#loser baby is stuck in my head and I have my angel dust shirt on

[the-maladjustedjester]

It is a pillar of mankind to make Lucifer hot

[kafka-ish]

brother | r.t.

can boys and girls be friends without attached feelings?

word count: 2.1k

warnings/included: angst(?), college AU, fem!reader

a/n: based off of this song

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Richie Tozier sat in the parking lot of USC’s Law Department. Become a Lawyer his mom said. You’ll make a lot of money his dad said. It only took two weeks into his freshman year of college for Richie to figure out that he actually hated the judicial system and to hell with it. He was about to light a cigarette even though he pledged to quit months ago: the last day of senior year.

He and the rest of the Losers were hanging by the quarry. Beverly was sitting on the hood of Bill’s car, slathering sunscreen on her sensitive skin because she burns easily. Ben sat with her, his arm itching to wrap itself around her pale shoulder. Bill, Eddie, and Stan were playing cards and Mike had to monitor them for cheating. Richie would’ve joined, but he didn’t want to get up from his position that overlooked the quarry’s water hole. He was laying down on the rocks, eyes closed and shades on, in place of his usual glasses.

“I think I’m gonna quit smokin’,” he announced with a certain proudness that his voice normally did not hold.

“O-oh yeah? How l-long’s that gonna luh-last?” Bill looked up from his cards, giving Eddie a chance to sneak a peak.

“I saw that, Eddie!” Mike Hanlon called from above and Eddie flinched.

“Cripes. Warn a guy before you yell first.”

Four months. It lasted four months, Big Bill, as Richie took out his BIC. He had to mess with it a few times to get the flame to startup. He always preferred matches, but the black lighter with flame stickers he kept in his shirt pocker was cooler.

A yellow-orange heat finally flicked the contraption to life when, at the same time, his Nokia 232 buzzed against the gearshift.

Four months and one day.

The small flame died in Richie’s hand that was now pressing his phone to his ear with no hesitation.

“Rich the Dick Tozier speaking, how can I help you?” Sure, it wasn’t the most professional way to answer a phone call, but who was anyone to call Richie Tozier a professional guy?”

“Hey, Richie!” It was y/n. y/n the girl who sat in front of him in his English class. y/n the girl who wore parkas in fucking California because it’s for the fashion and you wouldn’t understand. y/n the girl who got drunk off her ass at the first party of the year—which, ironically, was where they met.

The parties in college were spectacularly different from the parties Richie would go to in high school. More so, the parties in California were more… insane. Wild. The booze was exponentially more expensive—nothing that Bill would ever think of getting at his own. And the girls could closely be mistaken for a Hollywood child star.

Nothing like the parties in Derry Richie thought to himself as he drunkenly swept through the halls of a fucking Mansion. He didn’t realize his feet were working properly until he looked down, seeing as he was standing on all fours—all twos. How he was still standing up remained a mystery to him because he must’ve had ten shots of vodka that was worth more than his entire being and future.

Before him, when he entered the billiard room, stood a girl even drunker than him (somehow). She stood on the pool table, laughing above the crowd of frat boys who were yelling to take your damn shirt off already! And c’mon don’t be a prude. They surrounded her like dogs fighting for the last strip of steak until Richie stepped in.

“A little drunk to be standing on the edge like that.” He took a swig from his red solo cup. “Here, sweetheart, lemme help you down.” He offered her an unsteady hand only to be brushed away like a speck of dust on a grandfather clock.

“I can help myself,” y/n said. She got down from the pool table by sitting on the ledge first, then letting each foot touch the ground one at a time. “See?” She steadied herself using his shoulder and looked up at him with a smirk that let him know they were going to be friends.

And they were friends.

y/n was overjoyed when she found out Richie was in one out of her five classes and Richie was just happy to be able to talk someone’s ear off without them rolling their eyes or giving him the side-eye.

“Hey, y/n/n,” Richie said, mimicking the same enthusiasm from across the speaker. “What’re you up to?”

“Besides calling you?” Richie felt himself beginning to laugh but it felt wrong to do so. As cheery as y/n sounded, there was something off.

“Are you okay?” Richie blurted out, but he couldn’t help himself. It was in his nature; always looking out for y/n; always taking care of her.

“I’m fine, Tozier.” She laughed but he could tell it was fake. The way her voice was still summer in the crisp of fall was fake. The whole call was fake. “You just love checking in on me don’t ya.” Another giggle left the speaker—covering the cracks in her voice, or a sob.

“No, really.” His hand left the phone—his shoulder and cheek propping the device up against his ear—and reached for the gearshift. “How are you?”

Static. But Richie had been over at her place thousands of times before—not needing to ask for her address or pull out a map for directions. And Richie was right (he was always right) when he burst through the wooden door of y/n’s small, but somehow spacious, Los Angeles apartment.

“y/n, I know you’re in there,” Richie said, followed by three curt knocks. His shoulder slumped against the door and he sighed. “y/n, don’t make me go all big bad wolf on your little ol’ door.” He looked down to see the welcoming mat where guests were supposed to wipe their shoes off.

There’s No Place Like Home

A short laugh bounced off the walls from inside and Richie took that as his queue. His hand had a firm grasp around the bronze doorknob, refreshing from the California air. He jangled it, only for the structure to not budge, like it didn’t give a damn that he had to get inside.

“Dammit, y/n/n, get off your goddamned high horse and open the door.”

Richie was never one for words, but at these, the lock broke in and in slipped Richie. It was as if the door had heard his cries and complied—feeling sorry for the boy. But the mysteriousness of y/n’s apartment door didn’t matter when Richie’s eyes caught y/n’s figure—or lack of one. She sat on the leather couch which was a moving present from her parents (“We know how expensive it can be; being a young adult with college expenses. Wow, to think, my baby’s all grown up.”), wrapped in a blanket, burrito style. Even fro six feet away (approximately), Richie could see the tears welling in her eyes and the snot spilling from her nose.

“Richie Tozier, can you ever learn to take a goddamn hint?” y/n’s voice was far too weak to show any sign of malicious intent. He stood in front of her, tentative but also caring. He wanted to help. He just didn’t know how.

“I am taking the hint.” Richie sat down next to the bundle of blankets. He sat close, so close that if y/n’s feet were on the floor, his knees would’ve touched hers. She could smell his mint deodorant and cheap cologne; or maybe she was just so used to having him next to her, that was what she knew he smelled like. y/n smelled like this month’s body wash. Orange blossom. She must’ve taken an extra-long soak today. She always did when something was wrong. “I know you want me here, toots. Otherwise, you wouldn’t’ve called.”

Richie was right and at the moment y/n hated him for being able to read her mind.

She was about to tell him off but a strangled cry left her lips instead. Richie didn’t need to ask what was wrong to know what was wrong. Besides, it would be cruel—condescending—to put a filter over his voice the way you’d talk to a terrier or a baby and ask what’s wrong?

It was clear what was wrong. Judging by the two-hour-long bath she had taken beforehand and off-brand, empty Ben & Jerry’s container on her coffee table: her piece of shit boyfriend had just dumped her. Richie never liked Brandon, y/n’s so-called (now ex) boyfriend. But it could’ve been the other way around, too. His over-gelled head was always stuck in his Levi 512’s and the only time Richie saw that pompous smirk leave his lips was when he walked in on him and y/n kissing. Gag. But y/n had the right to be upset about getting dumped—even if it was by a perpetual twerp who never passed up the chance to brag about his perfect SAT score (wake up, buddy, we all got into the same college).

Richie sat waiting for a reply he was never going to get because y/n was too busy blowing her nose into the sleeve of her robe.

“C’mon, sweetheart.” Carefully, Richie unwrapped y/n from the cocoon, similarly to how a cautious child unwraps their presents. “You don’t need Brandon. You don’t need anyone.” It was true. She didn’t need anyone, and if anything people needed her. “You’re y/n.” He spoke the two words with such sureness—confidence. She was y/n, and if that’s not enough for them to see, then they’re delusional.

“How do you know?” She asked. Even if it was just a college boyfriend—her first college boyfriend—it still hurt like hell. The thought of being not wanted. Knowing it was her; that she couldn’t just fix whatever her lover didn’t like that ended up pushing him off the edge. He just didn’t like her.

Of course, she didn’t love Brandon. She didn’t love the way his hair was always stiff and she couldn’t comb her fingers through it the way she did Richie’s. She didn’t love him finding an excuse to say hello to the next blonde he saw whenever they went to parties together. She didn’t love Brandon, and Brandon apparently didn’t love her. But if Brandon didn’t love her, then who would?

Maybe the answer was staring her down right in front of her, or pressing against her shoulder as Richie bent down to pick up the empty ice cream carton. “You are y/n, right?” Richie asked in attempts to bring her spirits up.

And he did.

y/n’s eyes crinkled as she smiled and she chocked on her breath at the laugh she tried to hold in. “Do you think I’m an impostor?”

“Who knows?” Richie sat back down. His shoulder brushed her covered one and his head fell back to look at the ceiling. “Plastic surgery is pretty popular these days. Especially in La City of Angels.” He turned to face her now—a tear-free y/n that stared back at him. Her eyes were much lighter than before and her skin looked like it had just been kissed. By who?

“You’re an angel,” y/n said unexpectedly. Well, this was a turn of events. Richie managed to suppress his cough—a usual reaction that’d take place when he was surprised.

He pulled on the collar of his band-tee (Rock On, AC/DC!) because it was all of the sudden hard to breathe in this small LA apartment of y/n’s. He felt his pulse quicken under the skin of his wrist and neck. A line of sweat was forming beneath his browbone. Oftentimes, it was hard to differentiate if California was undergoing an unforeseen heatwave or if Richie was just drawing a fever. But summer had passed and Richie hand’t gotten sick in years, even if it was just a head cold.

Richie sat there, speechless, and wondered. He wondered why, out of all the nicknames in the world, he hasn’t called y/n baby yet. It was always babe or honey, but never baby. Why was that? Hypothetically, he could call her that. He could call her a lot of things—like his. So why didn’t he? Why had he never asked y/n out?

But it occurred to him, as y/n tucked a loose strand of his hair behind his ear, that y/n was hurting. She needed a friend and nothing more. A brother, per se. He could sense her lean in. For a kiss, perhaps? But Richie was quick to dodge and cup her face in his large palm. An intimate action, sure, but their relationship was far from it.

“Look, y/n/n.” His breath hit her face. It was warm and felt like home. “You’re hurting right now.” His thumb rubbed along her jawline. “We’re just friends, right?”

“Friends,” y/n echoed back to him. And while she wasn’t completely convinced with the words coming from Richie Tozier’s mouth, she’d agree with him for his sake.