Lover | Richie Tozier

Chapter 10.

"Holy shit! It's in his eyes! His eyes!" Richie narrated loudly, pushing the pharmacy door open with his back.

The three boys guided Stan inside while deep-red rivers trickled onto his blue shirt, staining it for certain. There was no way Mrs. Uris would be able to scrub that out, no matter how many cups of cold water she used.

"Rih-Richie, you go a-and get the suh-suh- damnit!" Bill tried instructing, growing increasingly frustrated with the way his stutter blocked him from doing so quickly. Of course, Richie had already known what he was going to say. It's easy to pick up on Bill's sentences (or lack thereof) after knowing him for a while. Richie stammered on his feet into every isle before he found one that held products that looked a little like first aid supplies. Truthfully, he didn't really know what he was looking for. He'd lived with the split skin on his knuckles and cheekbones without ever doing anything about it but running some water over them. He picked at some gauze, read the package, and prepared to stuff it into his shirt when a small voice interrupted him.

"Do you even know what you're doing?" It sassed. Richie looked down. "That's a gauze wrap. You need the pads."

He was met with the deep marbles of Eddie Kaspbrak's eyes, staring up at him with 'know-it-all' scripted evocatively all over his face.

Eddie had seen the boys stumbling in with their friend, frantically wiping streams of blood from his face with the sleeves of one of their shirts (Eddie recognizes that the shirt belongs to the one with a stutter; Stuttering Bill, as they called him) and felt inclined to help. He hadn't gone years of reading health encyclopedias under his quilt with a flashlight during late hours of the night for nothing. This was his element, just as Richie's was comedy, and Stan's was birdwatching.

"English," Richie replied, unsure of what he meant.

"Right," Eddie collected himself, ready to dumb down his sentences. "The wrap-around gauze is no good unless your little friend over there plans on looking like a mummy for the next week or so, while the gauze pads can be soaked with some disinfected and discarded so you can place a bandage on him."

Richie still didn't know exactly what he meant, but he listened anyways, swapping the wrap out for the pads. When he went to tuck it in his pocket, Eddie stopped him again.

"You're stealing that?" His eyes expanded larger than the unseen planets orbiting above them, gleaming in disbelief. This was unfamiliar territory for his innocent ways.

Richie placed it in his pocket. "Yes, I'm not paying for this shit." Correction: I don't have the money to pay for this shit. Otherwise, I would.

Eddie knew he couldn't place it on his account. If his mom had gotten the bill and found out he bought all of this stuff for himself, he would spend the next week in the emergency room getting thoroughly X-Rayed.

Richie followed Eddie around the rest of the way like a lost puppy dog, occasionally using Eddies fanny pack to store more than his thin cardigan could hold.

"Oh fuck, oh shit, I don't like this," Eddie repented each time Richie placed a new item inside. Every time he had to be reminded of whether this was right or wrong, he'd glance back at Stan, and blood taking the place of tears would make things make sense again.

Eddie distracted Mr. Keene as the boys made a sweet escape and guided Stan — Eddie had now learned his name — to an alleyway beside the store. He met them there, taking his bifocals out of one of the two fannypacks that he carried with him and began surveying the area.

The wound was bad. Not as bad as it could've been, Eddie informed, but bad. A tight grimace pulled on the ends of his mouth as he tapped Stans wounds with the gauze.

"Get in there, Dr. K," Richie cracked, dipping his words in the best faux-British accent he could pull off. Bill shoved him. "N-not now. Shh-shut up, Rih-Richie."

"Yeah, shut up Richie." Stan winced, holding his hair back so Eddie could do the work he was designed to do. The boy payed no mind to the dispute going on around him.

"Right." Richie's voice dropped to the ground underneath him and echoed off of the cement. He flinched back for a few seconds, "Sorry."

There was no response to his apology. The boys fell quiet, watching as Eddie tediously and miraculously patched up the rock-wound. For such small hands, they moved at a pace that seemed God-like.

When Richie was certain that he might as well run down the ally, never to be seen again and left to bother someone else, Stan began laughing. The sound took all of them by surprise, and Bill even jumped back an inch or two like he'd just witnessed an explosion in front his very own eyes.

"What are you laughing at?" Mike pulled a look of concern onto his face, secretly worried Stan might've acquired brain damage or something. It was possible, he figured.

"Jesus fuck. I must've hit a nerve. He's gone braindead, guys." 

"WW-hy are you laughing?"

"I'm not braindead, you dipshit. It's just funny," Stan continued, his lungs growing heavier and heavier with each new gasp for air. The 5 boys standing around him only communicated with the perplexing looks in their eyes.

"Is he having a seizure?" Mike asked, completely impartial to whether the inquisition was serious or not.

Richie wanted to laugh, but he didn't allow himself to. Not if there was something really wrong. It would make him look like more of an asshole than stealing in front of Elle did. He swallowed the coarse remark he felt arising in his throat, not wanting to worsen the situation he had already caused.

Stans head tipped back and his chin lifted, aiding him in the perfect execution of his laughter. "This fucker let go! He let go! What kind of dumbass does that? You missed, by the way," he jested. Still, the other boys didn't know if it was okay for them to laugh.

Unable to keep it planted on his tongue for much longer, Richie's lips spaced and his composed laughter flew out. It twirled in the dark air with the rasp his voice usually held. In response to this, Bill joined in. Then, it was Mike. And finally, even though he wasn't sure if it was his place to do so, Eddie did.

After they all rode in on a wave of giggles and gasps, Stans laughter eventually died down and brought the rest of theirs with it. The world slowed in the silence, like their laughter was the only thing keeping it spinning on its axis.  "I'm sorry, by the way." He finally looked into the familiar pair of glasses standing beside him. The glistening of the fresh wound on his forehead reminded Richie a lot of his own. "I didn't mean it."

Richie's thick eyebrow furrowed, asking what he meant with a simple glance.

"I didn't mean to make it seem like you mess everything up or you're a fuckup or something. I was just... I was just in the moment. It hurt a fuckton but... I don't know. I'd never actually say something like that," Stan explained with as much genuineness as he had the energy to find right now. He closed his left eye while he fused gazes with him.

"I understand." Richie cleaned his glasses, shrugging. The way the moonlight ran its beams through his curls turned them a shade of royal-purple rather than their usual cold charcoal. "I guess if you hit me in the head with a rock I'd be pretty ticked, too."

Eddie pulled himself up and balanced his weight on his legs again, ready to walk away. "I've gotta get home, I'm running late. Keep that clean. I'm serious," he instructed dominantly. "If you don't, you'll probably get like... herpes. I don't know. Just keep it clean."

"Hey, wuh-wait," Bill grabbed his shoulder, momentarily alarming him. He loosened his grip on the small germaphobe. As his hold relaxed, so did Eddie. "Thuh-Thanks. So much. Hope to see you around."

Eddie smiled shyly. "No problem."

As he turned his back to them, for the first time in a long time, possibly even ever, he felt completely satisfied with the interaction between himself and these 4 strangers. He even thought for a moment that maybe if he wasn't so weird, maybe, they'd even be his friends.