Chapter Text
CH. 1
This is what you know.
Your brother wasn’t always like this.
Except, you know--insert hand wave--how he kinda always was. That's what your Judas mind whispers uninvited right now, but you immediately squash such a thought with the ease of frequent practice and the ruthless manner of those well-versed in the art--and it *is* an art, let's be real--of dealing with the insane, and you’re self-aware enough to recognize it.
But he wasn't always this bad. *Really*. No one would believe you, so you don’t bother explaining. Somewhere after the tenth time someone pointed outthere's something wrong with your brother years before Richie was doodling with dog corpses, you realize there's no point in offering any kind of explanation. You stick with what you know. And what you know is that Richie is your brother and you'll literally go down in flames with him the way you almost did when you were eight and this whole Geckos Brother act began. That's a *fact*.
He wasn’t putting eyes in hands as if offering the victims gumballs, for one thing. You could say that with marginal room for error. Not too long ago, Richie would’ve waited ‘til he had a *reasonable* reason to murder someone. But that was when you'd been able to keep tabs on your brother 24/7.
When Richie murdered someone – almost never a woman – almost – he had a good reason. (‘Cause Richie always has a *some* kind of reason, that will always hold true at least, possessed or not. Even if it’s only discernible to Richie--and possibly the Snake-Bitch in his head). But really, somehow you doubt Santanico truly understands Richie even as deeply burrowed into his head as she is. (Because she’s not burrowed into his heart, that position’s already taken. You have to believe that’s true.
Kate seems to calm him, though. For whatever fucking reason. In a rare bout of sincerity – normally Richie’s bag, but whatever - you thank whatever demon out there that might be on your side, that Kate calms him. You’re reasonably self-aware (unlike some people whose names begin with an Rand ends in itchy): you know it’s fucked up, but you *like* her. You don’t wanna see her little teenage brains splattered all over her cute My First Bikini. You don’t want her pretty Bambi baby blues ending up in the palm of her hands . . . or the crook of her elbow . . . or wherever the fuck else Richie decides is a good place for them to “see”.
That you can’t let that happen (or let anyone else touch her, for that matter), that, is what you know.
Kate seems to calm Ritchie, is the point. Maybe for the same nebulous and elusive reason or deeply buried Lost Boys-Wendy-Bird fantasy not yet fully formed reason she calms you, even though taking a hostage had never, should never, involve feelings of Serenity Now. Even if you don’t know what said reason is.
Maybe it’s just a matter of her utter Kate-ness. She’s oddly soothing. Her gentle voice, her spontaneous badassery. Her adaptability. The way she looks like she’ll break, but doesn’t. The way she keeps doing the last thing you expect her to. It’s nice. A refreshing change of pace. A non-threatening sweetness to her unpredictability in a way that Richie’s just… isn’t.
Richie hadn’t always been all eyeballs-in-hands, she-told-me-to-do-it, now-I-can-SEE.
But then again, he did intentionally roast his father like a pig.
You already knew this.
CH. 2
[Kate/Richie’s POV – or use in different fic]
Seth’s almost pathological[ly] [need for / to be the level-headed one] [level-headed-ness/reasonableness] [no matter/regardless] the absurdity or chaos or outrageousness or violence of the situation, as if honed by a lifetime of making up for Richie’s trigger-happy finger on the [button of] his own sanity. As if it’s his solemnly sworn duty to be the safety on Ritchie’s fulled loaded lunacy. As if the result of a lifetime dedicated to being the yin to his yang. To pick up the logic slack. But what Seth refuses to acknowledge – which *really* drives [Richie/you] nuts – is that that ship has long since sailed.
Also, if [Richie’s/you’re] nuts, then Seth is just as nuts.
He’s just better at faking it. Anyone with eyes in their hands can see it.
CH. 3 [or just section]
[Seth POV]: You punch Mr. “Cherry Pie” sleaze out not to be a gentleman, or to falsely set Preacher’s Daughter’s mind at ease to shut her up and get her cooperating.
That’s not your angle, despite what you can feel Richie’s eyes saying without needing to look ‘cause you can feel ‘em burning hot blue stars into the back of your neck.
That’s not what you’re doing.
You do it out of necessity. The way prison taught you. Like you’ll never forget. That made it so some days you stood there staring into the mirror and seriously considered peeling off half your face with a shank, just so no one would find you pretty anymore. The only thing that stops you is what your brother would say, what he would think.
Improve yourself--Ha! God, Richie doesn’t know fucking *SHIT.* Not where it really fucking counts. If Richie had been in there, too, he would’ve been in the same exact fucking situation.
Except worse. What with that goddamn holier-than-thou, superior, I’m-a-prodigy attitude, someone would’ve tried to make a mask out of his stupid prettyboy face on Day *One*. Probably within the first five fuckin’ minutes.
Richie really needs to shut the fuck up about how you spent your time the last five years.
That, and the fuckin’ horchata. You know what it’s called, it’s just really fucking satisfying to see your brother’s skin itch with irritation every time you call it “that rice milk stuff”.