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There were times in which Richie Tozier thought that Stanley Uris had gotten it right. 

Usually he thought about it late at night when he was left alone with his thoughts and one too many glasses of whatever he had lying around. These days he didn't bother with being picky about it. Whatever got him drunk was enough. 

It was funny though, to think that no matter how much he tried to drink to forget he couldn't. It was a load of bullshit too, that whenever he hadn't wanted to forget he had and now that he desperately wanted to, he couldn't. No matter what he did, Eddie's face was always in his mind. Sometimes he saw him happy and smiling in The Jade of the Orient in the final moments before everything went to shit. He could feel the warmth of his hand in his, the softness of fingers suited to desk work and no doubt a repetitive lotion routine. He'd think up jokes in his head then too. Ladyfingers wasn't particularly clever but when he said it in a spot on posh woman's British accent it became comedic gold. Probably the sort that Eddie would have liked too, considering he'd come up with it himself. 

But more often than not it wasn't Eddie's smiling or annoyed face he saw. Why is it that he couldn't decide what memories to hold onto? It has his mind, wasn't it? Why then was he forced to relive that moment in his head? He could hear Eddie's voice echoing, echoing, echoing out his name in that moment of pain, of shocked confusion. Richie? 

His first night alone after leaving Derry had been the hardest. Not only was he forced to deal with the stark reality of Eddie's death, of Stan's, of the childhood he had forgotten but now too, the deep abiding loneliness that was left. It was one thing being alone -- he'd been alone for most of his life -- but it was another entirely to have that void filled by the Losers only to now find himself without them. Of course the remaining Losers were only a mere phone call away but asking for help had never been his style. He'd made a joke to himself and the silence of his now obnoxiously-too-big-apartment greeted him. He had had one drink to settle his nerves before they gripped him so hard he was sent running for the toilet. Richie had remained in the bathroom for the rest of the night, even after his nausea subsided and he was left sobbing and hugging his knees and begging for Eddie to come back. He'd give anything for that. 

He wasn't sure when he'd started screaming for him, pleading with whatever powers that be and cursing them in the same breath but by the time he was done he was hoarse and wheezing worse than Eddie ever had. 

"Too bad...you didn't keep that inhaler... I could use a good blast off...." Richie had croaked. He wasn't sure when he'd passed out but he'd woken slumped against his large tub with Stan's letter clutched in his hand. Be proud. Of what? 

Things hadn’t gotten better from there. His self destructive behaviors had gone from drowning his sorrows in a bottle to wrapping his car around a light pole. It was a miracle he was alive, the tabloids had said but he hadn’t seen it that way and part of him wondered if it had really been an alcohol induced accident at all. That was a part of himself he didn’t like to think about but one that was growing steadily more prevalent. Steve had found him a great lawyer, one who even kept him with his smart mouth out of jail. Community service was somehow supposed to be better but he’d only remarked at how it paid to be a celebrity. He’d made headlines for that and in spite of Steve’s pleading with him he had cancelled the rest of his tour. 

Steve was another hitch in his road to recovery. All he had to do was look at him, listen to him talk to put it together in his head. How had his mind managed that? He hadn’t even remembered Eddie but his mind had somehow filled in the blanks. 

His manager had begged him to stay and especially to stay out from behind the wheel of a car but Richie had ignored him on both counts. He’d packed his bags, tossed them into the back of his car, and said “fuck it” to commercial travel. As much as he didn’t want to be alone he needed to be away from people who wouldn’t understand. He didn’t want to deal with paparazzi or fans or, God forbid, babies screaming back in coach. 

Driving gave time for his mind to wander and that was the last thing he wanted but it was something he’d dealt with for months. He could stand it now. Something had to give. His mind gave him enough to ponder. Every time he drove over an overpass or took a particularly tight turn he thought about how easy it would be to go right over the edge or flip his car. It wouldn’t be quick or pretty and the tabloids would read: We Told You So. Maybe he could time it just right so he’d die with his middle fingers posed in the air as a final “Fuck You”. Morbid, he thought, and in the end he couldn’t do it. As much as he hurt, as much as he longed for Eddie he didn’t want to die. 

What he wanted was to be free from the pain that woke him, sobbing or crying out for Eddie when he was finally able to sleep. The Deadlight dreams had died with It for Beverly but Richie thought they were all he saw. It hadn’t died in the cistern; It still lived in his mind and he feared more now than he ever had before. He feared what would happen if the numb and hollow feeling inside of him remained and he feared what might happen if he allowed it to close up. In a way, that pain was all he had left of Eddie. 

There were memories too, memories now as bright as the sun but they weren’t enough to stop his breath from catching when his chest tightened painfully with each new thought of him. What made it worse were the missing years. For twenty-seven years he had longed for something he couldn’t remember. For even longer than that he had loved Eddie Kaspbrak. He’d never felt much hope in regards to a relationship with him but that was okay. After they killed the fucking clown they could have at least been friends like they had been. They could have been something and maybe he’d have finally been less of a mess. They hadn’t even had the chance and he cursed as he felt hot tears building behind his eyes. 

Twenty-fucking-seven years taken from them and this is what they had to show for it! Eddie and Stan were dead! And they were left to pick up the fucking pieces of their shitty lives and move on! And how? How was something like that even possible? There was so much bitterness, so much hurt and they’d been left with no way to process it. Yeah, maybe Stan the Man had gotten it right… What would it be like to not feel like this anymore? 

That thought didn’t feel like the others, it felt real and before he could give it any more thought, Richie jerked the steering wheel to the right to pull over onto the shoulder before slamming on his brakes. He heard horns honking behind him but he paid them no mind as he shifted his car into park. He reached first for the letter he always carried in his pocket and smoothed it out over his steering wheel with shaking hands. Had his fingers always been that pale? He scanned the creased letter and found comfort there, as he always did, in Stanley’s final words. 

But there was anger too and that hurt, the familiar one that rose from beneath his rib cage that took away his breath and he pressed one hand to his chest as though that would make it stop. 

I know what this must seem like…

He could recite it word for word for himself but reading it, imagining the words as they flowed from Stanley’s pen was something that provided him with some sense of connection to another human being who understood. Even if that person was gone, his words weren’t and even if Richie had never heard his voice as an adult he imagined it in his head and that was soothing. 

Richie pushed up his glasses to rub at the inner corners of his eyes and to stop the tears from slipping down and making a mess of his already impaired vision. Then, he kept reading. 

And don’t ever forget, we’re losers, and we always will be. 

They had forgotten, all of them, and now they were cursed with this memory. He wondered if it was this difficult for the others. Ben and Bev had one another at least and Mike and Bill...well, last he had heard they were doing well. That could have been a lie, though. The Losers were good at pushing their emotions down into deep and dark recesses to avoid dealing with them until they climbed back up, like a clown from a well, and tried to strangle them. 

There were times he wished he could forget, times when he wondered if the good really outweighed the bad. Were the good memories enough to make up for the loss of two of their friends? Thinking about it made his body seize up again and he forced his eyes to scan the letter once more. Stan had said they had nothing to lose but that wasn’t true, was it? They had everything to lose and they’d lost it. They really were losers. He laughed before it turned into a sob and the shaky breath that followed was painful. 

No, he couldn’t go through with it. Not now. Eddie and Stanley would just have to wait for him. “Gotta follow my own path, right, you poetic asshole?” He laughed again then and there was something cathartic in it. It wasn’t going to heal him but it made it easier to breathe. 

Be brave.   

That was easier said than done but Stanley did have it right. They were Losers and they always would be. Maybe they did have a lot to lose after all, but they’d lost it together. They were supposed to be together. He neatly folded the letter and carefully slid it back into his pocket to instead withdraw his phone. 

“Shit.” 

Maybe he wouldn’t pick up. Then he’d be off the hook and he could go back home. He wasn’t even sure how far he’d driven, only that he’d gotten behind the wheel and had followed the signs. He wasn’t in Chicago anymore, that was for sure. 

There were only three rings before he heard Mike Hanlon’s voice saying his name. He could hear the surprise in his voice and with it, concern. That gave him pause and he closed his eyes tight before staring up at the roof of his car. 

“Hey, Mikey…” Shit, was that his voice? He sounded like a balloon deflating. 

“How’s it going? You’re -- You’re okay, right? I saw --” 

“Yeah. You shouldn’t believe everything you see, Mike. That’s like...Clown Fighting 101.”

“Beep beep, Richie.” Richie could hear the smile in his voice and it felt good. It made him ache too. 

“Look, man.” He paused there, his brow furrowing as he once again rubbed at his eyes. “I’m in the neighborhood. Thought I might stop by.” 

There was no hesitation in Mike’s response. In fact, he sounded happy and Richie was relieved that he didn’t question him. That might come later because, of course, Mike would know the truth but for now it gave him some time to breathe in that ignorant bliss. He told him he could stay as long as he wanted and while Richie assured him it was just going to be a short visit, the two packed bags in his backseat said otherwise. 

“Yeah, I’ll call you if I get lost. I’ve always wanted to be search and rescued. I’ll see you soon.” 

When he hung up he exhaled and put the car into gear before pulling back out onto the road, this time with some sense of direction and maybe purpose. Nothing would bring Eddie back and that was a fact he didn’t want to live with. Maybe he could learn to, even if it still hurt him, but until then he’d do what he should have years ago. He’d do what Losers do best; stick together and fight. If not for himself, then for Eddie, who never had the chance.