#ziggy fics

Pink

It was glances at his lips when he was talking. It was staring at him in math class. It was seeing him in this fucking black and white world as the only thing of beauty.

Maybe pink was two weeks later. Maybe it was the taste of his lips. Maybe it was the feeling he got when he finally said fuck it and pulled Eddie towards him by the collar of his shirt. It was the heat that rose to his cheeks when he backed away. Fuck I shouldn’t have done that. It was most definitely the feeling of when Eddie pressed his lips to his once more.

Red

Red was fingers digging into hipbones. It was long neck kisses. It was keeping quiet so Eddie’s mom wouldn’t walk in. It was removing shirts. Unbuckling pants. It was Richie dropping to his knees. It was fingers tangled in dark curls.

It was the way Eddie looked. Eyes closed and nose scrunched up just a bit. He looked like a saint at prayer. Whoever said black and white couldn’t be beautiful was as wrong ass motherfucker.

But it was also the knowledge that he wasn’t seeing color when he was with him. It was not knowing what color even was. No one ever really told him.

Orange

Waking up beside him. Seeing his tired eyes smile at him. It was seeing marks on his neck. And chest. And stomach. And hips. It was knowing he was his. Eddie Kaspbrak belonged to the town trashmouth.

It was “let’s leave. Pack up everything we need, get in my shitty truck and leave.”

“Where would we go?”

“West.”

It was whispers and early morning plans.

“Okay.”

Yellow.

Yellow was his smile. His laughter. It was listening to the mixtapes Richie made for Eddie. It was buying postcards at gas stations to send to the other losers. They could all see colors. It was freedom and singing at the top of their lungs to shitty pop on the radio.

It was long talks about nothing in particular. It was sleeping in the bed of Richie’s truck under four blankets and a jacket or two. It was in each others arms and breathing in sync.

Green

Green was the pit. They had run out of things to talk about it seemed. They had listened to all of the mixtapes. He felt sick. He felt like he should turn around. Take Eddie home. It was knowing that they weren’t meant to be.

It was Eddie not telling him he ran out of meds.

It was the color that ate away at them both.

Blue

Blue was the second worst fucking thing to ever happen. Blue was realizing they were lost. Like actually fucking lost. It was breaking down in the bed of his truck while Eddie was asking the cashier where they were.

It was pulling at his hair and sobbing. It was running out of breath from screaming at himself for the green feeling in his stomach.

It was being hopelessly in love with the most beautiful boy in the world, but still not knowing what color was. It was shaking in the cold of night. Because they were apparently up north somewhere.

It was not knowing whether or not they should go home. It was not knowing whether or not Eddie would come out of this alive.

Purple

Was the smiles they gave cashiers. Was the time Eddie spent throwing up in the bathroom. Was not knowing what the fuck was wrong with Eddie because he took too many meds to keep up with that without them the combinations of all of his apparent illnesses was becoming too big a secret to keep.

Purple was Eddie knowing time was almost up.

Purple was the night they had sex in the back of Richie’s truck. It was the soft loving kisses on every inch of the other. It was holding each other. It was scary.

Black

He wasn’t breathing. Eddie wasn’t breathing. It was shaking him until it started raining on Eddie’s t-shirt and Richie was the cloud. It was the deepest pit. It was dialing 911 on a pay phone.

Fate was a bitch who will do anything to get what she wants.

Black was holding him. It was brushing his hair out of his face with a shaking hand. It was telling him how much Richie loved him. It was the smile through his tears.

Black was the worst fucking thing to ever happen.

He set his flashlight aside for a second as he tore at the sticker holding it shut. What was inside pulled his heart apart. ‘Richard Wheeler’. It was a birth certificate. Same date as his own. Same hospital and doctor. Same parents signature. There was a photo. Two baby boys with the same face. One was smiling widely. The other looked confused and filled with wonder. And there were more papers. Something about adoption. But his eyes were too filled with tears to read it. He shakily wiped at his cheeks with the back of his hand putting everything back into the box.

He carried it with him. Taking it to his mother. “What is this.” He asked. His voice quiet but impatient. This had been kept from him for his entire life. He had a brother. Mike Wheeler had a brother.

Karen looked up at her son. He was much taller than her now. “You weren’t supposed to find that.”

“Well I did,” he started, “I- I have a brother? I have a twin?” His chest felt strange. He always had a feeling like something was missing. Even after Eleven came home and Will was found. He still felt like something wasn’t right. Like a part of him wasn’t there.

“We had only planned on having you. Only one boy. So your father and I, we put Richard up for adoption. We couldn’t afford more than two kids at the time. But I loved Richie as soon as I saw him. We named him after my father and you after Ted’s.” she smiled, the memories of Richie's giggle filled her mind. It was a box that hadn’t been opened in 20 years. It was still painful. But she knew she could not have supported Richie as well as Mike and Nancy. “There is not a day that goes by that I don’t miss him.” Her voice came out in a whisper. Laced with years of pain and longing. She also felt a part of her missing.

The silence rang out for what seemed like forever. Mike stared at the photo. He could tell who was who. He didn’t know how, but he just knew. Richie was smiling. Laughing. And Mike was the one watching with wonder and confusion. “Where is he now?” Mike felt a bit of hope tug at the idea that he was still out there. It wasn’t like he was dead. For all he knew, he could be, but that wouldn’t stop Mike. “I don’t know,” Karen spoke. “All communication about him stopped once we signed those papers.” Karen felt all of the feelings she had hidden for years fall out. It came with opening the box. So Mike took his mother in his arms and held her close. But he could only think of one thing. He was going to find this kid.

He was going to find his brother.

Richie Tozier was now 20. Living in New York with Beverly. Both in college, which is something neither of them thought they’d be doing. Richie was studying acting, and Beverly was studying fashion design. They lived in a tiny apartment with tapestries for walls.

Pictures in frames and Polaroid cameras. The losers and past girlfriends. The track team most of them were on, the picture of Mike in his football gear with all of the losers jumping on him in celebration after he won states in his senior year. But there was one photo tucked into the back corner of Richie's bedside table drawer. And Beverly was looking for her hair ties. And she found the picture. Two babies. Same face. One laughing the other not. She turned it over. ‘Michael and Richard Wheeler’.

“Richie!?” She yelled, staring at the picture in confusion.

“What?” He responded, turning down the sound of his clash record playing Should I Stay or Should I Go?

Beverly walked into the living room. “What’s this?” She turned the small photograph so that he could see. The goofy smile that he usually wore fell, but for only a second.

“It’s nothing.” He laughed. Shrugged. And tried to grab the photo from her hands. But she pulled it out of his reach, jumping onto the couch and keeping it in the air.

“You may be an actor, but you can’t lie to me.” She triumphantly bellowed. And soon she found Richie sitting beside her feet with his head in his hand. Beverly sat beside him and pulled him to her side. She didn’t say anything.

“His name is Michael Joseph Wheeler.” He explained, pointing to the one looking at the camera with wonder, a soft smile playing on his lips. “He lives in Hawkins, Indiana. He is 20. And that’s pretty much all I know.” Richie paused before continuing. “And, that’s-” don't do it. “That is Richard Kyle Wheeler- or Tozier now. He was born in Hawkins, Indiana, grew up in Derry, Maine, lives in New York with his best friend, misses the fuck out of his boyfriend, swears too much…” he trailed off. “I never looked for him because why would I? His parents didn't want me, why would he.” Richie turned away and walked into the kitchen. “What do you want on your pizza?” He wanted to act like it wasn’t something that had been burying him alive for 20 years.

But the next thing he felt was the freckled arms of the girl clearly made of fire, wrapping around his waist from behind. And he let it happen. She saw right through him every time. She made everything feel at least okay, and sometimes alright. Because she was always there.

At least he knew someone loved him.

Because Eddie’s lips were too occupied to respond to Richie’s searching cries. And that’s when Richie opened the third taken room. “Oh,” he laughed, “sorry for interrupting,” he giggled again before he realized whose head that was in front of that jocks crotch. He felt his heart fall onto the floor, dust sticking to the blood as it poured out. “Eds?” He said slowly, sobering up, his voice quiet and broken.

And everything froze. The time stopped and the music from downstairs got quiet. Eddie pulled back. The jock actually noticed Richie standing in the doorway. “What the fuck, dude!” He exclaimed, voice deep and dumb. The jock pushed Eddie to the side hoping to convince him he wasn’t gay.

And Richie stepped forward. They could have cut the tension with a knife. “Touch him again and I will rip your fucking skin off.” He threatened, and the meathead left, zipping up his pants.

They stood in silence. Richie not daring to look over at the other boy. “Richie, I can explain.”

“Don’t fucking talk to me with that mouth when you had another dick in your throat.” Richie snapped. He still hadn’t looked at him.

“Richie, please.” The shorter boy was crying.

So was Richie. Everyone always thought that if one of them were going to cheat it would have been Richie. Mr. Dick jokes and daddy issues. Everyone thought the flirty one would stray. “No. Fuck you, Eddie.” Richie walked out of the room. He needed to leave. Sort things out. He needed to sober up.

“Richie wait.” Eddie followed desperately. But Richie was storming off, wiping the tears from his eyes before anyone could see. He was already almost down the stairs. “It was stupid! He came onto me! I’m drunk!” Richie turned around at the bottom of the stairs looking up at him, pain and anger boiling in his eyes.

“So what you bitter piece of fuck?” He bellowed, knuckles turning white in fists by his side. “I’m nasty, lewd, I swear every third fucking word, and I’m a better person than you.” The Trashmouth told Eddie, who was sobbing at the top of the stairs. Everyone was staring at this point, watching as the freaks fought. “Oh, that burns doesn’t it?” Richie painfully laughed. “That a piece of shit like me is more moral and good and fucking pure than you can ever be?” Richie wiped a tear away with a shaking hand. “Go fuck yourself, Kaspbrak.” He whispered, turning away.

And Richie found Beverly a couple of feet away. She pulled him into a hug as he cried into her shoulder. “Let’s go.” She whispered rubbing his back in comfort. She shot a glare at Eddie. It was a look that asked him what he had done.

She lead Richie to his car. She wasn’t exactly sober, but she was in better driving condition than Trashmouth. When he got into the car he broke down sobbing, pulling on the ends of his hair. His throat sounded dry as he screamed at the dashboard, violent sobs ripping through his chest. He tugged on the collar of his shirt and the holes in the knees of his jeans. He felt like he was suffocating.

Beverly watched in horror. She’d never seen Richie in so much pain. She didn’t even know what happened, but she could see it was bad. “Richie,” Beverly said softly, placing a hand on his shoulder. He hit her hand off of him and pulled his head to his chest, scratching at the back of his neck. “Richie!” Bev said again, lightly rubbing circles on his back.

“Why would he do that?” He asked, voice broken and raspy. “I thought he fucking loved me,” Richie continued, “he told me he loved me.” It was the first time anyone told Richie they loved him and meant it. His parents never did. When Eddie told Richie he loved him for the first time he cried. But not as hard as he was crying now.

“I don’t know,” Beverly said, trying to think of something else to say. Something to do. The boy was still falling apart, head in his arms. He was trying to shrink, because the truth was that Richie saw himself as a bug. But Eddie? Eddie was an entire garden. Richie saw himself as nothing compared to Eddie. Eddie was good and clean and kind. And Richie was loud and a piece of shit and he was just so much. “Where do you want to go?” Beverly asked, the fire girl hoping to calm the floods inside of him. “Do you want to get ice cream? Or to your place? Or to the quarry? Or-“

New York City

And Derry, Maine

In the next few days he packed a bag and booked a flight to Maine.

Richard k. Wheeler

Adopted by Wentworth and Margaret Tozier 

Derry, Maine

Names. A place. Holy shit. He was so close. So he took the trip to Derry.

It was June when he found the small town. He felt odd here, like something bad had happened, but he was used to that feeling. It was the same one he got when he walked down Mirkwood. Or anywhere in Hawkins really.

He checked with town hall. A couple people on the street. And a store window. ‘Wentworth Tozier DDS’ in big bold letters. A dentist! That meant Richie was into science right? Maybe? Hopefully. So he went in.

“Richie, I thought you said you would never come back here.” A stern voice spoke. Mike turned to the sound. A tall man, not taller than him, with glasses and short hair.

“Oh, you must be Dr. Tozier. I understand this must be confusing, but my name is Michael Wheeler, I’m looking for your son, Richard.” Mike stuck his hand out for the man to shake. But he only glanced at it.

“Wheeler.” He muttered under his breath. “He’s not here.”

“Do you have any idea where he could be, sir?” He retracted his hand and stuffed it in his pocket awkwardly.

“New york I think, he’s off playing pretend at some fag college.” Mike was taken aback at his statement. Sure he’d heard the word, he’d been called it all his life, but to hear a father talk of his son that way. It wasn’t that unbelievable after he thought about it. There was a reason he wasn’t out. “Look, you seem like a decent kid. Look a helluva lot like Richard, but don’t bother with him.” And that was all he said.

Mike walked out of that office knowing his brother lived like shit with that man. Not even five minutes and he could tell why Richie said he would never come back.

And during that same week in New York, Richie was going to audition after audition. Working late hours. Trying to make enough money to help Bev pay rent. It was all too much. All the stress was being built up and stored away. It felt heavy. Like stones on his shoulders. Beverly noticed the toll it took on the boy. So one night she told him to stop.

“Richie, you motherfucker. We are going to watch all of the fucking Molly Ringwald movies there are, and i'm going to do your makeup, and we are going to relax, okay?” At first he refused, telling her he was fine. But eventually gave in. He couldn't say no to her.

So they watched movies and drank beer, beverly painted his eyelids blue and they laughed when Richie told her that gave a whole new meaning to blue balls. But now they were here, curled up into each other on the floor in front of the couch.

The dust had settled and they were on maybe the third movie when they heard a knock on the door. Bev set aside his beer and stood up. “Pizza!” She cheered. But then everything slowed when she looked through the peephole and saw a far too familiar face. She looked at the back of Richie’s head over her shoulder with a look of pure confusion. And she slowly opened the door.

“Hi, my name is Mike Wheeler, I’m looking for Richard Tozier.” Mike said looking down at the fire girl.

“Um- of course, one sec. R-Richie!” She shouted with a shaky voice over her shoulder. Mike felt his whole world slow down as well, this was it. 20 years. His chest felt heavy, heart beating in his ears so loudly he almost didn’t hear the next words she spoke. “I’m Beverly.” She told Mike.

And Richie showed up beside her, not having looked up at their guest quite yet. And Mike looked him over. Ripped up jeans, an ACDC, tee and an old hawaiian shirt with the buttons falling off; hair in a very messy and loose bun and blue painted eyelids is what stood before him.

“Pizza?” he asked Beverly with a goofy grin before turning his head to see his own face. But hair combed through and shorter, a button up shirt tucked into a pair of light blue pants with nice clean sneakers to pull it all together. He fucking looked like Stanley. “Holy fuck you have my face.” He laughed before realizing what was actually happening. “Holy fuck.” This time the words came out as a whisper.

“Hi, I’m-”

“Mike.” And Richie pulled the boy into a hug. It was tight and full of love. It took a second for Mike to hug back as the embrace was a surprise. But it was also tight, full of everything. Mike felt like his whole world had been taken from him when he found out about Richie. But Richie just assumed he wasn’t wanted. So when Mike showed up at his front door he felt all of it, everything he never felt. He was standing with someone who shared his blood.

They didn’t even notice the flash of Beverly’s polaroid camera. All they cared about was the fact that for the first time in 20 years they were together. How Mike no longer felt empty. Richie was that missing piece.

He was finally here.

Tag list for missing pieces: