Chapter Text
Eddie Kaspbrak has lived in Derry his whole life. Most people living in Derry have, as it happens, lived there for their whole lives. They get a lot of tourists, but nobody sane would ever willingly move to a town like Derry, because Derry is a crap, dead-end, wasteland where dreams come to die.
Oh, but it has an amusement park.
Bev Marsh, the bane of Eddie’s existence, and his best friend in the world, often remarks that Derry is famous for two things: the serial child-killer from the 80’s that went round dressed as a clown, and Turtle Cove, the least amusing amusement park in America. Bev hates Derry and Turtle Cove as much as Eddie does, obviously, because she’s not a back-town tourist that can laugh and make fun of the ancient rollercoasters with tracks that shake and shudder whenever a cart rolls over them, or the obviously rigged win-a-toy games, or the greasy, deep-fried shit they serve from the food stalls.
Bev hates a lot of stuff, though. It goes with her general persona, to hate things. She’s short and slight and an utter, unwavering badass. She’s been a heavy smoker since she was twelve, she wears steel-cap work boots and oversized biker jackets with not much underneath them. She teams these outfits with her short crop of blazing red hair, several piercings in her nose, ears, and other places Eddie pretends not to know about. Eddie is far too uncool to be her friend, but their close bond was forged in kindergarten, when Eddie had been even weedier and snivellier, and Bev had saved him from getting his face smushed in the sandbox by smacking Eric Funnel round the face with a plastic spade. She is just as terrifying to piss off now as she was then, wielding that cherry red kiddie tool with the conviction of a woman hell-bent on delivering vigilante justice. This might be why Eddie is currently in the passenger seat of Bev’s pickup truck, being driven through the sky-blue archway that spells out ‘TURTLE COVE’ in gimmicky, ‘sea foam’ font, and into the parking lot.
It’s June, blazing hot, and the park has been open a few weeks, so it’s rammed full of cars. Turtle Cove isn’t a particularly big or well-known resort amongst regular, wholesome American families, but it has earned itself a reputation for being, for lack of a better description, ‘wonderfully shit’ amongst ride-loving teens and twenty-somethings in surrounding states. In summer, like right now, kids that have heard legends of the shitness pour into Derry, stoppering up the mid-town traffic in their haste to get to the park and see the gaudy, tacky mess for themselves. Eddie doesn’t get why Bev forces him to join the hoards each year. The horrendous truth of Turtle Cove is burned into the back of both their brains.
“Ahhh,” Bev calls out, squeezing her truck expertly between two cars parked very close together. “Smell that, Kaspbrak! Funnel cakes and festering vomit. We’re here.”
Eddie tests out his door, but can’t get it more than a couple of inches open. “Oh no, guess we can’t get out. Let’s just stay here.”
Bev sends him a withering look, then plucks a pair of Ray-Bans from the cup holder and slides them on. The way they balance on her snub, freckled nose should be cute, but she just looks even more awesome than usual. She turns in her seat, sliding the glass panel in the divider behind them across, and begins fitting her body through the space until she tumbles out into the truck bed. Once there, she gestures for Eddie to follow, and hops out of the truck to the blistering tarmac. Eddie sighs heavily, cursing her, and begins folding himself through after her.
“I know you hate this place too,” Eddie says crossly as they weave through the rows of cars, so brightly reflecting the glare of the sun that Eddie has to keep his hand clamped over his eyes like a visor. “Why are we here? We could’ve gone to hang out in Ben’s weird panic bunker.”
“And when the walls caved in and we were buried alive underground on the hottest day of the year, who would have saved us?” Bev asks, knowing precisely which of Eddie's tightly wound paranoia strings to pluck at to win an argument. “Come on, I know you know it sucks, but I’m young and idiotic and bored. I wanna meet new people. Exciting people, that don’t live and breathe fucking Derry. People with tales of the outside world. This is where those people congregate, unfortunately. So this is where we must go.”
“Why do I have to be forced to meet these people?” Eddie asks, grumbling, but Bev has already joined the queue for the entrance.
It moves quickly, because full or not, Turtle Cove is still not a popular attraction. It gets as many visitors as it can cope with, but that’s not a lot compared to something like Six Flags, which has a maximum capacity in the tens of thousands. Eddie leans against the chipped metal railing as he bakes slowly in the sun’s relentless glare, listening to half-witted conversations the morons around him are having, about how they’re planning to sever their own arms off (probably) attempting to film themselves on the poorly safety regulated rollercoasters with their phones.
Bev rolls a cigarette beside him. “So, straight for The Neibolt?”
“Sure, if you hold a loaded gun to my head.” The bare skin of his hand, until now protected by the sleeve of his windbreaker, accidentally brushes the flaking paint of the railing, and he recoils, pulling away in horror. Bev watches with a smirk as Eddie digs out his bottle of sanitiser and slathers the goop over his germified hand. “Why don’t you take someone who actually enjoys going on these death traps with you?”
“Why the hell would I do that when I get to drag you on kicking and screaming?” Bev asks, sticking the unlit cigarette behind one heavily studded ear. "My collection of our ride photos that perfectly capture your varying degrees of panicked screaming are bordering on priceless at this point."
They’re almost at the front of the queue now, so Bev reaches into her jacket for her wallet, and Eddie sighs, doing the same. The young boy in the ticket booth looks seconds away from death’s door when they approach. He’s slumped in his seat, his breath fogging up the plexiglass; it’s obvious that he’s cooking in there.
“You alright in there, champ?” she asks. “Maybe ask Mr Turtle if he can dig out a fan for you.”
The boy snorts derisively. His pit stains are making Eddie want to gag. He’s glad of the separation of the glass. “Fat chance. Management don’t give a fuck about us. That’ll be twenty dollars.”
“Ah, but we are famed Derry residents Beverly Marsh and Edward Kaspbrak,” Bev explains, and they both dutifully hold up their ID’s to the glass. The boy squints at them without leaning forward, not appearing to care much. “I’m sure you’ve heard of us,” Bev says sombrely.
The boy shrugs, waving them through with a look of indifference. “Have a Turtle-licious day.”
“Dear God,” Eddie mutters as he pushes through the turnstile, making Bev snort. “I guess I should be grateful I don’t have to actually pay to endure this shithole,” Eddie allows, though he’s two steps into the park and already feels the weight of the years of terrible memories pummelling onto his shoulders. “One of the many sparkling benefits we receive as Derry locals.”
“Hold up,” a gormless, lank-haired boy says from nearby, breaking away from his group of stoner buddies to approach them, “you guys are, like, from here?”
“Born and raised,” Bev says around her cigarette, flicking her lighter at its end. Eddie has no idea how she can smoke right now; the heat of it must be stifling. “What’s it to ya?”
“No way!” the guy says, guffawing. “Ace, Buddy, check it out! These guys live in Derry, man!”
The next few minutes are taken up by a tedious forced photo op with these deodorant-phobic assholes. Eddie endures one selfie, grimacing into the lens, and then forces his way out of their huddle to wait while Bev throws up ironic gang signs and lets them poke their fun. She’s grinning when she sidles back over, and Eddie scowls.
“Why d’you let them make fun of us like that?”
“It’s either joke or be joked at in this world, short stack,” Bev replies, slinging an arm around his shoulder and steering him towards the Ring Toss stall.
*
Bev is, for some reason, determined to win a lame stuffed toy ‘by summer’s end’. It turns out that Bev has a few friends working here doing temporary summer jobs, which shouldn’t be a surprise (Bev is very popular), but still is somehow. Eddie never thinks of this place as an actual business, with job opportunities and real staff, because the whole park is so tawdry and unkempt. It literally hasn’t changed a bit since Eddie can first remember, when he used to come here with his dad before he died. He must have been around four or five the first time, and he remembers the same painted, cracked tarmac paths connecting each ‘land’ back then, the same multi-coloured string bulb lights criss-crossing overhead. He remembers the wonky signposts with the wacky lettering telling you which way the rides are, the anatomically incorrect bared teeth of the grinning turtles painted onto every sign and ride entrance.
There’s no sign of maintenance, or janitorial staff, or security. He’s never seen a single staff person, aside from the bored, acne-spotted teenagers that man the booths and rides, in the turquoise Turtle Cove polos with those dumb turtle-shaped hats. But he supposes that somewhere, somehow, recruitment ads must be posted in the lead-up to the park’s summer opening, and that kids his own age must see them and respond. The first person Bev spots that she recognises is a guy working a game stall, one where you aim a water pistol at a clown’s mouth and fill a balloon until it pops. The guy is very tall, his wiry frame making him appear even taller, with a curtain of black hair falling to his chin. He wears the turtle cap backwards, so the stupid flick of a tail sticks out in front of him instead of its dumb grinning face. Eddie is, weirdly, kind of glad he doesn’t have to look at it when Bev calls out to him and immediately begins ragging on him about the hilarious fact that he’s working here for the summer.
“Marsh, you wound my fragile ego,” the guy jokes, miming being speared in the heart, “spare me your jibes. Shoot a load into a clown’s mouth so I can get paid. Like a true friend.”
She laughs, sunglasses pushed up to the top of her head so she can bat her lashes. “You gonna give me one of those big stuffed turtles if I play?”
It might be the heat, but it’s vaguely nauseating to watch Bev flirt with this guy. Eddie breathes out hard through his nose, willing the day to fast forward, a cloud to pass over the sun, or, even better, for a meteor to smash into Derry, obliterating Turtle Cove once and for all, and him along with it.
“Depends,” the guy says in the background of Eddie’s wishful thoughts, “you gonna get your hot friend to play too?”
It takes Eddie a moment to realise that this lanky weirdo is referring to him. He lifts his gaze in surprise, feeling his cheeks redden, as they always do, ever since he was a kid, in every fucking mildly embarrassing situation ever. The guy is baring his wonky teeth in an unabashed grin, aimed Eddie’s way, his hands planted on the counter before him, where the water guns are laid out, ready for action.
“No, thanks.” Eddie’s voice is clipped, he knows, but he’s hot and irritable, in his least favourite place in the whole damn world. This moron with his pity attempt at inclusion is not making him feel any better.
“Don’t mind him,” Bev says amusedly, “he’s grumpy ‘cause I’m about to drag him on The Neibolt.”
“No way!” the guy says, and Eddie rolls his eyes. “Impressive, fanny pack. That’s the scariest ride in the whole-”
“I know ,” Eddie snaps, glaring. “I’ve only lived adjacent to this hell hole my entire life. And yeah, I’ve been on The fucking Neibolt. Twice. And never again, despite what she might say.”
“Wow, jump down my throat why don’t you?” the guy says, then pauses. “That was a genuine invitation, by the way.”
Bev cackles with laughter, and Eddie shoots him a glare. “I’d rather kiss the clown mouth.”
“That’s a double burn, because Eddie here is a wicked germaphobe,” Bev says, nudging Eddie’s rigid stance with her sharp elbow. “Good to see you, Richie,” she says, finally picking up on Eddie’s desire to am-scray. “You look like a demented children’s TV presenter in that outfit.”
Richie pulls the turtle-head brim of his cap around to the front so that he can tip it towards the two of them, theatrically. “Great to see you too, beautiful Beverly. And scrumptious to make your acquaintance, Eds.”
“Don’t call me that,” Eddie says, turning round to glare again. “My name is Eddie.”
Richie just winks at him and they wander off, Eddie’s fingers twitching in annoyance.
*
“Who was that guy?” Eddie asks, affronted, as soon as they’re clear of Arcade Avenue, the section of the park where all the fairground games stalls are, the first bit you come to after the entrance, all the booths lining either side of the main pathway so you’ll be coaxed into spending money immediately by the lure of the oversized stuffed toys. “How do you even know him?”
“Richie?” Bev asks, distracted by a display of marine-animal-shaped lollipops on the counter of a candy stand. “He’s in my Advanced Trig class. Oooh, I’ll have a blueberry whale, please.”
“He goes to our school?” Eddie asks, astounded. “I’ve never seen him before.”
Bev takes the lollipop excitedly, slamming down some crumpled notes onto the counter and walking away before the sloth-like teenager behind it can reach out to count them. “He’s the year above us. They put me in the clever-clogs math classes, remember?”
“So, you’re telling me that that guy elected to take Advanced Trigonometry in his Senior year?”
She shrugs, slurping on the whale’s splayed tail. “He’s crazy smart. One of those freaky calculator brains, y’know? We’d all shout equations at him and he’d just reel them off without even thinking.”
Eddie blinks, his anger towards Richie’s rude introduction receding a little in the light of this information, like someone’s sprinkled water on the flame. It roars back soon enough however, remembering the little things about that first meeting: Richie calling him ‘fanny pack’, for instance. He fingers his belt bag self-consciously now, eyebrows pinching.
Bev catches him at it, laughing prettily, the tip of her tongue already tinged blue. “Don’t let him get to you. He’s a tease. That’s his whole thing. But he doesn’t mean it. I think he liked you, actually.” She pauses, sucking contemplatively on the whale. “He’s popular as hell, but he doesn’t like a lot of people. He’s selective about his friends.”
“Lucky me,” Eddie says dryly.
Bev laughs again, and then they’re stepping over the long-ago toppled archway that announces the entrance to ‘The World of Tomorrow’. It’s basically a lot of chrome, a kids' rocketship ride, and plenty of posters with corny phrases on where cartoon turtles have, inexplicably, sprouted alien antennae.
“Wanna go on Space Turtle Mountain?” Bev asks, then crunches the whale in half with her neat, white teeth.
“If we must,” Eddie sighs, and they head for the huge lump of silver rock that’s supposed to be, Eddie guesses, the habitat of whatever a ‘space turtle’ might be.
From within, periodically, a chorus of screams echoes out; this is, Eddie knows, the result of the launch-pad style beginning of the ride. It had used to terrify him, the lurch forward and subsequent barrel around the track in the pitch darkness inside the ‘mountain’. But as Eddie grew up, he realised that this version of Disneyland’s famous Space Mountain ride is about a quarter of the size and speed of the original, and is, like the rest of Turtle Cove, hugely disappointing.
The queue for Space Turtle Mountain is, at least, indoors, and because of the thick layer of plaster-rock over their heads, dripping with damp from years of soaking up the stormy Derry winters, it’s lovely and cool. A text arrives on Bev’s phone, and she digs it out of her jacket; for something to do, Eddie pulls out his own. He has four texts from his mother, demanding an update on his safety and sunscreen use, but apart from that, tragically, nothing. Not that he ever gets texts from anyone aside from Bev or his mom anyway. He’s tapping out a weary reply to the latter when Bev’s tittering catches his attention.
He clicks send and stuffs his phone in his pocket, frowning at her. “Is that Ben?”
“No, Richie,” Bev says, flashing him a grin in the darkness. The queue shuffles forwards. “I was right. He did like you.”
“Hmmph,” is all Eddie can think of to say.
“He really liked you, actually,” Bev says with a little whistle after another text flicks onto her screen. “Says you ‘had him drooling harder than when the cotton candy lady wheels her cart past his booth’.”
Eddie wrinkles his nose. He’s glad the dark queue tunnel is hiding his red cheeks. He wouldn’t want Bev to get the wrong impression. He always blushes. At everything. “Ew,” he says simply, and steps forwards when the queue moves again.
He can feel Bev scrutinising him. “He’s kinda pretty though, don’t you think?”
“If you like greasy, cocky, rude assholes, then sure.”
It’s a mistake of an answer, but Eddie realises it too late, when Bev has already lit up with glee and begun frantically typing out a reply on her phone. Eddie has to take a deep breath to prevent himself snatching the phone out of her hands.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Eddie demands instead, trying to act cooler than he feels. “You wanna set me up with some dickhead carny with a head for numbers? He’s gross, Bev. No way.”
“Uh huh,” Bev replies, infuriatingly. She smiles at him, then slips her phone back into her pocket. “Loud and clear, Eddie. Ooh, look. If we turn off here we can get to the front!”
*
At lunchtime, Eddie is so queasy from being hurled around on various unstable rides that he can’t be within two feet of Bev, snaffling her paper cone of sugary churros without a care in the world. They’ve done The World of Tomorrow, Wild West Town, Aqualand, and are now meandering through the most tasteless area of them all: ‘El Mexicana’.
Because inhaling the deep fried fatty smell of Bev’s calorific lunch is making him want to barf all over the sizzling tarmac, Eddie sticks to the edge of the path. As he’s walking by a gift stall selling sombreros, waterproof ponchos, and various other offensively stereotypical Mexican ‘souvenirs’, a hand reaches out and grabs the sleeve of his jacket, making him shriek. Eddie yanks himself free, heart leapfrogging over itself, and whirls to confront his attacker.
“Woah, calm down there, S-Señor!”
Before Eddie can figure out if he recognises the face behind that stuck-on moustache, Bev is barrelling past him, arms thrown wide. “Bill!” she cries, wrapping those arms around the moustached stranger’s neck. Eddie’s shoulders release some of their tension, and he allows his wide eyes to adjust. It is, in fact, Bill Denborough hiding underneath this ridiculous turtle-themed, vaguely Mexican outfit.
“Crap, Bill, you scared the shit out of me,” Eddie says, allowing himself to be pulled into a brief, shoulder-to-shoulder hug once Bev has had her fill.
“Sorry,” Bill says, laughing. “C-couldn’t resist. You’re an e-easy scare.”
“Everyone’s trying to piss me off today, apparently,” Eddie says crossly, arms folding over his chest.
“Doesn’t take much,” Bev says wryly, and Eddie reluctantly jerks his head in agreement. She squints at Bill, chewing a mouthful of churro. “You workin’ here too, compadré?”
“Sure am-m,” Bill says brightly. His chipper demeanour is at odds with the rest of the youths Eddie has seen working here, glued to their phone screens, or glumly staring into the distance, willing the day to end. “I’m saving up t-to go travelling. Headed to Asia for the whole of Aug-gust!”
“Wow,” Bev says, jealously, “need a travelling companion?”
Bill laughs, but there’s a tinge of pink visible on his high cheeks. Eddie averts his eyes, hiding a smirk. It’s no secret that Bill has held a candle for Bev since he met her, back in middle school when he, Eddie and Bev had been grouped together for a whole semester for a History project. Eddie can’t blame him for it, of course, but the moping and wistful sighing got old after a few years; he doesn’t understand why Bill won’t just nut up and ask her out. He’s been meaning to talk to him about it, actually. But then they’d probably start going out, and Eddie would be forced to endure their coupley-ness, and that would absolutely suck. So he might wait a little longer. Just until they graduate.
“M-maybe,” Bill says, giving Bev a shy smile. “You got any summer plans?”
He’s looking at Bev, of course, but Eddie decides to reply anyway. “Can’t you tell? We’re right in the apex of our dream summer location, trudging round fucking Turtle Cove for the billionth time.”
“Bitter and despondent,” Bill says approvingly, “vivid description as ever, Eddie.”
Oh yeah, and Bill’s a nerd for anything literary.
“I’m planning on hitching to NYC at some point,” Bev offers, sucking sugar off her fingers. “I read online about this dude who’ll sneak you into a Hamilton matinée for twenty bucks.”
Bill’s eyes keep accidentally zeroing in on the pucker of her lips and then snatching away again to focus on the floor, Eddie’s shoulder, the rows of mini sombrero keychains. It’s all very amusing, and Bev is probably doing it on purpose.
“Oh,” Bill says, the blush deepening, “c-c-cool.”
“Not as glamorous as Asia, though,” Bev says in a sad sigh, “you’re a brave man, working this shit job to escape another eternal Derry summer.” She salutes him, and Eddie nods in agreement. “I take my hat off to you, hermano.”
“Gracias, Señorita.” Bill grins. “I’m working this booth again tomorrow, if you feel like another visit.”
“No way,” Eddie mutters, folded arms tightening.
Bev rolls her eyes. “Eddie’s already found someone to piss him off in the games area.”
Unexpectedly, Bill lets out a peal of laughter. “Let me guess, Richie Tozier?”
Eddie turns quickly to face Bill, the knot of his arms loosening. “You know him too?”
Bev shrugs. “He’s a pretty popular dude amongst the Seniors.”
“Bill’s not a Senior either,” Eddie points out.
“Yeah, but I got bumped up to Senior Advanced English ‘cause of that story I got published in the New York Times,” Bill says, mumbling a little with embarrassment. He’d been very quiet about the whole achievement when it had first come out, only showing a few of his close friends - including Eddie and Bev - but the Principal had somehow gotten ahold of the news, and announced it to the entire school in assembly. Bill had been mortified, and, as might be expected for any outcast kid, he was mocked about the story for weeks. Particularly the ending, which Eddie privately thinks was a little weak. “Richie’s in that class too. He’s, like, so smart.” Bill shakes his head, baffled by whatever memories are skidding through his mind. “You’ll be so sure he’s goofing around so much that he’s not even listening to Ms Carter talk, and then she’ll pick on him and he’ll just spew this incredible theory about the text, pulling up names of philosophers and obscure authors I’ve never even heard of. It’s insane. He could teach the class, easy. I’d probably learn just as much.”
“Yeah, but you’d have to put up with an enormous amount of dick jokes inserted between the snippets of wisdom,” Bev says with a trill of laughter. Bill joins in, and Eddie pouts to himself, feeling left out of the joke. “Aw, don’t sulk,” she coos, linking her arm in his. “Just ‘cause he’s clever doesn’t make him less of an asshole.”
“Very true,” Bill says over his shoulder as he takes a five dollar bill from a girl buying a postcard that reads ‘Hola hermosa tortuga!’ . “I don’t kn-know what he said to you, Eddie, b-but as it usually takes him about five minutes to p-piss someone off, I’d guess it took him… twenty seconds for you?”
“About that,” Eddie replies gruffly.
“Rich took a shine to Eddie,” Bev informs Bill with a flash of her pearly whites. “Asked me for his number.”
“He what?!” Eddie asks, shrilly.
“Ahhhh nooo, I’ve got a line forming,” Bill says despondently. He tosses an apologetic look at them both. “Come back tomorrow? I wanna hear how this develops! Best gossip I’ve heard in ages.”
“It is not gossip! And we’re not coming back!” Eddie cries, but Bev is already dragging him towards the Bucking Turtle ride.
*
Unfortunately, the only way out of Turtle Cove is back through the entrance, which means that Eddie and Bev are forced to walk back down Arcade Avenue at the end of the day. The heat of the sun is finally wilting, meaning Eddie can breathe easier, but his bad mood still lingers, and now, because Bev had made them go on the log flume last, Eddie’s damp shorts are not drying.
“Couldn’t keep away, could’ja?” Richie calls out as soon as they’re within feet of his booth. “Knew you were flirtin’ with me, Spagheddie.”
Eddie doesn’t rise to the bait, but he deliberately sets his mouth into a hard line as Bev wanders away from their path to approach him. Eddie huffs, annoyed, but follows her to the booth - she’s his ride home, after all. Richie is sat on the counter, his Turtle Cove t-shirt damp around the neck and pits, his hat still on backwards. He has one of the water guns cocked over his shoulder.
“Fancy a go?” Richie asks, eyes flicking between Eddie and Bev. “Flash me and you get a free turn.”
Bev doesn’t even blink. She lifts her tank top so quickly that Eddie misses the sight of any skin, although Richie and several passers-by get an eyeful. One boy trips over his own feet in his distraction.
“Marsh!” Richie exclaims, cackling. “You legend, pick a gun.”
Bev blows him a kiss, strolling over to select a gun from the ones lying on the counter. Richie moves his attention to Eddie, smirking.
“Don’t even bother asking,” Eddie growls.
“Shame,” Richie sighs, unashamedly tracking his gaze up and down Eddie’s body. Again, irritatingly, he blushes. “I’d have given you two turns.”
Scandalised by the audacity of this moron, Eddie finds himself digging into his shorts pocket for the two dollars he’d brought with him and smacking them down onto the counter beside Richie’s Converse.
“I’ll pay for my turns, thank you.”
Bev slides him a look coupled with a raised eyebrow. She’s holding her chosen gun at eye height, aiming it towards one of the clowns.
“Damn, Destiny's Child,” Richie says, unfolding his long limbs and hopping off the counter, sliding the notes off after him. He stands in the corner, out of the way, and gestures for Eddie to pick a gun. “Let’s see what you got, then, hot stuff.”
Eddie is, objectively, not a natural at the game. The guns are unfamiliar to him, and heavier than they look. Aiming them is tricky, particularly for an elongated period of time, directing the stream into the clown mouth without getting distracted. And Richie is very distracting.
“Imagine you’re aiming your dick into the urinal,” is Richie’s suggestion, making Eddie’s flush deepen.
“Do you have any advice for dickless people?” Bev asks.
“Imagine you’re... squirting... your boob? I dunno,” Riche suggests, making Bev snort loudly.
“Do you have to be so vulgar?” Eddie asks through gritted teeth. The red balloon above his clown’s face is straining and full.
“You love it.”
“No, really, I don’t- ahh!” The balloon pops, loudly, making Eddie jump backwards, gun still held in front of him like he could use it to defend himself. Richie is laughing at him, one hand on his belly. Bev’s gun ran out before she could fill her clown’s balloon enough to pop it, so she’s grinning at him too. “Fuck,” Eddie says quietly, heart pounding half from fear, half from embarrassment at his reaction. “Was it meant to do that?”
“You just won yourself an oversized plushie turtle, lovingly stitched together by five-year-old sweatshop workers,” Richie informs him with a gracious bow. “Please, select your favourite.”
“What… are you kidding?” Eddie asks, dubiously. “All I did was shoot a stream of water into a clown…”
“And it loved it so much it blew its load,” Richie says. “Shall I choose your new adopted pet for you, Eds?” He turns, surveying the stuffed turtles swinging by their legs from the ceiling. Eddie stares at the placid turtle’s face on the back of Richie’s cap, too stunned to speak. “Ah,” Richie says, reaching for one, “this one’s perfect. His name is Richie II, and he requires a firm tuck into bed beside you every night.”
Richie unhooks Richie II from the shelf and passes it over the counter solemnly. Eddie’s still holding the water gun, so he steps forwards and places it back down, flashing a ‘what the fuck’ look at Bev, who is looking on enviously. As Eddie opens his arms to receive the beast - easily as tall as him from head to tail if stood upright - his hand brushes Richie’s. He’s got big, lean hands, Eddie can’t help but notice.
“Um,” Eddie says, mostly into the toy’s felt skin, “what the fuck am I supposed to do with this thing?”
“Love and cherish it,” Richie says, grinning. “Can I take a pic of you for the Turtle Cove Instagram?”
“Not a chance in Hell,” Eddie retorts. He shoves the turtle at Bev. “Bev, you’re the clout queen. You can pose.”
“Oooh,” she squeals excitedly. “Hang on, I’ll put my sunglasses on him.”
Eddie hangs back, watching as Bev poses in a variety of funny ways with the giant turtle, slinging her arm around it as if they’re bros, riding on its back, her pale, freckled legs curled up on its enormous shell. Richie is laughing, encouraging her, snapping photo after photo from his vantage point behind the booth. Loads of people stop to watch her, shouting suggestions and laughing along.
Eddie is amused at first, but then his attention is snagged by Richie (the real Richie), who every so often stops photographing Bev to flick a glance at him. This is weird. When Bev wants to be the centre of attention, she can turn the heads of everyone in a two mile radius, or so it seems. Eddie is more than used to fading into the background beside her; it makes total sense, because Beverly Marsh is a glowing, radiant deity, effortlessly cool and thrumming with charisma. And Eddie is… well. Not those things. He’s achingly average, stiff and preppy. He has a resting bitch face and a tendency to come across as standoffish, he knows. For this reason, of course, Bev is the one people look at.
But, Richie is looking at Eddie. He’s looking so much that it’s freaking Eddie out, honestly. He wants to ask if there’s a problem, or if Richie’s trying to convey some telepathic message through his second-long glances. And then, the photoshoot ends, Bev tired of performing for her audience. She gives a theatrical bow, then makes Richie II do the same. People actually applaud her, but she ignores them, dragging the turtle back over to Eddie and shoving it at him.
“Thanks for the ride, Richie II,” she quips, then finger guns the turtle and reaches into her jacket for a cigarette. “You ready to go, winner?”
Eddie nods, still stuck on Richie’s peculiar behaviour. He turns to study him one last time, and finds, to his chagrin, that Richie is waiting to meet his gaze, a shit-eating grin in place.
“Have fun cuddling your Richie later,” Richie says, winking.
Eddie rolls his eyes. “I’m not calling him that.”
Richie shrugs. “Not up to you, cutie. He told me that name himself.”
“Okay, okay,” Bev sighs, cigarette tucked behind her ear, “enough flirting. Let’s adios this joint, bud.”
“Miss you already,” Richie calls after them as they head for the exit, turtle balanced atop their heads.