Richie was not a Jedi.
He didn't have telekinesis or mind control (if anything, Benverly's dog obeyed him less than the others), but he could hear the Losers, even when they were thousands of miles apart.
Mike let him sit shotgun on long roadtrips, and Bill bounced plot bunnies off him in the middle of the night. He and Bev had breakfast together most days. Richie got up at 10:00 A.M., and Bev got up at 7:00 A.M., but they were three time zones apart, so it worked out. He did sudoku with Ben.
Like the Great State of California, the Shine required two-party consent. (Myra tried to record Eddie during one of their pre-Restraining Order phone calls, and ended up getting both arrested and famous— the meme went viral meme when people realized it was Richie "Trashmouth" Tozier beatboxing aggressively on the other line).
Richie couldn't eavesdrop on the Losers, but the only secrets between them these days were the surprise parties they were planning for each other. Richie knew of eight so far, and he was only planning three of them.
Eddie was like an open book, except Richie actually wanted to read it. (If Bill woke him up with one more Bury Your Gays ending at four in the morning, Richie was going to bury a fist in his face. Bill was trying to write diverse representation, but horror was not necessarily the best genre for it. Richie had pitched him a subversion of the trope: Resurrect Your Gays— something with a cute dog— and fallen back to sleep with Bill still on the line, spitballing about his alma maters and monkey's paws. They both had nightmares about monkeys in letterman jackets that night. So that was a nice break.
It was harder to control the Shine when Richie was asleep. He and Eddie watched each other die almost every night. They woke each other up, made each other hot chocolate, and made fun of each other for the way they took it (protein powder and Raspberry Marshmallow Fluff).
They saw each other's other nightmares— other fears. Not darker, but deeper. Richie was chased by the Leper, watched the flesh melt off his arms, died in a puddle of himself. Eddie wore white face paint.
"That doesn't make any sense," said Eddie. They both had protein powder that night. Richie knew he would need his energy, either for the conversation that followed, or for running away from it. "You're old, but you're not that old."
Richie shook his head— he didn't know-know it, but he had believed it long enough for it to be a habit.
It was basic math.
Richie was afraid of clowns + Pennywise took the appearance of people's fears + Pennywise took the appearance of a clown = Pennywise was somehow Richie's fault.
"Besides," said Eddie. "I always thought you were lying about being afraid of clowns."
There were various theories as to the cause of coulrophobia. Pattern disruption, liminality, ritualized self-humiliation. That last one had merit. It was at the core of clown humor. Teardrop tattoos (or makeup) were worn by clowns to symbolize the dialectical relationship between humor and tragedy. Before they came to symbolize murder. Teardrop tattoos, not clowns.
Well…
Richie had his own theory: Audience participation. He might have heckled on occasion, but he had never, even under direct orders from Bobby, made his audience participate.
"Oh, yeah."
Richie's head was pillowed on Eddie's chest, even though his pecs could rate on Mohs Scale of Mineral Hardness. Sometimes it was easier for Richie to be honest if he didn't have to make eye contact, or talk, or otherwise acknowledge it in any way.
Eddie ran his fingers through Richie's hair. Even the white streaks were gone. Bill was so jealous. It was the second best part about being alive.
"So what were you really afraid of?" asked the first best part.
Richie made the "I dunno'" noise in his head, but he let a little of it slip through: the fear, the guilt, and Georgie, and Stan, and I'm sorry.
"Oh, Richie." The fingers stuttered against his scalp. "None of that was your fault. You know that, right?"
"If I had believed, if I had known, if I had the Shine, if—"
"No," said Eddie. It was one of his favorite words these days, but he rarely said it to Richie (unless Richie was trying to plan a surprise party for Benverly's dog). "No. None of that is true. You know what you were afraid of."
"Get the fuck out, you faggot!"
"Ugh." Eddie shuddered. "The impressions in your head are spot on. I hate it."
He pressed a kiss to Richie's forehead, which he could reach because no matter how much Richie believed, he couldn't cure premature balding.
"You've felt so much guilt for just existing, Richie. You're allowed to be alive. "
"I couldn't bring Stan back," thought Richie.
He had tried, even knowing it would fail. Stan was gone, along with the rest of Its victims. They had passed on. Richie didn't know exactly what that meant, but if anyone deserved a Good Place, it was Stan.
"You deserve a Good Place too," said Eddie. "Just not anytime soon."
Richie still felt like an imposter in his own skin most days, let alone in Eddie's arms, but...
"I'm already there."
"Really?" asked Eddie. "Because I was thinking we should get a bigger place. With a bathroom that doesn't have a hole in the door."
"That's not what I meant."
For the first time, Richie was brave enough to let Eddie see exactly how he was loved.
"Oh," thought Eddie, and even his thoughts sounded breathless.
"Yeah," said Richie.
This time, when Eddie kissed him, he was very… responsive.