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Nirvana blared through the speakers and traveled throughout the too small apartment owned by some random guy in one of Richie’s classes. Richie didn’t know him too well - he thinks his name is Chris? Collin? Something with a ‘C’ - but, hey, a party’s a party, and free booze is free booze.

The trashmouth was chatting loudly over the music with Bill on a dingy leather couch, waiting for Stan and Eddie to return with more drinks. Richie was already significantly further along than his friends in terms of his drunken state, all obnoxious laughs interrupted by hiccups and long, gangly limbs flailing more wildly than usual. It almost should be concerning to the other Losers, having only been at the party for less than a couple hours and their friend already being long gone, but it was what they were used to. Since they were 15 and stealing liquor from their parents, the Losers constantly saw Richie’s “go big or go home” attitude with drinking. They assumed it was just Richie wanting to be the life of the party and center of attention, whether that meant going shot for shot with Mike, accepting any type of drinking related dare from Beverly, etc.

Richie let them believe this, because it was better than telling them the truth. It was easier than admitting to them that around the same time he started sneaking a copious amount of vodka from the Tozier’s alcohol stash, he was also realizing certain feelings he had for a certain Loser.

Richie Tozier loved Eddie Kaspbrak. Richie was sure it was just one of those basic laws of the universe, one that’s impossible to ignore and inevitable to come to pass. Despite this, living in a small town like Derry meant getting the shit kicked out of you if you even look at another guy for too long, soulmates or inescapable love or whatever be damned. Richie had gotten beatdowns left and right from neighborhood bullies for being a “faggot” before he even knew what the word meant, so he, unfortunately, knew this from personal experience.

But now, sitting in an apartment in Manhattan of all places, attending NYU with three out of six of his best friends, away from those assholes in Derry, Richie thought he’d loosen up. Let himself be brave.

He soon learned that was easier said than done; who knew what 19 years of internalized homophobia could do to a man?

It’s not like he was afraid of being more of an outcast; he was already a loser with a capital “L,” and he, along with the rest of his friends, carried the title like it was given to them by the Queen herself. Deep down Richie knew the rest of the Losers wouldn’t even bat an eye at the fact that he liked dudes the way he should have liked girls, so he wasn’t afraid of losing them either. And deep, deep down, Richie also knew there wasn’t really anything wrong with him. Why would he feel such a way if it was supposed to be such an unnatural and vile thing? He couldn’t help who he was, who or how he loved, and God, he loved Eddie so much he thought he could just burst with it sometimes.

That shred of acceptance, though, was buried so deep in his lanky form, and the only way to reach it was through a ridiculous amount of shots. Or beers. Or just about anything with a decent alcohol content, really. He’d even settle with wine if he had to.

When Richie was drunk, he was able to be more clingy and face less consequences. He was already an affectionate guy, constantly pinching Eddie’s cheeks and throwing a lazy arm around the shorter man’s shoulders whenever he could. With alcohol, though, he’d give sloppy cheek kisses and intertwine his fingers with Eddie’s and allow his face to form a subtle blush when an intoxicated Eddie would lean into it.

“Sorry for being all over ya last night, Eds. You know how gross and clingy I can get,” he’d say the following morning, and then they’d fall back into their rhythm of bickering and ‘your mom’ jokes. Business as usual, like clockwork every time they’d get wasted.

Richie thought it was going well, that his feelings were going totally unnoticed, that he was stealth. Until this particular college party, that is.

Richie’s attention left his conversation with Bill about the newest Die Hard film when he felt the couch sink next to him, turning to meet eyes with a mildly tipsy Eddie. The taller man’s face immediately lit up, a goofy smile spreading across his chapped lips.

“Hiya, Spagheds! What’s cookin, good lookin’?” Richie slurred out, his arm finding its way around Eddie’s waist and using his other hand to snatch the mixed drink his friend was holding out for him. Eddie responded with his usual scoff and eyeroll, but Richie noted an extra bite to it that he wasn’t used to getting from him.

“Don’t call me that, asshole! And haven’t you ever heard of personal space?” Eddie grumbled, wiggling himself out of Richie’s side embrace and putting some distance between the two. The arm that was once around Eddie made its way to Richie’s own body as he dramatically grasped at his chest.

“Eddie, baby, you’ve wounded me! Since when do you pass up some signature Tozier cuddles?” Richie was met with a simple huff in response as Eddie avoided his gaze. Richie’s eyebrows furrowed together in confusion at the lack of attention he was receiving from the man who would usually be giving him the most attention, but he was overall too drunk to overthink. With a shrug, Richie downed his freshly made drink in record timing before crunching the plastic cup in his hand and tossing it over his shoulder, causing Eddie to scoff again from next to him. Stan spoke up from beside Bill before Eddie could ream his friend about his lack of care for tidiness.

“Maybe you should start on some water, huh, Rich?” Richie gasped dramatically, turning to look at Stan as if he had just told him pigs fly.

“Staniel, did you just ask moi to drink water? What’s the point of free booze if you’re not gonna take advantage?” He asked incredulously before standing, wobbling on his long limbs for a couple seconds and giggling a bit before regaining his balance. “Speaking of, I’m gonna go see if my boy Chris has any good brewskis lyin’ around.”

“Isn’t his name C-C-Connor?” Bill asked, shaking his head in amusement. He seemed to be the only one enjoying the trashmouth’s antics this evening, as Stan’s eyebrows were furrowed in concern which he tried to pass off as annoyance, and Eddie still kept his gaze elsewhere. It was the latter that made Richie itch for another drink.

“Whatever the fuck, Billiam. I’ll be back in a jiff, my loves! Try not to miss me too much!” Richie exclaimed with a bow, breaking out his British accent for his next sentence. “But if I find m’lady Mary Jane, don’t wait up, lads! Pip pip!”

Before Richie could step five feet from the couch, an aggressive hand was yanking him back by the wrist. Losing his footing due to the intrusion, Richie stumbled once more, nearly toppling onto Eddie. The shorter man’s tight grip on his arm was the only thing that kept him from sending them both back onto the scratchy leather of the couch below. Richie beamed at the attention he was finally receiving, despite the glare Eddie was boring deep into his features.

“Sit the fuck down, Richard. You’re not drinking anymore fucking beer and you’re definitely not smoking anything. You’re drinking some water and I’m taking you the fuck back to your room, asswipe,” Eddie said sternly, getting as close as he could to Richie’s face with the height difference between them. Richie couldn’t help but love when Eddie got like this; sure, he was red in the face more with anger than with the alcohol, but the anger was backed by mountains of concern. It reminded Richie how much his love cared about him, even though he was sure their forms of love differed. There was still some kind of love there, and sometimes, that was enough for him.

Although Richie felt his chest swell and he wanted nothing more than to ease Eddie’s anger and please him, his mouth rambled before his brain could tell it what to say, as usual.

“If you wanted to get me alone, Eds, all ya had to do was ask,” Richie slurred with a wink, slowly bringing his hand up Eddie’s arm, his calloused fingertips slightly teasing the warm skin. Eddie’s face flushed an even deeper shade of red, from anger or something else, no one was sure - until Richie’s hand was being swatted away, the smack of it loud enough for Bill and Stan to hear over the music from their spot on the couch. Richie mumbled a curse under his breath as he rubbed the skin Eddie came in contact with, a sting lingering there. He opened his mouth to speak again, some kind of excuse or apology on the tip of his tongue, but never got it out due to Eddie’s voice cutting him off.

“Stop doing this, Richie! Just stop! I’m tired of it!” Eddie's voice was slowly rising, and the tremble that laced within his words acted as some kind of magical potion; suddenly Richie had never been so sober. 

“Hey, Eddie, it’s okay. I’m sorry, whatever I did I’m sor-” The apology was interrupted with another signature scoff as Eddie looked at the ground, shaking his head, breathing out a humorless chuckle.

“You don’t even know what you’re doing,” he said with a frustrated sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose before looking Richie in his eyes once again. Despite the apartment being dark with the exception of a couple of lamps scattered around the area, Richie could see the glistening threat of tears waiting to spill from the doe eyes he loved so much. His heart ached.

“Of course you don’t know what you’re doing, Rich, because you’re too fucking drunk! You’re always too drunk. I just… I just wish you were sober for fucking once!” Eddie practically screamed, before his voice softened with hurt again. “I just wish you’d act like this with me without fucking booze.” There were a couple beats of silence between them, two pairs of dark eyes swimming with gallons of emotions simply blinking at one another, the only noise coming from Eddie’s sniffling. Richie did all in his power to search for a response, but for once in his life, the trashmouth was at a loss for words. After what felt like forever, Eddie finally ended the moment by turning on his heel and making a beeline for the door, leaving Richie to stand in dumbfounded silence while his intoxicated brain processed the scene that just unfolded. His thought process was interrupted by a voice coming from the couch.

“Wha-what just happened?” Bill asked, his amusement from earlier in the night completely dissipated and replaced with a mix of confusion and concern.

“Richie’s oblivious and a dumbass is what just happened. Nothing new,” Stan deadpanned from next to him. Richie snapped his body towards the pair, making his head spin and reminding him of just how drunk he was. He blinked at the two in an attempt to adjust his sight before raising his hands in defense at Stan’s comment.

“What are you talking about? Do you know what that was about?” Richie asked, pointing towards the direction Eddie stormed off in. Stan rolled his eyes before standing up and grabbing Richie by the shoulders with both hands, giving him a serious look.

“When we went to get drinks, Eddie talked to me. About you. About how you act when you’re drunk, all over him and shit, more than usual. And how much he likes it, but he hates that he likes it, because you only do it when you’re drunk.” Richie continued to gape at his friend, clearly not connecting what Stan’s words meant. Stan sighed, scrunching his face in annoyance and gripping Richie’s shoulders tighter. “He’s in love with you, asshole! Either tell him you love him too, because trust me, everyone except him knows you do, or stop leading him on. It’s fucking ruining him, man!”

Realization finally hit Richie, his eyes welling with tears as Stan’s grip on his shoulders softened. “He- He is? Are you sure? This- This isn’t funny, Stanley. A-Are you sure?” he breathed out, and if it wasn’t for the weight of the situation, he’d made a joke about how he was sounding like Bill, nervous stutter and all. Stan gave a slight nod and responded, but Richie didn’t hear what he said. His mind was suddenly racing; find Eddie. tell Eddie. kiss Eddie. EddieEddieEddie.

Before he knew it his feet were running just as fast as his thoughts, not 100% sure where he was going, just knowing he needed to find Eddie. Richie raced out of the apartment building into the chilly air that was New York City on a late November night, frantically scanning the streets. His eyes soon locked on a figure about half a block down, leaning against a mailbox, head in his hands. Even with the distance between them, Richie could tell he was trembling, either from the cold or from crying, he wasn’t sure. As he felt the sharp breeze across his skin exposed by the rips in his jeans, he assumed probably both.

Richie thought better than to call out his name, opting instead to slowly approach Eddie. He did his best to labor his breathing in his short walk over, mentally preparing himself for the confrontation that was about to take place. The confrontation that would bear all feelings, all confessions. All of the walls Richie had been building around himself since high school would finally come down.

He wished he had another drink.

“Eds?” He spoke softly, possibly the softest he’d ever spoken, as to not scare Eddie and send him running. The shorter man lifted his head from his hands, and Richie’s heart broke even more at the sight before him. Eddie’s eyes were red and puffy, a wall of hurt extremely evident in the soft brown. His nose was runny, and his lip quivered as he looked away when he realized who was standing in front of him.

“Don’t call me that,” he practically whispered, just loud enough for the other to catch it over the bustle of traffic in the streets surrounding them. Although he was avoiding the other man’s gaze like his life depended on it, Eddie made no attempt to walk away. Richie took that as a small win.

“Eddie, talk to me. Please. What’s up? It’s just me and you, man. C’mon.” Richie wanted nothing more than to reach out and touch Eddie. Offer a comforting hand on his shoulder, run his fingers through his hair, hold him close, tell him everything would be okay. But he didn’t dare move.

A car honked down the street, offering the only noise that cut through the thick silence when Eddie didn’t take Richie’s offer to speak. The former stayed silent with his head down, finding the dirty concrete under his pristine white converse highly interesting. Richie let out a sigh.

“Okay, you don’t have to talk. I’ll do all the talking. I’m the Trashmouth after all, aren’t I?” Richie offered a lame chuckle when his attempt at a joke fell flat, Eddie not breaking his frown even slightly. Richie cleared his throat awkwardly before continuing. “Look, I talked to Stan, he told me what you guys talked about, and -” He was cut off by the same humorless chuckle he heard in the apartment minutes ago, but this time it dripped with sadness rather than anger.

“Dammit, Stanley, you fucking traitor,” Eddie mumbled mostly to himself. He shook his head with a deep sigh and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his palms, making them impossibly redder, before willing himself to look at Richie, his voice finally reaching above a murmur for the first time since leaving the party. “Secret’s out, I guess. I’m a fucking cliche. The fuckin’ queer that fell for his best friend.”

All Richie could do was silently stare, mouth slightly agape and eyes comically blown, amplified more so by his glasses. Sure, Stan had told him this not even five minutes beforehand, but hearing it from Eddie himself was an entirely different experience. He figured under different circumstances, Eddie would probably be laughing at how dumb he was sure he looked. Instead, the shorter man looked at him expectantly with tears still in his eyes, clearly waiting for some kind of response, and expecting the worst. They stood this way, basically a mirroring of what played out in the party upstairs before Eddie stormed out, for a solid minute before it was - once again - Eddie who broke the silence.

“So much for doing all the talking,” he muttered, the volume of his voice lowering, Richie realizing as Eddie looked back at the ground that he was closing in on himself once again. “Good night, Rich.”

“No,” Richie finally spoke, his arm darting out to grab Eddie’s hand before he could even adjust his feet to leave. “Please don’t walk away again. Please.” His voice broke on the last plea, his own eyes finally beginning to water. Eddie was still staring in the opposite direction down the concrete path he was planning on following before he was interrupted, but was staying put, not rejecting Richie’s hand in his. “There’s so much I wanna say to you, Eddie. So much. I just… Shit, I just don’t know how.”

Richie was crying just as much as Eddie was at this point but quieter, unable to pull himself together as much as he wanted to be brave. Eddie turned his head to face Richie with his glare still hardened, only softening when he saw the state Richie was in. Eddie had known Richie since they were literal children, and he knew better than anyone that Richie Tozier didn’t cry like this. Not unless something was truly eating at him. The anger Eddie felt towards the situation seemed to have completely disappeared as he comfortably squeezed Richie’s hand, giving him encouraging eyes.

The taller man used his free hand to rub the tears from his eyes, giving him a better look at Eddie. They were standing fairly close to the lone street light of the block, the faint orange tint of the bulb complimenting Eddie’s lightly tanned skin and chestnut eyes. Without thinking, Richie brought his hand up to Eddie’s face, cupping his cheek and wiping a stray tear away with the pad of his thumb. He continued softly rubbing at the skin there after the tear was gone, his thumb dancing across the freckles, his mind flooded with thoughts of how beautiful the man before him was. Eddie closed his eyes for a brief moment, taking in the feel of Richie’s touch.

Unable to find words again but refusing to let the moment slip out of his fingers for the third time of the night, Richie did the only thing he truly knew how to do; he acted impulsively.

If asked, Richie wouldn’t be able to pinpoint exactly when he decided to kiss the man he’d loved since he was 15 in the middle of Greenwich Village at one in the morning. Before he knew it, the hand on Eddie’s cheek slid down to his neck, pulling their lips together before the shorter man could react to the shift in Richie’s hold on him. As much as he didn’t want to admit the fact, Richie knew he wouldn’t have taken such action if it weren’t for the alcohol flowing through his veins, but at this point he didn’t much care. When their lips met, he forgot all about the booze, and became drunk on Eddie.

Eddie kissed back without hesitation, letting go of Richie’s hand and easily snaking his arms around his neck, with a comfortability as if they had done this thousands of times. It was sloppy due to the pair’s mixed tears along with their lack of experience, but nevertheless the two men kissed with purpose, as if the fate of their livelihood depended on this moment. Perhaps it did.

By the time they pulled away and rested their foreheads together, Eddie’s fingers had found themselves tangled in Richie’s dark curls, and Richie’s hands were gripping Eddie’s hips for dear life. The kiss hadn’t lasted too long - thirty seconds or so, if that - however the energy both men poured into those short seconds left them panting heavily, their breath tangling together, hot in the other’s face in the midst of the cold air around them.

“That was better than talking,” Richie breathed out with a wet chuckle, causing Eddie to finally crack his first smile of the night. It was a small one, the corners of his mouth curving only lightly, but Richie saw that his happiness had made its way into his stare.

“Shut up, Richie,” Eddie whispered with no real bite in his words before bringing their lips together again, this kiss softer than the last. While their first kiss was filled with the passion built up from years of mutual pining and secrets, their second let them convey the deepness of their love without words to speak. A tender peck of their lips told Richie everything he needed to know; this moment was very much real, and Eddie Kaspbrak very much loved Richie Tozier.

And if the kiss wasn’t enough, Eddie made sure to tell him when he pulled out of the kiss and rested his head on the taller man’s shoulder, pulling him into a proper embrace.

“I love you, Rich. I- I think I always have,” he confessed, his voice slightly muffled from where his face was buried in Richie’s neck, but the other man heard him loud and clear all the same. Richie released his grip on Eddie’s hips and wrapped his arms around him, letting himself breathe out a sigh of relief as he held him impossibly closer.

“I love you too, Eds. So fucking much, fuck.” Richie pressed a kiss to soft brown waves, breathing in the clean scent of lavender shampoo mixed with light cologne, his senses filling with just Eddie.

Standing in the middle of a bustling city they barely knew in the wee hours of a Sunday morning, arms wrapped tightly around one another, ignoring the strangers that walked past them most definitely giving them some variation of judgemental stares, Eddie and Richie had never felt more at home.

“Alright, Trashmouth,” Eddie started, reluctantly pulling away from Richie’s hold. Richie pouted at the loss of feeling Eddie’s body pressed against his own, making the latter chuckle and playfully roll his eyes. He pressed a quick peck to said trashmouth before continuing. “We can talk about this more in the morning. Right now, you need water and sleep.” Richie slapped a toothy grin onto his chapped lips after, once again, being reminded of how intoxicated he still was, falling back into his goofy demeanor with ease.

“Ya gonna take care of me, Dr. K? Ugh, what a dreamboat,” he replied, miming a cartoonish faint. Eddie simply giggled and grasped Richie’s hand once again, interlacing their fingers and leading him in the direction of their dorms. Richie fell back ever so slightly as to not get caught looking at Eddie like the lovesick dork he was, feeling a warmth grow in his body he was sure wasn’t due to the alcohol.