Eddie | Richie
Eddie'd never been sick. Not before and not now. It'd all been gazebo bullshit, and Richie would fight anyone on that point. It wasn't -- there was nothing wrong with him beyond the fact that he was a dork. But Richie liked that, so even that wasn't wrong.
When It had terrorized him that day -- after he'd been yelled out of the arcade by Bowers and his good-looking asshole cousin who'd had to go and ruin everything when Richie'd just wanted to play Street Fighter -- It had known. Had called him out on his dirty little secret, the one that he'd tried tamping down every single day since he'd realized it in the first place. That day, he'd felt bad. Horrified. Sick. He was just as scared of the clown as he'd been of someone else finding out. Because bad things happened to kids like him in Derry. Adults too.
But right here? Right now? Richie was nervous, sure, but he also felt a little hopeful. Because Eddie liked him, and he hadn't said it like duh, you're my best friend and super platonic soulmate, Trashmouth. He'd said it like... like like. Whatever was more than like. And Richie wasn't an idiot, okay? They'd held hands the other day and maybe even before that he'd kinda been -- curious? But he'd always sort of thought he was projecting, just seeing things he wanted to see.
But it kinda really felt like that wasn't the case, and Richie was happy enough he could almost cry for it. He didn't though. Instead he let out a laugh, genuinely pleased, and hugged back - completely oblivious to the fact that he was getting his drink kind of everywhere that wasn't in the cup. "Wild frickin' horses couldn't drag me away," he declared, because obviously butchering the Rolling Stones was the best way to prove he meant business.