Chapter Text
The first thing Eddie noticed about LA was how blocky the buildings were; they were an assortment of rectangles and horizontal cubes, a stark contrast to the towering skyscrapers and apartments he’d come to know in New York. The second, he remarked as his Uber driver turned up the radio, was the staggering number of donut spots lining the roads. He could’ve sworn he’d seen at least one, if not two, by the time they reached each corner. He half-heartedly considered asking the Uber driver which one was the best.
“Eddie, dear, have those awful friends of yours been feeding you junk? Do you know what all that stuff will do to you? Gluten, fats, chemicals, deep fried crap! I mean, look at that pig Ben Hanscom. All that fatty, disgusting trash he stuffs in his mouth is eating away at his liver, and he’ll get liver failure by twenty. The chemicals they put in processed food will give you cancer! Do you want to die, Eddie? You want to die young and leave your mother all alone, don’t you! What have you been eating when I’m not there?! Don’t lie to me, Eddie-Bear! I’m your mother, I can tell. What have they been feeding you?!-”
“Eddie, honey, what did they have for breakfast at the meeting? You said they were giving you a complimentary breakfast. I don’t believe that you don’t remember, it was just this morning! You don’t think I’m tired, too? I bet you’re crashing from all the crap you crammed in your mouth for breakfast. Did they get it from that place your boss likes? Let me guess, bagels, donuts, pastries. Eddie-bear, you know your blood sugar can’t take all those carbs! You’re crashing. I offered to make you breakfast, I told you it’d be better for you, but you said you didn’t want it. You don’t care about anything I do or say if it’s not what you want, and it’s so selfish. I didn’t marry a selfish man. I just want to take care of you. Is that a crime? I’m your wife, I know what you need. I know better than you do.”
Eddie shuddered and thought about butter, sugar, and boiling noxious oil. He examined the upcoming donut shop, a somewhat shabby, hole-in-the-wall place. He tried desperately not to wonder how many health code violations they had in their kitchen alone. He ran a hand through his hair and squeezed his eyes shut. The Uber driver peered at him through the mirror and turned down the radio.
“Are you alright, man?”
“Fine, fine.” Eddie reassured, opening his eyes and offering him an attempt at a smile. It was toothy and stretched too thin, like a cornered animal baring its teeth in warning.
“You sure? You look..” The driver took a hand off the wheel, turned to Eddie in the backseat, ( There is an 8% chance of dying from a car crash caused by a distracted driver. ), and gestured at where he was clinging onto the car seat, digging his nails into the leather. Eddie quickly let go and hurriedly stuffed his hands in his jacket pockets.
“Sorry.”
“You get motion sickness? It’s fine if you’re motion sick, I keep a puke bag. I have ever since this one time I was driving a group of girls home from a bar and they were wasted, like white girl wasted , and I took too sharp a turn and- well…let’s just say I spent the next few hours going through a thing of clorox wipes and praying.”
Ew. Oh my god.
Eddie fought the urge to gag and shook his head.
“I’m fine! Thanks!”
“Alright.” The driver shrugged and turned back to the road, shooting another wary glance at Eddie before turning the radio back up.
Eddie took a deep breath, bouncing his leg and hoping it didn’t cause any noticeable shaking. He looked out the window again, hoping there was enough there to safely distract him from the series of insane, impulsive decisions that had gotten him to this uber rattling over the copious speed bumps on a boulevard in LA. He was met with a sea of beige buildings and half-dead lawns, interrupted by the occasional green house or cactus. Why anyone would attempt to keep grass in their picturesque little lawn in what was essentially a desert was a mystery to him. Yet house after beige house had a grassy lawn. It looked like someone's memories of American Suburbia, but void of its superficial charms and plastic glow. Upon further inspection of the many beige buildings they passed, Eddie noticed a third thing about LA. It had a lot of very small, very ugly churches.
He was not a religious man, but he’d been raised Methodist. His mother brought him to church every Sunday until around the time he was five. She’d decided that the priest was “a filthy man” and that Eddie had an allergy to the roses outside the church and would die if he stepped closer than ten feet away from them. He hardly remembered church and never really believed in its teachings, but he did recall feeling a sense of excitement every Sunday morning. Derry was a shitty little town, but its church was neither shitty nor small. It was beautiful in the way only old things could be. He remembered sitting in the pews, mesmerized by the stained glass windows while his mother prayed beside him.
Of the maybe five churches he’d seen already, none of them had any stained glass windows. He wondered why there were so many of them. Unless you’re crazy devout, a large part of the reason you go to a church is to admire its beauty, and LA did not strike him as having a particularly high concentration of devout Christians.
“So what brings you to LA?” The driver asked, gently snapping Eddie out of his stupor.
“Uh…visiting a friend? I guess.”
“Must be staying with them for a while.”
Eddie’s face dropped. It took everything in him not to smack a palm over his forehead like a cartoon character. ‘Visiting a friend’ is not a believable explanation for the backpack, messenger bag, and carry-on strapped in the backseat next to him, or the two suitcases (one large, one small) and duffle bag in the backseat.
What the fuck was he supposed to say?
I’m having a midlife crisis and I’m leaving my wife because I’m gay and I only managed to accept that I’m gay after I realized I’m gay because fighting an evil killer clown demon thing with my childhood best friends in my shitty hometown and getting skewered like an Eddie-Kebab forced me to confront all my repressed shit and made me realize I’ve never chosen anything for myself in my entire life and I’ve denied or been denied what I want and I’ve just been existing not living and I’m too much of a coward to face my wife/ex-wife when she finds the divorce papers on the dining room table and I had to get the fuck out of dodge and I couldn’t think of anywhere to go or anyone else to be with but fucking celebrity comic Richie Tozier but my phone didn’t work on the flight and then it died because of course the one thing I forgot was my charger so he doesn’t even know I’m here and I don’t actually know where he lives except that it’s on Belfast Drive in West Hollywood because he mentioned it while I was in the Bangor hospital after getting stabbed. And oh, yeah! The aforementioned Richie Tozier? I’m in love with him, and I only remembered who he is a month ago.
“Yup.” Eddie smiled tightly.
“You sure you don’t want me to drop you at a specific building? It just says Belfast Drive here.”
“No, that’s perfect.”
“You have a lot of shit, though. You really want to lug all of it to wherever you're going? It’s really no problem-”
“I said it’s perfect! If I wanted a specific address, I would’ve given it to you! I’m a grown ass man, I know what I need.”
“Jesus. I hope your friend gives you a fucking Xanax or something. I was just trying to help, man.”
“You’re not getting a good fucking rating. Do you know how unprofessional that is?! No, really- how fucking dare you! You don’t-”
Eddie trailed off at the flash of red in his periphery.
He jerked his head around to face it, sharp phantom pains bringing a hand to his chest.
It was a flag, a rainbow pride flag waving in the soft breeze.
He took a shuddery breath and watched as a short man in a thin tank top and an athletic man in a tight blue t-shirt crossed the street holding hands. It was cruel irony at its finest. Like the universe was throwing in his face exactly why he was here, and what he’s been denied his entire life.
“West Hollywood is a very queer place.” The Uber driver said pointedly. He was staring daggers at Eddie, who was grimacing at a random gay couple.
“Oh.” Eddie said stupidly, because he didn’t know what else to say.
An icy, uncomfortable silence fell over the car. The Uber driver’s friendly demeanor was replaced with a stony anger. Eddie fidgeted, tapping his fingers on his lap.
After a couple of minutes, the driver pulled up to the corner of Belfast Drive and turned around again.
“We’re here.”
Eddie nodded and scrambled to remove his luggage. He’d abandoned the meticulous and careful method he’d usually approach the task with in lieu of getting out of the Uber as soon as possible. He haphazardly threw two bags over his shoulder before struggling to get his suitcases out of the trunk. The bags he was holding slipped, tangling up and tipping his suitcase. The driver didn’t move a muscle, watching him coolly from his seat to make sure he didn’t damage the car. Once Eddie got his bags out, he shut the trunk as carefully as possible. He checked the backseat once over for anything he forgot, a safety measure he wasn’t willing to forego in his rush.
“I hope your friend helps you with your baggage .”
The double entendre is not lost on Eddie. As he shut the side door, he could’ve sworn he heard the driver mutter.
“ Fucking closet case. ”
Eddie struggled to roll his suitcases (with his duffle bag balanced on top and his other bags slung across both shoulders) further down the sidewalk as the driver pulled away and drove off.
He’d never been called a closet case before. It was an accurate assessment, true, but his tone of voice was eerily similar to the ones he’d grown up hearing.
Faggot, sissy, girly-boy, fairy . I’m going to fucking kill you faggot, you and all your flamer friends.
Eddie made it halfway down the block before he remembered he had no fucking clue where he was going.
He surveyed the homes lining the block, hoping to find one that so obviously belonged to Richie Tozier so his journey could come to an end.
He was shit out of luck. The block was a sea of beige and green houses and somewhat decrepit lawns, unable to withstand the direct sun.
Okay. This does not bode well. The buzzing, frantic anxiety Eddie had managed to mostly repress the drive to the airport, and the flight to LA was beginning to rise in his chest. The reality of his insane decisions was nipping at his heels. What the fuck was he doing?? He scrambled in his pocket for his inhaler before remembering he’d thrown it out at the airport as an impulsive act of defiance. Fuck . He didn’t need his inhaler; it was just water and camphor, one of his Mother’s many placebos she used to keep him permanently frightened and malleable. Eddie tried to take a breath.
This is not an asthma attack. This is a panic attack. Or an anxiety attack. Something like that. There is a 0% chance of dying from a panic attack.
He tried to take another breath, trying desperately to remember the breathing exercise he’d found on a late-night doom scroll. In for 5? Or was it 7? Fuck. He rubbed his hands together in circles over and over. He looked up the block again. He considered the pros and cons of screaming until Richie came out to see what was happening. There was a good chance he’d be arrested for disrupting the peace or something. Maybe not a good chance. But a chance, nonetheless. Plus, Richie might not be home. Then it’d be a complete dead end, and he’d look even crazier. Standing in the middle of the block, carrying his life in a couple of bags and having a panic attack was still less bad than standing in the middle of the block, carrying his life in a couple of bags, having a panic attack, and screaming at the top of his lungs. The screaming probably wouldn't even be that loud. He was starting to feel lightheaded. He probably wouldn’t be able to scream.
As a kid, he screamed a lot, but he got quieter and quieter as he grew. After moving away from Derry at age 16, it was as if he lost the ability completely. As a kid, he’d kick and scream when his Mother tried to feed him yet another mysterious pill. He’d run out of the house when her endless ranting and yelling ( You ungrateful little shit! Why won’t you let me love you?! You’re breaking my heart, Eddie-Bear! After everything I’ve done for you- ) became too much to bear. After they moved from Derry, it was like he lost the ability. Maybe it was IT’s magic, in the process of forgetting everything that had happened in Derry, he’d forgotten how to fight. Or maybe it was the aching hole left in the absence of friends he couldn’t remember, friends who’d shown him that life was more than enduring the horrors at home. Maybe time had simply worn him down. After years and years of relentless- of enduring he’d just given up and accepted it. In their house in Queens, he let her give him whatever medicine she pleased and didn’t say a word. When she flew into a rage and the house was filled with her screaming, his mouth would stay tightly closed, and his eyes would glaze over. He didn’t remember those years very well. In the same house in Queens with Myra, he continued enduring and accepting and staying quiet as years of repressed anger festered inside of him like a nasty infection. He denied himself and accepted as his eyes glazed over once more. Let me kiss you? Doesn’t that feel good? Marry me?
When he’d returned to Derry filled with the same fear that silenced him, he screamed yet again. And fought. And ran. He screamed as he witnessed unending gruesome horrors. He screamed as his body was tossed and maimed. He screamed as fear consumed him. He looked death in the eye and still ran forward to save the man he loved. And yet, treading the line between life and death, delirious from blood loss and going in and out of consciousness, he remembered mumbling over and over
“Please don’t let them tell Myra. Please don’t let them tell Myra. Please don’t let them tell Myra.”
Why did it always come back to her? To them ?
Despite himself, sobs racked his body. It was an ugly, pitiful noise. Air coming out of him in short, strangled gasps and wheezes. His cries were closer to dry heaves, tears stuck in his eyes. His chest contracted painfully. He shook violently like he was covered in ice.
“Eddie?” He heard faintly, coming from up the sidewalk. He snapped his head up.
Oh fuck.
“Eddie?!” Richie was running up the block, a plastic bag in his hand.
I look fucking crazy. Fuck. It wasn’t supposed to go like this.
“Eds…” Richie was standing in front of him now, wearing a baggy faded Radiohead t-shirt and army green cargo shorts.
Eddie opened his mouth to respond and wheezed loudly. Richie’s eyes went wide.
“Hey, hey hey-” He went to pull Eddie into a hug before jumping back. “Shit! Sorry, I forgot. You don’t like that.”
Eddie did not like to be hugged most of the time. Sometimes, with enough warning, he could tolerate it. It didn’t matter who you were. Even if was one of the losers, it made him feel trapped, suffocated, and claustrophobic. Still, he felt a twinge in his chest. He wanted Richie’s touch. He wanted the comfort it brought him when they were kids, tussling and clinging to each other.
“You’re having a panic attack, right?” Richie asked frantically, shaking his hands in the air. “Jesus Christ. That was a dumbass question.” He laughed weakly.
Eddie’s lip twitched, approaching a small smile. He could feel himself beginning to calm down at the sound of Richie’s voice. He took a breath. Richie nodded.
“Yeah! Breathing. That's good. You’re doing good, Eds.” He pulled his phone out of his pocket. After a moment of typing, he turned it off and clumsily shoved it back. “Can you tell me five things you can see? It can be anything.”
Eddie raised his eyebrows but nodded slowly. He took another raspy breath.
“Um.. I see you, I see my- fuck - my shit…uh”
“You got this.” Richie said warmly, his voice laced with concern.
“I see a white house, I see dead grass, and I see the sidewalk.”
“Good. Now, can you do four things you can feel? Physically.”
Eddie paused, taking a steadier breath.
“I can feel my bags, I can feel the ground under my feet, I can feel..uhm. I can feel my clothes.” He hesitated, then awkwardly put his head on Richie’s shoulder, the bags around his shoulder slipping and beginning to fall off. Richie’s eyes widened and stiffened before carefully putting an arm around Eddie’s shoulders. “I can feel you.”
“Three things you can hear.” Richie’s voice sounded a little strained. Like he was trying to move as little as possible.
“Your voice, my breathing, and some kind of bird, I don’t know what kind, Stan would.”
Richie chuckled.
“Now, two things you can smell.”
“What??”
“Just do it.”
Eddie let out a short, breathy laugh.
“Uhm..some kind of flowery smell, probably from one of the yards, and your fucking B.O.”
Richie laughed.
“Okay, fuck you.”
Eddie smiled. His breathing was mostly steady.
“Is that it?”
“Shit, sorry, no. Uhh, wait. Touch, hearing, sight- oh! One thing you can taste.”
Eddie frowned and pressed his tongue to the roof of his mouth.
“The minty gum I was chewing on the plane.”
Richie examined him a moment before stiffly removing his arm from his shoulders. Eddie furrowed his brow slightly before straightening up and fixing his bags.
“You feeling better?”
“Yeah. Thanks, Richie.”
Richie gave him a strange look, somewhere between concern, confusion, resentment, and fondness. After a moment, both of them began to speak.
“Sorry for just showing-”
“So we should get this inside-”
Richie put the duffle bag around his shoulders and grabbed the handle of the larger suitcase.
“We can talk later.”
Eddie nodded, sheepishly gathering the rest of his things and following Richie up the block to his house.