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Here it was, the day Richie had been trying to ignore for months now. Paul had promised Richie’s parents that they'd come over for dinner to ‘catch up.’ It was already abundantly clear that they weren't really interested in catching up. It was the first time he'd be seeing them since he moved in with Paul, and the thought of speaking to them made his stomach turn. They didn't care about how he'd been, not really. They just wanted to see how he'd changed, maybe try to undo it. He hadn't dreaded something like this in a long time.
The fake confusion and purposefully hurtful ‘clarifying questions’ would be enough to send him spiralling.
Yes, Richie was happy. No, he wasn't living a lie or following a trend.
To combat this dread, Richie was hiding under his bed. It was the most logical solution in his mind. They were supposed to leave five minutes ago, but Richie was not budging.
“Richie, bud. Can you please come out?”
Richie eyed the desk chair jammed against his bedroom door, but he didn't move a muscle. He would do this all day if he had to. As long as it took for Paul to give up and leave him alone.
“Kiddo, I'm dreading this just as much as you are. We just–have to be civil with them for this to work. If they decide to be difficult, you know what might happen.”
Richie’s heart sank a little. He sat up.
“Please.”
Richie pushed the chair away from the door, reluctantly turning the handle and walking out. He would do it, but he was going to be difficult.
“I am going to make this evening hell.” He grumbled, putting on his coat with enough aggression to almost tear the seam.
“Wouldn't expect any less.”
~~~
“I'm sorry about this, Rich.” Paul sighed, pulling in outside Richie’s parent's house and turning to meet Richie’s gaze. Richie put on the fakest smile he could muster.
“I'm sure you are.” He huffed, subsequently bashing his head off of the seat in front of him. Paul frowned.
“We can watch the entire Back to the Future trilogy when we get home if you get through this.” Richie could sense Paul’s hopeful smile, even with his head slammed into the seat.
“And Moana.” He added.
“Hey now.”
“Suddenly I'm feeling like having a tantrum. Crazy how that works.”
Paul sighed again.
“Alright, you win. Marty McFly and Moana tonight. Goodie.”
“And Hamilton.”
“I will leave you here. ”
Richie huffed out a laugh and slid out the backseat. He leaned against the car, praying to whatever gods were out there. Please, let this night be easy.
He felt a hand on his shoulder.
“C'mon, bud.” He squeezed his shoulder gently, apologising again without words. Richie sighed. They couldn't stand out here all day, as alluring as that sounded. Richie watched Paul press down on the doorbell, and the familiar ding dong made his insides crawl. He never wanted to be back here, not this soon. He waited for the door to open. A large, overpowering part of him wished it wouldn't. He heard the quiet click of the door unlocking, and he resigned himself to his fate.
“Well, look who it is!” His mother's high pitched, faux-polite voice pierced his eardrums the moment she opened her mouth. Richie tried not to wince. He watched Paul plaster on a comically fake smile and give her what was possibly the coldest hug in history. She held her arms out in front of Richie, expecting a hug. He could've laughed. His blank, judging stare was enough for her to dust her apron uncomfortably and invite them in. She led them into the living room and sat down on the armchair beside the TV.
“How's school been, uh, Richie?”
“You didn't need to hesitate for so long before saying my name.” He replied bluntly. He sat down on the couch across the room, refusing to meet her gaze. Paul sat down beside him, nudging his hand discreetly to give him a look. “School has been wonderful, thank you so very much for asking.” He added, laying on the sarcasm to spite Paul. Richie watched him desperately fight back a smirk.
“Well, that's good.”
“Where's dad? Probably too ashamed to bother showing his-”
“Richie.” Paul warned quietly, and Richie pursed his lips. He wasn't wrong, he just wasn't supposed to say it out loud. Paul cleared his throat. “I'm sure he'll be here in a second.”
“He's in the kitchen.” She replied, her eyes narrowed slightly. “So, your hair, Regina. What made you choose blue?”
Richie froze. The room froze. He felt his shoulders bunch up and stiffen. He was a kid again, listening to that name over and over. Even when it made him cry.
“His name is Richie and you know it.” Paul snapped, abandoning the polite persona immediately. Richie sunk down a little, closing his eyes. He didn't understand why he had to do this.
“That's what I meant. Could've just let him answer the question, Paul.”
“Don't try that shit. You know what you're doing, so don't pretend you don't.” They were glaring daggers at each other, and Richie was actively trying to zone out.
“I was talking to my child, Paul.” She pointedly turned to face Richie, who was still refusing to look at her. “So, Richie. Your hair.”
Richie yawned dramatically.
“Don't ignore me. I didn't raise you to ignore your mother.”
“Didn't raise me at all.” He muttered under his breath. She seemed to have caught the gist of it because her jaw tightened.
“What was that?” She was testing him. Seeing if he had the guts to repeat himself. Richie had no reason to hold back. He sat up and met her gaze.
“I said, you didn't raise me at all. You and Dad were too busy reading the bible or some shit.” Richie would've winced if Paul wasn't right by his side. He heard him suck in a deep breath, and Richie almost felt bad for causing trouble. Almost, because it felt good to finally say it to her face.
She didn't say a word.
“Are you going to let them say that?” She returned her gaze to Paul, gesturing to Richie like he was an object. His chest was tightening.
“I thought you were the one who raised him? That kind of attitude reflects more on you than it does on me.” Paul shot back with a smile so condescending it made Richie splutter. He tried to pass it off as a cough but the intent was obvious.
“I'm going to check on the food.” She huffed, leaving Paul and Richie alone on the couch.
Paul immediately turned to Richie with a stern expression that would normally make him wilt.
“She deserved it.”
“Richie.”
“Did you not hear what she called me?” Richie’s voice wavered a little. Paul couldn't possibly think he was in the wrong.
“I did, bud." Paul sighed. "But we need to be mature here. I'll always back you up because I want them to see that we're a team. But just, don't make things worse, okay?”
Richie bit his lip.
“Hey.” Paul’s eyes were locked onto Richie’s.
“Alright. Okay. I'll be an angel.”
“I didn't ask for that. Just don't provoke them. You know how your dad gets.”
Richie huffed out a humourless laugh. How could he forget?
“We made your favourite, Richie.”
Richie sat down at the dinner table, highly doubting that statement. There was no way in hell they knew what his favourite meal was. They couldn't even get his name right, let alone that. He raised his eyebrows, pretending to be intrigued.
“Lasagne!”
Richie looked at his mother, waiting to see if she was joking or not. It was like they picked the worst food on purpose.
“That's not his favourite food.” Paul took the words out of his mouth. “He hates lasagne. It's too slimy for him.”
“No, I'm sure he loves it.” She looked to Richie, expecting him to confirm the lie she pulled out of nowhere. "Don't you?" He stared her down, shaking his head slowly.
“It's ramen.” Paul added, and Richie nodded without a word. He was keeping his mouth shut. “He likes ramen.”
“That's not true. We never gave him ramen.”
“Hence why he never ate anything you fed him. You didn't care enough to learn what he liked.” Paul visibly regretted saying that. Richie was glad he did. It was a little funny how quickly he went back on his own word.
“You've got some nerve coming to my home and speaking to me like that.” She snapped. “Don't talk to me about not caring about my child when you let them cut their hair like that. Do you have no shame? No dignity?”
“Your son. His hair.” Paul was holding onto his glass with a grip strong enough to make Richie anxious. He was eyeing the glass like it was about to explode at any moment. It was a distraction, at least. “Where's his father? You're both so concerned about him, obviously.”
“He's delayed.” She muttered, subdued all of a sudden.
“I thought he was in the kitchen. Or was that bullshit, just like everything else?”
Richie’s eyes widened a little. Suddenly his fork was incredibly interesting to look at. He kept his head down and just tried to be invisible. It usually worked. He heard the sound of a glass slamming on the table. He flinched out of habit, covering his face with his hands.
“He doesn't want to be here to see what you've done to my daughter! She's miserable!” She yelled, abandoning the little composure she had maintained. Richie shrunk into himself, keeping his face covered while he squeezed his eyes shut. He wanted it to stop.
“There's nothing wrong with him!” Paul yelled back. “You don't see him happy like I do! He's miserable around you. He was suffocating when he lived here because you don't give a flying fuck about him.”
Richie wrapped a lock of hair around his finger and pulled hard. He needed quiet. Everybody needed to stop.
“Do you not see this hair? This outfit?” She stood up and grabbed Richie’s arm, holding it up. It hurt.
Something in Richie snapped. He whipped his head up to look at her. This was no mother. She didn't love him. She wanted a version of him that didn't exist. He wasn't her meek, subservient daughter and she hated him. She hated him. He saw it in her eyes, in the tight grip on his arm.
Richie pulled his arm away and stumbled back. He knocked over a glass and the shatter was too loud to bear. “Don't TOUCH me!” He shrieked, staggering out of the room in a mess of tears before anyone else could yell back.
“Look what you did! Look what you do to him!” Came Paul's distant voice as Richie ran out to the foyer.
“This is your fault, Paul! You poisoned my child.” Was the muffled reply.
Richie ran out to the front door, fumbling with the door handle and letting himself out. He slammed the door behind him, running out to the backyard. If they hadn't moved it, his old treehouse was back there. The only place he'd felt safe when he was a kid. He'd hide up there for hours.
Looks like today was one of those days. He didn't think there'd be a day like this again.
He climbed up the tree, crawling into the tree house and curling up. It was smaller than he remembered. He sighed shakily, trying to stop himself from crying. He didn't need this. He was supposed to be cold and blunt. He wasn't meant to let it get under his skin. He could still hear the screaming match inside. Richie didn't like it when Paul yelled. He was always so gentle with Richie, but his mother seemed to unleash some kind of rage. Seeing Paul angry like that felt wrong.
He let out a quiet cry, sniffling and trying to shut himself up.
“Richie?”
Richie could hear Paul running the perimeter of the house, trying to find him. Richie wasn't planning on giving him any hints. He watched him search, lying with his cheek pressed against the rotting timber floor of the treehouse. It was familiar in the worst way. Comforting in the way sadness is comforting. Richie was accustomed to this kind of dread.
“Richie? I'm sorry, bud. I'm really sorry.”
Richie didn't make a sound. Paul ran back around the back, and Richie watched him frantically survey the whole garden. His eyes eventually landed on the treehouse and relief visibly flooded his gaze. Richie wasn't even in view from down there, but Paul must've known him well enough to know that's where he'd find him.
Richie didn't react when Paul sat down beside him. He'd let Paul do the talking.
“Hey kiddo.”
Richie sighed.
“I'm sorry for yelling.”
Richie was sure he was. Everyone was always so sorry.
“I shouldn't have brought us here. I should've known better.”
Richie agreed.
“I'm the one who told you to hold back, and then I had a shouting match.” He laughed dryly. Richie didn't react. He felt a tear roll down his cheek and then disappear into the wood beneath him. “You didn't need to hear that. I'm sorry you did.”
Richie sniffled quietly, sitting up and staring down at the flowers lining the garden. Flowers that were more cared for than Richie ever was when he lived here.
“I just really thought they'd make an effort.” Paul’s jaw was pushed forward a little, indicating to Richie that he was trying not to cry. “I really thought they'd want to understand.”
“You know better now.” Richie whispered. “You know what I knew the whole time.”
“I'm really sorry, Rich.”
“Can we go home now?” Richie was tired. He didn't want to listen to guilt and apologies. He wanted to leave. To not have to look at this god forsaken house ever again.
“Alright. Come on.”
>>>
“Do you think I could rock Marty's outfit?” Richie asked quietly, lying down on the couch with an empty ramen container on the coffee table in front of him.
“You already wear Marty's outfit. Just a loser version of it.” Paul replied, and Richie fired a cushion at him from across the room.
“Watch your mouth, buddy.”
“I didn't speak a word of a lie.”
“Which is precisely why I'm offended, Matthews.”
Paul choked out a laugh, firing the cushion right back.
“Don't second-name me, Lipschitz.” The cushion hit Richie square in the face and he threw his arms in the air dramatically, lurching forward like he'd been shot. “Aaaand scene.”
“Exeunt. Thank you.”
“Watch the movie, you dork.” Paul grumbled, feigning annoyance. Richie giggled.
“There is no way Paul Matthews just called me a dork.”
“Paul Matthews is telling you to zip it.” Paul shot back, grabbing the remote and turning up the volume to drown out Richie’s complaining.
“Paul Matthews is going to make me go deaf.”
“Paul Matthews is sick of Richard Lipschitz's tendency to loudly talk over movies he asked to watch.”
“Richard Lipschitz is doing it to annoy Paul Matthews and is succeeding.”
“You win, Richie.”
“I know I do.”
Richie eventually stopped nattering about unimportant things long enough to actually get engrossed in the movie. It didn't matter if he'd already watched it dozens of times. He'd watch it like it was brand new every time.
“Do you think Lorraine thought Marty was gay?” Richie asked, pulling on his sleeves absently.
“For sure. He couldn't be screwing this up more if he was trying .”
“I mean, can you blame him? Imagine if it was-” Richie trailed off. “I don't want to, actually.”
“Yeah, good call. We've had enough talk about mothers for one day.” Paul held a certain glint in his eye whenever he talked about Richie’s mother. It was pure, biblical hatred. He didn't seem to harbour it for anyone else. It seemed like the kind of hatred someone like Paul wasn't capable of.
Richie understood it. He wondered if his eyes held the same emotion when he spoke about her. Maybe it was worse. Richie didn't want to think about his parents anymore. He didn't want to think about his mother, who pretended to try but dropped it all the second the opportunity arose. He certainly didn't want to think about his father, who couldn't even bring himself to look at him or talk to him at all.
He was better off here, annoying the shit out of Paul and giggling like an idiot.
If this was what being poisoned felt like, then Richie was okay with it.