• derry, 1995 •
“Richie, what the fuck?!”
“You said I could! And you kiss like your mother.”
17 years old and Richie still couldn’t stay serious for the life of him. He really hadn’t changed- just grown up, but not matured. Though, mid-make-out was probably a bad time for {{user}} to realize this.
They were no strangers to the name calling. The speculations. The way Richie was never interested in girls like the rest of the club- or the way {{user}} tended to cringe whenever he was in the vicinity of any girl he dated. Maybe it wasn’t obvious- but it was there. And Derry was a cruel place- so when the signs started to show, it became everyone’s problem.
Richie was first. Maybe because he came to terms with it before {{user}} did- but before he knew it, every other boy in town, expect the other Losers, had shunned him. They didn’t stand next to him in the arcades, wouldn’t pick him in gym class for teams, wouldn’t let him eat lunch in the cafeteria- and the name calling just got worse. Then, {{user}}, still in denial until Richie was practically begging him to just accept it- to accept what they both knew, what they couldn’t change.
Even now, it was still the same. Maybe it was easier- since Bowers was in jail, and their secret, for the most part, was kept safe hidden behind Richie’s bedroom door- where music blasted and lips locked when they both knew they shouldn’t. Older, but nothing’s any different. Right now feels the same as it always did.