Archive of Our Own

“What the fuck, Richard!” 

“Language! Wow, Steve, do you kiss your mother with that mouth?” Richie’s voice sounds like it’s coming from an old static television set. Not a good sign. 

Steve grips onto his steering wheel just a little bit tighter than usual, his blunt nails sinking deep into the black pleather. He takes a deep breath and steps on the gas. “Richie, explain it to me like I’m stupid.  Why did Carol just tell me that you asked her to buy you a one-way ticket to some random ass town in Maine? You're in the middle of a tour, Richie! You can’t just fuck off after one bad show!” Steve yells into his phone, the cheap plastic phone mount he bought from a gas station shaking with every change in pitch. “You gave me your word. No funny business,” Steve says sternly, hoping Richie would pick up on his disappointment through the phone.

“But Steve, I’m a comedian. I am funny business,” Jerry Seinfeld, of all voices, replies, sounding extra nasally through the bad phone reception.  

“Seinfeld? Really, Richie. That’s so lazy.” Steve floors it; if he gets nothing but green lights on this stretch of road, he’ll be at Richie’s place in fifteen minutes max. “You know I can’t stand that guy.”

Richie lets out a breath. In the background of the call, Steve can vaguely make out the sound of footsteps and chatter. Where the fuck was Richie? “Listen, calm down, this is just. I just gotta do this thing back home. I'll probably be back in a few weeks, we can talk tour stuff then and - ”

“You threw up before your show! Right over the railing! Like some drunk! You seriously don’t expect me to believe - Fuck!” Steve slams on the brakes. Red light. The harshness of the stop almost knocks his phone to the floor.   

“I’m not on anything. I can promise you that, Steve. I’m just. I’m taking a powder.”

“You’re doing coke again?!” Steve screeches just as the traffic light turns green and his foot hits the gas pedal. 

“I’m not on coke!” 

“Then why are you talking like that! Who says that? I’m taking a powder. You sound like some old man,” Steve mutters through his teeth. 

“I just have to put on my boogie shoes. I have stuff I gotta take care of. Serious stuff.” 

And Richie’s voice sounds serious, deathly serious. Serious in a way Steve hasn’t heard in years. It’s enough to make him slow down. 

“Is your mother sick? Did she…God forbid die?” There’s a small moment of silence. Steve braces himself for the worst. 

“She died like ten years ago.” 

Shit. Steve probably should have known that. Just out of respect. “Sorry. Listen, Richie, whatever it is, I’m sure we can - ” Steve is cut off by a female voice coming through his phone speaker. A voice that didn’t sound like Richie doing his best underpaid flight attendant impression, but rather an actual, honest-to-god stewardess saying ‘Enjoy your flight’ in the most sickly saccharine sweet tone imaginable. “Are you at the airport?” 

“Bye, Steve!” 

Richie hangs up. 

Steve is so enraged, he pulls over and rips his phone out of the phone mount, breaking off one of its little plastic arms. 

He dials Richie again, the call going straight to voicemail. 

He calls again. Same thing. 

He goes to text Richie. He types out ‘RICHIE YOU SHIT CALL ME WHEN YOU GET OFF,’ and presses send. The ‘Delivered’ status does not appear. 

Richie blocked his number. 

Steve Covall is not in the business of making friends. He didn’t really care about fostering a positive friendship with his clients. That was frankly above his pay grade. No, his job wasn’t to be a shoulder to cry on or a sympathetic ear; his job was management. He manages schedules, and handles networking, and branding, and contracts, and talk show appearances, and a bunch of other bullshit the talent barely even appreciates. He sends Happy Birthday emails once a year and sometimes throws in a gift card. He keeps his relationships with his clients strictly professional, no exceptions. 

Except for Richie Tozier. Richie Tozier was the exception. 

No, Steve wouldn’t say he and Richie are ‘friends’. He’s pretty sure that if you asked Richie, he’d say the same. But Steve knows Richie a bit better than he knows most of his clients, a bit better than he knows most people really. Richie’s stuck around for longer than most of them, that’s for sure. 

There are three things Steve Covall knows for certain about his client Richard Tozier :

1. Richie Tozier doesn't have a romantic bone in his body (unless you count his dick). He can’t keep a girlfriend to save his life.
2. Richie Tozier has some weirdly specific mental health issues.
3. Richie Tozier has no real friends.

And maybe it’s that last one that pulled at Steve’s heartstrings and stirred some weird, misplaced maternal affection he had buried deep inside. Like caring for a kicked puppy. Or in Richie’s case, a blind stray in desperate need of a haircut and a bath. 

Richie was an unruly street dog eating from the local dumpster, and Steve was the poor neighborhood kid trying to domesticate him with corner store kibble. Steve might not have remembered that Richie’s mom died a decade ago, but at least he knew Richie was a dog person. Okay, so maybe there were four things Steve knew about him, but did that one really count? 

Steve still remembers when they first met, at least. Kinda. He’d met Richie through a friend of a friend. That’s how it was back in the day, not like how it is now, where you need five references, a million Instagram followers, and a famous parent to even get an agent. Richie had been working professionally at a radio station, one Steve himself had worked at for a little bit as a Program Director. He’d been doing stand-up at local spots on the side and desperately needed someone who knew the industry better to help him get a foot in. Translation: Richie had gotten sick of doing 45-minute shows at bowling alleys and sad bars and wanted out fast. 

Names and phone numbers were exchanged and passed around, and somehow Richie’s demo reel found its way onto Steve’s desk. Soon after, Richie himself found his way to Steve’s office. Back then, it had looked less like a professional office and more like the office of a TV sitcom high school principal, sterile and entirely too blue for comfort.

“So, Richard - ”

“Just Richie is fine. Rich if you’re nasty,” he said with a nervous smile. A smile with teeth, like a dog showing submission. 

“Richard,” Steve started, ignoring the last statement, “do you party a lot?” 

Richie slumped in his chair, it creaking under his weight. He’s a big guy, sturdy and tall, it was one of the first things Steve noticed about him when he walked into his office. That and how, despite being almost thirty, he still carried himself with the awkwardness of a teenager. Sitting across Steve’s desk like that, he somehow managed to look like a teenager waiting for the principal to give him a month’s detention for pulling the fire alarm. “Not really,” he answered with a shrug. 

Steve blinks, a little surprised by his response. “Not really? You seemed like a big party guy in your tape.” 

“Oh, that? Yeah, a lot of that’s super exaggerated. You know, classic truth plus misdirection. I go to parties sometimes, you know, when coworkers invite me, but I don't really look for parties, you know?”

Steve did not know. Steve didn’t really care for that side of the industry. All the parties he’s ever been to have been strictly for networking purposes. “I guess. Why not?” 

“Parties are exhausting. Always gotta pretend like you're having a good time.”  

It’s the way Richie said ‘pretend’ that gave him pause. Pretend implies performance, like a child playing make-believe. Just instead of pretending to be a knight or a pirate, Richie was pretending to be a guy who liked parties. Not acting, not lying, just playing pretend. 

Richie seemed to catch on that he’d said something weird. He shifts uncomfortably in his seat before letting out a fake laugh. “I’m a fun guy though, a real Portabello. Maybe even a King Oyster. After a couple of drinks, I’m like Bugs Bunny on quaaludes.” 

“Right.” Steve could tell by the way he was fidgeting that Richie wanted to change the subject. “Do you do any drugs?” 

“In college, I smoked weed, but I stopped because I kept having these really bad trips.” Richie's fingers started tapping on the edge of Steve's desk, like he was strumming a guitar. “There was this giant turtle, that's all I remember.”

“So, no drugs then?”

“No drugs. I’ve tried coke a couple times.” Richie had said it with the cadence of a kid trying to seem cool. He’d looked at Steve expectantly, as if waiting for Steve to say, ‘Wow, Richie, you’re so hardcore’ or something in that ballpark.

“Please, Richard, that hardly counts. Most celebrities are on coke. That’s how they all stay so thin. If you don’t have a dealer you know on a first-name basis, it’s really not worth bringing up.” 

Richie let out a dry laugh, taken aback by Steve’s bluntness. “Now that’s a diet plan. No, I only really tried it because…I was in a bad headspace.” 

“Girlfriend broke your heart?” Steve asked unenthusiastically. Because Richie had been young and had the look of someone who hadn’t really suffered through life just yet.  

“No, my mom got sick.”  

“Oh.” Nice one, Steve. “Sorry about that. I’m sure she was a great lady.” 

Richie chuckled, amused by Steve’s embarrassment. “It’s okay, she's in a better place now. I think. I hope, I guess, neither of us was very religious. Her memory started to fail her a bit at the end, it was like she was always confused. She’d started calling me Rich. She never used to do that, and she’d looked at me like she didn’t even know who I was.”

“That really sucks,” Steve said. He’d been trying his best to sound sympathetic. Because it did suck, and even though he’d just met Richie, he had felt really bad for the guy. 

“Yeah, it really sucked.” Richie deflated, settling back in his seat. “You believe in ghosts, Steve?” And just like that, he was on again, looking ready to bounce off the walls.

Steve looked at him, taken aback by the change in attitude. “Richard, I’m not the one being interviewed.” Although admittedly, they’d already gone way off track.

“I think I do. Believe in ghosts, I mean. And I think maybe if my mom's ghost is still out there floating around, she'd probably be really mad at me if I got addicted to snow.”

Okay, so he’s a mama’s boy. That’s fine. It was certainly better than being a misogynist; lord knows the industry was full of those. 

“Sorry, that was probably a lot,” Richie admitted, looking away sheepishly. “You know, you're really easy to talk to. Has anyone ever told you that?”  

No. No one’s ever told Steve that. In fact, quite the opposite, most people told him he was too serious and difficult to open up to. You’re too focused on work, Steve. Take a vacation, Steve. “Let’s keep this professional, alright, Richard.”

”Right, sorry.”

“Are you seeing anyone?”

Richie’s eyes bugged out, but only for a second. Had Steve blinked at the wrong moment, he probably wouldn’t have even noticed. He gave Steve a cheeky grin, and suddenly, Richie wasn't Richie anymore. “Why, I do declare! Invite me to dinner first, Steven,” Richie jested in the voice of a Southern belle, even laughing haughtily at the end to complete the performance.

“That’s pretty good. But seriously, are you seeing anyone right now?” If Steve had learned anything from working in entertainment, it was that most guys are assholes. Self-absorbed, egotistical, irresponsible assholes. And self-absorbed, egotistical, irresponsible assholes can’t help but cheat on their girlfriends. And if that wasn’t bad enough, they loved bragging about it too. They had a terrible work ethic because, of course, they did. If they weren’t willing to put the work in to make a relationship work, why would their careers be any different? It was always better to try to work with responsible guys, and a serious relationship was the hallmark of a responsible guy. 

Richie dropped the Southern belle act and seemed to put on a different one. Although Steve wasn’t quite sure what to call this one.“Yeah, I’m seeing someone. Her name’s Sandy, she’s working on being a lawyer. She’s really cool, I like her a lot.” He doesn’t sound like he’s lying, but Richie’s eyes do seem to glaze over when he talks about her. For a brief moment, Steve is unable to read him at all. 

“Is it serious?”

Richie snaps out of whatever trance he’d been in. He looks at Steve a bit confused, like he’s forgotten where he is before stuttering, “Huh? Oh, yeah. Yeah, I guess. We’ve talked about getting married and junk.”   

“That's good. Lots of guys like to put up this lady-killer act. So annoying. Those guys can't be trusted with shit. Immature shitheads, all of them. Not the kind of guys I want to work with at all,” Steve babbled, remembering all the other guys he’s met in this field who thought they were hot shit just because they were the funniest kids in their class back in their hometowns in the middle of bumfuck nowhere. 

Richie perks up, an excited grin taking over his face. “So, does that mean? Are we doing this?” he beamed. 

“Any other vices I should know about?” 

“I drink. A normal amount, I think.”

“Most people do.”

“I smoke. Like regular cigarettes. I have all my life. Can't remember how I got started, but I'm trying to quit.”

“Yeah, I figured. I smelled the nicotine on you the second you walked in.” 

“I have a weak stomach. If I get too nervous, I throw up.”

Now that one surprised Steve. “That’s not really a vice. You do stand-up? Why would you do stand-up if it makes you that nervous?” 

Richie had laughed, and Steve vaguely remembers thinking that the laugh sounded genuine.“That doesn’t make me nervous. It’s usually other stuff.” He says it with a tone like Steve should instinctively know what he means when he says ‘other stuff’. 

But Steve doesn’t, he has no idea what ‘other stuff’ is. “Other stuff like what?”

“Just other stuff.” 

And he and Richie have been working together ever since. Steve got Richie out of bars and bowling alleys and got him a small role on television, which eventually blossomed into the career he has now. 

Richie’s well-liked; he has three popular Netflix specials, some writing credits across television, no major scandals, and tours semi-regularly. A perfectly good career. And while later down the line Steve would eventually find out what ‘other stuff’ referred to, he’d like to believe Richie trusted him. So why the fuck was he flushing it all down the drain just to sneak off to some middle-of-nowhere town in Maine? 

“I’m gonna kill him. I’m gonna kill him. I’m going to kill him,” Steve mutters to himself, walking up to Richie’s front door, so blinded by anger that he struggles getting the key in the damn keyhole. 

After stabbing the doorknob with the point of the key a few times, Steve finally manages to unlock the door and push his way into Richie’s home. Richie’s relatively nice, decently expensive home. The two-story home he could only afford to buy thanks to the career Steve had helped him build. And this is the thanks he gets?

Steve doesn’t do this, he doesn’t make a habit out of invading his clients' privacy. The only times he’s ever even used the spare key Richie got him were when Richie forgot things. Like his laptop or his phone, and one time, a very specific hat he needed for a bit. Sometimes Richie forgot to set his alarm and overslept, missing out on important appointment times, so it became Steve’s job to go over to his place and pull his ass out of bed. 

Steve’s never caught Richie doing anything weird, not drugs, not having sex with prostitutes, not even in the middle of jerking off. The weirdest thing Steve’s ever walked in on was this one time Richie passed out on his couch with a hand down his pants, and a half-eaten pizza on the coffee table. He’d fallen asleep playing the newest Grand Theft Auto game.

Steve raids Richie’s home like he’s the Greek armada and Richie’s house was the city of Troy. He flips his mattress, empties his dresser drawers, ransacks his closet, even goes as far as looking in the toilet tank. Steve’s looking for anything. Literally anything. Alcohol, pills, a milligram of weed. If he finds so much as a single THC gummy, he’s sending Richie’s ass off to celebrity rehab. 

But he finds nothing. Not a single can of beer or even a cigarette. He does, however, find a suspicious pile of kids' clothes in Richie’s closet. It brought to mind secrets of an illegitimate love child Richie’s been hiding for years, only for Steve to realize the clothes were Richie’s. Old shirts and pants from Richie’s youth that he, for some reason, had kept in a box in his closet. 

Richie’s home is sad.

Steve had never realized before, but it was really, really sad. Yeah, it had all the typical decorating choices of every other man-child famous for making jokes about his dick, crappy posters, and shelves filled with movies, but there was this bleak ambiance to it all. Everything felt hollow and empty. Most of the rooms had this veneer of dust as if Richie himself hadn’t been in them in years. His own bedroom was surprisingly bare; he didn’t have anything in there besides his bed and a desk. The posters he had along his living room were peeling off the wall, his movie shelf was cluttered and unorganized, his PlayStation wasn’t even plugged in. His home looked less like a place where someone actually lived and more like a TV set pretending to be a man-child's bachelor pad. 

The fridge was really the straw that broke the camel’s back. Richie’s fridge was almost completely empty. Not because Richie had somehow found time to throw away all of his food before he fucked off to Maine, but because that’s just how it always was. The only things in Richie’s fridge were a head of lettuce that was going bad, a half-empty bottle of ketchup, and a box of leftover In-N-Out.  

When was the last time Richie had had anyone over? And then it hits him. Richie Tozier not-so-fun fact #3: Richie doesn’t have friends. His circle of acquaintances was always limited to whoever he happened to be working with at the time. That’s how most friendships are when you're an adult, even more so when you work in such a competitive industry. 

But Steve doesn’t remember it being this sad. Or had Steve just never noticed because, when Richie was in the room, it all just blended into the background? 

Steve slumps down on Richie’s couch. He doesn’t bother trying to call or text Richie again. Instead, he calls Carol. 

“Carol, I’m gonna need you to get next week's venue on call. Yeah, shows cancelled. I don’t think rescheduling will be possible. Oh, and do you know any good cleaning services?”

Steve tries his best to hold down the fort while Richie’s MIA. He’d foolishly hoped that Richie would’ve unblocked him after he got off his flight in Bangor, but no such luck. It’s been over two whole weeks, and he hasn’t heard a thing from Richie. Not a call, not a text, not even an email. Richie could’ve been dead in a ditch right now, and Steve had no way of knowing.

But other than the whole being-ignored-by-Richie thing, everything was going about as well as expected. Which, of course, meant things were going terribly.

Steve had a tour but no star, which meant he had to deal with refunds, and rescheduling, and gossip rags publishing stories about how Richie was away on some drug-fueled bender right now. And no, he doesn’t have proof that Richie wasn’t doing that, but Steve was more than willing to slide them some hush money if they promised to take down those tweets.  

That being said, Steve would take all of that over what he saw today. He’d woken up to a text from Carol, technically she was Richie’s PA, but it wasn’t uncommon for her and Steve to talk, especially right now when Richie wasn’t here. 

Carol Feeny (birthday 04/12) 

STEVE whatever you do dont go on twitterr!!

Naturally, Steve ignores this and opens Twitter. The second he does, he feels his blood pressure spike. The very first post on his feed. 

TMZ✓ @TMZ • 15m

Comedian Richie Tozier Arrested in Maine Under Suspicion of Murder. 

Attached is a blurry picture of Richie getting handcuffed by the police. He doesn’t click the attached link. Not out of respect for Richie’s privacy but because he can’t. Because reading that headline somehow opened the floodgates, and his phone was quickly taken over by incoming message notifications from every single contact in his phone. 

Mike O’Hara ( birthday 08/17)

is it true???? did richie really get arrested for murder???? 

Chuck Foster (????) 

i have some guy calling me trying to get info on richie. did something happen??

Carol Feeney (birthday 04/12) 

you opened twitter didnt you! fuck steve what do we do now!!!

Richie better hope he never gets out of jail because if he does, Steve was going to kill him. 

Steve gets out of bed, throws on some jeans, and the first shirt he manages to get his hands on. He goes to the kitchen and starts making himself a cup of coffee. He doubles his usual serving, and for the next two minutes that it takes for his coffee to brew, he doesn’t think about anything. He savors the sound of the water boiling inside the coffee maker and the smell of freshly brewed coffee hitting his nose. 

When the coffee is done, he pours himself a cup and takes one big sip, not bothering to add in the usual creamer and syrups. He enjoys his last few seconds of peace.

He was going to murder Richie. 

Steve ignores all the incoming messages and calls Richie. No answer. 

He calls again. Nothing. But his calls were actually going through this time, they weren’t going straight to voicemail anymore. Richie had unblocked him, that was a start.

He goes to text Richie only to get an incoming call from an unknown number. He doesn’t recognize the area code. 

Under normal circumstances, he wouldn’t even consider picking up, but these were very much not normal circumstances. 

“Hello,” he says nervously, pressing his phone as close to his ear as humanly possible.

“Is your refrigerator running?” a scratchy voice asks from the other end of the call. 

“Goddamnit, Richie! Can you be serious for two minutes?” Steve tries his best to hide the relief he feels, but he can’t. He is, unfortunately, over the moon that Richie’s safe and well enough to call him. 

Steve’s sure whatever is going on has to be some sort of huge misunderstanding. Richie will explain everything to him. It was all going to be okay, and one day, all of this was just going to be a funny memory. 

“Sorry, sorry,” Richie laughs. It’s a comforting sound. “It’s a good thing I memorized your number, huh? I tell you, I was really scared I wouldn’t be able to get a hold of you after they confiscated my phone.” 

“Who confiscated your phone?” There’s silence on the other end of the line. Oh no. “Richie, where exactly are you calling me from?” 

Richie lets out a nervous laugh. “From the jail cell of the Derry Police Department.” 

Steve can feel his entire body shaking. “Why?” he asks through gritted teeth. 

“Because I got arrested,” Richie replies, sounding like a child who got caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

“Why were you arrested, Richard?” Steve’s grinding his teeth so hard it’s a miracle he didn’t end up cracking a molar. 

“Well, last time I checked, it isn’t illegal to use hotel Wi-fi to watch porn, so it probably wasn’t that - ”

“Richie!” Steve was going to do it after all. He was going to have to kill Richie. 

“Jeez, tough crowd,” Richie mumbles. Steve couldn’t see him right now, but he’d bet money that Richie was nervously fiddling with his fingers.

“Do you think this is funny?” Steve asks, voice just teetering on the edge of screaming.

“I mean…kinda. Like, in a cosmic sort of way.”

“Richie. I’m gonna ask again, and this time you'd better answer. Why were you arrested?”

“I maybe…sort of kinda accidentally killed a guy.” 

Steve takes a big swig of his coffee, and it burns the back of his throat a little on the way down. “You killed someone? How? Literally how? You can’t even drive over roadkill!” he shouts. At the rate he was going, he was going to end up losing his voice. His phone vibrates in his hand, and he doesn’t know if it’s from all of the messages flooding his inbox or from how hard he’s gripping it. 

“Listen, it’s not as bad as it sounds,” Richie says casually, as if getting arrested was just another normal part of life for him. 

“There’s already a picture of you getting arrested going viral on Twitter as we speak! TMZ already wrote an article!” 

“Really? Wow, those guys are quick! I’ve only been in here for a couple hours. I thought I had at least a few days until - ”

“Focus! What are we going to do? What am I supposed to tell PR?” 

“Well, Sandy said that it was - ”

“Sandy?” Steve interrupts. “Sandy, as in your ex Sandy? You're talking to Sandy again?” Steve can feel his pulse quicken. She and Richie had not ended things on the best of terms; their last breakup had caused…problems.

“Uhh..yeah?”  

“Why? Why did you call your ex and not me? I’ve been trying to get in touch with you since you left.” Steve hadn’t intended to sound hurt by this, but it did sting a little. He couldn’t care less about Richie’s love life, but it hurt knowing that Richie had thought to call his ex, who he wasn’t even friends with, before getting in contact with him. 

“You know, getting arrested for murder and locked up really puts things into perspective. As I sat here in this old, busted ass jail cell next to a broken toilet, I realized she's actually the love of my life. The one who got away. So what better time to rekindle that spark,” Richie jokes. “I called her first because she’s a lawyer. And I don’t know if you know this, Steve, but you are not.”

Steve is more hurt by that admission than he’s comfortable admitting. Here he was worried sick about Richie, and for what? Richie clearly didn’t care about the life he left behind, he was too busy trying to sleep with his ex! Richie Tozier fun fact #1 proven to still be true, unfortunately. 

“I need to know these things too, you know. I’m your…manager.” It takes everything in him not to say the word friend. Are we friends, Richie? Is this what friendship is when you’re an adult? No, he and Richie were not friends, he’d almost forgotten. 

Richie is quiet on the other end, so quiet that Steve has to look at his screen to make sure the call is still going. “Yeah, you’re right, man. I’m sorry, I’ve been a real dick these last few weeks. Dropping off the face of the earth like this. I promise, I’m gonna get this all sorted out, and I’ll be back in LA before you know it.” Richie sounds sincere, more sincere than he’s sounded in years. Steve hadn’t noticed just how jaded Richie had become these last few years, it was as if something had happened to him in that middle-of-nowhere town in Maine to rejuvenate him. 

“Alright, you take care of yourself out there, dude.”

“You bet! I can’t say much about anything right now. Legal reasons, and all that. Kay said the best I can do - ”

“Uhh…Richie?”

“Yeah?’  

“Who is Kay?” 

“Oh, Kay is Bev’s friend. She's a lawyer, too. Her speciality is divorce court, though, but she’s - ”

“Who is Bev?” For a friendless loser, Richie sure did suddenly know a lot of women. Did he go to Derry for a singles convention and bang every woman there?

“Ugh! It's a long story, I’ll tell you all about it later. I don’t have much phone time left. I can’t say much, but if anyone asks, it was self-defense. I did it to protect a friend.” 

There was that word again. Friend? Since when did Richie have friends? 

“Alright, I guess I’ll see what I can do. Try to get a hold of this story before things get any worse. Stop anyone from tweeting that you got high on bath salts and ate a guys face.” 

“You're the best, Stevel Knievel.” 

“You owe me, man.” Steve’s thumb hovers over the End Call button when he hears Richie trying to get his attention from the other side of the call.

“Steve, wait, wait, wait! One last thing,” Richie began, “that article that you mentioned. Did it say anything about a guy who was with me?” 

Steve almost drops his phone. A guy? “I don’t think so. I don’t know. I haven’t actually read it yet. People are only talking about you, though.” 

“Okay, good,” Richie says, sounding relieved. “I’ll call you if they throw the book at me. Later!” Richie hangs up on him. 

Steve looks at the messages coming in. He ignores them all and opens up Twitter again. This time, he actually opens the article attached to the TMZ tweet.

Comedian Richie Tozier caused quite a stir earlier this month after bombing his LA show. Rumors of drunken backstage vomiting and potential drug use immediately started making the rounds online, only for him to completely disappear from the public eye. With the next few stops on his tour cancelled and an alleged sighting down at LAX, everyone online was left wondering where in the world was Richie Tozier? 

The answer? A small town in Maine, of all places. Sources say Tozier was pulled over on the I-95 while trying to leave the town of Derry. The reason? Not a DUI, but his rental car was caught on security footage near a crime scene. Police on the scene refused to comment on the nature of the crime, only stating that a death was involved. An unidentified man seated in the passenger seat of Tozier’s vehicle was also taken into police custody.  

The rest of the article is a mess of speculations about Richie's would-be victim, with a few jokes about Richie’s past with substance abuse thrown in for good measure. Has Tozier gone off the deep end again? We all remember his hospital stay back in 2009, rumored to have been the result of untreated alcoholism. Could this have been a drunken attack? Or maybe a drug deal gone wrong? 

It makes Steve’s stomach churn. He hates thinking back to that incident. None of those idiots had any idea what Richie had gone through; they had no right to talk about him like that.

“Hey, Steve, wassup?” 

“Don’t you ‘wassup’ me, you idiot. Explain yourself. Now.” 

“Listen, man, it’s not as bad as it looks, really. It was an accident.”

“No, an accident is forgetting to set your alarm before bed or forgetting your girlfriend’s birthday. Mixing xanax and a twelve-pack is not an accident, Richard! That shit’s intentional!”

Richie Tozier is thirty-three years old, he’s sitting in a hospital bed with an IV catheter inserted into his arm and dressed in a light blue hospital gown, and he looks like a kid getting yelled at by his mother. “Shit, they told you,” Richie grumbles, looking embarrassed. 

“Of course they told me, you dumbass! We are in a hospital! That’s their job! Did you think they were going to call me to get you and not tell me?” 

Richie looks away, too ashamed to even look at Steve right now. “Okay, okay, I get it. Can we not make such a big deal out of this? I won’t do it again, I promise,” he says, sounding fed up with the whole situation. 

“You could’ve died, Richie. What were you thinking?”

“Well, I was thinking slitting my wrist was a little too high school - Hey, quit it!”

Steve doesn’t let him finish that statement; instead, he hits Richie repeatedly on the head with the bag of clean clothes he’d brought for him. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see a nurse walking by the room’s open door and taking a peek inside. Maybe she was just legitimately trying to do her job, or maybe she was a fan of Richie trying to get information she could sell to the tabloids. Not wanting to draw more attention, he drops the bag unceremoniously onto Richie’s lap and takes a seat in the visitor's chair next to his bed. 

Steve buries his face in his hands, his voice tired and defeated as he spoke, “How can you joke at a time like this? You comedians, I swear, I don’t get you guys at all.” 

Steve can hear the plastic bag crinkling as Richie riffles through it. “So,” his voice echoes through the quiet room, “is this a bad time to tell you you forgot to get me some underwear?” 

Steve picks his face up, looks Richie right in the eye, it takes everything in him not to scream at him. “Seriously? You’re lucky I don’t make you do a pap walk wearing that,” Steve says, gesturing to the ugly hospital robe Richie was currently wearing. Now that he was really looking at him closely, Steve could see the dark circles under Richie’s eyes and the sallow color of his skin. He looked sickly, it did not suit him. 

Richie looks down at the bag in his lap, the tiniest grin forming at the corner of his mouth. “Thanks for this, Steve. And for coming. Means a lot to me, really.”

Steve wants to say that it’s part of the job, that he gets paid to take care of Richie, so his actions weren’t completely selfless. But looking at Richie now, with that kicked dog look on his face, he just can’t bring himself to do it. 

Richie’s been struggling for a while. First, he’d been having trouble sleeping, kept complaining about weird dreams that left him feeling empty, but that he always forgot once he was awake. Then, he couldn’t seem to get out of bed. He kept getting into disagreements with Sandy. Over what, exactly? Steve had no idea, Richie refused to talk about it. To his credit, Richie showed up when he needed to. He did his job well enough for a guy who was falling apart.

“Why, Richie? Why’d you do this? Everything was going so well. Your career is on the uprise; you just had that amazing show last week. I’m trying to understand why a guy like you would do this, but I don’t get it. You always seem so…”

“Happy?” Richie finishes for him. 

“I was going to say honest,” Steve admits. He means it, too. He always thought Richie was an honest guy. An open book and easy to read. The kind of guy who could befriend anyone with his casual demeanor and quick wit. 

Richie looks at him with a face Steve can’t quite read, something in between disappointment and pity, almost as if Steve was the one in the hospital bed. “Honest? Dude, half my routine is shit those writers made up.” 

“Not like that. I meant it more like, you know. You have an honest face.”

Richie snickers to himself. “I’m not sure I do. All comedians are liars.”

The air around them is tense. Steve suspects that Richie wants to tell him something, but that something deep in his mind is holding him back. 

“What happened, Richie? Did you get into it with Sandy again or something?” Steve had meant it as a joke, a morbid one, but if anyone could appreciate that style of humor, it was Richie. But Steve wasn’t the professional funny man here. When Richie didn’t say anything and instead gave Steve an uncomfortable smile, looking down like a dog about to get punished for eating out of the trash, he knew he’d unfortunately hit the nail on the head. “Jesus, Richie, are you thirteen? You can not be serious right now.”

Richie slumps down in the hospital bed; he kind of looks like he wants to laugh. “Look, look, it wasn’t her fault. We just got into this argument - ”

“People break up all the time, Richie! There are plenty of red-headed fish in the sea,” Steve shouts just as that nosy nurse walks past the open door. She actually takes a look at them this time, curious, but does not come in. 

“She was more of a strawberry blonde, to be honest,” Richie corrected. 

Steve fights the urge to smack Richie upside the head. It probably wouldn’t look good, and the last thing either of them needed was that gossipy nurse running in here and getting all up in their business. “Richie, you are so lucky we are in a hospital right now.” 

Richie looks at the IV needle sticking out of the middle of his arm. He pokes it, watching in fascination as the fluids from his drip bag enter his vein. “I’ve always gotten really depressed during the summer. I don’t know why. I know most people get depressed during the winter, but it’s always been summer for me. Sandy broke up with me again last week. I think she’s serious this time. We got into this argument about our future together, and this new job she was offered out of state. I said some pretty shitty things to her.” 

“Like what?” 

Richie stiffens up for a moment. And there’s that look again, that unreadable look where his eyes seem to glaze over. “I think that’s something that should stay between her and me,” he says, serious. 

Steve keeps his mouth shut.  

“The plan was just to drink myself stupid and pass out on the couch. Nothing too crazy. But then, I started to get this feeling. Like I was being watched. My chest started hurting like how it does when you want to cry really badly. But I couldn’t remember why I wanted to cry. I was so tired. I thought maybe if I popped a few pills, I’d be able to go to sleep. One pill turned to two turned into a whole fistful. Before I knew it, I was throwing up, trying my hardest not to pass out.”

 “Jesus, Richie, that’s terrible.”

“Yeah, it tasted like shit too. I had eaten this huge - ”

“I don’t need to hear about that. You keep that to yourself.”

“My bad. I wasn’t trying to kill myself, not really. It’s just. Something I think about from time to time. And this time, it kinda got out of hand. I got freaked out and called the ambulance. I don’t know how they understood me. I felt like my mouth was full of vomit the entire time. My clothes were soaked in the stuff.” Richie laughs because the memory of him being covered in his own vomit was funny to him, apparently. Steve didn’t find that shit funny at all. “Turned out to be for the best, though, the doctor said I managed to vomit most of the pills out. I was super dehydrated, so they stuck a needle in me and hooked me up to this here thing,” he says, slapping his arm right over where the needle met his vein. Now, Steve’s never been attached to an IV before, but he had a suspicion you weren’t supposed to do that. “They made me use one of those breathing machines for a bit, too. I felt like a kid with asthma.”

Steve feels like he could gag. He probably looks like it, too. The way Richie told it, you’d think it was just another one of his stand-up routines. Like it didn’t matter at all. “You need help, Richie,” he manages to say. 

Richie smirks. “Yeah, maybe I do. You think they have space wherever Britney Spears went?”

Steve ignores his last comment and gets his phone out of his pocket. He starts going through his contacts, wondering who he knows that could help Richie out. Someone who could keep things hush-hush. “Listen, Richie, I’m gonna make some calls, see if we can get you a good therapist or psychiatrist or whatever it’s called. ”

“You gonna send me to the loony bin, Steve?” Richie asks with a smile. 

“Shut up, lots of people get therapy nowadays. It’s not like how it was when our parents were our age. It’s better, I think. Listen, I don’t know. I wish I understood what you’re going through, really, I do, but I don’t. But, I’m gonna help you out. It’s what I get paid for.” Steve regrets saying that last part just as it leaves his lips; he wishes he could just shut up and pretend all of this was purely altruistic. Maybe it was. He did like Richie, he didn’t want him to die. But, it wasn’t appropriate for their relationship to go further than this. If he and Richie were friends, it would make Steve’s job a whole lot harder. If Steve were a real friend, he’d tell Richie to leave the industry altogether. Clearly, his job as professional clown was fucking up with his ability to deal with serious emotions. 

“I just feel like something's missing. I had it before, I think I lost it.” Richie sounds like he’s about to fall asleep, he’s not making any sense. When he closes his eyes, Steve thinks for a moment that maybe he’s passed out from exhaustion. In a drowsy voice, barely louder than a whisper, Richie mumbles, “You know. I didn’t think it would feel so bad. I thought pills were supposed to be painless. He always took them, no problem.”

Steve doesn’t ask.

Richie is cleared to leave the hospital that night. Dressed in clean clothes, you could hardly tell he’d been brought in as a suicide risk. Except for the bags under his eyes. 

The stigma around mental health, especially for people in the public eye, was not great back then.

Steve remembers how one picture of Richie being lifted into the back of the ambulance evolved into month-long speculations of him being addicted to coke or dabbling in heroin. But the paparazzi also had a lot of punching bags back then, they quickly forgot about Richie and moved on to the next depressed famous person. 

Richie agreed to see a therapist. He got a new prescription for some antidepressants and had his old xanax prescription decreased. He eventually got the okay to drink again, and soon everything went back to normal. 

Except there were times when Richie would make jokes about it. Wanting to kill yourself is all the rage now, Steve. Get with the program. Sometimes in private, sometimes on stage, most of the time online. And even though Steve knew it was just jokes, jokes Richie didn’t even write half of the time, it still made his skin crawl.

"What the fuck do you mean you're going to New York? I’ve been over here working my ass off trying to make sure you don’t go down in history as the first SNL alum to commit murder, and you’ve been making plans to fuck off to New York?”

There’s a glitch on his screen. Richie seems to be frozen in time. From what Steve could make out, it looked like he was in the middle of something. Probably packing to fuck off to New York, instead of coming home where he was actually needed. “I mean, when you put it like that, you kinda make me sound like an asshole.”

“You are an asshole! We don’t have time for this, Richie. Come tomorrow, every gossip rag in America is gonna be talking about this. It won’t matter what’s true and what’s not, it’s all gonna have your face plastered all over it,” Steve huffs. He feels like his head could just explode. “Do you really want to walk around New York seeing headlines like Richie Tozier, out of jail and on the run, plastered all over the place? Oh, how about Richie Tozier, maybe he did eat a guy's face. We don’t know, we can’t ask him!” 

On the other end of the FaceTime, Richie seems to shrug. His reception isn’t great, wherever he is, making his face distort now and then. “Steve, relax,” he says through the static. It’s already nighttime where he is, Steve can tell by the dark sky in the background. 

“Don’t tell me to relax! This is serious shit!” 

“I’ll ask Sandy to send you a copy of everything she has - ”

“You’re still talking to Sandy? Richie, are you sure you can…handle that right now?” Steve asks, concern dripping from his voice. 

Richie blinks, clearly confused. And then he starts to laugh. “Oh shit, Steve. That ship has sailed. Sandy’s married! She has a kid and everything. You don’t have to worry about lil ole me.” Richie takes a drag of a cigarette that Steve didn’t know he had. Was he outside? It sort of looked like he was. “Honestly, you crack me up sometimes.” 

Even though he told himself Richie didn’t deserve his concern, Steve does feel a wave of relief come over him knowing that Richie can’t get back together with his ex. Last thing Richie needed right now was the spontaneous rekindling of an old flame after getting out of jail. “Okay, good. How was she able to convince the police not to take your ass to court for this?”

“She didn’t have to. The police decided it was justifiable homicide. No point in taking it to court since that's legal here. Case closed.”

Steve's phone almost slips from his grip. Justifiable homicide? The label made the crime sound much worse than Richie’s tale of self-defense would imply. Richie had actually killed a man, and the police had decided that it was okay. “Holy shit, Richie, you actually killed a guy! Like, for real, killed another human being. I can’t believe this.” This entire time, it hadn’t processed just how insane this all was. Richie, his man-child of a client, with his Bugs Bunny impersonation and closet full of ugly Hawaiian shirts, had killed a guy. “Once the news outlets get a hold of this, you’ll be stuck doing interviews about it for the next decade.” 

“Maybe my next tour can be called American Maine-iac.” Richie pauses for laughter that never comes. “It’s funny because I…I killed him with an axe. Get it.”

Steve snaps back into attention. “An axe? Oh my god, Richie, what the fuck!” 

“I know!” 

Steve is suddenly overcome with the urge to drink himself stupid. It’s a feeling he hasn’t felt in years. “Let’s just hope people don’t start saying you’re secretly some kind of serial killer,” Steve rambles. “Why exactly do you need to go to New York anyway? What could possibly be more important than fixing your reputation?”

“A friend is getting divorced. I wanna be there for him.”

Steve cocks an eyebrow. “A friend?” 

“Yeah, he’s great. You’re gonna love him. He was my best friend as a kid, we used to get into so much trouble. But we always stuck together, and he just really needs someone to be there for him during all this.”

And as much as Steve wanted to be mad at Richie, he just couldn’t do it. Even the bad call quality couldn’t dull the joy on Richie’s face as he talked about this friend. Richie had a friend.  An honest-to-God friend. Probably more than just one. Richie Tozier not-so-fun-fact #3. Richie Tozier has no real friends. 

“Is there anything I can say to change your mind?” Steve asks. And it’s a challenge, Steve was more than ready to organize whatever bullshit Richie wanted if it meant getting his ass back home. 

“Nope,” Richie answers immediately. He didn’t even need to think it over. 

Steve receives a very friendly email from Sandy the following morning. A little too friendly considering how she and Richie had ended things. He wondered, briefly, what Richie had said to her to convince her to help him out during all of this.

HENRY BOWERS was first arrested under suspicion of murdering his father, OSCAR BOWERS, after his deceased body was found in their family home. HENRY BOWERS was apprehended and taken into police custody. Initial reports indicate he was ‘covered in sewer waste…remnants of hair, blood, and what appeared to be rotten meat on his clothes’. 

Following his initial arrest, the bodies of VICTOR CROSS and REGINALD HUGGINS were discovered deceased in an abandoned vehicle outside of 29 NEIBOLT STREET. Their bodies sustained injuries that matched those seen on the body of OSCAR BOWERS. 

The preceding investigation resulted in the identification of six corpses that were discovered floating in the Kenduskeag following HENRY BOWERS' arrest, all in varying states of decomposition. All of the bodies belonged to local children who had gone missing from the surrounding area in the days between MAY 25, 1989 and AUGUST 24, 1989. 

The bodies identified include: 

• BETTY RIPSON
• CHERYL LAMONICA
• EDWARD CORCORAN
• PATRICK HOCKSTETTER
• ESTHER SINCLAIR
• JIMMY CULLUM

Among the bodies that police were able to identify were the remains and belongings of 10 to 50 other unidentified victims. The total number of bodies is still unknown. A rainboot identified as belonging to GEORGE ELMER DENBROUGH was also found among the remains. GEORGE ELMER DENBROUGH was reported missing between MAY 25, 1989 and AUGUST 24, 1989, and is believed to be a victim of HENRY BOWERS despite his remains never being found. 

HENRY BOWERS was officially charged with the murder of BETTY RIPSON, CHERYL LAMONICA, EDWARD CORCORAN, PATRICK HOCKSTETTER, ESTHER SINCLAIR, JIMMY CULLUM, VICTOR CROSS, REGINALD HUGGINS, GEORGE ELMER DENBROUGH, and OSCAR BOWERS. 

Due to his age at the time of committing these crimes and eye witness testimony claiming he was seen ‘talking to himself’ during the proceeding trial, he was given a GBMI (Guilty But Mentally Ill) plea and sent to live in JUNIPER HILL ASYLUM. 

Comedian Richie Tozier Not Charged in Death of Convicted Serial Killer. 

Former Radio Personality Richie ‘Records’ Tozier Released From Local Jail; Police Deem Death Justifiable Homicide. 

Did Richie Tozier Use His Star Power To Get Away With Murder?

I Wish We Were Joking, But Richie Tozier Actually Did Kill A Cannibalistic Child Murderer. 

Steve thinks only Richie could somehow pull off becoming more popular after being arrested. The whole debacle with the cancelled tour and the refunded tickets didn’t even seem to matter to anyone anymore. 

Reading through the police investigation files was, to put it simply, a slog. The writing was not good, the work was shoddy at best, and the whole thing reeked of police incompetence. Steve’s eyes were seriously starting to suffer from spending so much time staring at his laptop screen. 

It didn’t take a genius to read between the lines and come to the conclusion that the Derry Police Department did not care that Henry Bowers was murdered. And it wasn't because he killed a bunch of innocent kids or because he was a raging racist, it was because he was a cop killer. The fact that Henry murdered his cop dad back in 1989 seemed to be the only thing the police actually gave a shit about. 

Henry Bowers murdered most of the on-duty night staff of Juniper Hill, some of his fellow asylum patients, and a bunch of innocent young kids, and the only one who was able to stop him was a mentally ill comedian? Honestly, it was laughable how little the police gave a shit.

Most news articles were unsurprisingly fixated on the speculation that Henry ate parts of his victims. From what Steve had read, that's all it was, speculation. But sensationalism got the clicks. 

From the interview transcripts, Steve discovered a lot of interesting things about his client, Richie, and his so-called friends. Most importantly, all of their legal names and a general idea of what they all looked like, thanks to some obsessive googling. They were an attractive bunch.

From what Steve could gather, their little reunion had been initiated by a man named Michael Hanlon, the local librarian and only member of their friend group to stay in Derry after high school. At some point during their reunion, Henry Bowers managed to escape the loony bin, kill a bunch of people, and start targeting them for whatever reason. Old middle school beef? Richie had caught Henry trying to kill Michael, and he stabbed him through the skull with an axe. Richie threw up on the spot when he realized what he’d done. Classic, Richie.

The police, who had been completely uninterested in apprehending Henry, suddenly became interested in doing their job and identified Richie as being at the scene of the crime along with all of his friends. All of them were brought in for police questioning and eventually released once the police decided that it would probably make them look less bad if they didn’t prosecute the guy who killed the serial killer they failed to stop. 

And that’s what the narrative was shaping up to be at least. There were so many little things that didn’t make sense. When asked what they all did after Richie killed Henry, they all pleaded the Fifth. It was weird. But Steve decided to count his blessings and move on.

Steve’s in the middle of rereading William Denbrough’s interview when he gets a call. 

It’s Richie. 

Steve picks up, nervous as to what this might be about. Did he get arrested again? Did he kill someone with a chainsaw this time? “Richie, I swear if you killed someone again - ”

“Hey Steve, have you ever had an affair?” Richie blurts out, ignoring all of Steve’s concerns. 

“Jesus Christ, Richie, isn’t it super late where you are right now? Why are you asking me nonsense?” 

“Yes or no?” 

“Why do you care?”

“Yes or no?” Richie insists. 

Steve sighs. Clearly, Richie wasn't going to let this go. He could hang up, but then Richie would probably just call him again. “No, Richie,” Steve began, “I’ve never had an affair. I date someone, I lose interest, and then we break up. You know, like a normal person.” 

“Right, right. So let’s say, hypothetically - ”

Steve lets out an exaggerated groan, the kind only kids and people annoyed with Richie seem capable of. “Richie, I don’t care what married socialite you've decided to stick your dick in while you’re in New York.” 

“No, man, this is serious. What if you really, really love someone, but they're stuck in this shitty marriage? Like really shitty. Do you think that, I don’t know, makes the affair less bad?”

Steve wants to say that he doesn’t care. He wants to tell Richie to hang up and not waste either of their time with stupid questions. But Richie sounds like he’s genuinely been losing sleep over this; he sounds like this is what his life has become. Shit, what had Richie gotten into this time?

“Richie, are you asking me for permission to start an affair?”

There’s silence for a moment, and then a small laugh. “No.”

Steve feels a headache coming on. “I’m not gonna give you the go-ahead to start an affair. Richie, you killed a man. Let's deal with that scandal first before you go running off into another one, please." Steve has half a mind to hang up right then and there. And he probably would’ve if he were talking to anyone else. But this was Richie, so instead he adds, “But, hypothetically, if you really, really love them, then who cares what I think. You should listen to your heart or whatever those sappy love songs say.” 

“Yeah, I thought so,” Richie’s voice comes out low and quiet. Like he’s trying not to wake someone up. 

“Good night, Richie.” 

“Night, Steve.”

After Richie hangs up, Steve is filled with an immobilizing sense of dread. Richie Tozier was in love. Steve could tell just from the sound of his voice. Richie was in love. He was in love with someone who was married. Unhappily married, but still.

Without thinking, Steve scrolls down to Beverly Rogan’s interview. The only woman in their middle school friend group.

Officer Jagermeyer: Mrs. Rogan, were you aware that your husband is currently in police custody? 

Beverly Rogan: No. No, I wasn’t.

Officer Jagermeyer: He was taken in for driving under the influence. Seems like he was also charged with battery. And, it looks like someone is trying to get him charged with domestic violence. Do you know anything about that?

Beverly Rogan: What does this have to do with Richie getting arrested?

Beverly Rogan, of Rogan-Marsh Fame, Files For Divorce From Business Partner Husband.

Fashion Designer Beverly Rogan Accuses Soon-To-Be Ex-Husband of Domestic Abuse. 

Tom Rogan Arrested For Drunk Driving Outside of New York Home. 

Beverly Rogan Dating New Man Amid Tom Rogan Split?

Richie Tozier Spotted on Coffee Date with Beverly Rogan-Marsh.

Despite everything, it feels good having Richie back in LA. 

Steve isn’t properly introduced to any of Richie’s new friends until the night before Richie’s first real interview post-arrest. Not for nothing, but Steve was able to get him a pretty good time slot. He even got the interviewer to agree to focus less on the whole ‘your middle school bully ate your friends' little brother’ thing and more on how Richie saved a man’s life. And probably decreased the child mortality rate in Maine overall.

“Richie, why does your house look like a daycare for forty-year-olds?” Steve asks, looking out at the mess throughout Richie’s kitchen and living room. It’s like they were having a little party; they had a cake and everything. Faces he had known only as images on his phone screen were suddenly right in front of him. There goes William Denbrough, famous horror writer who, if the blind items are true, may or may not be planning to divorce his famous actress wife, Audra Phillips, soon. He’s pretty handsome in person.

Actually, if you asked Steve, he’d say Richie had somehow found himself in a group of mostly handsome guys. Not that Steve was into men, but he works in entertainment; he knows a hot guy when he sees one.

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Richie started, putting a hand on Steve’s back and leading them to the outside patio where they won’t be heard. Richie’s house has a patio because he’s a rich asshole. He leaves the patio doors open, almost like he didn’t want to be out of his friend's sight. “We got a little carried away. It’s just the first time we’ve all been together since I got locked up in the slammer. They won’t be here for more than a week - ”

“A week? Richie, you don’t live in a motel! You can’t just have people staying in your house all the time.” 

“Stan and Patty will only be here for a week! They came all the way from Atlanta to see me. Mike is staying with Bill, and Ben is already looking for a temporary apartment in the area - ”

“Why couldn’t you just pay for their hotel rooms or - Wait, did you say Mike? As in Michael Hanlon? The guy whose life you saved? Do you think he’d be willing to do the interview with you?” Steve was already starting to walk back inside. He’s sure he and Mike can work out some kind of deal, have a contract ready by tomorrow.

Richie’s hand holds him back. “Mike and Bill are heading to Florida in two weeks. The only ones staying here after that are Bev and Eddie,” Richie explains, pushing Steve into one of the patio chairs. The sun was barely just starting to go down, the air was crisp and smelled like dirt. 

Steve snaps back into attention. “Why?” he asks, trying not to sound pissed off. “Richie, your reputation still isn’t in the clear. It’s very important you take these next few weeks seriously. No funny business.” 

“I know, I know,” Richie huffs, slumping down in the chair next to him. He slouches, and Steve isn’t sure if it’s because he’s tired or if it’s a jab at how short Steve is compared to him. “Bev doesn’t have a home right now. Divorce stuff. It’s really shitty, and I’m not going to let her risk her safety by going back to New York where that psycho is.”

Right. Beverly's husband was an abusive ass hat. It makes sense she wouldn’t want to be anywhere near him. She hasn’t talked about it much publicly, but rumors were circulating, rumors of bruises hidden under makeup and threats of violence. Tom Rogan in a New York jail cell, drunk out of his mind, screaming that he was chasing after his ‘whore wife’.

It was kind of romantic, Steve supposed, Richie protecting his new girlfriend like this. Not that Richie confessed to Steve that Beverly was the one he was seeing, but who else could it be?

“What about Edward? Is Edward getting divorced, too?” Steve jokes, but Richie’s giving him one of those awkward ‘don't be mad at me, mom’ smiles. “God, Richie, are you a curse upon these people’s marriages or something? Why are all your friends getting divorced?”

Richie snickers. “Hey, I’ll have you know Stan’s marriage is going great.”

“So, how long can I expect Edward to stay here? A month? Three months?”

“Oh, uhh…maybe in - ”

“Richie-Richie, he lives in a ditchie! Where are you?” a feminine voice seems to shout from inside. 

Richie’s eyes brighten, he instantly looks a decade younger. “Bevvie-Bevvie from the levee! I’m out here!” Richie yells. He gets up from his chair, seems to forget about Steve altogether. 

Steve recognizes her instantly as she steps out onto the patio. Beverly Rogan, soon to be Beverly Marsh, the small red-headed fashion designer currently having some kind of affair with Richie. She’s prettier in person; the candid shots taken of her walking around town with Richie always seem to capture her in unflattering angles. 

“I didn’t know you were out here with someone. Hi, I’m - ”

“Beverly Rogan,” Steve finishes for her. “I know who you are.” Steve doesn’t intend for it to come out as rude, but Beverly seems to take it as such, she stiffens a little, sensing she’s not wanted.

“I actually go by Marsh now,” Bev says, she has a defiant look in her eye. Steve decides then and there that he likes her. 

“Don’t take it personally, Bevvie. Steve here doesn't know how to act around pretty girls.” 

Before Steve can say anything to defend himself, Beverly starts to laugh. She covers her mouth with her hand, embarrassed.

“No way. This is Steve? We’ve heard a lot about you.” She looks Steve up and down, seems to laugh at a joke only she knows. “Eddie’s looking for you, I’ll go tell him you're out here,” she says, heading back inside. 

“You two seem to be getting along,” Steve says, giving Richie the perfect opportunity to confess his secret affair. 

“Bev’s great, she's like the perfect roommate a guy could ask for,” Richie responds casually, not even breaking a sweat. 

“What about your other roommate? Eddie?” He says it mockingly because, honestly, weren’t they a little old to have special nicknames for each other? 

“Eds is pretty great, too,” Richie starts, this time he actually does look a little nervous. “Wait until you meet him, Steve. You’ll love him.”

“Is this really okay for you? To be around all these…guys?” 

Richie looks at him, confused, not understanding what Steve was implying. 

A man steps out onto the patio, Steve’s eyes seem naturally drawn to him. The stitches on his cheek are a dead giveaway. Just like all of his other friends, Edward Kaspbrak is a pretty handsome guy. 

Steve gets up from his seat, ready to greet him, when Richie beats him to the punch. 

“Speak of the devil! Steve, this is Eddie,” Richie says, putting an arm around Eddie’s shoulder. And maybe it’s Steve projecting, but he swears he hears Richie's voice perk up when he says the other man’s name. Eddie, the same one from the police interview. Up close, Steve could see that his hair was a little messed up, like he’d spent all morning trying to get it into place only for someone to ruin it by running their fingers through it. He was one of those guys who looked better like that, with their hair slightly unkept. He looks sort of familiar. Like an actor from an old movie. “He’s…my other roommate.” He does not elaborate after that.

Eddie flashes Richie a look; something unspoken is shared between them in that instant. 

“Nice to meet you,” Eddie says, giving Steve a small smile that seems to get caught in his stitches. He’s wearing a black jacket that seems to hang off his shoulders, looking too big on him. Almost as if it wasn't his at all. Steve thinks he vaguely remembers Richie owning a jacket just like that one. ”Thanks for watching over Richie for us for all these years.”

“No problem,” Steve spits out. He feels his pulse quicken a bit. Up close, Steve now grasps that he looks a lot like Anthony Perkins, the actor from Psycho (but Steve knew more from his performance in The Trial).

“You’re a real saint for putting up with Rich’s bullshit all these years. Must be hard managing a comedian that isn’t funny.”

“Hey!” Richie chimes in with faux offense. 

“He’s charismatic, that’s like half the job, really,” Steve admits. He feels awkward around Eddie, but he’s not sure why. Eddie has big eyes; he has the look of a deer staring into a pair of headlights on an open road before scurrying away. He gives Steve a small, weak smile again, the friendly kind you give to a stranger, before moving his eyes toward Richie. When Eddie looks at Richie, he can’t stop the real smile that takes over his face, his huge eyes seeming to get bigger just to take more of Richie in. 

Oh no. Steve knows that look.

“Sorry, Edward. Do you mind leaving me and Richie alone for a bit? We have work stuff we need to discuss,” Steve insists. It seems to catch both of them off guard.

“Okay,” Eddie responds quietly. “I‘ll catch you later, Rich.” He gives Richie one last look before walking away and stepping back inside, closing the patio doors behind him.  

“What the fuck, Steve?” Richie asks, annoyed. 

“Richie, Edward can’t stay with you,” Steve states bluntly. 

“What? Yes, he can, Steve. Last time I checked, this was my house, and I can do whatever I want,” Richie lashed out rather defensively. He looks upset, angrier than Steve’s seen in years. 

“No, he can’t.” Was Richie stupid? Couldn’t he see that Eddie was into him? Steve obviously didn’t consider himself an expert in these kinds of things, but he’s lived in LA long enough to know a gay guy when he saw one. Or at least nine times out of ten, he did. “Are you sure you're good to hang out with a guy like him?” Steve mutters, worried about catching the attention of anyone inside. He’s not sure how much Richie has told his friend about his…condition. 

Richie looks at him, puzzled. “Uh…yeah? Why would I not be?” 

“Because of your…thing.” 

Richie blinks, trying to remember what the fuck Steve was referring to. “My thing?”

“Yes, your diagnosis! The one you’ve been in therapy for for years!”

Richie seems to finally understand. He makes a face like he wants to laugh. “Oh, that!”

“Yeah, that. Or did you fry your brain so bad on your little trips that you forgot you have - ”

“I’m actually better now.” 

Steve shuts up. 

“You’re…you’re cured?” Steve hesitates. He realizes immediately that ‘cured’ was maybe not the best word for it. Richie looks uncomfortable. Way to go, Steve. You really showed your knowledge of how mental health works with that one. “Shit, sorry. I didn’t mean…I mean, I know it’s not something that you can cure. I just meant - ”

Richie laughs it off, like he usually does when stuff he doesn’t feel comfortable talking about get brought up. He pats Steve’s back and says, “It’s okay, Steve, I get it. No, I’m not cured; it’s a little bit more complicated than that. But I’m in a better place with it. Stuff’s changed.” 

“Changed?” 

“Yeah. For the better.” Richie smiles. And Steve wants to believe him. 

“That’s. That’s great. I’m really happy for you. How? When did you…Sorry, I have no idea how to talk about this.”

“Don’t worry about it, man. It feels great, like a weight’s been lifted off my shoulders. God, I’ll tell you, Steve, these last few weeks have been like a dream come true. Cmon, let’s not argue over this. I’ll pour you a drink, and I’ll get you a slice of cake.”

“Why did you get a cake?” 

“Every I-got-away-with-murder party needs a cake!”

Steve knows that Richie is dodging the question. He decides to let sleeping dogs lie. Richie would talk to him about it when he was ready, he supposed.

Richie does make it to the interview on time the following morning. He doesn’t complain when the makeup team forces his ass into the chair. They put foundation on his neck to cover up a bruise that looked suspiciously like a hickey. Steve doesn’t ask about it. 

Richie does well in the interview, Steve thinks, but you never really knew with this kind of stuff until after the show aired. 

After it was done, Steve watched as Richie disappeared with his group of friends again, off to do god knows what, like a group of kids on Summer Vacation. 

Richie Tozier not-so-fun-fact #2. Richie Tozier has some…specific mental health issues. Admittedly, Steve was happy to cross that one off his list. Like a lot of people his age, he doesn't really get the whole mental health thing. He knows it’s important and that you have to take care of yourself, both body and mind, but if you put a gun to his head and told him to explain the difference between ADD, ADHD, and OCD, well, the gun would go off. 

Before Richie, Steve had never known anyone dealing with any major mental health issues. 

“HOCD?” Steve remembers trying to sound supportive; he remembers it was difficult because of how little he knew about OCD back then. In the coming years, he’d come to understand a bit better; he’d keep a page open on his phone reminding him of the symptoms Richie’s particular brand of OCD caused him. But in 2009, he really hadn’t known shit. 

Richie avoided looking at him. Under the lights of his dressing room, he looked uncharacteristically small. “They’re thinking about changing the name to SO-OCD.”

“I don’t care what they call it, dude. OCD is like that thing where you have to wash your hands all the time, right? What does the H stand for?” 

After Richie’s little adventure with mixing xanax and alcohol, Steve had been keeping a close eye on him. Which had been tricky because Richie had done everything in his power not to talk about how his new therapy sessions were going. 

“Can we not do this right now? We have a show tonight and - ”

“Believe me, Richie, I didn’t want to have this talk right here, right now either. But that’s what happens when you ignore your manager's calls for three weeks.” 

“Right, sorry,” Richie mumbled under his breath. 

“Don’t apologize, man, just tell me what’s up. We both know you’re like a tortured artist or whatever it’s called.”

For the first time that afternoon, Richie actually looked at Steve. His stare was stern and serious. It had struck Steve as funny, at the time, how unserious Richie had been while in the hospital for a goddamn suicide attempt compared to how serious he looked right then and there. “Give me your word, this stays between us, alright? It’s really fucking humiliating for me to talk about this kind of stuff.” 

“Yeah, yeah, I won’t tell a soul. Who would I even tell, anyway?”

“You can’t make fun of me either.”

“I’m not the comedian here, Richard. I doubt I’m funny enough to make fun of you.”

Richie let out a deep breath. He bounced his foot, trying to calm down his nerves. In a low voice, he said, “They told me I have homosexual obsessive-compulsive disorder.” 

Steve had been, for lack of a better word, speechless. At the time, he’d thought Richie had been coming out to him. “I didn’t know gay guys got their own version of OCD,” he whispered. 

Richie had looked at him, dumbfounded. “That’s not. That’s not what it means!”

“What does it mean, then! That you have anxiety about…gay men? Because if that’s it, I’m not sure you can work in this industry anymore. We might have to move you out of California.”

Steve tried to navigate the situation as delicately as he could muster, but admittedly, he had no point of reference for stuff like this. Alcoholism, drug abuse, mistresses, those were problems that were common in Hollywood. Those were problems he was prepared to deal with. This, he didn’t know what to do about this. 

Richie stifles a laugh. “No, I’m not like homophobic or anything.” 

“I never said you were.” 

“It’s more like. This intense anxiety about people thinking I’m gay. Like I’m living this huge lie, and every relationship, every feeling I've ever felt, is just a lie. That I'm lying to myself, too. It makes me feel sick to my stomach. And all I can think about is reassuring myself and others that…I’m not gay.” Richie’s voice had failed him; he struggled getting the last part out. He'd ended up coughing it out, sounding like he wanted to bite his tongue off. 

Steve didn’t get it. Like at all. “I used to work with this one guy. He used to get really mad when he saw gay guys on the street.”

“I think that guy was actually just homophobic, Steve.” 

“My bad,” Steve said with a nervous chuckle. The air around them felt uneasy. “So what now? What’s the cure?” 

Richie scoffed. “There’s no cure for OCD. God, Steve read a book.”

“Okay, so how do you deal with it? Or manage it? Treat it? Whatever. What do we do about it?” 

Richie crossed his arms, whether it was out of wanting to comfort himself or a desire to make himself so small he’d disappear, Steve had no idea. “Antidepressants and more therapy. That’s really all I can do,” Richie answered, sounding like he was chewing on the inside of his cheek. 

As far as Steve knew, no one in Richie’s inner circle thought he was gay. Not really. Like, there were some jokes about how Richie was always ready to kiss a male co-star for a joke, but that’s all it was really. Steve knew that Richie had had girlfriends in the past; he’d lived with Sandy for over two years, they had almost gotten married twice. Twice! He got a vasectomy for her, for crying out loud. 

Was this all some weird masculinity thing? Just because Richie wasn’t some macho guy obsessed with going to the gym and guns, did he think that made him gay? Well, that was just stupid.

Show business was full of gay guys, ones who everyone knew were gay and ones who kept it a secret from the public eye. On more than one occasion, people had assumed Steve himself was gay; he didn’t care or let it bother him. But it clearly bothered Richie. 

“If it makes you feel any better, I don’t think you're gay,” Steve had said, trying to sound supportive.

It had made Richie laugh, that probably counted for something.

”Thanks, man. I knew I could count on you.”

Steve wants to like Richie’s friends, really, he does.

As a concept, they're great, a group of mostly famous people Richie can be seen with to help his public image. Yeah, sounds fantastic, just what Richie needs. But in practice, they were a bit of a liability. 

Now, Steve admittedly had never been popular as a kid. More than once, he’d been left behind as one of the boys that no one wanted to dance with at the middle school dance. But he never expected to feel like the kid excluded from the cool kids' table at the ripe old age of forty. But that was really the only way to describe what he felt when Richie was with his friends. 

While he’s been in New York, Steve had been here preparing for the worst. He’d developed a full game plan for Richie’s post-justifiable homicide career. Richie would posts an apology for canceling the old tour, he’d thank his fans for all the support while he was away, do a few carefully planned interviews, and gets back into the swing of things. In a year’s time, he’s be back onstage.

Steve had prepared for backlash; he’d prepared for the public to turn on Richie once they remembered who he was, a crass, annoying comedian.

What he hadn’t anticipated was the public’s odd fascination with Richie’s new friend group. The Losers Club, they called themselves. 

Steve thinks it’s corny. 

“Can’t believe you got him tickets to Universal Studios. We can’t be encouraging this behavior,” Steve tells Carol one day at work. It seems like every day there’s a new viral tweet of Richie going for coffee with popular horror novelist William Denbrough, whose newest book, The Attic Room, was scheduled for release next year. Or maybe a paparazzi shot of him out on the town with Beverly Marsh, who he totally wasn’t sleeping with. All seven of them, they’re all weirdly codependent. Even the one who lived out of state. Today, the viral picture was of them going down the Jurassic Park ride. Where exactly were they getting all the money for these plane tickets to and from LA? 

Carol rolls her eyes at him. “What’s the harm?” she starts, typing away at her computer, “I think it’s sweet, reconnecting with old friends. You should take note, Steve. You're becoming bitter in your old age.” 

Steve wants to say that when she gets to be his age, she’ll see how hard it is to maintain adult friendships. That most people have work and family responsibilities and can’t drop everything to go ride roller coasters with a comedian whose last Netflix special got a 67% on Rotten Tomatoes. But he keeps his mouth shut. Steve was still mostly happy for Richie, despite everything. He was less thrilled about the affair he seemed to be having. God, he really hopes no one leaks that story. 

“You know,” Carol whispers, like she's sharing a secret, “Richie’s request lately, they’ve been weirdly…romantic.”

“Really?” Steve tries to sound surprised. 

“Yeah! He kept asking me for good museums to visit or if I knew about any nice botanical gardens he could get tickets to. I asked him if he had a hot date, and you know what he said?” Steve pushes in close to her. “He said he did! Can you believe it! Richie’s in love.”

“I’m shocked.” Steve was, in fact, not shocked. He knew Richie was in love, he just didn’t think anyone else would be able to pick up on it. 

It admittedly does take some getting used to. Steve’s not accustomed to knocking on Richie’s door and having someone else answer. No one’s lived with Richie since Sandy. Sometimes it’s Beverly. Most of the time, though, it’s Eddie. Eddie Kaspbrak, the guy from New York with the sad eyes of a cartoon basset hound. The one who looks like Anthony Perkins. The one who shouldn’t be here and really shouldn’t be living with Richie. 

Richie starts writing his own material again, he does small secret shows in clubs, the kind without his name on the ticket, testing out new bits and routines. It’s a little nostalgic for both of them; he looks like he did a decade ago when he was just starting up. He seems happy, like really happy. It’s after a rehearsal for one of these secret shows that Steve overhears it. 

As in, verbal confirmation that Richie was, in fact, seeing someone. Straight from the horse's mouth. 

“Be careful with that,” Richie had said when Carol made some offhanded comment about getting married to her long-term boyfriend. “The person I’m seeing right now got married young, and now the divorce is really ruining our honeymoon phase.”

“Richard Tozier, dating again? I thought I’d never see the day.” Carol laughed. “Now is this one of your famous imaginary girlfriends or is this the real deal?”

Even before Richie’s standup became riddled with fake anecdotes about a crazy girlfriend who sort of hated him, Richie was known for constantly lying about being in a serious relationship when he wasn’t. Women would come up to him, try to hit on him, and he’d apologize, say he was taken, and then walk off. Sometimes he’d even say he was married. Steve had asked him once why he did that, Richie had said he didn’t know, but it felt true at the time. Whatever that meant.

“It’s the real deal,” Richie had said with a grin. Carol had made a noise, something like a squeal, while Steve tried to look busy on his phone to avoid suspicion. “I was wondering, Carol, could you maybe make reservations for us to eat out this Saturday? Somewhere nice,” Richie whispered. It had taken all of Steve’s focus just to catch what he had said. 

“Sure. What are you guys hungry for? Italian? A steakhouse?”

“Let’s go with Italian. I’m in the mood to eat two kinds of spaghetti that night.” Richie had laughed at his own joke while Carol looked at him, confused.

Steve didn’t get the joke either.

After that, the sighs became obvious. 

Steve would go over to Richie’s house to talk business as usual, except the place felt different now. Like someone had come in and exorcised all its ghosts. It’s cleaner now, cleaner than it has been in years, less cluttered too. Most of Richie’s nerd shit was still proudly on display, though. 

Richie’s fridge is consistently fully stocked, now. Not just fully stocked, fully stocked with foods Steve’s never seen Richie eat in the decade he’s known him. Foods like oat milk and kale and yogurt and zucchini. Where had the day-old takeout and soda gone? Richie’s bathroom sink suddenly overflowed with lotions and sunscreens and facewash and skincare Steve couldn’t even name. Last time he’d been in Richie’s bathroom, all Richie had was regular hand soap and that one 18-in-1 soap that Steve wasn’t sure he actually used or if he only owned it as a joke. Suitable for hair, body, laundry, pets, and food? Yeah, sure.

Steve struggles to broach the topic when he sees Richie. It shouldn’t be this hard, he thinks, to talk about this kind of stuff. It was pretty standard conversation between guy friends, right?

“I know,” Steve blurts out one day, just as Richie had gotten done with a late-night talk show appearance.

Richie looked at him, a bit lost. “You know?” he said it slowly, as if he was trying to figure out what Steve was referring to. 

“I know that…that you’re seeing someone. I know that it wasn’t just a hypothetical.” Steve spits it out.

Richie’s entire body seems to stiffen a little. He gets that fidgety, nervous look he always gets when he’s embarrassed. “Yeah…yeah, I am. Are you upset?”

Steve is surprised at this question. Sure, starting an affair with a woman who was still legally married was a little weird, but it wasn’t morally reprehensible or anything. Especially when that woman’s ex was an abusive piece of shit. But maybe Richie still felt bad about it; it was still an affair at the end of the day. “No, I’m not upset. I just hoped you would’ve told me. We’re friends. I mean, we are friends, right, Richie?” 

“Yeah, man, of course we’re friends. I wanted to tell you. I’ve wanted to tell you for a long time, actually. It’s just that these sorts of things. They’re hard, you know. You never know how people will react.” 

Steve puts a reassuring hand on Richie’s shoulder, it’s a little awkward since Richie’s so much taller than him but he thinks it suits them just fine. “Yeah, the world's full of assholes. But, at the end of the day, the only thing that matters is that you two are happy.” Steve remembers how the tabloids tore Beverly apart after she was first spotted out with Richie. Accused her of moving on too soon or lying about the abuse she endured just to ruin Tom Rogan’s good name. The best way to get over a man is to get under a new one, isn’t that right, Beverly? Turns out the fashion industry was full of vultures too; it couldn’t have been easy for either of them, both of them being famous and all. “You two, you are happy, right?”

“I think I’m the happiest I’ve ever been,” Richie smiled. He seems to blush a little, probably remembering a moment in their courtship.

It was sweet. Steve wasn’t aware that an adult could still feel like that about a relationship. He’d always assumed those butterflies in the stomach and heart palpitations stopped after the age of thirteen. Richie Tozier doesn't have a romantic bone in his body (unless you count his dick, and even then). Richie Tozier, a hopeless romantic, who would’ve guessed?

“Listen, I know I should like. Come out and stuff, but I really don’t want to worry about that. We all have so much to worry about with this whole post-murder rebrand thing,” Richie says, his hands shaking a little as he spoke.

Honestly, celebrities and their need to announce every new relationship. Steve’s never understood it; not everything needed to be an Instagram post. “Don’t worry about it,” Steve reassured. “You just have fun with the girlfriend, your secret’s safe with me.”

For a brief second, Richie looks confused again. He looks down at Steve, and they share, what Steve assumes to be, a knowing glance. Richie nods, like he understands. “Yeah, the girlfriend.”

Richie starts using the phrase the Girlfriend a lot after that. 

“Hey, Richie, everyone's going out for drinks, you should come,” Carol or Chuck or O’Hara or whoever else would ask.

Only for Richie to respond with an uninterested, “Can’t, have a date planned with the Girlfriend tonight.”

Richie, let’s go for coffee. Can’t, I’m meeting the Girlfriend for brunch.

Richie, are you free next Saturday? No, me and the Girlfriend like watching movies on Saturday.

Richie, what’s up with that bruise you have on your neck? The Girlfriend bit me.

Richie, your next daytime interview is this Wednesday. Oh, sorry, can we reschedule? Me and the Girlfriend have tickets to the aquarium. 

It’s gotten so bad that it was starting to affect his writing. His jokes kept getting derailed by his weird need to talk about his new partner. During rehearsals, he’d go off on these tangents that he just couldn’t share with the world right now. 

Lots of comedians seemed to think everyone wanted to know all about who they’re fucking, when they’re fucking, and how many they’re fucking. That guy who says he’s banging multiple different chicks a week? Yeah, he’s happily married. That guy whose whole thing is playing up how he loves his wife and has the sex appeal of a wet sock? He’s getting divorced, and he probably cheated on his ex-wife with a model. 

And yeah, Richie had unfortunately fallen into this category for years back in the day. He’d joke about hooking up with his coworkers mom or masturbating to random women’s Facebook pages, but that’s all it was. Just jokes. Richie was, at the end of the day, like a barking dog. And barking dogs never bite. Steve trusted Richie to make gross jokes about masturbating and his sex life and how huge his dick is while being on his best behavior in real life. 

Except, it seems like, for the first time in his life, Richie Tozier actually had an active sex life. And boy was he ready to allude to it. 

Steve thinks he should be happy for Richie. Men should be happy when their male friends are getting laid, right? 

Richie’s next big show was a private one, with limited tickets and very limited promotion, but his name was actually on the ticket this time around. It was a show done mainly to see if the general public was even still interested and willing to see Richie’s actual stand-up. A lot of people seem to have forgotten about Richie Tozier, the comedian, in favor of Richie Tozier, guy from Twitter.

Stan warns him that it’s maybe still too soon to talk about his new relationship. That the general public still saw him as that comedian from the child murder capital of the United States. Nobody wants to hear about how you and the Girlfriend got stuck in a mating press last week, so maybe let’s cut that joke out.

Richie promised to keep the Girlfriend talk to a minimum. Unfortunately, its replacement is arguably worse. 

Richie T. 

hey man can you stop by my place and get my ballsack i forgot to get it before i left 

Steve audibly groans when he sees the message. He thinks the juggling bit Richie’s been trying to incorporate (force would be a better word for it) into his routine is stupid. But he really doesn’t have a say in the matter.

Steve doesn’t expect anyone to be home when he puts his key in and strolls in through the back door like he owns the place. He makes his way to Richie’s room, last time he was here, he’d torn the place up looking for drugs. He remembers how barren and sad it had looked to him back then. The room had more personality now. Some of Richie’s nerd shit had been moved in here, but he also had pictures hung up now. Pictures of him and the other Losers, some from when they were kids, even. On Richie’s desk, there's a picture of an awkward-looking blonde woman with glasses, smiling ear to ear, next to a man who looks suspiciously a lot like Richie. 

Steve finds Richie’s famous ball sack. It’s no more than an old pillow case with the word ‘balls’ written on the front in black marker filled with a bunch of small, plastic balls. Steve’s about to leave when he’s overcome with the weird urge to confirm something he already knows. 

He tells himself not to do it, that there’s no point. But, at the same time, all he can think is, well, what’s the harm?

Steve goes over to Richie’s bedside table and opens the top drawer. There are no condoms. For a moment, Steve gets worried; they do not need an unplanned pregnancy scandal right now. But then he remembers, Richie had gotten a vasectomy. Richie did have a lot of lube, though. Good for Richie, he supposed. 

Steve walks out of Richie’s room, ball sack in hand, and starts making his way to the front door when he hears a quiet cough. Right in the center of the living room was Eddie, folding laundry, in a pair of shorts and a shirt that were both two sizes too big on him. He jumps a little when he sees Steve lingering by the entrance.

“Shit, sorry. Richie didn’t say you’d be here,” Steve stammers, nearly tripping over himself.

“It’s okay, dude. I just wasn't expecting company. If I had known you were stopping by, I probably would’ve put pants on,” Eddie says, standing up and letting Steve see what he had originally thought were shorts were actually a pair of baggy boxers, white ones with little red hearts on them. He also sees that Eddie’s shirt has the phrase ‘You won’t Believe How BIG it is!’ printed on the front. 

Steve’s heart skips a beat. “I-I came for Richie's - ugh. I came for his ball sack.” He feels stupid saying it. 

Eddie lets out a sigh. “He’s not seriously gonna do that juggling bit on stage, is he? It’s not even funny.” 

“Right! That’s what I said! But he insists.” 

“No wonder he used ghost writers for most of his career.” Eddie lets out a small laugh, and for some reason, that makes Steve feel like he has a stomach full of butterflies. Dressed the way he is, Steve can tell that Eddie’s in really good shape. Toned and fit, strong legs like a runner.

Steve likes Eddie. Not in a romantic way, at least he doesn’t think it’s like that. Steve was really too old to be dealing with a sexuality crisis. And it would be really stupid to try to hook up with Richie’s roommate right now. But, he likes how Richie seems to always be on his best behavior when Eddie was around.

“Do you need anything? Coffee? Water? Or just the ball sack?” Eddie asks, and Steve can tell he’s trying hard not to laugh.

“Just the ball sack. Thanks anyway, though, Edward.”

“God, Steve, loosen up a little. You can call me Eddie. Eds, if you're nasty. Well, actually, Richie might not like that.” 

It takes all of Steve’s mental fortitude not to blush. “Okay, thanks, Eddie.” Steve starts turning to leave out the front door when he stops dead in his tracks. “Will you be at the show tonight?” he asks in a bizarre moment of bravery. 

“Maybe. Gotta see if I have anything nice to wear.” 

Steve does see Eddie in the crowd later that night. Sitting right next to him is Beverly and another man Steve is pretty sure is another member of Richie’s little Losers Club, but for the life of him, he can’t remember which one. It’s either the one named Stan or Ben. He always mixes those guys up. No, it’s definitely Ben, he thinks. Stan was married, Stan was the one who lived in Atlanta. Ben’s the one who looks like a soccer player.

Usually, Steve listens to the shows from backstage; sometimes, he’d sneak up to where the audio and lighting guys were and watch from there, but this time, he was watching with the crowd. Richie swore the juggling bit was funnier in front of a crowd. What’s the joke? That he sucks at juggling. 

Richie gets on stage, his eyes pan the crowd, and Steve knows he sees them. His eyes light up, and Steve can see him visibly fighting the urge to smile.

“So, I’m kinda seeing someone right now. No, don't clap for that, you make me sound like a charity case. If you could see us together, you'd definitely think it was charity work. Like they’re the one who got arrested for murder, and dating me is some weird loophole I snuck into their parole requirements. And you would do it too! Trust me, going on a date with me is significantly better than spending the night in a jail cell. I say this from experience.

“But yeah. I’m kinda dating someone, it’s all very hush-hush right now. Dating someone when you’re past the age of thirty-five is weird. They get sad when we can’t go grocery shopping together, like that’s peak romance for them. I don’t know if any of you have ever experienced this, but the person I’m seeing. They write grocery lists by hand, already kind of weird, like that’s what the notes app on your phone is for, but okay whatever. And it wouldn’t be a problem. Except that they write them like they're the Jigsaw Killer. 

“Hello Richie, I want to play…a game. So far, in the pathetic excuse you call your life, you’ve enjoyed your days not eating the proper nutrients a man of your age needs. Society calls you a comedian, I call you unworthy of the body you’ve been given. That…stops now. The device you are wearing is set up to squeeze your balls until they pop. If you do not buy at least six different kinds of leafy green vegetables and three fruits, the machine will go off.”

The first unfortunate crack in the facade comes after the show.

It goes off without a hitch. Steve still didn’t find the juggling bit funny, but Richie struggling to balance more than five balls was apparently a big hit with the audience. 

Steve watches from a distance as Eddie leaves his seat, probably on his way to sneak backstage, probably to congratulate Richie on a job well done. Steve lingers for a little while, watches as Ben and Beverly talk, they’re smiling, and there's an ease to their movements, like they’re completely comfortable with each other. 

Steve has half a mind to walk up to them, ask them what they thought about the show. After all, he and Richie were friends, and by that logic any friend of Richie’s was a friend of his. 

And then it happens.

Beverly puts her hands on Ben’s cheeks, brings him in for a kiss. The type of kiss you don’t have with your friends. The type of kiss you definitely shouldn’t have with a supposed friend's girlfriend. 

Oh no.

If Steve weren’t a huge coward, he probably would’ve told Richie right then and there about what he saw. A real friend would’ve booked it, would’ve found Richie, and would’ve screamed in his face about how the girlfriend he loved so much was cheating on him with one of their mutual friends. 

But Steve doesn’t do that. 

Instead, he waits.

He watches as Ben and Beverly sneak backstage. He finds Richie, just as he's saying goodbye to all three of them. Richie looks flustered, and his hair’s a little messy. Steve’s unsure if it’s from the nerves of being on stage in front of a decently sized crowd again or if it’s from something else entirely. Maybe it’s Steve’s imagination, but his lips look a little shiny with spit. 

Steve tells Richie that the show had gone great, that he might be ready to perform on a real big stage again soon. He avoids Richie’s gaze and holds his tongue for the next week. Steve doesn’t complain or argue about Richie’s behavior; he lets Richie live in the fantasy just a little longer. 

Beverly Marsh Opens Up. Her Divorce, Surviving Abuse, and Finding New Love.

Steve has notifications on for all of Richie’s famous friends. It’s a precaution, really; he doesn’t actually care who’s getting the house in Bill and Audra’s divorce, but Richie was bound to bring it up, so it was better he stay informed. It was a little like studying for a test. And wherever the other Losers were, Richie was not far behind. Eddie never popped up in any of these articles, though, which was a little disappointing. 

Glancing over the article, Steve can’t help but think this is it. This is when Beverly and Richie were going to debut as a couple. Maybe that thing she had with Ben was just a casual fling, the kind that made her realize who she was really in love with.

Steve’s never experienced that personally, but it happens all the time in TV shows. Richie might not have been as handsome as Ben, but he had his good qualities. 

Beverly Marsh grew up the only daughter of an alcoholic father who would constantly belittle her. He would punish her for doing things most children do at that age, like going swimming or bike riding with her friends. She was taken away from his custody at age thirteen, but the abuse she endured as a child colored her relationships going forward. Tom Rogan was physically abusive towards her throughout their marriage, and Beverly tolerated it all because, for so long, that was the only love she knew how to accept. 

But things are looking up for Beverly Marsh. She’s currently living with her new partner, an architect by the name of Benjamin Hanscom, a childhood sweetheart who remembers her as being the cool red-haired girl who signed his yearbook when no one else did. 

Steve nearly chokes on his coffee. 

Poor Richie.

It was over. Beverly had chosen. 

Steve doesn’t even register how unprofessional it is to drive to your client's home on a random Sunday without warning; he just does it because he knows that Richie could really use a friend right now. And Steve was Richie’s friend. 

He picks up a box of donuts on the way there, gets all the weird flavors Richie likes, like the one that has bacon on it and the one that’s trying to be creme brulee, and doesn’t knock when he walks in. 

It’s quiet. He thinks Richie must still be asleep. Steve sets the donuts on the kitchen table and makes his way to Richie’s bedroom. As he got closer and closet to the door, Steve could make out these muffled noises coming from Richie’s bedroom. Noises like the sound of the bed creaking and someone sighing, or maybe they were crying.

There are plenty of things Steve doesn’t expect to see when he enters Richie’s room. And while he’s never ranked them, he does think Richie balls deep inside some guy was definitely at the top. 

“Oh my god!” Steve screams, like actually screams, covering his eyes in embarrassment. 

“Steve! What the fuck are you doing here?” Richie shouts in return, scrambling to cover himself and the guy he’s with.

The position they're in hadn’t helped; the guy had been riding Richie, meaning Richie’s body had been mostly hidden, but his poor bedmate's toned back and ass had basically been on full display. 

“Richie, pull out! Pull out!” an all too familiar voice yells as Richie tries and fails to change their position.

Steve uncovers his eyes just to confirm what he thinks is going on here. The guy in bed with Richie isn’t just some guy; it’s Eddie.  

“Holy shit.”  

Steve helps himself to a coffee while Richie and Eddie untangle themselves from each other and get dressed. Richie comes out after five minutes, wearing some sweatpants and an old t-shirt. He looks guilty.

Eddie, on the other hand, seemed to prefer the old lock yourself in the bathroom technique. 

“Eddie, come out,” Richie shouts while banging on the door. “It’s fine, Steve’s not gonna press charges! We aren’t gonna end up on the sex offender registry.”

“Shut up! This is so humiliating. I can never look Steve in the face ever again,” Eddie screams back. 

“We live here, Eds! If anything, he should be on the registry!” 

Steve takes a sip of his coffee, takes a donut from the box, and bites into it, trying to calm down. His face feels hot and red; this is easily the most embarrassing thing that’s ever happened to him. 

“Babe, please, just come out,” Richie begs, “if you don’t, I’ll tell Steve to leak a story to TMZ about how you're secretly my sugar baby.”

For a moment, there's quiet on the other side of the door. “You wouldn’t dare,” Eddie curses. 

“Steve, write this down. It all started when me and Eddie hooked up in this busted ass townhouse - ” 

“Okay, okay, I’m out!” Eddie walks out, his cheeks are splotchy pink, and his eyes still look a little watery. Steve’s not sure if it’s from embarrassment or just the usual flushed look one often gets after intense sex. He’s wearing one of Richie’s old tour shirts and a pair of tiny red shorts. “For the record, I have a job,” he mumbles under his breath.

They all take a seat at the kitchen table. The silence punctuated every so often by the sound of Richie chewing on a donut. He’s picked the maple bacon one, just like Steve thought he would. 

Richie, to his credit, seems mostly calm, calm enough to wrap an arm around Eddie’s waist. “Sorry, you saw that, Steve,” Richie says mid-chew, trying to break the silence. 

“It’s okay. It’s my fault. I should’ve…knocked.” There’s more awkward silence. Steve takes a loud sip of his coffee. 

“Did something happen? Were you calling me? I didn’t have my phone on me, I was kind of in the middle of something.” Richie chuckles a little to himself. “Or should I say, ten inches in something.” 

His attempts at humor are not appreciated. Eddie groans and mutters under his breath, “You’re so not funny.”

Steve's not disappointed in Richie. He just doesn’t understand how a guy who spent years terrified people maybe thought he was gay, was suddenly okay with having actual sex with a guy. But Richie’s mind has always been a mystery to him. How could Richie possibly think hooking up with his gay roommate after a breakup was a good idea? 

“So, I take it you're taking the breakup well?” Steve asks, unceremoniously. 

“Breakup? What breakup?” Richie turns to look at Eddie as if wanting him to explain. Eddie looks at him, equally lost, and just shrugs 

“Your break up. Beverly broke up with you.” 

The two of them start to laugh, Eddie more so than Richie. 

“God, Steve, what are you talking about? Eds, can you imagine? Me dating Bev!” Richie takes a deep breath, tries to control his laughter while Eddie pulls on his cheek. For a brief second, Steve swears they look like a pair of kids.

“Maybe in her nightmares!” Eddie chuckles.

“I thought. You two seemed so close. I assumed,” Steve stammers, he feels like an idiot.

“I’m not dating Bev, Steve.”

“And…what I just saw. You guys do that often?” 

“As often as Eddie lets me,” Richie answers, a little shy.

“So this whole time,” Steve starts, pointing to Eddie, “he was the Girlfriend. He was the one you were dating this entire time. He’s the one you got caught having sex with on the couch,” Steve fumes, biting back his embarrassment.

Richie gives him a nervous grin, like he’s fighting the urge to start laughing again. “Yeah…this is them.”

Eddie stops laughing. He looks at them both, confused. “Girlfriend? Dude, what the fuck! Have you been calling me your girlfriend behind my back? Not cool, bro! Not cool.”

“Why did you never correct me? You could’ve told me you were dating Eddie,” Steve interjects.

“I thought we were doing a bit! You know, like an inside joke! Eddie's my girlfriend, he's my old ball and chain! He's my prison warden! He's my nagging wife!” 

Richie’s explanation goes unappreciated by the other two men.

“That’s kinda misogynistic of you, Richie,” Steve says, unimpressed. He thought Richie left that style of humor back in 2011. 

“Yeah, Rich, not cool. You make it sound like I’m some bitter housewife.”

“Obviously, I never meant it!” Richie objects. “That’s the joke. It's a classic misdirection. That’s like the number one rule of comedy.” 

“That’s not what misdirection is! You have to establish a baseline before you can do misdirection!”

“God, Richie, did you make your boyfriend memorize the fundamentals of comedy?” Steve joked. Richie seems to tense up at the word, clearly still not used to talking so casually about his relationship with Eddie. “You were in therapy for HOCD for years. You almost got married to a woman twice! You could’ve talked to me about these things, instead of running to ruin Eddie’s marriage.”

“They actually changed the name to SO-OCD,” Richie adds, taking another bite of his donut.

Steve ignores him. For the first time since walking in on them, Steve makes direct eye contact with Eddie. His pulse quickens a little, noticing how the shirt he’s wearing falls on his shoulder, revealing the tiniest hickey on his collarbone. “No offense, Eddie, but you're kinda out of Richie’s league. I don’t know what Richie told you to convince you to leave your husband, but there are tons of out gay guys in LA - ”

“Husband?” Eddie cuts in. “Steve, I was married to a woman.”

Steve blinks. “You were?” 

“Yeah.”

“Aren’t you gay?”

“Uhh, yeah, I am.” 

“Then why were you married to a woman?”

“Trauma.” 

Steve looks to Richie. “Richie, are you gay? Just tell me. We’re all those years of therapy for nothing?”

“I mean, I didn’t dislike having sex with my exes. Wasn’t great, but it was tolerable. I’m not one of those gay guys who are like disgusted by the female body. But, Eddie is the only person I’ve ever loved, so - ”

“Oh my God, Richie, just say you're gay. Ben didn’t stop liking women just because he couldn’t remember Bev,” Eddie interrupts, like he’s heard this all before.

“I don’t know, Eds. You heard him tell the story about him and that bartender. That was kinda gay. Gayer than anything that ever happened to me, anyway.” 

“Okay, fair point. That was pretty gay.”

“We were all infertile! None of our dicks worked properly!”

“Except Stan. Stan’s dick worked.”

“Yeah, except Stan. Lucky bastard.”

Steve coughs, trying to get their attention. “So, you guys are both huge closet cases. That’s what’s happening here.” 

“Pretty much.”

“That’s so sad. I can’t imagine my first-ever boyfriend being you.”

“Hey!” Richie feigns offense. 

Steve looks at them, he notices Richie’s hand on Eddie’s waist and Eddie’s hand resting on Richie’s thigh. They seem close, so close that he wonders how he never picked up on their relationship. 

“Is it serious? Or are you guys just…experimenting? Because, your dicks work now?” Steve asks, and he waits. He waits for Richie's eyes to glaze over like they did all those years ago, when they first met. Like they did whenever the topic of Richie's love life came up.

But they never do. 

“Eddie Spaghetti is the love of my life,” Richie smiles. “We keep each other's piss stream steady.” 

“No, we don’t,” Eddie adds.  

“I think this is great! With your rebrand, you could really branch out to a whole new audience. We missed Pride month this year, but next year - ”

“Steve, slow down,” Richie laughs. “Love the enthusiasm, but I’m not really planning on coming out any time soon.” 

“What, why not?” Steve deflates, he’d already had a list of brands they could’ve collaborated with for this. 

“I probably will. You know, eventually. But I’d wanna do it on my own terms. Not because you wanna charge people more for a special gayer version of my stand-up. I don’t want my relationship or Eddie to be under a microscope. It’s…special to me.”

Eddie puts his hand over Richie’s, the one over his shoulder, comforting him. It looks like a natural gesture for him, one he’s done hundreds of times. It’s so natural that Steve doubts Eddie’s even realized he’s done it. 

Steve looks at Eddie, and he thinks he understands. Eddie wasn’t famous. Eddie was just a regular guy who, before all this, had had a wife and a career in insurance. All of this was a pretty big change for him, and Richie wanted to do everything he could to keep Eddie away from the scrutiny of a public that saw themselves entitled to know more about their relationship.

Hadn’t Steve seen it happen over and over again, most recently with Beverly? Hadn’t he seen it happen with Richie, who was just trying to spend time out with his friends?

“I guess that’s fair. Didn’t know you were such a romantic,” Steve teases. 

Richie seems to get a bit flustered at that. “Also, I don’t know if you’ve noticed this, Steve, but me and Eddie. We aren’t cool gays. We’re old. And we’re kinda lame. Not marketable at all.”

“It’s true,” Eddie sighs. 

“We tried going to a gay club once. We left after ten minutes.”

“I couldn’t find any fire exits. What kind of place doesn't have its emergency exits labeled? The place was so badly lit, too!” 

“The music sucked.” Richie cringes just remembering it.

“I liked the music. The drinks were super expensive!”

“Some skinny twenty-year-old tried to hit on Eddie!” 

“I don’t know why they charge so much for drinks. What do they need the money for? They obviously don’t have a light bill to worry about.”

Steve wants to laugh. Richie and Eddie, they’re pretty funny guys. They have this odd couple appeal. He briefly wonders if he could market them as some gay comedy duo. Was there a market for that?

“So, what exactly is your plan, Richie? As your manager, I should know.”

“I think I'm gonna keep trying some new stuff out. Until I have something I'm really proud of. Probably won’t officially come out until Eddie's divorce is fully finalized. And then after that me and Eddie will probably run off and get one of those Vegas weddings where we get married by an Elvis impersonator.” 

“Yeah.” Eddie smiles like it’s all he wants in life. For a moment, it looks like they’re going to kiss. Or finish what they had started that morning. 

Steve, however, would prefer not to see them fucking on the table. “Wow, you two actually are in love,” he says, taking one last sip of his coffee. 

“He’s the spaghetti to my meatballs,” Richie states brazenly. 

“You know, Richie, if you really want to keep your relationship a secret, you’re gonna have to stop derailing your sets and going off script to make jokes about how great your new partner is.” 

“What? I don’t do that.” 

“Yes, you do,” Steve and Eddie reply at the same time.

Richie T.

eds divorce just got finalized

how soon do you think would be TOO soon to turn the boyfriend into the husband???? 

Carol Feeney (birthday 04/12) 

richies asking me to schedule a flight to vegas????