One of them...? Oh. Oh. So for a minute there, Richie gave off the impression that he was one of those homophobic assholes like Bowers who liked to hurt other people, with words or fists, just because of who they happened to love.
That kind of felt like a knife blade stuck in between his ribs, but he guessed he couldn't blame Nicky - they didn't really know each other, after all.
"I don't - have a him," he clarified, saying fuck it to the shot glasses and just drinking from the bottle of vodka without pouring the alcohol into anything. It would turn his lips and tongue and probably even teeth blue (like he'd just blown a smurf) but he didn't care. He wanted to get fucked up. "I've never had a him."
Just a him he loved in secret, a him who didn't even remember Richie and Richie didn't remember either - but there were still little signs throughout those years spent apart, now that he thought back on it. Similar-looking guys, especially in the dim light of a bar - guys he took home and then ran away from the next day. How Richie always felt like he wanted something he couldn't have, that the loneliness in him would never be filled. Maybe it was time to let that go.
"I've just - kind of scratched the itch and then hated myself for wanting it. It seemed wrong, somehow."