When Richie got caught in the Deadlights, he saw Eddie's death. Impaled. Pale. Blood coming from his mouth, painting his lips red, like Richie in that one SNL skit about drag queen brunch, and man, it took him way too long to realize he was gay.

Richie saw himself, wearing Eddie's ridiculously clean sweatshirt, crying more than a U.S. Speaker of the House John Boehner. Even though he wasn't the one about to die, Richie saw his life flash before his eyes, and it was a downer.

So Richie reached up, grabbed Eddie by the edges of his slightly-less-clean hoodie, and flipped them over. It was hard, Deadlights-drunk and slightly concussed from the fall. Eddie may have been short, but he was pure muscle. Of course he was. Fucking health freak. Only Eddie could make being ripped nerdy.

There was a moment, perfect, except that it was only a moment. Richie was hovering over Eddie's body, legs tangled, fingers grasping. Eddie was still smiling. Maybe he thought Richie was about to kiss him. Stupid, Trashmouth. Why would Eddie be smiling?

Then Richie looked down and saw a spider leg sticking out of him. He was taller than Eddie, so it was more stomach than chest, but Richie was definitely impaled, and Eddie wasn't smiling anymore. He might have been screaming. Everything had gone a little fuzzy.

So maybe Richie was the one about to die.

He closed his eyes, because they were the only thing left that he could control. Richie probably would have pissed himself, but even his bladder was frozen in fear. The edges of his vision started to darken, like the vignette tool in his phone's photo editor. In another second, any second, he was going to be unconscious, and he wouldn't be able to control anything. Including his bladder.

There was something he had to say first.

Maybe, "Sorry for peeing on you."

While he was still thinking it over, he died.