Mixtape

21

21

Shafts of sunlight come in through the hazy windowpanes, casting beams of gold across Beverly's freckled eyes. She swiftly shuffles through racks upon racks of clothes, her attention completely undivided by the world around her.
"You almost done yet, Bee?" Richie groans, leaning across a rack of clothes in exhaustion. He holds two bags on each wrist, the objects weighing his arms down heavily.
Beverly doesn't make Richie go shopping with her very often, but every once in awhile the Tozier household will get a call where the princess formally requests an escort to the ball. Richie would never dream of declining this offer, but he still hates every agonizing second of it.
For starters; he hates shopping to begin with. Beverly drags him along to thrift stores when she decides she needs new overalls, or her favorite dress sports a new stain. It's all she can afford, but Richie hates following her around the aisles and having to carry the stacks of clothes she piles into his arms. Even worse, he hates sitting outside the dressing room and telling her if an outfit looks good or not. He'd never tell her of this hatred, of course, but if she were to ask if he liked their shopping dates, he wouldn't be able to lie.
Second reason that he hates shopping; he doesn't like it when she starts picking on his own sense of clothing, telling him he needs a new pair of pants or his favorite shirt has got one too many holes in the material. Richie explains "It's rock and roll, babe." but she never understands. This leads to her making him try on new clothes, and he hates looking at his body. He knows he's tall, he knows he's lanky. He knows that he's pale and sickly, but you try putting meat on your bones when you can't afford to feed yourself because your parents can't be bothered to do so. Richie will avoid a naked mirror any chance he gets.
"I haven't even gotten to the blouses yet, Richie!" She exclaims.
"I'm bored, Beverly," he huffs in annoyance. It's true, he is bored, but he's mainly just bored of the fact that she's not talking. When she's in the zone, she's in the zone.
Bev pauses, looks up at Richie's pleading eyes, and says "Okay. Let's take a break. Wanna smoke?"
"God yes," he exhales. "I've been itching for a square all morning."
Beverly leads Richie up to the counter, where she drops off the pile of clothes and explains she's just going to step out for a moment. The cashier smiles at her and says to take her time, but most adults are sweet on Bev. She just has that personality.
As the two are walking out the door, Beverly says "What would you do without me, Richie?"
"Crash and burn," the boy does not hesitate to reply. They step into the closest alley, leaning up against the brick wall as Beverly hands him a cigarette. Not Winstons, but it'll do.
"So," Beverly says matter-of-factly. He can hear the atomic cherry bomb in her voice, and he knows that she's about to drop it down on him without warning. "How's Eddie?"
Boom. Cherry bomb.
"Dunno," Richie shrugs. "Am I supposed to be keeping track of the little shit?"
Beverly elbows his side and says "Beep beep. Talk nice about him, okay? I was just... curious as to how you guys were doing."
"Haven't seen him since..." Richie trails off, his mind resurfacing memories of falling asleep in a tent with Eddie's waist tucked up in his arms. Camping was warm and lovely, but what occurred in that tent has left Richie more than confused.
"Since we went camping?" Bev asks as if she can read his mind. "It was nice what you did for him. Really nice. I was shocked you had it in ya."
"I can be nice," Richie defends himself as he strikes a match against the wet brick. "You just don't do shit that is worth being nice about."
"Yeah, sure. You spend a lot of time comforting Ed? Seemed a bit rehearsed if you ask me," she pushes her cigarette into the flame at the same time as Richie, the flame dividing to the two cigarettes. "You did good, though. I've never seen him come down that quickly."
"Has he been having the nightmares for awhile?" Richie avoids her question. Whether or not he spends time comforting Eddie isn't her business, especially when he's not even sure what comforting means.
"Oh, yeah," she takes steady drags, nothing like Richie's chainsmoking habits. "For as long as I've known the kid. He's always been like that, he usually just falls back asleep after awhile."
"Nobody's tried to do anything about it?" Richie asks.
"What are we supposed to do?" she scoffs. "Enter his dreams and fight off the scary monsters?"
"Has he told you what they're about?"
"Has he told you?" she looks at him pointedly.
Richie looks away, the wind blowing dead leaves through the hollow alley. He hates talking about Eddie, only because he doesn't know what to say. He doesn't know what to think. Eddie is... he's uncharted territory.
"Do you like girls, Richie?" Beverly then asks.
"What? Of course, don't be stupid," he shakes his head, his heart thumping uncontrollably. God, why is he so scared?
"You've never had a girlfriend," she states.
"Okay? And? I'm fifteen for fuck's sake, just because I'm not married with seven kids and a dog doesn't mean I'm a queer," he says defensively, kicking his shoe into the loose gravel.
Beverly watches him with wary eyes, her face showing the skeptical expression. "So you do like girls?"
"Of course," he says again, glaring at her with hostility in his gaze. His heart wants to climb out of his throat. "I like girls. Love 'em."
She looks at Richie one last time, her eyes pleading her best friend to just be honest. They both know he's not telling the truth, or, maybe he is, but he's certainly omitting details. She just wants him to stop keeping secrets from her, she feels the gap between them growing to the size of a five foot two kid with freckles everywhere that the sun shines. Even now, as the two lean against the wall and smoke their cigarettes, there's distance. It's not the same. Richie doesn't meet up with Beverly outside of gas stations anymore, she's learned that he's too busy crawling through windows of the Kaspbrak residence.
Beverly stubs her cigarette out and finally accepts the fact that maybe Richie might not be her best friend anymore. Or, more accurately, he is her best friend, but she's not his.
"I'm letting you off the hook, Toto," Beverly laughs to cover up the fact that her eyes are brimming with tears. She looks away, starts to move backwards, and slowly creeps away from Richie. The distance between them grows and grows, and she keeps taking those steps back. "You get a get-out-of-jail-free card just for today. I can finish shopping on my own."
"Really?" he asks, eyes wide. Then, he realizes how out of character it is for her, and he says "Are you sure? I can stay if you want."
Beverly nods, a wistful smile on her face as she recognizes the pieces of Richie that used to be hers for so long. "Go, Richie. You're bored out of your mind. Go say hi to Eddie for me."
Richie frowns, looks away, and feels his body tense up. Is she accusing him of something? What's she trying to say?
"Sure. Whatever. Have fun shopping, princess," he says bitterly. Richie bites down on his cigarette, feeling the bursts of tobacco and nicotine wave across his tastebuds.
Beverly turns on her heel and starts walking back towards the store, and Richie feels nothing but anger in him. Why doesn't she trust him? Why is she so insistently jealous of Eddie? Is he not allowed to have friends without automatically becoming a queer? He hates that. He hates that this is all she can see. He doesn't know if he can be friends with someone who judges him for something he's not.
Richie waits in the alley for a few moments before heading back to the bike rack in front, unlocking his stupid bike and mounting it. He has no destination, but he just rides. He rides. He rides until the concrete roads become gravel, and then he rides until the gravel becomes dirt. His bike is taking him down a familiar road, a road that leads to Mike Hanlon's farm. Mike always knows how to take Richie out of his head, always knows how to make the boy engage with the world around him.
It isn't until Richie is in the middle of the country that he stops and breaks hard. His bike stutters against the unpaved road, his body lurching forward with realization. He bounces back and thinks I can't go see Mike. That's her friend. They're all her friends. They'll all side with her, too.
But Richie keeps going further anyway, riding away from the city with the motivation to be with anybody except for himself. He hates being alone. He can't stand it. He left his walkman at home, he can't even escape if he wanted to.
Richie pulls into the familiar driveway and discards his bike next to the mailbox. He glances at his watch, sees it's 10:42, and starts walking around the back of the house. If the schedule of chores is still the same, the person he has come to see will be out back scrubbing the laundry his father has thrown onto him.
As expected, the boy is sitting against the washbin, his hands buried deep within the suds. Richie approaches him quietly, gentle on his feet, and picks up a shirt from the pile of clothes next to him. Richie sits down, dipping the shirt into the water, and quietly rubbing it against the side of the basin. Henry Bowers jumps out of his skin, splashing himself down the front of his chest from the mere surprise. He lets out a tiny yelp, one that sounds entirely too feminine, but Richie does not cast him a glance at all.
"T-Tozier? The fuck are you doing here?" Henry remarks, his voice shaking in fear. He's not afraid of Richie, no, he's terrified. "I haven't- I haven't touched Bill or his faggy friends, I-"
"Chillax," Richie mumbles. He doesn't feel good about being here, but he doesn't know where else he would go. He didn't realize that the Bowers residence was his default safe space, but here he is. He was hoping there would be more of a warm welcome, but the last thing he said to Henry was a threat to kill him. It's understandable that the boy is shaking. "Just so we're clear-"
Richie looks up and peers into Henry's hazel eyes, memories unfolding in his brain. He has spent so long suppressing those memories, but now he's... he's letting them breathe and air out like the linens pinned to the clothesline to their left. He doesn't know why he's spent so long trying to forget in the first place.
"-You aren't a second choice. That isn't what's happening, so don't go and assume I'm only here because Bev is being a bitch."
"That's exactly what you're doing, isn't it?" Henry narrows his eyes. He bristles up like an offended cat, his stature puffing up to look bigger than it actually is. "What'd the bitch do now?"
Richie opens his mouth to tell Henry off for calling her a bitch, but he supposes that would only be hypocritical of him. "Nothing. Don't worry about why I'm here, just accept that I'm here. That's all that matters."
Henry looks away, his skin flaring up, but not from the cold winds biting at their young cheeks. He feels embarrassed that Richie is here, but only because he wasn't prepared. He's sitting in his dirty farm clothes, unbathed, and completely, shockingly, unattractive. Eddie Kaspbrak is clean, he's neat, and he's perfect. Henry Bowers feels as if he's the exact opposite.
Henry Bowers is two and a half years older than Richie Tozier, but with the way Richie was raised, or, not raised, he was forced to mature faster than others in his grade. Richie and Henry met when they were just kids, hardly even old enough to understand that parents aren't supposed to treat you the way they were treated. Richie was buying groceries, not snacks, not junkfood, not candy, but groceries. Henry was lurking in the aisle and trying to steal a bar of chocolate without being caught. As Henry was making a hasty escape, he bumped into Richie and knocked the paper bags out of the kid's arms. Henry had said "Hey, watch it!" and Richie just silently began to collect the boring adult items that kids don't buy. Henry then said, "Hey, why you buyin' such weird stuff?" and Richie looked up with his young, innocent face, and Henry Bowers had fallen in love.
Richie did not love him back.
Even now, as Henry stares at Richie in wonder and amazement and utter disbelief that the boy is back sitting on his farm and helping with chores like the old days, he knows that Richie does not love him back.
"How'd your ribs heal up?" Richie asks, focusing hard on a particular stain painted across the front of a button-up with Bowers sewn into the breast pocket.
"Nothin' wrong with my ribs," Henry says stubbornly, shaking his head to deny the accusation. Richie glances up at him, just a simple look, before returning to the stain. Henry's face burns.
"Yes there is. I bruised them, probably fractured one. I've seen the way you've been limping around, dude. They heal up yet?" Richie asks again, ignoring Henry's flustered aura. The stain starts to loosen up out of the threads, so Richie lets a content smirk grace his face.
A moment of silence passes between them, the sound of water gently splashing against hands, birds chirping, cicadas dying down for the winter. Then, Henry says in a voice that doesn't hold any of the hostile defensiveness that it is so used to speaking in, "Yeah, they're healing up pretty good."
"Good," Richie says. He stands up, walks by Henry to clip the clothes to the line, stretching the shirt out so it can properly breathe.
Henry can't help but watch the way Richie moves as he does this. He's different, the boy's definitely been blessed throughout puberty, and now his body is an entirely new one compared to the body that Henry used to know like the back of his hand. Richie's shirt rides up as he stretches out, the sun coming down and putting hues of purple and blue into his hair. The boy's got an oilspill happening over his ivory tusk skin, and Henry wants nothing more than to explore this new Richie and see what he's grown into.
Instead, he looks away, and he learns to hate himself a little more.
"How long have they been gone?" Henry asks.
Richie's arms fall to his side, and he says "What? Who?"
"Rich," Henry frowns. He refuses to look up because he doesn't trust his translucent cheeks, so he stares downwards and asks "Come on. I'm not stupid. You think you're the only observant one?"
Richie bites the inside of his cheek and returns to sitting in front of Henry. He leans against the basin, the cold water kissing the tips of his fingers that hang over the edges.
The fact of the matter is that Richie has been hanging out with someone nonstop. If he's not out with someone, then there are two or more bikes in his driveway. Henry has seen it, he's noticed, and he's noticed the way that Richie's hands have been shaking since he arrived. He hasn't eaten. All the clues point towards the fact that his parents aren't here, they're gone, and it isn't the first time this has happened.
"How long?" Henry asks again.
"Three weeks? Four? I lost track," Richie says. "Maybe five."
"For fuck's sake," Henry breathes out, shaking his head in disbelief. "What've you been eating?"
"Canned beans, uh, bread," Richie shrugs. "Some of Bev's friends split their school lunches with me." He avoids saying Eddie.
Henry knows who he means anyway.
"You've gotta tell someone," Henry frowns. "You can't- What's going to happen when the bill collectors show up on your doorstep and you have to explain that your parents haven't been home in weeks?"
"I checked. Paid off everything for the next three months," Richie shrugs.
"Three months?" Henry repeats. "Jesus. Did they leave you any money?"
"No," Richie's face twists up as if he's physically being tortured. He doesn't want to talk about this, especially not with Henry. Now that he thinks about it, it was probably a stupid idea for Richie to come here in the first place. What was he thinking? What was I thinking? "Have to find some work so I can buy groceries. Maybe rake up some leaves, or something like that."
"Do you need groceries?" Henry asks.
Richie stays silent.
"Do you need groceries?" he asks again.
Richie meets his eye, and he doesn't have to say a word. Henry nods, stands up and wipes his wet hands on his pants, and says "Okay. Come on."
"What? Where? Where are we going?" Richie panics, tripping over his feet to follow Henry inside. The house still smells the exact same; old cigars and rusty leather. The smell alone makes Richie's head spin with nostalgia, the boy gripping onto a banister to keep balance. Henry clambers up to his room and comes down twice as fast, holding a wad of cash in his hands.
"Come on," Henry says. He grabs Richie by the base of the neck and starts pushing him towards the front door, his fingers softly brushing against the boy's curly hair. Henry takes a moment to savor the warmth of Richie's freckled skin, and then he shoves the boy forward onto the porch.
"The fuck are we going, Bowers?" Richie scoffs, climbing into the rusty Camaro that Henry has been working on and fixing since he was in fourth grade. Richie didn't know it was finally drivable, he knows how much effort Henry has put into it. He asks again, "Where the fuck are we going?"
"Come on, Rich," Henry shakes his head, buckling his seatbelt. "You're a fucking asshole, but do you really think I'm going to let you perish away in that big empty house? You're fucking delusional. Do you really think that lowly of me?"
Richie wants to say Yes. You act like a god damn heathen.
Instead, he silently listens to the German death metal that Henry loves, staring out the window as they drive into town. Richie wonders what his life would be like if he were to have stayed friends with Henry. He thinks things would be much different, and he certainly wouldn't know Beverly Marsh or Bill Denbrough. Maybe, just maybe he'd end up bullying Eddie Kaspbrak for his girly little shorts if that were the case, he would probably be part of the reason that Eddie is too scared to walk to class alone. And maybe he might end up kissing Henry in the back seats of rusty Camaros, not kissing Stan Uris in the middle of the woods. Maybe Richie wouldn't mind kissing Henry. Maybe Richie wouldn't mind having a relationship, even if it were with a guy. Maybe Richie regrets pushing Henry away on New Years Eve.
Richie is completely silent, a rare occurrence, all the way to the supermarket. It isn't until Henry Bowers is standing next to him and considering the price difference between wheat or white bread, that Richie finally speaks up.
"Do you think we could have been good?" He asks. He stares at the cinnamon raisin bagels. "This. But... older. Adults. Do you think it could have worked?"
The back of Henry's tongue touches the roof of his mouth as his lips begin to form the word "Yes." Then, on second thought, he changes his mind.
He says, "It didn't work, that's the point."
"But imagine if it did," Richie says. He turns to Henry and asks "Do you think you'd love me?"
Henry stares at him in utter disbelief. Are you serious? he thinks to himself. Are you mentally disabled? Richie, I loved you. Even now, I still love you. Don't you fucking get that?
Instead of vocalizing these words, he shrugs and turns away. "No. I'm no fucking fruit."
Richie sighs and follows his old friend, the remaining trip only widening the space between them. He figures he shouldn't have spoken up about it, but it needed to be asked. Richie is so, so confused about himself and where he stands in the world, and he only feels a sense of clarity when he's kissing Stan Uris. But Richie knows that won't happen again, no, not with Stan. But it's not really about Stan in particular, is it? No, it's all boys. All boys. Richie thought he would be able to clear up some of the confusion if he were to exploit the first boy to ever initiate these conflicting feelings within him. Henry sowed something in Richie that cold, freezing night. While all the adults were inside getting drunk off of champagne and new years resolutions, Henry Bowers was busy planting the first seed in the weeds that would sprout and tangle around the subject of Richie's sexuality.
Richie doesn't say much while they're shopping. Henry does most of it, picking out ingredients for meals and every snack food that he can remember Richie used to gravitate towards as a kid. He's pretty spot on, too. Richie only puts one item back, and that's solely because of the night that Beverly had dared him to eat 80 gummy worms in under a minute. He puked, and now the sight of it fills his heart with horror. Henry counts money out at the register, and Richie feels guilt fill him up from the inside out. He thinks he really is so pathetic, Henry of all people is standing here buying him food. How pathetic.
"Thank you," Richie says as they navigate through the parking lot. His voice is soft and genuine.
Henry looks over at him, stopping to pop the trunk of his car. "Yeah, of course. Your parents are assholes."
"Yeah," Richie laughs, transferring paper bags over to the trunk. There are stolen school books, broken vinyls, and a leather jacket with the initials PH stitched into the collar. Richie doesn't ask about it.
"Yeah. I think it would have worked," Henry says quietly.
Richie looks over in confusion, tilting his head to the side and asking "Pardon, good sir?"
Henry shrugs, avoiding Richie's magnified eyes. "It would have worked. It. Us. We would have worked. I would have made it work, you know. Fought for something- no, fought for us. I would have made sure that it worked."
Richie knows that this is something sure and stable that he could fall back on. Eddie Kaspbrak is not a stable bet, he's unpredictable and could very well get tired of Richie's jokes one day and leave him. Henry Bowers, a boy who has loved him since they were in primary school, yeah, that is simple. That is guaranteed. If Richie truly does want to try playing for the other team like his thoughts have been alluding him to as of recent, he feels like it should be something not as fickle or indecisive as Eddie Kaspbrak. Besides, Henry already knows everything about him, including which food he eats. It really would be the safest bet.
But he doesn't love Henry. That's the problem. That's always been the problem.
They don't listen to the radio as they drive to Richie's house, and somehow, it feels as if Henry is driving back home. Not to his daddy's farm, but home. Where Richie lives, where he gave Richie his first black eye, where he would rush to at 3pm after middle school had separated the two boys, where he would sleep in a tent down in the living room instead of up in Richie's rooms like the Toziers were always begging the boys did. They would say "You've got a room, Richard, please use it." and yet Richie would always unroll his sleeping bag on the living room floor in an act of defiance.
"For fuck's sake," Richie whispers to himself as the car pulls into the driveway.
Richie stops, pushing his glasses up so he can rub his eyes. He pinches the bridge of his nose, shaking his head, and silently cursing Eddie Kaspbrak. Of course he has to show up right now. Of course.
Eddie is bent over a journal, writing delicate words and so involved in his own story that he doesn't even notice the car shifting into park until the engine is shut off and the growling noise comes to a complete stop. Then, in turn, two car doors slam shut, and he can't help but look up.
Henry still has yet to notice the tiny boy, but Richie is trying to gather everything from the trunk as quickly as he can. He needs Henry out of here, now.
"Rich?" Eddie calls out.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Do something, quick.
"Oi oi cap'n o' the sea," an Irish accent spills out. "Got a wee lassie approachin' that there ship. Bugger, s'actually a laddie!"
Eddie stops in his tracks, his blood running cold, the hair molecules on his skin standing up, goosebumps breaking out beneath his flesh. He is immediately kicked into hyperdrive, his flight or fight response becoming active in an instant. He has locked eyes with the very bully that makes his life hell, and he's standing next to Richie with an armful of fresh produce.
"The fuck is he doin' here?" Henry asks. He's more... hurt than anything, and Richie can recognize that.
Richie drops all the bags back in the trunk and turns to Henry, saying "I'm so sorry, I didn't think he would be here. Just give me a moment, please."
"What the fuck, Richie?" Henry whispers, only because he doesn't trust himself to try and speak clearly. His throat feels dry and lumpy, as if he's swallowed an entire bottle of antacids. "Just... What the fuck?"
Richie can't find the words to say, so he turns on his heel and makes his way to Eddie on the porch. He digs his keys out of his pockets and hands the house key to Eddie, looking at the boy with pleading eyes.
"Please go inside. Please. Just go sit in my room, I will be up in a second," Richie begs.
"H-Henry? Henry Bowers? You're- You're- Youre-" Eddie shakes his head in disbelief.
"No, I'm not," Richie doesn't want to hear the end of that sentence. "You need to stop fucking showing up on my porch all the time. Go. Go wait in my room."
Eddie is quiet for a moment more, stunned by such harsh words. Then, the tears come quickly, and he feels himself wearing thin right in front of Richie's eyes. So, as quickly as he can, he gathers the things he brought over and turns to face the front door. His hands shake from fear and heartbreak, in turn making it difficult to unlock the door. When he finally gets it, he slams the door shut, the wooden frame shaking and creaking under such force.
Richie returns to Henry cautiously, his whole body sluggish with dread. He begins picking up grocery bags again, not wanting to share a word with Henry at all.
"You're fucked, you know that?" Henry asks. "You're entirely fucked."
"I know," Richie nods. He opens his mouth again, but he's cut off.
"Don't give me a fucking accent, Richie. I can't believe you. God," Henry grabs everything left in the trunk and begins marching across the lawn. He's moving so angrily that Richie is convinced that the boy is going to crash right through his mother's garden along the sidewalk, but Henry is still courteous enough to respect Mrs. Tozier's flora like he was taught to do so.
Richie sighs and shuts the trunk, following Henry up to the porch with full arms. Out of everything to go wrong, this is it. This sure is it. Henry kicks the door open forcefully, bee-lining straight for the kitchen without stopping to take in the new furniture. He drops the bags onto the kitchen island, then swivels to make his exit.
Richie drops his bags and grabs Henry by the arm, holding him back.
"We could have been good," Richie says quietly. He feels as if this is it, the last straw, the final nail in the coffin. Eddie was too much, it only fed into the fear that Henry so vulnerably exposed to Richie.
"No," Henry shakes his head, staring at Richie in disgust. "We wouldn't. Don't lie to me, you fucking asshole."
Richie's eyes are caught by a gleam of light breaking through and intercepting his vision. Dangling around Henry's neck, attached by a beaded chain only given with dog tags, there is a gold ring. One from an arcade, one that was won many years ago. It's partner... still remains in the cup by the sink with the rest of the rings Richie stripped from his fingers the dreadful day that he fought with the boy now standing in his kitchen.
Henry kept the ring.
"You-" Richie takes a step forward, but the side of Henry's forearm comes across his chest and shoves him backwards.
"Don't come near me, you fucking faggot!" Henry's voice is shaking, and his hands tremble on the counter to steady himself out. "Go run to your little pixie boyfriend. Fruits."
"Okay," Richie nods.
Henry stops, then lifts his eyes to Richie's face. Richie is calm, collected, placid, and ready for his face to get caved in.
"Okay?" Henry repeats.
"Yeah," Richie shrugs, stuffing his hands in his pockets. He leans back a bit, his posture groaning in resistance, and then says "I'm a faggot. I like men."
Henry grits his teeth and looks away, embarrassed by the hot tears kissing his cheeks. He doesn't want to cry, no, not in front of Richie. Please not in front of Richie.
"Yeah," Henry says through a tight jaw. He shakes his head, quickly fishing around for his keys in his pockets, and backing away from Richie. "Homo."
"Yeah," Richie nods again.
"Queer."
"Sure."
"Faggot."
"Mhm."
"Fruitcake."
"Yep."
"Nancy boy."
"Totally."
"Poof."
"For sure."
"Gay," Henry finally says.
"Yeah," Richie nods. "Yeah, I might be. I probably am."
Henry is quiet for a moment, his hands tight around the set of keys, his thumb and forefinger pulling them forward to use as a possible weapon. He feels like he might vomit, hot, sticky bile rising in his throat, acidic and burning. He feels like he really might barf all over Richie's beat up converse, but then he realizes it's not vomit, it's words; "Me too."
Richie nods, says "Good," and shrugs again.
Henry feels sick with the conformation he just made aloud. He has never been more self loathing than he is in this moment, so much that he doesn't even know if he can drive home without crashing his car. He can't go home, no, can't face his dad knowing that he likes men and dicks and stubble and abs and pecs and everything not female.
"Eddie," Richie then says. He says it calmly, as if it makes sense, as if it's the only thing that makes sense.
Henry's face twists up for a moment, a pained expression that comes with the rejection of not hearing his own name. Then, slowly, as if admitting a sin to a choir of god-fearing angels, he says "Patrick."
Not Richie's name, no, that's a given. That's obvious. But the truth is... when Belch and Victor aren't looking, Henry's hand will run along the side of Patrick's thigh. And when they're playing strip-poker in Victor's bedroom, Patrick's eyes will linger on Henry's body just a little bit too long, and Henry will "accidentally" grab the wrong shirt when the game is over just so he has an excuse to wear Patrick's clothes. And sometimes when they go to the drive-in, Belch occupying the concessions stand while Vic hits on the freshman girls, Patrick and Henry will exchange secretive kisses in the backseat of Henry's car that nobody else knows about. Nobody at all.
Nobody at all, except for now.
Richie nods. "Okay."
Henry looks away in shame, guilt plaguing through his body. Richie... perfect Richie, Richie Tozier who gets perfect grades but never pays attention, Richie Tozier who can do a million accents and make anybody laugh, Richie Tozier who he has been in love with since they were kids, Richie Tozier who is gay.
If Richie is, then it must be okay, right?
Henry shakes his head and pulls away from the conversation, making his way through the house in a desperate attempt to escape what he just confessed. This time, Richie doesn't stop him.
Right?