❝Tell me you love this, tell me you’re not miserable.❞
that’s the thing, though, isn’t it? it’s always been a mixed bag, always been a little of both. running with the losers means never losing your breath. it also means facing the scariest shit you can think of, again, and again, and again. meekly, eddie reaches for his jacket pocket. his aspirator isn’t there. of course it isn’t.
his breath wheezes out between them, almost whistling ( SOMEONE TURN EDDIE OFF, HE’S REACHED FULL BOIL! ). the derry town house is quiet. it’s hard to believe anyone fucking works there at all.
“i think i’ve always been miserable, rich.” he thinks of his mother, her cloying, overbearing love. he thinks of myra, of her comfortable stagnation, familiarity. he thinks of the leper, disgusting and terrifying and making promises that eddie hadn’t turned him down on. i’ll blow you for a quarter. i’ll blow you for free.
forgetting derry was easy, good, even. forgetting richie is shaping up to be one of the worst mistakes of his life. we’ve wasted so much time. i’ve wasted so much time.
he reaches out, snags richie first by his jacket sleeve, then circles his hand around his wrist instead. his mind flashes back to the day they cut their palms, made the oath, and eddie’s hand finds its way into richie’s. firm. apologetic. sincere. “i’m ready to try and stop being miserable, though. twenty-seven years late, but better than not at all, right?”