Chapter Text
Eddie, willed by God, or some other power, probably, could not be on time to save his fucking life. He never could pin-point exactly what happened, or where he went wrong, but by the time he kissed his mother and flew out the door, he was at least five minutes late.
And now, he was power-walking to Bill’s house in annoying June morning heat, feeling the back of his shirt stick to his skin, praying Richie distracted Stan long enough so Stan didn’t leave him behind.
It wasn’t so much that Stan detested being late. It was more-so that Stan just wasn’t late.
Ever.
And that was how he found himself praying for the help of Richie Tozier, may God have mercy on his soul. Especially when he walked up and saw no sign of Stan’s car or Stan.
“Good morning, Eddie,” he heard as he flung open the porch door to the Denbrough house. Mrs. D., hair pinned out of her face carefully, age much kinder to her than it had been to Eddie’s mother, had to have known it was him. Stan always rang the bell. Always. They had been friends for ten years, and he always rang the goddamned bell.
“Morning, Mrs. D.” He stopped rushing, pausing at the edge of her kitchen table. “They didn’t…?”
“No,” she smiled at him. “Stan hasn’t come round yet.” Eddie wrinkled his nose, that was odd. They left at 7:37 for the Faire, every year since they started working there, without fail. He checked his phone, closing it quickly away from the Comic Con Portland page, to see the time. It was 7:35. “Juice?”
He motioned to say no, but when Mrs. D raised her eyebrows at him, he realized that he did, in fact, want juice, and chastised himself inwardly because he always seemed to say no when offered anything for literally no reason. Maybe it was a sign of anxiety, but it was seven a.m. which was too damn early to get introspective like that.
“You might want to check on the boys,” the juice was sweet but not overtly so, orange with mango? Maybe? All of those fruits began to blend together in Eddie’s mind after some point in time. “I haven’t heard a sign of life from them.”
Eddie’s eyes went large, and he nodded, running, carefully with the juice, up the Denbrough stairs.
He banged into Bill’s room, looking around for sleeping morons, but, with despair, found none. “Jesus Christ, guys.” He moaned. He set his now empty cup on Bill’s nightstand. He shot one last dirty look at Bill's neatly made bed, darting back into the hall quickly.
He, with a groan and irritation, yanked down the cord in the center of the hallway noisily.
Bill and Richie had, of course, slept in what Richie loved to call his bedroom.
Every sane person on the planet would call it what it was: an attic.
“GET UP, ASSHOLES,” Eddie yelled as he climbed the ladder. There was a thump above him as he stomped up, which was more than likely Richie falling off of something or other.
It was ironic that it was one of Eddie’s least favorite places in the world, as he was the only one of the three people occupying it that could stand to his full height comfortably in the weird space. The room sort of felt like a pre-teen lumberjack and a grandmother had decided to become roommates and bought all of their living room furniture at Goodwill. Everything was wooden, and the room was a triangular shape. In one corner were Mrs. D.’s things, seasonal decorations and a box with her wedding dress. In the center, was this ugly, floral couch, that Richie had shoved up there, by himself, when the Denbroughs planned to get rid of it when they were replacing their living room.
Within their friend group, it had become somewhat an urban legend. No one knew exactly how he did it. The Denbroughs left for a school recital, and came back and their couch was gone, and Richie was sitting on the floor in it’s place. “Hey, guys.” He had allegedly said, shoving a spoon of cereal in his mouth, “we’re out of frosted flakes.”
The couch, with just a hair’s breadth of room, folded out into a full size bed, the edge of the bed just barely touching the t.v. stand with old gaming systems plugged in. A game cube, an N-64, and the original X-Box were all plugged in. That was a project of both Bill and Richie’s, and Bill said it was pain-staking, and exhausting, to drag all that shit up there. That only added more mystery to the couch story. The walls were covered in ecclectic and some frankly weird posters, for things either Richie liked or at least was very good at pretending to, and the odd note or photograph. Eddie's personal favorite, not that he'd admit to having one, was the poster for the weird live action Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle movie, that Eddie found in a dumpster on the last day of Sophomore year.
“GET UP!” Eddie hated his somewhat screech-y yelling voice, but whipped it out anyway, flicking on the switch that turned on the string lights Richie had ran throughout the attic. “STAN IS GOING TO SKIN US ALL ALIVE, AND WILL FASHION US INTO SOME, PROBABLY SMART, METICULOUSLY DONE, COATS.”
It was actually Bill who had fallen out of the pull-out couch, still wrapped in a Lizzie McGuire themed blanket, amisdt the empty bags of chips and boxes of cereal and soda cans. The room was fucking disgusting. “I d-don’t want to be a coat,” he yawned, but grinned sleepily up at Eddie, like he had no intention of moving any faster than he was. Which was, approximately, the speed of a turtle with Lyme's disease.
“WELL THEN GET UP, YOU LAZY SON OF A-”
“Shhh,” a voice came from the pull-out couch, a hand coming over the back of it which would have been eerie had Eddie not known the hand so well. It could reach out and grab his wrist, that’s how small the space was. “Eds,” Richie whined, tugging him towards the couch, “you seem grouchy. Come sleep for a little while.”
“I’m not getting in that bed with you, you cretin.” Eddie said plainly. “And don’t call me that.”
Bill snorted from his spot on the floor, but stretched his hands above his head with a grin, a sign he was up, and about to get dressed. Eddie had been so busy watching it he failed to realize he was still getting relentlessly tugged towards the bed by Richie.
“RICHIE, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD,” he yelled as Richie came into sight, grabbing his other wrist with his hand. Eddie wiggled backwards, “I WILL LEAVE YOU HERE,” Richie was nowhere near being ready to go, seemingly shirtless, dark curls impossibly mussed, sleepy smile on his face, glasses nowhere in sight.
The tried and true sound of a broom banging on the floor rang throughout the attic.
“JUST BECAUSE YOU LOSERS,” there it was, Eddie was surprised it hadn’t come earlier. The lovely, tender voice of a thirteen year old brother, “DECIDE TO GET UP AT ASS-CRACK IN THE MORNING TO GO TO THE FAIRY FAIRE,” not George’s best work, “DOESN’T MEAN YOU-”
A muffled shout in the distance.
“MOM!” George screamed down, in the other direction, “THAT’S NOT FAIR! BILL AND HIS FRIENDS SWEAR all the time-” the voice got more distant as George, or Georgie, as Richie still insisted on calling him, stormed down the Denbrough stairs.
“There’s our boy, up and at ‘em.” Richie grinned into his pillow.
“Surprised he didn’t start earlier.” Bill mused from his spot on the floor as he changed into his jeans from yesterday. Eddie would have taken it upon himself to find that grosser, but he did know that they were gonna change into Faire clothes basically as soon as we got there. “Our Eddie-boy has cuh-cuh-quite the voice on him.” He grinned, making for the exit of the bedro- attic .
“Oh my god,” Richie finally sat up, stretching long arms over his head. “You know what we haven’t done lately?” He grinned at Eddie, reaching to unplug his phone from the stray extender they had under the bed. “Checked his musical.ly.”
Georgie Denbrough was now thirteen. He was cool, as cool as thirteen year olds came, and no longer thought Bill walked on water. In fact, he did just about everything in his power to avoid Bill and his friends, much to the bemusement of Richie. Cool thirteen year olds did this incredibly bizarre thing lately where they had this strange app where they recorded themselves lip-syncing, and did strange camera patterns. Richie thought it might have been the funniest thing in the universe. Eddie thought it was funny too, but he couldn’t give Richie the satisfaction of knowing that.
“In the car,” Eddie whined, grabbing for Richie’s wrist.
Richie rolled his eyes, but stood up anyway, with a chorus of “okay, okay, fine.”
Richie, and everyone else in their gang, had grown to reasonable adult heights, and Eddie was an, extremely frustrating, 5’ 6”. Richie, having little choice in the cramped space, stood up toe to toe with Eddie, crouching down to be only a little taller than him, face very much in Eddie’s, dark hair hanging in his eyes.
“Good morning,” Richie greeted gently, soft smile spreading, eyes looking into his. Eddie felt his heart-beat speed up, traitorously, for only a moment.
“Your breath smells rancid.” Eddie replied flatly.
“Stan-O the Man-O,” Richie whistled as a pristine grey vehicle pulled up to the cub. “Never thought I’d see the day.” Stan looked irritated as he rolled down the window. Richie leaned lecherously into the passenger window, but didn’t get in. It was, as it always had been, Bill’s spot.
“Day when what?” Stan raised an eyebrow.
“You’re late,” Eddie checked his watch nervously. It was 8:01 a.m. He was almost more inclined to believe Stan, a human watch, over the little piece of technology on his wrist.
“No, I’m not.” Stan replied with an eyeroll, but clicked the button to unlock the car. Richie opened the door for Eddie, before crossing to the other side of the car. As they had for years. It was an unspoken script for their mornings before the Faire. “I knew you guys wouldn’t check the newsletter. Call is at 8:30 now for non-speaking characters, not 8.”
“KEEP UP, BOYS.” A voice crackled over Stan’s phone, which was placed in a little holder by the air-vents. The unmistakable voice of Beverly Marsh. “ALTHOUGH, I’M CALLING BULLSHIT THAT I HAVE TO BE HERE AT 8.”
“Soooo…” Richie drawled, picking at his fingers. “Does that mean I had to be there at 8?”
“Yes,” a chorus of Stan, Bev, and Eddie responded.
“Alright, well, they haven’t fired me for more than that,” he shrugged, shuffling down into his seat. “Wake me when we’re there.” He tried his hardest to keep his boots on the “Richie mat” that Stan laid out for him, which was just a clear plastic sheeting in the back.
“We’re all amazed,” Stan lightly quipped back with a small smile, which quickly turned to irritation “WHERE is Bill?” Stan asked, towards the house, as if it were the year 3000 and the house would give him a response, “We ARE gonna be late if he doesn’t get out here. Whatever he was doing can’t be that important.”
“He was showering,” Eddie replied, yawning cutely into his hand. He caught Richie’s eye as he did so. Richie, with a smirk, opened his arms, wordlessly offering Eddie a place to take a nap. Eddie flipped him off.
“Oh, well, nevermind.” Stan changed his tune quickly. “He can do that as much as he likes.”
Beverly snorted over the speaker-phone, “of course he can.”
Beverly told Richie later that the coordinators lasted a good 20 minutes this year before things descended into madness, as they always did. By the time the guys rolled in, there were people pulling carts of costumes, and boxes were getting unloaded of cups shaped like swords, and a horse ran past without a handler, seemingly. Stan disappeared basically after they got out of the car, into the stuffy office where he counted money and did other boring bullshit. Richie bid his friends farewell, and climbed through the window of the dressing rooms because, of course, like a good egg, he would get Mike to re-punch his time so he was there at 7:55, naturally.
Truth be told, Richie loved the Renaissance Faire. It was, in some ways, just literally beautiful. It was set at a gorgeous vineyard, back-dropped by the distant sea on Maine’s coast. The vineyard’s road divulged in two, one leading up to the magnificent estate and wine tasting room, and the other down to the mess. Rolling, beautiful fields, filled with tents and pop-up shacks and shoddy little stages and other shit for losers. The Renaissance Faire was a magical place where losers got to be losers and no one there expected anything differently from them. They were all dressed up in vaguely medieval garb because FUCK historical accuracy. Nobody was there for that anymore. From there, there were things to do like see the shows about some sort of vague historical nonsense, eat a ton of greasy foods, buy weird crafts like dragon puppets or crystal necklaces, or play games, like the one Richie was a part of that involved just paying money to throw things at Richie.
Which people did.
And Richie loved it.
He loved the shit out of it, and getting to do an accent and sit on the front gate and just scream rude things at people during opening hours when people were coming in. He was the town fool and loved it. He got paid to do this shit. He was good at it. He tried to tell his parents he was going on the road with the Faire for the next year instead of going to college and almost got thrown out of his house in the middle of February in Maine, so that plan got scratched. He was now going to University of Maine, which made his heart lurch into his throat because so was Ben, and that was it. He and Ben were going to U.M., but Bill and Eddie were going to U.S.M., a whopping two hours away. Stan and Beverly, FUCK them, were going to school in New York City. Bev was going for design or some kind of bullshit. Stan had received a full scholarship to go to NYU for some kind of boring math fuckery. Mike, bless him and everything about him, was staying in Derry, maybe, for the next year.
Speaking of Mike, he was running around the green room for the characters like an absolute mad-man, handing out assignment sheets and daily schedules. This was Mike’s fourth year with the company, and when he reapplied, they offered him the position of Temp. Assistant Manager, based on his previous performance. Mike said “I guess if I’m going to be there anyway-“, but Richie thought he was pretty excited about it, and also stressing to do a good job. His entire work week started two weeks earlier than theirs did. Which reminded Richie, topic at hand, get into costume before you get fired, because you have a whole summer before everyone fucking leaves.
It was probably the last time Mike would have wanted to be asked for a favor, so Richie opened his mouth and asked him for a favor. “Mike and Ike!” He screamed, waving one hand with delight, shuffling into knickers with the other. “My boy!” He grinned at him, shoving his glasses up on his face, realizing with a grimace he’d have to put in the itchy contacts soon.
“Tozier, I could kill you.” Mike grumbled, but thrust his things into the hands of an unassuming newbie, who was fully dressed. The King of the Faire was sitting in the adjacent corner, not close to being dressed, shirtless, smoking a cigar.
“What, did you hear me leaving your mother’s room last ni-” Mike grabbed his ear, and tugged. Mike wasn’t a tall man, built in the shoulders, but just barely a hair taller than Ben, and yet Richie was terrified of him. “Ow, ow, ow, I’m sorry, ow-” He loved Mike though. He really did, in fact, he was the only reason he was hired at the faire two years ago.
Mike dragged him over to the rack with his costume on it. “Change, now.” He dusted off his hands. “Outside, in five.”
“Okay,” Richie slumped against the rack. “Mike?” He called after him, shoving his head into the itchy linen shirt that, even though this would be his third summer playing the role, he never seemed to get used to. Mike turned back with an impatient raise of his eyebrow. “You did clock me in, right?”
Mike rolled his eyes with a good-natured grin, “of course I did, Rich,” he grabbed his clip-board from the hand-man that hadn’t moved.
“Tighter.” The girl in front of Beverly commanded, and she winced. Beverly didn’t know how to explain to some of the women in their green room that corsets simply had their limitations. Assistants, not miracle workers.
“That’s enough, Mary,” she decided, tying the corset in a tight knot and ignoring her request. “I’m not making myself accountable for irreversible damage to your spleen.” And several other inner organs, she thought to herself.
“Bev!” She was getting waved down as she added another hair-pin, just to be sure, to the back of her head. It was Josefine, a tall, dark-skinned woman, who typically ran the story piece of the Faire. It was the second year Beverly was playing the Princess. Last year it was a more fun story, she got kidnapped by a pirate queen. This year there would be no kidnapping, which was lame, just two men fighting for her hand, doubly lame. “Jim called out.”
“Oh?” She looked in the mirror, knowing Josefine was about to comment on her smudged eyeliner, which she pushed with her pinky, “for...today?”
“For the summer.” Jim was to play one of the men vying for her hand. Namely, the one who won. Beverly’s jaw dropped.
“Are you moving up a swing, then?” She turned around, mildly enjoying the delicate swish the hem of her dress made.
“Don’t want to,” Josefine winced. “They’re…”
“Interesting.” Beverly finished for her, politely.
“I was thinking, would maybe one of your little friends want to move up? You know, it’ll go quicker if you could teach them the role.” Josefine’s smile was meant to say, this is a favor from me to you! What it actually said was: it’s my job to find and teach a replacement and my life would be much easier if that were just your job.
Beverly grinned and rolled her eyes, sitting up on the table. “Stan and Mike already have better jobs. Richie would rather die than change roles.”
“We couldn’t replace Richie if we wanted to.”
Beverly had to grin at that. “ But, Eddie has been trying to move out of food-”
“Eddie? Eddie Kaspbrak?” Josefine gave her a flat look, “Eddie Kaspbrak who is 5’ 6” and the reason Richie Tozier, the man who would lose his own head if it weren’t attached, carries an extra inhaler for because he, quote on quote: ‘doesn’t actually need it, so doesn’t carry one himself, but sometimes freaks out when he can’t find one.”
Beverly winced. “It’s a mental thing, really. It’s this whole big-”
“He’s also 5’ 6”.” Which was shorter than Bev, let alone in heels.
“...yes,” Beverly knew who Josefine was probably thinking about when she asked. But asking either Bill or Ben to fill in her love interest sounded absolutely terrible, and like making a whole lot of nothing, i.e. her relationships with both of them, into a whole bunch of something. “That he is.” She had met all of the boys at the Faire three years ago, and they quickly melded together to form their own little gang of idiots. She loved them, all of them, aggressively, and thought the world of each other. But she wasn't blind, or stupid, and she would be lying to say if she didn't know about Bill and Ben's little...thing, for her, she supposed.
“Do you want to ask your little friends, or not?”
Beverly sighed.
She and her friends were considered, by and large, some of the coolest people at the Faire. She knew that much. She also knew that wasn’t saying anything because in real people world, Renaissance Faire people were losers, unarguably. The coolest of the losers, that was them, alright. But she knew what Josefine was getting at. Some of the people at the Faire, men in particular, were down right fucking weird, and Bev would have to spend a ton of time with whoever it was. Bev, herself, was kind of fucking over this Princess thing, as it was, and was much more interested in the hem of her garment than learning her lines.
“I’ll bring it up.” She agreed finally, smiling up at Josefine’s grinning face.
“Good.”