Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Shit,” Richie yelps out, wiping the spilt alcohol from his shirt with his hand. His bruised knuckles from breaking up a fight at last weeks gig on full display, accidentally splashing some of the rum and coke in the cuts.

“Fuck OW! Bill! Bill get me a fucking towel, man!” he yells out into the living room where Bill Denbrough, his bassist, stands with his own drink. “Gotcha Rich!” and darts off into their bathroom to grab the lanky man a hopefully clean towel.

As he waits, he watches more of their friends and friends of friends pour through the front door. “HEY! Pay the goddamn door fee, you think this shit is free?!” Richie motions to the kegs and bottles of alcohol on the kitchen counters behind him, a few of the scattered people dig through their pockets and toss their drummer Mike Hanlon five dollar bills. “Goddamn, thank you! Not that hard to follow the house rules, pay your party fee, no fighting inside the house, no being a fucking creep! Sex and drugs only in the designated areas!” As he finishes up his biweekly lecture, Bill returns with a somewhat questionable, mildly stained towel.

“Thanks Big Bill, my savior, my hero! Whatever would I do without you?” Bill smirks at his slightly taller friend while palming his beer, “You’d probably perish without me waiting on you hand and foot, just completely shrivel up and die.” “True,” Richie looks over Bill’s shoulder at the bodies still spilling in, Mike has resorted to holding out an empty PBR box to collect the crumpled wads of money. Richie looks back to Bill and raises an eyebrow, “is there more people than usual?” Bill looks back to check Richie’s view for himself then looks back and remarks, “I mean, Richie, you’re kind of a local legend now, you and Bev fucking rocked that dude.”

Last week’s show at The Quarry, their local venue, started out fairly normal. Stanley Uris, their lead guitarist and Bill’s partner, was running late as he always did and shuffled in through the backstage door minutes before the opening band was due to finish their set. “Sorry, sorry, I know,” giving Bill a quick drive by kiss on the cheek, putting his guitar case on the dusty, old green velvet couch they had saved from the side of a dumpster years prior.

“You’re actually pretty early compared to your usual fashionably-late-5-minutes-into-our-fuckin-set grand entrance,” Bev spouted off. Bev Marsh, as firey in personality as the mop that lives on their head, was their genderfluid back up vocalist and guitarist. Richie’s righthand They/Them, always scoring him numbers from groupies, never any that kept his interest piqued though.

Richie had come out as bi a couple years ago and hadn’t dated anyone solid, he really hadn’t dated anyone at all. He had his fair share of sloppy make out sessions in their punk house bathroom during the parties, maybe the occasional handy if they were sober enough. But he wanted to find his…person, which Bev always flicked him shit for. As they set their stage up that night Richie looked out in the crowd and had seen an unfamiliar face, yet somehow the most familiar face he’s ever seen in his entire life. Deja vu ripped through his body like nothing he had ever felt before.

The freckled face had met his gaze, the brown sugar spun hair disheveled in an on purpose way, he could see his soft brown eyes had the slightest splotch of black shadow on them. Richie kind of lifted his hand up to give a half hello, and the man returned the gesture, and a half grin crept into the corners of his dusty pink lips. “Fuckin stop it,” Richie whispered to himself, as he could feel his cheeks heat up.

The back bar light flashes, indicating if they didn’t start in a second they wouldn’t be playing at all, nothing new to the group as this happened every gig. Looking at the rest of his bandmates, they all give him a middle finger telling him they’re ready to finally begin. Richie sauntered up to the mic reserved for him as lead vocalist, “what’s up FUCKERS, I’m fuckin’ Richie the Trashmouth. We’re The Barrens, you fuckin’ know us. Get off your FUCKING FEET!”

The first two songs that night got the crowd hyped, but Richie was especially nervous tonight since they had finally worked on some new songs. They had a bit of a local fanbase, and the occasional times they played in neighboring towns, they started to bring in a decent amount of people to their shows. The petite guy who Richie had locked eyes with was still in the first few rows of the crowd, and had been making Richie sip more of his stage beer than usual out of nervousness.

Richie had nicknamed him Shortstack in his head to put a name to his wandering thoughts, and he had been enjoy the music with his eyes half closed moving with the crowd. Occasionally Shortstack had to turn and push someone back into the pit, almost getting trampled more than once. Richie spotted Henry Bowers, their constant gig problem, as the main person almost knocking over his sweet Shortstack.

As their second song started coming to its end, Richie shot his eyes back to Mike who’s covered in sweat at his drumset, and he wiggles a tongue at him, Mike returned the goofy expression. Grabbing the mic, he announced their recent efforts, “I know you idiots have your crowd favorites, but I finally got these absolute lazy asses to write new music with me. I’m going to let my spitfire friend over here take the lead this time, this song is called Bleeding In The Blur!”

As Bev and Stan were playing the intro riffs, and Bev leaned into their mic to start crooning out the new tune that them and Richie had stayed up until 7 am to write weeks prior. Richie gave them full creative freedom on this and found himself looking at them like a proud brother, eyes locking together, shiteating grin as they got into the chrous. Richie only has vocals the last few seconds of the new song, so he just looked back to the crowd again for his Shortstack. Right as he adjusted his gaze, he could see Henry in the dude’s face with one hand wrapped around his shirt collar and the other balling up a fist to strike.

Richie, running on one sips too many of his PBR mixed together with his usual pre-show shots that night, sprung from the stage and pushed past the crowd. As soon as he pushed the last body out of his way, he shoved Henry’s chest as hard as he possibly could muster the energy for.

“Bowers what the fuck did we tell you last time?! You can’t keep causing shit at our shows without good fuckin’ reason!” Henry had tripped on his feet stumbling back from the surprisingly forceful shove from the undertoned man above him and was starting to turn red in equal amounts anger as embarrassment.

Picking himself up off his ground as fast as possible with help from his goon Patrick Hockstetter, Henry huffed in rage. “You know Tozier, we can do this like the old days,” Henry referring to their high school days, “me smashing that pretty fuckin’ face in, and you taking it!” As soon as Henry went to swing on Richie, the music had stopped and Bev screeched into their mic, “Touch my fuckin’ boy and you’re going to land yourself between a rock and a hard place!”

Due to their distraction, Henry’s swing missed and he fell into Richie’s shoulder, and Bev had hopped off the stage themselves to act on the threat. Richie shoved Henry for a second time just as Bev sprinted up, “Rock!” nodding to refer to themselves, “FUCKIN HARD PLACE!” Before Henry could duck, Bev landed their punch right at the bridge of his nose, hearing a hard crunch under the blow. Patrick tried to get around Henry to attempt an attack on Richie, but the Trashmouth grabs Henry by his trashy white tank, using him as a human shield against Patrick and head butted Henry.

This knocked both of the morons to the hard concrete floor, and Richie kneeled a bit to match Henry’s fear filled eyes. “Why don’t you go blow your little piggy father, you bully piece of shit,” Richie hissed at him as the two men scramble to their feet and back out through the shocked crowd.

As Richie and Bev looked around the venue, the crowd started whooping and dog whistling with excitement. They catch their breaths, and Bev fell into Richie’s chest and starts cackling. “Holy fuck, what a fucking RUSH!” Bev exclaimed, “ALRIGHT SOMEONE BUY ME A SHOT, I AIN’T GETTING BACK ON THAT STAGE TONIGHT!” As they walked off towards the bar, Richie frantically looked around for his Shortstack, completely forgetting for a moment he had been there to defend him.

“Hey!” the man with the small frame pokes at Richie’s shoulder that meets his eye-line. Richie looked back, seeing the face of freckles and he ended up catching himself thinking about giving each one a kiss. Shaking his head as if to etch-a-sketch that from his brain, he whipped around to be met with a wide grin. “Thank you, that guy he just-“ Richie puts his hand up and puts on his best southern accent, “well now jus’ hold yer horse there Shortstack, no need to thank me and lil ol’ Firecracker over there. Was a pleasure to be of assistance!”

The pint-sized man in front of him crossed his arms and scrunched his nose, “Yo EXCUSE ME?! Shortstack?!” Richie snickered to himself, feisty one ,“well you haven’t blessed me with your name darlin’” “Eddie, Eddie Kaspbrak,” Eddie stuck out his hand to shake Richie’s, but Richie yanked him into a hug and noogied his head. “Don’t be a stranger,” holding him tight as Eddie mumbled in complaint into his chest, “Richie Tozier, everyone calls me Trashmouth, if you stick around long enough you’ll find out why.”

Eddie finally broke free of the tight embrace with the scruffy slender man and running his hand through his hair in an attempt to fix it. “Trashmouth!” Ben Hanscom, The Quarry’s owner and best bartender and their only non-bandmate roomie yelled towards him. “Uh oh, papa is in trrrrrouble,” Richie jokes to his new friend, “come on Eddie spaghetti.” Grabbing Eddie’s hand before he could protest, dragging him off to the bar, where an inpatient Ben waited.

“Yes my good man Ben?” Richie inquires, throwing his thumb behind him to point at Eddie, “say hi to the new kid Eds!” “It’s EDDIE, not Eds, I HATE nicknames,” Eddie snarled, and then directed himself to Ben with a simple “hi.”  Ben looked at Richie then at Eddie then back to the darker hair man, who quickly winked at Ben, hoping Eddie hadn’t seen.

Ben flashed a smile that quickly became a half frown, “Rich, you can’t be fighting my customers, you know this, you should’ve signaled to Belch to boot them.” Richie scoffed, “you hired Bowers’ other little thug as the fucking bouncer, man. He doesn’t listen to us when it comes to that fucking prick!” Ben nodded his head slowly, “yeah I know, I put out a new ad to replace him, he’s lowkey worthless,” perking up a little and softening his expressions he asks, “you guys going back to the house? Bev said they’re going to go pack up and grab a 24 rack.” Richie looked back at Eddie with a wild eyed grin, “heya cutie, you wanna come meet the rest of my entourage?”

Unfortunately, Eddie had needed to leave that night to find the friend he had come with. Richie had shoved one of their punk house’s flyers for the party and watched Eddie scan it over intently. “29 Neibolt street, next Friday? I’ll be there…Trashmouth.”

Richie beamed at his nickname rolling off Eddie’s tongue. “Oh and the number on there is the house phone, I’m in between cellphones at the moment,” he really wished he had not jumped into the downtown fountain with his phone after their last show when him and Bev were shitcanned. “I’m not home a lot between being a slave to capitalism and practice, but we have a machine”. Eddie had walked away holding the flyer to his chest, and Richie thought I’m so fucked.

Chapter Text

29 Neibolt Street is, well was, a fucking shithole. It was falling apart when Ben found the listing, partially boarded up. He put his love of fixer uppers into it, and made it less of a shithole for fairly cheap. “Its still a punk house, but more of a punk home now,” Ben was always joking. At least it was falling apart less.

Richie’s favorite part was their backyard. The had all decided to keep some of the overgrowth because that urban legend shit was perfect for their brand. Recently Mike had installed a fire pit as a nice relax zone, which Richie and Bev often found themselves sitting by in the early hours of their frequent all nighters.

None of them had the time to clean during the week between each of their jobs and practice, and it was making Richie weirdly self conscious. He usually didn’t care, but he could tell Eddie probably didn’t do well with mess. He had managed to pick up the common areas a bit in a frenzy after his shift at The Gravel Pit, their local record shop.

Richie had felt like the days of this week had gone by in both 5 seconds and 5 years, but finally Saturday was here. He had now resorted to pacing in the kitchen, stopping to sip his drink every few minutes so he wouldn’t spill again.

“Rich, don’t worry he’s coming. Didn’t he leave you like a message every day this week? You know who does that?? Nerds with fuckin heart boners Richie,” Bill reassures his friend, and Richie reaches out to pat his shoulder. “You’re a good friend Billy Boy,” Richie pats him again, meeting Bill’s eyes with his over the top of his thick frames to convey the sincerity of his words, “you’re a good friend.”

Bev saunters over, cigarette behind tucked behind their ear, wearing mechanic coveralls with the name Bryan on the front embroidered on a white and blue patch. “Hey BRYAN, can you take a look under the hood for me?” Richie points to the top of his head, “I think something ain’t running right.” Bev chuckles and fluffs up Richie’s hair, “Looks alright to me Mr. Tozier, but it does sound a little,” they pause to knock on his head, “empty.” They giggle at their own joke, and let out a satisfied sigh when Richie flashes them a shit eating grin.

“Waiting on that small dude who’s life we saved from that loserfuck Bowers? Didn’t he leave you like, a million messages?” Bev asks, while pouring two shots of tequila, handing one to Richie. They clink their glasses together, tossing them back and hiss at the familiar burn of Jose Cuervo Gold. They both hate tequila, especially gold, but it always helped Richie with his nerves.

Richie wipes the remaining liquid from the corners of his mouth and sharply inhales, clearing his still burning throat. “7, but I caught him on his 8th call today right before I did our party run, and he told me when he was off work he’d over.” He chases the tequila with the rest of his drink and continues, “He said he’d be here probably closer to 8.” Bev grabs his red solo cup and pours him another rum and coke, that is more rum than it is coke. Richie gladly accepts, whispering a harshly whispered thank you.

He looks over to their kitchen’s slightly cracked wall clock, which reads 7:40PM. Still not quite close to 8, Eddie was probably still at work, but Richie’s ADHD would have him paralyzed until he showed up. “Rich, you’ll do fine, the little guy clearly has a crush!” Bev rubs his back and he nods, but struggles to breathe without shaking.

“Christ, okay come over here,” Bev says in a harsh whisper, pulling Richie to the kitchen’s pantry closet while using their free hand to search their pockets. Once Bev ensures that no stragglers have followed them, they hold out their hand for Richie to inspect. Inside their palm is a baggie with a white substance, and Richie grabs it in between his index finger and thumb giving it a little shake. “Yeah that’ll do donkey, that’ll do. Straw me babes.”

Bev searches each pocket of their coveralls and produces a power coated cut down straw. “You’re the besttt!” Richie exclaims and kisses their cheek, Bev giggles and rubbing their cheek where his lips just touched. “Go get ‘em tiger,” Bev whispers, pinching his cheek before he skips off out of the pantry and down the hall to his room. Once he reaches his door, he sees it ajar and raises his brow in curiosity. Pushing hard on his door, he jump scares the two complete strangers making out on his bed.

“HEY! This is not one of the designated fuck spots!” Richie points at the sign on his door, “if you can’t read, the sign says ‘Trashmouth and Trashmouth’s guests ONLY! I’m fuckin Trashmouth!! You are not my guests, so SHOO!” The two now annoyed randos leave and Richie scoffs after them. “Thank YOU, fuckin idiots…” he mutters under his breath, swiftly closing the door and turning the lock on his handle.

Mirror, mirror, where’s my mirror. Richie searches around his room, laundry strewn everywhere and scattered beer cans littering the floor. AH, THERE YOU ARE, grabbing his mirror from under one of his dirty band tees. He pushes a pizza box off his bed and settles down onto it, before retrieving his knife from his pocket to make himself a line. He makes a fatter one than usual, using the length of the knife to both crush it finer and line it up. With the straw Bev gave him, in one swift motion it’s vacuumed up his nose and he clears both nostrils.

Richie would never call himself an addict, he would never admit it was an issue. If you ever asked him, he’d just say something along the lines of “That’s just showbizz baby!” Him and Bev were always pushing their limits with any substance they encountered, but never too far, just enough. But they both knew the last few months, they had pushed the coke thing a little too far. All those thoughts however, could wait until after this weekend, that’s an issue for Monday’s Richie.

Right as he goes to line up another, there’s a soft knock at his door. “Why is NO ONE reading the sign tonight?! UNLESS YOU ARE ME, TRASHMOUTH, OR MY GUEST, NO! ENTRY! PLUS I’M GODDAMN BUSY!” He hears silence on the other end and then a familiar somewhat squeaky voice, “Um your friends said you came down here, I can come back…” Richie frantically shoves the drugs and straw into his pocket and slides his mirror into his side table drawer.

“UHHH ONE SECCY PLEASE!” Richie yells through the door, frantically kicking dirty laundry around with his throughly worn and taped together Doc Martens. He walks over the wall mirror (that of COURSE he had found at the same dumpster they found their backstage couch) and straightens himself up a bit.

Running his hands through the sides of his dark curls, he fluffs it up to give it some volume. He adjusts his glasses, scooting them up a bit on his face. Grabbing the cologne that Bev stole him from their second job, an extremely whitewashed spirituality shop, he douses himself in the smell of tobacco and vanilla. He flashes himself a smile and double finger guns his reflection. God, I have to look fucking corny right now, he thinks to himself and takes the deepest breath of his life. Before Richie can think about it, he flips the lock on his door and swings it open.