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Thou and I are too wise to woo peaceably...
~Much Ado About Nothing, Act V, Scene II
~*~
The picture is horrendous.
Then again, when it comes to his hideous mug, Richie Tozier expects nothing less.
“It’s not that bad.”
“You could Tokyo drift on my forehead lines, dude.”
“Richie—”
“I look like Bert from Sesame Street with a crack addiction.”
“That’s...fair, actually."
“Eddie!”
Eddie Kaspbrak snorts out a laugh, still looking contemplatively at the laptop screen, dark eyes dancing, a plate of pancakes in hand. Richie had just uploaded their latest Insta #cookinwithkaspbrak video. #reddie had immediately begun burning up his phone with notifications, so he turned it on silent to enjoy his breakfast and stare lovingly at his boyfriend in peace. He can only imagine his notifications when he and Eds officially ‘go public.’ It makes his stomach swoop pleasantly.
“I’m kidding, Rich, you look good. Really good,” the man in question smirks, putting the plate down on the kitchen table and squeezing Richie’s shoulder, dropping a quick kiss to the slope of his neck.
Richie scrunches up his nose at the ticklish sensation, a hot thrill running through him as Eddie’s lips brush his skin. It may have been six glorious weeks since they got their collective shit together and made out like the couple of horny teenagers trapped in the broken bodies of two forty-two-year-olds, but Richie doesn't think he will ever get used to how it feels when Eddie kisses him. How he feels. Has always felt, in some way, shape or form for the last thirty years and had been missing, but now has the press of Eddie’s lips against his to back that feeling up and fill the gap he had had before.
That rush? It's better than any drug Richie has ever tried.
And he has tried his fair few.
2006 was a weird time.
“Still can’t believe that dickstain made me take off my glasses for the shoot,” he grouses into his glass of orange juice, trying not to focus on his squinty blue, suspicious-Robert-De-Niro-esque eyes. “Couldn’t see shit the entire time he was all ‘okay Richie, give me smug, give me coy, give me—” he snorts, “I wanted to give him a fucking broken jaw just to shut him the fuck up.”
He pushes the laptop across the table to pull the pancakes closer to him, getting to work in slathering them in maple syrup.
“Would you like some pancakes with your syrup?” Eddie predictably quips with a hint of disgust, sitting down to his own breakfast, the laptop propped between them like a beacon of Richie’s impending embarrassment.
“I ‘ould ‘ike not to ‘ome ‘cross like a ‘omplete ass’ole,” Richie answers around a mouthful of food.
“You won’t, Eddie assures with an eye roll, “even if you do have the table manners of a farm animal.”
Richie responds to that by opening his mouth even wider as he obnoxiously chews.
Eddie winces, “Ugh, you’re disgusting. Close your mouth, dickwad.”
“That’s not what you were saying last night.”
An adorable blush crosses Eddie’s cheeks.
“That’s it!”
He is suddenly pulling the laptop towards him, the glow of the screen basking his face as he begins scanning the article.
“I’m reading this now.”
"No, Eds, I'm not ready to be humiliat—”
Richie Tozier Is Clownin’ Around And Living His Best Life
Richie “Trashmouth” Tozier, 42, is taking the world by storm following his public coming out over a year ago after decades in the closet. From creating his first solo-written standup “Clownin’ Around” that has recently been nominated for an Emmy and is a favorite to win, to now embarking on his North American tour, starting with Los Angeles’ Masonic Lodge, things really are looking up for Trashmouth…
Article By: Jake Daniels
Photography by: Michael Buckner
Richie Tozier is perfectly at ease as a stressed-out hairstylist tries to tame his signature bird’s nest in his cushy dressing room at 7pm on a Saturday night. It seems to be a losing battle and one in which the comedian is well used to.
Mr Tozier, thanks so much for sitting down with me today.
RT: No problem, man. First time I’ve sat down all day. Pretty sure everyone thinks I have haemorrhoids. [Laughs]
Well, if you’d like to put that rumor to rest… [laughs] Just a few questions and I’ll be out of your–
It’s here that we are interrupted by the first of Tozier’s six childhood friends, known collectively by the comedian as ‘The Losers’, that feature heavily in “Clownin’ Around” as well as Tozier’s Twitter and Instagram feed.
Watching Eddie Kaspbrak and Richie interact is something akin to infamous double acts like Laurel and Hardy, Abbott and Costello, or Bert and Ernie. They banter with an ease that comes with a decades-long friendship that is frankly enthralling and hilarious to witness. After trading some witty remarks, the two are soon joined by the rest of their group, The Losers Club, comprised of some familiar faces - famous fashion designer, Beverly Marsh of Marsh Textiles, New York Times Best-Selling Author, Bill Denbrough, award-winning architect Ben Hanscom of Hanscom & Associates, as well as Stanley Uris, an acclaimed civil-rights-lawyer and Mike Hanlon, a librarian and viral travel-blogger. Eddie Kaspbrak assures that he is a risk analyst and not a 'boredom adviser' as Richie insists.
They’re a rag-tag gang of misfits, just as Tozier describes in his set, but even more chaotic in person and Richie introduces them individually in a way that seems both practiced and entirely improvised, his deep love and respect for each friend apparent. Once introductions are made, and Kaspbrak and Tozier have traded even more barbs, The Losers make themselves comfortable throughout the room after assurances by Richie that they can stay because he is “an open book.”
Alright, well, let’s start with the obvious, then. You just said you’re an open book. But, you weren’t always. By your own admission, you’ve been closeted for the greater part of forty years. So, my first question is - why come out now? And did it have anything to do with you wanting to perform your own material after years of using ghost writers?
RT: Whoa, you’re goin’ straight for the jugular, huh? Alright. [Pause] I uh, I guess I was just sick of hiding who I am. Tired of spouting sexist and homophobic jokes written by straight, white, twenty-five-year-old d*******s with a degree in Sex and Masculinity Studies or some s**t. A good friend reminded me recently that I shouldn’t be afraid. That I should be who I wanna be. And be proud. So, that’s what I’m trying to do.
It’s important to note here, just how palpable the sense of pride is throughout the room at that response. The love and support radiating from Tozier’s childhood friends is beyond moving.
And how has the response to your coming out live on stage been for you personally?
RT: Like, ninety percent awesome? Tons of support, retweets, likes, 1.3 million more followers. And that's just Twitter. Meeting fans in real life that admit to hating my old act, but my new one means the world to them has been a dream come true. [Pause] But there’s always that ten percent of s***tiness, you know? The trolls, the homophobes burning their ‘Trashmouth’ T-shirts, that kinda thing. But the positivity makes up for it tenfold. And at the end of the day, I’ve learned to not let what strangers think of me matter too much. [Laughs] If thirteen-year-old me could see me now…
And what was thirteen-year-old you like?
The room erupts into a chorus of voices, the loudest of which is Kaspbrak's, arguing against Tozier's self-assessment of teenage Richie being a lovable riot, a "legend in the making." This is clearly an example of Tozier's brand of self-deprecating but simultaneously self-aggrandizing humor to whit Eddie responds that he [Tozier] was actually an, "Annoying attention-seeker with a potty-mouth and an arsenal of bad impressions."
Judging by the not uneasy tension in the room, this is not a new argument, nor is it a serious one. It becomes obvious that this is the friends' personal brand of communication. Tozier looks geared up to keep defending himself, when another question interrupts him.
So you were always the entertainer, then?
RT: Yeah, I guess. Someone had to distract these disasters from awkward teenage angst, impromptu boners and childhood trauma.
Did you get many impromptu boners?
RT: [Laughs] I mean, didn’t we all pop a few? Well, except for Bev. Obviously.
Here, Beverly Marsh wittily interjects with a quip about Richie's ignorance of her erecting prowess to the delight of the comedian. That delight soon sombers however, as he continues.
RT: I guess I had to be even more careful with any misplaced [pause] feelings. Small town USA. The ‘80s, you know…
It's a familiar story for a lot of members of the LGBTQIA+ community. One of which Richie does not shy away from in his set - detailing his experience with rampant homophobia in his hometown of Derry, Maine in the 1980s (and more recently) that certainly contributed to him remaining closeted until 2017.
Sensing a need for a lighter subject matter, the next question asked is one that many Trashmouth fans have been pondering since his coming out.
What was your first gay bar experience like?
RT: [Laughs] Well, I was so far in the closet at the time my BFF was Aslan, so, kinda uneventful, to be honest. Like, at the first sign of interest, I was all 'exit, pursued by a bear then apologize and let the bear down gently,' kinda deal.
Poor bear.
RT: Yeah, he was a nice dude. Hope he found someone.
So, now that you're out - have your recent gay bar experiences gone better? Any more broken-hearted bears? Tearful twinks?
RT: Nah, I pretty much just stick with these Losers whenever they're in town. Most other days it's just me, my pet turtle, Matty, and my Netflix subscription. Haven't really had time to date with, you know, everything.
Our Here 'n' Queerreaders will be pleased to hear that.
RT: [Laughs] Good to know, man. I can use all the help I can get.
It's a far cry from the Tozier-of-old. One who boasted of his sexual-prowess and bemoaned his 'nagging girlfriend.' Coming out seems to have humbled "Trashmouth" in quite an honest way.
What was it like when you got the Netflix deal?
RT: I fell outta bed. [Laughs] Seriously. My agent called with the news and I just rolled right out like an unsupervised toddler. But it was amazing. I wanted to tell everyone - The Losers, my mom, the mailman, my weed dealer - but I was forced into streaming service secrecy for a while. Which did not do my anxiety any favors. So I settled for telling Matty; he's great at keeping secrets once I ply him with lettuce. It's a pretty fair trade. Then I called Eddie [Kaspbrak] over under the pretence that I had lost my passport, which I actually did and predictably kept us busy tearing my apartment apart and left me no time to spiral.
And where was your passport?
RT: In my vegetable crisper of all places. Don’t ask me why, I don’t know either. Still, Eds [Kaspbrak] found it pretty much instantly, but pretended he didn't so he could force me to clean my place. [Laughs] Devious plan, really. But I found so much s**t I thought was lost to the ether, so it was a win-win.
Good thing your passport was never really lost, looks like you'll be needing it soon for the international leg of your tour, starting in Ireland next year. You excited?
RT: Hell yeah, love Ireland, love the people. I'm all about green fields, good music and Guinness, you know? But yeah, can't wait for the European leg of the tour in general, I've got some great supporters out there as well as amazing US fans.
Speaking of fans, since coming out, do you find that your fan-base has changed?
RT: Oh, definitely. Like I said, a lot of LGBT peeps and allies hated my old s**t, which, hey, can’t say I blame ‘em. It mostly catered to dudebros and divorcees who hate their wife. But now, I like to think I’m more open, honest with my audience, those who stuck with me and all the newbies and I think they appreciate it.
And how has it been, writing your own stuff?
RT: F***ing hard, man. Terrifying. Not the scariest thing I’ve ever done, I’ll admit, but still high up on the potential-to-make-me-s**t-my-pants scale. But it’s worth it. To be me. To be finally doing something I can be proud of, and I enjoy, and hopefully other people do too.
And we could argue you’ve done that.
RT: I hope so, man. Otherwise, people are gonna be pissed they’re out sixty-five bucks.
Well, now that we have all the showbiz talk out of the way - let’s get into the good stuff. The ooey gooey, nitty gritty - who was your first crush?
Tozier seems startled by the question. Immediately launching into what seems to be a recurring your-mom joke between him and Eddie before bounding across the room for a glass of water.
RT: What ya gotta know about where we grew up, Jake my man, was that it was a s**thole. Truly a backwards f***ing hellscape. So, there wasn’t a whole lotta options for a closet-case like yours truly.
Oh, come on. You didn’t have one crush?
Tozier still seems a little thrown but recovers quickly, wrapping an arm around Bill Denbrough’s shoulder and kissing his cheek.
RT: Well, I maybe had a teeny-tiny thing for ol’ Billy boy, here.
None of the Losers seem to buy this answer, least of all Bill himself, along with Eddie, who loudly protests. This soon devolves into what is becoming an obvious pattern of an old-married-couple-type bickering between the pair.
Have you ever been in love?
That seems to bring Richie back to the task at hand, dropping his debate with his friend abruptly.
RT: Nope.
He doesn't elaborate.
Tozier swiftly changes the subject by asking a few questions of his own (regarding a certain journalist's name and whether he's ever mistaken for a particular brand of Tennessee whiskey) as the Losers occupy themselves, Eddie leaving the room on a call.
This allows a shift in topic, something which the Here 'n' Queer readers specifically put forth on Twitter.
So, can tell me about the Adrian Mellon Foundation?
RT: Yeah, sure. It was set up by me and Adrian’s partner, Don Hagarty, after Adrian was brutally beaten while visiting Derry. They beat him within an inch of his life because he dared to kiss his boyfriend in public in 2016. He died, was clinically dead for a while. [Pause] Then, by some medical marvel, he pulled through. Still, he had a lot of problems after the attack and his recovery wasn’t easy. Don and I met in the hospital after [pause] after my friend was injured in a separate incident. We got to talking one night in the cafeteria and struck up a friendship. I had read about Adrian’s attack and Don filled me in on all the details. Everything just kinda snowballed from there.
When you say snowballed, do you mean your very public campaign to get those responsible for the attack arrested?
RT: [Nods] Way I see it, I have a platform. Might as well use it, get the word out there. There were s**t-stains in s**tsville, Maine, thinking they could get away with a hate crime, an attempted f***ing murder. F**k that. So, if the police refused to do their jobs, someone else was gonna do it for them.
And it worked.
RT: Yeah, it worked. My tweets went viral and before I knew it, the FBI got involved, somehow, I don’t understand how jurisdiction works, man, but they got those a******s. They’re serving fifteen to life as we speak.
Justice was served. And how is Adrian doing now?
RT: He’s better. Still has weekly physical therapy, but he’s getting there. Having the foundation, helping other LGBTQ+ people, I think it’s really helped his own recovery. And Don, well, he needed a new job and it just so happened that I needed a new PA. [Laughs] So, Don and Adrian became good friends of mine. We were brought together through tragedy and stayed together out of our shared love for Meg Ryan. They're now honorary members of the Losers Club. Just you know, "millennials.”
Before we can close out the interview, a knock sounds on the dressing room door. Richie is pleased to see that it is his friend Eddie having returned with the man in question, Adrian Mellon*, 31, who is given an uproarious welcome from The Losers Club.
Adrian proves to be a delightful addition to the room, fitting in seamlessly with the rest of the group and teasing Richie mercilessly about what questions may or may not have been asked already.
It's here that Richie suits up in a Beverly Marsh original, looking a perfect blend of his old, signature style (detailed patterns aligning his collar and lapels and grungy converse on his feet) and a new, admittedly attractive look that complements his personality in a more sleek manner.
The outfit is a hit, if the applause, wolf-whistles and one notable flushed face is anything to go by.
When studying his new look, Adrian brings up the topic of Richie being maybe swayed into wearing contacts, which soon, (as is Tozier's M.O.) devolves into a rather jarring story of an ex trying to coax him into ditching his signature specs for fear they make him look like a "lankier, less sexy Buddy Holly."
This leads the group into speculating like highschoolers when Richie last “got lucky”, to the comedian's chagrin. It is a joy to watch, truly. The light-hearted ribbing on a man who makes fun of himself and other people for a living, which then somehow becomes a discussion on whether or not Eddie is a twink.
Tozier argues that he is, in fact, a Twunk.
Here 'n' Queer magazine is offering no comment on the subject.
As he is called to the stage, Richie is given warm wishes from his friends. Everything from "break a leg," to "don't f**k it up," to "you got this, dude. Remember, you’re braver than you think." It's that last one, from Eddie, that really seems to stand out for Richie. And really, it's not hard to see why.
As Eddie leaves, we say our goodbyes.
It was a pleasure meeting you, Richie Tozier. I can honestly say, you’re nothing like what I expected.
RT: Is that a good thing?
Oh, yeah.
RT: Then it was a pleasure meeting you too, Jake Daniels. I hope you find someone who would never dream of ordering you a JD and coke.
I laugh at that parting joke all the way to my seat. And continue to laugh even harder for the next 90 minutes. And if Tozier is particularly on fire tonight, one could only speculate why. But perhaps it is because he is, in fact, braver than he thinks...
*Here ‘n’ Queer readers be sure to check out next month’s edition featuring the LGBTQIA+ charity, the Adrian Mellon Foundation and its founders, Adrian Mellon and Don Hagarty, talking about their recent fundraiser hosted by Beverly Marsh that helped raise an astounding $1.2m.
------------
“Well, shit.”
“Yeah.”
Richie breathes into the side of Eddie’s face from where he had squeezed himself in between his hip and the table, practically on top of him, to try and read the article along with him. It reminds Eddie of the many times they used to read the same comic book when they were kids, Richie’s hand holding one page and Eddie’s holding the other, huddled together like two peas in a pod.
Eddie leans back in his chair, his shoulder brushing lightly against Richie’s, soft smile on his face.
Slowly, he turns to gauge his boyfriend's reaction.
"Rich? You okay?"
He nods, blinking slowly.
“Yeah it’s...it’s not bad.”
“Told you.”
Richie sinks back in his seat, tension visibly draining from his entire body.
Eddie carefully watches him as he processes.
“I...I have a nice article written about me in a gay magazine.”
“Yeah, you do.”
Richie’s head turns to him, his eyes shining bright behind his glasses.
“God, I wish I could teleport back to ‘89 and tell teen Richie all about this. He’d shit a brick.”
Eddie chuckles, leaning forward to press their foreheads together.
“I think teenage us would have a lot to shit bricks about if they could see us now,” he murmurs into the small space between their mouths, brushing their noses together, “I’m so fuckin’ proud of you, Rich.”
Warmth blooms in Richie’s stomach as he closes the distance, capturing Eddie's lips in his.
The peck grows heated as Eddie shifts from his own seat to straddle Richie’s hips, his fingers weaving into Richie’s hair and tugging as Richie wraps his arms around his waist, trailing a hand lightly up and down his back, causing him to shiver.
“I’m...I’m proud of you too, Eddie. You were so brave,” he gasps in between kisses, “like always. I—I don’t think I ever would have had the balls to properly tell you how I felt if you didn’t...do it first.”
Eddie’s smile grows soft.
“You came out live on stage, Rich. We’re both brave,” he shrugs, before chuckling, “your mom is gonna be pissed you mentioned your weed dealer.”
Richie snorts, pressing his lips into Eddie’s collarbone, “This is L.A., Eds. It’s legal now. Everyone has a weed dealer. They’re not even dealers, really. More like door-to-door salesmen, like those dudes with Bibles back in the day, except their religious experience is more literal. Besides, she practically inhaled that brownie I gave her last time she was here. It helps with her arthritis.”
Eddie rolls his eyes, running a hand through Richie’s hair, tipping his head back so their eyes could meet.
“Speaking of, she and your dad want to visit next week.”
Richie blinks.
“You’ve been talking to her on the phone again, haven’t you?”
Eddie shrugs, a ghost of a smile on his lips.
“Yep. Every Sunday. Since before we even got together. Not my fault you don’t wake up till 2 and refuse to accept her friend request.”
Richie scrunches up his face, not caring how aesthetically unpleasing it probably is.
“Dude, I love Mags. She and Went are the best. Always have been. But ever since…this,” he waves a hand between the two of them, “she’s been like...super nosy and over-excited about every little detail and...she just never showed any interest in my love life before, so it’s a bit jarring that she’s starting when I’m 42.”
Something twinkles in Eddie’s eye.
“That’s because, and I quote,” he clears his throat, adopting a not-half-bad impression of Maggie Tozier that Richie doesn’t know whether to be impressed or horrified by. "‘Richard would never bring anyone home. Would never talk about who he was seeing. He played it off like he was just private, because he wasn’t out, but I knew better. Nobody has ever made him want to sing his feelings from the rooftops. Except you.’”
He pauses, tilting his head.
“She meant me.”
Richie snorts, knowing his face is far more fond than he’d like when he’s trying to be sardonic.
“Yeah, Eds. I got that.”
They share a smile.
“She also said she knew ever since our ‘pigtail-pulling-middle-school-days’ that we were meant for each other,” Eddie admits even quieter, his cheeks a rosy red.
Richie’s stomach swoops.
“And she’s right,” he agrees, his voice a little croaky with the rising emotion in his throat, “nobody else would have ever put up with my lame attempts at wooing.”
Eddie’s eyebrows arch.
“‘Wooing?’ Seriously? That’s what you’re calling your Mom jokes and dumb nicknames and—”
Richie surges up and peppers every inch of Eddie’s face he can reach with kisses.
“R-Richie!
Richie can feel Eddie's entire body shaking in begrudging, silent laughter as Richie mumbles between each kiss.
"I couldn't—help myself—you were—too cute and I—didn't know how to—flirt yet."
"You still don't know how to flirt."
His barbed response is diluted by the laugh on his lips.
Richie pulls back, doing his best arched-eyebrowed-Eddie-Kaspbrak impression.
"Dude, I wrote a fifteen minute segment into my set about how endearing I find your germophobia and bitching about L.A. traffic. That's gotta count as flirting."
Something soft passes over Eddie's face.
"Less flirting and more the Richie Tozier version of a love confession. Which, in case it wasn't clear from when I practically jumped you backstage, I was not at all opposed to."
Eddie leans down, his lips a hair’s breadth away from Richie’s as he mutters.
"But that does not mean I'll ever stand for you not cleaning the back of your fridge, Rich. I have my limits."
Richie squeezes Eddie’s hips.
“I'd clean the fridge out twice a day, every day for you, Eds.”
And they say romance is dead.
Eddie rolls his eyes, but Richie’s not fooled, he sees the adorable blush adorning his cheeks.
“You should clean out your fridge because it’s fucking gross and you have a bacteria village cultivating in your—”
Richie presses their lips together, humming into the kiss as Eddie easily opens his mouth, sliding his hands under Eddie's shirt and raking his nails up the expanse of hot skin, the knot in his lower abdomen tightening in excitement.
A loud creak reaches their ears, breaking their kiss. A sheepish grin passes over Richie’s face as he takes in their position.
“I don’t think these chairs were built to support the weight of two middle-aged men. Especially one with an ass like yours.”
He punctuates his point with a squeeze to Eddie’s left butt-cheek - his personal favourite. Eddie rolls his eyes again, pecking Richie’s jaw before standing up, unable to suppress the grunt as his joints creak almost as loud as the chair did.
“We’re getting old,” he grumbles as he stares down at his boyfriend, raking his fingers through his hair.
“You know what they say, Eds,” Richie smirks, sliding his palm up the back of Eddie’s thigh, “you’re only as old as the person you feel.”
“So you feel a day older than you are?”
Richie chuckles, “Yeah, those twelve extra hours really add to my goal of being a sexy, distinguished, older man.”
Eddie hums, tugging on a longer piece of hair at the top of his head and pretending to inspect it, “You have been sprouting a few more grey hairs lately.”
“Fuck you.”
“Fuck youuuuuu.”
Eddie leans down, brushing his other thumb against the patch of greying stumble on Richie’s cheek, with a shit-eating grin on his face, breath bouncing against Richie’s ear as he murmurs, “I think it’s hot.”
Richie feels his cheeks heat up as teeth nip at his earlobe.
“Shit, fuck...Eddie…” he rasps, a spark of arousal bolting through him as Eddie winds his hand around his head and tugs at the hair at the nape of his neck, gently forcing him to tilt his head back.
“Hmm...that’s the idea.”
Eddie had been surprisingly forward once they got over their initial first-time-awkward-but-endearing-shyness two weeks into their new relationship status.
“You’d be more forward too if you spent the last fifteen years starved of affection and human contact,” he had gasped into Richie’s ear one night last week before dropping to his knees.
Which, fair.
Richie was just happy to go along for the ride.
And what a fucking ride Eddie Kaspbrak and his long-awaited sexual-exploration-with-someone-he’s-actually-attracted-to proves to be. Richie legit fears that his dick might fall off from all the servicing he has been getting the last few weeks from Eddie’s practice-makes-perfect mentality. But what a way to go. He’d happily die a eunuch.
He’s up on his feet and pulling Eddie towards his bedroom in the blink of an eye.
He wants to shower the love of his life with as much affection as he can. Eddie Kaspbrak will never go hungry again. Literally, figuratively, or anywhere in between. Not if Richard Tozier has anything to say about it.
“Wow, you can move fast when you want to, huh old man?”
“When I’m properly motivated,” Richie shrugs, “you know, either by killer clown, or horny Kaspbrak.”
He punctuates that with a little leery look up and down, but knows it doesn't quite hide his heart-eyes.
(Nothing ever could.)
Eddie snorts out a laugh, crashing their lips back together as Richie bumps up against the couch, trying and failing to walk backwards. Eddie takes his opportunity and gives him a gentle shove.
"Oomph!"
The wind is knocked from Richie as he collapses down onto the couch. He doesn't get much time to recover however as Eddie climbs into his lap, bracketing him in, knees either side of his waist and his hands reaching out to cradle his face, staring down at him with warmth in his eyes.
Richie beams up at him, drinking in every inch of him that he can see. The first time in 25 years that Eddie had been above him like this, hadn’t ended particularly well for either of them. So, it seems Eddie has taken it upon himself to try and replace that very bad memory with better ones, if his affinity for making himself comfortable in Richie’s lap while they lounged on the couch is any indication.
Eddie still hesitates every now and again, though. Still new to Richie's open and freely given form of affection. But he tries. They both do in their own ways. And they get better at it every day.
(The practice makes perfect mentality works for that too.)
As they lock eyes, Richie’s heart soars, much like it had that night backstage, when Eddie told him he loved him and gave him the best ‘break a leg’ in history. These last six weeks have been like the best dream he has ever had. And yet, still somehow feels utterly, wholly, real.
“It’s out in the world now, that your first crush is the guy who wrote The Glowing,” Eddie smirks as leans forward to nip at Richie’s earlobe, causing his breath to hitch, “printed in black and white. Twitter will be hounding Bill for all the gory details any day now.”
Richie lets his head thump back against the couch, eyes falling closed as Eddie’s deft fingers slip into his loose pants, hot skin meeting hotter skin. For sleepwear, Richie is allergic to boxers and pjs together, it's either one or the other. Never both. And more often than not - neither.
Today however, he has gone with a cheeky lounge pants situation with ‘Money Maker’ emblazoned in pink glitter across the ass that Bev had designed him for Christmas, something which had Eddie stifling a laugh, while wholeheartedly denying any attraction to. His wandering hands every time Richie dons them, says otherwise, however.
“It—it wasn’t like I could...tell the truth, Eds,” Richie gasps out as Eddie rids him of his Oscar the Grouch T-shirt with his other hand, throwing it over his shoulder and latching onto his neck, covering the already impressive hickey he had left there last night, a fresh wave of gentle pain joining the dull ache.
All of Richie’s blood rushes to his cock, that Eddie is just loosely holding in that sweet-torture way of his, his head spinning.
“It’s...it's not like I could’ve said, ‘Oh yeah actually, I’ve had a giant heart-boner and boner-boner for Eddie here for like at least thirty years. Still do.’”
Eddie smirks into his skin.
“You could have,” he murmurs against his neck, his tongue peeking out to lap at the bruise like a salve, “probably good you didn’t, though. I would’ve jumped you right there in the dressing room. Losers and journalist be damned.”
Richie groans as Eddie drives his point home with a quick thrust of his hips, angled down against Richie’s, the friction maddening as his hold tightens on him slightly.
“I a-always knew you had a exhibitionist streak, Kaspbrak,” he chuckles, as he fights to catch his breath, running his hands up under Eddie’s sleep shirt and gripping his waist with both hands, hard.
“Says the standup comedian,” Eddie snorts, leaning back to catch his eye, lightly trailing his fingers down Richie’s chest, eyes drinking in the path of goosebumps that followed.
“I’m just a lowly ‘boredom adviser’. Hardly the type of career someone with a exhibitionistic streak would—”
Richie leans up and nips at his lips, cutting him off.
“Nothing boring about you, are you kidding? You, Edward Kaspbrak," he murmurs, pecking him once, twice, “are the hottest, wildest, sexual-bobcat in the sheets, smart and responsible risk analyst in the streets, I know.”
Eddie tilts his head, his fingers winding tightly into the short hairs at the base of Richie’s skull as his right hand gives his cock a quick squeeze.
“I’m the only risk analyst you know.”
Richie lets out a hitched breath before he plants a sloppy kiss right on Eddie’s nose and leans back, grinning at the adorable scrunch now lining his boyfriend’s face as he faux-glares at him.
“Semantics. And good. You’re the only one I need.”
Another something soft passes over Eddie’s face, then. Something warm and bright and shining in his eyes as he presses their foreheads together.
“Jake called me last week to check if it was okay that he print some stuff, like my full name,” he admits quietly, flushing hot as Richie’s grip on his hips tightens, “and to uh...congratulate us on ‘getting our shit together.’”
Richie blinks, again in awe of J.D’s journalistic intuition.
“He saw us making out backstage.”
Ah. So, less ‘intuition’ and more ‘eye sight.’ Still. Jake Daniels was alright.
Richie chuckles, little puffs of air tickling Eddie’s cheek.
“So you remember his name now, huh?”
Eddie groans.
“Stop bringing that up, Rich—”
“Nope. Never,” Richie interrupts, a manic gleam in his eye, “I will never get over the fact that you were actually jealous of me and that guy.”
Eddie twists his wrist, his thumb brushing over the head of Richie’s cock.
“Ah! Fuck,” Richie hisses, head falling forward into the crook of Eddie’s neck.
“You little turd,” he groans into his skin as Eddie laughs, fumbling with something in his other hand.
The familiar sound of a bottle cap clicking open had Richie lifting his head.
“The travel lube, Eds?” he grins, staring at the small container in Eddie’s free hand, “you plan this?”
Eddie makes a noise of agreement, letting go of Richie’s dick (who didn’t quite manage to rein in his groan of displeasure at the loss) to squirt a healthy amount of flavourless, unscented, water-based lube into his palm.
Lube shouldn’t have flavours or scents, Richie. That’s just asking for all kinds of trouble. Do you know what the statistics are for lube-related hospitalisations from allergic reactions? ‘Cause I do.
Warmth blooms in Richie’s chest.
Eddie, who must have felt his gaze on him, suddenly looks up.
“What?”
Richie smiles.
“I love you.”
They are words that he is still getting used to saying out loud after only thinking them for years. But each and every time they leave his mouth sounds like the most earnest, truthful and joyous he has ever verbally been in his entire 42 years of life. Because it is. When he says them, he’s Trashmouth, he’s Richard Wentworth Tozier and he’s Richie, all at once. He’s 14 and 42 and every age in between that never got to say those words, and mean them, to another person.
He’s happy.
Eddie stops warming the lube between his fingers, shuffling a little in his lap, his mouth curving up into a soft, almost shy smile.
“I love you too.”
He leans forward again, pecking the edge of his mouth gently.
Richie hums into the kiss, deepening it by swiping his tongue along Eddie’s bottom lip and coaxing his mouth open wider. His left hand reaches up and buries itself in his hair as Eddie’s moves to grip him again, more firmly this time, beginning to pump his hand up and down in a steady rhythm that has Richie’s blood singing.
“I’m so happy for you. You did it. You’re brilliant, Rich,” Eddie mumbles against his lips, his hips jerking forward a little, his clothed crotch brushing up against Richie’s exposed skin, who hisses at the friction.
“Back atcha, Spagheds. You're A+, 11/10, pure, solid gold. Off, off,” he rambles, flushed from the praise and the sensation, breaking the kiss to paw at Eddie’s pajama pants that are annoyingly void of an easy access slit.
That’s not what they’re called, dumbass. His inner voice sounds more and more like Eddie every day.
Outer-Eddie does a quick little reposition, lifting up off Richie just enough to allow him to pull down his pants and boxers, his own erection bobbing against his stomach.
Richie’s mouth waters at the sight, his fingers itching to touch.
“Hey lil buddy,” he murmurs warmly, eyes eagerly drinking in the very sexy, downright perfect dick that fortunately happened to be attached to the most sexy, utterly perfect man he has ever known.
“Don’t call my dick, ‘lil buddy’ if you ever wanna get laid again.”
Dark blue eyes meet molton brown.
“Yessir!”
Richie goes to give a mock salute, but Eddie catches his hand mid-motion and holds it tightly, interlinking their fingers and guiding their palms down. A shaky gasp catches in Richie’s throat as their hands close tightly around both of them, Eddie’s resting on top of his.
He lets his head fall into the slope of Eddie’s neck, huffing out a sharp breath, teeth nipping at Eddie’s earlobe.
“Fuck, Eds…”
The slick slide of Eddie’s cock against his, has his eyes rolling back into his skull. A soft, almost inaudible mewl escapes Eddie’s lips as Richie’s grip tightens around them. He hides his smirk in the tantalising patch of skin under Eddie’s ear, before a loud groan is ripped from his own throat when Eddie bucks his hips.
“Odds really are on you for the Emmy, you know. I checked,” he murmurs into Richie’s jaw in a conversational tone, as if he isn’t 100% as affected by their ministrations as Richie is, the bastard.
“Hmm,” is all Richie can manage because, well, Eddie Kaspbrak is in his lap and rubbing his very hard dick against him. He’s surprised to still be breathing, really, let alone thinking about awards season.
“Just imagine,”Eddie continues as he pushes against Richie’s hand, giving their cocks a torturous twist, speaking into his jaw as he trails kisses across it, “getting recognition and being celebrated for talking about who you are. For being out and proud. That article and your show means a lot to people, Rich. Young people, kids, everyone who ever felt like they couldn’t be themselves - you gave them someone to look up to.”
Eddie leans back, then, reaching out with his free hand to cup Richie’s cheek, eyes shining with a warmth that has him shivering for a whole different reason.
“You became the person we needed when we were growing up, Richie. 13-year-old us would be so proud of you.”
Richie swallows around the tightness in his throat, the emotion welling up inside him. Tipping forward, he brings their foreheads together, letting his eyes fall closed as he breathes in Eddie, letting his voice, his scent, his touch wash over him in the overwhelming but comforting wave, just it always did.
Taking a shaky breath, he mumbles into that same maddening patch of skin, “13-year-old me would be even prouder of having your dick in my hand, Eds.”
They both hear the admission for what it is. It’s laced with the sincerity that Richie fears he can’t outwardly express right now, lest he start sobbing all over their erections.
But still, he wants to try.
Tilting back into the couch, he catches the love of his life’s eye again, taking a deep breath and speaking from the heart.
“13 year old us would be so proud of you too, Eddie. You’re a fucking hero. My hero. You saved my life. In more ways than one. You’re the bravest person I know. And honestly, you’re who I look up to every day.”
Eddie blinks back the noticeable tears in his eyes as he brings back their mouths together in a feverish kiss, hand tightening around Richie’s as they quickened their jerks, their hips rocking together.
“Shit, Eds,” Richie groans, his orgasm beginning to build low in his gut.
“H-Harder,” Eddie gasps, and Richie obeys, tightening his grip on them, pumping them rougher.
Eddie reaches down, his thumb sweeping across the head of Richie’s cock, spreading around the beads of precum just as Richie clenches his fist around them both and that’s what does it, his orgasm ripping from him just moments before Eddie’s, their come painting their fingers.
“God, I love you,” Richie gasps almost unbeknownst to himself, basking in the floaty feeling he always gets after Eddie makes him come harder than anyone ever managed before.
“Name’s Eddie, but I love you too,” Eddie murmurs, smile lacing his tone.
Giddiness blooms in Richie’s chest at the reciprocated, cheeky words, a laugh bubbling up his throat.
This, talking openly, sincerely, emotionally, but still inherently them is still a bit of a foreign concept to him.
Richie Tozier who always thought he was "born to speak all mirth and no matter."
Richie Tozier, nicknamed ‘Trashmouth’ by a seven year old Eddie Kaspbrak after a slew of gross insults aimed at their square of a substitute teacher, always thought that he was born to make people laugh and only that. That he was only ever good for a joke and nothing else. And sometimes, a lot of times, he wasn’t even good for that.
He grew up thinking he’d never be a man of substance, who would never speak anything of note, of importance. He was a jester, a jokester, a prankster, put on this earth to talk trash as a distraction and to let other people speak sense, form battle cries and give rousing speeches.
Because he isn’t a William Shakespeare or even a William Denbrough.
But that’s okay. It may have taken him forty years, but he’s finally realising that that’s perfectly fine.
Because he tries. Every day he tries to make the world a little brighter with a wild comment, quirky impression or well-timed quip.
It just took falling in love with Eddie all over again, reconnecting with his friends and living his life out and proud to realise that maybe, just maybe, he doesn’t always have to do just that. That he’s capable of more too. Of being a shoulder to cry on, an advice giver, a listening ear, part of a support system, part of a team, part of a family, too. He may not be the best at it, but he’s there.
So what if he isn’t Shakespeare. So what if neither of them ever were and would never be, just like his teenage self had said back in one of the worst moments of his life.
So what if they don’t always say the right thing or know exactly what to do.
They do their best.
They have each other. And the Losers. And their life together.
They’re Richie and Eddie.
Both separate and together.
And now, they have the best thing of all - they have time.
“Only we could have an emotionally-charged conversation while holding each others’ dicks,” Eddie chuckles into Richie’s neck before nipping it playfully, his nose wrinkling as he stares down at the mess they made, making a motion to stand up.
“Eds...hey, Eddie," Richie murmurs, running his hand up and down his back and holding him in place.
“Yeah?” he asks quietly, dragging a thumb under Richie’s lip.
Richie doesn’t have to prepare himself this time, speaking from the heart was becoming easier and easier every day.
“Marry me.” Is what he’ll say one day.
"Move in with me.” Is what he says now.
Those dark eyes he loves so much catch his, still shining brightly.
Eddie smiles.