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Plastic bottled things are bad, Richard...

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October 1982


They were definitely too big to fit into the bathtub. 

He watched as a drunk Boris adjusted his long limbs, left hand raised with an almost empty bottle of a very cheap vodka. He’s dressed in a heavy coat just like Kurt Russell in The Thing and Richie thinks this is the most boring Halloween costume he has ever seen. Boris’ curls are messy (probably mirroring his own) and he has a small smile on his lips. Richie, on the other hand, feels like throwing up. He only drank one quarter of the plastic bottled vodka.

“Come, brat ”.

Richie whines, placing his hands in the bathtub, looking at the tiny space. Boris is almost hugging his own knees, but they’re both still too tall. Richie wonders how his biological parents looked like. Carefully, because his head is spinning, he joins Boris’ gangly figure, resting his head on the cold porcelain, his feet touching Boris thighs.

“Stop calling me like that, asshole”.

“But it’s what you are,” Boris shrugs, siping from the bottle “You’re really brat¹ ”.

Richie just rolls his eyes and cross his arms, the taste of bile deep in his throat. It’s Halloween night, he’s sixteen, he’s just got a russian brother and he’s going through his first hangover. Who could’ve guessed that the life of Richie Tozier at fucking Derry would be so agitated?

“I have pills if you need”.

“I won’t take your drugs, are you crazy?” he eyes Boris, brows furrowed “Don’t make me be the responsible brother, Sputnik”.

“Not that pills. Aspirins”.

“What? Are you my mom now?” he groans, feeling his temples throbbing. It’s awful to admit, but he should’ve listened to Eddie. Being used to Bev’s cheap beers wasn’t the same as drinking Boris’ cursed vodka. But he saw the way Eddie looked at Boris when he was telling them about his life back in Vegas and Boris was just like him . With apparently a perfect eyesight, but he was just like him . And Eddie was eyeing Boris with such frightened curiosity that it made Richie’s stomach lurch. So he drank.

“No, I’m not mom. But you don’t want bad mom, do you?” he kicked Richie’s knee with little to no force “Don’t want your mom mad at me”.

 Our mom, Sputnik,” he fixed his glasses, uneasy, glaring at Boris. It’s been just three weeks since he got his russian spy brother and Richie can’t help but notice the way in which Boris glances at his - their - parents, mostly the way his eyes follow Maggie when she’s near. He was never comfortable with public displays of affection or discussing sensitive topics, but he feels the need to tell Boris that everything is okay .

During the first days, in which Boris rarely left his room, Richie struggled with contradictory feelings: in one hand, he felt stupid for all the times in which he bragged about his lucky genes, because Wentworth Tozier was a tall and handsome man, so it was most likely for him to become one once puberty hit him. Or how he liked to think about being the lucky grandchild having inherited his grandma’s unruly hair. But that wasn’t his family, after all. He didn’t share a drop of blood with Wentworth and Maggie.

But at the same time, looking at Boris was like looking at a mirror and it was disturbing in the most wrong way possible. He would glance at Boris bony knees, the needle marks on his thin arms and the dark circles under his eyes and wonder about his childhood. During every meal Boris would look like a deer caught in headlights, too shy to eat as much as he wanted, and wanting to eat a lot ,  as if the prospects of having a next meal were worrisome. Things that Richie took for granted.

It didn’t took long for him to embrace the idea of having a brother, a twin brother. With time Boris would gain enough body mass and fat to really look like him, and they could find a spare pair of glasses and fool people around. The idea of mimicking Boris’ accent to their PA teacher made Richie laugh so hard during lunch break and Bill only rolled his eyes. He felt slightly guilty for Bill, because now he had a brother, but at the same time he only wanted Bill to give a chance for Boris to show him what a nice guy he was, with his weird middle name and the stories of the places in which he lived.

“You okay?”.

“Your aspirins better be good”.


It was Boris first Halloween with the Toziers and Maggie and Wentworth were out. The Halloween per se was boring, the Urises didn't let Stan join them, and Eddie had to cycle home earlier because Sonia Kaspbrak was a controlling bitch. Richie’s Michael MacCleary mask was hideous (Bev’s word) and he was most certainly drunk - tipsy, Boris would say, mockingly - inside a bathtub, listening to Boris muttering lullabies in a language he couldn’t understand.

“What are you singing?”


“Oh, really?” Richie rolled his eyes when Boris chuckled “What? Saw an american capitalist girl you like?”.

He watched as Boris bit his lip, swallowing the remaining of the vodka. Almost like if he was hugging the bottle, Richie watched as his fingers caressed the plastic. 

“No girl,” his drunken state and thick accent combined with how low he spoke made Richie frown “No girl. Kolibri”.

“Wait, what? I already told you, I don’t want to learn any commie language, Boris. Use english here”.

“Like yours brat ?”.

“Fuck you,” it was Richie’s turn to kick him “In which weird language of yours kolibri means girl?”.

“Kolibri is not girl”.

“Then? What the hell does it mean? A mommy? Are you into MILFs?”

“Kolibri is not girl”, he repeated, this time sounding way more sober than he should be.

Richie tilted his head, frowning. When it hit him, he blushed.

“You have problem?”, Boris eyed him and for a split second it felt he was eyeing himself, if not only for the lack of glasses… Richie’s stomach lurched.



Boris kept quiet for what felt like a very uncomfortable amount of time. Richie’s mind was speed racing and his heartbeat quickened. He was terrible to focus attention on things, but he was trying his hardest to keep his mind on track . Boris and him were twins, identical twins, identical .

“Kolibri is smart,” Boris spoke again, glancing at the bathroom tiles above Richie’s head “Only thing that makes this worth”.

“This what?”.

“Derry”, he shrugged, his thick accent highlighting the R’s.

“Hm, right,” Richie licked his lips, playing with his cuticles “Is… Kolibri from here?”.


“It’s a weird name…”.

“No name. Like Sputnik,” he smiled to Richie “But he is Kolibri”.

“Okay then…” Richie took a glance at Boris and blushed hard by the way Boris was looking at him, dark pupils wide “Hm, and… Where did you meet this Kolibri guy?”.


“School? Here in Derry?”.

Da , in school”.

Richie knew Boris was a tough guy, despite being way thinner than him. But doing that in Derry was too risky even for his mafioso like behavior. Now it was him looking at Boris with terrified curiosity.

“It’s dangerous”.

“Is dangerous everywhere , brat ” he eyed the empty bottle again, almost as if making sure there was nothing left “Would kill for him. Broke a guys arm for him”.

“Did you?”.


“So, uh, are you guys… Like… Together?”.

“We have class. Met there”, he explained, looking slightly sad, letting go of the bottle and crossing his own arms, the large winter coat looking too big for him “Just class”.

Oh ”.

They kept silent and Richie hissed as blood started to pour from his finger, from where he was absentmindedly pulling at his hangnails. The taste of cooper on his tongue was disgusting and Boris chuckled at his displeased face.

“Moron,” he mumbled, squinting his eyes to look at his nails under the dim lit “But what the hell does it means?”.


“This kolibri thing. This is one of your crazy languages, isn’t it? What does kolibri stands for?”.

“Small thing,” Boris shrugged “Small happy shaking thing”.


“Yes. Like moving all the time”.

Richie frowned. What kind of fucking language had a word like that and what the hell does Boris’ explanation even meant? It would be hard to mimic Boris’ behavior if they would really try fool people by pretending to be one another. Boris was weird. But kolibri sounded nice. Small, happy shaking things… The concept reminded him of a small, happy shaking boy… with a fannypack