Chapter Text
In an endless space outside of the universe, a turtle floated listlessly. This turtle, as well as the space it was floating in, had only been glimpsed by a handful of people throughout human history. Seven of these people had been children during the summer of 1989 when they first saw Maturin, and they had forgotten him upon waking.
These children, apart from the one who stayed behind, forgot a lot of things about what happened in the summer of 1989. They forgot a lot of things about Derry in general, as well as large chunks of their childhood: years later, when asked, they tried skirting around the question - who, after all, remembered their childhood friends? The places they went, the things they did? It was perfectly normal, surely. And if it wasn’t, none of them advertised the fact that they remembered very little about
(derry)
their childhoods. The gap - for it was a gap - fit into their minds comfortably, as much as a gap can be comfortable. It was a gap that had been placed there, carefully crafted, so none of them poked around it very much. Sometimes this gap, and the invisible things that filled it would make them moan in their sleep, or sob, or cry out, but this was forgotten upon waking. When people asked them the next day what their dreams were about, none of them could come up with an answer. They would say they didn’t know, and they would mean it.
Years after the events of that summer, another summer bloomed. It was two years after the millennium. Y2K was an old worry to laugh and nudge each other over. Cellphones were thick and chunky, with tiny screens. American airports were on high alert after what had happened to the World Trade Buildings the year before and everyone still traded excited, mournful stories of Where They Were When.
In the endless space outside the universe, Maturin watched the summer unfold. It was hot, as summers tended to be. It was cooler for some, depending on where in the country they were. For instance, two of the
(losers)
previously-Derry dwellers were in New York, and did not always have to stick to the shade when they went out walking. Another lived in LA, and he survived solely by ducking from one air-conditioned place to the next.
On the day things were set into motion for a second time, only one of them was filled with the appropriate amount of dread. Mike Hanlon had put a lot of thought into what he was about to do, and he was pretty sure he was going to go through with it. Not in the next hour, or maybe two - but soon. Definitely today. Because these things couldn’t be put off, not with deaths piling up like they were.
It was too soon. He knew this, he knew it in his bones - it had been 13 years, not 27, as it had been for centuries and possibly millenia before that - but he also knew that nothing else made sense. He touched the photo he’d found as he walked away from the yellow tape around the last crime scene - the photo of Georgie, water-damaged, but otherwise showing no signs of any time having passed.
He sat down at his desk, went over the phone numbers. They were written down carefully, but hard enough to puncture the paper at some parts. He ran his fingers over the neat letters and numbers and smiled to himself: he didn’t want to drag them back into it, he wanted desperately to leave them alone, but - god, he’d missed them all so much.
His grandfather coughed, then, and Mike looked back over his shoulder, asked if he was okay. Granddad said yes, and Mike turned back to the paper, to the phone.
Soon, he promised, dread and yearning mixing into a chokehold around his throat.
A few states over, Stanley Uris was reading a book. It was an old book, he’d read it before, but he liked to read it every few years to see if he could gleam anything new. Often, he could . He interpreted this book very differently to how he had in college, though he’d only graduated a few years ago. People changed fast, he figured, though deep down he feared
(the deadlights)
that he was always the same person if he scratched hard enough at the surface. The paint would give and there he’d be, still the same after all these years, for better or worse. Next to him, on her favourite spot on the couch, his wife of one year curled up with a crossword. Patricia Uris was deeply immersed in it, and Stan often glanced over to watch her face: the deepening curve of her brow, the not-yet wrinkles. Marrying her at 22 had gotten them many raised eyebrows, but he was sure they wouldn’t regret it.
In five hours, Stan would be trying to dig a trembling blade deeper into his arm while his wife beat at the bathroom door. But at that moment, he watched her frown and thought about the coming years, those wrinkles forming properly and nestling in the lovely corners of her face.
Another few states over, Bill Denbrough put his head in his hands. He lowered those hands-and-head down to his laptop and beat them as hard as he could without damaging the keys, which was quite hard, since laptops were sturdier back then. Then he sighed and lifted his head out of his hands.
It was times like these when he regretted not leaving a better impression on anybody in college. He’d scoffed at the notion of networking, claiming that his work should be able to stand up on its own - and now he’s a small-time writer with one short story published and no connections to speak of. He’d romanticized the idea of the starving artist in college, back when his parents were supporting him, but now it was solid, it was around him, and he missed being able to eat vegetables that weren’t out of a can. He’d had about enough of slimy, canned asparagus and beets.
He sighed, getting up from his desk and stretching his arms over his head. He’d had a dream last night, something that made him wake up panting, and he’d been trying to coax it out of himself for story fodder. But try as he might, he couldn’t work it out of his brain. It stayed in the shadows, out of reach, no matter how hard Bill scraped around for it. The only thing he could remember about it was rain, and an impending sense of dread, nameless but
(you always call boats she thanks bill she)
so powerful it cinched his throat right up. He had to clear his throat once, twice, before he could pour himself a glass of water and drink it.
Ben Hascom was running. He did this every morning, and every evening, before breakfast and before dinner, when he came home from work. This, now, was his after-work run. He did it because it gave him time to think about what he’d done at work, what he could improve about his designs, how he could design buildings in a way that was both tame and still interesting to him. But mostly, Ben ran because he was terrified of being
(you disgust me and you disgust them as well)
fat again.
Ben didn’t think much about this fear. It would be like thinking about having hands - so normal it would be strange to put much thought into it. The fear had been in him since he’d started to lose the weight he’d been accumulating his whole life, at which point gaining a pound back seemed like the worst thing that could happen to him. So he’d kept slowly and steadily losing weight, and not put any back on, and now he was at a weight doctors actually deemed healthy. He’d hit this point last year, and he’d been more happy than he’d allowed himself to show people - all his progress had been worth it, finally.
Now, Ben Hascom was working on both losing fat and gaining muscle. It had been a pipe dream back when he was a kid, getting muscles. He’d watched superheroes on Saturday morning cartoons and hadn’t even entertained the idea that he might have muscles. Now, though, he was getting weight lifting sessions in the morning, right after he came back from his run.
Ben hummed the tune of a pop song he’d heard on the radio as he ran. He didn’t know the name, but he liked the tune and the lyrics were catchy. He hummed this as he ran, and mumbled some of the lyrics - something about a girl and her beautiful hair, which he liked. He kept humming, both because he liked the tune and also because sometimes when he ran, he got the feeling that he was running away from something, and however many glances he shot over his shoulder, the feeling wouldn’t shake.
Beverly Marsh was also thinking of her designs, but hers weren’t of buildings. She was thinking over the frills on a dress she had to have planned and submitted by 5pm the next day, and was trying to remember an interview with another up-and-coming fashion designer, because they had mentioned something about frills on a fall dress. What had she said?
Beverly couldn’t remember. It was frustrating, and she was frowning as she paced around her desk. She was still frowning when a man across the office caught her eye and raised his brows, as if to question why she was upset.
She immediately lapsed into a smile. This man, Tom, had been flirting with her for five months now. She had been flirting back. She still was - Tom was, after all, sickeningly sweet. He got her coffee and made self-depreciating jokes and once helped her pick up her folders after she tripped and dropped them all over the office carpet. He also, in a way that Beverly was not entirely conscious of, said certain things in a way that reminded Beverly of
(i worry about you bevvie i worry a lot)
someone familiar. She hadn’t put this connection together yet, and wouldn’t for a while, but when she did, she would feel stupid for smiling back at him, stupid in a way that burned and turned to rage - at him, at the man he reminded her of, but mostly at herself, for falling for it all over again.
Two miles away from Beverly and not knowing it, Eddie Kasprack was wondering what was wrong with him. This was not unusual for Eddie, as this thought was never far away in his mind. One cough would have him thinking of symptoms, going over everything he’d touched that day, squirting hand sanitizer over his hands. Most of the time it turned out to be nothing, but sometimes Eddie would get sick. Sometimes it was a relief - waiting for it, the sickness, all the time, meant that he could at least stop worrying about it once it arrived. That is, until he started thinking about how infections can develop, and how bacteria could get into his bloodstream and sepsis could set in and and and -
For once, though, Eddie wasn’t thinking about illness. He was thinking about his head, and what could possibly be wrong with it. He’d started feeling very depressed as of late, and he can’t figure out what’s wrong with him. The depression had made sense after his mother died last year, but it had started before that, the first creeping tendrils. It carried on as he graduated with a degree in Business and Statistics and got a job lined up at the Risk Statistics Bureau, a very good yet low-level job with excellent opportunities to climb the ranks in the coming years. Until then, he was spending the summer working more at what was his part-time college job: a personal chauffeur of a bigshot Alumni from his university, who called him “the most careful driver he’s ever met in his life” which Eddie was both proud and ashamed of. He wanted to be careful, of course he did, careful kept him alive and well, but hearing that made him feel like something was
(at least budge over come on get your feet out of my face i’m supposed to be the gross one eds)
missing from his life, or from - from him, somehow. He tried not to focus on that thought, but it kept coming around, louder and louder.
What was wrong with him? He should’ve been excited. He should’ve been a lot of things. He should’ve especially been excited about his new relationship with his fellow chauffeur, Myra, who had started out as someone to share his anxiety with, as she also had it in spades, and then took a surprising turn into dating. Eddie hadn’t expected her to agree to go on a date with him in the first place, and now that they were actually, truly dating he found himself recognizing some familiar patterns, patterns that reminded him of someone he’d just
(eddie don’t get your feet wet you know that’s how you catch cold and then you’ll get an infection and die and leave me all alone but you wouldn’t do that eddie you wouldn’t leave me alone)
lost. And it was a relief, almost, to fall back into that dynamic, even if it was just echoes of it right now - Myra reminding him to bring a coat, Myra telling him about the latest animal flu and giving him a matching mask to wear over his mouth, Myra asking him to please stay longer, don’t leave just yet, don’t leave -
He couldn’t figure out why he felt like this. Why he’d do this to himself, when he just got out of this situation, and now he’s driving right back into it, and he’s doing it with an overwhelming sense of relief, of familiarity, of being HOME, even if that home feels like a cage. The cage is what he’s used to. Eddie didn’t know what he’d be without it.
He didn’t know if he wanted to find out.
Across the country, Richie Tozier planned for his next set. Nowadays this meant that he got drunk and shot the shit with the guy he’d befriended to write his jokes for him, since Richie’s stuff had been coming across as a little stale lately.
He sprawled out on the couch and passed the guy - Nick - another beer. Nick scribbled notes sometimes, but mostly he drank. Richie took the notes that Nick was holding and put on his Performance voice, which honestly felt so much like his Normal voice sometimes that even Richie couldn’t tell the difference. He was a Jenga-stack of badly constructed lies and excuses, he was 26 now, he was old enough to acknowledge that. Just like he was old enough to acknowledge that he could easily keep going like this, just barrel forwards into the terrifying future and Keep Going. Get jokes off of straight guys and get up on stage and pretend to be one of them while he has furtive, guilty encounters with men in bathrooms once every six months, after which he couldn’t look himself in the mirror after.
Yes, Richie could absolutely continue like this. It would be easy. He’d never known anything different, anything other than this, anything other than covering his shit with jokes, nothing vulnerable and/or real here, just lil ol me, Richie
(trashmouth)
Tozier.
The idea of it - of going on like this - sometimes made Richie want to puke. Sometimes Richie did puke, sometimes the booze helped it along but once or twice he got himself into a thought spiral about the notion of just - doing that same shit for the rest of his life. It terrified him, but in a distant way, a safe, comfortable terror he’d grown used to.
I can do this , Richie thought as he read over Nick’s jokes in his Stage Voice. It would suck, but what was the alternative? It wasn’t like he could just go out there and say
it wasn't like he could
it wasn't like he could just go out there and
it wasn't like he could just go out there and say hey everybody I’m a total
“piece of shit for saying so, but I think she looked better with the wig.” Richie pauses for laughter. There’s a smattering of it, and Richie shrugs.
Good enough. Smatterings of laughter pay the rent, for now anyway.
He raises a hand at the audience. “You’ve been a great crowd! I’ll be here all week. Later, losers.”
His head throbs. Richie’s smile flinches, but by then he has his face turned away from the audience, so it doesn’t matter. He gets off the stage and rubs at his forehead, but the pain’s already gone. Weird.
Sometimes Nick or another comedy buddy is waiting for him after he finishes his set, but no-one’s there when Richie leaves the stage. He scans the crowd: there’s a few people he knows dotted around, one of them preparing to get up on stage and do his own set. Usually Richie would head over to someone and start talking, but now he finds himself hit by a surprising wave of weariness.
Nick sees him as he’s heading for the exit. He cups his hands over his mouth and yells, “RICHIE!”
Richie waves at him without looking back. “I said later, losers,” he calls back over his shoulder.
“Go get your beauty sleep,” Nick yells as Richie opens the door.
Richie can’t see Nick, but knows he’s being flipped off, so he returns it and steps outside, letting the door swing shut behind him. He takes a breath: ah, the bracing weight of LA heat in summertime. Sweat instantly beads under his armpits.
Luckily for Richie, he’s used to it by now. He’s spent - what, eight summers in LA now? He’d been here ever since heading to California State and then promptly dropping out of it to pursue comedy. So the heavy, dry heat doesn’t faze Richie anymore as he strolls through the dimly-lit streets of the shitty neighbourhood he’s in. All of the bars he performs at are in shitty neighbourhoods, but Richie tells himself this is just the start of the game. Ten years, twenty - who knows? Richie could take over the city, if he wanted. At least, he hopes. He really hopes he’s not still performing at dive bars when he’s forty.
Richie’s brain whirs as he takes his usual path home. It’s an okay walk, thirty-five minutes, and he only takes a cab if it’s hammering rain. Otherwise, he walks or takes the train. But tonight, he walks - he thinks he might continue walking when he reaches his apartment, pass the familiar slumped building and keep going. He does this sometimes, goes for long walks until his brain stops humming.
He’s approaching his apartment, trying to decide whether he’s going to miss it and keep walking, or go inside and collapse on the futon that doubles as his bed and hope against hope that he’ll be able to get to sleep without burning off all this brain humming.
He’s at the point of no return, where he’ll have to actually decide, when his phone rings.
Richie sighs. Gets out his cellphone, which is still pretty clunky but he can’t afford anything released before 2000 yet. It’s heavy in his hand as he checks the number, which isn’t anything he recognizes.
Richie clears his throat. Puts on a Texan Voice. Not his best work, but he’s tired. “Howdy, pardner, who do I be speaking to?”
There’s a pause.
“Uh,” says the guy on the other end. “Is this Richie Tozier?”
Richie drops the Voice. “Yep, that’s me. What’s up, doc?”
The guy snorts, then sobers. “Rich - it’s Mike.”
“Mike?”
“Mike Hanlon.”
There’s nothing, and then there’s a jolt of
(seven of us against one of you bowers i think we can take you i saw a bird not a normal bird it was as a big as a station wagon with orange tufts i’m gonna miss you richie promise to call ben and bev and bill stopped calling so fast it’s like they forgot who we)
recognition.
Richie’s head throbs. He raises his free hand to touch it, but the pain is gone again, as quick as it’d come.
“Mike,” Richie says, and finds he’s croaking. He clears his throat again. Swallows. There’s a lot of memory there, but right now most of it is clouded, out of reach. Richie flinches away from them instinctively. He’s very used to cringing away from shit he’s shoved into the shadows of his mind.
“Hey.”
“Hi,” Mike says, sounding relieved and - something else, but something bad . “How’re you doing, Rich?”
“Fine,” Richie responds, on autopilot. He rubs at his eyes behind his glasses. They’re swimming. “How’s, how - how are things in Maine?”
There’s a pause. For a second Richie thinks he can glimpse everything behind the pause, but then it’s gone.
“Could be better,” Mike says. “I - I didn’t want to call. Not that I didn’t wanna hear from you, I do, but I know if I called, then you’d remember.”
“Uh-huh,” Richie rasps. He swallows, but there’s no spit to go down. His throat is bone dry. Remember. Yes. Oh god, what is there to remember, Richie doesn’t want -
“But I think you have to,” Mike continues. “I think we all have to.”
All . Richie’s head pounds, then the pain recedes. He’d just thought of some names, what were they? Ben - Ben and Bev and Bill and - there were others, it felt vitally important, who -
“Mikey,” Richie says. It comes off his tongue as naturally as he’s been saying it every day since his birth. “What’s going on here?”
He knows before Mike says it. He knows, though the actual knowledge, the memory, doesn’t come back until later. For now, he just has the appropriate feelings as if he does have all of it back - the incredible terror, the roiling dread.
“IT’s back.”
Richie nods. Nods some more. Then his stomach roils along with the dread and he bends over, dry-gagging.
“Rich? You there?”
“I’m here,” Richie says. He straightens up. No puke. Great. “What’s - what-”
“You need to come back, Rich,” Mike says. “To Derry.”
Derry . Richie closes his eyes, squeezes.
“We made a promise,” Mike says.
Richie stands in front of his apartment building, trying not to shake too bad. Someone passes him, eyes him strangely, and Richie can’t even bother to be reassuring towards her.
“Rich?”
Richie doesn’t answer.
“Trashmouth, are you
(trashmouth cut it out man honey remember the curfew we don’t want you going missing like those other kids i’m not going in that house okay guys i 'm sorry but i can’t go in that house GET OVER HERE FAGGOT I’M GONNA STRING YOU UP I’M GONNA)
alright?”
Trashmouth , Richie mouths. He bends over again, braces a hand on his knee.
“I’m alright,” Richie says. “I’m alright. So we gotta come back, huh?”
“Yeah. I’m sorry, Rich.”
“Hey,” Richie says. Something starts coming up his throat. He swallows it down. “Don’t be. We’ll get - we’ll see the old gang again. We’ll all… uh.”
“It can take a while to come back,” Mike says. “That’s the gist I’m getting, anyway. And part of me just knows . You know?”
Richie does. He shouldn’t, none of it makes sense - but he knows, bone-deep and automatic, just how Mike knows. It was like that, that summer -
“Is everyone else coming,” Richie asks. He’s still unable to put faces to names, or even remember the names of a few of them - but he wants everyone to be there, desperately and completely. God, it’d be good to see - who? He almost had it.
“So far,” Mike says. “So you’re coming?”
“Yeah,” Richie says. “Yeah, of course, Micycle.”
Mike laughs. It’s a surprised sound, creaky from disuse.
“ Micycle . Forgot about that one, no clown magic needed.”
Richie whimpers.
“Shit,” Mike says. “Right. No clown talk yet.”
“What-” Richie pinches the bridge of his nose, under his glasses. “ Fuck , Mike, what the hell happened to us back then?”
“You’ll remember,” Mike says.
Richie laughs. It comes out thin through his teeth. “I don’t think I want to.”
“You will anyway,” Mike says. His voice softens. “Hey - take care, man.”
“I will,” Richie says. “Uh. You too, Mike. I’ll see you soon.”
“See you, buddy,” Mike says.
Richie hangs up. He takes a deep, steadying breath
(i’m gonna snap your arm back into place DON’T FUCKIN TOUCH ME RICH)
and then lurches forwards and throws up towards the wall of his apartment building. Only a little of it hits the wall, the rest of it puddles on the sidewalk.
Richie’s eyes stream. He takes off his glasses, wipes his eyes on his sleeve, then his mouth. He can’t bring himself to grimace down at his newly dirty sleeve - he has bigger, more awful things to worry about.
Derry. Derry . Home sweet
(this thing kills kids you k-killed my brother you m-motherf-fucker WELCOME TO THE LOSERS CLUB ASSHOLE)
home.
After a few more pitiful gags, during which only a string of yellow spit comes out, Richie straightens back up and heads into the apartment building. He has enough money to scrape a flight together. He books a return flight and determinedly doesn’t think about whether or not he’ll be there at the airport after spending a few days in Derry, doesn’t wonder if this is the last time he’ll ever see his apartment, its scraggly walls and sink that stops working three times a week.
He throws his stuff - almost all his clothes, which aren’t much - into a bag and heads to the airport and doesn’t think about it, doesn’t think about anything, tries to keep his mind clear and empty, but that’s never been his strong suit. The memories come anyway - not all of them, not all at once, just a slow trickle that still makes Richie have to get the driver to pull over so he can vomit at the side of the road.
Home again, he thinks blearily as he wipes his mouth, stares down at the sandwich he’d only eaten ten minutes ago, which his stomach had very quickly rebelled against, like, no sir, all of us is messed up right now and that includes the stomach, get ready to eject.
Richie giggles weakly. His stomach gurgles. He’s hungry again, which is annoying. He’ll have to grab something at the airport.
Home . Oh, god.
Many things happened over the next 12 hours, and Maturin watched.
Mike Hanlon finished his calls and spent a long time staring at the phone, biting at his thumbnail. Then he got up and looked over his research - interviews he’d done with people who’d been around for Derry history, then books and records for the rest of it.
His Granddad began to cough, and Mike went to him. It was time to take him back to the hospital, but Granddad wanted to die at home, so Mike bent to his wishes. As he fed Granddad his soup and got him water, Mike wanted to ask, again, about the fire that burned down the nightclub, and the bird that his Granddad had seen that night. The same bird that Mike had seen at age 12, the impossible bird that IT had turned into.
But Granddad had only mentioned it once, months ago, when he’d been doped up to the gills at the hospital. Mike didn’t think Granddad realized he’d told him. He’d gotten the feeling that Granddad had tried to forget all about it, had convinced himself he never saw anything in the first place. So Mike stayed silent, and thought about his friends coming home, and prayed to God he hadn’t just doomed them all.
Beverly Marsh stormed around her apartment, throwing things in a suitcase and leaving, red spots high on her cheeks - not from being hit, just from rage. The memories were hazy, faded, but the gist of them were there, and that was all she needed to be mad. She had been barrelling straight for the old hurt, goddamnit, and she would’ve welcomed it with open arms. She barely remembered that she’d have to call work tomorrow and tell them she couldn’t make it for a few days, and this made her think of Tom’s voice in the background, asking if Bev was okay. This made her angry enough that she smashed a lamp against the wall, after which she got a dustbin brush and swept it up.
Eddie Kasprack experienced the same revelation. His was more muted, though there was anger - at himself, at his mother, a little at Myra. How could he have done this to himself? Why was he like this? How could he have gone right back to taking pills, those pills he’d forgotten were - were - there was something wrong with them, or maybe with him, or both at once. He called to cancel his upcoming driving appointments. He called Myra, told her their date for tonight was cancelled, and had to hang up on her asking him what was wrong, saying she was coming over. Eddie got out of his apartment before she could.
Stanley Uris acted strange enough around the phonecall to arise his wife’s suspicion, who then came up to knock on the door about a minute after the bathroom door closed. This was lucky - a few minutes later, and she would’ve been too late, the damage would have already been done. But she did knock, and Stan had not finished the cuts yet, he had only just started. He said that he was okay, for her to go back into the lounge, but Patricia Uris heard his voice break and refused to go. She ended up almost smashing the door down with an ornamental vase before Stan opened it, towels wrapped around one of his arms, his whole body shaking like a live wire.
Ben Hascom calmly called into work to let them know he wasn’t going to be able to make it for the next few days, then arranged for someone to take care of his dog while he was away. He booked a flight. He packed his bags, then ate a salad and three protein bars. As he was leaving his house, a memory came back and he dug into his pocket for his wallet. When he opened it, he could, for the first time, faintly remember who had signed the yearbook page he’d been keeping in his wallet since he was a kid.
Red hair, he remembered. She had red hair.
Bill Denbrough cried on his couch after getting the call. Like everyone else, he couldn’t remember all of it, but he remembered enough, and the barely-there memory of Georgie got him crying harder than he’d cried in as long as he could remember. There were memories of crying as hard as this, but they were still out of reach for now. Bill cried and thought of paper boats and policemen coming to their door. He made the connection between this and a story he’d written, the only one he’d gotten published, which had been about a boy taking on a monster in a basement. Then he got up and booked a flight to Maine.
Richie Tozier got in a plane. He, like the rest of the Losers, had been getting the occasional throbbing headache, and, like the rest of the Losers, he hadn’t been able to even begin to connect them to Maturin. None of them remembered Maturin, apart from some incredibly fuzzy dreams that slipped away whenever they tried to pinpoint them.
Richie Tozier got on a plane, and immediately grabbed a puke bag as he sat down in his seat. Apparently suppressed memories triggered his gag reflex. He tried, again, to quiet his mind, but it didn’t work. The memories were coming back, fleeting and old, some of them clear, some of them hazy. He remembered, mostly, his friends, and what they had been like. He remembered the clubhouse Ben had built, and the crummy apartment building where Bev had lived, and Bill’s stutter which they would’ve all followed to the ends of the Earth. He remembered Stan’s dry wit and Mike’s big goddamn heart. He remembered waiting on Eddie’s porch for Mrs. K to open the door so Richie could ask if Eddie could come out to play. He remembered that porch, kicking pebbles around, glimpsing Mrs. K peeking at him through the curtains and wishing she’d just open the door instead of hoping Richie would go away if she left him long enough. Because Richie was never going to go away, not when Eddie was involved.
This memory made Richie clutch the puke bag in his hand tighter. He didn’t use it, even when they ran into turbulence and the guy next to him clutched at the arm of the chair like a life preserver. Instead, Richie rode it out, let the memories come, and tried not to get too
tried not to get too
not to get too
get too
“lost,” Richie explains. He gestures at the terrible map the last guy had drawn on his arm.
“They’ve put new things in since I was here,” he says. “There’s a fucking mall , okay? It’s a whole new world. Anyway, I’m supposed to go to this Chinese place, and that’s supposed to be near this new mall, and I thought I’d be able to find a big ol’ mall in the town I grew up in, but apparently, no dice! So if you could just point me towards-”
“Richie!”
Richie freezes. He turns. Across the parking lot stands a gorgeous woman with red hair, smiling at him in a way that makes him sad he can’t fall in love with her. There’s something -
She puts her hands on her hips. “You just gonna stand there staring, Trashmouth?”
Richie blinks. Then he grins.
“Miss Marsh ,” he says. “As I live and breathe!”
He walks up and she follows suit, and they meet in the middle with a hug that squeezes the wind out of both of them. Richie’s mouth hurts from smiling so hard as he turns around, still half-hugging Bev, to wave at the guy he’d been talking to.
“Nevermind,” he calls. “Move along.”
He watches the guy start to walk off, then turns back to Bev.
“Hi!”
“Hi,” she says. “You got tall. Did you get tall before I left? Or did you leave first?”
“You left first,” Richie says. He hadn’t remembered before now, but it comes easily. “You and Bill, about a year after that summer.”
“Right,” Bev says. “You were not this tall back then.”
“Nope,” Richie says. “Had a growth spurt at 16. I’m taller than everybody , Bev. Unless the others grew more after I left. Seventeen,” he adds when she looks at him questioningly.
She nods. Tucks her hair behind her ears. Smiles some more, and Richie smiles back, giddy with it. Beverly Marsh . God. He could remember all of it, almost - smoking with her behind the bleachers and in the backyard of her aunt’s house after her dad died that summer. He could make her laugh so hard milk came out of her nose and they’d teased each other mercilessly. She’d painted his nails once, in a fit of summer boredom - black, obviously. Any other colour was too girly.
“I’m lost,” Richie admits. “Do you know where the fuck the Chinese place is? ‘Cause this feels like a whole new town, I don’t know how to get around it.”
Bev’s face goes shuttered. “It hasn’t changed that much.”
“No,” he agrees. “I just mean-”
“I know,” she says. “Uh, I was gonna head that way.”
She points at the main road.
“Follow the river, right,” Richie says. “Got it. After you, Miss Marsh. Or is it Mrs , now?”
He peers at her hands, but she flutters her bare fingers.
“Nope, not yet,” she says. “Come on, Rich, we’re barely in our mid-twenties.”
They fall into step beside each other and she continues, “Why, what about you? Is there a Mrs. Tozier waiting back home?”
Richie’s chest twists with a thousand unnamable things.
“Nope,” he says, popping the p. “Just me. A lone wolf. Prowling the streets, looking for prey.”
“Ew,” she says when he mock-bites her neck. “Here’s a tip, Rich - don’t describe women as prey .”
“Sound advice from milady,” Richie says, barely listening to whatever the fuck he’s saying because of how damn normal this all is. There are people, he’s heard, that you always stay in the same place with - whatever dynamic you have when you meet them, that’s how it always stays. Doesn’t matter if you’re 12 or 26 or 40, you guys will always default back to what you were at the start.
Richie isn’t sure that bodes well for
(shut up richie that’s disgusting get it away from me you’re such an asshole don’t you know that you can get malaria from that no seriously rich put it down)
everyone else.
They find the Chinese place. It’s further away from the mall than Richie had been told. He whines about this to Bev, who calls him a baby and shoves him a little, and Richie realizes he’s missed her desperately. He has the looming feeling that he’s missed them all desperately, and he’s not going to realize how much until he sees them again.
This feeling is confirmed when he walks into the restaurant and sees Ben, Mike, Bill and Eddie sitting around the table, all talking as if - well, as if they haven’t seen each other in over a decade. Which, hey, happens to be the case.
The conversation yanks to a halt when Richie and Bev walk in.
Richie waves. “Hey, Losers.”
Mike’s the first one out of his chair. He stands up like he’s got springs attached, then launches himself at both of them, hugging Bev and then Richie hard enough that they look at each other while it’s happening, like, ooookay! This is a thing!
“Missed you too, Mikey,” Richie says. He plays it as a joke, but he thinks Mike catches the current of sincerity running under it.
Mike’s eyes are wide and warm when he pulls back. “Good to see you guys.”
“You too, Mike,” Bev says. She squeezes his shoulder.
Mike squeezes her hand where it’s touching him, then gestures at the table. “Come sit!”
Richie does, but only after Ben’s gotten up and hugged him and Bill leans over the table and shakes his shoulder and Eddie - well, Eddie looks like he’s going to do something , but Richie can’t handle that right now so he reaches out and ruffles Eddie’s hair over the empty seat between them.
“Come on , dude,” Eddie says, and it’s snappish and familiar and makes Richie fucking ache .
“What,” Richie says. “I missed my Eddie Spaghetti!”
“Oh fuck ,” Eddie says, face creasing up. “I blocked that out. Don’t call me that, man.”
“What? Eddie Sp-”
“Don’t make me wrestle you in this restaurant,” Eddie begs. “Don’t make me do it, I will do it but I really don’t want to, this is a public place, just shut up .”
Richie’s shaking with laughter by the time Eddie stops talking. He’s aged well - all of them have, somehow. But they’re all still the same people behind the cosmetic changes - even Ben, who has dropped however many pounds and carries himself entirely differently, is still obviously the same kind goofball he was at age 12.
“You’re gonna wrestle me,” Richie says. “What the fuck, Eds, I ruffled your hair and you’re gonna knock me to the ground for it?”
“I forgot how annoying you are,” Eddie says. “I gotta make up for lost time.”
But then he cracks a smile, and it turns into a grin, and then they’re beaming at each other like idiots. Yeah, nothing’s changed, not really.
Mike leans forwards in his chair, puts his hands on the table. “Okay! Now we’re just waiting for Stan, then we can get started.”
“Right,” Ben says. “Get started. Hey, Mike, you wanna tell us what we’re starting?”
“Nope,” Mike says. “That would be counted as starting. And we can’t until Stan gets here.”
“I feel like I want to get this over with,” Eddie says. “Like - Mike, you’re not going to tell us anything… good, are you?”
Mike takes a long drink of water. He doesn’t say anything.
“Great,” Eddie says. “That’s promising.”
“It’s really good to see you guys,” Mike says.
It’s a blatant distraction, but it gets them all smiling. Because they have missed each other, and a day ago most of them didn’t know who or what it was they were missing. Now they knew, and they had each other sitting around a table, falling back to the same dynamics they built as children. Even with the looming dread of what Mike will tell them, being reunited is a relief so big it almost drowns it out.
Forty minutes later, they’ve ordered food and Stan still hasn’t arrived. Mike calls his cell and it goes to voicemail.
“Maybe we should start and Stan can catch up when he g-gets here,” Bill suggests.
Mike frowns. He still has his phone out in front of him on the table. He opens his mouth, then looks up and his face changes.
“Or we could start now,” a voice says from the doorway to the alcove where their table is.
Richie looks behind him. Stan - because it is Stan, of course it is, no other 20-something would be wearing such a respectable cardigan, the fucker probably irons it along with all the rest of his clothes - looks tired, and reluctant, and he has some very prominent, bulky bandages poking out from under his left sleeve.
“Hi, guys,” Stan says. He raises his good hand in a wave.
Mike immediately gets up and bear-hugs him.
“Oof,” Stan says. “Alright.”
Mike eventually lets him go, then touches the shoulder of his bad arm. “What happened, man?”
Stan sits down at the seat between Eddie and Richie and takes a dumpling off of Richie’s plate.
“Hey,” Richie says.
Stan ignores him. “I’ll tell you later,” he says. He chews his dumpling. “Your thing sounds more important, Mike. What’d you bring us back for?”
He says it plainly, but Richie can see it in his eyes, a flash of three rotating lights - Stan knows. Stan knows like all of them know, but Stan somehow knows it more clearer than anyone, even maybe Mike.
Mike lowers his head. His mouth pinches. He looks back up.
“IT’s back,” he says.
This is met with a round of silence. Richie swallows. Clown. Mike mentioned a clown, there was -
Beside him, Stan crosses his arms. Richie glances over to find Stan with his eyes closed, a muscle in his jaw flexing. Beside him, Eddie’s face has gone grey.
“Pennywise,” Bev whispers.
“Yeah,” Mike says. “All of that should be coming back ‘round about now. Sorry, guys.”
“I - i-” Bill grits his teeth. “I-IT’s back? How-”
“I don’t know,” Mike says. “Thing is - I don’t know how much you guys remember, but it really shouldn’t be-”
“It’s early,” Stan says.
Mike nods. “Yeah. Usually the cycles happen every 27 years.”
“It’s only been 13,” Eddie says after a second. He looks around the table like he might be wrong about the number of years in his life. “Right?”
“You’re right,” Mike says.
Bill’s hands are shaking. Richie doesn’t blame him. His own hands are shaking, too, though he’s keeping them in his lap.
“Any theories, Mike,” Stan asks quietly.
“Some,” Mike says. “But one - it just feels right. You know?”
They know. Some things that summer just felt right . Before Mike had stumbled into the group, the Losers had been collecting rocks. Ammo for Bowers and his cronies, who they didn’t know where anywhere near, yet they somehow knew a threat was on its way. Then when Mike showed up - no one had been surprised. They had been expectant.
Oh , Richie remembers thinking, clear as a bell, as Mike had appeared through the trees and out into the clearing. There you are.
He gets the feeling that everyone else must’ve had a similar, if not identical thought. It was the same thought Richie had had whenever any of the others had come into the group - beyond that summer, even. When he’d met Bill and Eddie and later Stan, it had been the same overwhelming relief and recognition: Oh, there you are. I’ve been waiting for you.
“What’s the theory,” Ben asks.
“Uh,” Mike says. He scratches his nose. “So - the last time we faced IT, we hurt IT. Not bad, but enough to end the cycle early, right? We hurt it, and it lost some energy. Now, IT’s making up for what we did by coming back early.”
This sinks into the table.
“Wait,” Richie says slowly. “You’re telling me that the demon alien clown came back 14 years before it was supposed to because it’s snacky ?”
“Yep,” Mike says. “Pretty much. It might be something else, but - that feels right.”
“Well,” Richie says. “Shit.”
He combs his memories, tries to remember that last fight
(weight of a baseball bat in his hands swinging hard swinging for his life for his friends oh god oh god we’re all gonna die down here)
and most of it comes back, but only in patches. He has faint memories of IT’s head flaking off into pieces, but it’s so faint it could be a dream.
“So we have to kill IT,” Ben says. “For real, this time.”
Mike nods. “I think we have to.”
Stan makes a noise in his throat. “Or,” he says, “we could all just leave .”
Everyone looks at him. Eddie meets Richie’s eyes and makes a face that Richie translates as the guy’s got a point.
“We can’t just leave,” Ben says, but Stan’s already talking.
“We have no obligation to-” Stan takes a deep breath through his nose. “To do this. We can get up right now, get our stuff, and leave Derry together.”
“Stan,” Mike says. He lowers his voice. “Kids are dying .”
“I know,” Stan says, and his voice breaks, but only a little. “But that’s not on us, that’s on a - an otherworldly evil entity hellbent on devouring children. We’re not doing anything. We don’t owe this place shit.”
“Maybe not,” Mike says. “But we are the only ones who can stop it.”
“Says who , Mike?”
“Says me ,” Mike says. “Says - says you . Says us , right? Guys?”
He looks around the table, desperation clear in his eyes.
Richie winces. He’d been immediately on board the Leaving Derry plan.
“We can stop other k-kids from dying,” Bill says. His tone is very solemn and everyone quietens to look at him.
Bill continues, “I don’t know if we can kill IT. But we’re the only ones who even have the possibility of killing IT. I can’t walk away from this place without knowing we did all we could to kill this son of a bitch. So I don’t know about the rest of you, but I’m staying.”
He looks at them all and Richie knows in his gut that all of them are going to walk right back into the sewers because it’s Bill, and because he’s asking them to do it. Not directly, but it’s like last time: Bill walking into the house, and none of them being able to abandon him. It’s as good as asking them to come along, because of course they will, it’s Bill .
A memory hits, so blinding Richie has to close his eyes
( hey big bill you didn’t stutter once during that )
and his heart sinks. They’re not gonna get dragged into the belly of the beast, they’re going to walk right in.
Richie turns around and waves at a waitress. “Yeah, hi! Can we get a round of drinks? Literally anything. We do not care. Oh, cheap! Anything cheap. Thank youuuuu.”
He turns back to the table. Eddie meets his eyes again, then nods at Stan - Stan, who is shaking slightly, his hands clenched.
“I can’t go back in that house,” he says, voice shot through with tears.
Richie goes to touch his arm, and suddenly knows what the bandages are from.
“Stan,” he says. “Hey. Stanley Urine.”
Stan glares at him.
“I know,” Richie says. “But we’re gonna - we can do this, man. Probably. I don’t know.”
“Great motivational speech, asshole,” Eddie stage-whispers.
Richie makes a face at him, then turns back to Stan.
“The best shot we’ve got,” Richie says, “is if we’re all in this together.”
He knows this is true. Knows it like he knows a lot of things that he shouldn’t know, not really, but knows them anyway. And judging by how Stan’s eyeing him, he knows too.
Richie squeezes his shoulder. “Just stick with us, buddy. We won’t let IT eat your face this time.”
Stan shudders, and Eddie kicks Richie under the table.
“Ow,” Richie says.
“Didn’t eat my face,” Stan mumbles.
Richie squints. The scars from the toothmarks are still edging the sides of his face, but barely.
Richie pats his shoulder. “Almost did, pal. But not this time! This time you’ve got the Losers 2.0, all shiny and new and now tall enough to ride scary rides at Disneyworld. Well, except Eddie.”
“I’m 5’9,” Eddie says. “That’s the average height of the world!”
“Keep telling yourself that, Eds,” Richie says. “Stan, are you in? Oh god, why the hell am I talking you into this?”
Stan sighs. “‘Cause you know it’s our best shot.”
“Right,” Richie says. His throat clicks. “Man, I haven’t missed the whole - instinctively Knowing things.”
“Yeah,” Stan croaks. “It’s weird.”
He wipes his face as the waitress starts to bring them drinks - a tray full of shots of clear liquid, which is a start. Richie takes his from the waitress before she even sets it down and throws it back.
He’s wincing at the taste when another waitress comes bearing a load of fortune cookies.
“Oh, hey,” Richie says. “Who ordered those?”
Everyone glances around the table, but no one raises a hand.
“Whatever,” Richie says, which is his first mistake, one he’ll look back on later and want to hit himself for. He reaches for one, as does everyone else.
“Can’t wait to see what this is,” Richie says as he turns his cookie around in his hand. “ You will soon be eaten up by a large monster. Have a nice day .”
It earns him a few halfhearted snorts, at least. He checks to see if Eddie’s laughing and gets a small smile in return. Richie smiles back, as much as he’ll allow himself. A thousand memories float out of reach, and Richie doesn’t grab for them. He doesn’t want them. If he hadn’t had them magically erased, he’d still repress the fuck out of them. Clown memories, sure, who needs that kind of trauma - but also the ones about Bowers. The ones about his nightmares, turning into a werewolf or being chased by one or both, unable to control his desires and transforming into something horrific. He still gets those nightmares, but they’re muddled now, and he shoves them right down whenever he wakes up from one. He doesn’t need a therapist to sit him down and tell him oh yeah, that indicates a lot of really fucked up stuff, probably to do with your homosexual urges which you’ve been keeping a lid on since you were 10. He fucking knows , alright, he doesn’t need to think about them, so why not shove them down far enough you can pretend they don’t exist?
And Eddie -
Richie looks away, down at the fortune cookie. He’d always had a thing for loud, pissy, secretly sweet brunettes, and now he knows why. It’s because he’d never gotten over his first - ugh, his first love , as mortifying as it is to admit, even to himself. Remembering Eddie, seeing him again, is like a series of mismatched puzzles finally clicking into place. This is why I had a crush on my college roommate who teased the shit out of me and yelled at me when I didn’t do the dishes, this is why I had all those strange guilty dreams of hammocks and swimming in quarries trying not to look at some boy’s wet skin, this is why, this, this , it’s you -
He’s almost glad when everyone cracks open a fortune cookie and all hell breaks loose.