Not Sure If You're A Boy or A Girl~ Reddie

Choosing Sides of the Berlin Wall

**TW- SUICIDAL IDEATION TOWARDS THE END AND MENTION OF SEXUAL ABUSE

"This is totally fucked. What the fuck am I supposed to do?"
Beverly hugged Richie. It was a strange, she'd never done that before. Sure, she'd joined in when everyone hugged him in his front lawn after his mother died. But now they were alone. It felt different.
They sat there in his bedroom, only hours after the funeral. Beverly cross legged on his mattress with a depressive Richie clinging to her body. The sky outside had settled into a pitch black, streetlights that illuminated the old paved roads of Derry the only source of light in the cold winter night.
He didn't know who else to call. Eddie had left with his Mother and Richie wasn't even sure if he was ok.
Beverly smelled sweet. Like rose oil and a hint of stale smoke. She was soft like Eddie, but had a firmer grip on him as she ran her delicate hand up and down his back. She assured him it was ok to cry. He did, leaving a puddle of tears on her shirt sleeve.
It felt weird having him hold her. Beverly was never one for touching. He figured that must've been thanks to her Father. He built a wall inside her she was never really comfortable tearing down. But she stepped outside of it for Richie.
He found it funny.
She never really let on she liked him. And he could remember a time the feeling was mutual. He had been too concerned she was stealing his best friend. Not really caring if she had needed a best friend herself. He figured having shitty parents had made him more selfish than he'd like to admit.
He thought of his Father. The man who had stood up to Sonia when it came to Eddie's gender. But then sat by when she slapped his son. Maggie wouldn't have stood for that. His Father had gone from not being there at all to being there physically but not really emotionally.
He said nothing as he drove them home that evening. When they came in the house he'd tossed Richie a bag of frozen peas before making his way to the room he'd shared with his wife.
"The ice will help the swelling, son."
He called as he scurried up the stairs. Like a rat.
And then he'd hurried to the phone. Waiting with an eighth of the patience he would have on a normal day for a voice on the other line. After what seemed like hours, the only other person who had an inkling of what was going on in his mind picked up her phone.
"How soon can you get here?"
His room was blurry through his eyes. The tears and consequential fog too much for his thick glasses. The lack there of made it easier to nuzzle his face in between Beverly's neck and shoulders anyway. He felt like a wounded animal.
Beverly's fingers made their way to the jet black locks on his head, long nails dragging across his scalp. She hushed him as he tried to keep the strangled sobs inside his chest.
"Rich, you're gonna be ok. Eddie's gonna be ok."
The fiery headed girl was not sure if she was lying then. She hoped not. She was worried for her other friend, but Richie had called. He had opened up his vulnerable soul to her and she secretly loved it. There was something about picking up someone else's shattered pieces that made it easier to ignore whatever was going on in her own head. She could fool herself that this was ok. Richie needed help, she did not. The trick is it only works if you're in the middle of the insanity.
The sweet head high of crisis.
"I need to go to him. I need to make it right before she kills him."
Richie sniffled, the top of his nose pink in irritation.
"Eddie is strong. He will be ok. If you show up it'll only make things worse."
There she goes again. A hope more so than the truth.
Richie peered up at her through heavy dark lashes. It was unsettling to see him so raw.
Like watching her Father cry in the few sober moments he had.
She shook her head, pushing the pesky curls from Richie's eyes.
"You're so pretty when you cry."
The words fell from her mouth, an involuntary action. Like vomit.
There was a flash of something in Richie's face. Beverly's statement dripping onto his comforter.
"You're pretty too, Bev. Pretty and kind."
His voice cracked as the air in the room seemed to change. He thought of a weathervane whipping in a new direction. North to south.
Her hand traveled down to his chin. And the wall she'd carefully constructed around herself started to crumble. Brick falling after brick.
Beverly's mind wandered to the feeling of Richie's lips. Would a kiss be nervous and chaste like Bill Denburrough. Or rough and unforgiving like her Father.
She spidered her fingers over his chest, letting them press down gently. She could feel the thud of his heart. Somewhere, in the back of her head she knew it was wrong. She was dancing the line between platonic and not so. There is no worse crime for a friend. Second only to outing Eddie to the entire backwards town.
It wasn't like she'd never thought of kissing Richie before. Being with him. How couldn't she? Over the years she'd known him, the boy had grown into himself. Trading in a messy bowl cut for a mop of Jim Morrison-esk hair. Toothy grins for crooked smiles.And the love he had for Eddie. She wanted that love.
There was a light tap on the window across the room. It started small before growing hungrily. The two snapped from their trance, looking across to see Eddie's face the glass.
"Eds?"
Richie spoke, relief and a slight disappointment bleeding into his tone.
Beverly shook away from the tall boy, affirming she would never know how their kiss would be.
She forced open the window, allowing her friend to crawl through the small opening. His face was smattered in all shades of green and purple. One eye was swelling shut. Sweat hung from his bangs travelling down to his brow.
Richie was quick to cling to his boyfriend. Guilt stinging in his cheeks.
"Oh god, Eddie. I wanted to go to you, but I was scared it'd make thing worse. I called Bev. I didn't know who else to go to. What did she do to you. Are you ok. Do you need your inhaler?"
He flew to the other side of the room, searching for the spare inhaler he kept in his jacket. His mouth moved a mile a second, too fast to be interrupted.
Eddie all but collapsed on the taller boy's bed. His chest was tight. There was not enough air in the room.
Richie rushed to his side, trusty aspirator in hand. The smaller boy took it, gratefully.
Beverly leaned up against the wall, a shirtless Freddie Mercury deep throating a mic behind her. She could feel tears well up her eyes at the thought of what could've happened if Eddie had arrived just a minute later. She pushed the feeling down, grabbing the pack of Marlboro's on Richie's desk. Nicotine surged through her vessels as an opaque cloud of smoke left her lips.
I was not about to kiss Richie Trashmouth Tozier. I was not about to betray my best friend.
The mantra swirled around her head.
"What happened, Eddie?"
She guided the conversation, eyes looking anywhere but his.
"She threw me around a bit," he shrugged as if he had just informed them the Kaspbrak house had switched from name brand to cheap generic paper towels, "tried to force some antipsychotics down my throat. I fought back. She locked me in my room and well," his hands spread out wide in front of him, "here I am."
"Fuck, Eds," Richie breathes, taking a seat next to him, "you came back."
"I told you I would. I'll keep coming back until she gives in or I turn eighteen."
Eddie plastered a smile to his mouth. He tried to ignore the dread knotting his stomach, wondering what life would've been like if his Father hadn't died. If his Mother hadn't lost her mind when he was a child. Would he be looking at college? Instead of trying to figure out how to make up for the time he'd lost in school.
What would life be like if his Mother could accept him for who he was. He'd like to think his Father would be on his side. Talk to Sonia rationally. Maybe introduce the white lie that this was a phase so he could finish school and move to New York. The land of Misfits. Or maybe his Father would be just as disappointed. Try and beat the freak out of him the way Sonia had, but harder.
No, he would've kept living in the closet. Getting married to some upstanding accountant and having kids. A boy and a girl, he would raise in church. And slowly the depression would build inside him. Boil over one night as he slit his wrists in the claw foot tub of his Victorian styled bathroom. Cursing his parents as he took his last breath with no Richie to save him. He figured, in the end, it would've been a wash.