Chapter Text
The bell on the door chimes as it swings open, letting the cold air of winter flood into the cafe and making Richie’s bones feel like they want to shrink further into his body than his muscles allow.
The coffee shop was quiet, just as Richie liked it, a hum of chatter that faded into white noise. It was charming in the way small-town college coffee shops are, seating that verged just-so on being okay, regulars common enough to have their own orders, and the smell of baked goods that never leaves. That wraps you up in a warm blanket, covers you with sugar and cinnamon and spices, and makes you into a walking treat. The nerds have placed a rule that whenever they come to hang out after a shift they must bring snacks, apparently, the aroma makes everyone too hungry.
The large glass window had a painted scene of a forest and a swooping nighthawk. Not that anyone really recognized it. From the way Richie's peers talked about their high school football team's namesake you’d think it was a big brutal bird of prey. Not the silly little guy that it is.
There’s a nest sheltered on the forest floor and the little birdy with a horrified wide open mouth is Richie’s favorite detail. A comrade to nod to after the end of a long shift and go ‘me too bud,’ at.
He doesn’t bother lifting his head—why expose his face to the cold when he could stay as far away from the front as possible, busying himself with cleaning the machines? Steph steps up to the customer, and Richie catches a familiar, unpleasant scent that makes him recoil instinctively. His nose scrunches up and he pulls back, a visceral reaction to something he has smelled far too often, right up to his face. Memories flood back: being held up by the collar, toes barely scraping the ground, and a fist threatening his nose for daring to exist in his hallway.
He draws his gaze up, barely, teasing the edge of his vision with the intrusive guest. He watches a seemingly full and just-made drink thunk into the garbage can by the door, and that alone makes him pull his head up to stare at it in utter confusion. It wasn’t a cup from their shop, maybe the one from a few blocks down? But that was rather far to be walking with a still-full cup. Weird. He mutters, trying to keep his attention away from who it was.
Richie nearly jumps out of his skin as a loud bang comes crashing from the back. Steph and the guest both perk up, looking over Steph’s shoulder with confusion. “Hey, Richie?”
He takes a sharp breath in and slowly twists on his heel to Steph, giving a forced smile to her that doesn’t even remotely look friendly- more pained than anything. “Yeeesss?” The corners of his eyes crinkle. Please, please may the power of god and anime be on his side. He hates working the counter, preferring to stay in the back where it’s safe and you can’t mess up making drinks because you know all the steps and they don’t judge you for nervous rambles.
Steph gives him a look that says ‘act normal’ before turning to the guest with a better-than-average customer smile. The gods hate him.
“Richie will be right with you. I need to ensure they’re not causing the cafe to fall down around us back there.” She even gives a fake laugh, and Richie tries to do the same as he passes her to attend to the customer, who is acting friendly but whose fingers are tapping rhythmically as Richie approaches the counter.
“Hey- Maxxxx. Uhm, hi, hellooo. ” Richie shrinks a bit under the glare of Max’s eyes, shifting uncomfortably. Come on, dumbass. He clears his throat, tries to smile, and meet Max’s gaze. Max looks expectantly at him, but the usual threat of violence seems absent, so Richie takes it as a win. There are a few moments of sheer terror as Max stands over him, expressionless while his eyes dart around. Richie just stands there with his shaky smile, cowering and scratching at his arm before-
“Oh! Richieeee! Lip-shits, right?” Max grins, bursting to life, leaning back and perking up a bit. There was plenty of prey in Hatchetfield's college down, why did it have to be him. Gods, why him.
Richie flinches but manages a small smile, shrinking further. “Ah, Lipschitz.” He mutters, hoping Max didn’t hear the correction.
“Yeah! Lipschitz! You were that nerd at Hatchetfield, with your little friends.” Max comments, as if proud to remember the kid he tormented all through high school. Wiggling his fingers at ‘little friends’. “Hey, man! How’ve you been? Is this all you did after high school? It’s cool Steph works with you. Is she your boss? What other nerds do you have packed back there?” He leans, trying to peek around Richie to see the back of the store, which is stupid, because there’s a cloth covering the door, so realistically he wouldn’t be able to see anything no matter where he leaned.
Richie fake laughs a bit, shifting on his feet. His hands curl into the sleeves and tug on the fabric. “Ahaha, just usss- uhm. Yeah, it’s uh, us.”
Max seems different. Well, not totally different—just not beating-his-fists-into-my-face different. His eyes follow as Max rolls back off his tippy toes and grins at Richie. “What about braces? And Micro-Peter?” he asks, as if those aren’t very offending nicknames he hasn’t heard in about two years of peace. Peace he really hoped to keep.
“Uh- Ruth and Peter?” Richie stumbles over a breath but tries to correct him. He feels his heart thump a mile a minute, already aware that this is the longest he’s had a conversation with Jägerman. Normally, or, well, previously? In the before times? Before he would’ve gotten a flick-it ticket by now or had his head shoved against his locker for even looking at him. The adrenaline’s almost like confidence. “R-ruth works at a club down the street—the gay one, I think? It has uhm, there’s- has red bricks and that tall tree outside? I think it’s like a, a cedar or- sorry. She’s the bouncer, basically. And Peter works at the campus library. It’s, yeah, library. You know. ”
“Ooh, shiiitt, the gay bar?” Max snorts, a mischievous grin spreading across his face as he rocks back on his heels, hands resting on the counter.
He fumbles for a moment, digging for words. “I think? I haven’t- I don’t really-“
Max lets out a loud sigh, more like a groan. “You don’t club? Oh, c’mon man.” he scrunches his nose and leans forward. “Do you bar hop at least?”
“Noo. Is- is there anything I could get for you? The line is kind of-“
He huffs, tapping his fingers in succession. “We'll have to fix you, you're uncultured man. I bet you haven't even gotten drunk, or tried that weird rolled-up plant. Or even fucking beer-pong. Beer-pong is like- the shit, dude."
Richie reluctantly nods, which is stupid cause in no world would he ever go clubbing with Max Jagerman. "Uhm, mmhm. Drink?" He stumbles, giving a panicked look to the man behind Max who keeps glancing at his watch and giving Richie dagger-eyes.
Yeah! I’ll get aaaaa- café co-“ Oh thank god the redirect worked.
A voice interrupts behind Richie, and every muscle in his body relaxes as Steph returns. Oh my gods the gods may like him after all.
“Heyy, welcome backkkk .” He smiles, slipping behind Steph and placing a hand on her shoulder to coax her forward. “Max was just going to get a caf-“
“A black. Please.” Max’s voice is flat and direct as he blinks at Richie for a moment before turning his attention back to Steph. Richie tries not to scramble- nearly fall, back to the machine he was cleaning, away from the horror that was this nightmare guest.
“Yep, is there anything else?”
Max fumbles for his wallet and card. “And a Magdalenas, just one.”
“We actually only serve those for breakfast, unfortunately.” Steph feigns a frown, plucking Max’s card from his fingers before he even offers it.
Theres an almost offended snort. “Well that’s fucking stupid.” Max huffs, shaking his head at the receipt and sliding the card back into his wallet. “They’re an all-day thing. Most places have them in the afternoon.” He grumbles.
Steph just shrugs, motioning for him to either sit or stand near the wall while waiting for his drink.
Unfortunately, that is not something Max elects to do, and he slips around the bar, slides two seats apart, and rests his arms on the top of the glass wall where Richie is working, quiet for a few moments. Richie glances between him and the machine he was cleaning a few times- and if he was a dog, his ears would be pinned and his tail tucked, anxiety palpable.
“Aren’t you gonna as-“
“What’ve you been up to, Max?” he forces it to come flooding out of his mouth, and it almost sounds like one word with how squished together it is. His accoster seems pleased enough though.
Max rocks, his nails tapping on the glass quickly as a smile spreads across his face. “I’m sooo glad you asked. Well, Ryan had a little accident- you remember Ryan, the quarterback for our college? Yeah, anyway, he’s probably out for the season, snapped Achilles tendon or whatever. So I got my role back!”
He’s beaming, and Richie would share the excitement if he wasn’t horrified by him. Instead, he scrunches his nose, keeping his face down so Max doesn’t see. That ‘ accident ’ was probably not an accident, judging by the joy on Max’s face.
“But check it!”
Richie glances up, watching as Max turns and thumbs the back of his letterman jacket. “They gave my little bird bastard a crown! Isn’t that cool?” he looks over his shoulder, waiting for a compliment. Above the bird's head, is a hand-embroidered golden crown, stitched with sparkly tinsel. "The cheerleaders and Kyle made it!"
Richie nods quickly to appease him. “Yeah! That’s super cool, Max.” and shoves his head back down into the machine work. He recalls Grace talking about how violent Max was and how that was, it was, wellll, basically it worked for her. It doesn’t for Richie. No. Not at all. No. Even though the pride was-. He pulls the thought out at its root. Or hope he does.
Max’s smile reaches his eyes at the compliment, and he turns back to tap on the glass, watching Richie work for a few moments before bursting into a loud question and scaring the ever-living fuck out of him. “Hey, do you like flat whites?”
“T-the basic ass drink?”
“Yeah, the tasteless goofy design one. They ruin the design anyway by putting it in the takeout cup. It’s like the only thing that makes it good.”
“I guess?” Richie mutters, flipping the soggy rag over his shoulder and putting the milk steamer back together. “They’re rather versatile. Assuming you know what you’re doing.”
Max taps his finger on the top of the glass barrier, ring making a tink with every movement. “Ooh, can you turn it colors? Kyle always gets his kind of a pinkish color, and I always told him it was a little girly for him, but you know he still gets it behind my back and all and I really don’t care that much about it to harass him, you know.” Max snorts, turning to lean against the glass and talk to the open air as he watches others in the cafe, only stopping his ring tapping when he needs to use his hands to motion.
Richie half zones out while he's talking and doesn't catch the end half of whatever the hell Max is going on about. And there's a few ticks of silence before he bursts into his next question.
“Do you think it could be red?”
Richie blinks out of his daze and then shrugs, scratching the inside of his wrist to bury some anxiety. “I mean, I-I have it blue, so…”
Max flips on his heel, giving Richie a ‘ WHAT’ kind of look. “Can you send me a picture? What other colors can it be? What color is it usually-?”
His excitement is interrupted, and Max practically groans and rolls his eyes at who it is.
“Jägerman.” Steph calls out from across the cafe, holding a to-go cup and wiggling it in the air. “Holding up the line, QB.”
Max rocks on his feet and fumbles with his phone and wallet in his back pocket for a moment before muttering a quick. “Here-“ he scribbles some half-unreadable messages onto a red sticky note and reaches up on his toes over the glass barrier to stick it to Richie’s forehead. With a firm smack to make sure it's really on there before poking a finger into his chest to make it clear. “Text. Me. I want to see colored coffee and I'll fix you sometime.”
Then scrambling off to grab his drink, throwing a flirty remark at Steph, who rolls her eyes and shoos him away towards the door.
Richie follows the noise, facing the door with his vision obstructed by the sticky note. He sees the faint red outline of Max pushing past someone in the doorway and running past the window with the cup to his lips. He blinks like an owl. Huh.
Footsteps slowly approach, and Steph peels the note off Richie’s forehead and turns it in her hands. “That man does not need any caffeine. I think he has enough in his system for the entire football team.” She mutters, sticking the note to Richie’s chest and dragging a finger up to flick his nose when he looks down. “Hey, you scored a date with the Jägerman. Good job.”
“Wuh-“ Richie gives her a confused look, scrunching up his neck to look down at the red slice of paper before reaching up and peeling it off. On it, written in a dark red pen on a red background, (which makes it barely readable by the way), is a little scribble of a crocodile eating whatever is written on the lines- not that Max used the lines. It’s sideways, and slopes downwards at the end, probably because he had his head turned when writing it which he really didn’t need to do.
There’s a mass of scribble near the top, white pen pokes through underneath and he squints to try to make it out. ‘Bible s'? Something else and a time, but it’s scrawled to near unreadability by the red pen- which seemingly died halfway through because there were smaller circular scribbles on the corner of the note.
Below the scrawl, is a phone number, and several arrows pointing directly at it. One has a hole in it, like he pressed too hard and tore through the paper.
Richie shrugs it off, folding the note and tucking it into his apron pocket. Maybe he’ll text him.
Maybe