Name: Mixtape
Rating: 4.79 (10 reviews)

288 reviews2 followers

January 28, 2023

5/5 ✨✨✨✨✨

soz best book ever

i sobbed so hard i couldn’t breathe

he's writing with a sort of passion that makes Richie wonder how many times someone can write synonyms for the word "faggot" before running out of steam.

—-

bowers.
hey. sorry i fucked your face up (sorry mr. principal but i’m not going 2 watch my language. i don't care.) but i’m not sorry that we fought.

PS: i shouldn't add this, but i feel like it needs to be said anyway.

sorry for not kissing you back.

The walk to the library is short, but chilly. Richie notices that he may need to begin layering his clothes, trying to remember if Bill actually made off with his favourite flannel or not. Doesn't matter. Richie can always get a new flannel, but to see Bill smile is a bit more rare.

my apology 2 richie tozier:
I’m sorry i hit ur face, & I’m sorry that i cracked ur glasses 2. I just remembered that you know me better than that, and I don't have to pretend to be illiterate.
Isn't it funny? I'm willingly suppressing my intelligence to play the role of fuckup that everyone has cast me as. Ironic, really. I suppose I've always been one for being a people-pleaser. (That is sarcasm.)

Oh well. You have always been understanding, so fucking understanding. How are you so patient, Richie Tozier? It drives me crazy, I can't figure out how you take things in stride the way that you do. I envy your virtues,

Fuck you, Tozier. I wanted to kill you. But as soon as I heard pipsqueak screaming for me to get off, and I saw the way that you smiled at him through all that blood, and the way you promised to see him later, I just grew ... very glum. Why did it have to be Eddie Kaspbrak? You barely know him, Richie. He doesn't understand you the way that I did, and he doesn't know what subjects to avoid, or what to say when you get in your pissy moods. Why him? What is so special about a walking asthma attack?

Out of everything that Henry Bowers has just confessed, the most Richie took away from it is the fact that he is accusing Richie of loving Eddie Kaspbrak.

And the thing is, Richie doesn't think he's wrong.

"Wuh-What are you I-reading, Richie?" Bill asks.
Richie glances over at the boy sitting right beside Stan, the sunlight poking and prodding at the boys on their picnic blanket. They've gone through all of the snacks they had packed, and Richie has considered running up to the KwikStar just to get more candy to share with the other two.
"Love letters," Richie laughs, his eyes returning back to the eloquent handwriting that belongs to Henry Bowers. "From your mom."
"Yeah right," Stan scoffs. He pulls the binoculars down from his face just so he can give Richie an incredulous, doubtful stare. "Mrs. Denbrough is a classy woman, idiot. In your dreams."

"Okay?" Richie asks. Honestly, he was hoping it could work out that way, God must listening in on his thoughts. Hey, dude, if you're listening; sorry about all the Playboys in my room.

Bill fidgets with a blade of grass, tearing it apart in his fingers and resting it against Stanley's khaki-clad knee. A pile is forming, but Richie notices that Bill puts equal amounts of grass onto each knee after Stan fixed it the first time.

'Did you see a titty?" Richie asks.
"Yes! Yes! Look!" Stan passes the binoculars over and points towards a lonely tree isolated from the rest of the forest outskirts.

"You're not annoying, by the way. You've just got a mouth on you."
"The only mouth on me is the one around my dick," Richie doesn't skip a beat, adjusting his glasses back onto his face so that he can hide the blush creeping throughout his skin. "Would you like to volunteer?"
Stan frowns, still writing in his journal, when he mumbles "That's fruit stuff, man."
"Ain't nothin' wrong with that," Richie laughs

Both teams. Boys and girls. Both of them. Richie has heard about those types of people, swingers and players always swarming with ladies, but he figured they were all destined to get some STD.

and as this all occurs, Richie feels nauseatingly happy. He has friends, people who save seats for him, and he has a home. Not a house, but a misfit group of kids who just want the best for one another.

'Woah, how the fuck did you do that?" Eddie gasps, tapping on the seat in front of him. The bus hits a pothole, causing the boys to bounce off their seats like mints in a tin container. "Beep beep? Is that his off button? God, wish I knew about that! Dickhead is really annoying, isn't he?"

Eddie desperately crosses his fingers right then and there, holding his breath and praying that the god up above will read his mind and make Beverly tell him everything's fine, Richie is fine, that Eddie didn't hurt the boy's feelings.
Instead of doing any of this, the ginger just shakes her head and says "Jeez. Cut him some slack, Ed."

Richie frowns, moving to the side as two of his classmates run by holding a lobster.
Where the fuck did they get that?

Eddie knows that in the foreign language of Richie Tozier, this is his way of sharing intimate pieces of his soul with you. When Richie Tozier says "listen to this song," you better listen, because he is trying to tell you more than his tongue will allow. Not many people are fluent in Richie, Bev might be the only scholar, but even then... she doesn't quite speak it as fluidly as she likes to believe. Eddie is getting there, though, one song after another he is getting closer to become a connoisseur of the secret language that is Richie Tozier.

Eddie frowns deeply, his eyes fixating on his fish tank as he outweighs the pros and cons. He knows he's going to end up following Richie out the window anyway, so he's not sure why he's even pretending to have this internal struggle, but if they do get in trouble he would feel better if he could say "I didn't want to go with him."

"I, uh, I hope you don't mind, but, umm," Eddie moves his pillows aside to reveal a windbreaker decorated with neon greens and pinks. Richie lost it weeks ago, he assumed that Stan took it the night they went through Richie's closet. "I've been wearing this around.
You left it here, so I, uh... yeah."
Richie watches Eddie slip his arms into the holes, the swishing material swallowing up his petite body. His whole heart trembles at the sight, Eddie now zipping the coat up with precise hands, and Richie feels himself fall in love.
"As long as you're warm," Richie sighs, his breath smothered in nothing but affection. He will give Eddie the skin off his back if the boy asked to wear it, he wouldn't even question it at all.

They always choose lane 13 and hope to compete against the odds of superstition and bad luck, it seems more fun that way.

Upon arriving at school, Richie ignores the kids trying to hustle to class, instead checking every single spot that Bev is prone to hide out in. The thing about the feisty redhead is that she has spent her whole life learning how to hide. If she does not want to be found, she will not let you find her. Richie knows this, and it only fuels each curse he makes under his breath as he comes up empty handed once again.

Richie glances down at his watch and sees that four hours have gone by. Four hours. With the reminder of how long it's been, his brain finally registers the pain in his sore legs. Oh, god. Where did he go? Did he just check out of his mind for four hours? What was he even thinking about for such a long time?
"I'm supposed to be in math," Richie says between breaths, "I felt like running instead."

"I'm warning you, though," Stan strokes the back of Richie's unruly hair. "You might have to convert to Judaism."
Even though he is a complete wreck, he is still Richie Tozier, and he still somehow manages to find the energy in him to say "I'm on an all-ass diet, is that kosher?"

———————————————

Last night you had said that you wanted me to start writing a journal, which I thought was ridiculous. Who would want to listen to me ramble? But then... you asked about my nightmares, and I realized; you do. You want to listen to me ramble. So, I'm taking you up on the journal idea, but I don't think I'll ever let you read it. I don't know. Maybe. We'll see.

And in case future Eddie forgets how it felt, this is a reminder;
Warm. So very warm. Seriously, does this guy just radiate heat? The moon spends its whole life chasing the sun, always coming up a bit too late, always just out of reach, but you've found it. Not only did you find it, but he pulled you in real close and held you for a majority of the night. So very god damn warm, producing more heat than the human body is capable of making. You checked his forehead to see if he had a fever, but in his sleepy state of mind he simply grabbed your hand and held it.

I just want him to taste that sickeningly sweet rose bloom on his tongue when he finally gets the privilege of swallowing the reality of someone loving him unconditionally.

The sky is starting to paint itself a hazy blue, so I think I'm going to stop writing now and get back in bed with Richie so I can enjoy the few hours of morning before we have to wake up for school.
God, school. I forgot all about it. It's hard to think about anything other than Richie Richie Richie. Okay, now I'm really starting to miss being tucked up beside him. I'm going to go, the sun will shine soon enough and I want to be close enough to see how it will make his freckles glow.

however. Even though you made me sweat like a pig, I wanted to stay in your arms. Or, actually, I wanted you to stay in mine. I may be smaller, but you love to be held, Richie. I think it's the neglect. You need to be held.

Henry Bowers is a psychopath and I feel guilty that I ever even got you involved with him. You don't deserve to be punched, not when you have such a heavenly face. Doesn't he see that?
Probably not, actually. The kid would rather slit his wrists than ever be attracted to another man. I feel sorry for the broad that marries him.

p.s. The moon is colossal tonight. It feels like I could throw a lasso around the whole thing and pull it down to earth, that's how close it is. I can see each individual blemish and crater, and if I squint, my eyes blur together and my vision will double. It resembles your eyes, big and pale and beautiful. I could stare at the moon all night but it will never compare to the way you look when you are so peacefully off guard. Gazing out school windows, sleeping in my bed, all actions I wish I could memorize forever.

you came up to me and asked me to listen to a song on your tape. That's how I knew we were okay. That was Richie Tozier language for 'you're important to me.' Thank you for letting me listen, Richie. I know I fell asleep on you, but I had dreams circling around ballrooms and waltzing with you in tune to George Michael. You look good in black tie, but I doubt I'll ever see you wear something so dapper outside of my dreams. Do you ever get tired from running around my daydreams all day? Do you look both ways before you cross my mind?

Something about the way I made Stan cry, and all this stupid talk about
"gaydar"... it makes me scared. If... I don't know. If Stan is gay, I wouldn't want him to be with you. It seems unfair, I feel like I claimed dibs on you long ago? No, wait, god, what am I saying? You're a living human with real feelings, I can't call "dibs". Sorry. You can date Stan if you want, but just.. I don't know. It doesn't feel right to me in a way.

So how is that fair? I've been in love with your music since the moment we spoke, and I've adored your owl-eyes since the day you gave me a nosebleed.
Again, I know you're a human, so I'm really not trying to objectify you, but... I don't know. I deserve to feel those warm fuzzy feelings, not Stan. He can get them from someone else, a boy if he wants, but not you. Not you. You're my boy.
I don't think I'll ever say any of this outloud

You're confusing, you know that, right? Like when we were all up in Mike's room later, warm and drunk off hot chocolate, and you put your arm around my shoulders and said "What a good room for some lovin', am I right, Eds?"
I frowned and elbowed you in the side because I couldn't tell if you were just trying to get some "chucks" or not. I hate that I can't tell, Richie. I hate that I can't tell, because I know that I'm never joking. I don't want you to be joking either. I want things like that to be serious, I want you to say them with conviction, and I want them to be honest.
I want a lot of things, I guess.

You were beautiful today. I forgot to write that until just now. You were very beautiful today, and I wish I told you so.
I think you need to hear it sometimes.
The blues hues of the fish tanks soaked your skin with saturation, casting hazy shadows across knife-point cheekbones and that marble jawline. You're made from the same composition as Michelangelo's greatest statues, and Van Gogh's best paints. Such a delicately composed boy, complex in all your little tangled ways, and there's got to be a supernova at the very core of it all. There must be. It's the only way to explain why stardust and glitter shine through your skin so easily. I hate that I'm the only one who can see it, but I'm grateful that I get to appreciate it in its entirety.

God. I just lost my breath at the memory of you slipping your headphones over my ears. Your face was an open door, one that transports me through a subspace that can summon alternate realities. You lead to different universes, Richie, and I want to explore each and every single one of them.
yours,
Eddie Kaspbrak.

I live in a perpetual state of confusion, and you only make things worse, Richie.
Still. Even so, I don't think I would have it any other way. May my life be confusing for the rest of my days if it means you get to be beside me through it all.

yours,
Eds.

I was hoping that it would help clarify some things, such as why I shiver and get goosebumps when you exhale, but I'm afraid it only made things worse.
I was reflecting on all of these unique little Richie Tozier things that make me so shaky, and only thinking of them got my heart racing. My feet were treading through dead, heavy leaves, and I considered laying down and burying myself right in a grave of autumn to escape what the conclusion keeps circling back towards.

I have a crush on a boy. A boy. I have a crush on a boy. Why do I keep repeating it? Am I trying to convince myself it isn't true? It's almost like those times when you say a word so many times that it no longer sounds real, you know what I mean? Like, apple, apple, apple, apple, apple. Sounds weird doesn't it? I have a crush on a boy, I have a crush on a boy, I have a crush on a boy, I have a crush on a boy.
Jesus, it's not working, it's just sounding more and more real. What the fuck, dude? What the fuck. Like, actually, genuinely; what the fuck. Oh god, what if my mom finds this journal? Fuck. Mom, if you're reading this, it's a joke. Richie pulls pranks on me, I'm just trying to get him back.

For me. And you didn't leave in the night, you stayed and held me and didn't push me away when we both lied down and I put my leg over your hips. It felt so interlocked and personal, we are vines growing around eachother and knotting together in a grape vineyard.
We'll make beautiful wine one day, I know we will. We'll get drunk off of our feelings for each other.

November 29th, 1988 (evening)
You like me back.
But Henry Bowers likes you.

You told me you like me.
And I tried to tell you too, I really did, but I grew heavy with fear that all of this would backfire and blow up in my face. I’m only 15, Richie. I'm just a kid. How am I supposed to know anything about my sexuality, or even confess to someone? I crave to be in love, but I am so scared of it.

The music is heavy with love, grooves in the vinyl flowing like rivers of passion, and I want nothing more than to hold your hand and get lost in the sickeningly honeysuckle sweet sounds of doo wop vibrations. Our backs on the carpet, our skin touching, our faces flushed like they're sunburnt from the ocean floor.
I'd love to get lost with you, Richie.
You're always the one controlling the tides, but for once, I want to spin my records and let you drown alongside me.
What a heavenly, delightful thought to live in. I'll go pick out some vinyl to take over to your house.

in my brain. I could not stand the idea that... that... that you didn't want me, when every night I worship the mere idea of you. I should have fought for you before you could become so involved with Stan, but I fought too much, too late.

I asked Mike how this would help me at all.
He said, "Don't lose the one you love just because you can't accept him loving someone else."

You looked bored, almost lost. You looked as if you were ready for adventure, but nobody in this shithole town would give it to you.

The second we collided in the pharmacy, I went and stood in the bathroom and tried to wipe my face clean. I couldn't understand why the red wasn't coming off my cheeks, but then it all made sense when I saw the infamous trashmouth walk into Ben's party-decorated basement.
You had a lack of adventure, and I wanted to try and be that. I know that I am just Eddie, the weakling, the runt of the group, the boy with as much medical issues as a stage 4 cancer patient

And you kissed him.
You kissed him and not me.
And you know what? That's okay. That's okay, Richie. You know why?
Because this is the morning after we spent all night cuddling. Is that the proper word? Cuddling? That's what Ben tells me him and Beverly do, so I think that's right. Unless cuddling is a euphemism for sex...? Oh, Christ.

Things are okay. I'm going to make sure they're okay, because you're so fucking passive about everything. I could light you on fire and you would just let yourself burn, Richie.
I think I'm in love with you.
I think I fell in love with you a long time ago, but didn't know how to admit it to myself.
Well, this is me admitting it. I think I'm in love with you. In a romantic way. In the forever kind of way, the mixtape kind of way, the "it's gonna take a lot to drag me away from you" kind of way. I heard that song on the radio and only thought of you, so that must be love. That must be something.

How many times have your lips belonged to someone else besides yourself?

You are beautiful. You always will be. I can imagine growing old with you, and you will be the most handsome old guy. I just know it, I can tell by your soft serve smiles and state-connecting bridge of a jawline. Even if old age were to take my eyesight, I'd still find comfort in reading you like a Braille book. Your beauty kisses my fingertips whenever I brush my hand against the ghostly outskirts of your features.

The song was Fooled Around and Fell In Love by Elvis Bishop. I know it from my momma's record collection, it's one of the most romantic songs I've ever heard.
And tonight, it was ours. Just ours.
Nobody else in that bowling alley heard the words like we did, but maybe that's just how it felt.

I don't think I'lI write anymore, it seems a little pointless. Why keep track at this point, you know? I wrote because I was falling in love and I didn't know how else to cope with it.
Now I'm in love, entirely in love, and I'm not as scared. I want to spend more time building a future with you and less time writing about our past lives.

I'm in love with you. I always will be.

———————————————
No matter how many times he reads, the words will never make sense.
They did at first, a long, long time ago when the feelings put on these pages were something that he could comprehend, something he understood, something he reciprocated.
But... things change. Years go by.
Feelings fade.

Mixtape

Tyler James

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Tyler James

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