"we'll meet again. don't know where, don't know when, but i know we'll meet again."
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the almost-october air pricked richie's face as he wandered down the kissing bridge. he tucked his hands in his jacket pockets, shivering a little—both at the chill and the season of twilight maine seems to have entered.
it had been years—decades—since he'd experienced autumn in derry. the past few times he'd been back, it had been summer. but somehow the months had just slipped by this time. or maybe he had let them go by, intentionally closing his eyes as they passed like the water spilling past in the river rushing through the barrens. coming home never got easier, especially when it wasn't really home anymore.
a knot grew in his throat as he came to the place. he crouched, damp leaves scuffing under his shoes. his earbuds played tinny in his ears, humming a quiet playlist that reminded him of eddie. the music turned the world into something not real, something he wasn't really a part of, as he looked at the faintly etched "r + e" on the wooden slat of the bridge's railing.
richie didn't realize his breath was unsteady until he saw it come out in a quiet, shivery cloud. he blinked a couple of times and pushed the cuff of his jacket sleeve against his nose. the edges of the letters looked softer than the last time he'd been here, worn down by rain and wind. he traced the tip of his index finger along the e, felt the lump in his throat press so hard it hurt to breathe.
rocking back on his heels, he slid a pack of cigarettes out of his jacket pocket and a book of matches. getting one lit took several tries; he had to cup a hand against the slight evening wind, protecting the match from any sudden gusts. as he shoved the pack of cigarettes and matches back in his pocket, the soft burnt smell and glow eased the pain in his throat. he set the cigarette between his lips.
he'd never really liked the taste of cigarettes, but the one in his mouth reminded him of nabbing a couple off of bev when they were kids. it reminded him of the horrified look eddie always gave him when richie inevitably choked on the ashy taste. it reminded him of how eddie would go into one of his rants about how richie and bev and even bill were killing themselves with the cigarettes. of how richie could get him to shut up by calling him eds.
of how, sometimes, richie thought he saw the tiniest bit of a blush on eddie's cheeks when eddie told him not to call him that.
richie blew out a puff of smoke, still tracing the e on the slat of wood. the song on his playlist switched to something quiet and forlorn, and even with the cigarette, it was hard to swallow the feeling in his throat.
pennywise was gone—had been for a couple of years—but he was still taunting richie. would taunt him until the day richie died. it had taken something permanent, and while richie had gone home and rebuilt a life, it would never be the same. ben and beverly had each other; bill had learned to write a good ending (fucking finally); mike had finally moved to florida and called them all at least once a month.
and what had richie been left with? a carving on a bridge in a state he didn't live in and an ache in his chest no time could ease.
don't think like that , he thought. eddie wouldn't think like that.
eddie would tell him to stop sitting here in the cold evening. he'd tell him to stop thinking about what could have been and go home, where someone with kind eyes and an understanding heart was waiting. he'd probably tell him loneliness would give him an ulcer, or staying out in the fall air would make him sick. he'd yell at him for smoking a cigarette.
the thought made richie smile a little.
another puff of smoke rose toward the purple sky. richie closed his eyes, tried to imagine eddie here. tried to feel him here. they'd walked down this bridge before so many times, eddie jabbering on about his mom or something at school or telling richie to shut up. god, he missed that.
what would eddie think of richie now? of who he was—of who he was starting to allow himself to be? what would he think of the man he'd left at home, the man who never judged when the weight of what ritchie had lost crushed his lungs and woke him in the middle of the night?
richie thought of the letter from stan he'd received after they'd killed it. it was tucked inside his nightstand, the edges a little worn from being folded and unfolded.
if you find someone worth holding on to, never, ever let them go.
he would never let go of eddie. but right now, he had someone at home, hundreds of miles away, waiting for a phone call to make sure he was okay.
richie brushed his jacket sleeve across his eyes and touched the carving again, this time letting all five of his fingertips brush the etching.
"goodbye, eds," he whispered.
his cheeks went warm with tears, and he wiped his face with his sleeve again.
his shoes crunched on the old asphalt as he wandered back to his car. as he got in and turned the ignition, the radio crackled on some oldies station. "we'll meet again" by vera lynn sputtered and fizzed a few times before drifting through the speakers, soft and sweet and a little mournful.
richie looked out his windshield, gazing through the shadows toward his slat on the bridge. he would be back. maybe next year. maybe with the man waiting at home.
a piece of his heart was buried here, under the place where the neibolt house once stood, under the kissing bridge. but that didn't mean he had to bury the rest of him here. or that he had to pretend the opposite—that this place didn't exist. it did. it always would. and that was okay.
he watched the bridge for another minute. then he pulled the car forward and turned it around to drive out of derry, to drive to the airport. to go home.
+++ i found this in my drafts. i wrote it hours after seeing IT2.
