Chapter Text
Reality settles in for Richie only days after the final battle in the sewers. He's going normally through one of their English classes, one of the few the Losers who go to Derry's school share in common, watching Mrs. Patts talk with little to none interest and sketching mindlessly. It's quiet ― it's uncommonly quiet, without the Bowers gang, without Richie's own jokes, without no one particularly wishing to break the silence or cause any kind of chaos ―, and even inside Richie's head there's a low buzzing sound, lack of thoughts and stupid things to make him 'trashmouth around'.
It's not that he doesn't want to, it's just that there's literally nothing to say; no silly word, no dick joke, no anything comes to his mind, and, honestly, Richie's blaming it all on the weather, the air hot and dry around him, the laziness making his eyelids weight down, all the sleep nights traded for videogames finally asking for their price and making him slow, too tired to do anything else. He's basically giving up, lowering his gaze to the sketch and trying to understand what the freaking fuck are all those lines and curves, trying to give it a sense to decide if he'll keep it or throw it out.
There's a lot of red in there. Like, an awful lot. Bright tomato red, slightly pink red, red like flowers blooming on spring and like Bill's face when he stutters too much, and too much ― too much black red prints, sliding down the white sheet like blood, sliding down his table, drenching his fingers in its warmth and ― Richie's sleepiness is gone in the blink of an eye, ringing bells inside his head, alert making him way more awake than a few seconds ago. The pen slids down his fingers, but Richie can barely hear its sound when it finds the ground, tension suddenly wrapping its cold hands all around him and squeezing.
"Is there something wrong, Mr. Tozier?"
Mrs. Patts' voice is what snaps him partially out of it, and Richie looks up to find everyone staring at him with weird faces, Mrs. Patts seeming quite angry at whatever he apparently did to disturb her class. But Richie doesn't remember doing anything ― not unless dropping a pen counts ―, and he doesn't want everyone to keep looking at him so strangely. So he does what he'd usually do, and opens his mouth to drop a joke that'll certainly land him on a detention of at least four days helping the old lady of the library with her chores.
But his voice doesn't come. Richie's voice doesn't come. He opens his mouth and all it comes out is a bunch of air, and closes it almost immediately, desperation rising stupidly fast to his chest. Talk. Talk, Richie, goddamit, TALK. But his voice doesn't come out, no matter how many times he tries to, no matter how hard and deep he breathes, and Richie starts to hiperventilate.
"Mr. Tozier?"
"Richie?"
Beverly's voice is much quieter, much less angry, much less full of accusation. She sounds honestly worried, almost scared, and Richie's brain shortcuts.
"Beep beep, Bev."
And that's when he runs.
("He looked freaked out." is what Richie's going to hear, later, in the corridors, in the bathrooms, when people start talking about loser Richie 'Trashmouth' Tozier and his outburst in the middle of English class. "White like a ghost, shaking and all."
"He was freaked out." it's what Greta answers to everyone close enough to hear, so full of herself, like she usually is. "My father's seen it before, he told me it's a panic attack."
"I thought only weirdos had it."
"Of course only weirdos have it." she says, cruelty dripping from her voice like venom. "Tozier is the weirdest shit I've ever seen."
Richie will hide further inside the janitor's closet, between all the cleaning shit and awkward-smelling products, and press his head against his knees, hugging them close to his chest. He'll tell himself to stop being a coward, and his hands won't stop shaking no matter what he does, no matter how desperately he tries to make them stop. Tears will slid down his cheeks, cold and unforgiving, and Richie will tell himself that, if he ignores them enough, if he pretends they're not there, they'll eventually stop, they'll eventually dry on his skin, they'll fade like bad dreams and leave him just feeling like a fool ― because, with every possibility, that's actually the least worse of them.
Panic attack. He did not have a panic attack. Richie Tozier doesn't have panic attacks.
Richie will repeat it slowly, quietly, until it almost sounds like truth, even if his heart beating like a hammer inside his chest and his lungs burning like hell and the fresh tears on his eyes tell him the contrary.)
Beverly will take Richie's things and carry with her throughout the whole day, careful as to not let anyone try and mess with his belongings, knowing how cruel they can be, knowing almost too well for her liking. She'll search for his pens and eraser and put in his backpack, and only glance at his notebook briefly before closing it and holding it against her chest, a bad feeling installing itself inside her heart at the sight of a single red balloon sketched onto the white sheet.
She'll not comment it with any of the only Losers at the time, thinking it's not her place to decide, but, later, she'll almost wish she did.
Later in the barrens, the Losers meet again. Richie's already there, throwing small rocks at the river, and Beverly puts the backpack and the notebook at his side without saying a word. Bill watches them from a certain distance, a curve of worry forming into his lips, but he doesn't try to initiate any talk. Eddie's unhappy, and that's clearly written on his face, but he knows Richie for long enough to avoid pressing him into talking about whatever it is that it's bothering him; Stan's face is unreadable, but his eyes tell enough of what he thinks about it all; Ben seems a bit nervous, but overral just worried.
Richie tries to keep his gaze away for them for just long enough not to be strange, but the silence hangs heavily into his shoulders, it brings a bittersweet taste into his mouth, and it's hard to force a smile when he turns around to greet them.
"Wassup, Losers." he rearranges the glasses in the bridge of his nose, pushing them up. "Wassup, Molly Ringwald."
Beverly rolls her eyes and hits his shoulders, and does something that sounds suspiciously like a complaint about not being included as a 'Loser' in his phrase, and it's like nothing's changed, so, for now, Bill decides it's good to drop the subject and keep on following as if there's nothing visibly wrong. He smiles, and approaches them to ask what Richie's doing. Ben soon follows, eager to make things alright again, and both Stan and Eddie share a look before the taller shrugs and approaches the other four, Eddie being the last one to drop it.
Mike comes a few minuter, and, with his arrival, the tension finally vanishes.
(For a few hours, Richie can almost pretend it's not hurting anymore.)
Coming home doesn't feel nearly as satisfying as it should. Richie ignores the TV on and goes straight to his room, kicking off his shoes and socks in the corridor and not minding about the mess on his way. The house's silent, so he guesses his father's sleeping or not at home, and his mother's probably passed out in their room, so he doesn't bother trying to not make any noise, humming loudly to himself and throwing his backpack in the first side of his room that he finds. It's getting late, so he decides it's fine to eat something and then take a shower, making his way to the kitchen in quick steps, a bit eager now that he thinks about how hungry he feels.
Sadly for him, there's nothing too far from cereal in the cabinets, and a few granola bars. There's not even milk, and there are a lot of unmade dishes and empty bottles all around the place. Richie stares at it emotionless, and the hunger is only a dull aching pain in his stomach when he starts washing the dishes. It takes more time than it should, because he does it lazily, not having a care in the world ― and then he takes the empty bottles and puts them out, sighing when he thinks about all the others scattered around the house. He can take care of them later, he decides, and takes a bowl to eat cereal, dry because milk's ended and no one bothered to buy more.
Thought it's a routine he's somehow used to, Richie can't help but cringe at the strange flavour in his mouth, a bit upset. He can't help but think that, if mother weren't so drunk at least half of the time, she'd do more, she'd help more, she'd listen more and care about him. Richie's a child, for fucks sake. He's barely thirteen yet and...
And children shouldn't have such a hard weight on their shoulders. Children shouldn't fight evil and come so close to death as he did ― as all the Losers did. Adults should've done something. They should've ― Richie looses his appetite halfway through the third spoonful, and decides to let the bowl at the table, because it's not like his parents would mind anyway. He goes to the bathroom soon after, taking off his clothes and leaving them somewhere between his TV and the videogame, thinking at the back of his mind that he can clean it off later.
Richie likes to use the bathtub in stressing days, and today he decides he deserves it. Humming Unstoppable, he allows himself to submerge under lukewarm water, feeling all his muscles relaxing almost at the same time, making him feel like jelly, boneless and without a problem in the world. Of course he can't stay underwater for too long, but it's time more than enough to make him feel better about the shitty day he had. So he takes his time in the bath, rubbing himself with the sponge until his skin is all red and aching a bit, sore.
He hears his parents fighting somewhere in the house, apparently about the lack of money and his mother's antics and how his father wants to have the place clean, but Richie doesn't want to think about it, so he tunes them off and keeps singing quietly to himself, occupying his head with something at least a bit useful before finishing the bath and finding himself some comfy oversized clothes to wear ― it's more than enough time for his parents to stop fighting and, apparently, go to sleep, if the quieteness that reigns in the house says something about it.
So Richie washes his teeth carefully, staring at the mirror through the thick glasses, not really seeing himself, but counting time inside his head. One, two, three, four... He does the whole washing thing very slowly, not because he actually cares, but because it keeps him grounded, it keeps his mind full, and there's nothing he'd want more than that right now. He finishes it, rinses his mouth and goes to his room in small steps, trying not to make any noise not to disturb his parents, exhaustion slowly making its way through his muscles and brain.
He stops at his room's door, without switching the lights on, and stares inside. In the mild dark and the moonlight, he can only discern all The Cure's posters for living here for so long, the CDs and papers and notebooks and clothes all scattered around the place, and it makes a warm feeling spread through his chest. It's the knowledge that he's at home, that he's safe, that there's nothing here to hurt him or scare him that makes him take off the glasses and walk blindly through the room, letting them on the bedside table before throwing himself under the blankets, allowing himself a moment of tranquility.
Only a few minutes pass, and it's enough to make him sleepy, breath slowly quietening, eyes closing.
Beep beep, Richie.
He jolts awake, breath caught in his throat, so certain he's heard that fucking voice once again that it's hard to focus. His heart's hammering against his chest, so fast and so loud Richie's surprised he hasn't made enough noise to waken up his parents ― there's a bitter taste inside his mouth, in the tip of his tongue, like iron and salt and blood, and it makes Richie think of Henry Bowers and his stupid fists and his stupid hands and his stupid punches, and how much it hurt when he decided he'd wanted Richie as a punching bag for the day.
Tears gather in the corner of his eyes, and Richie shuts them immediately, refusing to start crying for the second time in just one day, but the despair's still there, the panic, the fear crawling under his skin and through his veins, making him start shaking. Richie covers his mouth, trying desperately not to sob, fighting back the urge to go running knock at his parents' door, because he knows it won't matter, not to them, it wouldn't before, it doesn't now, it won't later. He feels nauseated. He feels panicked. He feels ― he is afraid.
Beep beep, Richie.
"Stop it." he mutters to himself, covering his ears, slowly cowering onto himself, curling against his chest. "Stop it, fuck. We've killed you. We killed you. Stop."
And it does.
For a while.
(Richie doesn't sleep that night.)