Work Text:
The snow falling around them, catching the reflections of the street lights, looks like stars. Richie can’t think of anyplace else he would rather be. It’s Christmas Eve, and he and his uncle Paul are outside in the middle of one of the snowiest nights in Hatchetfield history because it’s a tradition.
When Richie had first come into Paul’s care, he hated Christmas—there was something about being surrounded by cheer and being depressed that made him feel even more sucky. Richie locked himself in his room for the first few months; he only came out to go to school and grab food. He still remembers Paul sheepishly knocking on his door that first Christmas Eve when Richie was 13. Paul came bearing the gift of hot cocoa, and Richie was being a brat and saying that it was too hot to drink. It was silent for a while before Paul suggested that they drink their cocoa outside so it would cool faster and not be as hot. Since it was 1:00 in the morning (officially Christmas), Richie had been intrigued and agreed. The hot cocoa had been delicious and it was the first time he let himself be himself around Paul—even a little bit was progress. After that year, Paul continued the tradition, and Richie and he would slowly walk down the snowy streets of Hatchetfield every Christmas Eve enjoying their hot chocolate.
Richie shakes his head and brings himself back to the present. The snow is falling heavily, but not so much that it’s oppressive. “You better not have bought me a bunch of clothes just because I’m growing up or whatever.”
Paul laughs into his mostly gone hot chocolate. “I don’t know kiddo, I think some sweaters would really suit you.”
“You wouldn’t dare!” Richie feigns exasperation. “I don’t need to look as lame as you do.”
Paul lets out a similar feigned gasp of betrayal. “Richie, I did not raise you to disrespect your elders, and just because I’m in my thirties doesn’t mean I don’t have good style.”
“Tell that to your not-girlfriend, Emma.” Richie lets out a short laugh. “Let’s just say I may or may not know one or two things you may or may not be getting tomorrow.”
“How could you turn against me and team up with Emma! Look, I love her, but she hardly ha-” Paul cuts himself off and stops walking.
Richie stops too, but just stares at Paul in confusion; he seems to be looking at something in the distance. Richie follows his line of sight and sees…a person? They’re hard to make out because of the dark and the thick snow, but Richie can definitely see someone sitting on the snowy curb by the street lamp.
“Umm,” Richie whispers, not really knowing what else to do. “Should we approach them? They shouldn’t be out in the cold like this.”
Paul seems to take a second to evaluate the situation. While neither he or Paul were the nicest or friendliest people in the world, they weren’t complete assholes—Richie has a stupidly sympathetic heart, and Paul is a big softie for the people he cares about.
“I can’t see well,” Paul starts slowly walking towards the person, “but we should at least pass by and make sure they’re not hurt. It’s odd for someone to be out this late, especially on Christmas Eve.”
“We’re out on Christmas Eve?” Richie lags a few paces behind as Paul approaches the person. As they get closer, Richie can see that the person is a boy, probably around his age, albeit a lot more buff than he is (but really, who doesn’t have more muscle than Richie).
“But we have each other.” Paul points out, glancing back at his nephew.
Richie can’t argue with that, and lords above is he glad he has Paul. He gives Paul a small nod and they continue walking towards the person sitting in the snow.
“Hey!” Paul calls out once they get a bit closer, and the person looks up. “Do you, umm do you need help?”
Now that they’re closer, the jacket the person is wearing looks familiar; the style and colors combined with the teen’s build makes the other kid look like-
“Max Jägerman!?” Richie instinctively shrinks into himself.
Max (he’s sure it’s the jock now that he and Paul are standing right in front of him) doesn’t get up from the curb—he just mutters to himself in annoyance. Taking in Max more, Richie sees blood seeping through the left sleeve of his letterman. He also notices two cans of god-knows-what sitting next to Max, a third in his right hand. Paul walks closer, and Richie can see him resisting the urge to reach out to Max.
“Yo-your letterman is bleeding…” Richie resists the urge to face palm—the letterman isn’t bleeding, Max is. “Who hurt you? Is that your house right there? Is this som-”
“Richie, calm down.” Paul turns to him and levels him with a serious look, and Richie sees him turn on his ‘problem solving mode’. “Max, right? Do you have somewhere to stay tonight? I don’t want you to freeze out here.”
Max clenches and unclenches his left hand a few times before he answers; he doesn’t seem to be paying Richie any mind. “Yeah, I can go home.” He throws back whatever is left in his can. It’s then that Richie realizes that Max isn’t shivering—that can’t be good if he’s been out here for a while. Now, Richie isn’t the most generous soul, but even he’s not so heartless as to leave Max to freeze out here on Christmas Eve.
Paul sighs to himself. “Okay, do you want to go back to your house?”
“I’ll be fine.” Max crushes the can in his hand. “It’s not like I don’t wanna go home.”
“Are you going to get hurt again if you go back home?” Paul rubs his fingers together, a nervous habit; Richie finds himself doing the same.
“Why the fuck do you care?!” Max stands up, and Richie flinches backwards. Paul doesn’t falter. “You think I’m some fuckin’ charity case!? The star quarterback is down on his luck and some nerd and his dweeb of a sidekick or, or whoever the hell you are, think they can help me? Trying to move up the social-ladder, huh, Shit-Lips? Well, I don’t need your fucking pity!”
Richie blames it on the cold finally getting to him, but he’s shaking. Paul glowers at Max, and maybe Richie’s seeing things, but he swears he watches Max lose some of his bravado in real time.
“Okay, okay, alright. You can go home later, but only after you get that wound patched up.” Paul clearly looks a little uncomfortable making demandes to some teenager that could easily beat him up, but, nonetheless, he continues. “We’ll get you out of the cold for a bit, and then you can go back to your house.”
Max scoffs. “You’re gonna get me out of the cold just to make me walk back in it?”
“Of course not. I’ll drive you back once we make sure you’re not going to freeze to death or bleed out.” Paul takes off his jacket and offers it to Max who begrudgingly accepts it and the hat that Paul also offers.
They begin making the walk back towards their house in silence, and Richie has half a mind to offer Max his hot cocoa since the other boy looks to be on the verge of hypothermia, even with the addition of Paul’s cap and jacket. Richie then realizes that the offer would be a) a little gross, since Max would be putting his lips where Richie had put his lips, b) a little weird, because why the hell would Max accept anything Richie gave him, and c) a little impossible, since Richie’s emptied his thermos of its contents.
It takes about ten minutes before they get back to their house; Max seems to not know what to do with himself.
“Sit down and grab a blanket.” Paul gestures to the couch. “Warm up, and I’ll make you some hot chocolate.”
Paul moves to the kitchen, and Richie, not wanting to be left alone with Max, follows him. He watches Paul start prepping things for hot cocoa while occasionally sneaking glances towards the couch Max is sitting on.
“Damn,” Paul curses under his breath, “we’re out of hot chocolate.”
“We just had so much, how can we be out?” Richie starts rummaging through the cabinets to try and find a stray packet of Swiss Miss.
“Well, one Richard Lipschitz claims that if he doesn’t use at least 3 packs of hot chocolate, he’s tasting ‘hot nothing’.” Paul affectionately ruffles Richie’s hair.
“And Richie stands by it because he’s right!” He ducks out from under Paul’s hand. “Hot chocolate just tastes like gross water unless you add enough of the powder. I would even go as far to say it tastes like the void and not in a good way.”
“I fully agree, and that’s why we don’t have any powder right now.” Paul runs a hand through his own hair.
Richie rubs his arms. “Can’t we just…give Max a cup of hot water? Don’t we have tea or, or something?”
Paul gives him a questioning look. “You really want to share your good tea with him?”
“Ugh,” Richie sours a little bit knowing that his uncle is right; Richie would sooner die than share his favorite green tea with Max Jägerman—his kindness has its limits. “Fine, hot water it is then!”
“Richie, no.” Paul sighs. “I’ll just run over to Ted’s place real quick since I know he’s up, and I know he keeps a ton of spare hot chocolate because of Pete’s low blood sugar.”
Richie’s eyes widen as he realizes something. “W-Wait, you’re going to leave me alone with the Maxwell Jägerman!? P-Paul, he bullies me! He’s made my life hell for years, and now you want me to–”
Paul grabs Richie’s shoulder to ground him before Richie can talk them both in circles. “Hey, hey, I know that. I know that, but he needs help right now.”
They both glance over to see Max on the couch with his head in his hands. Richie thinks he looks a lot like the Shinji chair pose, but then remembers that now is not the time.
“He’s in no state to do anything to you right now, and if he tries, kick his head, or put salt in his wound.”
Richie chuckles a bit and wraps his arms around his chest. “Fine, fine. I guess I can let the ‘Christmas Spirit’ into my heart.”
“Good, thanks.” Paul pats Richie on the shoulder and pulls his hand away. “You can patch him up while I’m gone so you have something to do. Maybe if you do a good enough job, he won’t bully you anymore!” Paul makes the comment and immediately looks like he wants to backpedal.
Richie gives a feeble laugh out of pity, and they both make their way into the living room. Paul leaves through the front door, and Richie is left alone with Max.
“D-Do you want me to clean your wound?” Richie rubs his arm.
Max stands up, “Sure. It’s better than letting it get infected with tuberculosis.”
“You mean tetanus?” Riche corrects as they make their way towards the bathroom. Richie enters first and starts getting stuff out while Max sits on the edge of the tub.
Max winces as he tries to remove his jacket. “Same fucking difference.”
“Do you want help taking that off?”
Instead of responding, Max removes his signature letterman so Richie can see the extent of the wound. The first thing he notices is the dried blood surrounding the cut; the cut runs about 2 inches across his left bicep and looks like it came from a dull kitchen knife—all the more reason to disinfect it. It’s not actively bleeding which is a good thing, but he wants to make sure it doesn’t get worse. Richie’s already decided that he isn’t going to ask because it’s none of his business, and he probably wouldn’t get any answers anyway.
“Alright, that answers that.” Richie mumbles to himself.
Richie moves to sit next to Max and applies the hydrogen peroxide to the cotton ball in his hand. As he gently disinfects the cut, Max hisses in pain. Richie lets out a short laugh; some sadistic part of his brain is happy to inflict pain on Max after all the years of torture Max inflicted on him and his friends.
“The hell are you laughing at?” Max shoots him a look that could kill, but they both know Max isn’t in any state to make good on his threats—he looks exhausted.
For the first time in his life, Richie sees Max for the cornered animal he is. “Oh, nothing, just thought the big scary bully could handle a little hydrogen peroxide without making a scene.”
“I didn’t fucking ‘make a scene’ or whatever fucking bullshit you’re on.” Max looks away from him. “I’m just not used to having my fuckin’ wounds treated cause we don’t have any of that damn fancy…” Max gestures halfheartedly at the items in Richie’s hands, “hydraulic press in the house.”
The sound that comes out of Richie is some mix of a snort, a laugh, and a cough. He covers it up by changing the subject. “You curse a lot.”
Max rolls his eyes. “Bad habit that comes out when I’ve had enough of someone’s bullshit, and it’s the easiest way to get people to stay in line.”
“Well, it’s not fucking working.” Richie smirks, and, to his surprise, Max laughs. His laugh makes Richie break out into a small genuine smile—it feels like some kind of win.
“Shut the fuck up, Richard .” Max has a smile that matches Richie’s: small and hesitant. “You’re such a fucking nerd.”
“There you go again!” He feels his smile widen. “I may be a nerd, but at least I have an extensive vernacular!”
Max extends his left arm to lightly shove Richie, but winces in pain as the peroxide burns his cut. It snaps them both back to reality, and Richie wordlessly goes back to tending Max’s wound. Max zones out and stares at nothing while Richie puts a large bandage on Max’s bicep.
“There, now you’re not gonna die of tetanus.” Richie stands up and starts putting stuff away.
“Huh,” Max examines his newly bandaged arm. “You’re weirdly good at all this medical stuff.”
Richie decides to not tell Max why he’s so good at ‘all this medical stuff’.
By some Christmas miracle, Paul chooses that moment to come back to the house. “Hey, I’m back, and I bought hot cocoa.”
Richie pops his head out of the bathroom. “Can you start making it, I’m still putting stuff away?”
Paul doesn’t respond which means that that’s a yes. Richie puts bottles and band-aids back in the proper space as Max leaves the bathroom. As he double checks to make sure there’s no stray blood around, he hears Paul and Max talking in the kitchen. After a few more minutes, he leaves the bathroom to find Paul and Max standing in the kitchen. Paul is putting water on to boil while Max is holding a…neon foam football in his hands. Huh, weird.
Richie walks up to the jock. “Hey, umm, do you wanna sit down while Paul makes the hot chocolate? You’re kinda getting in his way right now.”
Max nods dumbly and follows Richie to the couch. They sit down on the (admittedly kind of small) sofa, and Max keeps his eyes trained on the football in his hands.
Fuck, Richie has to make small talk; they can’t just sit next to each other on the couch in silence. “So, uh, Paul got you a Christmas gift?”
“Uh, yeah, he did.” Max’s leg starts bouncing up and down. “Said he didn’t know what I liked besides football, so he found this footba–this dumbass football at CVS, and thought I would like it.”
“W-Well do you?”
“No…I fucking hate it.” Max seems to be holding back tears.
That small smile returns to Richie’s face. “You’re welcome.”
Max turns to look at him. “Hey, Richie, um…I’m sor–”
The moment is broken by the kettle’s whistle. Max cuts himself off, Richie jumps, and Paul enters with two mugs of hot cocoa.
“Alrighty, sorry it took so long.” Paul places the mugs on the coffee table not realizing what just happened. “Max, let me know when you want to go back to your house—I’ll be in the kitchen.”
Max nods, sets the football in his lap, and takes the drink to hold it in his hands. They let the silence settle between the two of them. Max occasionally drinks the (way too hot) hot chocolate, and Richie keeps stealing glances at Max while he lets his own drink cool on the table.
Max finishes the drink without setting it down once and then relaxes back into the couch. Richie sees him lift the football up to inspect it, and he then watches the jock hug the football to his chest; Richie’s heart does not melt at all at the sight.
He decides to finally drink his own hot chocolate, and, by the time he finishes his own drink, he turns to see Max asleep on the couch.
Richie only panics a little bit before he decides it would be best to carefully get up and let Max rest. He goes to the kitchen to find Paul on his phone. “Max, uh, Max fell asleep.”
Paul turns to him, “Are you going to wake him up?”
He shuffles his feet. “I don’t wanna…”
“Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Yeah,” Paul turns in his seat to fully look at Richie. “If you don’t want to wake him up, then I think we should let him sleep. The kid’s had a hard day.”
“B-But, he wanted to not stay here tonight.”
“Well, he’s not technically staying here tonight. We found him on Christmas, and it’s still Christmas, so…”
Richie has to laugh at that one, “So, there’s no problem and Max won’t be mad.”
“Something like that.” Paul nods and stands. He walks to the living room, grabs a blanket, and pulls it over Max.
“Are you gonna actually take him back to his house in the morning?” Richie whispers as to not wake Max.
Paul walks back towards the kitchen. “I have to.”
“Huh,” Richie shrugs. “I guess life goes on as always even though there’s outliers and special events.”
Paul pulls Richie into a tight hug that he returns. “But at least we have tonight.”