Chapter Text
“Why are we inviting all these people over?” Richie groans from the island counter. Sprawled out in front of him are two textbooks and a notebook, and he works away at his homework while Max rolls out the mixes across the way. Ingredients are everywhere - flour, sugar, eggs, vanilla - spread around the island counter.
Apparently, Max forgot to mention that he’s secretly a great baker who loves to make little treats and is really good at it, not that he’ll ever admit it.
He’s mixing the cookies with the cutest little apron on, looking like a real chef and it’s absolutely not doing things for Richie, who is absolutely not admiring him from the counter.
“We like having friends, that’s why,” Max replies cheekily. “Besides, this is going to be fun. We’ve got tons of food, a great movie.”
“Mm, you’re enjoying this too much,” Richie laughs. “Look at you, hostess with the mostest. You look great.”
“I always look great,” Max grins, but the pink that creeps on his face is unmistakable. “That’s the real burden of being hot, Richie - you can never escape looking good. Which I always do, no matter what I try.”
“Aw,” Richie makes a pouty face. “I feel so sorry for you.”
“You should. It’s really hard being this hot.”
Richie reaches for the bag of flour on the counter, grabbing a handful. He maneuvers off of the chair, and walks around the island counter so they’re on the same side. “Well, I know how we can fix that.”
And he throws the handful of flour right in Max’s face.
Max gasps at him, and raises his hands in shock. The white powder has exploded all over him, and some of it floats around them, airborne like a cloud. The flour is all over the front of his apron, on his chin and cheeks, and even in his hair.
Richie bursts out laughing.
“Oh you’re dead, Richard Lipschitz,” Max says through gritted teeth, before grabbing the eggs and cracking two over Richie’s head.
Richie gasps at the cold eggs dribble down his forehead and onto his shoulders - and Max laughs, his whole face lighting up.
Naturally, the inevitable happens and they both make a complete mess of the kitchen, throwing stuff at each other, cackling like hyenas until they’re both on the kitchen floor, gasping for breath between laughter.
Richie, on top of Max, wipes some egg from the jock’s cheek, still wheezing with laughter, and it feels so natural, being this close to him. And Max looks young, handsome, and perfectly happy, smiling so wide his face might actually break, ribbons of light splicing through his golden curls. He looks so happy, and Richie can’t believe he didn’t have this until three weeks ago, just three measly weeks when they should’ve had a lifetime.
He wants to kiss him so bad. He hasn’t wanted anything so much in a while.
Richie feels breathless - and not in the asthma-attack way, but in the way that a person realizes something life changing all at once, the feeling of “oh, there you are” and Richie feels the choir of their lives playing out around them in every direction.
They decide to scrap the cookies in the end, but that hardly feels like a loss after the fun they’ve just had.
When the gang arrives at Max’s house, Richie is the one who opens the door and he’s in the letterman jacket. Max is in the kitchen, getting the snacks ready for an awesome movie night. He’s even got an apron on, not that he’s cooking anything other than nacho chips. They find out that they tried to make cookies but apparently that didn’t pan out because the dough is in the trash and there are a ton of dishes in the sink, and Max has flour all over his apron, while Richie has egg in his hair.
“So excited for Terminator 2!” Ruth screeches, running over to Max to give him a hug before Richie. Max scoops Ruth up and spins her around as Peter and Richie exchange a look of “when did they become so buddy-buddy?”
“Hey Richie,” Steph gives him a hug, and Richie notices immediately how Steph and Peter have been holding hands this entire time.
“Are you-” Richie gestures between the two. “Are you guys a thing?”
“Yes,” Steph says in a rush as Peter squeezes her hand. “Yeah, we’re like a big thing, actually.”
“It’s disgusting,” Grace says with a smile as she delicately places her baby pink coat on the coat hook by the door. “They’re only eighteen and already holding hands?”
“I know, we’re going to hell,” Pete rolls his eyes and crushes Richie in a hug. “How’re you, man?”
“Eggy,” Richie laughs. “Can’t believe you’re in a relationship with Stephanie freaking Lauter!”
“Yeah, well I can’t believe you’re dating-” Pete’s eyes dart from Richie to Max, then clears his throat. “Well, nevermind.”
“Damn, you guys went all out,” Steph nods at the snacks on the counter, arranged like a beautiful buffet.
“Tonight is gonna be awesome!” Max grins. “So, let me give you a quick house tour so nobody has to pee in the bushes-”
The gang makes a huge thing out of seeing Max’s house - and yes it’s enormous, but they act like it’s some pantheon of the gods, too good for them to look at. They gape and point like they’re in a museum, while Max almost bashfully shows them around.
They finally park themselves in the living room to watch Terminator 2, and there is enough seats for five, meaning someone’s going to have to sit on the floor.
“Well, Pete could just sit on Steph’s lap, or vice versa,” Richie suggests. “They’re dating after all.”
“Then you should sit on Max’s lap,” Steph says. “For the same reason.”
“What?” Richie feels the color drain from his face.
“Nothing!” Pete says quickly. “No, Steph can sit on my lap or I can sit on the floor.”
“But-”
“Steph, c’mon-”
“I mean, I don’t care,” Max’s voice cuts through their argument, and he shrugs. “If you’re cool with that Richie, I don’t care.”
“Perfect, he doesn’t care,” Steph gestures with a knowing smile.
“Steph-” Richie snaps through gritted teeth.
“Everyone just sit down!” Grace screams. “This movie needs to start right now.”
“You’re lusting over Arnold, admit it!”
With one big couch and two armchairs, Ruth and Grace occupy the arm chairs, while Steph sits on Peter’s lap. And though Steph looks grumpy about it at first, she soon melts into her boyfriend, who seems completely distracted by her, not even watching the movie.
Somehow, Richie pretty much ends up in Max's lap anyway. They start the movie sitting next to each other, not even touching, and by the end, Richie’s got his legs draped over Max, while Max has got an arm around him - and to them, it’s the most natural thing in the world.
After the movie is over, Grace is the only one crying. Steph, who thought the movie was a comedy, gives her the strangest look.
“That was fucking awesome,” Max says. “Loved his jacket. And the motorcycle-”
“Of course you love the motorcycle,” Richie rolls his eyes. “You’ll get yourself killed!”
“That’s what the jacket is for, Richie-” Max says, like Richie is the dumbest person ever, and instead of being angry, Richie gets the dopiest grin on his face. “It made him invincible!”
“You’re trying to explain physics to the Physics club secretary right now? Let me tell you, you’ll still die on that thing.”
“It’s like they’re in the middle of a weeks-long conversation,” Steph whispers to Peter, who sighs and shakes his head. “I mean, seriously, it’s sickening. This could go on for years-”
“Not if you keep pushing things!”
Steph jumps up, stretching. “That was a great movie, guys. It’s super late though, so do we want to head home?”
“Leaving so fast? But I could fall asleep in this luxury chair-” Ruth groans into the arm of the chair.
“Up, Ruth-” Steph tosses her hair and offers a hand to Peter, who takes it.
Richie jumps up too. “Hey Steph, can I get a ride home-”
“No- nope!” Steph grins. “Not enough room in my car, sorry.”
Richie’s eyes narrow in confusion. “But there’s-”
“Sorry!” Steph shrugs. “Make Jagerman drive you. I bet he’d love to.”
“Steph-”
“We should do this again!” Ruth skips toward the door. “Seriously, this was so much fun! We have to hang out again, watch a movie!”
“Something with Arnold Schwarzenegger in it.” Grace clears her throat. “Because he’s very talented, obviously.”
“All I’m hearing is that you like his big muscles,” Ruth teases, wiggling her fingers in Grace’s face with an evil smile. “Big, beefy men on bikes!”
“I can drive you home,” Max says. “It’s no big deal-”
“No, don’t give her what she wants! She has enough space in her car! Steph, why are you being weird about this?” Richie gives her a look, and Max and Peter glance at each other helpless, fully knowing it’s about to go down. “You’ve been weird all night!”
“I’m not being weird!” Steph snaps. “I’m just being practical - you and Max are always together, and I don’t want to rain on your parade-”
“Rain on my- what are you talking about? We’re all friends here-”
“Oh, like Pete and I are just friends? Like that?”
“That’s - that’s different-”
“How exactly is it different?”
“It just is, okay? It is! You and Pete are not the same as - as-”
“Everyone here can see how obviously stupid that is! You two are inseparable! Do you really think you’re that slick? That we wouldn’t know you’re dating?!”
The silence is deafening.
Everyone stands in the entryway, frozen like statues. Ruth is halfway into shoving her shoes on, Grace has put one sleeve of her coat on, and Max is at the edge of the living room, pale as a ghost.
“Steph.” Pete places both of his hands on her shoulders.
“No, don’t ‘Steph’ me, you know I’m right! I mean, seriously - you openly flirt for the whole world to see, you get coffee together, study together, practically live together at this point, like - you’re wearing the letterman jacket!” She turns to Max. “You’ve never given anyone that jacket! Everyone sees it, Richie. Ruth?”
“Don’t put me in the middle of this!”
“Grace?”
“We all know what the Bible says.”
“Pete?”
“It’s…a little obvious, yeah.”
“Max?”
Everyone turns their attention to Max, who’s gone as white as a ghost. His eyes are wide as two moons, and there’s a certain tautness in his posture, a rigid string pulled tight. His breathing is too shallow to be normal.
“I-” Max croaks. “I’m…gonna get some air. I think I had too much - fuck - popcorn-”
And he all but rushes down the hallway out through the back door.
It’s cold out. A crisp chill sweeps over Hatchetfield in the sun’s absence. Winter’s washed through in just a few measly hours, when no one was looking - and somehow it’s here. The cold, unflinching reality that time is moving forward and Max is still. He could slip through the cracks of light and the autumn leaves and nobody would know.
He can see his breath in front of him like a fog.
The quiet ebbs around him, another sign that winter is coming. Not even the wind stirs up leaves or whistles through grass. There is simply nothing but the soft exhale of a boy curled up on the back porch steps, just out of the light.
He might as well be one of Mrs. Claymont’s garden gnomes. She’s collected dozens, he can see them through the slivering cracks in the wooden fence. Their shiny red hats glow in the simpering moonlight.
He feels oddly at peace in the forgotten world outside. With the uncut, dying grass and the chipped wooden fence, the pine tree that towers from the back of the Morrisons’ backyard and spills needles and cones all over the uneven lawn, the stooping electric wires that are ribboned in moonlight - there’s an unspoken beauty in the desolation.
The last time things were so simple was-
Scorching sand burning his feet as he sprinted toward the waves, laughing as a woman in a green one piece chased after him. She wore big sunglasses and her hair up, chasing him into the shockingly cold water.
Big hands wrapped around him and suddenly he was lifted onto his father’s shoulders and-
Well, that is one of the only times he can remember his family being actually happy. There used to be so many more, but now he can barely remember his mother’s face at all.
Things had been so simple back then. There was no pressure, no expectation, no constant failure and disappointment after disappointment as reality knocked him down again and again…
But that isn’t quite true is it?
At the store, with Richie, bickering over what snacks to get and racing to the car, seeing who could carry more bags faster (where Max let him win, obviously).
Hours after school, studying and instead getting distracted by the halos of light around Richie’s head, where Richie would snap him back into focusing by tapping his pencil against Max’s notebook.
Driving to school and letting Richie blast music on the speakers even though it’s not even eight in the morning, if only to see his face light up, his eyes underneath dyed blue strands of overgown hair.
Sick and tired, laying against Richie and falling asleep to the sound of his voice and the gentlest hand in his hair.
That was his first mistake, apparently. He jumped the whole “friends” thing and went straight for “I’m stupidly gay for this guy” instead.
And now Richie knows and damn, the look he gave Max in there was the saddest, most heartbroken expression and Max was the cause of it. Yay.
Whatever, he’ll deny it if it makes Richie feel better.
Fuck, this is so stupid. When did he get so emotional about some nerd? His eyes are stinging so bad and he just wants to scream because the pressure behind them makes his head want to explode.
His hands are shaking as he lifts the cigarette to his mouth to take another drag. He hasn’t smoked in weeks, especially not around Richie who has asthma - and also because maybe Max wants to be someone better around that nerd.
He keeps a pack tucked in an old pair of slippers by the back door just in case. And tonight, he needs it more than ever, fuck.
Whatever. Whatever.
Why is he so emotional about this? Why does he care what some nerds think?
Why does any of it matter?
He’s still gonna be the same monstrous football jock, gonna be the same failure who peaked in high school and didn’t make it past twenty five, some lousy bum begging outside of Beanie’s, another sob story that takes up a quarter of a page in the newspaper and then is never heard of again.
Richie’s going places.
And if he’s learned anything in the past few weeks, it’s that Richie is the brightest person around for miles. For countries, for oceans, for worlds. He’s got something that’s gonna make him something, and Max can’t be selfish.
It isn’t right.
It isn’t fair.
“Fuck,” He curses, but even that just sounds sad instead of angry. It’s softened because Richie has mellowed him into this sappy, hopeless, floundering fuck.
He can’t even be angry anymore, because it’s his fault after all.
He’s the only one who got his hopes up, the only one who wanted to believe there was the slightest chance Richie would look at him like someone with some value.
The backdoor screeches open and Max hurriedly drops the cigarette butt and squashes it into the dirt. He waves the smoke away, and tries to gather something of himself.
“Max,” That sweet, heartwrenchingly perfect voice whispers into the night.
He laughs, and it bubbles hollowly in his chest, rattling and emphasizing the emptiness in his chest. “Hey Richie. Did everyone leave?”
“Uh, yeah.”
“Fuck,” He says. “I’m a shitty host. Don’t - ah - worry, I’ll make it up to them. We can do another movie night?”
“It’s okay.” His heart snaps - their movie nights are done? That’s it. “I mean-” Richie clears his throat “-they don’t blame you at all. They’re sorry they scared you off like that. Another movie night would be good.”
“Yeah,” Max nods. “Cool.”
“Can I sit?”
Shoot me if I ever say no to you, Richie Lipschitz.
“Go ahead,” is what he says instead.
The porch shakes ever so slightly from the movement, and suddenly Richie is sitting next to him, almost touching but not quite.
“You smoke?” Richie asks, after a lifetime.
“Not around you,” Max kicks a pebble with his boot. “And not in a little while.”
The tension between them makes Max want to choke.
“I didn’t mean to do that-” He starts to say just as Richie says, “I’m sorry my friends are idiots-”
They both look at each other for the first time and laugh, because jesus, they’re the same person.
It feels good to laugh, even if it’s just delaying the inevitable. When Richie finds out what Steph was saying is true, he’ll never want to look at him again.
“I’m so sorry, Max,” Richie huffs. “They’re super nosy and they shouldn’t have pushed you like that!”
Max shakes his head. “They’re just looking out for you. They…love you.”
“In their own weird way, sure. But that doesn’t make it okay. You’re my friend too and I saw the way you looked in there Max and I just - I can’t - I won’t let anyone put you in that place-” Richie trails off, hugging himself tighter. He still hasn’t taken the letterman off.
“How did I look?” Max asks before he can stop himself.
Richie’s expression is griefstricken as he shakes his head. “I’ve seen it before, once, and it was so awful - back in Waylon Place. When we pulled you up, you had this look of terror and complete acceptance like some…some deer about to be shot by a hunter or hit by some truck, knowing you’re going to die and not being able to stop it…or wanting to stop it.”
“Oh,” Is all he can say, because Max has just experienced a wonderful, horrible phenomenon - the power of being seen, being known.
In school, he was always the bully, always the monster, the wolf with claws and a bloodthirsty appetite, but he’s always been a deer. He’s truly a deer, trapped on some morbidly fucked up trajectory and helpless to stop it. Playing the predator, being the prey.
Every day he wakes up and wonders whether he was supposed to die in that house.
And would that be it for him? Would he never know this? Know how Pete Spankoffski separates his M&Ms by colors and only eats the red ones because Steph has said red food dye makes her face puffy, or that Ruth loves to sing every chance she gets and she’s good at it because she’s actually made for the stage, or that Grace actually loves Terminator and finds him hot, or that Richie’s laugh sounds like spring.
Or that Richie snores slightly.
Or that he’ll try to be an adult by ordering coffee but really what he wants is something with a lot of whipped cream, even though he’ll fuss over taking a fucking lactate pill, and if he doesn’t, Max will have to find him a bathroom immediately, even if they’re in the middle of fucking nowhere.
Or that the best thing Richie needs when he’s freaking out is a hug.
No, Max wouldn’t know any of that. He’d just be some forgotten loser rotting in that old, timeless house. Is that better than this twisted knife that’s punctured his weak heart and made him soft?
Is having and losing it better than never having it at all?
“I’m sorry,” Richie says, pulling him back into the real world.
“Sorry for what? You have nothing to be sorry for.”
“For Waylon Place. You didn’t deserve that.”
“Yes I did. I deserved much fucking worse actually.”
“The fact that you think that just shows how much you don’t. Max,” Richie’s hand on his arm stings. “I’m glad you didn’t…die in Waylon Place. I’m so glad that we became friends and I got to know you. These past few weeks have been the best of my life.”
Max turns away, focusing on the moon instead because that fucking stinging pressure is back, fuck.
“You’ve changed me, Max. You make me want…to be someone. You see something in me that makes me feel like a million dollars, and I feel more alive than I’ve been in ages. Because of you.”
No, Max wants to scream. That’s how I feel about you. The only difference is you actually are someone worth a million dollars.
“I never thought it’d be this easy, either. Being around you is so - so stupidly simple. I guess I just-” Richie’s breath hitches “-I just couldn’t give that up.”
Fuck. They are so fucking over. Why does this hurt more than any breakup he’s ever had, and they’re not even fucking dating?
“Yeah,” Max nods, like he’s not about to drown his sorrows in the bottle of vodka in the freezer as soon as Richie leaves. “Yeah, it was fun, Richie, honestly.”
Richie looks at him with glassy eyes. “Steph shouldn’t have said that. None of them should have said that. It wasn’t fair.”
“But it’s the truth isn’t it?” Max laughs emptily. “It’s the truth, Richie.”
“Yes,” Richie says so quietly. “Max, I’m so sorry.”
“No, don’t be,” Max grins. “Don’t, Richie, seriously, you didn’t do anything wrong. It’s me - I’m all fu-fucked up in the head, and I don’t deserve you, but I guess-” Max shakes his head, and the pressure behind his eyes expand tenfold “-I just couldn’t stop it, nothing I did, no matter what. Because you’re you. You’re goddamn perfect. You are the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen.”
Richie’s eyes go wide in confusion. At least it’s not disgust or pity.
“I’m fucking selfish, Richie, I know. I would’ve kept it for forever if the nerds hadn’t-” Max bites his cheek, trying to find his composure because he won’t do that to Richie, who is a saint for sticking around and comforting Max in his own stupid unrequited feelings. “Just to keep some of you, be part of your circle. I’m a fucking coward.”
“No,” Richie draws in a breath, shaking his head. “No, you’re not, Max. I’m the - the coward here, okay? But you - you…kept what?”
Max blinks at him. Shit, he’s gonna make him say it out loud. Dammit Richie.
“That I’m fucking in love with you?” Max blurts before he can say anything remotely normal. But no, he’s all in, with nothing to lose. It’s said in the most pathetic, lame, broken voice too, and Max can feel his heart splintering and cutting at his ribs.
Richie stares at him, wide-eyed in shock.
Fuck.
“Look, it’s really okay-”
“Sorry, you’re in love with me?”
“Uh…yeah.”
“Since when?”
Max shrugs. “Since the beginning, I guess.”
“When you were sick? When I came by to look after you?” Richie is suddenly more upright, like he got shot by lightning, with wide eyes and shaking hands.
“No, not-” Max plucks a blade of grass from between the cracks in the porch stair. “No, it was actually, uh- why does this matter? Look, this is already pretty painful for me as it is, and I don’t think talking about it will make either of us feel any better. I like you, you don’t like me like that, okay? I get it - friendship over.”
“Hold the fuck on! Friendship over? What?” Richie’s hands go up in surrender, and he looks more confused than ever. Why? What could he possibly be confused about? Something about that expression, for some reason, gives Max hope. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about us, Richie. About-” Max shakes his head. “Why are you so surprised?”
“Because!” Richie jumps up, suddenly standing up. He is vibrant with energy, like the moon in the dark sky. “Because they were talking about me, Max! They were talking about me liking you!”
The words hit him like sheets of concrete. “What?”
“Yes! Max, jesus! I like you and they knew it, so they were- fuck-” Richie runs a hand through his hair, and starts pacing the grass in front of the backporch.
“So…so, wait-” Max is putting the pieces together. Richie likes him, Richie likes him. It’s not one-side at all. Is it? “You’re telling me-”
“I just- this whole time, I thought I was the only one, I thought I would have to squash down my feelings because you would never like me like that, but - but it’s not like that, is it? Because we’re actually the same fucking person-”
Whatever he’s said is lost when Max stands up suddenly and kisses him. The kiss itself is gentle, hesitant, and longing for so much more. The desire bleeds through and Richie’s shaking hands wrap around his shoulders, pulling him in again. And it is everything he’s ever dreamed off and more, and it is completely perfect and awkward and wonderful.
“You taste like cigarettes,” Richie laughs.
“Oh shit, sorry,” Max tries to break away but Richie kisses him again. “I promise I don’t taste like that all the time.”
“Well, we’ll just have to see about that, won’t we,” Richie grins and it’s the sweetest thing he’s ever seen.
Max closes his eyes, lets his head rest against Richie’s. “I’m sorry I’m such an idiot.”
“You’re smarter than you think you are,” Is the response, and a pair of cold hands cups his face. Max opens his eyes and finds Richie staring at him with such undeniable warmth.
“You’re smart enough for us both, Richie.”
“If I was, we could’ve avoided all of this, couldn’t we?” He laughs and Max feels that warmth bubble inside him too. “We could’ve just been happy.”
“I’m happy now,” Max presses a kiss to Richie’s face. “Are…you?”
“Max Jagerman is in love with me,” Richie grins, overcome with glee. If he smiles any harder, he might just break his face.
“That’s not an answer.”
“It is to me.”
They kiss again in the frosted moonlight, and the desolate symphony of the world gives way to the new and wonderful ordeal of being loved.