mixtape (reddie)

November 26th, 1988

Hey, Richie.

It's the morning after. You're still sleeping, and I'm trying to detach myself from you as I write these words. You have a bit of a deathgrip on yourself, dude. My organs are rearranging themselves under Tozier's deadlock on my waist.

I know I had a bad dream last night, it was terrible. I can't remember what it was about, exactly, but it wasn't a spider, that much was for sure. It was somehow worse, scarier. It felt too vivid, too realistic to be a dream. The memories of it are wiped blank from my mind, so I can't even recall anything except for the way I felt. Terrified. Alone. So awfully, terribly alone. It was the worst I have ever felt.

And then it didn't hurt anymore.

It all stopped within a nanosecond, every feeling of isolation instantly being washed out to sea as the waves crash against my shore. You swept me up quickly, burying my head in your chest, rocking us back and forth patiently and whispering quiet songs to me. Then I realized, no, you put the headphones on me. I was hearing Richie's music, that's what it was. And that calmed me down even faster, because I was just so focused on listening to the words that you drill into your brain on a daily basis. If I ever want to know how you're feeling, all I have to do is listen to what music you're playing. It's how you communicate, Richie.

I fell back asleep, it must have been the middle of the night. I don't remember anything else other than you were here, for me. For me. And you didn't leave in the night, you stayed and held me and didn't push me away when we both lied down and I put my leg over your hips. It felt so interlocked and personal, we are vines growing around eachother and knotting together in a grape vineyard. We'll make beautiful wine one day, I know we will. We'll get drunk off of our feelings for each other.

Everything feels so good right now, Richie. I read what I wrote last night and I think I was just a little freaked out by finally admitting to myself that I might like boys. No, scratch that. I might like a boy. Not plural.

The sun is coming in through the trees and creating puppet shows on the side of our tent, tiny molecules of light fighting through the thin material to find their land on your freckled cheek. The tent is warm and heavy with loving air, all the sighs and exhales of two boys that want to be holding each other for as long as they can. I can hear birds starting their song, and just a moment earlier, there was a tent unzipping that was undeniably Stan going to respond to their flighty call. You look so heavenly when you sleep, I cannot comprehend how there is someone on Earth as ethereal as you, let alone someone who will lie next to me with his arms around my waist. I feel good about it now, I feel okay. Liking boys isn't as scary if it happens to be this one, and if he happens to hold me the way he is now this bleary November morning.

The birds sing for you, Richie Tozier. Wake up and listen to them.

yours,
Eds.