mixtape (reddie)

Chapter 7

Mornings are lovely. Despite their common reputation, Richie is generally a morning person. He likes being awake, especially when it's just reaching the cusp of dawn and the world has yet to catch up with the singing birds.

However, after a night of restless dreams and repressed memories ricocheting around his brain, Richie feels nothing but animosity stir in his blood when he is being woken up by a timid knock on his door.

He lifts his head, glaring at the door in question, and shouts "Fuck off, cockgobbler!"

"It-It's B-B-Buh-Bill," a shaking voice penetrates the wooden door, barely registering in Richie's sleep-clouded mind.

"Stuttering Bill?" Richie sits up in confusion. "Why the fuck are you in my house?"

"Your mmm-m-mother let me in," he's clearly nervous, he's stuttering much more than how he was when he was comfortably speaking with Stanley Uris at Beverly's birthday party.

Richie stands up, pushing his hair aside and stepping over piles of dirty clothes to fling open his bedroom door. He squints, his eyes appearing much smaller without his glasses to amplify them. "Your mom was letting me in last night too."

"T-That's disgusting," Bill shakes his head. "Can I c-c-come in?"

Richie glares at him more harshly before finally stepping aside and making room for Bill Denbrough to come in. It's rare, he'll admit, but Richie can't say that he's surprised.

"What are you here for, Big Bill?" Richie glances out his bedroom door before quietly closing it behind him. He kicks aside some the mess on his floor, embarrassed that he didn't prepare for company, but it's not as if Bill particularly warned Richie he would be coming over.

"B-B-Beverly," he says as if it's obvious. Bill looks at Richie, and then starts taking in his surroundings.

Richie's bedroom walls are covered in scraps of papers and napkin debris with fractured poems penned into them, the occasional Queen magazine page ripped out and taped to the wallpaper. Next to his bed, there's a stack of playboys that comes up to Bill's knees, and beside that, a holy bible. Richie's desk is cluttered with pens and tapes, some empty, some not. Next to that is a bookshelf that has a large vacancy of literature and instead holds a collection of vinyl that would make most kids jealous.

"And?" Richie moves papers aside on his desk until he finds his discarded glasses, pushing them up his face until Bill's blurry outline finally comes into focus.

"S-She wuh-wants us to b-buh-he-bhe-be fff-f-ffriends," Bill looks far more embarrassed than Richie is, the kid's eyes looking everywhere except for Richie's stained boxer shorts.

"She mentioned that, yeah," Richie rolls his eyes. Upon noticing Bill's discomfort, Richie searches for a pair of shorts on the ground, pulling on the first pair that he can find and wiping at the crusted mustard on the waistband. "So? Is that what you're here to do? Befriend the trashmouth?"

"Y-Yes. She s-s-said... she s-s-said you nnnnn-nn-needed space away from her, but I n-need to tay-tay-take care of you," Bill repeats the words that were spoken to him over the phone this very morning.

To be exact, she had said "I'm afraid I can't come with today, Bill. But you know who would love to go with? Richie. You guys should invite him. He'd love to meet Eddie."

"Richie? Richie the t-t-trashmouth?" Bill asked her, surprised she would miss out on Saturday afternoon swimming.

"The one and only," she giggled, happy and sweet. "He doesn't need me right now, Bill. He's had enough of me, but he needs you guys."
Bill didn't quite know what she meant, but he still wrote down the address and headed out to go to Richie's house. Now, here he sits, avoiding eye contact with the very person he was sent to befriend.