Chapter Text
Mike toppled over into the bar, almost spilling onto the floor like he’d had one too many but catching himself just in time. The tired and underpaid bouncer seated on a high stool beside a tall table asked if he was alright, then tonelessly asked to see Mike’s ID.
In his anxious haste, he almost took out the wrong one—the real one. But, just as he caught himself before collapsing onto the ground, he realized his blunder just in the nick of time. Instead of seeing Michael Wheeler, under twenty-one for another three years, the lax bouncer who wasn’t paid enough to care as far as he was concerned (a quick peek with a flashlight at the right angle would’ve exposed the ID for the fake it was), read Thomas McDermott, age twenty-two.
Mike was trembling with nerves as the bouncer handed him back his ID, surprised as he always was when his baby face didn’t get him caught. He thanked the man, then forced himself forward toward the bar. He had six dollars—hopefully enough for a beer at the comedy club bar. He’d never been here before, but he’d always wanted to go inside. It looked expensive and a lot of places had started trying to push craft beers only, leaving the cheapest drinks he could get upwards of six bucks a bottle.
“What can I get you, sunshine?” The bartender asked. She was an older lady with so many laugh lines on her face it almost looked cracked.
“Do you have a Bud—” Someone elbowed him in the back, cutting him off as he cried out in pain and crumpled a bit against the bar. Distantly, someone shouted a passive “sorry” and continued on without checking on him.
“Bunch of drunken idiots, am I right?” The bartender said, smiling at him. “Bud Lite, you said?”
“Um… Yeah—that’s fine. Or… Or regular. I only have like…”
She doesn’t care, you stupid little idiot.
Mike shivered as he pulled his wad of scrunched up singles and coins. He organized them, dropping quarters onto the bar with deafening clacks each time. People around him were whooping with laughter and one drunken man was clapping his hands while watching the comedy show on the large flat screen over the bar. No one could hear his coins dropping, but Mike anticipated a blow to the back of his head for making such a ruckus. All the while, the bartender smiled at him.
“Budweiser’s just three fifty, sunshine.”
“O-oh. Um, the rest is for you then. A-A tip. Sorry.” He tried to smile for her and couldn’t. She was looking at him suspiciously and Mike was afraid she was about to ask for his ID. It wouldn’t fool her—he didn’t fool her and he knew it.
“Have you seen him before?” The bartender asked, instead of announcing him as a fraud and casting him out. She snatched up the money and put half in her till and half in the silver bucket with TIPS written on it in red marker.
“Seen him? Oh—The… The act? No. Must be good. He’s sold out.” Mike looked over his shoulder at the closed and guarded door to the auditorium part of the comedy club. Those with tickets could go in and have dinner. Those without could lounge around the bar and drink, watching the show for free on the many big screens around the room.
“He’s a bit raunchy, but that trash mouth sells the tickets. He’s sold out all three times he’s been here. Even his first time. Here you go, sunshine.” She set his beer in front of him, placed on a folded black napkin.
Mike thanked her and took his bottle in hand, keeping the napkin folded around the bottom to catch the perspiration. Immediately, he started picking at the label—then caught himself, shuddered involuntarily, and stopped. He scanned the room, looking for a place to sit and then remembering that that wasn’t such a good idea in his current condition. Instead, he shuffled through the crowd, feeling at ease the further away from the windows and doors he was.
Jordan wouldn’t think to look for him here of all places. Jordan also hated crowds and loud noise and didn’t like dirty jokes, so this comedian who had dropped four dick jokes in a row was definitely not the type Jordan would wander in to see. If he did decide to give the place a once over on his hunt for his wayward boyfriend, he would be repulsed by this comedian and leave without looking too hard.
At least, that was what Mike told himself as he found an out of the way place to stand. He was a little too close to one of the speakers, but the all-encompassing drawl of the comedian’s voice, his small chuckles at his own jokes… It put him at ease.
Mike stared at the flat screen, watching the camera angles switch back and forth between close ups of the comedian’s face, then his whole body as he paced around the stage—acting something out. Overacting, really. He was raunchy, just as the bartender had said, and goofy and dramatic. He made it easy to ignore the searing, aching pains roaring at Mike from seemingly every bone and muscle and joint in his body.
The comedian, Richie, was chuckling at his own punchline again and Mike smiled at him around the mouth of his Budweiser bottle. He was so goofy. His mannerisms, the voices he put on—every bit of him. For a moment, Mike forgot where he was, what he was doing—what he was running from.
The camera man had zoomed in on Richie’s eyes and Mike found himself digging at the label of his bottle again. It was empty now and Mike was practically panting, his breaths coming quick and shuddery until he realized he was starting to have an anxiety attack. His pleasure had turned quick into fear and he dropped his eyes to the bottle label he’d shredded and the bits of it balled up on the floor.
He collapsed to his knees and started picking the little scraps up, stuffing them into the mouth of his bottle. What the people around him must think—how crazy did he look, grappling around for scraps of paper by their shoes?
You can’t do anything right. That’s why you can’t go out in public. You make such a fool of yourself every single time. Every single time!
Mike set his empty bottle on a distant corner of the bar since he couldn’t find a waste bin. It was getting busier and busier in the bar and he closed his eyes, backing himself into the wall. The comedian was wrapping up his show and promising to shake hands with anyone willing to buy him a beer or lend him their wife. (His hotel’s right across the street—no RSVP necessary! Just tell Genie at the front desk you’re there for the orgy. She’ll send you straight up.)
Mike wished he had cash for another beer, but had to settle for a free whiskey tumbler of ice water.
“You wanting to meet him, sunshine?” The bartender asked as she handed him his glass.
“Oh. I don’t know. Probably not—I don’t have money to get him a beer,” he said, trying to smile for her—trying to joke. She pitied him and gave him a small chuckle.
“He usually hangs out way past close when he comes. He and Eric, the owner, they’re good buddies. Hang out for a bit,” she said, slapping the bar. “He’ll meetcha, sunshine. You look like you could use some cheering up.”
The ghost of his smile fell away, anxiety gnawing at him once more. Was it that obvious? That he was hurt? That he was hiding? That he wanted to meet the comedian with the gentle, deep blue eyes?
It must’ve been. Mike was never any good at keeping secrets. All of his were written clear as day on his flesh, on his cheeks which burned.
( ) ( ) ( )
Richie collapsed down into one of the empty seats at the bar. The rabid fan who had been barking happily at him for damned near two hours had finally been asked to leave even though the bar was still open another hour—or was it two? Richie couldn’t remember. It didn’t really matter—Eric wouldn’t let the bar close until Richie was unable to walk. It was their unspoken agreement.
The bar was mostly empty now save for a few regulars who had already gotten out their urges to meet him and were now talking amongst each other contentedly. A waitress he didn’t remember calling for brought him a plate of food he didn’t know he ordered. He’d been drunk since before the show started, making his set turn out horrible.
It was probably the worst he’d done since his amateur days. Eric disagreed, said it was all in his head. Maybe that was true… Richie wasn’t a very good judge today.
No, today was the second anniversary of the day he and his friends killed It...and the day It killed Eddie. Ideally, he would be at home—in his bed, probably drunk if he could get up long enough to find a bottle—but his manager and booking agent weren’t having it. He needed to “stay relevant.” He needed to go sell them tickets because the his manager’s other big name just got slapped with a lawsuit for sexual harassment.
Richie, surprisingly, had somehow managed to avoid a scandal besides the one wrecked hotel room and the one dine and dash (which he paid for later, mind you, once the waitress who pissed him off wasn’t working anymore).
He dug into his very late dinner, realizing it was exactly what he needed in contrast to the booze he’d been sucking down since ten in the morning. He could feel eyes on him as he dug into his chicken wings, and without looking up asked whoever it was, “Why are you staring at my cock like that? You tryna get down on it?” It was a stretch, but he was loaded and the show was over—what did he care? It was a little late to demand a refund.
“Oh—S-Sorry. Sorry. I’m sorry.” The panic in the voice, the youthfulness of it, had Richie lifting his head and actually paying attention. Or trying to—it was hard to see in the low light of the bar, even when he squinted through his sweat-smeared glasses.
Sitting two seats down from his was...was impossible.
Richie sat up straight in his seat, almost dropping one of his wings onto the floor but luckily clutching it to his chest and staining his black shirt with orange sauce. Good save.
Sitting just two seats away was a boy—definitely, no doubt about it, a teenage boy—with curly dark hair and fair skin smattered with freckles. Richie would know that face anywhere. It was his face—only twenty-some years younger. He was staring into the awkward, flushed face of himself at eighteen.
Immediately, he looked to the bartender—the voice of reason.
“Am I seeing…what the fuck I think I’m seeing?”
“He’s legal!” The bartender said, inadvertently verifying that the person was real. “Bobby checked him on the way in. He’s just got a baby face. I told him he could wait around to meetcha.”
Richie turned back to the boy who was slumping in on himself while somehow also appearing rigid in his seat. He almost expected the kid to look entirely different, like one of It’s creations. He thought he’d glance back and see some blond cheerleader or a stereotypical gaming nerd. But no, it was still Young Richie with no glasses on… Was it...It?
That had to be what he was, right? Except no… Because they’d killed It. It was dead. So who the fuck was this kid? And why did he look just like him? Did his parents have a whoopsi-baby and forget to mention it for eighteen years? Did he accidentally knock up some woman and this was fate, bringing him back with his long lost son? (Please no. Oh, God, please no.) Was it a rift in the space time continuum, presenting him with a younger version of himself with better eyesight? Or was this kid sitting in the bar, definitely underage, blind as a bat?
“What’s your name, kid?” Richie asked, trying to seem casual as this mindfuckery played out. He picked up a chicken wing and then forgot to take a bite of it.
“Mike,” the boy said, looking at him sheepishly. He was staring at Richie with big, anxious eyes. His face was framed by a mess of dark curls, almost long enough to obscure the nasty, reddish bruise on the left side of his jawline.
Bullies, Richie thought. If this kid was anything like Richie—because, let’s be honest here, he was definitely Richie despite calling himself ‘Mike’—he definitely got it from the bullies.
“You really expect me to believe that?” Richie said, watching the boy closely. If he was It, eventually It was going to falter and expose the truth.
But instead of turning into some demented clown, the boy bit his lip and stared down at his empty tumbler as if ashamed.
“Sorry—Sorry, that was weird. My bad,” Richie said, correcting himself when he saw that the bartender was now looking at him suspiciously. He was making an ass of himself. If the bartender could see this kid, then he was real. It had never presented itself and attacked in front of a crowd of strangers.
And they were in fucking Indiana. How the Hell would It get all the way to Indiana? Take a red eye? That’d be fuckin’ hilarious. It’s on a Plane, coming to theaters this spring.
Richie laughed at his own joke, realized no one else in the world would find it funny—even in of his childhood group of friends. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he could hear Stan saying “Beep-Beep, Richie,” and wanted to cry. Instead, he took a bite of the chicken wing and tried to get some self control to come up through his haze of booze.
“Did you catch the show?” Richie asked, thinking that sounded a bit better—a bit more friendly.
“Some,” the boy said, overeager. He seemed to flinch as soon as he moved on his bar stool, as if the very action of shifting his legs caused him pain. The bullies must’ve gotten him good… “I really liked it. You’re—You’re great. You’re really funny.”
“Well, I have to be, or they’ll kick me out.” Realizing he sounded like an asshole again, Richie added, “You want some of this? They gave me, like, forty wings. I think this suit must make me look fat.” He laughed at his own joke, the boy tried to politely decline, and the next thing Richie knew, he was sitting on the stool next to the boy and the plate of wings was between them. “So tell me,” Richie said, his mouth dangerously close to the boy’s ear while the bartender was making a mixed drink Richie had ordered for Mike. “How did you get in here? There’s no way you’re twenty-one.”
“I just...came in. I am. I know, I look like I’m twelve. Everybody tells me that.” Mike was blushing, but looked absolutely frightened. He was definitely not twenty-one, and he was definitely not It. He still looked way too damned much like Richie though. That, Richie didn’t think he could ask about, though.
And why would he want to? Why would he want to make it weird? What a way to ruin an evening—telling the cute, awkward boy that was blushing at him, “you know, you look just like me when I was a kid. Who knew I was so adorable? I mean, apart from my mom.” Yes, that was how you got a kid to get up and run for the door shouting “stranger danger” as he went.
Wait… Wait, what?
Richie surveyed the bar again, waiting for hidden camera men to pop out and announce he was the latest victim of To Catch a Predator.
For some reason, part of his brain tacked on “Incest Edition,” because this kid looked too damned much like him. Was there a chance they were related? Did he have a kid that was damn near one-hundred percent him with some one night stand back in the day? I would’ve been in his early twenties if the kid was eighteen...early college days. Shit… Not good, Richie. Not good.
“Thanks...for the drink,” Mike said, calling Richie back out of his thoughts as the colorful, tall cocktail was set on a napkin in front of the boy.
“Yeah, well… Yeah,” Richie looked down at his glass which should be empty, just in time to catch the bartender swapping the empty tumbler out with a full one.
“This one’s from Eric. It’s our top shelf scotch. Macallan.”
Richie stared at the glass in shock—a shot of that stuff alone could run a person up two-hundred bucks. He might’ve bought it once before, just to show off to some corporate suits—or some chick. He couldn’t remember.
“Is this how he’s payin’ me for the show?” Richie asked, picking up the tumbler. There was a smooth, polished stone inside the glass with his liquor—cooling it without diluting the fine scotch with water. “I like his style.”
The bartender laughed and then made her way around to some other guests.
“Do you wanna try it?” Richie asked, turning his eyes toward Mike who was sucking wing sauce off his fingers before blotting them on his cocktail napkin.
“What? Oh—No. No, I can’t… I don’t—no, thank you.”
“Ah, come on. Don’t be modest. Here. Just don’t spill it.” Richie set the glass down next to Mike’s cocktail, feeling as if the room was spinning around them. Maybe it was. Maybe the whole world was turning around and around without them ever having to leave this moment.
“Um… But it’s—I don’t think I’ll like it.” Mike said, fidgeting and then seeming to wince.
“Bullies?” Richie asked, realizing he hadn’t blinked in a while.
“What?”
“You keep, you know, tensing,” Richie said, shrugging and reaching for a drink that didn’t exist—remembering he’d just put it in front of Mike. Smooth, Trashmouth. Real smooth. “Was it bullies?”
“Oh…” Mike looked away from him far too quickly, the tumbler of fine scotch suddenly in his hand. He seemed to grasp it compulsively, the way Richie had tried to a moment ago. His fingers tensed around it and for a moment Richie was afraid he was really about to see two-hundred dollars worth of scotch spatter on the floor along with shards of glass. But, then, Mike brought the tumbler to his lips and took the smallest of sips.
He cringed instantly and Richie busted out laughing, way too loud—way too distinctly—and Mike had set the glass back down in front of him. People were looking at them, Richie almost fell off his bar stool leaning back to look at them all.
“Kid can’t handle his liquor,” Richie said, voice ripping with laughter at a joke no one found funny. The few spectators he had all quickly turned away from him as if uncomfortable.
“That’s nasty!” Mike said, grabbing his cocktail instead and drinking three huge mouthfuls. Richie was a bit ashamed of the way he found himself watching the boy’s cheeks hollow, his Adam's apple bob.
Did he always look at other dudes this way? Shit… He didn’t think so, but—fuck.
“How do you drink that stuff?” Mike asked, making Richie realize he had the scotch burning at his lips but hadn’t parted them to actually take a sip. He quickly did so, felt his mouth pull into a grimace, and set the glass down. “It’s so gross.”
“An acquired taste,” Richie said, chuckling even though nothing about what he said was funny to anyone besides himself. In his head he’d tacked on ‘like dating older men. Takes a time or two to get used to the taste.’ At least he hoped he’d said it in his head.
He was too fucking drunk for this shit.