"What do you know about Eddie Kaspbrak?" Richie asks, looking over at his only friend. The two sit on the curb outside the gas station, sharing the slushee they could barely afford.
The laundromat is closed down for renovation, so Richie and Beverly continue their usual nightly routine while perched under a street lamp.
"Eddie? He's a sweetheart, I love him," Bev says, hogging the slushee to herself. Richie doesn't mind, he dislikes blue raspberry anyway.
"Yeah, but, like," Richie vaguely gestures for her to go on, but she doesn't pick up the subtle hints he's trying to put down. "What's he like?"
Beverly stops, her blue eyes coming over to interrogate Richie. "Tozier, are you trying to make friends?"
Friends, boyfriends, same thing, right?
"Yeah, sure, lets go with that," Richie tries to play it off as if it's no big deal. The truth is, Eddie Kaspbrak has been on his mind every night for the past four days. Richie is lucky that he excels so well in school, otherwise he would be lost from always staring at Eddie during their lessons.
"He's a hypochondriac," she says. "If you sneeze near him, he suddenly swears he has the Black Plague."
Richie's mind wanders back to disinfectant wipes, pieces of the puzzle starting to fit together nicely. "And?"
"And what?" She raises an eyebrow.
"...What does he like? Books? Movies? Video games? Does he like Streetfighter?" His voice is full of hope, images dancing across his mind of taking Eddie to the arcade and showing him Richie's high score. "What kind of music does he like? Does he like Queen?"
Richie's main stipulation when he meets someone new is simple; they have to listen to Queen.
Bev knows this too, she was grilled about her favorite Queen songs the day that her and Richie met in middle school gym class. That was the year that Richie went through his growth spurt. His gym uniform had been a size small when he ordered it in August, but when December snow had fallen over Derry, Richie shot up to 5'10 with legs so long that his shorts had barely covered his rear.
"How tall is he?" Richie then asks, his own thoughts interrupting Bev from answering any questions. "5'5? 5'6?"
"5'3?" Beverly responds. "Maybe 5'4. He's been growing."
Richie's heart grows to the size of the moon, and he dramatically puts a hand on his chest, whispering "Oh dear god, his cock must be just as small."
"Ew! Don't talk about his dick, Richie! That's my best friend," Beverly slaps Richie's head, the boy's glasses falling far off of his nose and nearly slipping out from behind his ears.
Richie winces, pushing the glasses up and trying not to think of his own mother's rough hands. "Whatever."
Bev softens up, remembering that Richie isn't as tough as he presents himself to be. She gently rests her cheek against his shoulder, rubbing her slushee-stained fingers across his knee in an attempt to comfort him.
"He does like Queen, but only what he hears on the radio. He's not much into Zeppelin, but he does like that Elton singer. What was it? Elton..."
"Elton John," Richie's heart flutters with the memory of listening to Your Song with Eddie's leather colored eyes staring up at him. Even from the moment they met, things with Eddie were... different. Special. Like someone put a hazy pink filter over the world around him.
"Yeah, that's the one! Elton John, and Michael Jackson, Prince, of course, and that one song that's always playing on MTV. Take On Me?" Bev doesn't know much about music despite playing the piano. She knows sheet music, but not musicians. Richie loves her anyway.
"Take On Me," he confirms. "A-ha."
"Aha what?" She asks.
"That's the name of the band, Bee," he chuckles.
"Oh," she slurps what's left of the drink, then says "He likes comic books, Richie. He loves comic books. He might like Streetfighter, but he's more of a Space Invaders kind of guy. Be nice on him, ToTo. No jokes about his mom. He's got it rough."
"What's wrong with his mother?" Richie stiffens up defensively, his blood hardening at the idea of things not being rainbows and sunshine for such a heaven-sent boy.
"Not my place to say," she says quietly.
Richie remembers the way that Eddie's head fell down when Richie had made that joke about sleeping with Eddie's mom. It makes sense, of course it does. He's a hypochondriac with mommy issues.
"Is he..." Richie trails off, his eyes floating upwards to play with the stars. He doesn't know how to ask this question, especially since it's one he's never thought to ask about someone before. Richie doesn't care about sexualities, nor does he make assumptions about boys that wear nail polish. "Is he a nancy boy?"
"A nancy boy?" Bev lifts her head, looking at Richie in surprise. Richie has never shown prejudice towards people of that orientation, why would he ask now? "No, Eddie's got a crush on Greta Bowie."
"Greta?!" Richie chokes, feeling his world expand and collapse around him. "Are you serious? She's a cunt! She fucking bullies him!"
"The heart wants what it wants," Bev shrugs her shoulders. She's just accepting it? She doesn't think it's fucked up that Eddie is pining after someone that Richie watched verbally abuse the boy?
"You're fucked, Marsh," Richie stands to his feet, his face hot with anger and embarrassment all at once. He feels the familiar sting against his eyelashes, so he quickly pushes his glasses up to press his palms into his eyes as if that will stop the faucet from leaking. "You're a shitty friend."
"Richie?" Bev gasps, shocked and upset that Richie would ever mutter those words. "Excuse me?"
"If he's having nightmares, you fucking comfort him. If he's getting picked on, you fucking stand up for him. And if Bill loses his brother, you fucking acknowledge it," Richie climbs onto his bike, nudging the kickstand to the side. He stares down at Beverly, already regretting what he is saying, but he knows that he's telling the truth. "And if I tell you that my parents have been fighting, don't try to one-up me to see who has it worse."
Richie's hands shake on the bike handles the entire time that he rides home, the silent neighborhoods only locking him in with his own thoughts. Should he turn around and apologize? Would she accept his apology?
Richie pulls up his driveway, taking notice of the light shining through the kitchen window. Carefully, as to not make too much noise, Richie drops his bike behind the bushes and quietly starts climbing the rose trellis. Richie is careful to where he steps, doing his best to avoid trampling any of the roses that have spiraled up and curled around the picket fence. His window is still open from when he jumped, and as quickly as he can, he pulls himself up using only his upper arm strength.
Richie's head spins with all of the mistakes he's made, tonight's choice of words seeming to be the biggest of them all. How dare he speak to Beverly like that? She tolerates so much of Richie's behavior, suffers through so many insufferable traits, and this is how he repays her? By daring to call her a shitty friend?
He feels the familiar pressure in his chest, so before he can spiral into another fit of anxiety, he puts his headphones on and flips through his stacks of tapes to find the one he listened to with Eddie. Beautiful Eddie. Eddie, who likes Elton John and Space Invaders.
To distract himself from all the bad thoughts that he is letting run naked and free through his mind, he pulls a notebook out and digs through his desk drawers until he finds the exact pen he's looking for. Purple, with green ink. His favorite for making mixtapes, the only pen that he allows himself to use. Richie has little quirks, tiny little black holes in his mind that make him act funny sometimes. But it's okay. Beverly always accepted them.
She might not anymore.
Richie shakes his head, turning the volume up even higher than it already is, and uncapping his pen so that he may begin listing all of the most lovely songs he can think of.
TO EDDIE KASPBRAK; he titles the page, making sure that his words are neat and eligible. FOR WHEN YOUR NIGHTMARES ARE TOO LOUD TO SLEEP, TURN THE MUSIC UP EVEN LOUDER.