𝒎𝒂𝒚𝒃𝒆 • 𝒓𝒆𝒅𝒅𝒊𝒆

* waiting *

Listen.

Richie Tozier was a lot of things. He was impulsive, he was hyperactive, he was "incorrigible" (according to his mother), he was "obnoxious" (according to most everyone). He was a genius when it came to academics, always at the top of his classes without even trying. He was, however, a complete moron when it came to other people, forever saying the wrong thing and never knowing when to shut his damn mouth. He was creative, he was (at least in his own mind) funny. He was skilled at impressions but he was awful at singing, and he was the best cook he knew.

Richie Tozier was a lot of things, but he was nothing if not persistent. Some (his mother) would argue that this was because he had an incurable stubborn streak, and always had. Others (Stan) would insist that it was simply because he never knew when to quit. Richie, however, liked to think it was part of his charm. He wasn't "stubborn" - he was determined. He didn't "have a one-track mind" -  he was dedicated to the things he was passionate about, and would stop at nothing to realise his dreams.

Which was why he was standing below 307's window for the third time in five days.

He hadn't left his apartment at all for two days after 307 had failed to come outside - not even for class. He'd lied on the floor or on his bed or on his couch, staring at the ceiling and wondering what the hell was wrong with him (Stan always had told him he was the biggest drama queen). He felt like he'd been dumped; like he'd been soundly and thoroughly rejected. Which made no sense. He didn't even know the person. Nothing in his life had changed. So why did he feel as though he'd lost something precious?

It had taken him a while to understand: it was because he had lost something. The realization came with a bit of a start, at around two in the morning the third night. He'd lost an opportunity. For years now, he'd been looking up at the person in the window nearly every night, wondering who it could be. And now that he'd finally had a chance to find out, he'd messed it up. For some reason or another, 307 hadn't come out to meet him. Richie didn't know if he'd done something wrong, or if 307 just wasn't interested. All he knew was that he'd lost his first chance in ages to do something, to start something.

But he wouldn't give up so easily.

That third night, he'd flung himself from his bed and practically sprinted across his apartment. He was out in the hall in a heartbeat, and he'd stood there, heart pounding, staring at the outside of 307's door. He'd wondered if he should knock; if he should invite 307 in person. That might be more effective, wouldn't it? But then, he didn't want 307 to feel pressured to join him.

In the end, he'd shaken his head and left the door behind. Once outside, he'd stood in view of the window. The light was on. The silhouette was there. Richie's heart leapt into his throat as he lifted an arm to wave.

Then he'd waited. He'd waited for what had felt like an hour but, when he'd checked his watch, had turned out to be fifteen minutes. The silhouette didn't move. Richie had given a last longing glance, then turned, dejected, and walked away.

Had he known how close the boy in the window had been to getting up, Richie might have waited just a bit longer.

***

Eddie had always been an anxious person. He was anxious about germs and about meeting new people and about leaving the house without his inhaler. He almost always checked that he'd locked the door at least three times before going anywhere (up to ten if it was a particularly bad day). It took him ages - ages - to work up the nerve to try anything new. Every time he tried to do something that anyone else could do with no problems - talk to a stranger, or order something new from a restaurant, or go to a different restaurant entirely - his heart tried to escape from his chest and his body started trembling all over and he had to scramble frantically for his inhaler to calm his rasping breaths.