𝒎𝒂𝒚𝒃𝒆 • 𝒓𝒆𝒅𝒅𝒊𝒆

* flurry *

The first snow had fallen earlier that day, cold and wet and bright. There wasn't much - barely two centimeters, just enough to coat the Earth in the faintest dusting of white and remind Richie of the mini powdered donuts Bev loved to eat when she was high. It was the kind of snow that grass peeked out of. The kind that stuck to car tires and the bottoms of shoes and soaked into socks and hearts.

Richie had taken to walking in the grass rather than on the sidewalk, despite the snow there soaking right through his socks, for no other reason than to see the footprints he would make. His feet were frozen. Canvas sneakers weren't the warmest of shoes, after all; nor were they the most waterproof. He didn't mind.

Eddie was on the sidewalk, rolling his eyes periodically when Richie would shiver or blow into his bare hands.

"Don't you own any warm clothes?" he sighed when, for the millionth time, Richie rubbed his hands up and down his arms for warmth. He was wearing nothing but jeans and a hoodie. Eddie, on the other hand, looked ready for a month-long expedition in Antarctica - bright blue and pink ski jacket, woolen hat tugged low over his ears, and a scarf pulled almost up to his eyes. " I'm cold just looking at you."

"How can you possibly be cold?" Richie eyed him skeptically. "You look like a walking skiwear ad. It's not even officially winter yet."

"It sure feels like winter," Eddie grumbled.

"Are you sure you're not from the South?"

Eddie rolled his eyes (he seemed to do that a lot around Richie, which Richie found completely hilarious). Richie had assumed, based on Eddie's tolerance for cold weather (or lack thereof), that he must have been from Florida or Arizona or someplace warm like that, so he had been surprised to learn that he, too, was from Maine - and from a town not far from here, no less. In fact, they had both visited each other's hometowns on numerous occasions. Richie had family in Eddie's home of Derry, and his own city was a common stop both for tourists and for what his father like to call "small towners".

"I'm anemic," Eddie said. "I get cold really easily."

"Anemic, asthmatic - you're just an alliteration of illnesses, aren't you?" Richie tucked his hands in his pockets, grinned. "What's next - arthritis? Achalasia? AIDS?"

"Allergies," said Eddie dryly.

Richie snapped his fingers. "Allergies! Of course! How could I have missed that? But I gotta admit, AIDS would have been much more interesting."

"And more life-threatening," Eddie huffed. "What about you? Don't you have anything wrong with you?"

"Listen pal," he said, in his very best mobster voice. "I got a lotta things wrong with me." He didn't miss the way the corner of Eddie's mouth twitched upwards, and he grinned. It was always gratifying to have people appreciate his dumb impressions. "But if you mean medically, then I'm afraid I'm a paradigm of health."

"Other than the insomnia," Eddie pointed out.

Richie tried not to wince. He still hated calling it insomnia; still hated to think there was something actually wrong with him. But somehow, when Eddie said it, it didn't seem quite as bad. It didn't seem like a diagnosis - it just felt like a title. Like how he, Bev and Stan had labeled themselves the Losers Club in high school. It took the power away from the word, made it feel like it was his own choice to be a loser, or a dork... or an insomniac.