Chapter Text
I
The last weeks of summer had a different weight to them.
Not heavy exactly. Just… aware. Like everyone could feel time thinning out, like the air itself was quietly counting down the days until schedules and lockers and homework snapped everything back into place.
This wasn’t the first time the losers hand all hung out since the night Connor was introduced officially to the group.
It wasn’t tentative anymore.
It wasn’t a test run.
It was just… what they’d been doing.
That afternoon felt suspended in amber.
Bikes were scattered across Bill Denbrough’s front yard like they’d been dropped mid-thought. The grass was warm underfoot, flattened in familiar patches where someone had flopped down and decided not to get back up. The sun hung low and lazy, turning everything gold, dust motes floating in the air whenever the front door opened and shut again.
Inside, it was loud in the familiar way.
Stan arguing about rules.
Mike correcting him, immediately.
Ben laughing too hard at something Richie said, hand over his mouth like he was trying not to.
Beverly moving through the room like she belonged everywhere at once, stealing snacks, issuing commentary, touching shoulders as she passed. Connor talking about new music and explaining the difference between metal rock and punk rock.
It felt… right.
Eddie noticed that first.
Not because he was looking for it.
Because he’d spent weeks braced for things to feel wrong.
But this didn’t.
This felt like muscle memory. Like slipping back into a shape they’d all worn before everything got complicated. Before secrets. Before silences. Before words that stuck in the throat instead of coming out clean.
“Okay,” Stan said, hands on his hips, “if we’re doing this, we’re doing it right. No cheating.”
“I never cheat,” Richie scoffed, already absolutely cheating.
“That’s a lie,” Eddie said automatically.
Richie turned, grin sharp and bright. “Wow. Targeted. I’m being attacked in my own kind.”
“You deserve it,” Bev said fondly, flicking him in the shoulder as she passed.
Richie laughed and leaned into it like he always did, like touch was something he collected without thinking.
Eddie felt something loosen in his chest.
Connor sat on the floor near the couch, knees pulled up, back resting lightly against it. Not hovering. Not tucked into a corner. Just… there. He held a deck of cards loosely in one hand, listening more than talking, eyes tracking the room with an easy attentiveness.
He didn’t look out of place.
That surprised Eddie more than it should’ve.
Connor laughed at the right moments.
Reacted when spoken to. Talked about his love for music.
Jumped in when it made sense, stayed quiet when it didn’t.
No trying. No forcing.
Just… existing among them.
Bill passed by and nudged him lightly with his foot as he stepped over him. “You good?”
Connor glanced up, smiled. “Yeah.”
Simple. Easy. Nothing loaded in it.
Bill didn’t linger, but he slowed just a fraction, resting his hand briefly on the back of the couch near Connor’s shoulder before moving on to the kitchen again. It was small. Unremarkable.
Eddie clocked it anyway.
Ben leaned back in his chair, stretching. “We should do this every day until summer’s over.”
“Every day?” Mike asked. “That’s ambitious.”
“Everything’s ambitious when you’re seventeen,” Richie said sagely, like a man with wisdom instead of unresolved emotional trauma.
Eddie snorted before he could stop himself.
Richie’s head whipped around instantly. “Oh wow. I made Eddie laugh. Mark it on the calendar.”
Eddie rolled his eyes. “Don’t get used to it.”
But Richie didn’t push. He just grinned and turned back to the group, voice rising again, filling the room the way it always had.
And Eddie realized, with a strange mix of relief and ache—
Richie wasn’t fragile today.
He wasn’t guarded.
He wasn’t quiet.
He wasn’t folded in on himself.
He was loud and obnoxious and everywhere.
Richie Tozier, fully back in orbit. Richie Tozier, happy to be alive.
II
Eddie didn’t mean to watch Richie.
It just… kept happening.
Ever since that night, his eyes kept finding him like a habit he couldn’t break. Like his brain had decided Richie Tozier was the only thing worth tracking in a room full of noise.
Richie moved like he always had, like sound and motion were things he generated instead of reacted to. He leaned over the back of the couch to steal Mike’s chips. He flopped onto the carpet when Stan won a round, dramatic as a dying Victorian orphan. He narrated everything he did like the universe needed commentary and, somehow, made it feel necessary.
And impossibly, he made it all look easy again.
Eddie perched on the arm of the chair, legs tucked close, pretending he was paying attention to the game. He wasn’t. Not really.
He watched Richie tease Ben until Ben shoved him, laughing. Watched him let Beverly steal his drink and then complain about it like it was foreplay. Watched him bump shoulders with Connor and make some dumb joke that got a soft laugh out of him.
That one made something twist in Eddie’s chest.
Not sharp. Not angry.
Just… aware.
Connor wasn’t hovering. He wasn’t clinging to Richie the way Eddie had feared he might. If anything, he gave Richie space. Didn’t reach for him. Didn’t look at him like he was afraid he’d disappear.
It hit Eddie, unpleasant and quiet:
Connor already knew how to let go.
Richie leaned over Connor’s shoulder to look at the board, chin nearly brushing his hair. “No, no, no, you’re doing it wrong. You gotta… here,” he said, gesturing wildly, immediately knocking over a piece.
Stan groaned. “I swear to God—”
Connor laughed, shaking his head. “You’re impossible.”
“Correct,” Richie said proudly. “But charming.”
Eddie waited for it.
For the old pang.
For the jealousy.
For the panic.
It didn’t come.
What came instead was something slower. Heavier. A truth settling into place like a book dropped onto a table: final, undeniable.
Because watching Richie now felt different than it used to.
Not just noise and annoyance and affection wrapped in sarcasm.
Now Eddie noticed things he hadn’t let himself notice before.
The way Richie’s hands moved when he talked, big and expressive, like he was conducting an orchestra only he could hear. The freckles scattered across his nose, half-hidden behind his glasses. The way his hair curled at the edges when it got humid, like the world couldn’t fully tame him. The way his laugh started in his chest and then spilled out too loud, too bright, like he refused to be small.
Eddie stared, stomach flipping, and thought, helplessly:
God, I love everything about this idiot.
Bill’s voice drifted in Eddie’s head like a warning label.
Take your time. Figure it out. Don’t hurt him with your impulsivity.
Eddie tried.
He really tried.
He tried to focus on the board. On Mike’s rules. On Stan’s complaining. On literally anything else.
But Richie kept catching his attention anyway, like gravity.
And Eddie realized, watching the way Richie filled space without asking permission—
This wasn’t about Connor.
It never really had been.
Richie could flirt with anyone. That was just Richie. He flirted like breathing. Like reflex. Like armor.
But Eddie had seen him that night. The last night it was just them two.
Seen him quiet.
Seen him unsure.
Seen him soft in a way Richie never let the world see. Not for Ben, not for Bev, not for Mike, not for Stan.
Eddie had seen Richie in that fragile, honest moment when the jokes fell away and what was left behind was… him.
And that version of Richie hadn’t been for Connor.
It had been for Eddie.
Eddie’s fingers tightened against the fabric of his jeans until his knuckles ached.
The thought came uninvited. Unwanted. Terrifying in its clarity:
I don’t know if I like men.
The follow-up landed harder, like the floor dropping out from under him.
But I know I want Richie.
Not just the kiss.
Not just the heat of it, the shock of it, the way Eddie’s body had moved like it finally understood something Eddie’s mind refused to say out loud.
Eddie wanted more.
His body had wanted more.
His heart—stupid, traitorous, loud—wanted more.
Across the room, Richie suddenly launched himself onto the couch beside Eddie, too close, knee bumping his. “I’m bored,” he announced. “Someone entertain me.”
Eddie’s breath caught before he could stop it.
It was ridiculous, the way his whole nervous system spiked at a knee bump. The way he had to force his face into something normal. The way he could still feel that night like a ghost on his skin.
Richie glanced at him, eyebrows lifting just a fraction.
Not teasing. Not probing.
Just… checking.
And Eddie hated that Richie could do that. Hated that Richie could see through him even when Eddie was trying so hard to be fine.
Eddie swallowed and made himself speak. “We’re literally in the middle of a game.”
“Yeah,” Richie said, leaning back, arm draped along the top of the couch, dangerously close. “But you look like you’re thinking real hard, and that’s alarming.”
Eddie scoffed, but it came out weaker than he meant it to. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Richie hummed, unconvinced.
Then, mercifully, he let it go. Turned back toward the others. Tossed out another joke. Threw himself back into the room like he’d never left at all.
And Eddie sat there, heart beating too loud, watching Richie blend back into the group like he belonged there because he did—
Coming to terms with the quiet, terrifying truth that it wasn’t men he was figuring out.
It was Richie.
And the worst part was how good that truth felt when Eddie finally stopped fighting it.
III
Connor didn’t mean to stay so close to Bill.
It just… happened.
At first it was practical. Bill always ended up near the snacks. Bill always knew where things were. Bill had a way of anchoring a room without trying, like furniture that had always been there.
But somewhere between Stan launching into an unsolicited bird fact and Mike arguing about whether velociraptors were actually smart, Connor realized he’d stopped scanning for exits.
He sat beside Bill while Bill shuffled cards for the game, their shoulders brushing every now and then. Not sparks. Not fireworks.
Just warmth.
“You en-enjoying yourself??” Bill asked quietly, not looking up.
Connor blinked. “I am.” He paused, then added, honest, “It’s been fun, with you all. Things have been better since you invited me that day.”
Bill nodded like that made sense. Like he’d been expecting that answer.
They didn’t talk about Richie.
They didn’t have to.
Connor watched him from the corner of his eye anyway. Richie was everywhere again, loud and alive, fitting himself back into the shape of the group like he’d never been gone. It still hurt, a little, but not in the way it had before.
This hurt had edges. It knew what it was.
Healing, maybe.
He was glad to see him back to being himself, among his friends. Around him.
Bill dealt the cards, tongue pressed lightly to his teeth in concentration. Connor smiled without meaning to. There was something deeply grounding about him. The way he listened. The way he noticed when someone went quiet.
“You’re smiling,” Bill said suddenly, glancing up.
Connor startled. “Am I?”
“Y-yeah,” Bill said, a little shy. “It’s n-nice.”
Connor felt heat creep up his neck. He ducked his head. “You’re… easy to be around.”
Bill stilled, just for a beat.
Then he nodded, careful and sincere. “So are you.”
It wasn’t dramatic. No one gasped. No lightning struck.
But something settled between them anyway.
Across the room, Eddie watched without realizing he was watching.
He saw Connor laugh at something Bill said, saw Bill’s ears go red, saw the way they leaned toward each other like it was natural. Unforced. Quiet.
No panic.
No spiraling.
No running.
Eddie’s chest tightened—not with jealousy this time, but with something like understanding.
Oh.
So it doesn’t have to hurt like that.
Richie flopped onto the floor near them, sprawled half across Eddie’s feet. “Okay, new rule,” he announced. “If Stan keeps talking about birds, we riot.”
Stan didn’t even look up. “You’d lose.”
Richie grinned. Eddie snorted before he could stop himself.
Richie looked up at him, surprised—and pleased.
And Eddie felt it again. That pull. That impossible, familiar gravity.
Across the room, Connor caught Bill’s eye and smiled. Bill smiled back. Both their cheeks dusting pink.
Soft.
Uncomplicated.
Real.
Eddie looked at Richie—bright, chaotic, impossible—and felt the truth settle deeper:
Some love is gentle.
Some love is loud.
And some love feels like home whether you’re ready for it or not.
IV
Richie had always been like this.
Touchy. Clingy. Loud with his affection. He leaned on everyone, hung off shoulders, draped himself across laps like gravity was optional. If anyone noticed, they never reacted. Richie being everywhere at once was just… Richie.
So when he got off from the floor and sat on the couch to lean his whole body against Eddie, no one blinked.
Not Mike. Not Stan. Not Beverly, who was halfway across the room laughing at something Ben said.
Richie lingered there, though. Didn’t move away.
The game kept going. Dice clattered against the board. Someone groaned. Someone else cheered.
“You okay?” Richie murmured, low enough that only Eddie could hear it.
Eddie swallowed. “Yeah.”
Richie hummed, unconvinced, but didn’t push. He shifted instead, settling in more comfortably, cheek brushing Eddie’s shoulder. The movement was absentminded. Easy. Like breathing.
Eddie’s heart did something unpleasant.
He stared straight ahead, every nerve in his body screaming awareness. Richie’s warmth. Richie’s weight. The way Richie’s body fit like a puzzle piece against him.
This is what you want, Eddie realized.
Not the kissing.
Not the experimenting.
Not the questions.
This.
Richie choosing to be near him without thinking about it. Richie always circling back. Richie feeling like home.
The realization settled heavy and awful and undeniable in Eddie’s chest. Because now that he saw it, he couldn’t unsee the rest of it.
The jealousy earlier in the summer. The bitterness. The way Connor’s presence had felt like a threat instead of just… a person. The way Eddie’s stomach had twisted every time Richie laughed with someone else too long, leaned too close, disappeared without explanation.
It hadn’t been about Connor.
It had never been about Connor.
It was about Richie.
And the truth that followed hit even harder.
If Richie actually dated someone.
If Richie chose someone.
If Richie leaned like this against someone else—
Eddie’s chest tightened so sharply he almost sucked in a breath.
He would lose it.
Not loudly. Not dramatically.
Quietly. Completely.
Richie shifted, lifting his head just enough to glance at Eddie’s face. “Seriously Eds,what are you thinking about?” he said lightly.
“Nothing.” Eddie said automatically.
Richie smiled against his shoulder, clearly not believing him, but he didn’t move away. If anything, he pressed closer, like anchoring himself there.
Eddie let it happen.
He let himself feel it.
And for the first time, instead of panicking or rationalizing or shoving the thought away, he let the truth sit fully formed in his chest.
I don’t want to lose him.
I don’t want to share this.
I don’t want to watch him choose someone else.
“Hey,” Stan called while scanning the board. “Who’s turn is it? Come on people.”
“Not mine,” Richie said easily, leaning back into Eddie. “I’m emotionally unavailable.”
“Fuck, sorry! It’s my turn.” Connor said quickly. “Bill was distracting me.”
“Wh-Wha! I’m sorry!” Bill laughed and put his hands up, guilty.
Mike snorted. Ben groaned. Beverly threw popcorn at Stan. The room kept spinning like it always did, normal and loud and safe.
Then Richie slid off Eddie like he’d never been there.
Eddie’s shoulder felt colder instantly.
Richie wandered across the room, still talking, still joking, still narrating his own existence. He dropped down without thinking, straight onto the carpet beside Connor… then, as if testing something, he leaned back and let his head fall into Connor’s lap.
Connor startled, hands hovering for a second like he wasn’t sure where to put them. Then he let them settle lightly into Richie’s hair, half awkward, half fond.
“Your head is heavy,” Connor said, deadpan.
“My thoughts are heavier,” Richie replied, eyes closed, dramatic. “I’m suffering.”
Connor smirked and lightly tugged at Richie’s curls. “You’re always suffering.”
“Because no one appreciates me,” Richie sighed dramatically.
Beverly laughed. “That’s because you’re unbearable.”
Richie lifted his head just enough to look at Connor, grinning like he’d won something, then sat up again and leaned forward and planted a quick, stupid kiss right on the top of Connor’s head. A joke between them, reminder that Richie outgrew Connor.
Not romantic.
Not that.
Just Richie being Richie. Teasing. Loud affection. A performance for the room.
Connor blinked, momentarily stunned, then shoved Richie’s forehead away with two fingers. “Get off me, Tozier.” He chuckled, rolling his eyes.
Richie collapsed back into his lap like a cat returning to its favorite spot. “No. I belong here.” He protested.
The room erupted into overlapping reactions, half laughter, half mock outrage.
But Eddie didn’t laugh.
Eddie watched Richie’s mouth touch Connor’s hair and felt something deep in him go cold and hot at the same time.
He knew. He knew Richie didn’t want Connor like that anymore. He knew Richie flirted like he breathed. He knew it was a joke.
And still—
The thought slammed into him with brutal clarity:
I will combust if he ever actually meant this affection.
Eddie tried with every hang out they had, to figure out what his head and heart were trying to say to him.
Eddie had been trying.
He’d been trying so hard.
But something in him snapped into place watching Richie lounge in someone else’s lap so easily, with someone he was intimate with.
Eddie didn’t want “time” anymore.
He wanted certainty.
He wanted Richie to be his.
And if he didn’t throw his hat in the ring now, he’d spend the rest of his life watching Richie Tozier slip into someone else’s arms and pretending it was fine.
Eddie stood up so fast the couch made an alarming scraping sound.
Stan glanced over. “Jesus, Eddie.”
Mike raised a brow. “You good?”
Eddie didn’t answer. He just walked straight toward Richie, who looked up immediately, surprised.
“What’s up, Eds?” Richie asked, still half reclined.
Eddie’s voice came out rough. “Come here.”
Eddie offered his hand to Richie.
Richie blinked, then slid off Connor’s lap like it meant nothing. Like it hadn’t cracked something open in Eddie’s chest.
Connor lifted his hands up as if saying “all yours.”
Bill glanced at Eddie, a soft smile on his face. Maybe Eddie had finally decided.
They drifted into the kitchen under the pretense of grabbing drinks. The noise softened behind them, the air cooler near the sink. Eddie still holding Richie’s hand until they were far enough into the kitchen. He then let go and Richie leaned back against the counter, watching Eddie carefully now, looking down at the hand that felt like static.
Eddie fumbled with a cup. Then another. Then just set them down, hands useless. Richie looked up and just watched him.
He stared very hard at the countertop.
“I was thinking,” Eddie said, then stopped. Tried again. “About… us. About hanging out.”
Richie’s brows lifted a fraction. He didn’t interrupt.
“You know how we said we would,” Eddie continued, words careful, like he was stepping through glass. “Hang out. Just us. Not— not with everyone.”
Richie nodded slowly. “Yeah.”
Eddie swallowed. His chest felt too tight.
“I want to do that again,” he said. “Just… us. Tomorrow, maybe. Or whenever. On purpose.”
Richie went very still.
Eddie rushed on before he could lose his nerve. “Not like— I mean, I’m not—” He waved a hand, frustrated. “I just don’t want it to be a group thing. I want it to be… you and me.”
Silence stretched between them.
Richie stared at Eddie like he was trying to translate something precious and terrifying at the same time.
“…Okay,” Richie said carefully. “Yeah.”
Eddie risked a glance up. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” Richie repeated, softer. “Tomorrow sounds good.”
Eddie’s chest loosened so suddenly it almost hurt.
“Cool,” he said, a little breathless. “Cool. Okay.”
Richie tilted his head, studying him now. The joking didn’t come back. His voice, when he spoke, was light but uncertain in a way Eddie had never heard before.
“So,” Richie said, “uh… what are we doing? Because this is sounding suspiciously like a capital-H Hang Out.”
Eddie flushed instantly. “It’s just— I just meant—”
Richie smiled, not teasing. Understanding.
“Eds,” he said gently, “you’re asking me to spend time alone with you, on purpose, tomorrow.”
Eddie’s heart jumped into his throat. “I’m just saying I’m not—”
“I know,” Richie said quickly. “I know. I’m not pushing.”
Then, quieter, almost to himself:
“I just… really like that you asked.”
Eddie exhaled, some of the tension leaking out of him.
“Me too,” he admitted.
Richie’s smile softened. “Okay. Then yeah. I’d really like that.”
They grabbed the drinks they didn’t actually need and headed back toward the others, shoulders brushing in a way that felt deliberate now.
As Eddie stepped back into the noise, back into the game, back into Richie’s orbit, one thing rang clear and undeniable in his chest:
He might not be ready to say it out loud right now.
But he was done pretending it was nothing.
And Richie—judging by the way he kept glancing over, like he was holding something fragile and bright in his hands—
Definitely thought it meant something too.