head. "It's after midnight, you know that lies don't exist after midnight."
"That makes no sense," Stan manages to say in his usual Stan Uris way. This gives Richie a smile, so he knows that it's not as bad as it could be.
"'Course it does, pardna'. Jus' ask my pal Could-Be Tozier," Richie uses his cowboy accent, then says normally "It makes sense."
"Are you going to tell the others?" Stan suddenly blurts out before another single thought can enter his brain. His mind is racing far too fast right now, and Richie isn't giving the right answers. Stan doesn't even know if there are right answers, he just wants to feel safe.
"Nah. Not my business, nor do I care," Richie shrugs. "So what if ya like boys, Stanley? You'll be good at it from all the times you tickle your pickle."
"God, ew, gross, Richie," Stan grimaces, but he still finds himself smiling.
This is why he called Richie. This is why.
Because Richie is Could-Be Tozier, and because Richie can make it less scary. He can make anything less scary. All he has to do is whip out a Voice and talk about his dick and suddenly the world doesn't seem as if it is going to drop you into the ocean and swallow you whole.
"We'll figure it out together, Stan the man," Richie then says a bit more seriously, yet still promising and comforting. He holds a lot of power in these words, power that Stan wants to believe in. "You and me, dude. We'll figure something out. It's not that scary, alright?"
"Alright, yeah," Stanley nods. "Sounds good."
"Then awf to bed, good sir!" another Voice is back, one Stan hasn't heard before. The English accent is terrible, but it makes him giggle anyway. "Pip pip tally ho! London awaits!"
"Thank you, Richie," Stan sniffles, wiping the wetness from his cheeks with the back of his hand. He feels nothing but a giant boulder break apart and fall off of his back, just from getting this weight off his shoulders. He thought that if he didn't tell somebody just this second, the world will fall apart. Now, he told, and the world keeps turning. "Hey, Rich, your parents home yet?"
The house feels colder.
"Comin' home soon," Richie whispers, though they both know it's a lie.
"How 'bout I have my parents pick you up tomorrow, okay? We can pick you up. Five?"
"Five," Richie repeats, then "Thanks, Stan."
"No, thank you, Trashmouth," Stan exhales. He doesn't quite want to hang up, but he knows his parents will both have duel blood vessels pop in their brain if they catch him talking to someone at this hour. "Listen, I gotta go. Sleep well."
"Sleep well, gay boy," Richie jokes. If it were anybody else in the world, it would not sound like a joke. Or, maybe it would, but it wouldn't be a funny one. Yet, somehow, coming from Richie Tozier's mouth, it sounds like the most friendly thing that Stan has ever heard. He may have a trashmouth, but that trashmouth knows how to lighten the mood.
As promised, The Uris family car shows up in the Tozier driveway at five o'clock on the dot. Not a minute late, precise as can be. Richie understands where Stan gets it from, and as he carries a bookbag and his sleeping bag out to their car, he wonders if he should have at least tried to look somewhat presentable when meeting such respectable parents. The only parents he's ever met before has been Beverly's father, and he did not take to Richie well. Now, he's meeting a Rabbi and he decided to wear ripped jeans with a Zeppelin t-shirt. He couldn't even be bothered to brush his hair, and the bruise painting his nose from their bathroom incident the day before shines through like a beacon that screams I'm a bad kid! I'm gonna corrupt your child! I smoke weed and worship the devil!
Stanley climbs out of the car when Richie approaches, guiding him around to the trunk where he helps neatly organize Richie's luggage alongside his own. Stan packed lightly, but no lighter than Richie. Richie only brought what was necessary, nothing more, nothing less. Bare minimum.
"Am I, uh," Richie glances down at his jean jacket. "Am I dressed poorly?"
"Dressed poorly? How so?" Stan looks Richie up and down, then quickly directs his eyes elsewhere when his cheeks start to burn. "N-No."
"I look like a burnout," Richie whispers, feeling more and more insecure as he looks at Stan's polo shirt tucked into a pressed pair of khakis. "Shit, Stan. Your parents won't let me hang out with you any more."
"Don't be ridiculous," he shakes his head. He slams the trunk shut, then reaches out to run his fingers through Richie's hair. Rich's hair is thick and soft, yet generally tends to stay wherever it is told to go. Stan combs his hands through Richie's hair easily, pushing the messy curls backwards, tucking strands behind his ears, and smoothing down the stray hairs that seem to stubbornly stick up. "Just have to do something about this mop you call hair."
Richie melts into the touch, his face nuzzling against Stan's hand whenever they happen to brush his cheeks. He wants to be touched, to be reminded that he is real. Sometimes, it's easy to forget. Stan's hands are warm as opposed to the chilly November, but all he wanted to do was make Richie's hair more presentable.
Richie opens his eyes, batting thick eyelashes at Stan, transformed into a completely new human. He looks vulnerable, shy, and... not Richie. Stan's stomach burns a hole right through his organs, lighting himself on fire from the inside-out.
"How do I look?" Richie asks, a bit of hair curling around his sharp cheekbone. Stan never noticed how prominent they are, but there they sure are. He reaches up and tucks it back again, letting his hand linger against the side of Richie's face. When Richie doesn't pull away, no, when Richie leans into it, Stan is aware that he is about to get himself in trouble. Richie Tozier is going to be the trouble.
"Pretty," Stan says honestly, his words leaving traces of fog in the billowing air around them. Richie blushes and steps away, tucking his face into the side of his jacket. He shakes his head, but then looks at Stan with seeking eyes, as if he's trying to figure out if that compliment was the truth or not. Stan reassures him, "You look pretty, Rich."
Those words stay in the space between the two boys as they sit in the backseat, tense and embarrassed, nervous tension hanging off of their bodies like a string connecting them. Despite the unknown feeling being more than absolutely terrifying, it is still alluring. It draws them in, and Stan finds himself wanting to just be close with Richie. To be close. To feel him. He steals glances at the boy every few seconds, admiring his tamed hair and pale complexion. Richie is... actually quite beautiful once you get past his mouth. If he's silent, he's the most gorgeous boy in all of Derry.
"Richie, it's very nice to meet you! Was quite surprised when Stan made the request this morning, but couldn't leave a friend of my son's to ride the bike out in this weather," Mr. Uris finally breaks the silence.
Richie jumps as if he's been startled, his wide eyes going from the window to Stan. Stan shrugs, then nods his head as if trying to get Richie to answer his father.
"It's not that cold, sir," Richie shifts uncomfortably.
"Camping! In November!" Mrs. Uris proclaims from the passenger seat. Richie is sitting behind her so he can't get a good look at her face, but her big, teased hair comes out around the seat like masses stapled to her head. "I say, you boys are rowdy. How did Sonia ever agree to this?"
"Ah, that Sonia," Mr. Uris taps the wheel. "Poor Eddie. Kid will never have a normal childhood."
The sympathy in the man's voice in regards to Eddie makes Richie frown and return his gaze out of the window.  They're driving away from town, the buildings becoming sparse and very far apart, wooded areas filling up the environment around them. Maybe it is cold, but Richie doesn't care. He'll be with his friends. That's all that matters.
"Ah, there they are, gentleman," Mr. Uris declares. Stan and Richie sit upwards, leaning towards each other to see out the windshield. With their sides pressed together, Stan blushes and presses just a little bit closer. "Hmm, that's Marsh's girl, isn't it?"
"Yes sir," Stan replies nervously. Richie looks over and notices that guilt is written on Stan's face, so it doesn't take much to piece together that Stan had failed to mention they would be camping with a girl.
"Hmm," the mother makes a displeased noise. "Hm."
"Bev is a nice girl," Richie speaks up in defense of his best friend.
"I'm sure she is, son," Mr. Uris turns around to look at them. He's parked a bit away from the group of children waiting patiently beside the camp trail entrance. Richie watches the way they all burst into laughter, pointing at Bill, who holds his arm up. They're too far away to see what they're all laughing at, but Richie burns with jealousy. "Listen here, Stan. You be safe tonight, okay, son? You stay close to that fire and stay warm. I don't want to receive a call from the sheriff and hear my boy and his friends froze to death in their tents."
"We won't, sir," Stan's voice is quiet. Richie watches him with careful eyes, analyzing the straight posture and how Stan seems rigid with fear. There's no sass or sarcasm to his tone, none of the usual bite that resides in his words when he makes a quick comeback to Richie's poor jokes. "We'll stay safe. All of us. I packed my survival guide just in case."
"And your flashlight?" His mother chimes in.
"Extra batteries."
"Good. You stay close to Eddie too, alright? Take care of that kid. He's the only one who can fix your wound if you impale yourself."
"I won't impale myself, dad," Stan shakes his head.
"Alright, then," Mr. Uris leans forward. He rubs the steering wheel, and says "Then go have fun, boys."
Stan clambers out of the door so quickly that it spooks Richie. He moves to unbuckle his seatbelt, moving twice as fast now that Stan's speed inspires him. He helps Stan take everything from the trunk, offering to carry Stan's sleeping bag when he sees how the boy's arms fill up quickly.
"Stanley!" Mike's voice can be heard. When Richie shuts the trunk, he turns to see Mike jogging to meet them in the parking lot. The Urises drive off quickly, leaving the two boys in a cloud of dirt and red tail lights. "And Richie!"
Richie looks up, meeting eyes with Mike and smiling. The cold makes him shiver, but Mike's smile fills the world with warmth. "Hey, Mike."
"Come on, we're all waiting for Eddie," Mike takes a sleeping bag from Richie's arms and relieves Stan of his backpack. Richie goes to object, but he starts off without waiting a second.
Stan and Richie exchange a glance, then break into grins and find themselves following the naturally kind boy.
They're welcomed to the group with big hugs and warm greetings. Ben hugs onto Richie and doesn't let go, so Richie laughs and holds the kid back twice as hard. Beverly watches this with fond eyes, mouthing the words 'thank you' to Richie.
"Just waiting on Eds?" Richie asks, pushing his glasses up. He looks at Bill, who's nose has turned cherry red from the cold. The sun is dipping behind the tree line, glimmering like amber crystals on all of the decaying leaves.
"Yeah, he had to walk," Ben says.
"What? How come?" Richie responds quickly, his body bristling. Eddie is out there walking? Freezing to death, probably? He's tiny, he can't survive the winter.
"You t-t-think his muh-mother would d-d-drive him to the wuh-woods?" Bill asks, shaking his head. "He h-had t-t-to lie juh-just to get out of th-thhh-the house."
"Jeez," Stan whispers, "Wish I knew. I would have given him a ride."
"He'll be here soon," Beverly looks at her watch. "When I called this morning, he had left early so that he would arrive by the time we got dropped off."
"Well, where is the matey?" Richie does a pirate voice, squinting one eye shut and holding up an imaginary spyglass. "Ayyyee aren't seein' the fella."
"'Cause I'm right here, dipshit," Eddie's voice cuts through the air like a torch melting every single touch of cold air.
Richie spins around, his voice getting caught in his throat, eyes widening as they land on the short boy approaching the group from the side of the parking lot that Richie was ignoring. Bill jumps in surprise, then pulls Eddie in for a hug and ruffles the kid's hair. Eddie looks tired and out of breath, and all of his belongings are strapped to his backpack as if he is a traveler with no home. Around Christmas time, the homeless people sleep down on Main Street. When it gets too cold to sleep on concrete, they carry everything they own on their back and make their way for the hills. Eddie bears a resemblance to them in this moment.
"Perfect entrance," Beverly applauds Eddie, saying "You really timed it up just right."
"Still the last one here," he furrows his brows, shaking his head. "Come on, we're losing daylight. If we don't get to the campsite before dusk, we'll lose the trail."
With Eddie's leader-esque attitude, everyone silently picks up their bags and starts onto the dirt trail cleared out by Derry's WildLife Camp.
Richie lingers for a moment, his eyes transfixed on Stanley, and he thinks about what Stan had confessed last night. Richie said he could be, and now, in this moment, he's thinking he very possibly may be.
"Richie," Eddie says quietly.
Richie snaps out of it, looking down at the boy waiting for him. Eddie's impatient eyes soften up when they connect their gaze, and a slow blush blooms up under his already reddened cheeks.
"Your... your hair," Eddie murmurs.
Richie instantly brings a hand up and starts to bring his messy curls down again, embarrassed that they were still left like that after leaving the Uris' car.
"Yeah, god, ignore that," Richie laughs. "I probably look stupid. I was trying to make Stan's parents think-"
"No, no," Eddie reaches up and grabs Richie's wrist tightly, pulling the boy's hand away from his hair. "It looks... good. You look good."
Eddie stands on his tiptoes and begins the smooth the hair back once more, his hands cold to the touch but still sparking mini forest fires inside Richie's nervous system.
And Richie thinks, okay, maybe it's a little more than just "could be."