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Richie doesn't like parties.
He doesn't really understand why anyone does. They’re loud, they’re stuffy, and you have to yell to be able to talk to anyone. No one even wants to dance, which is supposedly the point of these parties. Everyone just stands around, yelling at each other while shitty radio music blasts through the cheap speakers.
Despite his reservations, Richie is somehow at a house party, with a cup of shitty spiked punch in his hand. Beside him, is Ruth. Richie was fully prepared to beg her to come with him, but she didn’t really need much convincing. She’d said something about being able to find girls here. They both know that isn’t going to happen. They are glued to each other, and it’s going to be like that for the entire night.
They aren’t really talking to each other. They have nothing to talk about. The presence is still comforting.
Ruth taps his shoulder, “aren’t we supposed to be here with your literal boyfriend?”
Richie grimaces. Max invited him. He’d said he wanted him to be there. They’ve been at this party for five minutes, and Richie is yet to see him. Richie doesn't particularly feel like walking around to find him, so he waits.
“Yeah.” Richie replies after a minute. It doesn’t really add much to the conversation. He’s a little preoccupied. Max has been here for a lot longer than Richie has, which already has him a little nervous. Max doesn’t like drinking, but he hates standing out even more. So he drinks anyway. Richie doesn't know what Max is like when he’s drunk. Max has actively avoided drinking around Richie for this reason.
Richie fucking hates parties.
Ruth ends up getting bored of standing around. After three, maybe five cups, the alcohol seems to have hit her bloodstream, and her inhibitions are long gone. She mutters something to Richie about going to get more punch, and she’s gone. Richie wanders out to the porch, sitting on a deck chair that looks like it belongs to an old retired woman. He laughs at nothing. Maybe he’s a little tipsy. He pours his punch onto the porch. He doesn’t like feeling drunk. He wonders where Max is. He hadn’t exactly put much effort into finding him, but he had assumed that Max would be there waiting for him. Richie stares down at his empty cup, regretting pouring it out. Why is he even here? Where’s Max?
Richie stands up, walking inside and leaving the old lady chair behind. He walks up the stairs and peers into each door as he walks down the corridor. Why does this house have so many rooms? Who’s house even is this? Richie knocks on the only closed door, praying that he’s not interrupting another couple. He doesn’t need to deal with that.
“Max? You in there?”
Richie hears someone clearing their throat.
“...no.”
Richie lets out a relieved sigh. The voice sounds hollow and dead, but it’s Max. His stomach twists a little when it registers just how hollow his voice sounds.
“Max.”
“I’m not-” There’s a long pause. “ Max is not in here.”
Richie laughs. But he still feels a little sick. He twists the doorknob, and it’s surprisingly unlocked.
“Don’t come in!” Max yells out. Richie stops. The panic in Max’s voice was enough to make him freeze up.
“Max?”
“Leave me alone. Please.” Max’s words come out strangled, like he's holding back a sob. It occurs to Richie that Max must be crying.
“I want to see you. I want to see your face.”
There’s quiet for a while.
“I don’t want you here.” He replies. Richie’s jaw tightens.
“I don't like this.”
“Richie.” Max’s patience is waning. Richie can hear it in his voice. But he still pushes, because he’s an idiot. Richie pushes the door open, just long enough for him to see Max sitting on a bed, his face red and blotchy. His cheeks are soaked with tears. Richie wants to hug him.
“Just, fucking– go away!” He's still crying. Richie wants to see his face. “Why can't you just leave me alone for once? I'm sick of you coddling me!”
Richie’s brows furrow. Coddling?
“Why did I even come here? Why did you even-”
Why did Max even want him here? The door slams right in his face. He hears the lock click. He stumbles back, clutching his cheek. Hurt swells in his chest, and then he's running. Fuck him. Fuck this party. Richie hates parties. He hates being drunk.
“Pete?”
“Richie? Is that you?”
That's a stupid, useless question. Richie is calling from his own phone.
“Can you pick me up?”
“I thought you-”
-were going home with Max. Plans change.
“Can you pick me up or not?” Richie snaps, feeling like an asshole but also not really caring. When did he become so unlovable?
“Alright.” Pete says after a long, frustrating silence. Richie hangs up. He walks back out to the porch and sits on the old lady chair. His throne of misery. A group of boys he definitely knew in high-school pass and they start nudging each other aggressively, making it abundantly obvious that they're about to start talking about him. Richie doesn't really care.
“Who the fuck invited shitlips?” They howl, sounding more hyena than human. Richie wished they'd grow up. They were almost twenty for God's sake. If only they knew who invited him. The same guy who was crying in a random ass bedroom in a stranger's house. Richie isn't sure why he thinks Max is different.
“What happened?” Ruth sits, rather, flops down on the floor beside Richie’s chair. She rests her head on his knee. Richie doesn't respond. She's not going to listen anyway.
“Pete is on his way.” He mutters. That makes her look up. Her eyes sharpen for just a second before glossing over again.
“Why?”
“Why not.”
That seems to be sufficient.
“You're so cute, Richie.” Ruth pats his hand. There are tears in her eyes.
“How much did you have to drink?”
“You are so cute.” She repeats, ignoring his question. “Please don't be sad anymore. You're so sweet. You and Max are so cute.”
Richie stares pointedly forward, trying to ignore her. She tugs at his arm.
“You're so sweet. I love you. I hope you get married. Please don't be sad anymore.” Ruth hugs his leg. It's a little pathetic. She's blubbering on the floor, like Richie just told her he has cancer or something. “Don't be sad anymore. You're so sad all the time.”
Richie swallows thickly.
“Thanks, Ruth.”
Richie watches Pete's car pull into the driveway, and he grabs Ruth by the arm and drags her over to the car like she's some kind of misbehaving preschooler. He helps her into the backseat and sits beside her. She rests her head on his shoulder, and she's half asleep before Pete even pulls out of the driveway.
“You gonna tell me what happened?”
Pete sounds like Ted when he asks questions like that. Richie hates it.
“No.” He mumbles, staring out the window. He watches the headlights blow past, the light shining out in four directions. He wonders if he needs to get his eyes checked. Is that an astigmatism thing or just a window thing? Richie’s head hurts. He wants to see Max’s face. He wants to yell at him.
Is he still drunk?
“Clearly you let Ruth run rife.” Pete says, watching her from the rear view mirror. She's already snoring. Richie manages to force out a laugh. Nothing is funny. Pete must be expecting a verbal response, because he's still glancing at the mirror. He's probably trying to gauge how drunk Richie is. He must be good at hiding it.
Max’s voice had slurred a little when he was yelling. Richie would've brought him water.
“Are you and Max still together?” Pete asks. It's a little cautious.
“Probably.”
Richie gets home and immediately collapses onto his bed. He hugs the mattress, emptying his lungs in one long, drawn out sigh. He waits for the tears to come.
There's a knock on his door.
“Hey. I heard you sigh.”
Trevor. The last person Richie wants to talk to right now.
“Yeah, Trev. People tend to sigh from time to time.”
“You're doing The Richie Sigh.” Trevor replies. Richie scrunches up his nose.
“What's that meant to mean?”
“It means something is up. It's the same sigh every time. Like you're trying to sigh out the hurt.” Trevor opens the door. Richie is lying face down on the bed. He isn't planning on moving.
“I hate you.”
Trevor knows too much about too many things. Richie wishes he'd stop being so damn smart all the time.
“Uh huh. Now tell me what happened.”
Richie groans. Trevor pats him on the head sarcastically. Richie loves him more than anything and he wants to punch him in the jaw.
“Max is an asshole and I hate him.”
“Now you're speaking my language.” Trevor pauses. “You don't, though. What did he do to warrant…this.” Richie can only imagine he's gesturing to him lying face down on the bed. He briefly raises his arm to offer Trevor a middle finger. “Charming.”
“Didn't talk to me for the whole party, locked himself into a random ass room and wouldn't let me in.” He grumbles, waiting for Trevor to gasp dramatically and immediately jump to his defence.
“Sounds like he needs space.” He replies. Richie frowns, rolling over on the bed to face Trevor. He doesn't like that answer. “Seems like he needed a minute to gather himself and you wouldn't let him have it.”
Richie rolls back over.
“ Was I coddling him?” Richie is talking to himself.
“I mean, a little? Obviously you had the right to go looking for him, but knowing you, you probably pushed it a little.”
“Mean. You're supposed to agree with me.”
“Do you want to be right or happy?”
Richie hates him. He's so smart.
“Get outta here, Shakespeare.”
“You're stubborn, Rich.” Trevor sits up. Richie feels the mattress rise a little. “I'm gonna call him and tell him to come over.”
Richie doesn't protest. He just groans again. He wants to see Max’s face. He's tired.
☆☆☆
Max is scared of alcohol. There's a lot of hurt there. He's seen the terror a person can wield when they drink. Max would watch his father drink can after can, and he would swear to himself that he'd never be like that. He wouldn't make anyone scared like that.
Max is sitting on a bed, in the house of a friend of a friend. He can feel his mind drifting. He's losing control and it's terrifying. Why did Max drink?
Why does anyone drink?
His breathing gets a little faster. He feels like his dad. A pathetic drunk. Richie is definitely here by now. Max can't bring himself to go out and find him. Richie wouldn't like seeing him tipsy like this. Max watches Brad Callahan sprint past the door, hitting a glass with a spoon like it's a cowbell. He's trying to start some kind of chant about the Nighthawks. It really makes Max dislike him. Max doesn't really like any of his friends.
He doesn't really know what he's doing here. He steps forward and shuts the door. He needs a minute. How does one sober up if they're too scared to ask for water? He knows he'll be laughed at if he asks for anything but more beer. His head aches. He feels himself tear up a little. He doesn't dare blink. He waits for the tears to dry up. They're replaced by fresh ones, and Max decides to stop trying to pretend he's not crying. He's on his own for once and it feels nice.
Richie knocks on the door a little while later. Max almost jumps out of his skin. He doesn't want Richie to see him like this. He would be disgusted. He would look into Max’s eyes and see his father staring back. And he would run. But Max isn't led by rage like that man. He tried to be, because he thought it would finally make him love him. It didn’t work. Nothing worked. Max is a burden. He is terrified all of the time.
He wasn't
supposed to drink.
He said he wasn't going to drink.
So Max slams the door before Richie has the chance to get in. Max hears a quiet, hitched breath. Then running. Max opens the door and Richie is gone. There's a dent in the door.
Max wants to throw up. He runs to the bathroom and slams the door shut.
Max ends up falling asleep. He doesn't really remember when that happened. Everything is quiet when he wakes up. No loud music, no horrifically off key singing, no screaming. No Richie. He sits up and listens. He can hear quiet chatting downstairs, so he hasn't completely overstayed his welcome. He makes his way downstairs, noting how he can now walk in a straight line. Progress. He walks past the people sleeping on the floor and slinks out the door. Max looks around the porch, his eyes locking onto the little lone chair. It was the kind of place you'd find Richie. He always seemed to favour his own company. He told Max that he was the first person he'd choose over being alone. Richie’s necklace is on the floor beside the chair, which makes Max laugh. He was right. He picks it up. He needs to give that to Richie when he sees him again. If he doesn't hate him. Max starts to feel a little sick again.
He sits down on the chair. He wants to hear Richie talk. They could sit here, and Max would listen to Richie talk about the stars until they were replaced by the sun. Then they'd fantasise about leaving Hatchetfield. A house in Grand Rapids, picket fence, a few cats maybe. Then clouds would pass over the bright sun and Max would be reminded how naïve he is.
Max’s phone rings, breaking him out of his self pity.
“Hello?”
“Hey. You. Come to Richie’s and talk to him or I will find you and kill you. Many thanks.”
And then Trevor hangs up before Max can ask how he got his number. Max stares at his lock screen for a moment. A picture of Richie lying face down in the snow, the immediate aftermath of Max pelting a snowball at his face. It’s slightly blurred from how much Max was giggling when he took it.
He stands up and starts running to Richie’s house.
☆☆☆
Richie pretends he needs to get some sleep so Trevor will leave him alone. He stares at the wall and tries to pinpoint the exact moment his night started to go downhill. His cheek is starting to hurt. He knows Max didn't mean to slam the door like that.
He didn't mean it.
Richie doesn't want to be afraid anymore.
He sits up, deciding that sleep is impossible and a waste of time. He reaches under his bed and pulls out his laptop. He opens his browser and is immediately met with a poem he wrote while depressed at three in the morning. He really hates himself. Richie is not a tortured soul. He's annoying and self-centred. He coddles people. Richie opens a Google Doc and writes just that.
i am richie lipschitz
i am annoying and self centred
i am going to scare my loved ones away because i am too much
i do not “care too much”
i am just afraid of being alone
i am still drunk
i want to see max's face.
Richie pushes his laptop aside and screams into a pillow. Trevor coughs loudly, indicating that the entire apartment most definitely heard that. Richie is not embarrassed. He puts in his earbuds and lets the music autoplay. Some self pitying song about someone who is always the problem. But they write songs about it instead of going to therapy. Richie looks at the Google Doc and he wants to scream into his pillow again. God, he's such a cliché. He deletes what he's written.
im richie
i am not a tortured teenage soul i am just a loser
ruth said she loved me
and i pretended i could not hear her
i am an asshole
i think life would be easier for everyone if i did not talk to them
i am snippy and rude
i am mean to my friends
i am cliché for thinking these things but they are still true
i am no better than a self pitying musician
this is pretentious
i think i need therapy
lots of love from richard!!!!1!!!1!!!!
Richie puts his laptop away. He is not as funny as he thinks he is. He has run out of things to think about. He decides to lie on the floor and stare at the ceiling. There are glow in the dark stars up there. Richie put them up there a few weeks after he moved in with Paul. He had Max in mind when he did it. He and Max weren't even talking back then. They had stopped talking freshman year. But Richie knew Max was afraid of the dark, so he put them there just in case. Because he was delusional. It's embarrassing.
The floor is cold. He can see all of the dust underneath his wardrobe. It makes his skin crawl. Richie sits up. He can't seem to commit to anything for more than two minutes.
Trevor knocks on his door.
“Your boyfriend is here.” Trevor couldn't sound more unenthused if he tried. Richie opens his door. “And he looks like a sad cat.”
Richie pushes past him and walks out to the doorway. Max is standing there, watching Richie carefully. He looks awful, like he just ran all the way here. He probably did. Max never asks for lifts. He's a little cautious, like he's awaiting a reprimand.
“I missed your face.” Richie mutters. He wants to be mad. Max looks confused, but the tension in his shoulders releases. His eyes are warm. But he still looks scared.
“I'm sorry.” Max tries to step inside and Richie stops him.
“No.”
He touches Richie’s cheek. It stings. Richie pretends it doesn't. “Did I do that?”
“We can blame the door.” Richie replies, which doesn't seem to comfort him much. It’s like the sight of Richie is paining him. “Can we talk about what happened?”
Max wilts.
“Uh.” He turns away, looking around the room. It’s like he’s looking for something to comment on so he can avoid the question. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s done this. “I’m tired.” He mutters weakly. Richie crosses his arms.
“You think I’m not tired?”
“Rich.”
“We’re not doing that.” Richie grabs the door handle. Max’s eyes track the motion. “If you don’t wanna talk, then we can just-” Richie tries to shut the door. Max’s foot stops it before he can slam it. Trevor clears his throat loudly again. It’s a warning.
“No! I just.” Max runs his fingers through his hair. He doesn’t finish his sentence. Richie tries to close the door again.
“Did you even try to look for me? Or did you just.” Richie looks him up and down. “Drink.”
The way Max’s face shifts makes Richie regret being born. Max swallows thickly and turns to leave. Richie grabs his shoulder.
He should've known better.
“I didn't mean that.”
Max was a crier. When they were kids, tears were kind of an extension of him. Max would come to school in tears, he would leave in tears. Richie didn't mind. Max was still his best friend and he was good at Mario Kart. The constant waterworks isolated him a little in elementary school. No one wanted to be friends with the kid who cried every day. He learned to shut it out over the years. Richie never really saw Max cry once they got to middle school. His lips would tremble, his eyes would darken. Richie could see the hurt, and he never asked about it because he knew Max would never tell him. And besides, Richie had his own shit to figure out. They both had demons. They didn't really have time for each other anymore. Richie and Max went from an inseparable duo to awkward waves in the corridor, to nothing at all. Then high-school happened. Richie doesn't like to think about it.
Richie knows Max is a crier, but it still surprises him when he looks up with tears in his eyes.
“Max, I didn't mean that.” Richie is an idiot. He's callous. Max tries to gather himself for what feels like an hour.
“Do you really think-?” Max pauses. He bites down on his bottom lip and Richie watches him fight tears. He pulls him into a hug and apologises over and over
and over
and over.
Max just cries.
“I didn't want to drink. I didn't want this to happen. I'm sorry. I'm sorry.” He's gasping in between each word. Richie keeps shushing him until he stops apologising. Richie feels like an awful boyfriend and an awful person. “I was scared. I was scared. I don't want to be like-”
“No. You're not.” Richie hugs him tighter. Max cries harder. “You're not.”
“I thought you'd freak out if you saw me drunk.” He whispers. Richie hates himself for making Max feel like that.
“Nothing about you freaks me out.” Richie whispers back. “I'm sorry for not giving you space.”
“I'm sorry for slamming the door in your face. And for inviting you to that stupid party and hiding from you.”
“I'm sorry for making you feel like you couldn't-”
“STOP FUCKING APOLOGISING FOR SHIT!” Trevor yells from his room, making Max crack a smile for the first time that evening. It looks like sunshine. “YOU'RE BOTH BORING!”
“Stop eavesdropping!” Richie yells back. Trevor does not respond. Richie meets Max's gaze. “You are nothing like your Dad and I shouldn't have said anything that would even remotely imply that.”
“I don't like alcohol.” Max mutters, wiping his eyes. He looks a little embarrassed. Richie wants to remind him he saw him cry constantly for years. He knows things are different now. This version of Max has been through a lot more.
“I don't like it either.”
Richie pulls the spare mattress out from under his bed and throws a pillow at Max. Max considers throwing it back but ultimately decides against it. He keeps looking at Richie’s cheek.
“Does it hurt?”
“Not really.” That's a lie. Richie doesn't want to make him feel worse for something he did by accident. He doesn't want to give him more reasons to compare himself to his father. “Ruthie got fucked up. ”
“Really?” Max sits down on the mattress and Richie sits beside him.
“Yeah. Like, literally the most drunk I've ever seen her. She started crying and talking about how much she loves me.”
“At least she's a cute drunk.” Max smiles. There's something darker behind it.
“She said she wants us to get married.” Richie laughs it off, but he can't help but notice the way Max’s shoulders stiffen. His eyes widen just a little. “I mean, obviously, we, uh.” Richie doesn't really know what to say. Max nods stiffly.
“Yeah.”
“Would you-?” Richie stops himself. It's a stupid question. Max clears his throat.
“I'm tired.”
“Oh, yeah. Me too.”
Richie climbs into bed and Max does the same. Max turns to face the door, and Richie stares at the back of his head. Richie doesn't think marrying him would be so scary. Maybe it was the alcohol that made him close up like that. Richie rolls over to stare at the ceiling.
“Max?”
“Yeah.”
“Nothing.”
Richie isn't crying. He's just allergic to his cologne. Or something.
“I'm sorry.” Max whispers. Richie doesn't ask what he's sorry about.
“I would marry you.” Richie mouths to himself. He's not brave enough to say it out loud. He hears Max sniffling. Richie wants to know what goes on in his head.
☆☆☆
Max isn't used to being loved. Max is used to being a burden, he is used to coming home from school and running up to his room and hiding. Max is not used to being a welcome addition to a home. Max has never had a real home. Only houses. Richie is home.
A hug from Richie feels like home. Max notoriously isn't good at untangling his feelings, but he knows he loves Richie.
He can't ever tell him that. He doesn't know why.
“She said she wants us to get married.”
Max doesn't know why he's scared.
Marrying Richie sounds
nice.
It sounds safe and warm. But it also sounds like judgement. Like more hurting.
“I would marry you.” Max mouths to himself. He wishes he wasn't a coward.