Chapter Text
A cheerful tune filled Eddie Kaspbrak’s apartment as the clock on the wall struck two. This cheerfulness was not shared by the apartment’s sole occupant, who - though much amused by the clock at first - had grown to find the thing nothing short of irksome over the years. Not for the first time, he told himself he really ought to disable it. Also not for the first time, he found he couldn’t be bothered to get up from his place at the window. Later , he vowed, glaring at the still singing clock from across the room with a mix of frustration and exhaustion. I’ll shut it off later .
Finally, the clock fell silent and Eddie breathed a sigh of relief. He was certain he would have that damn tune stuck in his head for the rest of his life. He found himself humming it sometimes, and always stopped himself with mild disgust before swearing to disable the clock when he had the chance. Now, he shook his head as if to clear it of the song - which was already beginning to repeat in the back of his brain - and turned back to the window. He took a breath, revelling in the profound silence that only the dead of night could bring.
That was another thing. It was bad enough he had had to hear the clock’s tune every hour, on the hour for the last two years, but he doubted anyone would be glad to hear joyful piano music resonating from their clock at two in the morning.
Not that it had woken him up. No, for that he would have had to have been sleeping - which he hadn’t done for more than an hour at a time in at least a week now. And he couldn’t even remember the last time he got more than four hours of sleep in a night. That was what was really annoying about the damn clock - it was just an hourly reminder that he was still awake and sunrise was drawing nearer and nearer.
It had been almost three years since his insomnia had started. When he’d finally moved away from home, at nineteen years old, it had been with mixed emotions. Relief, to finally be free of his overbearing mother, and fear. For as controlling and overprotective as she was, life with her was safe . It was comforting - she was comforting. She had always sheltered him, always protected him, so the thought of being on his own had been terrifying.
Naturally, he had chalked up his sleeping troubles to that fear, and to the unfamiliarity of his new life. But as days turned into weeks, and weeks turned into months, and his insomnia had only seemed to grow worse - he figured he should probably do something about it. Sleeping pills had worked at first, but after about a month his body appeared to have adjusted to them and they lost their effect. He’d tried different brands, but to no avail. Tips and tricks from friends and from books had little to no effect as well. Now, after three years of progressively less sleep, he had more or less given up.
The lack of sleep had definitely taken its toll. He was much paler than he used to be, and the shadows under his eyes were so dark he looked almost dead. His head was in a near constant state of pain, light hurt his eyes in a way it never had before, he was far more irritable than he once had been (which was saying something, as he’d never been the most easygoing of people), and he often found himself spacing out or even dozing off at work or in class.
In short, it sucked. But, as was the case with all of his other medical conditions, he was almost used to it by now.
Almost.
***
It was three thirty in the morning and Richie Tozier was freezing fucking cold. He’d lit a cigarette and was taking long, slow drags on it as he walked, effectively turning his fingers into blocks of ice. He didn’t mind. At least he was feeling something.
It had been roughly five years since he’d started consistently having trouble sleeping. Stan always told him that he was an insomniac, that it wasn’t healthy, that he should see somebody about it. Richie disagreed. Mostly because calling it “insomnia” made it sound like he had some kind of disease; like there was something wrong with him. He didn’t see it that way. Personally, he thought it was something of an accomplishment. Sure, he was tired pretty much all of the time - but he also had at least four hours more in a day than people who slept a “healthy” amount. Besides, he was functional. So really, what was so bad about it?
He veered off the sidewalk a bit, just so he could sweep his feet through the patch of fallen leaves in the grass beside him. They crunched under his feet, satisfyingly loud in the silence of the night, brittle from the cold and the frost that had begun to coat the nighttime world in recent weeks. Feeling childishly gratified over kicking the leaves, he stepped back onto the sidewalk. His boot thudded softly against the pavement.
He wasn’t entirely sure when he’d started doing this - or why, for that matter. But whenever he couldn’t sleep (which was every night) and he was feeling particularly shitty (which - recently - was also every night) he would grab his coat and some cigarettes and head out the door. The time, the weather - none of it mattered. He would just walk, with no destination in mind, wherever his feet happened to take him until they took him home - or until the sun came up. Whichever came first.
He loved it. It felt like he was the only person in the world. It felt like he could do anything, say anything, be anything. He could talk to himself in whatever stupid voices he chose. He could take off his shoes and walk barefoot, if he wanted (he had, a couple times - just because he could). No one was around to judge him, to mock him, to threaten him. No one was around at all. He could tell secrets to the night, his deepest and darkest, just to hear the words float away on the wind. It didn’t matter. Nobody could hear him.
He was talking to the stars. He doubted they were listening.
***
Allegedly, if you spend enough time struggling with the same problem, you eventually find ways to deal with this problem.
Allegedly.
Eddie had found this to be quite true for everything other than his insomnia. But no matter how many sleepless nights he spent, he never could quite find a solution. The best he had found was ways to pass the time.
Reading never worked - his exhausted eyes would be so unfocused he could barely see the words on the page, much less make sense of them. Studying was in the same vein. For a while, he’d taken to laying on his back and staring blankly at the ceiling, waiting for the sleep he knew wouldn’t come. But that had only depressed him.
Instead, he’d decided to sit by the window and stare blankly down at the street below. He liked this much better. It was peaceful. Everything was always so slow and quiet at night, nothing like it was during the daytime. It was the only time Eddie felt like he could really breathe; like he could really think.
He made up stories, those nights beside the window. Stories about himself - the dream version of himself, who was taller and cooler and much less shy - and about his friends and about characters who popped into his head. Stories about dragons and magic and love and coffee shops. His favourite stories, though, were the ones about passersby.
It wasn’t very often that cars or people would amble down the street below Eddie’s window at night. After all, most were asleep in their beds, like healthy, responsible adults (Eddie envied them). For each one that did pass, Eddie made up a story. He gave them names, and reasons for being out so late (more often tragic than not). He gave them fictional families, and imagined their careers and friends and ambitions. He thought of their hobbies, and what they’d eaten that day, and their most recent conversation with their spouse. He determined where they going, and where they had come from. He gave them life, at least in his own mind.
He wondered, in those brief moments before the people would disappear around the corner and the cars would speed off into the night, if he was right about anything about them. He wondered, in those brief moments, if they saw him too.
He doubted it.
***
The light was on again. The one in room 307. Richie wondered, not for the first time, who was up there.
***
There was one person Eddie saw beneath his window more than any other - Room 306. He lived in the apartment across the hall and he was out almost every night. There was no pattern to it. He never left at the same time, and he was never back at the same time either. Anywhere between midnight and five in the morning, Eddie would hear the door across the hall open, then close; keys would jingle, a lock would click, and footsteps would ring out then fade into silence as they disappeared down the hall. Exactly three minutes and twenty eight seconds later (Eddie had taken to counting), the figure of what looked to be a tall man would appear from where the apartment’s main entrance was and head out to the street. Sometimes he turned left. Sometimes he turned right. Sometimes he just stood there, as though unsure what to do. Then, invariably, he would walk away, and Eddie would follow him with his eyes until he disappeared from view.
Sometimes he was only gone five minutes. Sometimes he was gone hours. Sometimes he didn’t return until after Eddie had fallen asleep, if he returned at all.
He didn’t have a name; at least not to Eddie. He didn’t have a story, either, because no matter what scenario Eddie imagined, nothing seemed to fit him. So, he was just 306 - nameless, faceless, storyless. An ever present question mark in the clarity of the night.
Still, Eddie found himself looking forward to seeing 306 pass his window. His heart raced with excitement whenever he heard the tell-tale sound of the door across the hall opening. Eddie had never met 306 - never even seen his face - but somehow he felt like he knew him. They were both awake when the whole world was asleep. He felt like that made them connected, somehow. Linked by this small thing they had in common.
It made no sense. He knew that.
***
It was always on, that light. No matter what time Richie went wandering, that light was always on when he left and there was always someone sitting at the windowsill. He was too far away to tell much about whoever it was - just that they always seemed to be looking out the window, and they usually looked like they had their hands wrapped around a mug.
This window, this light, this person - it was a subject that dominated Richie’s thoughts a lot of the nights, as he walked. He wondered whether this person was like him - a person from whom sleep fled. Maybe this person lay awake in bed for hours, their skin crawling with restlessness and their eyes refusing to close. Maybe they tossed and turned the same way Richie did, before finally giving up and accepting another sleepless night.
Or maybe they were just afraid of the dark.
Maybe one day, Richie would find out.
***
By the time 306 reappeared below Eddie’s window, it was nearly five in the morning and Eddie was nearly asleep. He’d been gone for quite a while this time - almost four hours. Given the rain that had started to pour about half an hour ago, he must have been freezing. Not for the first time, Eddie wondered where he possibly could be going, these nights when he would disappear. Maybe it was for work. Maybe he had a job that required him to come in at strange hours, and followed no set schedule. Maybe he was doing something illegal - selling drugs or contracting murders. Maybe he just enjoyed the night time.
Maybe one day, Eddie would find out.
***
Footsteps. Keys jingling. Lock clicking. Door opening. Door closing.
Eddie’s eyes fell shut.