Richie is basically climbing the fucking walls. He’s got half his wardrobe pulled out and scattered over his bed, a mountain of florals, tacky t-shirts, and the few new suits he’s collected thanks to a certain Miss Beverly Marsh.
He’s never had this much trouble trying to pick an outfit in his entire life. Not at prom, or at any award show he somehow managed to get an invite to. He’s gone on talk shows with a ‘MILF: Man I Love Fishing.’ t-shirt he found at Goodwill.
“I just don’t see what the big deal is.”
“Did you not hear me before? That me and Eddie are going on a date? Edward fucking Kaspbrak, love of my life since we were kids, know him?”
“How many times have you guys gone out together since he moved in with you? If I have to see another Instagram post where you both argue in the comment section like some weird mix of horny teens and an old married couple, I’m going to go crazy.”
“That’s different!” Richie whines, throwing himself back onto the heap of clothes on his bed, “Those weren’t dates, not like, officially.” They’d decided to take it slow and date first after a semi-heated kiss at the Benverly’s (as Richie lovingly called them, like the teen girl he was put into the body of a hairy middle-aged man) cabin, after a tipsy love confession. A love confession that Richie absolutely did not reply to with ‘That is so fucking neat.’ They’d gone out together plenty, but they both agreed to date like normal people would, like they might have done when they were younger if their lives hadn't been fucked up by the killer-clown-from-Outerspace.
“You sound so lame right now. I hope you know that.” Despite the comment, the layer of fondness was clear in Stan’s tone.
Richie pouts, mumbles a petty little, “No, you.” back.
“Anyway, back to the point. What the fuck am I going to wear?”
“You’re talking to the wrong Loser.”
“You’re so right, I don’t wanna turn up dressed like you, Grandpa. I’ll call Bev.” He pauses, pulls at a piece of skin on his lip with his teeth, trying to soothe his racing heart.
“Hey. You’re gonna be fine, Rich. And if Eddie breaks your heart, I’ll break his entire body, okay?” And fuck does that make Richie tear up a little, after all these years, even 27 of them apart, Stan was still particularly protective of him. Even against another of his best friends. His low self esteem appreciated the safety net of knowing that when if Eddie ever just got fed up with him, Stan would be there on his side. “Not that he’s going to. He’s just as stupid and in love as you are.”
“Aw, Staniel. You big ole softie... Thanks, man. Tell Pats I’m asking for her, yeah?” With that he hangs up.
For a moment Richie feels calm again. Until he looks at the mountain of clothes dumped out onto his bed. Fuck.
Bev answers on the second ring, “Hey, Honey! How’re-”
“Eddie and I are going on a date, what the fuck do I wear, Bev?”
She vetoes most of his wardrobe, Ben shows up for moral support too, like the angel sent from Heaven that he is. The thing is though, Richie feels pretty fucking awful leaving the house without his garish shirts – they're his armour. He can wear something fucking horrendous and it distracts away from everything that is him.
Miss Beverly Marsh knows this, and she simply won’t stand for it.
In the end he’s wearing a nice pair of black jeans, cuffed to show off the bright pink Monty Python socks that had been Okay'd so he could have at least one comfort item. And another compromise, a navy shirt with a subtle floral print. It doesn’t scream ‘Weird Al meets the Muppets.’ but it’s enough that it doesn’t make Richie feel stuffy and unlike himself.
“Lookin’ sharp, Richie!” Fucking Ben, so earnest and nice, Beverly coos at his side in agreement, giving a whistle as he’s forced to give them a turn. He’s not used to that kind of attention; he can feel his face heat up and the way his too-tall body wants to shrink in on itself.
“Have a good night, Sweetie! Remember to use protect-”
Richie cuts her off with a shout, suddenly feeling like a teenager being embarrassed by their parents before a first date, “Oh my god, Bev. Shut up.” She cackles good-naturedly at him, while Ben holds back a smirk.
The call ends and he feels sort of bad that Bill and Mike were left out of his crisis, so he shoots them a text: ‘Got a date with Eddie, literally going to die. See you in hell Billiam. I’ll miss you when you’re chilling up in heaven Mikey.’
He can only let himself be distracted by the other Losers for so long, and how fun it was to have his battle with Bill. But it’s creeping closer and closer to 6pm, he knows that he and Eddie will have to leave soon to make it to their reservation. So, he rubs his sweaty palms against the thighs of his jeans, sniffs his pits to make sure he still smells good, and pushes himself out to go knock on Eddie’s bedroom door – which he couldn’t help but achingly hope would become the guest bedroom again in the nearby future.
And isn’t Eddie just a fucking sight for sore eyes, his hair isn’t gelled back to oblivion, so it looks so soft, it curls around his face prettily. Makes Eddie look younger. He’s dressed up in clothes that cost more than Richie has ever spent on anything for himself, fucking Gucci loafers and everything. He looks hot as fuck, and he smells sweet and earthy.
Eddie also has the most shit-eating grin. “I hear you were having some trouble.”
“What? Which one of those assholes told you?” Richie would, in future, deny how whiny he sounded whenever Eddie brings it up to the Losers, when he brings it up at their wedding.
“Rich.” Eddie has the cutest, most devious fucking look on his face. Richie’s cheeks burn as his face is gently held between Eddie’s hands, he can feel the callouses from Eddie’s car endeavors, he can smell the cologne on Eddie’s wrist. “I could hear you, I’m across the fucking hall and you speak like you have a built in megaphone.” And Jesus God Damn Christ, Eddie says it like it’s a compliment, like it's something he adores about him.
Richie turns his face to hide it in the palm of one of Eddie’s hands and, again, whines. The part of him that overthinks, that hates every move he makes, tells him that he’s already fucked up. That Eddie is going to realize that he’s an idiot, that he’s a dork and completely and utterly out of Eddie’s league. As if Eddie isn’t the type to say, ‘See you later alligator.’ or ‘Okay-dokey.’ in a serious conversation.
“C’mon, we’ve got reservations and I’m starving my ass off.”
Richie makes a great effort Not to make a comment on how much of a tragedy that would be, because he really does love that little fucker’s ass.
He does let himself show a little vulnerability, “You still wanna go?”
Eddie cocks his head to the side and gives him the sweetest little smile, catches one of Richie’s hands in his own and gives it a squeeze, “Fuck yeah. You look too good not to, Trashmouth.”
