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Another year passes.

With Henry Bowers arrested and locked up, the younger kids of Derry High School feel a little safer.

No more vanishings. No more frightening, unexplained sightings of a clown either. It's a sunny, spring afternoon. The bell rings out. All of the high-schoolers flood out of the entrance-doors, charging and shouting eagerly, rejoicing in their break starting.

Richie and Eddie hang out at the back-entrance, ducking near the grass and throwing down their book bags. Richie's back flattens to the outer concrete-stairs slab. Eddie reclines out, one of his legs extended and the other nudging up against Richie's hairy knee. He's on Richie's right, Eddie's own back to the school red brick-wall. No one notices they're there. Belch Huggins and Vic Criss lurk around the quad, especially before classes, but rarely pick fights with them anymore.

Beverly's moved out with her aunt. Stanley goes to advanced prep-courses out of state, readying himself for college, and Bill gets dragged by his mom to speech therapy on weekends. Ben volunteers at Derry Public Library. Mike works his uncle's farm.

It's different than before, but Eddie's not bothered getting time apart. They're all still friends. No matter what.

He narrows his eyes suspiciously, holding up and reading ingredients on a protein bar.

"Does high fructose corn syrup taste like corn? Or does it taste like syrup?"

"How should I know?" Richie says dismissively. He clutches his arm to his oversized, indigo binder, closer like he's hiding something. "Could you keep it down a second, Eddie? I'm trying to read."

Eddie stares at him, gawking. "—what?"

"What?"

"What is that?" Quicker than Richie anticipates, Eddie snatches up his binder, gazing curiously over the scribbles. He ignores Richie protesting, shoving aside Eddie's leg harshly in his scramble to go forward. "Augusta de Lionel? The French Revolution…?" Eddie mumbles, his mouth tightening. He doesn't look offended when the other boy roughly snatches the pages back, scowling at Eddie. "Isn't the dumb school play Mrs. West was bragging about in Social Studies…?"

"Yeah, she's batshit!" Richie yells. "She wrote the whole thing herself! No wonder the lines suck major ass!"

"You're IN the play?"

"Not by CHOICE!" Richie yells again, getting overly flustered and defensive by Eddie's thunderstruck look. "No fucking way, man! I hate this shit! The principal mighta saw me… trying to light the new cherry bombs in the stall. I got caught."

An irritated 'pfftt!'

Eddie mutters, "You're a fucking idiot."

"Whatever! So now it's the play nobody wants to audition for or get suspended for a month. My dad would kill me."

"You need help practicing, Rich?"

"No, just—" Richie mutters, sullen and curling his knees to himself, "—leave me alone."

That stings. Eddie picks at little blades of grass, flicking them in Richie's direction as a long, uncomfortable stretch of silence follows. Finally, Eddie sets aside his feelings, gesturing out. "Seriously, give me the other page. I'm not gonna let you tank this."

Richie glares, upper lip curled, but obeys.

They go over the first eight pages, slowly line-by-line, until it's beginning to get dark. Even the girly parts. They make Eddie's chest feel fluttery and warm. He has to recite them with an expressionless, bored Richie, trying to not sound nervous. "My dearest—" Eddie reddens, keeping his eyes on the page in his hands. "My d-dearest heart, if you truly do not wish for—"

"Hey, if I wanted Bill to practice with me, I would have asked—ow!" Richie yelps, receiving a punch on the collar-bone.

"I swear to god—shut the fuck up right now—"

"That's not a line," Richie says beaming, adjusting his glasses. It's the first time he's smiled all day. "No off-script dialogue."

Eddie widens his eyes to comical proportions, his rage near-murderous.

"I'll show YOU off-script—!"

He wrestles him over, falling with a hollering, grinning Richie, putting him in a headlock. They roll around in the warm and scratchy grass below them. Eddie finds himself laughing, cringing when Richie's knuckles press down for a noogie. His armpit smells so bad.

The school's lamp-poles whir on, purging the increasing darkness.

They separate, brushing themselves off and shoving occasionally with murmurous words, grabbing their bookb ags. A high flushing color against Richie's face. Eddie peers over him, captivated, breathing heavily and puffing on his inhaler.

He doesn't know what euphoria is, but Richie is… he's what that feels like…

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On the way through Pasture Road and the City Center, they stop for an ice cream cone.

The shoppe turns their sign to CLOSED after Richie bounds out, jumping over the sidewalk-ledge, presenting a vanilla waffle-cone out to Eddie. "You wanna share?" he asks cheerfully. "They weren't gonna make another one. Didn't have the money."

"You could prostitute your sister," Eddie retorts, licking around the melting, frozen tip.

"Dude, I'm not prostituting my SISTER!"

Richie steals back his cone begrudgingly, munching down on a good portion of it. A terrible, sticky mess—Eddie discovers it all over his hands and arms, complaining under his breath. He scrubs them uselessly to his purple-punch, polyester oxford.

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They eventually wander into Richie's yard, avoiding the sprinkler's system, high-tailing it for the back porch.

Eddie notices Virginia Tozier, nineteen and with a ponytail of thick, dark curls like Richie, in the front lit window. She slings her arms cozily around the waist of another girl, staring dreamily into aqua-green eyes, Virginia's teeth gnawing on her own lip.

Girls are weird, he thinks moodily. Virginia and her friend can hug and kiss in public, and no one will question it.

"Eds, let's go," Richie hisses, glancing over his shoulder, hoisting himself up.

They climb up to Richie's unlocked window. Eddie keeps his eyes up, getting jittery from vertigo two stories up, his feet teetering. He could steady himself normally with the gutter, but Eddie's fingers feel weak, icky-sticky vanilla, so he slips all the way.

It probably wouldn't kill him to fall.

But, Eddie doesn't wanna know. Lucky for him, Richie's already in his bedroom window.

"EDDIE!" he hollers, catching Eddie's wrists with both hands, straining and groaning. Richie's panic visible. "Eddie," he pants. "Eddie, man, I don't wanna drop you—but, uugh, I'm gonna if you don't swing your leg—" Eddie struggles, his arms hurting. He lets out a frustrated, whining noise, heart thumping wildly. Richie's fingers squeeze down. "I promise I got you—"

Eddie's foot pokes around the ledge, find it. He arches himself up and gets the boost for Richie to pull him in. The curtains rattle. Richie's fingers digging into the back of Eddie's oxford-shirt as they clutch onto each other, nose-to-nose.

He's half-cradled against Richie's front, leaning down to sit. Eddie can faintly sense Richie's own heart pounding.

"See…?" Richie breathes, his mouth easing into a grin. Eddie hasn't looked away from Richie's dark, soft eyes on his, kinda hating himself for feeling so much weaker around him. "… … Ain't no thang but a chicken wing."

Oh, thank fucking god. Richie's still Richie.

Eddie lets out a chuckle, squirming noticeably in the lock of Richie's arms around him.

"You gonna let me go?"

"Nope," Richie chimes out, grinning harder. He doesn't move when Eddie's palms bracket to his chest, attempting to urge him out. Eddie doesn't know what to call this. Being skittish and anxious of Richie's physical closeness like this, but wanting more.

He quits halfway, with a more solemn Richie watching him.

Eddie's fingers dig in. Pull him in.

"Richie," he murmurs out. Richie's not grinning or laugh, but it's clear, overwhelming admiration.

"No off-script dialogue…"

Eddie frowns and mutters for him to shut up, not meaning it, his fingers pulling Richie's graphic-tee all the way in. Maybe Richie figures it out. Maybe he wants the same thing, same damn thing, because Richie leans in, brushing his lips on his. His hands frame Eddie's burning-red cheeks. He kisses Eddie again, harder, harder until there's whiteout stars popping behind Eddie's eyelids.

They gasp for a little air. Eddie's hands now push on Richie's chest firmly, until the heat is gone. Until they're both apart.

It doesn't feel… wrong. Not the way they've been taught boys kissing would feel.

"Don't add that in the play," Eddie mutters.

Richie bursts out snort-laughing at the almost jealous tone. He says Eddie's name fondly, clasping his arm and heading for the game-station hooked up, ready for a distraction. Trashmouth may be a trashmouth, Eddie insists, but that's his Trashmouth.

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IT (2019) isn't mine. This goes for those of you I'm seeing favoriting/alerting with no commenting: If y'all don't want stories taken away, start commenting. That's it.