the richie

Paris Hilton’s entire career was a performance art piece that all at once defined, critiqued and predicted modern culture. Whether by design or not, her work set the template for: -The downfall and comeback of Britney Spears -The spread of social media -The meteoric rise of High School Musical -The selfie -Lady Gaga’s first two album cycles -Meme culture -The Cubs winning the World Series -KPop -Silicon Valley -The Kardashians’ very existence -The Trump Administration -Globalism -Blue Ivy Carter -The Marvel Cinematic Universe …the list goes on. Whether you like it or not, Paris Hilton is the beginning, middle and end of everything you know about culture. That’s hot.

Originally posted by jadiore

“Babe, please.” Richie’s voice came out thick with tears and his body wracked with sobs as he reached out to grab the arm of his boyfriend- his ex-boyfriend now, he thought, which made him cry even harder. His tears ran down his face unheeded as he scrambled from where he’s laid down for the past hour, bawling his eyes out over what Eddie had said.

What had he said anyways? Richie could barely remember. He hadn’t been able to hear through his shock. Something needing to move on, right? Richie’d tuned out about then.

Eddie shook Richie’s arm off coldly, regarding him with something akin to pity. He was trying to keep himself strong, but even despite that, fat tears rolling down his cheeks as well. He shook his head, and drew his suitcases closer to him. “No, Richie. I’m not your babe anymore. I’m sorry.”

“I can be better,” Richie offered immediately. “I can stop making jokes, I can love you better, I can tell you I love you more, just please, don’t go.” He looked helplessly at the boy- now a man- he loved. “I can be right for you. Tell me what to do. Please.” His voice broke on his last word.

“No, I’m so sorry.” Eddie was at the door, turning the knob. “You can’t be right for me. It’s not working out.” And then he said the one thing that Richie Tozier had dreaded hearing, but never dreamed of actually being told. “I don’t love you anymore, Richie. I can’t. Goodbye.”

And then the door clicked shut, and Eddie was gone.

“No!” Richie’s strangled cry turned into a sob, and he ran towards the door, collapsing in front of it with tears absolutely streaming down his face. He tore his glasses off his face- the glasses Eddie had once told him made him look like Buddy Holly, the ones Eddie’d picked for him- and threw them to the side. He heard the crunch of shattering glass faintly, the sound muffled by his head being held in his hands and his immeasurably loud weeping.

The one thing Richie’d loved more than anything was gone. Forever. Eddie was gone, forever.

What had Richie done wrong? Oh, but he knew the answer. He had been himself. He’d been regular old Richie, making fun of everyone and everything, including the one he loved most. He’d joked too much and crossed countless lines. And Eddie’d sat there gritting and bearing it for a year, two years, smiling politely and laughing where appropriate when Richie looked to him for approval after a particularly bad joke or quip. Even the ones that stung. Even the ones about him. He had been regular little Eddie Kaspbrak, always compliant and kind, indulging Richie because he had, at one point, loved him enough to do so. So what had happened? When had he stopped?

Richie had no way of telling. He had no way of knowing when Eddie had always been so nice and seemed to happy, until the very end. Even as he broke up with Richie, he’d held his hand through the entire speech as he plowed through the lines he’d clearly practiced before, speaking over Richie’s pleas to just talk to him and to respond and to just SEE Richie, to look at him.

Bu he’d seen Richie for long enough. Now it was Richie’s turn to see Eddie. And he saw everything. He saw Eddie’s lopsided smile, his scattering of freckles, his blond curls that swayed every which way as Richie tickled him. He saw Eddie’s laugh and his eyes and his tiny hands that Richie loved so dearly, needed so dearly, and suddenly everything in this house was so overwhelmingly full of Eddie despite the fact that he’d taken nearly everything that belonged to him that Richie could feel it crushing him. He buried his head in his arms deeper and sobbed harder.

He knew, deep down, their relationship hadn’t been meant to last. It was built on instability held together only by Eddie’s patient desire to continue, Eddie’s acceptance every apology for Richie getting piss-drunk and going home with someone else, buily on Eddie staying silent as Richie laughed and getting high as he sat primly and idly by, before excusing himself to privately be sick at the smell of too much hooch and coming back with a smile on his face, and ultimately, had been built on Eddie’s seemingly boundless love for Richie. Their relationship wasn’t meant to last. Just as Richie knew he, himself, wasn’t meant to last.

Eddie was right. Richie wasn’t right for him. Would never be right for him.

But Richie maybe just wasn’t right for anyone.