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The whole thing starts one winter's day when Richard Goranski gets desperate.
There's a couple of different layers to desperation, and every time Rich thinks he's hit the last one, things get even worse. This, though. Rich thinks this is it. This is bone-deep scrabbling for something, anything that will make life a little less painful than it already is.
He's tried a lot of things (not drugs, though, not after he's seen the state his father works himself into, felt his wrath. Rich has sworn to never be anything like Mr. Goranski.)
He wanders the street, the wind sharp and biting. He tugs his jacket higher over his collarbones, wishing he had thought to wear something other than a tank top beneath it. Someone might ask questions about the scars on his back, and that's the last thing he needs right now. It's been at least two days since his last solid meal, it's been a week since he last dragged himself to school, and he's running low on everything, really.
Food. Water. A will to live.
It's been this way for years, but never before has it been this bad. Rich smiles bitterly to himself. It's a bit like a cliche Disney movie, his mom dying when he was young and leaving him with only his father, who cared nothing about his son and tried to cover up his own grief through alcohol.
He's a fucking mess, that's what he is, and he's run out of places to hide.
There's not many locations in a town as small as his for a scrawny young teen to go more than once. He can't go to anyone that would get the law involved, he can't, that would require getting Mr. Goranski involved and he wants to do that as little as possible.
People remember his mother- something he is incapable of doing- and they'll give him a place to stay for a while, a scrap of food, a part time job. Never for long, though. Never without the whispers being renewed on the street about how far that lovely couple's kid had fallen, wasn't it a shame, high school dropout at 15?
He used to think he was smart, wanted to be a doctor when he grew up. Now, growing up is looking less and less like a possibility the more time he spends on the streets. He's not homeless, not exactly, but he'll do whatever it takes to not be in the same house with his father.
Most of the time he spends there, he tries to put on headphones and block out the barrage of insults hurled his way, ignore the smell of must and old beer cans and cheap cigarettes. He's going to suffocate before he gets out of this place, he can feel it. He senses it in the way the air is stifling and seems to choke out every hope he's ever had at a normal life.
Those are the good days.
Those are the days when his father leaves him alone, when he doesn't end up with a black eye or a bruised rib or a tendency to flinch so much that it's hard to not notice that something's going on.
He continues down the streets he's come to know well, blending into backgrounds and fading until no one remembers where he last was or has a clue where he's going to be. Invisibility is safety, as much as he hates to admit it, and he's become good at remaining unseen.
The wind continues to nip at his threadbare clothing, his stomach grumbles like a dying whale, he hasn't slept more than ten hours in the past week, and the fresh bruises starting to form up his legs are beginning to ache as the adrenaline he felt when he left his house that morning begins to fade.
That's precisely when the squip dealer descends, like a dog trained to sniff out vulnerabilities.
Rich's first and last encounter with him, the man that gives him the squip and probably has a criminal record a mile long, happens in what can only be called an alley.
He has a tattoo of an anchor, a scruffy beard, and a greasy mop of hair. He's also standing in a dimly lit corner, leering up at Rich. Rich elects to call him Sneaks, because he obviously works at the shoe store two doors down, and he looks like a generally wily person. Rich isn't dumb, so he tries to change direction before he is halted in his tracks.
"Hey, kid."
"I'm not looking for trouble. I don't have any money," Rich says, preparing to have to book it down a street at 6:30 in the morning. No one's called the cops on him yet, and he's really not keen on causing a disturbance in the middle of an elderly suburb, but he's also really not keen on being left for a dead in an alley by a shoe store clerk.
Sneaks rolls his eyes. "I'm not gonna hurt ya. I'm here to propose a deal."
"I'm not a prostitute," Rich says flatly.
"Course not. You're a kid on the run, down on your luck. We've all been there at some point."
A very small amount of people have been in his situation, Rich thinks, but sarcastic comments won't help the situation, so he swallows it down.
"So then what do you want from me?" Rich says, trying to mimic the gangsters in all the movies he used to watch with his grandparents. He straightens his back, tilts his head up (even though Sneaks is about a foot taller than him), tucks his hands in his pockets to stop them from shaking.
"Like I said. I'm here to propose a deal." Sneaks takes a step closer to him, and reaches out a hand. Rich tenses, prepared to run, but all that happens is an outstretched palm containing a grey, oblong pill. His other hand holds a bottle of Mountain Dew.
"Sorry, dude. I'm not interested in drugs. There's a pretty decent market for that down by Monroe Street, if you really wanna-"
Sneaks starts to chuckle, but it's wheezy in a sort of I've-been-smoking-for-60-years way.
"It's not drugs. It's a supercomputer. Specially engineered by someone up in Wisconsin."
Rich looks at him in disbelief, but doesn't leave. "That sounds like a ripoff Michael Bay film."
Sneaks grins. "Spielberg, if anything. This right here, what I hold in my hand, will change your life. Guaranteed." He doesn't specify whether the change is good or bad.
Rich raises his eyebrows, looks at the man warily. "What's my part of the deal?"
"Nothing," Sneaks says, getting a look of disbelief in return.
"Nothing. I give you nothing, and you give me drugs guaranteed to change my life."
"They're not drugs."
"You're in an alley. That isn't really helping your case."
"What's the worst that could happen?"
There's a lot of Worst That Could Happen scenarios that begin with people taking drugs from strangers in alleys, Rich thinks.
"If it fails, I'll hook you up with a job. How about that?"
"Again, not interested."
"A legitimate job. I know people that can forge resumes, fake credentials flawlessly."
Rich is desperate, not thinking straight, lost in the world, and more than a little suicidal. Maybe it'll kill him, he thinks grimly.
He takes the Mountain Dew.
The first conversation Rich has is the one he considers to be the hardest. It's also the one he knows he can't put off.
After all is said and all is done, after he burns down a house and goes to the hospital and Jake gets rid of the squip and he asks his best friend on a date, he decides he'll probably spend the rest of his life apologizing, but so be it.
The doctors tell him he'll be in the hospital for quite some time, considering the amount of burns up and down his arms that still need healing. The squip had done something, installed a glamour to where they couldn't be seen. Now that he had blessedly relinquished his grip on Rich's mind, there's nothing to stop the pain and bright red scarring.
However, Jake had said yes. Jake was his boyfriend. Jake wasn't disgusted with him, so that was a start.
He knows the next thing he has to face. That thing is currently laying in a hospital bed, laughing at something Jeremy said, getting Jenna to draw Pac-Man on his cast.
After a little while, Jenna leaves, and Jeremy follows her. She spins and grabs Rich by his collar, smiles in a way that is sweet yet threatening, and says, "If you do anything, and I mean anything, to hurt that boy, not even Jake will be able to recognize you."
"Holy shit, Jenna," says Jeremy.
"I'm just telling it like it is."
"How do I apologize to him?" Rich asks, and Jenna smiles in a way that is more genuine.
"You go in there and you talk things out. We've all had a pretty fucked up last couple of months." She releases his collar, trades it for Jeremy's, and walks off with him in tow. Rich hesitates before walking inside.
Michael looks up at him, badly suppresses a flinch, and then smiles. "Hey, dude." Rich feels his heart drop into his stomach. He promised years ago he would never make anyone flinch at the sight of him, and now here he was.
"Hey." An awkward pause. "I...uh. I don't really know why I'm here. I felt like I should apologize? I mean- damn, I'm messing this up horribly. What I'm trying to say is, I'm super sorry, and it's chill if you never want to see me again, because nothing excuses what I did to you."
Michael looks up at him, his expression softening a little, and motions for him to sit on the bed. Rich does, smoothing out the scratchy hospital fabric he's become so accustomed to.
Michael begins talking, never really meeting his eyes.
"When you were- well, when I was being tortured in that warehouse, there were a lot of things that I'd rather forget. I remember, though, the squip always taunted me by saying that you wanted him to stop. That image- you, being trapped right below the surface, unable to get out- that kept me fighting."
Rich looks at him. "I'm afraid I don't understand."
"Of course, of course I had resolved to survive for a number of other things. Jeremy, to name one. He thought I was dead, and like hell was I going to be. You'd be surprised, though, how much the human body can shut down. How much it takes to not give up, to refuse to give in. My world was reduced to that room, and his face, and things that seemed like distant memories didn't really feel all that important anymore. When he said that, said that you wanted more than anything to stop it, he thought I was going to be broken. It just cemented in my mind, though, that this was just a monster wearing your face."
Rich nods slowly, hardly daring to breathe, afraid to break the peace Michael is showing him.
"You're going to blame yourself. We all know you are, face it, you already have."
Rich sighs. "You can't see me without flinching. If you just, I don't know, straight up decked me in the face, I would deserve it."
"No, you most certainly would not," says Michael, with a fierceness that surprises Rich. "That's not what you need to hear, though. Keep in mind, I'm just- just, basically completely winging this, but I think it's going well."
"Well, I hardly think you should be the one comforting me, I mean-"
"Richard Jacob Goranski, shut up and listen to me," Michael says, but there's no heat behind it.
"I remember someone that I met, once. It was after I had been pushed over, and some jerks stole my hoodie and stuck it in a tree. Jeremy hadn't come to school yet, and I was on the point of giving up and going home. Then, this lightning fast kid shows up, scales the tree in no time flat, gets my hoodie back. He's scrawny and fearless, and I try to thank him but he's gone again. Just like that."
Rich gives a lopsided smile. "I thought you would have forgotten about that by now."
"I thought you would have forgotten about that by now," says Michael. "I mean, I was figuring myself out back then."
Rich smiles. "Well, they were jerks. I couldn't just do nothing."
Michael smiles back. "I know there's a real Rich in there somewhere, and he might've gotten a little lost along the way, but I would really, truly like to get to know him. If you'll still be friends with me, I'm all for second chances."
"You, Michael Mell, are more than I deserve," says Rich.
"Look down at your arms," he says suddenly.
Rich sighs. "Yeah, I know, it's kinda hideous, but they said they can work on it-"
"First of all, you're super cute, so don't you go on about that. Second of all, I have a broken arm, and what else?"
"A lifetime of emotional trauma?" Rich suggests.
Michael suppresses a laugh. "I- I shouldn't laugh at that. Bad Rich. What I'm trying to say is: None of us got out of this without scars. If you'd like to be friends, I'd be more than willing to give it a try."
Michael pushes his glasses up his nose. "I'm ranting again, aren't I? These pain meds might be stronger than previously anticipated."
"You are, but it's endearing," Rich smirks. "So, we're good? As good as we can be, all things considered?"
Michael nods. "We're good. Now, tell Jenna to shove off, she's been hovering outside the door for the better part of ten minutes. I am capable of having conversations, thank you very much."
Rich smiles wider and launches himself off the bed.
The next week, Michael finds a trans pride patch and a collectible vintage cassette he's been wanting for years on Jeremy's (which makes it his) doorstep. Beneath it is a card, signed with a flourishing red '-R'.
After the whole fiasco with the squips is over, there are other things to deal with. The minutia of everyday life provides a respite for Rich, but not for long. He gets out of the hospital, gets home, and is immediately on the streets again with nowhere else to go.
That is how he ends up on the doorstep of the house he picked out with Jake, at four in the morning, while it is pouring the rain. He glances down at his scars, looking redder and more ugly than he would have liked.
("You're lucky they're not worse," the doctors had said. He felt anything but lucky.)
Everything he owns is in the backpack slung over his shoulder, which still reads 'RIENDS?' in faded letters. Rich walks up to the door and knocks. He drags one hand slowly through his fire engine red hair, and it crosses his mind that he must look like a half-drowned puppy.
(It reminds him of a night, not too long ago, with biting wind and hopelessness. He didn't have anywhere to go then.
He does now.)
Jake answers the door, and Rich's breath catches in his throat. They're dating, they have been since the hospital, but he still can't get over how stunning Jake is. That's when he registers that his boyfriend is wearing a tiger print onesie, and he still looks absolutely fucking gorgeous.
"Yeah?" Jake says, looking worriedly at Rich, rubbing his eyes in an attempt to fully wake up. He realizes he must have been staring, on top of looking like shit.
"Can I come in?" Rich asks.
"Duh. Have a seat. Give me like, five minutes to make some tea. Then we can talk about whatever caused you to be waterlogged on my doorstep at ungodly hours of the night."
Three minutes later, Jake comes back with two cups of steaming blueberry tea. Rich is sprawled across the couch, worried that he may look stupid but too exhausted to care. Jake hands him one cup and the entire bottle of hazelnut peppermint creamer. He sets to squeezing half of it in his drink, not meeting Jake's eye.
"So," says Jake.
"So," replies Rich, looking at the logo of the creamer as if it's the most fascinating thing he's seen in centuries.
"Care to tell me why you're here, or is it just a courtesy call?"
Rich takes a deep breath. "Dad found out we were dating."
Jake inhales sharply. "Okay. Okay, we can deal with this. How bad was it? Did he explode, was he drunk-"
"He kicked me out," Rich replies.
Jake nods slowly. "I see."
"I really don't want to barge in like this, cause, y'know, we're all dealing with shit and you probably don't need me here, but just like, a week. Tops, a week, and then I'll be out of your hair." He risks a look at Jake, who looks as if he's been punched in the gut.
"I am going to kill that man."
"That's a felony, Dillinger."
"Not if I don't get caught, it isn't."
Rich sighs. There's a spark in Jake's eyes he hasn't seen in a long time, and he knows that, while Jake will never actually murder anyone, he will go to Jenna about it. This means life is going to get much harder for Mr. Goranski very soon, in ways that no one can exactly trace the origin of.
The tea is nice for soothing his nerves. He takes a sip of it, letting the hazelnut peppermint overpower anything that might have vaguely resembled tea to begin with.
"Do you wanna talk about it?" Jake asks, the fire in his eyes calmed down for the time being.
"There's not really much to- I mean. He said that he heard I was dating you, called us both some names, roughed me up a bit-"
"Hold on. Hold on, what is your definition of a bit?" Jake asks, eyebrows furrowing. Rich realizes too late that Jake would know better than anybody that if he actually mentioned an injury, it must be pretty damn bad.
"Uh. Not much, really, it's just kinda-"
"What. Did. He. Do." Rich sighs, and he sees Jake notice that he's not wearing a tank top, and that in and of itself is enough to confirm Jake's suspicions. Rich slowly tugs off his shirt.
The burn scars, the scars that are all in uniform lines across his upper arms, none of those are new to Jake. He's seen those, knows the story behind them. It's Rich's back, currently looking like he's been hit by a truck, that really seals the deal.
"I'm getting a first aid kit."
"You really don't have t-"
"Would you rather go to the hospital?"
Rich thinks of the last two months he spent in a stifling hospital bed. "Get the damn first aid kit."
Jake grins humorlessly, and rushes upstairs to find it. Considering he's played every single school sport since he was about seven, he's back before Rich has time to think.
Slowly, Jake sets to bandaging Rich's wounds.
"How do I know that you know what you're doing?"
"Both my parents are doctors."
"Both your parents stole money from the government and are now hiding in Bermuda."
"We can't all be perfect."
Rich laughs, slowly and stuttering, and Jake joins in.
"You know you're not only going to stay here for a week, right?"
"Apparently so," Rich says.
"Did I tell you I'm growing my hair out?"
"Jake Dillinger, I love you, but if you ever have a man bun I'm chopping it off in the middle of the night and selling it on the black market."
"Is there even a black market for that sort of thing? Man bun dealers? Help develop your hipster cred?" Jake finishes what he's doing, makes sure the bandages are secure, and repacks the first aid kit.
"It's," Rich stops to look at the clock, "now five in the morning. Can I get some rest, before the storm that is going to come tomorrow morning when Michael Mell and Jenna Rolan find out that I've been kicked out and declare themselves my parents?"
"You're soaking wet," Jake says, tossing him an old baseball jersey and some bright pink yoga pants. "Put these on and meet me upstairs." Jake is a lot taller than he is, but he makes do.
Rich falls asleep that night, cuddled up next to Jake, covered in five different blankets and feeling the warmest he has in a while, both inside and out.
His talk with Jeremy happens at 6:30 in the morning, as all the best things do. As per usual, Jenna, Michael, Jeremy, and Christine have come to spend the night at Rich and Jake's house.
It all goes like normal; Jenna not letting any of them smoke weed, talking about the latest gossip at school, playing flashlight tag in the yard because they might as well embrace that they're not Popular Kids anymore.
That is, until Rich goes to sleep and wakes up hours later in a cold sweat, memories swirling together in an amalgamation of fear. He's not even sure if he can pinpoint one specific memory, just that someone is trying to hurt him and he can't breathe. Blessedly, he's laying on the floor, away from everyone else. He wrestles out from under his blankets, fingernails raking up and down his arms, trying to regulate his breathing. He slips out of the house, onto the deck overlooking a lake, and calms down until he's out of the nightmare and the spots are gone from his vision.
When he walks back into Jake's kitchen (stainless steel everything, relatively clean and well stocked), Jeremy is making cookies. Rich tries to slip away, and go back to the bedroom without being noticed.
"I'm making these for you, so get an apron and crack a few eggs before you go back to bed. Okay, well not entirely for you, I bake when I'm stressed. Still. It helps, repetitive motions and all that," Jeremy says without taking his eyes off the flour he's measuring.
"I'm allergic to gluten," Rich says slowly.
"I know. Why do you think Jake keeps all of these mixes in his pantry if he can eat the normal kind?"
"Fair point," Rich says, and picks up an apron. "Are you really stress baking?"
"Well, if I'm going to be up at all hours of the night watching after you when the rest of them can't, I'm at least going to get some sugar and carbs out of the deal."
"You don't even have a recipe."
"I know what I'm about, son."
There's a momentary silence while Rich finishes his task, and moves over to sit on one of the barstools by the granite countertop.
"Need anything? Coffee? Tea? I know you have a Keurig in here somewhere, no matter how hard Jake tries to hide it from my mad barista skills."
"I'd like to have at least a fighting chance of getting back to sleep. I'll get some soda."
"Make sure it's not a Mountain Dew."
Rich looks up at Jeremy, who's fidgeting as he mixes the batter, unsure if he's gone too far. Rich smiles despite himself and grabs a root beer from the fridge. "I'll be sure it's not."
There's another silence, but this time it's not as tense.
"Do you wanna talk about it?"
Rich pauses, sips his drink.
Jeremy makes eye contact, wiggles his eyebrows, and then goes back to greasing the cookie tin.
"I thought I had gotten rid of the nightmares," Rich says. "Apparently not. I was doing pretty good there for a while, I hadn't had one in a month or so. Sometimes they're about my childhood, sometimes they're about the squip, sometimes they're about something totally different. I don't know. I thought this was getting better."
"Recovery isn't an uphill climb. Well, if it is, it's like that guy from Greek mythology that barely makes it to the top of the hill because he keeps sliding back down."
Rich quirks one eyebrow. "That's not how the myth goes at all. He's cursed to never make it to the top."
"I never said it was a good analogy. It's one from Jeremy Heere Rewrites Of Ancient Literature." He sets the oven, makes sure everything is positioned correctly, cranks the timer, and comes to sit next to Rich.
"It sounds like PTSD. I have to take some stuff for it. Turns out thinking your best friend is dead and having someone try to convince you to kill yourself 24/7 for a few months doesn't lead to the best mental health."
Rich smiles bitterly. "That it does not."
"You need to remember that the past is the past, though. And it's hard, shit, that's the hardest part. Trying to get over whatever happened to you. You always wanna make sure your life goes back to the way it was Before, but you don't really realize that all you've got to deal with now is the After."
"That was deep."
"It was true. Plus, Michael's getting me to help write his poetry. I'm getting pretty good at this kind of thing."
Rich takes a deep breath and finally asks the question that's been nagging in his brain since Michael explained his own reasons on that sterile hospital bed.
"Why are you so nice to me? I made my own life a living hell, but I dragged you into it. And your boyfriend, too. I basically ruined everything for you."
Jeremy blushes slightly at Michael being referred to as his boyfriend, but does nothing to correct it.
"I don't know. That sounds like I'm dodging the real answers, but... I don't really know. All I know is that, as far as I'm concerned, the Rich that makes terrible dad jokes and the Rich that hurt Michael aren't the same person. No one's really the same person they were yesterday. Plus, I mean, I know what it's like. I know what it's like to have no control over what you do, to have someone else move into your brain."
"Can you still hear him sometimes? Like- I... I definitely know he's dead and all. We made sure of that. Occasionally, though, it's like he's just, I don't know, still there somehow."
Jeremy nods. "It absolutely sucks."
"Are we ever going to be okay?"
"I think we are," he says, as Rich finishes the last of his root beer. "We aren't now, not by a long stretch. We are, however, infinitely better off. There's no way I can fall into as deep of a pit as I did then. We're not fine, and who knows, maybe we'll never be fine. I think, though, that we're going to be okay."
Rich nods. "I think you're absolutely right."
There's a momentary silence.
"So who else knows about your stress baking?"
Jeremy smiles. "Anyone who's ever had a breakdown in the dead of night, and anyone who's been at my house during finals week."
"I'm going to have to take advantage of this knowledge."
"If you tell a soul, blue dye will mysteriously find its way into your shampoo."
Rich gasps melodramatically. "Not the hair!"
"You look like a Weasley."
The timer goes off, and both boys jump.
"That was a solid talk, but I'm more than ready to eat like fifteen cookies and watch the sunrise," Jeremy says.
"I'm down if you are."
The next day, a card with a therapist's number on it finds its way into Rich's hand as Jeremy is leaving. He schedules his first appointment for the following Tuesday.
Rich knows, when he doesn't show up at school two days in a row, that someone is going to come and find him.
He doesn't expect it to be Christine.
Jake is gone for the week. His volleyball team is on their way to the championship game two states away. Rich is completely and utterly alone in the house.
He may have self destructed. Just a bit.
As in, Halloween is two days away, he really doesn't have any good memories associated with this holiday, he's alone in the house, and he feels like crap. All he's gone to the effort of doing is making a fort out of blankets in his dining room, putting a lamp in the middle of it for light, dragging some of his stuff downstairs, and ordering some takeout that will arrive at his door.
It's one of the few times when he emerges from his Cave Of Despair to open the door that she arrives. The knocking is persistent, and he doesn't really remember ordering anything from Domino's, but who's to say he hasn't? He opens the door and instantly takes a step back.
Christine stands there, worried and angry and ultimately flustered. Her bob is waving dramatically in the wind, and he's not sure when it became daytime, but her face is illuminated dramatically by the porch light, and she looks like a force of nature all unto herself. She looks at him, and he looks at her, and he realizes what he must look like right now.
The living room is scattered with various food containers and glasses. His hair is a tangled mop that he pulled back into a hat, he's wearing some shorts borrowed from Jake that reveal his stretch marks, and the bags under his eyes definitely aren't doing him any favors.
Christine doesn't deem it necessary to say anything. She walks inside, closes the door behind her, and pulls Rich over to the couch. He follows behind her, collapsing into the cushions when she gives him a gentle nudge.
"What on earth, Rich?" she asks softly.
"I guess I'm not pulling this whole existing thing off as well as I thought I was," he says, burying his face in a pillow.
"I thought you were going to a therapist."
"I am."
"So? What's changed?" She shoves the piles of his stuff aside and sits down next to him. There is an uncomfortably long pause while Rich weighs whether or not he should tell the truth, and whether or not Christine would be able to see immediately through his bullshit.
"It's Halloween," he settles for.
Christine eyes widen infinitesimally, but she nods. "Understandable. You can't just lay around the house alone for days on end."
Rich sighs. "I know, but-"
"The key word being alone," she says. "Where's Jake? If I had known he was gone, we all would have been by much earlier than this."
"Volleyball tournament. I'm proud of him! I really am, I couldn't stop him from going."
She nodded again. "Do you wanna talk about it?"
He sighs again, burying his face in a pillow. "Maybe later. I know I can't keep avoiding life like this, but I've heard from people around town that my dad's trying to get in touch with me again. I don't wanna get into it."
Christine sucks in a breath. "I'm going to make some cocoa. Will you be fine until I get back?"
"I'm not made of glass, Chris," he says, but he smiles at her concern as she walks away.
A few minutes later, she's back (he doesn't want to know how she found the Keurig) and shoves a mug into his hands. There are more marshmallows, whipped cream, and sprinkles than there is liquid. It's divine.
"Halloween just never has any good memories for me, and especially not with what happened last year. I mean, what would I do if the squips ever came back? If they weren't completely gone from my life after all?"
"Someone would notice now, if you started acting differently."
He nods. "It's pretty convincing, though. It's not easy to outsmart a supercomputer."
"We did, though."
"I didn't."
Christine raises her eyebrows. "You're not invincible."
"I'm not asking to be invincible! Just maybe... not as breakable."
"That's part of being human."
"You sound like a wise old woman."
"It's probably something in the cocoa." She smirks, and he does the same in return.
"I don't know. I guess I didn't think recovery would take this much effort. They're just memories, they're basically just my brain, so why are they effecting me so much?" Rich sips his cocoa in a way that gives him a whipped cream mustache.
"Contrary to popular belief, memories can and will fuck you up."
Rich actually laughs at that. "I don't think I've ever heard you curse."
"Only when it's absolutely necessary."
"I'm glad that I've been deemed absolutely necessary." Rich uncurls a bit, stretching out over the side of the couch.
"Have you really been sleeping in a nest of blankets for three days?"
"It's really comfortable. I wouldn't lie about something as important as blanket forts."
"The next time you have to use one, call me instead of Papa John. Sound like a plan?"
"Sounds like a plan. Though Papa John's is a close second."
"I'm glad that I can be ranked above pizza, however small the margin may be. We'll have to make some new Halloween memories for you, until the old ones are gone."
His hands unconsciously trace patterns on his arms, that are scarred despite the redness having faded long ago.
"Let's talk about something light. How's the fall play coming?"
"Really good. Did I mention I'm going to ask Jenna out?"
Rich almost chokes on his cocoa. "You can't just throw a bombshell at me like that! How are you planning on doing it?"
"I don't know. I just know that I'm sick of hesitating, and I'm going to go for it."
"Get her sunflowers. Those are her favorite."
"Noted." She smiles. "I probably need to tell my parents I'm not coming home tonight."
"Wait, how late is it?"
"Only noon, but once I get into that blanket fort I'm definitely not leaving."
When she returns, they watch every old musical she loves for the rest of the night, and some bootlegs on Jenna's laptop. She even skips play rehearsal, insisting that the cast can make it without her just this once.
Every third Tuesday after that, Christine and Rich make it a habit to try and build the best blanket fort imaginable.
Emotional conversations are like sex: exhausting, yet ultimately fulfilling for both parties. Rich has resigned himself to another one of his Deep Talks, this time with Jenna.
It doesn't exactly go that way.
His phone buzzes one night, when he's caught the flu and not feeling up to doing anything but sitting on the couch and binging Sherlock with Jake.
once a jenna-ration: i have been told by reliable sources you're going around the #squad and like
once a jenna-ration: apologizing n shit
once a jenna-ration: can i just send you memes? can we be done here
best bi: If you send me a pepe jenna is2g
once a jenna-ration: ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)
best bi: J e n n a
once a jenna-ration: ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)
once a jenna-ration: ok ok i'm done
best bi: GOOD
once a jenna-ration: i didn't
once a jenna-ration: m e m e to anger you
best bi: Why are you like this
best bi: You don't even get an apology
once a jenna-ration: i'm hurt
once a jenna-ration: wounded
once a jenna-ration: emotionally DEVASTATED
best bi: YOU THREATENED TO KILL ME
once a jenna-ration: it was a necessary evil
best bi: Necessary evil, my ass
once a jenna-ration: that sounds like some sort of kink
once a jenna-ration: like, a cult that frickly fracks with satan
best bi: """"Frickly fracks""""
best bi: Jenna I have heard you swear worse than a sailor
once a jenna-ration: i'm trying to protect your innocence from the harsh realities of the world
best bi: I KNOW WHAT SEX IS JENNA
once a jenna-ration: richard jimothy goranski we do not use such foul language in this house
best bi: You told me to fuck off or you would kill a bitch at least four times yesterday
once a jenna-ration: shhh the children might hear
best bi: The children.
best bi: Jenna Rolan you are something else, you know that
once a jenna-ration: that something else is smokin hot ;)))))
best bi: ...Did you just imply that my middle name was Jimothy
once a jenna-ration: i'm just trying to be the better person here
best bi: It figures that this is how our Deep And Pretentious Talk would go
once a jenna-ration: i haven't even sent you any memes i'm disappointed in myself tbh
best bi: Jake already sends me those minion facebook mom memes ironically don't you dare start too
once a jenna-ration: this is totes you sharon! lol you're so wild say hi to brad and the kids for me
best bi: S t o p T h i s
best bi: I think I have the flu
once a jenna-ration: that's fun
once a jenna-ration: i'm eating like
once a jenna-ration: a really fuckening good pineapple
best bi: Your concern overwhelms me
best bi: Also what is it with you and pineapples
once a jenna-ration: it's my Thing, richy rich
best bi: Damn I wish I was richy rich
once a jenna-ration: pll is on
best bi: You never struck me as the type that would watch pretty little liars but i'm not surprised
once a jenna-ration: lmao i don't but you do
best bi: No????
once a jenna-ration: i have video of when you called jake drunk and crying after the season finale
best bi: shIT
best bi: That boy is dead
once a jenna-ration: have fun watching your soaps, lovebirds
once a jenna-ration: also, you do know that if you ever
once a jenna-ration: and i mean EVER
once a jenna-ration: need to talk to me
once a jenna-ration: just hmu
best bi: I do indeed, and thanks more than you can imagine for the offer
best bi: Sometimes I just need a distraction tho
once a jenna-ration: i'm better at distractions than emotions
best bi: I know you have all of us on your loudest ringtones
once a jenna-ration: no one has ever accused me of not being the mom friend richard
piece of jake: WHY IS RICH THREATENING TO DESTROY MY BASKETBALL COLLECTION IM LIKE FIVE FEET TALLER THAN HIM AND HES STILL WINNING WHAT DID YOU D O
once a jenna-ration: ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)
It all ends (or rather, begins) one summer's day when Rich Goranski gets tired of hiding.
He first pitches the idea to Jake, as a throwaway I-wish-I-could sort of thing. Jake comes to him three days later, with the necessary forms and a boatload of research.
He next pitches the idea to both of the Heeres, and that's probably the scariest five minutes of his life. He doesn't go to their house with the sole intention of asking them, but he's helping Jeremy with a new recipe. It's only the three of them, and it just kind of happens.
Rich is sitting at their wooden kitchen table, covered with the remnants and scars of old art projects and experiments and adventures. Jeremy assigned him to whisk the eggs into meringue (he's getting pretty good at it), and as he does, he decides to ask before he loses his nerve. It's the anticipation that's going to kill him.
"So, Mr. Heere, and Jeremy too, I guess."
Neither of them turn to face him, but both of them make small hums of acknowledgement. Rich is used to this, and plunges on. He remembers Jake's words of encouragement, and uses them to still his racing pulse.
"This is an odd question, but would you be willing to take custody of me?"
Both of them freeze and turn to him, and Rich does what he does best: ramble to fill the uncomfortable silence.
"Feel free to say no, cause, like, I know you already have a son and you're dealing with a ton of stuff. But, I mean, it's not like I'm gonna be at your house any more than I already am. I've been living at Jake's for almost a year now, and all that this does is ensure that if my dad ever wants to come take me back, he has no legal right to do so." Rich takes a deep breath and continues. There's no immediate refusal. That has to count for something, right?
"I would ask somebody else, but I don't have any living relatives. Michael hasn't been on good terms with his parents for years since he started transitioning, the last thing Jake's parents need is the law, Jenna's mom just had a baby, Christine's parents are busy finalizing her mom's citizenship papers, and I'm not on good enough terms with anybody else."
Jeremy looks at both of them in turn, continuing to whisk the batter he's holding. "I'm down if Dad is. Your father's a dickbag." Mr. Heere looks at him with an expression of vague disapproval. "I'm just telling it like it is."
The door opens, and they all look up. Mr. Heere sighs. "If I'm going to do this, I might as well do it all in one fell swoop. Do you want me to have custody of you too, Michael?"
Michael stares at him blankly for a moment. "I must have missed one hell of a baking session."
So that's how they end up in a courtroom, Rich and Mr. Heere at one table, Mr. Goranski at the other. Their lawyers are in a heated debate in front of them, the judge is listening intently, and Christine, Jenna, Jake, Michael, and Jeremy are all crowded into the stands.
Michael's parents quite frankly want nothing to do with him, and agreed to sign off. The only problem this leaves them now is the minor fact that Rich sent Mr. Goranski a letter explaining what they wanted to do, and he responded with both a court date and a resounding Fuck You.
He's made no effort to change, it seems, but he can put up a pretty good front in public. Even though he kicked Rich out of the house, the jury still has the final call. His palms feel sweaty and he feels shaky. A slim chance of them returning him to his father is still a chance.
(Jenna said she would ruin his life if tried to take Rich away from them. Rich is pretty certain she wasn't kidding. He's also pretty sure she's entirely capable of doing that. He makes a mental note to never cross anyone Jenna loves, and smiles when he realizes he's on that list.)
There's a bunch of debating, back and forth, legal jargon he could probably understand if he wanted to. For now, though, he can't focus on anything besides the rapid beat of his heart and his friends faces silently cheering him on.
As far as court cases go, it's pretty open and close. There's a pretty decent defense (composed entirely of lies) but the cold, hard evidence is on their side. By the end of the day, the papers are signed, and Mr. Heere has two more children than he used to.
Christine insists they come over to her house to celebrate- they always go over to Jake's, and she just got a new pool- and everyone agrees.
Rich is still riding the high of no longer having to claim relation to the person he hates most in the world.
"Are we all gonna try to pile into my car?" Christine asks.
"I'm so proud of us, I'm not even going to take a selfie," says Jenna.
Michael punches her lightly in the arm. "Aw, c'mon. You have to take at least one family selfie. Felfie?"
"For the love of all that is good, Mell, stop trying to invent slang." Jake's arm is around Rich's shoulder, and he soaks in its warmth before wiggling out of his boyfriend's grasp.
"Get the car pulled around. I'm gonna go to the bathroom real quick." Rich is only using this as an excuse to compose himself, but if anyone realizes that, they pretend to ignore it.
He retraces the path he had taken with Michael that morning, and makes it almost all the way to the bathroom before he is stopped in his tracks.
"So, Rich. I guess this is the last time I'll be seeing you. Can't say it's much of a burden on my heart."
Rich gets very, very tense, but refuses to let himself shrink down. No one is in this part of the building this late in the afternoon, and even though he knows his father can't touch him, he'd really rather not be having this conversation. He walks resolutely towards the hallway he needs to turn down.
"Oh, come on. You can't ignore family forever."
He knows that this is all a trap. He knows this is just barbed commentary to make his blood boil, to make him slip up, to make him mad. He shouldn't be letting it affect him like this, letting it writhe in the bottom of his stomach, letting it carve a place inside his mind until his vision goes red.
He takes the bait anyway.
Rich whips his head around, rage pulsing inside of him. "See, where you're wrong is that you don't know what a family is, at least not now."
Mr. Goranski chuckles coldly. "I used to know what a family was before I got stuck with this pathetic excuse for a son."
"You don't, not really. Family knows what you're going through. They believe in you even when you don't particularly feel like believing in yourself." He imagines the smell of cookies baking and the vague scent of root beer in the air.
"Family sees the best in you. You might mess up sometimes, you might fight with each other, but you both always come back and apologize. They're always willing to give you a second chance, even when you might not deserve it." He pictures a sterile hospital bed, a bright red hoodie, and an arm covered in plaster.
"Family knows what to do when you're not feeling up to doing anything. They know how to make you laugh, even if they get on your nerves sometimes. They would do anything to make sure you were safe and happy." He thinks of late night text messages, threats that may or may not come to pass, and terrible soap operas.
"Your family knows when you're feeling off. They share the things they love with you, and listen to you go on about the things you enjoy. They will never judge you for being who you are, and they'll believe you when you have something to confess." He remembers being enveloped by pillow forts, getting takeout, the most sugared hot cocoa in existence, and Halloweens spent making new memories.
"Family will always give you a safe place to stay if they can. They'll do everything in their power to make sure you're taken care of. They might not always be able to be there for you, but they'll always be a shoulder to lean on. They never make you feel bad for the dumb things you do. They might get on your nerves sometimes, but they listen to you, and they love you."
He thinks of every wonderful moment he's ever shared with his boyfriend, the nervousness he felt when they went on their first date, how he feels his breath taken away whenever Jake does the most meaningless things and looks gorgeous doing them.
"My family is my family. Who gives a damn if they share the same blood as me?" Rich thinks that Michael's poetry is probably rubbing off on him, too. It might be nicer if he wasn't on the verge of shouting and his voice didn't sound like he had been recently crying, but he doesn't mind any of that at the moment.
Mr. Goranski listens to all of this without interrupting, only stopping at the end to add, "Those dumbass boys are turning you soft."
"I'm done with you," Rich snarls, and turns his back again. He marches off, and that's that. When he comes back, Mr. Goranski is no longer there, and the car crammed full of people has pulled in front of the building.
Family, he thinks as he looks around later that night. Jeremy is helping Mrs. Canigula in the kitchen, Michael and Jenna are whacking each other with pool noodles, Christine is trying to chase down a pigeon, and Jake has somehow managed to get halfway up an oak tree.
They've done a pretty good job at finding each other. Life isn't going to be perfect; far from it. Life will be messy and it will break him and there will be times when he feels like holding on is the bare minimum he can do.
He knows, though, that whenever he needs to talk it out, someone will be there to listen.