#I almost made his suit lime and that was a HUGE nope for me.

[squibble-zorp]

I’m struggling to find Jereth a color pallet that fits him well but also not identical to Penelope’s…….

URRGGGGGG maybe black, blue, and yellow???

Also other changes for the fish siblings ✨

[notalone91]

i heard you calling (it hurt so much to let go of your hand)

Summary: Every year, like clockwork, on the Anniversary of the day they defeated It, the Losers make a point to crash back down on Derry and wreak some havoc. One stop they have to make is Neibolt Street.

I saw a post on tumblr and was inspired, so, taking a break from my Major Canon Fix It writing to bring you this little nugget. A choose-your-own-adventure of sorts.  This is unbeta'd and fell out of my hands and unraveled quickly, so just... take that with a grain of salt.

This is a Choose-Your-Own-Adventure story of sorts. After the read-more, hit ctrl+f and seek Option A (Camp Denial) or Option B (Camp Canon).

also available on AO3

Every year, like clockwork, on the Anniversary of the day they defeated It, the Losers make a point to crash back down on Derry and wreak some havoc.  They drink. They swim in the quarry. They drink. They laugh. They drink. They watch all the horrible old movies they used to see at the Capitol. They drink.  They reminisce. They drink. They cry. They drink. They visit the vacant lot on the corner of Neibolt street. They’re very sober. They all stand around for a moment before Richie steps forward to drop a flower he’d kept hidden in his jacket onto the rubble.  He runs his hands through the dirt, looking at the sprouts from where the flowers from the last four years have begun to take root. He swallows thickly and kneels, closing his eyes for a moment to block out the other Losers' hushed chatter. He knows they’re talking about him.  He’s heard it all before. Still, he has to do it. He has to let him know...

“So, uh, Eds,” he says, tongue feeling too large in his mouth.  “It’s been another year.” Another year makes five. It’s been five years already.  He can hardly believe it, even though it’s been a huge topic of discussion for the last two days.  “I, uh… I washed my sheets. Like twice.” He lifts his eyebrows and smiles, pleased with himself. He laughs to himself, raking a hand through his hair.  “I showered a couple of times.” He shrugs, trying to remember all of the things he’d want to tell Eddie that happened since the last time he was here. “I hosted SNL again.  They never wanted me as a cast member, but now that I’m all cool and relevant, they’re all over me. Figures, right?” Another laugh. The other Losers look on, none of them ready to interrupt his ritual.  They knew too well what happened when they intervened. “My manager threatened to bring in ghostwriters again because my new act wasn’t raunchy enough.” He sank back onto his heels, with his hands folded in his lap.  “I think I’m getting too old for the Trashmouth routine. Gotta grow up sometime, I guess.” He pushes his glasses up on his nose and stares at the sky, feeling tears start to bloom in his eyes. “New York is nice, but I gotta say…”  he takes a deep breath and exhales, close to a laugh, “it’s filthy, Eds.” He hiccups a little, a single tear beading under his glasses. “How did you live there for so long and not go on a city-wide cleaning spree? I get off the subway and feel like I need to light my skin on fire.  It’s disgusting. And the smell?” He bunches up his nose like the wafting steam had followed him to Maine. “I mean, I’m getting used to the smell, but I can’t picture you ever getting used to it.” He laughs, thinking about how many jokes Eddie could make about his Trashmouth being the source of the stench.  But he can’t get distracted. He can’t. “I got a dog. She’s a pit bull. I know,” he places a hand over his heart, gasping in shock, “not a pomeranian.” He gives a little sideways smile. “I’m still terrified of the yappy little things. But she protects me, just like you did.” He tries not to remember Eddie’s proud face when he thought he’d killed It with that fucking fencepost.  “Anyway, I named her Sunny. It’s supposed to be short for Sonia, but something in me decided that having to remember my lost love every time I looked at her sad brown eyes…” He can hear the Losers shuffling behind him, stifling their own emotions at his rambling. “Your mother did have the most beautiful eyes, Eds.” He bursts out a breathy laugh, “Sorry. I know you hate that.” He thinks over the present tense and realizes it’s not accurate anymore and the laugh dies on his lips.  “Hated,” he corrects, shaking his head. “Hated that. Even though, I don’t think you really did.” The tears that had been threatening to fall for quite some time begin to crash against his cheeks. “I miss you,” he shakes his head, sobs wracking his body. “All the time.” He buries his face in his hands, words building in intensity. “I never got to tell you how much I love you.” He doubles over and feels himself begin to lose his composure, picturing his Eddie alone in that dirty fucking sewer, clutching his old, beat-up leather jacket to his chest like a lifeline.  “God, you died alone. And I just… I just let you.” He takes off his glasses and puts them down beside him, wiping the tears away with balled fists. “I’m sorry, Eddie.” He tries to settle himself, but his sobs have become overwhelming and he can do nothing else but repeat, “I’m so sorry.”

OPTION A

Leaning against the fence, unimpressed with his husband’s performance, Eddie crosses his arms and rolls his eyes.  “You know, that’s still not funny, asshole.” Richie lets out a loud, exaggerated wail, signaling that his protests have been heard.  “I’m right fucking behind you, Richie,” he sing-songs, waving.

“It’s almost like I can still hear his voice,” he whimpers, covering his mouth in a stifled cry.

“STOP ACTING LIKE I’M DEAD, FUCKNUT!” Eddie groans, kicking a pebble in his direction.

Richie reaches up to the form that has closed in behind him, pulling Bev closer as she drapes her arms around his neck, kneeling.  “I’m sorry we made you leave him down there, Rich. There was no other way.”

Jaw dropping a little, Eddie huffs out a shocked, “Bev, not you too.”  Normally, Richie’s little monologue goes on by himself and everyone else lets him go.  Maybe because five years is a big anniversary or maybe because there’s enough distance between them and It now, there seems to be a bigger emphasis this year.  “Don’t fucking encourage him.”

“We just, we couldn’t risk it.  The building was crumbling and we never would have made it back out,” Bev adds over his protests, her own voice quivering.

Eddie looks over at the man next to him and smacks him in the arm.  “Ben, come get your woman,”

He just shakes his head in response, looking down at his feet.  “Your man started it,” he points out. At least he can find comfort in the fact that Ben won’t joke about his near-death experience.  Unlike Mike and Bill, who’ve moved forward, adding themselves to the unfolding melodrama.

“It never would have happened if I hadn’t called you all back here.  But,” Mike chokes out, reaching his hand for Richie’s shoulder, “it’s over now.”  Richie rubs his hand over the top of Mike’s and accepts his glasses being replaced on his face.  “It’s done. We can move on.” He nods, locking eyes with him. “We’ll find you someone new, Rich.”  

Sniffling pathetically, he gives an exaggerated shake of his head.  “Nope, never.” He flings himself forward as though trying to dig through the rubble to get into the sewers beneath Derry.  “There’ll never be anyone to replace my Eddie Spaghetti. Just let me be with him.”

Eddie turns around, resting his elbows on the fence and hanging his head.  “Oh, here he goes,” he adds as soon as he sees that Bill has opened his mouth.  Beside him, Stan shakes his head, bewildered at their antics.

“I’m sure that, in time, you’ll heal.  In the meantime, the three of us are always open to making it a foursome.  Isn’t that right, Stan?” Bill asks, looking up at the missing member of their triad.

“Could you not bring me into this?” he responds, stepping closer to Eddie in protest.

“I appreciate the offer, but it would all be meaningless, just like my whole life.  It would be empty sex and I couldn’t do that to you boys,” Richie says, patting bill on the cheek.  “I love you,” he looks between them sadly. “I love you all, but not in the way that I loved him.”

Eddie turns back to the dogpile of Losers in front of him.  Cupping his hands around his mouth, he calls out his trump card.  “I’m running away with Stan and Ben. You know, people who don’t make light of me almost dying to save your sorry ass!”  Richie sits bolt upright, one ear turned up like a dog. “I’m leaving you, Richie,” he adds for emphasis.

Turning around on his knees, Richie blinks at him, as though he had risen from the dead.  “Eddie?!” He stands, taking a few slow, hesitant steps toward him. “Eds?!” He lifts his husband from the ground and spins him around, shrieking out a blissful “EDDIE SPAGHETTI!!!!!”

Swatting at his arms and kicking his feet, Eddie squirms.  “Put me down, asshole.”

Doing as he’s told, but only to suit his own needs, he places his hands on either side of his neck and observes him carefully, turning his head from one side to the other.  “Could it be?!” he asks, tracing his finger along the fading white scar on his cheek, “Is it you?!”

“Stop it, would you?” Eddie says, fighting off laughter.

Richie leans back for a moment and untucks the front of Eddie’s shirt, raising it to expose the scar on his chest and kiss it once before moving on to smack a cartoony kiss on his mouth.  “Back from the dead! My one and only wish! My one true love!” He pulls him forward by the hands and spins around. “Bert to my Ernie!” He stops and kisses him. “Lime to my coconut!” He pulls him closer and kisses him again, a little more tenderly, knowing Eddie can’t complain about this part.  “Frosty to my french fries!” Eddie scrunches his nose because Richie knows that particular quirk grosses him out. “Chill to my Netflix!” He adds, pressing their hips together first before kissing him again.

“Are you done?” he asks, wanting to get the fuck away from this part of the trip as quickly as possible.

Richie gives a sideways smile.  “Almost,” he says and Eddie sighs, staring up at the sky.  Richie almost wishes he hadn’t lied about being almost because he can’t think of another one, but he can’t back down now.  He spits out the first thing that comes to mind and instantly regrets it. “Red Balloon to my sewer grate?”

There’s a collective groan from the Losers, including not one but three separate iterations of “Beep beep, Richie,” one from Bill, one from Bev, and one from Stan,

“Okay, I’m sorry,” he says, throwing his hands up in surrender, laughing and accepting every smack and kick that lands his way.  When their assaults die down, his town grows serious and he locks eyes with Eddie. “Every day, I wake up knowing how close I was to losing you and…” he shakes his head, trying to dislodge the image of Eddie’s pallid face, mouth dripping blood, gasping for breath from his mind.  He can hardly remember the minutes between Pennywise’s death, pulling Eddie to his feet, Ben taking him from him, suddenly understanding everything, and arriving at Derry Gen, but he knows that, in the deadlights, he saw them leaving him and he couldn’t let that happen. “I can’t.  I can’t imagine going on. You know that’s why I do this every year, right?” He laughs when Eddie shakes his head no. “It’s a very…” he trails off for a moment, looking for the right words, then nods, slipping into a dead-on Michael Caine impression, “‘Young Lad, what day is it? Why, it’s Christmas day, Mr. Scrooge!’ feeling every time we come back here and the deadlights-of-Christmas-Yet-To-Come scared the shit out of me.”  He rests his forehead against Eddie’s, sighing a little. “I saw that broken man and…” Richie rubs his thumb over Eddie’s and smiles. “I’m just so grateful that you’re here. And you’re alive. And you love me.”

Eddie smiles back, definitely understanding the second chance they were given.  “I don’t know why sometimes.” He pulls Richie closer when he gives an overdramatic pout, “But I love you more than anything.”  Tugging Richie into a kiss, forgetting momentarily that the other Losers are, indeed, right there, he feels himself melt into his husband.  He’d let him give that performance once a week if it would help him remember that this is real. When they pull apart, he nods over his shoulder at the street where the rest of the Losers have started heading back toward town.  “Can we get the fuck out of here now?”

Draping his arm over Eddie’s shoulder, Richie acquiesces easy enough.  “Whatever you wish, Jelly to my Peanut Butter.”

Bumping his hip against his, he laughs, “Okay.  I wish for you to stop.”

As soon as he laughed, he recognized his mistake, having given Richie all he ever wants.  “Cheese to my cracker?” Richie suggests, kissing the hand clasped in his own.

“Someone help me,” Eddie calls out to their friends, trying to catch up to them, but never letting go of his hand. Richie gives himself a smack on the forehead, “Spaghetti to my meatballs!  How have I never used that one before?!” he cries out, capturing Eddie in his arms and kissing his neck exaggerated.  Eddie thinks, for a moment, that this must be the closest thing to riding off into the sunset they’ll ever get.

OPTION B

Ben looks down at Richie, sympathetically.  Over the last five years, he’d let himself wonder occasionally what would have happened to him if it had been Bev that died and he still can’t fully grasp it.  All he knows is that he will let Richie do whatever he needs. “Let’s give him a minute,” he suggests, pulling the rest of the Losers out into the street, giving him some privacy to grieve.

Weeping, Richie rocks back and forth a little, arms wrapped around his middle.  “Eddie, I’m sorry. I’m so, so fucking sorry. I should have done something. I shouldn’t have let them…”  His breath hitches in his throat and the thought falls away. “They dragged me away. I wanted to stay there with you.”  He clamps his eyes shut, hoping that he can stop the tears from falling. When that doesn’t work, he just stares forward into the rubble.  “You never fucking knew. You died alone. You never should have been alone. I…” He tries to steady his breathing, but can’t. He’s too far gone for that.  “God, the next morning, I tried to come back and find you from the Barrens side. I tried. The caves had all collapsed. I couldn’t get to you. Fuck, I tried.  I walked the canal, trying to find another entrance, but every one was blocked.” He wondered, then, how Derry hadn’t flooded. Now, he wonders how he’s not drowning in his own pathetic tears.  “I love you. I’ll love you every day until I die.” He says, out loud, for the first time since his memories returned. Sure, he’d admitted it to himself, even let the other Losers guess it, but he couldn’t bring himself to say it out loud.  Even now, he didn’t think it could do him any good. He was just talking to hear himself talk. But isn’t that what he always did? “I don’t know if I ever would have told you. You married a woman. You were married. I’m disgusting.” He pulls a necklace out from beneath his t-shirt like Eddie could see it.  “I wear your wedding ring on a chain around my neck like you were married to me. I just…” He trails off, realizing how truly fucked it sounds. “I found it in your room and I, uh, I couldn’t leave it. What kind of fucking psycho wears his dead ex-boyfriend’s wedding ring?” He gives a bitter laugh to himself, imagining for a moment that it was Eddie who said it and not him.  “I never would have told you that I still loved you, knowing you were married.” He shakes his head a little and finally lets his arms fall to his thighs. “I mean, I’m better about myself now. I even, uh, I even joke about my sexuality, now. Like, openly,” he widens his eyes a little, an unspoken ‘yeah, I know,’ that needn’t be done, “in public even.” He takes a deep breath and thinks about the first time a paparazzi picture surfaced of him with his arm around Bev and some late-night host asked him about it and he’d laughed openly, brightly.  When the guy asked why, he answered that the plumbing wasn’t right. He didn’t care about mentioning it, but his phone hadn’t stopped ringing to the point that he just shut it off when he got home. “My manager isn’t crazy about that but it’s not the 80’s anymore. It’s still not safe but, I figure, fuck it, I came out of the sewer unharmed, I owe it to myself to have given the closet the same treatment.” He smiled, remembering all the times Eddie had tried when they were teenagers and together, to make him more comfortable with the idea of being out publicly.  He could only hope that Eddie could see him and be proud. That’s what Stan’s letter to him had said. Be proud. “I owe it to you.” Hearing the shuffle of feet heading back into the yard, he sniffled, fighting to regain his composure. “Okay, well, the other Losers are starting to get restless, staring at me crying and all. Ben and Bev are getting married.” Pausing for a response that would never come, he smiles. “I know, finally.” He stands up and shoves his hands deep into his pockets. “Mike and Bill are getting used to one another again. It’s cute… I think.”  He swallows thickly and glances over his shoulder. Just Bev, still giving him a respectful distance. He’s glad. “Being around them just sort of hurts,” he admits to no one. He smiles a little, wiping away the slowing tears. “I remember when the four of us would go down to the clubhouse for double dates and ignore each other, just being safe together. It was nice.” It was. He misses that terribly, he thinks. He feels like he’s floating and chases the unwelcome phantom voice from the back of his head. “Now… I just… uh…” He stammers ineffectively, trying to come up with more things to say.  He doesn’t want this moment to be over. When it’s over, he’ll have another year before he has another excuse to be in the place that makes him feel like his conversations with Eddie can be heard. “I can hardly be in the same room with them alone. It makes me wonder what we could have been. If you’d have left her. If we’d have…” He trails off one last time and chokes out a sob. “I fucking hate the word ‘If.’”

“Richie?” Bev calls from the garden gate.  Her voice is quiet, but he hears her. He just… He doesn’t want to let her talk him away from him again.

He leans forward and touches the flower gently.  “I love you,” he whispers.

Heading up the path, she reaches a gentle hand out to his shoulder.  “Rich, honey?”

“Yeah, yeah.  I’m coming,” he says, moving toward her and letting her arm drop to his waist, edging him forward, but not before casting one more look back at what remains of the house on Neibolt street.  What remains of Eddie.

“You okay?” Ben asks when they reach him, before heading to where Bill and Mike stand a few houses down.

He shakes his head and accepts his outstretched arm around his shoulders, appreciating the steady, grounding weight.  “No,” he says quietly, for once telling the truth, and not letting some bullshit fall out of his Trashmouth.

“That’s okay.  You don’t have to be,” Ben says, nodding.  

Bev squeezes him tighter.  “Not today, and not with us.”

When the five remaining Losers find themselves together once more, they wrap Richie in a tight hug.  He appreciates it, but he knows that once they pull away, it’ll be back to his new normal. Alone.