Richie stands in the hallway, carefully moving about the wooden floorboards so that he does not wake anybody.
Early morning light falls through the blurry curtains, dust pirouetting through the stiff air on the 5 am winter Saturday. Richie's t-shirt feels too thin in the cold house, and the blue light coming in from the sky only makes things colder.
He stares at the photos, each picture frame hanging up with a sense of purpose. Photos of Bill riding a bike, Bill holding fishing rods, and Bill in Cub Scout uniforms. There's photos of a younger boy with four gaps in his teeth, a younger boy caught mid-laugh, and a younger boy hugging Bill with all the might in the world. Those ones hurt the most. The photos of Bill and the kid, only because Bill has a certain light in his eyes that Richie has never seen before.
The floorboards creak eerily beside him, and when he glances over, he sees Bill himself emerging from the kitchen slowly. His usually neat hair is dissaray, his bleary eyes focused wistfully on the wall of memories.
"C-Couldn't s-s-sleep?" Bill ponders.
"Sorry," Richie shrugs, "Got a bit bored waiting for everyone to wake up. You?"
"W-Wanted a glass of wuh-water," Bill lifts the cup up, the light catching the lip marks on the brim of the glass. "Ben and M-Mmm-Mike are cuh-cuddling."
Richie smiles a little, one that doesn't quite reach the rest of his face. He watches as Bill's eyes drift back to the picture frames, a lifetime of memories with his brother that he will never get to make flashing on the male's features.
"He used to cut photos from dad's newspapers and stick them on this wall so that we could remember other people's lives as well as our own," Bill speaks with a clarity in his voice. No stutters, no hesitations, no falters. "Nobody had the heart to tell him he was cutting out obituaries."
Richie looks back at a particularly painful photograph, an image of Georgie riding on top of Bill's shoulders, the kid reaching his arms up to the sky.
"Hm," Richie grunts, not quite sure of which words to say. Richie is a single child, so he's not sure what it would mean to lose a brother, but he's sure it feels a lot like the hot rock that tightly winds in his throat when he imagines Beverly's father taking things too far one night. He says, with comfort, "I'm sorry, Bill."
Bill shrugs, letting out a weak but desperate laugh. His stutter returns quickly, attacking his words in full force. "Wuh-What c-c-can you d-do, right?"
"Are you going to head back to bed?" Richie asks quickly, not wanting to be alone in the silence of the Denbrough house.
"P-Planned on it," Bill nods, then says "D-Do you wuh-want me t-to stay up-p?"
Richie looks away in embarrassment, shrugging a little but silently begging Bill to choose him. Bill nods, turns on his heel, and heads back to the kitchen. Richie follows him aimlessly, watching as the boy opens the fridge.
"Do you want b-breakfast?" Bill asks, "We've g-g-got, uhh, cereal."
"Hmm," Richie leans over his shoulder, examining the food that he's working with. "You like omelettes? I can cook."
"T-Trashmouth knows how to c-c-cook?" Bill almost laughs. "I mean, s-sure. G-Go for it."
Bill gets everything that Richie says he needs, showing the tall boy where the pots and pans are for any future breakfast endeavors. It makes Richie feel just a little bit more welcomed, a little bit more home. Bill is welcoming him in and showing him around for the future, which ignites hope that there will be future sleepovers for the two to spend together.
Bill watches Richie cook with mesmerized eyes, astonished by his nimble and perfected skills. Richie seems like the last person to ever have any kind of culinary talent, yet his omelettes look better than those on the cooking television shows that Bill's mom loves to watch.
"Hey, Rich," Bill speaks up, watching the boy decorate a plate with garnishes he found in Bill's fridge.
"Hmm?" Richie lifts his head.
"C-Can I ask s-sss-something?" Bill inquires, his hands nervously folding over each other.
"Just did, Billy boy," Richie grins easily, setting the plate off to the side with the other three. He returns to the pan, grabbing two eggs from the carton. There isn't enough, he knows he'll only be able to make six plates, but that's fine. He doesn't need to eat.
"Ab-b-bout last night," Bill clarifies anxiously.
Richie's movements slow as he recalls the cursed game of truth or dare that they were all subjected to. He should have seen it coming; of course someone would ask. Bill just happened to get to the punch faster than Bev could.
"About Stan?" Richie asks for him, peering over the thick rims of his glasses. "I'm not gay, Bill."
"D-D-Didn't say you were," Bill remarks. "J-Just wanted to a-ask if, um, he... Is he?"
"Is Stan gay?" Richie recalls their conversation in the tight bathroom, the way that Stan had confessed no sexual attraction to any gender while there was a bit of toothpaste on the corner of his mouth. Richie mourns the loss of his makeout partner, not quite sure of who to have fill the new spot. "No. Were you hoping?"
"No," Bill shrugs. "I was j-j-just curious. S-Sometimes he looks a-at me l-like..."
"...Like?" Richie urges him to continue.
Bill's cheeks flush a little, his eyes averting Richie in guilt. "T-The way E-Eddie looks at yuh-you."
Richie nearly drops the spatula against the counter, barely tightening his grip at the last second. His heart seems to plummet through the kitchen floor and find it's way back to the sole owner of it; the boy still sleeping with headphone cords tangled around him.
He shakes his head and tries to shrug it off, merely replying "Oh, with disgust? Darling, that's how Eds and Stan the Man look at everyone, don't think you're so special."
"Hmph," Bill chuckles, picking at the green peppers that Richie has chopped up. "M-Maybe so, S-Stan does have th-thhh-that look about him, d-doesn't he? B-B-But not Eddie. At least not w-with you."
Richie shakes his head again, his grip on the spatula only tightening more and more. "There you go again with this nonsense, Billy boy. Honestly, ya yankin' my chain, yee lads? Toyin' wif mah legs, buster?"
Bill reaches out to punch Richie's shoulder, his face smiling in amusement. "S-Shut up, Trashmouth. You d-d-don't have t-to pretend-d."
Richie relaxes a little, the tension unhooking from his shoulders. God, Bill's right. He doesn't have to pretend, what does he have to lose? Bill clearly doesn't discriminate, so why is Richie so afraid of confessing this god awful secret to anybody who isn't Eddie?
"Alright, Bill. You wore me down," Richie turns to look at his fearless friend, the one who had death and grief on his face not even an hour ago. "I like E-"
"Is somebody cooking?" A voice interrupts them, the sound of footsteps entering the kitchen. Richie jumps at the sudden surprise, his heart leaping out of his chest at the sight of Mike.
"Jesus, Hanlon. You tryna give me a heart attack?" Richie exhales, adjusting his glasses in an attempt to compose himself. "The fuck is your fixation on interrupting important moments?"
"Sorry," Mike smiles sheepishly. "I didn't expect anybody to be up this early. This is what time I usually get up to tend to my chores."
"I'd k-k-kill myself," Bill says bluntly.
"Trust me, I've considered it," Richie points at Bill with a snarky laugh, but there's a hint of swirling darkness that resides in a pool beneath Richie's words. A bit of truth, a bit of torture.
"Richie, did you make all of this?" Mike asks, astonished. He approaches the plates of omelettes with eyes the size of the sun, his stomach growling loudly. "I didn't know you can cook!"
"I'm full of surprises, dahlin'!" Richie's voice squeaks effeminately. He shoves a specific plate down the counter to where Mike is standing and says "No ham or bacon in that one. Vegetarian, right?"
"Yeah," Mike nods, a gasp on his lips. He seems so genuinely surprised at Richie's attentive personality, but gratitude seems to take over. "You noticed! Thank you so much, Rich. I'm going to go wake the others up!"
"W-Wait," Bill calls after him, but Mike is already disappearing down the basement door again. Bill sighs, mumbling "L-Let them s-sss-sleep a bit longer."
"Have you always been the mother of the group?" Richie asks in amusement.
"F-For as long as Bev's b-been the father," he smiles fondly at the excuse to mention her, but Richie can't even find it in himself to laugh at the boy's evident lovesick eyes. Richie is sure that he has the exact same expression when he thinks of fannypacks and first aid kits.
"I like him," Richie says quickly, just to say it. He blurts it out into the kitchen with a bit of reckless abandon, and he can feel the weight of the world lifting from his back as soon as the words leave his mouth. "I do. I like him, y'know."
"I k-know," Bill nods. Richie knows that Bill knows, he overheard Eddie telling his secret to Bill through the phone not even a week ago. Bill still smiles and says "B-B-But not gay?"
Before Richie can answer, Beverly emerges from the basement with a heard of boys behind her like a female goddess leading her men to war. Richie is grateful for the distraction away from the topic of his sexuality, he silently thanks Beverly Marsh for repeatedly coming to his aid whenever he needs it. Despite this, he still can't help but notice that Bev's gang of men is lacking a particular shorty.
"Thank you, Richie," the girl takes the plate she knows is hers. The girl leans on her tiptoes and presses a chaste kiss to Richie's cheek, causing the boy to blush and look away.
Ben is next, taking the plate that Richie points out to him. The stout boy grins, saying "You cook? And Bev's been hiding you this whole time? Damn selfish, that girl. Thank you, Tozier!" before standing on his tiptoes and pressing a kiss to the same spot that Beverly's lips previously just were.
Richie looks over at Bill in confusion, but the boy only shrugs with a smug smile on his face.
Richie turns back around to face the line, now being met with Mike, who is already holding his vegetarian plate. He grins as he kisses Richie's cheek, the boy getting nothing but teeth against the side of his face. It still feels like sunshine being forced into his pores.
Then Stan, beautiful Stan, steps up to Richie with precise movements. He looks down at the omlettes, inspecting them with a keen eye. "You poison them, doofus?"
"Only yours," Richie slides the plate made for Stan across the counter, biting his lips as he waits for approval. He tried to be as neat as possible, tried to fold the omelette with exact lines so that he would not make Stan feel the discomfort that comes with asymmetry.
Stan narrows his eyes at it for a moment, then grants his approval by nodding. "I expect nothing less than arsenic, you monster."
Then Stan leans up and lightly presses his lips to the side of Richie's jaw, the kiss gentle and sweet as opposed to the rest of their friends. Richie feels the words ghost against his skin, the words that don't have to be spoken to be said. It's a goodbye kiss above all else, a goodbye to their short-lived romantic friendship. Neither of the two will necessarily miss it, no, not when they've come to terms with what they were ultimately trying to avoid each time they would kiss each other. Stan would kiss Richie to force himself to feel something, anything for another human. Richie would kiss Stan to forget about the way that Eddie's nose would turn up at him each time that Richie proved to be a fuck-up. Now that neither of the two are hiding, all that's necessary is a goodbye kiss. Stan gives that to him, softly, and then it's done and over with. That chapter of the book is finally closed.
"Move along, S-Stan," Bill smiles, "M-My t-turn."
"Ah, yes, the co-pilot of the kitchen?" Stan raises his brows at Bill, giving a mini salute before following Mike to the dining room. The grandfather clock in the foyer strikes six am, and Richie wonders if any of the kids, albeit Mike, would ever wake up this early if they were alone.
Bill takes the second to last plate, avoiding the omelette shaped like a heart. He knows not to claim what's not his. However, he will smile at Richie, and say "G-Good job, captain. You d-d-deserve those k-kisses."
"Do I?" Richie rubs his cheek in embarrassment. Sure, he gets Stan's, but everyone else? Richie isn't deserving of anything.
"We luh-luh-love you, T-Trashmouth," Bill takes a step forward and gently kisses Richie's sharp cheekbone. "Don't forget t-that."
Richie smiles down at the floor, rubbing the back of his neck. "I won't, Bill. Go. I'm gonna go wrangle the hypochondriac."
"Go g-g-get him, t-tiger," Bill smiles, then leaves to join the rest of his friends feasting in the dining room.
Richie stands in shock for a moment, letting the love and acceptance wash over his skin for a moment. Even Stan's goodbye kiss felt like a new beginning, like the page has been turned and all the ink smudges have been erased from the side of his hand.
Richie quickly shakes his head and knows to move fast, or else Eddie's food will grow cold. He heads down the creaky steps to Bill's basement, his body eager to see Eddie's messy bedhead and sleepy freckles.
"Eds?" Richie calls out, stepping over empty sleeping bags to locate the boy. A light is cast down the hallway, so Richie slowly moves to the direction of the bathroom. "Hey, Eddie, you decent? I made breakfast for you if you want it."
"Breakfast?" He hears, Eddie's head poking out from the bathroom doorframe. Richie's heart blooms at the sight, an instant ease coming over his mind.
"Yeah," Richie comes to stand in the doorway, looking down at Eddie's sweater and pajama bottoms. Cute boy. "Omelettes. You like omelettes? I can make you something else, if you wish."
"I like omelettes," Eddie nods with a laugh. The faint smell of toothpaste has left traces in the bathroom, lingering on all the pill bottles that Eddie has lined up and ready to be taken. It seems he's about halfway through, half a dozen pills have the cap tightly secured on. "You got up early. How'd you sleep?"
"Decent," Richie shrugs, staring down at Eddie with comfort. He feels comfortable here, just comfortable. Not bursting with love and compatibility, just pure comfort. "Kinda uncomfortable. This cute boy was digging his elbow into my ribs all night, but yknow, I'll suck it up."
Eddie smiles bashfully and hits Richie's chest, turning to resume his pill taking. "Idiot. You could've moved me, you know."
Richie leans against the doorframe, admiring the boy fondly. He would never move Eddie, never. Even when his elbows dig in, even when his hair tickles, even when his knee presses into places where the sun doesn't shine. He'll never move Eddie, because he finds comfort in the discomfort.
Eddie swallows down his last pill, gulping and sighing with the ease of someone who has done this a million times before. He gathers them back into his bag, carefully zipping it up and slinging the bag over his shoulder. His hazel eyes travel upwards to meet Richie's expression, a small smile on his face.
"Do you still like me?" Eddie asks.
Richie's smirk falls, nerves immediately biting at his fingertips. "W-What? Yes? ...Am I not supposed to?"
"Just making sure," Eddie stands on his tiptoes and grabs Richie by the front of his shirt. Despite this now being the third time that Eddie has pulled Richie down to his height, the taller of the pair still feels surprised and caught off guard by the shorter's bold moves. Eddie presses his lips to Richie's cheek, kissing right along the curve of his face where freckles hide deep under his skin. He boosts himself up a little further and kisses Richie again, his hand settling on the side of the boy's neck. He goes in for a third kiss, this time, bravely smooching the cusp of Richie's jaw.
When he bounces back down, Richie is breathless. He feels like a stuttering, blushing mess, his clothes suddenly feeling way too hot to be wearing. He asks, "D-Did Bev tell you to do that?"
Eddie tilts his head to the side in curiosity, then shakes it. "No? Why do you ask?"
Richie blinks in confusion, his mind refusing to believe that Eddie would kiss his cheeks that many times without being prompted to. But then he remembers Eddie's frustrated words, with tears in his eyes, the way he shouted "I reciprocate!"
Perhaps Eddie just genuinely wanted to kiss him.
The idea seems absurd, but... not unattainable.
Richie's hand slides up Eddie's shoulder, combing through the side of the boy's hair. He asks in a nervous, insecure voice, "Can I... Can I return the favor?"
Eddie nods, smiling up at Richie with ripe fruits waiting to be picked nesting in the hollows of his cheeks.
So Richie conquers his fear and anxiety, leaning down to gently press his lips against Eddie's forehead. A soft, delicate kiss, but a sweet one, one with no fear of sentimentality.
Richie looks to Eddie to see if that's okay, and in reply, Eddie only reaches up to clasp his hand over Richie's, holding him there tightly.
"I always did like Elton John just a little bit too much," Eddie smiles. Richie speaks music as his first language, and Eddie knows this. In Richie's cassette tape mind, this translates to a confession of sexuality. Elton John and Eddie Kaspbrak hold the throne for gay men in Richie's heart.
Richie laughs, then shrugs. He returns the indirect confession, now proclaiming his connection with his favorite bisexual musician. "If that's the case, I like Queen an unhealthy amount. What's that say about me?"
"It says you're a hypersexual freak, Richie. You just want one thing from me," Eddie jokingly clicks his tongue, pretending to shame the boy in front of him.
"You got me there, Eds," Richie leans down to scoop the boy up in his arms, turning and carrying him down the hall. Eddie laughs and screams in amusement, pushing on Richie's chest in an attempt to escape. His legs flail helplessly above the floor, and Richie spins the two of them in the center of the basement. "I only want one thing."
Eddie gives up on protesting, instead locking his legs around Richie's waist so that he doesn't slip out of the boy's arms. His legs fasten tightly, and he lets his petite hands rest on Richie's broad shoulders. He can't remember why he was mad at Richie in the first place. "And that is?"
Richie feels the urge to lean forward and properly kiss Eddie, in fact, it's really the only thing he can think of. Maybe Eddie was right, maybe he is a hypersexual freak. But he knows that now is not their time, and that he will take things slowly so he does not mess it up like he is prone to doing. Instead, he settles on letting his nose brush against Eddie's, his forehead resting against the other's.
"I only want your happiness," Richie says truthfully. "Whether or not I'm the one to give it to you, all I want is to know that you are happy."
Eddie's hands tighten as he gathers bundles of cotton material in his fists. He is scared of how hard his heart is pounding, but he craves for this feeling to last forever.
"I think I like Honest Richie," Eddie comments, his hand coming up to cup the boy's cheek. His thumb gently grazes against the apple of Richie's cheek, a fingertip so delicate that Richie nearly mistakes it for a brushstroke. "Then again, I think I like every Richie."
The basement door opens, a clatter of footsteps descending the stairs. In fear of being caught, Richie immediately drops Eddie, and Eddie scrambles backwards to put some distance between them. Ben is the one to greet them, asking if they're ever going to come upstairs, so the two sheepishly follow the chubby boy up to the dining room. Eddie's food is definitely cold, but still. The heart shaped egg makes his chest feel warm enough that he doesn't mind the lukewarm food.
As Mike collects everyone's finished plates, Eddie catches Richie by the sleeve and asks "You're not eating?"
Richie shrugs and remembers the way he saw himself in the mirror last night. Barely a skeleton.
He says, "I already ate, don't worry."