"Here, this might help," Eddie had said, shoving the items into Richie's hand. "I kept it because nobody else deserved to have it. Bill got your tapes, though. But that... that was yours. Your secret weapon, I guess. It belongs to you, I'm not going to hold onto it anymore."
Then, he shut his locker and ran across the hall to where Henry was waiting, spinning his keychain around on his fingers absently. When Richie looked at the two, Eddie laughing and looking up at Henry, he made eye contact with his childhood friend.
Instead of a scowl or a glare, Henry just nodded towards him in acknowledgment, then looked down at Eddie and smiled at whatever it was the little one was saying.
They walked away, but Richie didn't feel bad about it. Henry is adjusting to Eddie talking to Richie again, he's not controlling either of the two from seeing each other. Maybe he has changed, maybe he hasn't. As long as he's done hurting people, hurting Eddie, that's all Richie could ask for.
Now, Richie sits on the edge of Bill's bed, his thumb stroking the edge of his walkman. He hasn't held one in years, and he certainly never thought that he would get to be reunited with the very first one that served as a surrogate for his love towards music. He's thankful that Eddie kept it, even if it were for selfish reasons.
"Alright, let's see," Bill exhales, dragging out a large shoebox from his closet. "This one's yours, Rich. I've got tons others, though."
Richie watches the girl slide off the bed next to him to kneel next to the shoebox, flipping the lid open with her nimble fingers. Richie doesn't say much to her, he's not sure how to act now that he knows the truth. He's not mad at Eddie for telling him, in fact, he's glad. He doesn't want to be blind to the dangers of a murderer, even if she was once his best friend.
God... I gave her a switchblade. A fucking knife, he thinks to himself, worry setting in. What if she goes on a killing spree using that knife? What if it's tied back to me? What if I'm put back into captivity after finally escaping? I'll never make it to my eighteenth birthday, not at this rate.
"You listened to ABBA?" Beverly scoffs, sorting through the tapes inside the shoebox carelessly. "Get a grip, man. Disco blows."
"Hey," Bill turns around, pointing a hanger towards his girlfriend. "You watch your mouth, we are a disco family in this household."
Beverly puts her hands up in surrender but then begins sorting the tapes into two piles. Good and bad. Richie watches her uneasily, afraid to even have her in the same house as him.
Richie watches her hands, imagining them covered in bruises from self defense. The last time he saw her before he got sent away, she had a sprained ankle and a black eye. Then, he got on that train, and she became a killer just a mere four days later.
Richie spots a tape he recognizes from the handwritten cover, the plastic casing scratched as if it's been well traveled with. He stands up, approaching Beverly's stacks and watches her read the track listing. She looks at her good pile, then at her bad. Before she can make that judgement, Richie holds his hand out to ask for it.
She looks up from where she's kneeling on the floor, trying to register Richie's request. As she places the tape in his hands, Richie feels her fingertips brush his, and he wonders if that was the hand covered in blood or the one still holding the back of the toilet seat.
"I'm gonna go get some fresh air," Richie declares, inserting the tape into the Walkman with ease. He detangles the headphones that look like they haven't been used in years, but the foam around the ear pieces smell like the cough syrup of the Kaspbrak home. It's comforting in a way.
Bill waves him off, but Beverly watches the boy leave the room with conspicuous eyes.
"Isn't that odd?" She asks Bill, turning back to her hands sorting out a tape from The Cars.
Bill lifts a pair of aviators off of his eyes from where he was trying them on in the mirror. He looks towards his open door, then back down to Bev. "Not really. What if he just wanted to go smoke?"
"But he doesn't, he quit," she looks back towards the door, a view of the hallway from her positioning on the floor. Richie is gone from view, the way he likes to be. Hidden. Out of sight, out of mind. "It's just weird. It's the middle of winter and he's going outside."
"Give it a rest," Bill shrugs. "Maybe he's tired of you and your fat head taking up the room."
Beverly forces a smile as she chucks a tape at Bill, who skillfully catches it before it can bludgeon his forehead in. When Bill looks away, Bev's eyes linger back towards the hall. "Yeah. Maybe."
Richie passes by Zack in the living room as he heads out the front door. Maybe Zack said something to him, maybe not. Richie has his headphones on and can't hear a thing other than Freddie Mercury singing to him. He's missed Queen unbelievably, he didn't realize just how much until he heard the start of I Want It All pounding through his headphones.
The snow on the porch begins to melt under Richie's bottom, wetting his jeans. He doesn't care, he welcomes the cold. It gives him the illusion that some of these fires that Eddie has sparked within him are sort of extinguished. Sort of.
Beverly's car is parked in the driveway, her backseat windows cracked down just a little. Richie knows she's trying to clear out the cigarette smoke so that her aunt doesn't catch her, but he's not sure what the big deal is now that she's 18. Besides Ben, Richie is the only one still underage.
"I read the autopsy report," he hears in his mind. "She's a murderer."
Richie sighs shakily, looking down at the Walkman in his hands and turning the music up. His breath comes out in bushes of fog, as cloudy as his mind is now that he's learned far too much for someone with such a weak train of thought to begin with.
Where will she stop? Was it truly just self defense? Or was it more? Will she do it again? It's been two years since it happened... if it was going to happen, it would have happened already, right?
He shakes his head, turning the music up on his tape to drown out all the background noise going on around him. The cold winter is the same bitch she's always been, a couple kids across the street building a snowman. To be a child and to have that much innocence... oh, what a life.
There's a tap on Richie's shoulder, causing him to jump up and slide a few steps down. He turns around quickly, closing his body off to avoid getting hit in the vulnerable parts. His wide, defensive eyes meet Beverly's, and that fear does not go away.
She reaches out and slides his headphones off with an amused smile, her hand moving up to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear.
"Hey, weirdo," she laughs, jabbing a thumb over her shoulder. "Kaspbrak's on the phone for you. You okay?"
The first time that somebody has asked since Eddie. Of course it would be her, she was his first best friend. But now anymore, it's not the same now that he knows the truth. He swallows hard, averting his eyes as he lies to her through his teeth.
"Yeah. Just a headache," he shrugs, standing up and brushing some of the snow off his ass.
"Well I don't think blasting music straight into your cranium is going to help that," she snickers, holding the door open for Richie. "So, have you two talked?"
"He's calling, isn't he?" Richie retorts with a scoff. He doesn't feel guilty talking back to her as much, but that little seed of fear is still planted deep within him.
"Fair point," she nudges him in towards the kitchen, mumbling a little "Go get him, tiger."
She doesn't know a thing about their situation, but that isn't necessarily her fault when Richie won't open up to anybody. Not even the kid on the other line waiting for him. Richie sighs, picking up the phone, his nerves taking the shape of something new now that they're nervous because of Eddie rather than the killer loose in his house.
"Hey," the skinny kid exhales.
"It's Eddie," Eddie declares.
"I know," Richie smiles. "Couldn't stay away, Kaspbrak?"
"You wish, Denbrough," Eddie scoffs, and Richie can practically imagine the way he shakes his head like he always does whenever he pretends to be annoyed with Richie. Denbrough sounds easy coming from his mouth, it sounds better than Tozier ever did. "Tomorrow's Friday."
"Congrats! You finally know your days of the week!" Richie laughs, earning the attention of Sharon, who is preparing dinner over at the stove. It's the first time she's heard such a sound come out of the boy they've adopted, so she turns to marvel at the smile he's wearing.
"Oh my God, I will hang up," Eddie says.
"Okay, okay, hold on!" Richie rushes, anxiety balling up in his throat. "Okay. I'm listening."
"I have to check in with mom after school, but I want you to meet me at the aquarium at five, okay?" Eddie plans, twisting the phone cord around his finger nervously. He can hear the beeping of his mom's timer, letting him know she's going to come in for her insulin shot soon. "Bring your tape and a good pair of headphones."
"No Walkman?" Richie asks, feeling the object in his pocket.
"Keep that safe, big guy," Eddie says, listening for the squeaking of the wheelchair coming down the hall. "Listen, I gotta go. I'll catch you tomorrow. Don't be late!"
The phone clicks dead, the hum of an empty line buzzing in Richie's ear. He sets the receiver back on the hook, a bit of his smile fading away as he comes back to reality and comes to face the kitchen.
"Who was that?" Sharon asks, stirring the pasta on the stove. "You were smiling."
"Oh, just my, um..." Richie trails off, pointing at the phone absently. What would Richie call him? Ex lover? Soulmate? Heartbreaker? "...Friend, I think. Is it okay if I go to the aquarium tomorrow?"
"Honey, I don't give a damn where you kids go as long as you're not breaking any laws and you're in the front door by curfew," Sharon repeats the same speech she's given Bill his whole life. Well, not his whole life. She shut down after Georgie, Bill only just recently got his parents back. Bill healed faster than they did, but they healed twice as strong.
"Thank you, mo-" Richie stops himself from finishing the word, placing a hand over his mouth as he turns abruptly to leave the kitchen and head upstairs. He panics internally at the slip of the tongue, demanding himself to not get attached. She's not his mom, she simply pities him. That's all.
When Richie pushes his bedroom door open, he finds that he's not alone.
"What are you doing in here?" Richie takes a step back so that his feet are on the other side of the threshold, a little barricade between her and him.
Beverly turns and looks over her shoulder, her hands lowering away from the bookshelf that Richie is slowly starting to build up. Her fingers were tracing along the edge of a leatherbound journal, the only book that looks more used than the rest. He tenses tightly, winding up and clenching his fist around the doorknob out of fear.
"What, I can't hang out in here? Dude, relax," she scoffs, flopping back down on his bed.
"No," he shakes his head. He takes that step over the threshold, entering the lion's den. Her fiery orange mane spreads out around her on the linen sheets, her gleaming eyes always holding a secret. "Bill's probably looking for you."
"Bill's taking a shower," she states, lifting her eyebrows. The girl begins to reach into the front pocket of her overalls, causing Richie to tense up. Oh god, he thinks. This is it. She's going to show me everything she learned with that knife I gave her, she's going to make me her second victim. Instead, Beverly pulls out a pack of cigarettes and asks "Got a light, man?"
"Could you..." he loses his confidence. He can't remember what it was that Eddie said about talking to people, but he can't seem to get past the fact that she might literally kill him for saying the wrong thing. "Please don't smoke in here."
"Whaat? Come on, dude, it's not like Bill's parents care," she chuckles, placing a cigarette between her cherry stained lips.
"Th-They're..." Richie takes a deep breath. "They're my parents too. I don't want them to think I smoke, I don't want to disappoint them."
Beverly stares for a moment, her eyebrow arched as if she's in disbelief of the words coming out of a mouth once filled with trash. Then, with quick, short movements, she removes the cigarette from her mouth and shoves it back into the box with finality. Richie flinches at the passive aggressive movements, all too familiar with body language and what that sort of action leads to.
"What the fuck's crawled up your ass?" She asks. "You're totally being weird to me, man. Weirder than usual. What did I do to royally piss you off?
There it is. Not necessarily a murder, but near death. A blow to his chest. Nearly stopped his anxiety ridden heart.
Richie looks behind him, seeing steam billowing out from underneath the crack in the bathroom door. He listens carefully to Sharon making noise down the stairs in the kitchen, picking up on the subtle sounds of Zack watching the game on TV. Then, he turns back to Beverly's expectant face, and the sounds all become deafening.
"What happened to your dad, Bev?" His voice is broken before the words can even come out, his nose turning cherry red as he wipes at the back of it.
She's thrown off her game by this question, her blue eyes widening in shock. That smugness instantly flushes out with the rest of the color in her complexion, fear making her as white as a ghost.
"Wh-Who told you about that?" She instantly sneers.
Richie shrugs, avoiding her eyes. He's scared, he's extremely scared. He wishes Bill were in the room, but he knows he would never bring this up in front of lovesick Denbrough.
"That's not- That's not any of your business," she scoffs in offense, standing to her feet quickly.
Richie takes a step backwards, his feet right on the threshold between his room and the hall. He glances at her combat boots and says "It's not true, right?"
"It's-" she starts to say, but the lie is caught in her throat like the lung cancer she'll contract if she keeps reaching for those cigarettes like a coping mechanism.
Richie gives in, so weakminded. He walks across the room and opens his window, gesturing for her to go ahead. Without hesitation, Beverly scrambles over towards the window sill, leaning over as she fumbles to spark her empty lighter over and over again in desperation of a flame. Her hands tremble, and it's the first time that Richie has really seen her be afraid since he's come back. He's reopening all her old wounds, but he supposes he's doing that for a lot of people.
"Are you scared of me?" She asks, mouth full of clouded smog.
"Yes," he answers truthfully.
She squeezes her eyes shut really tight, her mouth twitching as she attempts to form the proper words. "I didn't... I didn't mean to. I didn't want to. It all just happened so fast, and he was- he was-" she stops to take another shaky drag, opening her tear-filled eyes. Even if she were to be faking it, there's no way she could muster up tears like that. "I didn't mean to hurt him, Rich. I just wanted him to stop. I grabbed the- the toilet seat lid, and I just wanted him to stop. I didn't think... I didn't think..."
She stops talking long enough to cover her face with her hands, her cigarette balanced so perfectly between her fingers that the toxic smoke is still billowing out of his window.
Richie asks, "Why didn't you confess?"
"And be sent away? Get locked up in some freakshow like Hockstetter? I heard what he did, Richie, I don't wanna go to juvie with the likes of him."
Richie frowns, sitting on the edge of his bed and trying to bring up the name Hockstetter in his buried memories. Could it be... "Patrick Hockstetter?"
She lifts her face out of her hands, those crystallized eyes wet with tears. She looks as confused as Richie feels, but her tongue still finds the wit and edge to say "What, Eddie could tell you all about my tragedy, but none about his?"
Richie's throat goes dry when he hears the word tragedy. He's had enough pain and sorrow for a lifetime, he doesn't want to be sitting here discussing self defense with his murderer friend. He doesn't want to talk about Eddie's pain, either. He just wants everyone to be the exact same way that they used to be, running through pastures out at the Hanlon farm and playing tag with one another. Back when things were simple, when all he and Eddie had to worry about were the contents of his inhaler. Not murder.
"Eds and I didn't talk that much," Richie lies. He doesn't feel guilty, either. For some reason, it's okay to lie if it means he's protecting that particular person. He's not sure what that means.
She doesn't believe a second of that bullshit, but she shakes her head. "I'm not getting locked up. I didn't even mean to, and he... he was an awful, awful bastard, Richie. You know how sick he was."
"But murder?" Richie asks.
"I didn't mean to!" She raises her voice in a fit of exasperation. She lights up another cigarette and begins to chainsmoke, her shoulders shaking with her erratic breathing. "It was just there, okay? I didn't know it would hit him so hard, I just needed him to stop hurting me."
Richie hears a shift in the deafening noise, his attention sucking straight towards his open bedroom door. The shower has been shut off, replaced by the silence of what can only be Bill drying off. They don't have much longer to discuss this, so Richie takes a deep breath and shakes his head.
"That's a lot. Who all knows?" Richie asks.
"Nobody," she shakes her head quickly. "You're the only person I've confessed to. Well..."
"Well?"
"Eddie knew, he told you. So that means Henry knows."
"Henry won't tell," Richie shakes his head promisingly. That much, he does know for certain.
"How can you be so sure?" She asks in disbelief. "He got you sent away, Richie. He's the reason you're fucked up now."
Richie stands up, his fists tightening. His brows furrow, so he coughs out the large lump of sand keeping his emotions clogged from getting out. Now with the new freedom, he says "He was afraid. He's a dick, he's a fucking asshole, he's a shitbag, he is scum of the earth, he is the worst human alive. But he is not the reason I am the way I am, and I am not fucked up, Beverly Marsh."
"You're defending him?" She asks. "He's the reason you and Eddie-"
"No, he is not," Richie raises his voice above talking level, but not quite to yelling. That inbetween where he can get his point across thoroughly. "Eddie and I are the reasons we are apart. We're the only ones responsible for this, we only have ourselves to blame. Henry is the reason Eddie is even safe. He may not be as... as... as morally aligned as you, Bev, but he has kept that little fuck happy and content and.. and not alone. You guys all drifted, and I'm glad Eddie was able to find someone to talk to. He doesn't deserve to be alone, and I don't really think you have the right to be passing judgement on Henry when you've got a murder charge to your name, so just... just stop pointing fingers at who's done worse than you."
Bev is silent for a moment, staring at Richie in the center of the room completely unaffected. It's the most he's said since coming back, and Bev is only surprised it took so long with how much she was provoking him. She takes the cigarette out of her lips, blowing the smoke straight into Richie's bedroom.
"Wow," she breathes out, raising one eyebrow. Her face is cold and stoic, but how else would her pride let her react after getting told off like that?
"What?" Richie asks, daring her to make another comment.
"Even after all this time," she puts her cigarette out on the windowsill, flicking the butt of it into the yard below. Her eyes drag back to Richie's, that indistinguishable dynamite fuse lighting in her smile. "You're still so fucking in love with Kaspbrak."