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Chapter Text

Max wished he would stop getting himself into trouble. 

The clock was far too loud, the lights above him were starting to give him a headache. It was like it was all purposefully engineered to make Max feel even worse. His heart thumped along to each clock tick as he waited outside Principal Blim's office. He kept his eyes fixed to the ground, ignoring the disapproving glares of teachers walking down the corridor past him. They were used to seeing him waiting out here. Max would've been expelled a long, long time ago if he wasn't a quarterback. They relied on him to carry the entire team on his shoulders, to uphold Hatchetfield High’s already shaky reputation. It was all he was good for, really. He could shove his way through the opposing teams and win almost every time, because the Lord had decided to curse him with a talent he didn't want. Max never knew a gift could be so suffocating. A real gift would be an injury that would finally take him off the field for good. He could rest then, shrug off the expectations, finally breathe easy. 

The waiting was worse than the reprimands were. Max didn't have time to stew in his fear when someone was yelling at him. He could choose to bow his head and take it, or he could yell back. It was easy to mask fear with noise. Max had gotten very good at it over the years. If he yelled his voice wouldn't tremble, if he clenched his fists his hands wouldn't shake. His knees couldn't bounce if he ran instead. 

He wished someone would smash that fucking clock. 

“Come in, Max.” Principal Blim's fed up voice beckoned him inside. He was sick of seeing Max in here. He opened the door to his office and slinked inside. “Sit down.” 

Max sat. He stared at his knees. He wasn't going to say anything that would get him into any more trouble.  

“You punched your locker.” 

“It wouldn't open.” He murmured. 

“So you thought punching it was the solution? When has violence ever been the solution, Max? Remember your anger management classes?” 

Max’s jaw tightened. There was only so much condescension he could take. 

“Those classes were bullshit.”

Those classes scared him. He didn’t want to be told all of the ways he resembled his father. He stopped going. No one noticed. Maybe they did, but just didn't care. 

“Max. Didn't you say you were sick of being in here? Have you ever thought that behaving yourself might keep you out of here?”

“I’ve actually never thought of that.” He hissed, standing up and pushing his chair into the desk roughly. It shook the desk a little. “I'll be sure to keep that in mind. I know the drill. Double detention, don't do it again or there will be severe consequences. I suck. I get it.” 

Principal Blim's patient faux-smile didn't falter when Max made his way over to the door. 

“I actually don't think detention is working for you, Max.” 

Max whipped his head around.

“So I'm just– not being punished?” They were finally giving up on him. He wasn’t sure if it stung. 

“I didn't say that.” 

…

“MAX JAGERMAN?” Ruth's horrified screech boomed down the corridor, making Richie pick up the pace. He pushed her out of the way to look at the cast sheet. He quickly scanned through the names, seeing his own name next to the lead role. He turned to Ruth with a wide smile and grabbed her by the shoulders. 

“The lead! I got the-” Ruth slammed her palm over Richie's mouth, pointing to the stagehand section on the sheet, which had Max Jagerman's name written beneath it in bold. Richie’s joy evaporated in an instant. 

“Is this real?” He breathed out, turning back to Ruth, whose face resembled someone who’d been informed of a family member dropping dead. “This cannot be real. Where's Miss Mulberry?” Richie bolted down the corridor to get to the music room. Ruth followed him down, repeatedly insisting that there must be some kind of mistake. Overtaking him, Ruth slammed into the music room door, stumbling forward and tripping over herself when it opened quicker than she expected. She didn't bother pulling herself back up and just laid there instead. Miss Mulberry looked unfazed. She was sitting on her desk with a coffee in hand. Richie stepped over Ruth and Miss Mulberry shushed him before he even spoke. 

“No, there are no mistakes on the cast list.” She droned, taking a sip of her coffee. She looked utterly fed up. “I am just as annoyed as you are.”

“Why.” Was all Richie could muster. Ruth groaned from the floor. 

 “As a detention alternative, apparently. Principal Blim thinks making our lives hell will cure Max of his anger issues.”

“I don't think you're allowed to say that, Miss Mulberry.” Ruth mumbled, her voice muffled by the floor her head was still pressed against. 

“Ruth, you know I'm not paid nearly enough to care.” 

“...okay.” 

“And you should probably stand up. No one mops that floor.” Ruth shot to her feet, dusting herself off frantically. Richie turned towards the door and she waved them out. “See you both at rehearsals tomorrow. You can't drop out now, new rules.” 

“This school is a prison!” Richie called out from the corridor. 

“Tell me about it!” 

“I mean, Max Jagerman? Like, come on! How could they possibly-?”

“Yes, Ruth.” Richie grumbled for what must've been the fifth time. He was starting to wish he'd walked home alone today. When Ruth started complaining, she did not stop. He'd been listening to her sulk for over an hour. “It's not like we can change anything.” 

“Well, I want to.” 

“Well, you can't.” 

“I don't like you.” 

“Ditto.”

And finally, silence. They walked along, the only noises being Ruth's backpack rustling as she stomped along. Ruth's brows were furrowed, like she really wanted to say something but wasn't saying it. Richie wasn't going to ask her about it. He was relishing in the quiet. He was trying to not be outwardly excited about getting the lead. Ruth didn’t seem to be in the mood to share in his victory. He’d been trying to get the lead in a show since freshman year. He always found a way to self sabotage during auditions. Richie had never been anything but ensemble before today. 

“I mean, like, it's not like he's gonna be any help. They're just making us miserable for literally no-”

“Ruthie. You're giving me a migraine.” Richie tried to imitate the looks Paul gave him when he was serious about something. Ruth sighed and fell silent again. 

“Sorry.”

“It's fine.”

“I'm just pissed off.” 

“I am too.” Richie booped her nose. She glared up at him, but she looked a little less tense. “Can we talk about me getting the lead instead?” Ruth's entire demeanour shifted in that moment, and she smiled. Maybe he was wrong about her not wanting to share his joy. 

“I'm really happy for you. Being Grace's love interest is a little brutal, though.” She nudged him and he nudged her back twice as hard. She stumbled a little and launched back into him with all the strength she could muster. He caught himself before he could trip, giggling while trying to look betrayed. 

“Are you trying to kill me?”

“Yeah, sorry. Trevor asked me to. He wants that lead role.” 

“Trevor wouldn't ask you to kill me. You're a total dweeb. He would do it himself.” He shot back, tilting his head. 

“Rude!” She pouted up at him, dodging another shove. 

“But yeah, pairing up the lesbian with the gay guy is a little crazy. Grace is gonna throw a fit.” He huffed, and Ruth giggled. 

“I think Miss Mulberry likes seeing you suffer.” 

“For sure. She’s gonna relish this. I still think you could've auditioned.” Richie told her, and her face shifted a little. Longing and discomfort, Richie had seen it over and over. 

“Yeah right. I prefer working lights anyway.” She replied, her voice a little softer than before. Richie nodded along, knowing she didn't really believe that. She held herself back. Richie always thought it was a shame. Ruth was a wonderful performer, but she was terrified of being on stage. Her voice would tremble any time she tried to sing in front of anyone but Richie. It was her dream to perform, but she was too afraid to actually do it in case she humiliated herself. Richie wished he could get through to her and tell her she would be okay, but she was just too scared. 

They made it to their apartment complex, and they parted ways when they made it to Ruth's floor. They were lucky enough to live in the same building. It was probably why they were so close. They could show up at each other's doorstep whenever they wanted. 

Richie made it to his doorway, twisted the key in the lock and dipped into his bedroom before Paul could greet him. Trevor was still in school, staying late for a student council meeting. Paul was probably reading in the living room. Richie didn't feel like explaining the feelings churning around in his head. Was he supposed to be happy or upset? Angry or relieved? Why would he let someone like Max ruin this for him? It was their production, not his. He wasn't in his popular kid territory anymore. Richie dove onto his bed and groaned. 

Maybe it would be okay. Max couldn't be that bad on his own. Richie was sure he could thaw him out. He decided to avoid acknowledging the fact he couldn't even thaw himself out. 

…

Max was going to lose his mind. He didn't know the first thing about musicals, and the entire cast despised him and didn’t care to be subtle about it. He never would've punched that stupid locker if he knew this was where he'd end up. He was dragged to the music room after school and told what he was going to be doing. He barely listened. Something about looking after props and moving set pieces. Miss Mulberry looked like she was trying to kill him with the power of her mind. He was going to make this production hell for everyone. That would be his petty revenge. 

Max kept his eyes glued to the sidewalk as he walked home, with his hands jammed into the pockets of his letterman. He was giving up his weekdays, his Saturdays, all for a production full of people he hated. And worse yet, he was going to have to explain this to his Dad. 

On second thought, maybe not. 

He turned the corner onto his street, and considered bolting. He weighed up the pros and cons of running away forever multiple times a week. 

Pros? No more father, no more hurting, no more school and no more pretending to be somebody else. Cons? He had no money, no shelter, and no real friends to live with. 

So Max kept walking. He made it to his front door and reluctantly pushed it open. He closed it behind him as quietly as he could and tip-toed past the food containers and cans. He eventually made it past the living room, letting out a slow sigh. He breathed out all of the fear. It was finally safe to assume he was home alone. His shoulders loosened a little. He sat down on the couch, just letting himself breathe for a moment. 

He still wanted to punch something. 

He didn't want to be involved in this stupid musical. He didn't want to be involved in anything. Max wanted to be gone. His phone buzzed.

It usually took Max around twenty minutes to walk to Hickory. It ended up taking close to an hour this time. Max was walking slowly, trying and trying to clear his head. He always walked to the same place when he needed some time alone. The Waylon Place was his mother's favourite. She had always adored the supernatural, and she constantly told him that the house was alluring, strange. She was drawn to it, and she always took Max with her when she walked there. Now Max walked there alone. The house was made out of rotting timber, painted white with paint that had mostly faded. Intricate cobwebs decorated every single corner, the spiders being the house’s only residents. No one had lived there in centuries. There was a FOR SALE sign outside, and Max knew his mother would have laughed if she saw it. No one would ever buy this house unless they saw what she saw. It was a pile of rot to everyone but her. She saw something in it, something magical. Max felt a little uneasy just looking at it. There was definitely a presence, but he wasn’t sure it was as positive as his mother thought. Maybe the spirits living there just liked her and not him. She did have a unique warmness about her. Max could kid himself into believing she was around if he kept his eyes fixed to the sky. She was right beside him, holding onto his hand and talking to him about anything and everything. Just like before. She’d never treated him like a hopeless case. She never saw him the way everyone else did. She was the only person who truly understood Max and now she was gone. 

Max balled his fists, looking up at that hideous house. He would give anything to sit up on that balcony and talk with her. 

He grabbed the window and pulled it up, climbing inside the house like he always did. It looked the same as usual. Cold and unwelcoming. Empty. It still felt more like home than his house did. He slowly walked along, listening to the wood creak. He knew which planks to avoid. Some of them were on the verge of snapping, and Max didn't want to be the victim of a fall and some splintered wood beneath him. It would be an ironic way to die. Losing his life to the house that made him feel safe when nowhere else did. He made his way upstairs, heading to the bedroom with the balcony. It was rare for a house in Hatchetfield to have a balcony like this. The novelty of it clearly wasn't enough for people to want to buy the place. Max wouldn't mind living here, even if it was cold. The ghosts living here couldn't be much worse than the people in the real world. 

He leaned against the balcony railing, letting the clean air fill his lungs. He felt a little dramatic now, having cleared his head a little. Sure, giving up a chunk of his free time was less than ideal, but it was nothing he couldn't handle. He could get through this stupid show and go back to normal. Whatever normal was. 

Max didn't think he'd ever been awake this early on a Saturday. He was standing in the corridor alone, waiting for everyone else to show up. He felt stupid being this early. It made it seem like he was actually happy to be here. He shoved his hands in his hoodie pocket, noting how cold it was. The heating wasn't even on yet. The lights weren't on, either, affirming to Max that he should not have to be here. He would give a lot to be in bed. He startled a little when the doors burst open. Two figures walked through, making their presence known right away. 

“It's fucking freezing!” 

“Yeah. Where's the heat?” 

“The radiators aren't even on, dude. I can see my breaths! Look, I can pretend to smoke with this air!” There was a quiet giggle. “How am I meant to dance in these conditions?” 

“You work lights. I don't think you need to dance.”

“And when has that stopped me? I'm still gonna learn the choreo and do it better than everyone else.”

“Then be in the show.”

“Nuh-uh.” 

“Oh, there's-”

The pair had stopped in their tracks, and they were staring at Max. Both were squinting, like they couldn't really make out who they were looking at.

“Is that-?” 

“Do you want something?” Max asked sharply, and the taller one wilted a little. The shorter one stepped forward, and Max could see her face clearly. That was Ruth Fleming, which made the other one Richie Lipschitz. They were almost never seen apart. Truth be told, Max was a little intimidated by Ruth, if not afraid of her. She didn't seem to care about what anyone thought of her. If she did care, she was real good at hiding it. 

“Do you want something? Don't be rude.” She huffed, glaring up at him like she had never felt fear in her life. Max was almost inclined to apologise. But he was much too prideful for that. He sighed and turned his head away instead. “I've never seen you without that stupid ass letterman jacket.”

Richie hushed her sharply. She just shrugged. 

“When is the rehearsal actually starting?” Max asked, choosing to ignore Ruth's pointed comment. He was already painfully bored. 

“When Miss Mulberry gets here, genius. And are you planning on sighing every thirty seconds? Because it's gonna get really annoying.” 

“Lay off, Ruth.” Richie mumbled. Max wondered why he bothered defending him. He sounded slightly fed up, like he was used to holding Ruth back. 

“Do you think I want to be here? I've been dragged into this shitty musical and I don't need you bothering me. I just need to get through this shit.” Max dragged his bag further along the corridor and distanced himself from the duo. He could feel Ruth glaring at him. 

“Asshole.”

“Ruth.”

“What? Why the fuck am I the bad guy here?” 

Richie didn't respond. Max’s brows furrowed. 

Eventually, other students started to file in, and Max could finally hide in the noise. They were brought into the auditorium, and he sat down backstage and tried to become invisible. He was out of his element here. Everyone despised him and he knew it. Grace was looking at him like he was something she found stuck to the sole of her shoe. Even the other popular kids who dared to foray into theatre still hated him. A glaring – both literally and figuratively – example was Trevor Lipschitz, Richie’s brother. The two were polar opposites. 

Richie was quiet, more of a target. But he had a darkness in him. Max saw the rage hiding, festering behind his eyes. He always wondered what it would take to bring it out. 

Trevor was different in every conceivable way. He was bubbly, confident and seemingly liked by everyone. He was the charismatic one. Richie and Trevor still somehow got along exceptionally well, despite their differences. 

Richie didn't like Max. Sometimes Max would catch him staring at him like he would throttle him if he could. That’s what it felt like, anyway. His eyes were always intense.

“Hey, are you gonna actually help out or are you just gonna sit there and look pretty?” Trevor pulled the chair out from under him and let him fall. The entire auditorium giggled. Trevor was staring daggers. Max pulled himself up and ignored the question. Any dreams of petty revenge were fleeting. 

“Fuck this.” He was going to walk out. He grabbed his phone and made for the door. He was stopped by a hand grabbing his wrist. He whipped his head around to see Ruth letting go of it like he was diseased. 

“Listen, asshole. We're not letting you ruin this show. So get your ass over there and figure out what you're supposed to be doing.” How Ruth managed to be so intimidating, Max would never know. But he listened. 

“Fine. Someone tell me what I'm supposed to be doing.” He grumbled, slamming his phone onto a table. Grace grabbed her script and walked out. Richie eyed him nervously.

“That table is for props. Unless you're donating your phone to be used as a prop?” Ruth plucked up his phone with her thumb and index finger and dropped it back onto the chair. Max just watched her do it. He was already drained. 

“Max.” Richie ushered him over, looking a little reluctant. Max approached him with equal reluctance. “No one else is going to help you.”

Max stared at him for a moment, and Richie quickly broke eye contact. He guided him over to the set and rushedly talked through the basics. Max was barely listening. He didn't know how anyone found this entertaining. 

Max sat down in the front row of the auditorium with the rest of the cast while Grace and Richie worked through their lines. Grace was staring at her script like it had personally offended her, and Richie was mumbling his lines to himself like he was reciting a spell. Everyone else was chatting quietly, which left Max sitting alone and bored. The auditorium was still freezing, but slowly warming up thanks to the heater Miss Mulberry dragged in. 

“Where is Steph?” Grace sighed sharply, her script hitting against her leg. Richie shrugged, eyeing the door like she was going to miraculously walk through. Max had no idea Stephanie Lauter was the type to get involved with theatre. The fact she even bothered showing up to school most days was a miracle, so extracurriculars were completely out of the picture for her, in Max’s mind at least. 

She had been an old friend, before she cut him off like most people did. They were close in middle school, bonding over the shared experience of having a dead mother. It was hard to relate to other kids when they both were missing such an important parental figure, so they found solace in each other. The hard days always made sense, because they were both well acquainted with that kind of crushing grief. Max’s pain took him down a different path to Steph, to different friends. She didn’t want to stick around to see Max become a mean jock, fearing vulnerability, so they stopped talking. She could still hold a friendly conversation if it was ever needed, but Max missed her sometimes. No one got his pain like she did. 

Max crossed his arms and hoped he could doze off without anyone noticing. Richie and Grace resumed their script reading and the low hum of everyone else chattering made Max's head a little heavy. He wasn't built to be awake this early. 

The room was startled into silence when Steph burst through the double doors with an iced latte in one hand and a hot chocolate in the other. 

“Hey!” She sauntered down the aisle like she wasn't even remotely embarrassed that she was late. Grace glowered at her from the stage, but there was an affection buried beneath it. Steph's eyes locked onto Max and she briefly looked confused. “Oh shit, I forgot he was here.” 

He had ears. 

“Language, Stephanie. You're late.” Miss Mulberry tutted at her, and Steph only cracked a smile. 

“My bad.” She chose the seat next to Max and sat down. There went his plan to take a nap. 

“Steph, did you buy two drinks for yourself?” Richie pointed to her two coffee cups, and she smiled wider. 

“Listen, they both satisfy different parts of my brain. The iced latte is cold and caffeinated, and the hot chocolate is sweet. It's too early for a rehearsal, so forgive me for buying a little treat.” Steph raised her hot chocolate to the sky like she was making a toast, and she took a sip. 

“Can't argue with that logic.” Richie replied.  

“Wish I thought of that.” Max mumbled. A coffee would've been real nice. Steph turned to him and sized him up for what felt like half a minute. 

“You look really really pathetic.” She told him. She wasn't even trying to be insulting, it was purely informative. Steph had mastered the art of saying mean things with a veil of sarcasm over it. Max was more upfront with his nastiness. They weren’t so different these days. 

That was a lie. Stephanie still had real friends because she still had a heart. She could be kind and tender. Those parts of Max had been beaten away a long time ago.

“Like, I have never seen you look this subdued.” She continued when it became clear Max wasn’t going to respond to her veiled insult. “Where are your cronies, Jagerman?” 

“Too afraid of seeming gay to join me.” Max huffed in response. Steph laughed, a sharp hah.  

“They're right, to be honest. Look around this room, not a single straight face. Well, aside from you.” She squinted for a moment. “Well. Who knows.” 

Max blinked. He was going to ignore that. 

“I didn't know you were–” He trailed off. 

“Dude, are you kidding? Have you seen me and Grace?”

Grace turned her head at the mention of her name, her nose scrunching up when she saw who Steph was sitting next to. 

“...Grace? As in, Grace Chasity?”

“Massive lesbian.” 

“Oh.” Max stared down at the floor, trying to compute that information. Steph breathed out a laugh. 

“I think you're the last person to figure it out.” She flicked the back of his head with her palm, giggling to herself. 

Max looked up at Grace and Richie, who were now practicing their duet together. Richie looked so different up there. It was like he was home. He didn't look frightened or vulnerable when he was singing. He looked free. Max wondered what that was like. Complete liberation. 

He did have a lovely voice. Steph held out her hand to block his gaze and he huffed out a laugh. He tore his eyes away from the stage, swallowing thickly. 

“I didn't even know you were gay.” He muttered, turning back to Steph. She shook her head. 

“Oh, bisexual. You know I used to have a thing for Peter Spankoffski?” 

“Woof. That's a choice.” 

Steph laughed. 

“He's sweet! Just a little boring.” 

“They're all boring.” Max replied, and Steph's expression shifted. Max wished he hadn't said a word. This is why she stopped talking to him. He just couldn’t help himself.

“Watch it.” She was staring him down now. “They're all cool.”

“Yeah, right.” Max huffed, lowering himself in his seat. 

“I forgot you're an ass.” Steph stood up and walked off, leaving Max alone again to stew in her words. Max would never forget. 

“Okay, cast! Take ten.” Miss Mulberry clapped her hands, and Richie and Grace couldn't have run off stage faster if they tried. Max heard a slew of thank you ten s and wondered what that meant. 

He joined everyone else backstage, noting how the chatter quietened a little when he entered. Richie kept stealing glances while he was talking to Ruth. He looked somewhat distracted. Max marched over to the two, deciding he wasn't going to be shy. He was popular. Ruth eyed him dangerously, like she was goading him to walk closer. Max tried to appear unphased. 

“Richie. You sang really…well.” 

Richie stared at him blankly. 

“Oh, sorry, did you want something?” Richie eventually replied, looking him up and down. He was watching him warily. His whole body was tensed up, as if holding back something that was threatening to rear its head and bite. Max’s brows furrowed.

“No, no. I didn't.” He replied, matching Richie’s tone. He hadn’t intended on being hostile. Ruth crossed her arms. 

“Thank you. ” Richie faked a smile and brushed past him to get to Trevor. Ruth glared daggers at him before following Richie over. Max was entirely convinced that Ruth would kill him if they were left alone.

“You okay?” Max heard Ruth mutter. Richie nodded faintly, sparing Max the tiniest glance. It could've been perceived as unintentional if Max hadn't been staring right at him. Their eyes met for a fraction of a second. Max felt a pang in his stomach when he heard the way Ruth spoke to Richie. It was envy, it was sadness. Max would spend the rest of his life pining for a friendship like that. A soft, gentle one that wasn't led by constant attempts to one-up the other. Max’s friendships were more like rivalries. They weren't friends, not really. They tore each other down to feel better, it was constant. Drowning, pushing the others under to get the chance to breathe, only to be dragged back under again. Max didn't have a single real friend. And with the way he was, he never would. Maybe that was for the best. 

Richie was prickly. He'd lost his sad eyes and his stutter. Something had bittered him. Maybe it was Max’s fault. He watched him laughing stiffly with Trevor and Ruth, and something in his chest tightened. 

… 

“I'm exhausted.” Richie grumbled, walking out with Ruth by his side. His voice was tired from a day of running through songs. Miss Mulberry was ruthless when it came to rehearsals. He was looking forward to getting home and throwing himself onto the couch. 

“You and Grace did great though. I almost cried.” Ruth replied. Richie smiled down at her. 

“It doesn't take much to make you cry. I think Grace was a little mad at Steph for being so late.” 

“She should probably expect that by now. She's the queen of being fashionably late.” 

“That is true.”

Grace Chasity wasn't like Stephanie Lauter at all. There was definitely a time where she prided herself on that fact. Steph was understated, mysterious, a cool girl. She skipped class and she drank on the weekends. Grace, on the other hand, was a rule follower. She was meek, subservient, polite — a servant of God. She wouldn't dare do a single thing to put her eternal soul in jeopardy. 

Grace Chasity was also a lesbian. Not that she'd really understood it before Steph. 

It was easy to single out a girl like Grace. She was devout, to put it lightly. She didn't care to live her life the way other girls did. She managed to steer clear of men and relationships with ease. She was sure it was because she was loyal to her God. She never felt a single thing when she looked at a man, and that made her normal. 

When she met Stephanie, every ounce of normal left in her life slowly started to crumble away. Grace wasn't free of her urges. She'd just been looking in the wrong places.  

Stephanie was openly bisexual, and Grace knew that. Everyone did. She had never really had an issue with it. That was Steph's life, it made her happy. Grace had always just told herself that she'd never choose that lifestyle. She never really anticipated the lifestyle choosing her. 

Everything she'd been taught as a child was wrong. 

Steph made everything feel right. The first time Grace dared to sit next to her in class, it felt like something she'd been missing had just returned to her. It made her stomach churn in a way that felt different and nice. Their friendship moved on quickly, and Grace cherished every single blessed moment she spent with her.

Richie was one of the first to notice. Richie watched them eat lunch together once or twice, he watched them walk to class together every once in a while. He had his suspicions. Quickly, the shared lunches were an everyday occurrence, they were almost never seen without the other. The walks to class turned to hand holding in the corridor, and nobody could excuse the looks the two girls were trading anymore. 

Grace hadn't come out to her parents, and she probably never would. Richie understood more than anyone why she didn't want to. 

“Max is quieter than I expected.” Richie continued, and Ruth breathed out a laugh. 

“I think he's scared. I loved when you walked away from him, by the way. That was awesome.”

Richie smiled dimly, pretending he couldn't feel the guilt coiling around his gut. He had noticed Max’s face dropping. 

But he deserved it. Richie didn't need to feel guilty. 

“Speak of the devil.” Ruth murmured rushedly. “Jagerman, six o'clock. Behind you.” 

Richie turned around not-so-discreetly and saw Max speeding up to speak to them. 

“Oh, here we go.” Ruth stopped walking and turned around. Richie did the same, watching Max trip over himself and almost tumble onto the floor. 

“Richie.” 

“Max.” Richie’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. 

“I really did mean it. You do have a nice voice.”

Richie continued to stare at him, waiting for him to finish up his joke. Max was staring at him like he’d been caught stealing. It seemed he didn’t have any more to say. Richie couldn’t soak in compliments. It was easier to shrug them away, just in case they weren’t true. He’d been laughed at for accepting compliments before. He’d never forget being told he was a good dancer after a tap recital, and being cackled at when he smiled. He’d cried all night.

The two boys eyed each other anxiously, both equally wary of the other. It was like some kind of stand-off.

“Richie, come on!” Ruth was already walking away. She wasn’t going to wait around for Richie to snap out of whatever paralysis he was stuck in. 

“Thanks. I'll see you around.” Richie whispered, bowing his head down and trailing after Ruth. He turned around to see Max walking the other way, his hands jammed into his pockets. He wasn’t laughing or jeering. 

Maybe it was a long con. It’s not like he was complimenting Richie sincerely. That’d be the day. 

“Get your head in the game, Lipschitz.” Ruth pulled Richie back to reality with a playful slap to the back of his head. He said ow, even though it didn’t hurt. 

“Don't quote High-School Musical at me, Fleming.” 

“Then stop zoning out in the parking lot.”

“Forgive me for being a little flustered.” 

Ruth turned her head very slowly. 

“Flustered? Oh, Richie. Don't tell me you have a-”

“I do not! I don't!” Richie loudly cut across her, trying to stop her from finishing her sentence. 

“Don’t tell me you have a crush on Maxwell Jagerman.”

“I will bite you.”

“No, I will bite you. Are you out of your mind? You cannot. First of all, he used to pick on you. Secondly, he-”

“I don't have a crush on him! I swear.” Richie covered his face with his palms, trying to hide his flushed cheeks. Ruth tore his hands away from his face, shaking her head. 

“You were literally having a staring contest with the guy.” 

“Okay, hold on. He was staring at me.” 

“Swear on Paul.” She hissed, smiling when he immediately wilted. 

“You heartless wench.” Richie pushed her away with a barely concealed smile.

“Don't come to my apartment crying when you realise he sucks.” 

“Shut up, Ruth.” 

Richie pushed the door open, and Paul was standing in the kitchen waiting for him. He smiled warmly. 

“Hey bud.”

“Hi Paul.” Richie sat down at the kitchen island, resting his head on the cold granite. Based on Paul's tone, he wanted to have a conversation. He had obviously noticed Richie immediately locking himself into his room yesterday. 

Richie had been very quiet when he'd first moved in with Paul. His life had completely fallen apart, and if Paul didn't already know, he wouldn't have been able to tell. Richie refused to voice his feelings, because he had been raised to believe he wasn't supposed to speak. Seen and not heard. After years of gentle coaxing, Richie had gotten slightly better at communicating, and Paul had gotten significantly better at noticing when Richie had something bothering him. This usually resulted in Paul sitting him down to talk , which was undoubtedly what was about to happen. 

“Do you want to start?” Paul asked, sitting beside him. Richie sighed, wondering if he could plausibly pretend nothing was wrong. Paul wasn't stupid. 

“Two things. One, I got the role I wanted.” Richie raised his hand, stopping Paul before he could open his mouth. “ Two, Max Jagerman is a stagehand in the show, meaning I will have to interact with him. That's all.” Richie rushed through the second sentence, like Paul wouldn't react if he said it fast enough. 

“Max Jagerman, as in-”

“As in the one that picked on me until Trev made him stop.” He droned in response, already wanting to be elsewhere. He didn't want Paul to worry about things that didn't require it.

“Oh.” 

“I'll be fine.” Richie stood up, dropping his backpack by the door. Paul evidently wasn't going to take that as a valid response. 

“Richie.” He was giving him the look. The ‘there is nothing in this universe you could ever hide from me so you might as well just spit it out’ look. 

“He told me I had a nice voice.” Richie replied bluntly. He wasn’t in the mood to explain what that meant and what he was feeling right now. He wasn’t even fully sure how to vocalise it anyway. All he knew is that his heart rate still hadn’t returned to normal since that stand-off. Paul seemed to run through every expression all at once before settling on raised eyebrows and a slightly agape mouth. 

“He- what? I thought he said something- what?” 

“I'm going to do my homework.” 

“Richie?” Paul’s voice softened. Richie turned around. “I'm glad you got the role you wanted.” 

“Thanks.” 

Richie was not planning on starting his homework. He spent a good chunk of the evening staring at the ceiling with his headphones in, trying to untangle the mess of thoughts and feelings infesting his mind. 

What was Max’s issue? 

It was completely out of the question that he meant what he was saying, so Richie needed to figure out why. 

He needed a friend. A friend to help him through the show that he could dump afterward. That was it. Richie was over-analysing this. 

Trevor let himself into Richie’s room while he was deep in thought, throwing himself onto the bed and making Richie yelp. He pulled off his headphones and threw them at Trevor, who easily dodged them. 

“You scared me, asshole.” 

“You were sighing really loud.” Trevor replied, sprawling out on Richie’s bed and closing his eyes. 

“You were listening through the door.”

“You're not that interesting, don't flatter yourself.” 

Trevor was going to stay until Richie told him. He didn't even need to say so. This was their usual routine. If one of them acted off, the other annoyed them into a confession. 

“Max complimented me and I'm confused.” Trevor rolled over on his side to meet Richie’s gaze. He was already grinning. “Don't smile at me like that.”

“No, no. Keep going.”

“He told me he liked my singing and I kinda just… pushed it away? Because there's no way he meant that, right? But then he came back after rehearsals and told me he meant it. What is he even trying to do? Like, he's just looking for a friend, right? But if he was doing that, why wouldn't he just talk to Steph? Steph can talk to literally anyone. I don't get him.” Richie ended his statement with a loud UGH , and Trevor let out a single giggle before pursing his lips together. 

“Oh, buddy.” Trevor wiped a non-existent tear from his eye. 

“What?” Richie had little patience for Trevor’s giggling. Trevor knew something. 

“You didn't hear this from me.” He pointed an accusatory hand at Richie, like he was expecting him to immediately pull out his phone and text Ruth. He was probably right. “Max Jagerman seems to have a bit of a bisexual streak.” 

“ WHAT?”

“All I'm saying is, you wouldn't catch him complimenting his buddies like that.” 

“Trevor, what the fuck are you implying?” Trevor’s smile was starting to freak Richie out a little. 

“What do you think I'm implying?” Trevor pulled himself up and made for the door. 

“Hey, hey, don't just say that and leave!” Richie dived off his bed and tried to grab Trevor's leg. “Aren't you supposed to be discouraging me? Tell me I'm crazy for talking to him, or something!”

“Don't get me wrong, I hate the guy. But, I says what I sees.” Trevor side stepped before Richie could grab his leg, saluting him and grabbing the door handle. 

“You didn’t see anything.” 

“I says what I hears.”

“WAIT!” 

“Think!” Trevor closed the door and left Richie on the floor with his arm outstretched. 

“I HATE YOU!” 

“BOYS, NO FIGHTING!” Paul yelled from the living room. 

Richie grabbed his phone, planning on texting Ruth to complain about his evil brother but being immediately derailed by a new notification. 

[NEW FRIEND REQUEST]

jagermeister2003 has requested to follow you. 

…

[NEW]

rlipschitzz has accepted your follow request. 

rlipschitzz followed you back! 

Max wanted to make things right. It seemed obvious, but complimenting Richie felt nice . It felt right. He was to used to the back and forth of being insulted and sending it right back. He was good at that part. He could be witty and take the insults and pretend they didn't sting. Giving a compliment felt important. It meant something. Even if Richie wasn't receptive, it still meant something. Max had kindness in him, despite what he thought and how he'd been made to feel. Something was blooming, deep in him. He could be kind and he wanted to befriend this part of himself. 

He didn't want this to be fleeting. Max didn't want to drown anymore. 

Sunday [13:12]

Monday [03:57]

[04:03]

“But enough about me and Grace, how was your weekend, Richie?” 

Richie barely slept last night. He spent most of it overthinking everything about the conversation he had with Max. He was now half asleep, barely listening to Ruth talk with Steph and Grace. He had managed to stay awake until lunchtime, and now he was ready to nap in the cafeteria. It was overcrowded as usual, full of chatter and students throwing food at each other. Richie missed when Ruth would eat in the library with him. Now she wanted to talk to Steph and Grace every day. He would never say it, but Richie didn’t like Steph much. It felt like she lived on another planet most of the time. One full of glitz and glamour and perfection and ignorance. He didn’t really understand how Grace managed to connect to her. They seemed so different. 

“Richie?” Steph poked his head, and he reluctantly lifted it up to meet her gaze. 

“Hi Steph.”

“How was your weekend?” She repeated, carefully enunciating each word, like he was a toddler. 

“Wonderful.” He responded, yawning. 

“Any new Max Jagerman related news? Were you up all night pining like a lovesick puppy?” Ruth asked, and Richie wasn't able to mask his expression quickly enough. She caught his eyes widening and latched onto it. “Richie.”

“What did I miss?” Grace leaned forward, glaring daggers at Richie. 

“Richie.”

“Look. We texted. It was-” Richie felt Ruth pull his phone out of his pocket before he could even finish his sentence. “RUTH!” He grabbed it back, slapping her wrist. She pouted. 

“What did you say to him. Tell me. Tell me. Tell me. T-”

“You are so annoying.” Richie hushed her loudly. “We talked. I was a huge asshole and he was completely undeterred, so we talked some more. He wants to be friends.” 

“And you believe that?” Grace cut in, and Ruth fiercely nodded in agreement. Steph didn't say a word. 

“I don't know.” Richie sighed. He really didn't. 

“He's a creep.” 

“Richie. He is using you because he has no friends.” Ruth’s voice was sharp. Richie wanted to be left alone. He was already on his last tether. “And you have no friends, so he thinks you're a perfect match!”

“Ouch.”

“I'm kidding.”

Richie grabbed his bag and muttered something about going to the library. Ruth sighed loudly.

Richie was starting to think he’d bitten off more than he could chew. Rehearsals were already draining energy he didn’t even know he had. Grace, on the other hand, seemed to have infinite energy and she was snippy today. He was well accustomed to Grace , but she did wear on him on the harder days. 

“Richie, you’re saying that line with the wrong cadence.” She grabbed his script out of his hands before he could protest, pointing to a line he had underlined. “You’re saying, 'what are you doing here?’ when really, it should be, ‘what are you doing here?’ Do you get it? I just think you’re a little off with the delivery.” 

Richie bit down on his lip, giving her a thumbs up. She nodded with a smile and returned to reading through her script. Richie couldn’t stop himself from nervously glancing at the doors. Max didn’t need to come in for another half an hour, but he could still feel his chest tightening whenever he thought about it. This was a different kind of fear. 

I cannot crush on Max Jagerman. That’s just destructive. I’m supposed to be on a healing journey. Whatever that is. 

“Richie, can you please focus? I feel like you’re not fully…” She trailed off when Richie slammed his script onto the ground and stepped off the stage. She traded a look with Miss Mulberry, who clapped her hands and called for a ten minute break. She called out to Richie, but he was leaving.

He needed a minute. Sometimes the anger built up until it was too big for Richie to control by himself. It grew and spread and splintered until it was towering above him, controlling his every action. This kind of anger couldn’t be wrangled by reassurance or kind words. Forcing out deep breaths, he sped down the corridor towards the bathroom stalls. He was sick of everyone and everything. Paul would be telling him to take a breather right now, so that’s what he was going to do. He was going to walk to the bathrooms and take a good, long breather. He wasn’t going to punch, or yell, or make it someone else’s problem, because he was different now. 

Richie had always been an angry kid, and sometimes it felt like people expected it all to go away just because his life was different now. Richie tried his absolute hardest to fit that perception. He kept it all locked behind his eyes, looking at the world spitefully, bitterly but refusing to express any of it. He wasn’t affected by the first thirteen years of his life at all. Nothing before Paul was real, it didn’t happen. Richie had no right to be this angry over everything all the time. He was going to be chipper and happy, and compliant . No one wants a kid that speaks too loud. No one would love the kind of kid that punches holes in school bathroom stalls. 

Richie made it to the stalls and locked himself in. The bathroom seemed to be empty. 

“Richie? What is going on?” Ruth’s voice boomed down the corridor, and Richie didn’t make a sound until her footsteps were walking in the opposite direction. 

He was taking a breather. 

Deep breaths could only satiate so much. Richie launched his fist into the door of the stall and imagined Paul’s disappointed face when he got the call from Miss Mulberry. 

Richie had another little hiccup. I think it would be best if you took him home. 

Richie cried out and stumbled back, clutching his fist. Things started to feel jumbled after that. 

“JESUS! God! Who the fuck was that?” 

Richie was not alone. 

He peered out of the now prominent hole in his stall, to see Max eyeing him nervously. 

Of course.  

Max seemed to completely reboot when he saw who he was looking at. 

“Richie?” He was quiet. Frightened. 

Richie looked down at his swollen clenched fist and he started to cry. Max’s face plummeted and his eyes filled with panic. He seemed to be at a loss of what to do. Richie stepped out of the stall and Max cautiously walked to his side, wincing a little when he looked at Richie’s fist. 

“Hey. Woah. Why did you do that?” 

“I got angry, you fucking idiot. Why do you think I did it?” He snapped, trying to wipe his tears away. Paul was going to be so disappointed. Max was watching him carefully, like he thought he was completely out of his mind. 

His eyes were soft. 

“I got mad. Just leave me alone.” 

Max didn’t move. 

“You need an ice pack or something.” He muttered. 

“I don’t.” Richie pulled his sleeve over his hand, like it would get rid of the throbbing pain. Richie had never seen Max wearing an expression like this before. It was like he was worried, like he cared . That was a funny thought. Richie would laugh if he wasn’t trembling. 

Max slowly reached forward to grab Richie’s wrist. Richie's stomach twisted, and he rushedly whipped his arm back. They briefly locked eyes, and Richie's mind turned to static. No one had ever looked at him like that before. 

Part of him wanted to offer his arm back. He wanted to be comforted. Richie hugged his waist, squeezing his torso tight with his functioning hand. He wished he had his weighted vest. 

“I’m– going to get you an ice pack.” Max rushed out, and Richie resigned himself to the trouble he was about to be in. 

Richie silently got into the car, waiting for a lecture that didn’t come. Paul was just looking at him. His eyes were so sad. Richie felt the lump in his throat return. 

“I’m sorry.” He whispered, swallowing thickly. He couldn’t look Paul in the eye. Paul started the car, sighing quietly. The silence hurt more than yelling ever could. “I’m sorry.” He repeated, a little louder. It was a plea. Talk to me. 

“I know you’re sorry.” Paul murmured, pulling out of the parking lot and keeping his eyes locked to the street. Richie sniffled, trying to pull himself together. “We're driving to the emergency room. You probably broke your thumb.” He sounded so robotic. Not warm and kind like he always was. Richie knew he broke his thumb. He punched with it tucked into his fingers, like an idiot. The first mistake was punching that stall in the first place, but he was past that. 

“Are you mad at me?” 

Paul sighed gently. 

“Not much. I’m just– surprised. Disappointed.”

That hurt more than any kind of rage would. Any kind of yelling would just phase right through him. The disappointment festered. It grew and spread, twisting itself into places it didn't belong, like a poison ivy. Richie felt it sprouting and there was nothing he could do to stop it. He wrapped a lock of his hair around his finger and tugged hard. 

“Where’s Trevor?”

“Rudolph’s.”

“Okay.”

“I was supposed to go out with Emma today.”

“Look, I'm fucking sorry, okay?” Richie snapped, instantly wishing he hadn't said anything. Paul sighed again, a little louder. The ivy grew spikes. “I'm sorry.” He softened his voice.

“Do you want to tell me what happened? Miss Mulberry told me what the Jagerman boy told her, but it wasn’t much.” It wasn’t really a question. Paul was going to make him spill it regardless.

What had Max told her? Why had Max helped? 

He'd grabbed Richie’s arm. Even amongst the guilt and anger, he'd been unable to forget that part. It was sticking around, slotting into the parts of his mind the poison ivy left vacant. 

“Richie?” 

“Alright. I’ve been on edge all day. Grace was… she was bugging me, and I stormed off. I was trying to take a breather, I really was. I went to the bathroom and I was trying. I was breathing.” Richie paused, his voice starting to waver. “I really tried.” 

“I believe you.” Paul replied. “We just need to work a little harder, you and me.” 

“I know.” Richie leaned against the window and cried. 

Chapter Text

Rehearsals ended early. Miss Mulberry had forms to fill out because of what Richie did, and Max had to stay behind to answer questions. He didn’t know much. He’d been in a stall on his phone, and Richie had stormed in, barely breathing. Max listened to him struggle to compose himself, and then he heard a loud crash. He left the stall to see Richie standing by the wrecked stall door. That was when Max realised he and Richie weren’t so different. He'd been unable to forget the hurt in Richie’s eyes. It was like a mirror. 

Monday [19:04]

“Dad, I’m going out!” Max yelled from his doorstep, and then he slammed the door shut before he could yell back. He had plans with his friends, not that he really wanted to go. He’d be endlessly made fun of if he dipped out, so he was going. Nothing sounded worse than drinking at a friend’s house right now. His mind was elsewhere. He was worried about Richie. He had never felt so strongly about a person before. 

He grabbed his skateboard from the shed beside his house and took off. The wind on his face was a little nice. He’d felt red hot for most of the evening. Maybe he was coming down with something. He didn’t feel sick at all. It was easier to act like he did. It made things feel like they made sense. He skated along faster and tried to bat the thoughts away. 

Max hated the feeling of being drunk. He needed control, and alcohol slowly took it from him, bit by bit. Max had seen and experienced what alcohol did to a person, over and over. He remembered being a scared kid and swearing to himself that he’d never, ever touch alcohol. Yet, here he was, sitting on the floor with his friends, barely grasping reality. Whose house was he in? He wasn’t even sure what his friends were talking about anymore. He would rather be texting Richie. 

“Maxie, what’s Shitlips like?” Kyle Clauger grabbed Max by the shoulder, laughing a little too loud. Max tensed up. “Bet he’s as dorky as ever.” 

Max didn’t respond, his tongue dry as cotton. 

“He's strange. People only talk to him now because of Trevor.” Jason added, and the group laughed. Max was sick of these people. The group howled even louder when they realised he wasn’t going to say a word. Max’s eyes were fluttering. 

“You gonna defend him?”

“Is he your best friend now? Your theatre buddy?” 

Max pushed himself up and tried not to waver. His head was throbbing. 

“I think I hate all of you.” He slurred, turning to leave and hearing a slew of loud rushed apologies and ‘we’re kidding, dude!’ from the group. Max didn’t care to listen. He wanted to go home. Something had shifted. He wasn't sure he wanted to be friends with people like that anymore. Not that he'd ever been any better. Where was this righteousness coming from? 

The world was spinning by the time he got home. He felt deathly ill. He managed to stumble into his room without collapsing. Leaning against the wall, he lowered himself onto the floor and sat with his head against the wall. 

He was twelve the first time he got drunk. It wasn’t long after his mother left the world. He knew his father drank to drown his sorrows, and Max had really wanted to forget for a little while. He remembered stealing cans and sneaking out. It had felt rebellious at the time. Like he was a real adult, drinking beer cans alone out in the dark. Max learned that night that he was a sad drunk. It hadn’t drowned his sorrows at all, it had amplified them tenfold. He had cried until his voice was gone, and the memory got fuzzy after that. Max didn’t touch alcohol for a long time after that, afraid of what thoughts would surface if he drank again. 

Max started to doze off, and he was vaguely grateful that exhaustion took him before his mind could. 

…

Richie woke up the next morning with what was possibly the worst headache he'd ever had. The ceiling appeared to be vibrating, his lips were bone dry, and his hand felt like it had endured a tonne weight falling on it. The doctor had managed to bandage it up yesterday, but it still sent sharp pangs through his whole body whenever he tried to move it. In his daze, he grabbed the water on his nightstand and greedily gulped down the whole glass. It didn't help much. He pushed his sweat-soaked hair off his forehead and groaned. There was no way Paul was going to let him stay home. He laid back down flat, and patted down his nightstand with his functioning hand to grab his phone. 

Richie dropped his phone directly onto his face, and it hit his nose. He let out a loud yelp, grabbing his nose and cursing loudly. Everyone else in the apartment was definitely awake now. Richie read through the text from Max again, praying it was just a headache induced hallucination. It was unfortunately real. 

“Up and at ‘em, buddy.” Paul rapped on Richie’s door, Richie groaned loudly and rolled over onto his stomach. He'd suffocate if he was lucky. 

“I'm up.” He grumbled, his voice muffled by the pillow. 

“Hand update?”

“Hurts real bad.”

“I bet.”

Richie dragged himself out of bed, driven only by the need for a coffee. He quickly got dressed and walked out to the kitchen. Trevor was already sitting at the kitchen island with a slice of toast in hand, looking as dapper as ever. He didn't seem to have bad hair days. Richie struggled to believe they were even related sometimes, even if they were identical. 

“Morning, sleepyhead.” Trevor pushed the mug beside him over to Richie. “Made it for you. Figured you wouldn't be able to without a hand.”

Richie was trying to figure out if that was a dig. He figured it wasn't worth the bickering. 

“Thanks, Trev.” He sipped on the coffee slowly, trying to focus on the taste. His head was still throbbing. “Do we have Tylenol?”

“No idea.” 

“Could you look?”

“No way.” 

 Richie took in a deep breath. The world was already testing his patience. 

“Paul, do we have Tylenol?” He called down the hallway. 

“In the cabinet!” Paul called back. Richie turned back to Trevor with a glare. 

“See how easy that was?” He grumbled, pulling the box out of the cabinet. 

“Yeah, so you had no issue doing it.”

“You are such a-”

“Boys.” Paul's stern voice cut Richie off before he could finish his retort, which was probably for the best. “Hurry up with breakfast, Rich. Traffic is bad and I need to get you two to school on time.” 

“Okay.”

Richie didn't have any classes with Ruth until after lunch. He could avoid her a little longer. He felt horrible about it, but he just couldn't bring himself to explain himself to her right now. He just needed to get through the morning without drawing too much attention to himself. Keep his head down, hide his hand, talk to nobody unless addressed. Keep my head down keep my head down keep my head down keep-

“Ow!”

“Shit!”

Richie had walked straight into Max, because of course he had. Max dived right into apologising, and Richie stared him down until he stopped. 

“It's okay.” He replied. “It's– nice to see you?” Richie hadn’t meant to make it sound like a question. 

“Yeah. You too. Thanks.” Max smiled awkwardly. Richie managed to smile back like a human being. Almost. “Well, I'll see you at lunch.”

“Yeah. For sure.” Richie bowed his head down and walked on. He was an idiot. An idiot who walked into his … not love interest, like he was in some kind of rom-com. But this was not a romantic comedy, because Richie did not like Maxwell Jagerman. Even if he did , nothing about Richie’s current circumstances exactly screamed comedic.

“Keep your head down, you said.” He muttered to himself, shaking his head. “Fucking idiot.” 

Richie shuffled into the cafeteria, the loud chatter hitting him like a wave. He clutched his tray nervously, squinting and trying to find where everyone else was sitting. He eventually spotted Ruth waving him over and he rushed over. Her eyes were following him the whole way. He sat down beside her, and across from Steph and Grace. Grace was eyeing him guiltily. 

“So.” Ruth pulled Richie's arm and laid it on the table. “Explain.”

“There's not much to tell. You've probably heard all there is to know.” He murmured sheepishly. Ruth sighed and turned away. 

“Richie, I'm sorry.” Grace said softly. She looked torn up. “I was a little stressed yesterday and maybe I was too pushy.” 

“It's okay, Grace.” Richie smiled gently. “I could've said something.” 

The table fell quiet. Ruth was angry. Steph was scrolling on her phone, not paying any attention to anyone. Richie scanned the room for Trevor, seeing him sitting at a table alone with Rudolph. It was a change. Usually Trevor was sitting at tables packed full of popular kids. Now he seemed content with just his boyfriend. Richie liked Rudolph. He was an exchange student from Sweden, and Richie knew they would end up together the moment Trevor rushed over to greet him when he first arrived. Aside from Trevor’s painfully obvious heart eyes, he had a type. Richie hadn’t bought his “I want to make sure he feels at home!” defense for even a second.

Max wasn't here yet. He wasn't sitting at the football team's usual table. Richie wondered if he'd actually sit with them today. Maybe he'd have second thoughts, realise that Richie wasn't someone you kept around. Richie would never be intimidating enough to frighten away someone like Max, but he was certainly unstable enough. 

He was trying to be better though, right? Richie was meant to be trying. 

Max was probably not going to sit with him. 

“Hey!” 

Richie was dragged out of his haze by Max’s slightly nervous voice. He was standing in front of their table with an apple in hand. He smiled awkwardly. The rest of the table stared at him like he was a martian. Ruth looked like she was killing him with her mind. 

“Hi Max.” Richie turned back to the table. “Can he sit with us?”

Ruth vigorously shook her head and made wild no motions with her hands. Steph just shrugged and pushed up a little to make room. Grace pulled a book out of her bag and kept her eyes fixed to it. 

“Thanks.” Max sat down. Ruth crossed her arms and pointedly turned her head to the side. The tension was already palpable. Steph decided to break the silence. 

“Grace walked into a door today.”

“Steph!” Grace’s head shot up, betrayed, and she giggled. “I told you that in confidence.”

Ruth let out a quiet giggle and then tried to pretend she didn't. She was trying her absolute hardest to avoid acknowledging anyone at the table.

Max was smiling along, looking a little lost. Richie stared at him for a moment. 

“So you're not hungover?” Richie asked, and Max shook his head with a grin. 

“Nuh uh.” 

“Why are we making a bully feel welcome?” Ruth asked loudly. The table went silent. Richie tried to give Ruth a look, but she wasn't looking at him. Her eyes were on fire. 

“Ruth, you're right.” Max muttered. “Look, I'm sorry about everything I-”

“Quiet. Spare me the bullshit. Are you sorry?” Ruth leaned forward a little, staring daggers right into his soul. “Are you actually sorry , or are you just trying to blend in until the show is over? So you can go back to being a piece of shit?”

“Ruth.”

Ruth glanced Richie over. 

“You're outnumbered by the people you would bully if they were alone, so now you're being all lovely.” She looked at them both. “Lovey I should say.” She grabbed her backpack and stood up, slinging it over her shoulder. Steph looked stunned, and Grace was wide eyed, both watching it all unfold. Neither seemed particularly interested in defusing the situation. If anything, Grace looked a little entertained. “I'm not going to sit here and make you feel welcome. I hope you got your laughs, or whatever you were looking for.” 

“Ruth, hold on.” Richie followed her out of the cafeteria, stopping her. She turned to him, her eyes glossy with tears. 

“Why don't you have any respect for yourself?” She asked quietly. “Max was always nasty to you and you always let it slide.” 

Richie blinked at her, at a loss for words. Ruth swallowed thickly, tilting her head upward to stop tears from falling. 

“Do you even want me to be happy?”

“Are you fucking serious? Do you think he's going to make you happy? Are you seriously dense enough to think that?” Ruth's voice grew loud enough to grab the attention of most of the cafeteria. Richie glanced around anxiously before turning back to glare at her. He felt a stab in his chest at how jagged her words were. She was mean when she got going. Not that Richie was a peach, either. They were the perfect pair when it came to feuding. 

“Don't act like you know him.”

“I know you, Richie! I know you. I know you're fucking boy-crazy , and you're naïve, and you're-”

“I am not naïve!” Richie cut across her, his voice somehow rising above hers in volume. “Why are you being so controlling?”

Ruth's eyes narrowed. 

“You know what controlling is, Richie. That's not me.”

Richie stiffened at the indirect mention of his parents. 

“Don’t talk about that. Don’t use that against me.”

“I'm not. I'm not.”

“I'm not boy-crazy.”

Ruth opened her mouth to speak. Richie was already eyeing her nervously. He knew exactly what sentence was on the tip of her tongue. Her stare was withering. 

then why did you go and fall in love with him?

His eyes briefly flitted over to look at Max. Even in her anger, Ruth couldn't bring herself to get the words out.

“I'll fucking see you at rehearsals, I guess.” 

The poison ivy was back, coiling around his heart. He didn't pull it away, he let his chest tighten. Richie watched her walk away. 

i always let it slide. 

Richie walked home alone after rehearsals. Ruth got a lift home. It felt wrong to be without her. It was lonely. Just him, his earbuds, and the biting cold air. Everything seemed less colourful. He felt like crying. He rarely fought with Ruth. They bickered almost constantly, but it never mattered. It never left him feeling awful. Maybe she was right. Richie let everything slide. As much as he tried to be prickly and rude to protect himself, he would always buckle when defending himself felt like too big of a task. He was naive. One conversation was enough to mostly dissolve his fears. What happened to the walls he put up to stop this from happening? 

Right, the boy-crazy part. He was putting himself in danger for a boy. It was like he’d learned nothing at all. 

Maybe he was wrong about Max. He wasn’t reformed, or even trying to be. Maybe Richie’s initial reservations were correct. He was another cruel jock, just like the rest of them. He was probably texting his friends and cackling right now. 

But he'd been so kind. 

Richie didn't really know what kindness was. 

Richie let himself into the apartment, and he immediately felt a lump in his throat. It’s like he subconsciously waited for the most embarrassing time to burst into tears. 

“Hey, buddy. How was your– hey.” Paul's eyes softened as Richie’s face scrunched up and he started to cry. “Hey. It's okay.” He pulled Richie into a hug. 

“I'm sorry.”

“It's okay, buddy. It's fine.” Paul soothed, sounding a little confused. 

“Me and Ruth had a fight.” He sniffled, and Paul sighed softly. 

“Oh, buddy. I'm sorry. You two will figure it out. You always do.” 

Richie buried his head in Paul's shoulder and tried to believe that. 

Trevor was knocking on his door. Richie was not listening. His room was a mess, a result of his own temper tantrum, turned breakdown. Richie lay in the middle of this man-made bomb site, tears streaming down his cheeks. 

“Richie, what the fuck is going on in there? Is there an active tornado warning I missed?” 

Richie hurled a shoe at his bedroom door. 

“Leave me alone!” He yelled, throwing another shoe when Trevor knocked again. 

“Richie, if you don’t open this fucking door, I’m going to break it open myself and call Paul. Do you want him to miss a second date because of your anger issues?”

Richie let out a frustrated screech and dragged himself to his feet to tear the door open. Trevor stood in the doorway with his hands on his hips while he surveyed the room. Richie stood in front of him, seething. 

“Do you feel better?” 

Richie desperately wanted to punch him. He had enough self control left to know that would get him in even more trouble. He took a deep breath, sitting back down in the pile of clothes and scraps of paper. He shook his head. Trevor nodded knowingly, stepping into the room and making a point to dramatically step over the mess. He saw Richie’s open phone beside him and leaned forward to swipe it before Richie could protest. One glance at the screen was enough for Trevor to wince. 

“Okay, wow . I will be confiscating this until you get your shit together.” 

“Give me my phone, Trevor.” Richie’s eyes were glinting dangerously. Trevor was completely undeterred. “Give me my phone.” 

“You’re not the one calling the shots right now, buddy. Do you want help cleaning this… room or not?” 

“I want you to get the fuck out.” 

Trevor sighed. 

“I’m keeping your phone.”

The door clicked shut and Richie let out a pathetic sob. He was a complete mess. A melodramatic, idiotic mess. 

…

Max felt his heart jolt. 

He clutched his phone, hands shaking a little as he stared at the texts. Richie hadn’t talked to him at all after Ruth stormed out of the cafeteria. He’d muttered something about overdue homework and left. 

Max hurled his phone against the wall and hoped it would break. 

Max paced up and down the corridor all morning, waiting for Richie to arrive. Those weren’t the texts of someone who was okay. He needed to see him to know he hadn’t done something drastic. 

The corridor was always fairly crowded at this time of morning, and Richie wasn't particularly tall. It would be hard to pick him out even if he was here. Max eventually decided to camp out by his locker and wait. The first bell had already rung, and he still wasn't there. Ruth had already left to go to class, after sitting on a bench with her arms crossed, pouting for twenty minutes. Max felt responsible for the squabble Ruth and Richie had. He was responsible. If Max had just sat somewhere else, Ruth wouldn't have snapped, Richie might still want to talk to him and nothing would be wrong. His friends, old friends, were eyeing him cautiously, like they were expecting him to blow up once he laid eyes on them. He didn't care about those people anymore. He probably never cared. 

Max nervously flattened his hair, scanning the groups of students for Richie's familiar blue hair. Max wasn't wearing hair gel for once, deciding last night that he'd outgrown it. It was too much effort anyway. Max lost any hope of Richie arriving when the second bell rang. He slung his bag over his shoulder with a sigh and walked to class. 

“Max? Earth to Max? I called your name. Speak up or I'm marking you absent.” 

“I'm here. Aren't you fucking looking at me?” Max glared up at the algebra teacher. 

“Watch your tone.”

Max's mind was elsewhere. His phone was at home and he had no way of knowing if Richie was okay. Roll call was the least of his worries right now. The clock always seemed to tick louder when he was nervous. Richie’s anxiety must've been rubbing off on him. 

Lunch came and went. Max sat with Steph and allowed his mind to drift. She didn’t seem to mind, telling him Grace was at poetry club. Ruth was sitting with Pete, which had been a rare occurrence lately, according to Steph. 

“They drifted apart,” she'd said, “Ruth and Richie were always the duo. I think Pete got sick of it. He usually hangs with PJ and Reese these days.” 

Max didn't really care about the inner workings of Richie’s friend group. He just wanted to hear his voice. 

“Steph?” He might've cut her off mid sentence, but Max needed to voice his thoughts immediately or they would drift away. 

“What's up.”

“Do you know Richie’s address?” 

Steph blinked at him, considering. 

“I… do? You know the shitty apartment complex by Pinebrook? Like, not in Pinebrook, but the one that's like a five minute walk away and somehow ten times more hideous.”

Max nodded slowly, his brows furrowed a little. That seemed a little unnecessary. 

“Right.”

“Okay, so, it's that one. Apartment 412. He lives with his uncle. He's chill as hell, he'd probably let you in.”

“Thanks, Steph.” Max rushedly scribbled that down on his hand, mentally telling himself to keep that part of his hand dry for the rest of the day.

“Oh yeah, why do you ask?” Steph asked, frowning when she realised she’d given the address without even asking why. “You're not gonna kill him, are you?”

“Jesus, no. I just want to check in. He's barely been texting me and now he's not here.” 

She gave him a look. He couldn't parse what it meant. 

“You should know, this is normal for Richie.” She murmured. “He has off days. Off weeks.” 

Max just stared at her. 

“You could still stop by. I just don't know if he'd want to see you. He sends Ruth home on his worst days.”

Max nodded, falling silent. He had never really noticed when Richie wasn't in school before. How often did he stay home? The more he unravelled, the more worried he became. 

“Ruth?” Max had been waiting by the main entrance at the end of the day, hoping he would see Ruth walk out. About ten minutes after the final bell, she walked out with her headphones on, still scowling. Max rushed forward and tapped her shoulder. She pulled off her headphones and stared at him like she wanted him dead.

“What.”

“I'm going to see Richie because I'm worried about him.” He replied rushedly, and Ruth's eyes softened just a little. “And I just- I just hope you don't damage your friendship because of me.”

“Why are you trying to ruin everything, then? If you want me and Richie to be so happy, then just fuck off.” 

“Look, do you want to come with me or not? That's what I was going to ask.”

“Me and Richie live in the same complex. I can see him whenever I want.” She replied, crossing her arms. “I'm still mad.”

“At him?”

Ruth hesitated. She let out a long sigh, and some of the anger seemed to evaporate. 

“I don't even know what. Could you just–make sure he's okay for me?” 

“Alright.” Max nodded. Ruth nodded back, her eyes a little watery. She put her headphones back on and rushed off, wiping her eyes. She might've whispered a thank you . He couldn't tell. 

…

“Morning, bud. Time to get up.” Paul gently knocked on Richie’s door, pushing it open and peering inside. Richie was rolled up in his blanket on the floor, clutching one of his whale plushies. His eyes were red and blotchy. The room was still a mess.

“I'm sick.” He croaked, each word feeling like stabs in his throat. He needed a glass of water badly. 

“Did you fall out of bed?”

What an unnecessary question. 

Paul walked inside, kneeling down in front of him and pressing his hand against his forehead. Richie didn't have a temperature and he knew it. Paul eyed him carefully, and he had definitely noticed that Richie had been crying most of the night. His eyelids were completely swollen. “You don't have a fever.” 

“I'm sick.” Richie repeated, a little more defiant. He felt like a kid.

“I believe you, Rich. Let's just get you back onto your actual bed. ” Paul grabbed Richie’s blanket and lobbed it back onto the bed. Richie crawled back underneath the covers and pulled the blanket over his head. Richie felt the mattress shift as Paul sat down at the edge of the bed. “You really sick? Or are you having a bad day?” 

“The latter.” Richie grumbled. He wanted to sleep for the rest of his life. Paul would never let him ruin his life like that. But he could rest for a little while. His parents would've dragged him out of bed and forced him to school by now. 

He screwed everything up. With Max, with Ruth. He had no reason to go to school, or even get up ever again.

If Max had even been genuine about being his friend, he certainly wasn’t going to try anymore. It was just typical of him to blow everything up before anyone else had the chance to. He was all alone, just like he was when he was a little kid. Back before Ruth, before anybody. He was in control of everything back then. 

“I'll call you when I'm on my break, okay?” Paul stood up and made for the door. Richie didn't respond. Paul looked around the room, and Richie couldn't quite parse what his expression meant. He was going to assume it was shame. It was probably always shame. “You need Trevor to get anything from a teacher for you?” 

“No.” 

Richie hadn't been doing any of his assignments lately anyway. 

Being home alone used to feel like a novelty. Richie used to make popcorn, and play music on the TV as loud as he wanted. He would sing at the top of his lungs and dance around the apartment, pretending for a little while that he was good enough to be a real performer. Richie didn't feel that same excitement anymore. Being home alone left more empty space for Richie’s mind to drift away. Daydreaming used to be an escape, but now it was taking him to places darker than his reality was.

Richie was woken up again by Paul calling him at lunch. After dozens of concerned rapid fire questions, Richie was able to hang up. He dragged himself out of bed after that and brought his blanket out to the living room. He made a cocoon for himself on the couch and played the TV at full volume. He couldn't have any coherent thoughts if they were all drowned out. Richie’s go-to comfort movie would've been Ponyo, but that was the movie he always watched with Ruth. He felt sick when he thought about her. He decided to watch Moana instead. He usually watched that one with Paul. It was his favourite thing in the world, watching Paul pretend to hate it while stealing glances at the screen when he thought Richie wasn't looking. 

He could’ve shown Max his favourite movies. 

Richie was already dozing off again, and he didn't really see any point in fighting against it. 

Richie jolted awake, letting out an involuntary gasp and looking around the room. That's right. He fell asleep in the living room. The Moana end credits were playing, and the sun wasn't peeking through the window anymore. It wasn't dark yet, though. If Richie were to guess, it was around three in the afternoon. He ruffled his hair, grimacing upon feeling how greasy it was. He was repulsive. 

A second knock on the door reminded Richie why he'd jolted awake like that. It was a polite knock, almost unsure. Hopefully it was someone knocking on the wrong door. He unfurled himself from his blanket cocoon and trudged over to the door. He looked through the peephole and felt his heart plummet. 

Richie took a deep breath, pulling himself together and unlocking the door. He couldn’t even pretend to smile.

“Max…” Richie trailed off when Max stepped forward and pulled him into a hug. Richie stood completely still for a moment, stunned. He slowly wrapped his arms around Max and hugged him back. “Why are you here?” 

“I was… worried.” He admitted. 

All Richie could do was stare. He was really here. 

“I was so mean to you.” 

“Call it payback.” Max replied, cracking a smile. Richie eventually came out of his shock enough to realise Max was still standing in the doorway. 

“Come inside. It’s cold.” 

“It’s actually not too cold.” 

“Just come in.” Richie grabbed Max’s arm and pulled him inside, shutting the door behind them. “Why would you come to see me after I said all of that?” 

“You didn’t seem… well.” Max replied slowly. He wasn’t wrong about that. Richie wasn’t sure he fully remembered last night’s rant. “And I needed to tell you in person that I’m not doing this to make fun of you, or mock you, or whatever the fuck. We’re friends now, Lipschitz. Can’t reverse it now.” 

Richie swallowed thickly, his eyes locked to Max as they started to water. 

“Oh, okay.” He croaked, trying to sound casual, but very obviously about to cry. Max was here and he cared. He really did care. 

“Ruth asked about you.” 

Richie sat down on the couch, choosing to ignore that. Max sat across from him. 

“She’s worried.”

“I’m sure she is.” Richie muttered. Suddenly he didn’t feel like talking anymore. He pulled the loose blanket back over his head. He heard Max sigh. 

“She’s a really good friend, Richie.”

“I’m sure she is.” 

…

They ended up watching a movie together. Richie didn't seem very interested in talking, and Max wasn't particularly interested in leaving. He didn't like the idea of leaving Richie alone. 

Richie’s apartment was a lot cosier than Max’s house was. Max had heard people say you could tell when a house was loved, and he'd never really understood it until now. The furniture was old and slightly tattered, but still well taken care of. There were family photos lining the walls, along with old sloppily drawn paintings. Drawings, doodles, all hung up like they were significant. The fridge was barely visible behind dozens of magnets and more paintings. The wall beside the couch was covered in height markers for Richie and Trevor. 

Richie 2018: 5”2

Trevor 2018: 5”6

Richie 2020: 5”7

Trevor 2020: 5"11.5 

(so close to perfection - r)

(shut up richie -t) 

(Stop drawing on my WALL. -p) 

If Max's bedroom didn't exist, nobody would know he even lived in his house. There wasn't a trace of him anywhere. He rarely left his room when he was home, and no one was proud enough to display anything belonging to him around the house. Max had trophies and certificates, but they were all shoved under the bed like they meant nothing. Max never felt significant. He would give the world to be praised for something as small as a drawing. 

“Are you crying?”

Richie was staring at him, his brows furrowed in concern. Max swallowed thickly, touching his eye and feeling how soaked it was. He rushedly wiped the tears away, laughing quietly. 

“No, no. I was just looking around. At the pictures and stuff.” He muttered, trying to smile the sadness away. Richie looked the most alert he'd looked all day. “You know, the pictures on the fridge. You seem so loved.” 

“Oh, those. Yeah, Paul took a whole box of my old drawings from my parent's attic. They never noticed. He likes them more than they ever did, so.” Richie lowered his head and smiled, nodding to himself. “I'm guessing you don't feel very loved, if that's the first thing you noticed.”

Max didn't say a word. Richie winced a little. 

“Sorry, that was not the right thing to say.” He added.

“You're not wrong.”

Neither said a word for a while. They let the movie continue, and they both settled back into comfortable silence. Every time Max glanced at Richie he was closer to dozing off. He was comfortable. Max could feel his hands trembling. He really didn’t want this to be the last time they hung out like this. 

“Richie?” 

“Yeah?” Richie tilted his head to look at Max. His hair brushed against the top of the couch. Max’s throat dried up and he wasn’t sure he’d be able to get the words out. Richie’s eyes were slightly narrowed now. 

“Would you ever-?” Max turned away, wringing his hands together. Richie watched him patiently. Fearfully. “Would you ever want to go for coffee? To talk about the show or something.” 

Richie cracked a little smile. 

“Sounds fun.” 

…

“Stephanie!” Richie sped down the corridor to meet Steph at her locker. She turned her head sharply at the mention of her name. 

“Richard?” She shoved her books into the locker and slammed it shut, standing up to meet Richie’s gaze. Richie took a moment to catch his breath before speaking. 

“I have news.” He grabbed her arm and dragged her away from the lockers, to a less crowded part of the corridor. She was looking at him like he was insane. 

“And you're going to me about it?” 

“Ruth would kill me.” He replied. “And I think she's still mad at me.”

“Okay, spit it out.”

“Max asked me out… for coffee… to discuss the show.” Richie paused periodically, watching Steph's reaction. 

“Like a date?” She asked, her eyes widening a little. She was grinning. 

“That's what I'm asking.” 

“You're asking me if I think you were asked on a date.”

“ Yes!” Richie cried out, like it was obvious. 

“My God, you do have a crush on him.” 

“No. Probably.” Absolutely. “Just help me!” 

“Well. If you ask me.” Steph began, purposefully speaking slowly while Richie stomped in place, waiting for her to finish. “That sounds like a date to me, buddy.” 

Richie groaned loudly. 

“So what the fuck do I do?” 

“Go on the date. See what happens.” She replied bluntly. “You obviously want to go. You're just scared of what might happen. Just go.”

“What if he's straight? He's probably straight.”

“What if he isn't?” Steph shot back. “I wouldn't assume so quickly. You all thought Grace was straight. If I didn't know you, I would assume you're straight.”

“Are you kidding?”

“Yeah, I am. You're unmistakably gay.” 

“That feels worse.” Richie huffed, and Steph laughed. She patted him on the shoulder, giving him a solemn nod. The bell rang, signalling the start of class. Richie felt a pit in his stomach. Today needed to be over. 

“I've gotta go. Just go on that date and you know, discuss the show .” 

And Richie was left alone. He grabbed his books from his locker and made his way to class before he could run into Max again. 

Richie made it through one class before deciding he'd rather spend the rest of the day hiding in the bathroom stalls. He usually sat next to Ruth when he had classes with her, and she probably wouldn't want to sit with him today. It was easier to avoid it all. He guiltily eyed the stall he'd punched, seeing the lazy repair job. Somebody had nailed a wooden slate to the door to cover up the hole. Richie was surprised Paul wasn't sent a bill to pay for a new one. Maybe they knew Paul didn't have that kind of money. One glance at Richie’s worn sneakers was enough to know they were just getting by. Paul always promised that they'd get a house someday and leave their little apartment behind. Richie wished he wouldn't feel guilty. He and Trevor were just grateful to live in a home where they felt loved. It didn't matter if it was small. It had never mattered. His parent's house was huge, and it still managed to be suffocating. 

Richie sighed, locking himself into a stall. Five hours wasn't too long, was it? He could wait it out. He pulled out his phone, mentally noting that he needed to conserve his battery. 

Just one check and then put it away. 

“Hi.” Ruth was standing by the front gate, waiting. Students were milling past, and some who'd been in the cafeteria that day were casting sideways glances, like they were expecting another shouting match. Richie already felt like crying just looking at her. It had felt so wrong to avoid her like he'd been doing. 

“Hey.” He stood in front of her, swallowing thickly. He wanted to hug her. Maybe they weren't there yet. 

Ruth pulled him into a hug, letting out a relieved sigh. Richie hugged her back as tight as he could and blinked the tears from his eyes. 

“I think that's the longest we've gone without talking to each other.” Ruth mumbled. “I didn't know what to do with myself.” 

“Me neither.” 

They started walking, at first in silence. Richie took Ruth's backpack and slung it over his shoulder. He could carry two. 

“How's your hand?” 

“It feels a little better. I've been trying not to look at it.” He replied, and Ruth breathed out a little laugh. 

“Gotta be hard to avoid one of the main things you need to go about your day.”

“About as hard as it was to avoid you.”

Ruth went quiet.

“I'm really sorry.” 

“I am too.”

“I love you a lot and I worry.”

“I love you too and I'm sorry I called you controlling for being worried.” Richie felt a weight lift from his chest. He'd been so sickened by it all. A life without Ruth felt impossible, but they were okay. “Do you want to sleep over tonight?”

“I'd love to. I feel like it's been a while.” 

…

Max was in the wood-working room, all alone aside from Max’s coach, Mr Houston. Mr Houston taught shop class exclusively, so it was pretty much a guarantee that he'd be in here. Max had made a habit of helping out with the sets and props after school. It earned him a lot of praise, and it gave him a reason to delay going home. It was a little cathartic, too. He could take out all of his frustrations on the slab of wood in the vice, sawing away his anxieties. Mr Houston usually left Max alone as he was usually busy with his own projects, but he seemed to notice how rigorously Max was sawing today. 

“Loving the enthusiasm, Jagerman. Is there anything going on?” 

“What?” Max looked up, pausing his sawing for a moment. He'd been lost in thought. Rotating his conversation with Richie in his mind, trying to make sense of the way he felt when he looked at him. 

“Nothing, nothing. I just notice when my students are sawing with more aggression than usual. Usually means there's something on their mind.”

“Oh, right.” Max went back to sawing. 

“You overwhelmed with anything? Too much training? Too many rehearsals?” He kept on prodding. 

“Training is fine, Tom. And the rehearsals are boring. They don't really need me.” 

“Everything at home okay?” 

Max faltered for a moment, briefly losing grip of the saw. His heart thumped a little faster.

“Fine.” He said through gritted teeth.

“I've noticed a… difference in you, lately. You don't really seem to be talking to the rest of the boys anymore. You're quiet. Is there anything I should know about?”

“It's nothing.”

“Look, Max. You're our quarterback. I made you our quarterback because I trust you and I know you have the skills. But even with unlimited talent, a leader is nothing without his team. What's going on?”

Max put his saw down, sighing sharply. He met Tom's gaze reluctantly. 

“I stopped talking to them because-” Max trailed off. Tom's eyes softened. He invited Max to sit down. “Because- I don't know. I just feel like I'm not… like them anymore.”

“You in love?” Tom asked bluntly, and Max almost choked on air. 

“ No! No.” 

“You sure? I know lovesick when I see it.” 

Max blinked, knowing he didn't have an answer. His eyes started to water. He was starting to feel like a cornered animal. 

“I don't know.” He whispered, wiping his eyes with a shaky hand. He stood up, grabbing the saw and trying to get back to work. “I'm sorry. I'm really sorry. I'll start talking to the boys again, it's fine. It's my fault.” 

Tom watched Max try to saw the wood with trembling hands, with tears streaming down his cheeks. He gently took the saw from his hands, shaking his head. 

“Go on home, Max. Get some rest. You've clearly got a lot on your plate.” 

“I want to stay here.” Max muttered miserably. Tom sighed, patting Max on the shoulder. It sort of made Max feel like he had a real dad. 

“Alright. Just sit down. I'm gonna get you a bottle of water.” 

Max waited for Tom to leave the room before starting to quietly weep. He couldn't go home tonight. His Dad would take one look at his swollen eyelids and tear streaked cheeks and he would call him a sissy. He slowly pulled himself together and waited for Tom to come back. He returned with two bottles of water and a Gatorade. Max thanked him quietly, taking one of the waters and gulping it down. 

“How long do you usually stay after school?” Max asked, trying to make it sound casual. 

“‘Til about six o'clock, usually.” Tom replied. “My kid's after-school club runs until six thirty, so I might as well wait it out here.” 

“Can I stay until then?” 

“Sure, kid.” Tom didn't question it, but concern was etched into his features. “Are you okay food-wise? I usually pick up some dinner across the street around now.”

Max couldn't lie and say he wasn't starving. The idea of having a meal that wasn't microwaveable sounded too nice to turn down.

“I'm a little hungry.” He murmured, staring down at the table like he'd said something shameful. Tom nodded. 

“Any requests?”

“I'm not picky.”

Six o'clock rolled by, and Tom was getting ready to leave. Max felt sick. He was usually good at hiding it, but it felt so much harder today. He just wanted to cry and ask Tom to let him stay. But he wasn’t a kid, he wasn’t going to beg. 

“Thanks, Mr Houston.” Max mumbled, grabbing his bag and slinging it over his shoulder. He walked over to the door, ready to leave without another word. 

“Max?” 

Max paused, his stomach churning. 

“Yeah?”

“You’d tell me if something wasn’t right at home?”

“Yeah.” 

“Do you swear on that?” 

Max closed the door behind him. He made it out to the parking lot and he ran. He kept going until his lungs were burning and legs aching. He didn’t know where he was going and he didn’t care. He wasn’t going home. 

You run from everything. 

Max doubled over, clutching his knees and trying to catch his breath. He choked on air for what must’ve been minutes, his head spinning. He was starting to feel a little faint. He stumbled onto the sidewalk and sat down, his shoulders rising up and down with the exertion it took to breathe. He looked around, trying to find his bearings. It was getting dark. Max had never told anyone he was afraid of the dark. 

He didn’t bring anything from home. He could already feel the cold air stabbing at his skin. Everything looked the same from here, silhouettes of trees and flickering headlights barely illuminating the street. He could barely tell what part of town he was in. What if he froze to death here? No one would find him until morning. Max pulled himself back up and started walking. Maybe he could find his way to Hickory from here. That old house couldn’t be much colder than out here. 

Max was lost at sea.  

…

“I’m home!” Richie closed the apartment door, shrugging his bag off. It landed beside the muddy shoes already lying by the door, and Richie winced internally. He was going to have to put that in the laundry. Paul was sipping on a coffee at the kitchen island, already smiling. 

“You sound chipper.” 

“Can Ruth stay over tonight?” He asked, sitting down across from Paul and barely suppressing a smile. 

“Course she can.” He replied. “I knew you’d work it out.” 

“She’s just picking some stuff up from her apartment and she should be here soon.” 

“Cool. You want me to pick anything up?” 

“Some lollipops for Ruth, maybe. It’s the only candy she can eat with braces.” 

“Lollipops it is.” 

Ruth and Richie practically used to live together when Richie and Trevor first moved in with Paul. They would take turns sleeping at each other’s apartments, giggling and gossiping half the night and waking up for school exhausted. But they never cared, because the tiredness was worth it. They would lay out every single blanket and pillow they had and sleep on the floor, curled up together. Sleepovers lessened when highschool started becoming more stressful, but they always made time. 

They were both lying on the floor, the only light in the room being Richie’s TV blasting music videos and Bo Burnham specials. They had reached a point in their friendship where most nights were filled with comfortable silence with the occasional burst of conversation. 

“I missed this.” Richie murmured, turning his head to face Ruth. 

“Same.” She murmured back, sighing contentedly. “Let’s not argue ever again.”

“Deal.” He smiled, relief washing over him again. 

“Unless it’s over something stupid. Like you thinking Make Happy is better than what. ” 

“That’s not stupid. That’s incredibly important to me, because you’re so terribly wrong.” 

“You’ll never change my mind, Richard. Eight minutes of mime jokes trumps Pandering every time.” 

“Mime jokes over Can't handle this? You’re out of your mind.” 

“You only like that one because you are also a skinny kid with a steadily declining mental health.”

Richie grabbed a pillow that was pressed against his side and slammed it into Ruth’s face. She spluttered for a moment, grabbing it and returning the favour. 

“Oww!” He yelped loudly, purposefully playing it up. 

“He who delivers the second blow commences the battle. You’re dead.” 

Richie shot up, trying to hide behind his bed and immediately collapsing when Ruth launched another pillow right at his ankles. Richie let out a giggle while Ruth roared with triumphant laughter. 

“You’re heartless.” He breathed, rolling over and lying with his back on the floor. 

“I warned you.” 

“You’re so mean to me. I’m your host.” 

“Boo-hoo.” 

They had made it to the low energy part of the sleepover. At least, one of them had. Richie was sprawled out on the floor, barely awake, while Ruth practiced a one-handed handstand against the wall. 

“Ruthie?” Richie sat up, holding onto his knees. 

“Yeah?” She replied, still upside down. 

“Do you really think it’s not worth giving him a chance?” 

Ruth sighed. She slowly let her legs fall forward, landing on the pile of pillows she’d set up in front. She crawled over to sit across from him. 

“I just think you’re too kind. Too forgiving. Naive was the wrong word.” Her voice was soft. Richie wouldn’t consider himself a kind person at all. “I just don’t think you can change a person with kindness.” 

“But what if the person already wants to change? Surely a little kindness would help.” Richie replied, frowning. “He’s clearly not a very happy person. What if he just needs a friend?” 

“He has plenty.” Ruth huffed. 

“Not real ones.” 

“That’s true.” She sighed again. “I’m not going to be that friend, Rich. But… if you want to be. If it would make you happy. I’ll be here.” 

Richie lay back down, nodding slowly. He would take that. Ruth shuffled over to lie beside him. 

“Goodnight Ruth. Love you.”

…

It was so, so cold in the old Waylon Place. Max hugged himself and shivered. 

…

“Night, Richie. Love you too.”

Chapter Text

Max leaned against his locker, keeping his eyes fixed to the wall in front of him. He was just focusing on staying awake. He still felt freezing cold, like he was still curled up in that awful house with nothing but his letterman to keep him warm. It was the kind of cold that settled deep in his bones. 

“Hey!” Richie was walking over, beaming. Max tried to smile back, but he felt like a zombie. Richie’s smile visibly faltered when he saw the state Max was in. “Hey.” He repeated, his eyes wide with concern. “Are you-?”

“I’m okay. I told you I didn’t sleep well.” He rubbed his eyes, trying to wake himself up a little. It was a miracle he’d even managed to walk to school. Richie wasn’t convinced. He was eyeing Max’s outfit, and Max already knew he’d noticed it was the same as yesterday. 

“Max, you look sick.” 

“Just a cold.” He assured him, grabbing his bag and wincing when zaps of pain ran down his spine. Wooden floors weren’t exactly built for sleeping on. Richie grabbed Max’s bag, helping him sling it over his shoulder. 

“Are you seriously okay?” 

Max nodded stiffly. 

“Gotta get to class.” He mumbled, brushing past Richie who was just standing there, at a loss. 

The rest of the day was a blur. Dozing off in classes and being scared awake by angry teachers, stabs of pain throughout his body any time he moved, strange looks. He managed to make it through the school day without dropping dead, but he wasn't out of the woods yet. He still had rehearsal today. Hopefully they would leave him alone. He entered the auditorium and felt eyes on him right away. Richie was standing centre stage, watching Max struggle to walk along. Max sat down beside Steph, closing his eyes. 

“Are you okay? I'm not even being mean right now. You look scary.” Steph was leaning forward in her seat, looking him up and down. Max forced his eyes open and nodded. He wished people would stop asking. 

“Max, side stage! You're still not quick enough with your set changes. We need to run through them again.” Miss Mulberry was snapping her fingers repeatedly, watching Max sternly as he trudged up the steps to the stage. He felt like he was going to pass out. He watched Richie and Grace run through their scene, quickly zoning out and drifting off elsewhere. He was going to have to go home today. Whatever was waiting for him was better than sleeping in that house again. He was an idiot for thinking otherwise. 

“MAX! YOUR CUE!” 

Max jumped, flinching a little at the multiple voices yelling at him. He slurred out an apology and ran onto the stage, dragging a table off. Ruth was watching him from sidestage, glaring. Her features seemed to shift when she saw him. That was happening a lot today. 

“Just listen out for your cues, alright?” She sounded gentler than usual.

“I'm sorry.” Max stared down at the floor. Shapes were starting to oscillate back and forth in his vision. He tried to focus on something else. Anything else. Richie ran over to Max the second he finished his scene. 

“Max. Are you sure everything is okay?” 

“I'm sure. Everything is okay. I'm fine.” 

Richie put a hand on Max’s shoulder, his brows furrowing. Max froze up a little.

“Where did you sleep last night?”

Max’s brain was almost too foggy to think of a lie. 

“Home. My house.”

“Max.” Richie’s face softened, his tone shifted to pleading. Ruth pulled his arm, telling him he was supposed to be on stage. He let out a sharp sigh, sparing Max another glance before running back on stage. Max’s head was spinning at this point. He quietly told Miss Mulberry he felt ill and threw himself back onto the seat beside Steph. She was still watching him. He closed his eyes, letting them rest for a second. 

“Hey, wakey.” 

Max stirred awake, his eyes flickering open. The first thing he saw was Richie’s worried eyes staring back at him. 

“Rehearsal is over.” Richie told him quietly. Max sat up, looking around. Still in the auditorium, still at school. “Do you have a lift home?” 

Max nodded. He did not. 

“Okay, uh. I'll text you later, okay?” Richie grabbed his hand and squeezed it tight. “If you're not up for coffee tomorrow, just text me.” He let go of his hand and walked out. Max didn't have the energy to sit up just yet. He watched the rest of the cast file out of the auditorium, letting out a quiet sigh when he thought the room was empty. 

“You planning on leaving, or?” Ruth was trying to put away her lighting equipment, visibly struggling. Max got up to help once he got over the initial shock of being addressed. She glowered for a moment before sighing and letting him help. 

“Thank you.”

“Don't thank me.” Max replied, grabbing the spotlight and following her to the storeroom. Ruth didn't say a word until they got back to the auditorium. She looked him up and down, frowning. 

“I'm a bitch to you for good reason, do you understand that?”

Max nodded. 

“You don't need to ever forgive me.” 

“Richie forgave you a long time ago. And try as I might, I can't change his mind.”

Max huffed out a dry laugh. 

“All I ask that you be kind to him.” She continued. “I know he's prickly, he can take care of himself. But he's soft inside and I don't think I could bear to see him broken again. Please don't break him.” Ruth wasn't stern, or angry, she was just being sincere. She was almost begging.

“I promise you I won't.” He replied, holding out his hand to shake. She took his hand with a weak smile, shaking it firmly.

“And… just, take care of yourself too, I guess. Thanks for helping out.” 

Max spent a long time sitting on the curb outside his house, building up the courage to walk inside. He wished he could just turn away and never come back. Maybe he'd be ignored, and he could just run upstairs and sleep until it was time for his date. 

Coffee with a friend. It wasn't a date. 

He was surprised everyone let him sleep through rehearsal. He must have really looked awful if Miss Mulberry believed he was ill. He had felt Richie staring at him for most of it. Richie had touched his shoulder when he was checking on him. Max hadn't stopped thinking about it. 

He shot up and marched over to his door, opening it and walking in before he had time to convince himself otherwise. He felt that familiar pang of fear the moment he walked inside. He tried to walk upstairs as quietly as possible, but he knew there was no point. 

“Max?”

Max clenched his fists, trying to calm his trembling hands.

“Yeah?”

“Come here a sec.”

The walk to the living room felt like an eternity. It always felt like his world was ending when he was called over. He stood in the doorway, keeping his eyes glued to the floor. He could see the cans littered across the floor. There were more than usual, but it was hard to tell which ones were new. It's not like Max had been around to clean them up. He felt eyes on him. 

“Where were you last night?” 

Max swallowed thickly. His dad's voice was slurring. 

“Kyle's.” He replied, the words coming out a whisper. He could barely breathe. 

“So, if I called up Kyle's father right now, he'd corroborate?” He always knew. Max couldn't lie around him. He always trembled, his voice always shook too much. Max didn't even know what corroborate meant. “Look at me.”

Max didn't move. If he looked at him he'd cry. 

“I was at Kyle's.” He repeated, forcing conviction into his voice. “It's not like you were worried about me. I could go missing and you would carry on.”

“What did you say?” A challenge. 

“Nothing. I'm sorry.” Standing his ground was never worth it.

“I thought so.” There was a long silence. Max wasn't going to be the one to break it. He couldn't leave the room until he was dismissed. He'd made that mistake too many times, leaving the room before he was supposed to. Max had gotten better at avoiding his wrath over the years. If he stood quietly and answered every question, he'd likely be okay. Sometimes, it was hard to stay quiet, and sometimes none of it worked. There were always days where everything Max did was wrong. “You're grounded.”

Max’s chest tightened. His date. Coffee outing. 

“I have plans.” He clenched his fists tighter. 

“What kind of plans?” 

“Coffee.” He whispered. A scoff from across the room. 

“Going on a little coffee date isn’t like you. It makes you seem like a pansy.” His voice was jagged. He was saying anything he could think of to hurt him. It was one of those days. Max tried to catch his breath without audibly gasping. “With who?”

Max’s shoulders stiffened. He couldn't. 

“With who?” He repeated, his voice rising enough to frighten Max into a response. 

“Richie!” He yelped, closing his eyes. “Richie Lipschitz.” 

“Lipschitz? They don't have two sons. They have… Trevor, isn't it? And a daughter.” 

Max's stomach was twisting. He couldn't drag Richie into this, but he couldn't lie. He stood there in scared silence, waiting for his Dad to either put two and two together or ask more questions. 

“Who is Richie, Maxwell?”

“Nobody. No one. Just leave it, please.” Max felt a tear part from his eye and start to roll down his cheek. He silently prayed that it wouldn't be noticed. “I won't go.”

“You can't go. You're grounded.”

“I know.”

“Whoever Richie is, don't bring him around here. I don’t like you being cagey about a boy.” 

“What are you talking about? Why would it be a date? He's a boy. ” Max knew exactly what he was talking about. Playing dumb was life or death right now. 

“It better not be a date.” That was a threat, Max could hear it in his voice. 

“It's not.” He choked out. “I swear.” 

“Get out of here. I don't want to see you.” 

Max left before he even finished speaking, stumbling up the stairs to his room and locking the door behind him. He covered his face with his hands and sat in silence. He waited for the tears to stop. 

A pansy. 

He had to cancel coffee. 

Max sighed shakily. He was sneaking out tomorrow. 

… 

Richie was worried about Max. He was nearly positive he had slept outside last night, but he had no way of getting that information from him. He couldn't force it out of him. Richie knew more than anybody how stressful it was when people repeatedly pressed for answers. It was scary. He would never want to put Max through that, if he didn't feel like talking. Even if the thought of Max sleeping out in the cold made him feel like throwing up. He wished he cared less. Things were much simpler when he hated his guts. 

Or, when he pretended to.

Now he was getting sweet text messages and waiting for a coffee date. Two weeks ago, he would’ve laughed at the thought of it. 

Richie was sitting cross legged on his bed, smiling at his phone when Paul gently knocked on his bedroom door. He put his phone on the bed face down. 

“Yeah?” He called out, shuffling over to the edge of his bed.

“You wanna watch a movie with me and Trev?” 

Richie glanced at his phone, considering. There was a strict no-phone policy during movie nights. Paul was a hardcore cinephile, and always took offense when Richie and Trevor didn't devote their full attention to the film. He remembered the time Paul put Trevor’s phone on top of the fridge, back when he wasn't tall enough to reach up there. Trevor jumped up and down trying to reach it, occasionally doubling over with giggles while the others cackled. Richie was wise enough to keep his phone in his room after that. They didn't really mind anymore. The conversations and movie debates flowed easier when no phones could ping to interrupt. 

Richie could use a break from his phone, anyway. 

“What's on the menu?” He asked, leaving his phone behind and opening his door. Paul smiled.

“I'm thinking Ferris Bueller's Day Off?” He replied, and Richie smiled back. 

“Absolutely.”

“You only like it because you have a crush on young Matthew Broderick.” Paul murmured, laughing when Richie gasped dramatically. “You're not denying it.”

“That's because-”

“Because it's true!” Trevor called from the living room, between a mouthful of popcorn. 

“Stay out of this!” Richie yelled back.

“Stop eating the popcorn, Trevor. The movie hasn't even started yet.”

“I'm hungry.” 

“You'll enjoy it more if you stay hungry.” Richie replied, sitting down beside Trevor and grabbing the bowl.

“That's toxic.” He tried to take the bowl back but Richie hugged it tight. “Asshole.”

“Language, boys.” Paul grabbed the bowl from Richie from behind the couch, turning his head away pointedly when Richie whipped his head around. 

“We say much worse when you're not around.” Trevor muttered in response.

“Why would you tell him that?” 

“Treachery.”

“You're unbearable to speak to.” 

“I know you are, but what am-”

“Starting the movie now.” Paul cut in, shutting down Trevor and Richie’s usual back and forth. They both knew it bugged him and they revelled in it. 

“I have a date tomorrow.” Richie said quietly. 

“WHAT?” Trevor appeared to choke on a popcorn kernel. 

“Was it necessary to announce that as soon as I pressed play?”

“Sorry.” 

“With who? Don't tell me.” Trevor’s face was accusatory. He already knew. 

“Yeah.” Richie nodded. Trevor covered his head with his hands and sighed loudly. 

“I knew it.”

“I feel out of the loop.” Paul added, pausing the movie and leaning forward expectantly. Richie felt a little embarrassed. 

“He's going on a date with Max Jagerman.” Trevor replied, taking it upon himself to inform Paul while Richie hid behind a couch cushion. He could see Paul's raised eyebrows in his mind. He didn't need to see. 

“As in-?”

“Do we need to clarify which Max it is every time? I don't even know if he thinks it's a date.” 

“Big internalised homophobia vibes from him.” Trevor added.

“Eloquently put.” Richie huffed. 

“Okay. A possible date. Where are you going?”

“Beanies.” He replied, and Paul visibly calmed. “I wanted to see Emma so it's a double win.” 

“Okay. Do you want a lift there?”

“No. I like the walk.” 

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“Absolutely?”

“Can you unpause the movie already?” Trevor groaned. “Paul, he's fine.” 

“Alright.” Paul unpaused the movie, but he very clearly had more to say. Richie sighed, letting himself relax. “Are you definitely-?”

“Paul.”

“Okay. Sorry.”

Richie was hoping the walk to Beanies would calm his nerves, but his stomach had been churning from the moment he woke up that morning. It wasn't a long walk, but Richie appreciated the fresh air nonetheless. At least he'd be early. He would hate to keep Max waiting. He tried to focus on his surroundings, watching the birds hop from powerline to powerline and chirping to each other as if gossiping. The sky was unusually clear for winter, it felt like spring. Maybe it was a sign, representative of a fresh start. Or maybe Richie was being far too artsy and faux-deep again.

Richie pushed open the café door, the bell above the door jingling loudly and signalling his presence. Beanies was a small, intimate café that was somehow still in business despite being one of several cafés in Hatchetfield. It was carefully decorated, the decor being mostly green and white to match the logo. The café's main gimmick was their ‘tip for a song’ policy. It tended to attract the theatre kids of Hatchetfield, which made it the perfect place for someone like Richie. Even better, Paul's girlfriend, Emma worked as a barista there. She cheered the moment she saw him enter, beaming at him.

“Hey kid!” 

Richie loved Emma. Paul had been dating her for a while and they were still going strong. Paul held off on introducing her to Richie and Trevor until they'd been together for over a year. He told them he didn't want to cause any more stress. Trevor used to joke that Paul introduced Emma to them like an owner introduces two territorial cats. Richie had his initial reservations when he first met her. He was hurting a lot back then, and he wasn’t the type to trust easily. It took time, but Richie was glad she was around. Paul glowed when he was with her. 

“Hi, Emma!” Richie walked up to the counter and Emma already had his black coffee ready. He smiled. “Thanks. But I'm actually waiting for someone.” 

Emma gasped dramatically. She looked around the café, pulling off her apron once she'd established her boss wasn't around. She pulled him over to a table. 

“Who? Spill. I knew you looked nervous!” 

Richie shook his head, suppressing a grin. 

“I'm not nervous. It's just a friend.” 

“I'm afraid I don't believe you, Richie.” Emma rested her chin on her palm, squinting at him. “Who’s the lucky guy?”

“My friend , Max.” 

“Richie and Max, how cute.” She murmured, grinning evilly. She shook her head slowly, trying to look wistful. “I can already see the wedding invitations. Little frills on the sides-”

“Emma!” He squeaked, covering his face with his hands while she laughed. “Get back to work and stop bothering me!” 

She stood up and grabbed her apron, still grinning at him. 

“Alright, alright, sorry. How's the show going? Stagehand jock boy giving you any trouble?” Richie couldn't hide his expression fast enough. “ Richaard.”

“So, funny story.” Richie smiled sheepishly, knowing Emma had already put it together. 

“It's the same guy, isn't it?” 

“Possibly.”

Emma sighed loudly, waggling her finger at him like a disapproving mother. 

“I'm not even going to question it. Enjoy your date.” 

“Not a date!” 

It was a date to one of them, at least. 

…

The house was an absolute mess. This wasn’t anything new, the place was almost always filthy. Every once in a while, Max would make an attempt to clean it up as best as he could. When his mother died, he figured out how to work the washing machine and dishwasher by himself. He had his own system in place, just barely managing to keep the house running. 

He stepped out of his bedroom the next morning, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes and trying to ruffle some volume into his hair. He frowned at the sight of the laundry pile outside the bathroom. It was practically a pyramid at this point. Max grabbed the pile with a sigh, slowly lugging it down to the utility room to shove it in the washing machine. Once the wash cycle started, he grabbed a trash bag to pick up all of the cans that were covering the floor. It was easiest to do all of this early in the morning, when he was still asleep. He dumped the trash bag beside the rest of them and then turned around to survey his work. It looked a little better. The house would never be fully clean. Max hoped he’d get to see it go up in flames someday. 

He stepped into his shoes, not bothering to untie the laces, and walked out. Maybe the house would be gone when he came back. 

Max hopped off his skateboard once he'd made it to the corner before Beanies. He was faint for more reasons than one. He sneaked out, and if his Dad figured it out he would probably never see the sun ever again. Even worse, Richie was waiting on him. He didn't feel ready for a date. It was definitely too late now, though. 

Deep breaths. He could survive this. He had survived almost everything. Max had lived through grief and every conceivable kind of pain. He could make it through a fucking date.

Not a date. 

Max carefully pushed the door open, feeling his world halt when he locked eyes with Richie. It was a sort of tunnel vision, like nothing else mattered in that moment. 

“Hi Max!” 

Max willed himself to walk over and sit down. He hoped he didn't look too robotic. It was like he was learning to walk for the first time. Richie was smiling at him like he’d done something to deserve it. Smiles like that were usually reserved for homecoming games. If he was lucky.

“Hey.” He smiled back, his anxieties melting away. 

“I like your skateboard.” Richie pointed to his board, which was covered in worn stickers and tape. Max was a little embarrassed looking at it. He never really noticed how tattered it looked until someone else acknowledged it. He hadn't replaced his board in years. His mom bought him that one. 

“Thanks. It's well used.” Max replied, breathing out a laugh. They stared at each other in silence for a moment. “I, uh, I like your hair.”

Something sparked briefly in Richie’s eyes. Max wanted to see it again.

“Thank you. I try. And by ‘ I try’ , I mean I rolled out of bed and grabbed some dry shampoo. But there's effort nonetheless.” Richie’s voice steadily lowered in volume until he eventually trailed off. His cheeks were flushed. “Thanks.”

Max smiled fondly. 

“So, the show.” 

Richie briefly looked confused before nodding.

“Oh, yes. We're discussing the show.” He propped his arm on the table and rested his chin on his palm. “What do you want to know?”

Max hadn't thought that far ahead. 

“Well, um. I guess I would start with… uh. How did you get into musicals?” He managed to stammer out an answer before he let the silence drag on too long. Richie immediately launched into an explanation, the light returning to his eyes just a little. He looked alive. Max wished he knew this Richie, the one with wild eyes and a bright, hopeful face. Max realised he would ask questions forever and ever if it meant he could stay with this version of him. 

“-eventually, I decided I was done with being scared. I let my inhibitions hold me back my entire life. I went in and auditioned, deciding I wasn't going to care about what people thought of me anymore. Obviously there was a lot more introspection that went into that decision but that’s the abridged version.” Richie paused, looking up. “Did that answer your question?” Max nodded. “Any further queries?”

“How did you know you were gay?” 

Richie’s face twisted. 

“That was a sharp turn.” He replied. Max's mind was immediately flooded with panic and regret. 

“Sorry. Nevermind. God, sorry.” Max shook his head, swallowing thickly. Richie’s face softened.

“It's alright. It just surprised me, is all. Coming out was a little different for me. I always knew it was boys, when I was little. That wasn't really a problem when I was a girl. I was just a little straight girl to everyone else, nothing wrong with that. It was different when I started transitioning. I was a gay trans kid then. A tad harder.” His voice was dripping with sarcasm. Max nodded along quietly. “To answer your question, I guess it just comes naturally. If you like a boy, you'll know. You'll always know. You can never really hide from it.”

Max clasped his hands together, trying to let out a breath. It felt like the air was clustering in his throat. 

“Are you okay?” Richie leaned forward, trying to look him in the eyes. Max nodded stiffly. Richie didn't say anything else after that. He let Max sit in the quiet for a moment. 

“I'm sorry for being an asshole for so long. I'm sorry for everything. I get so frustrated and I guess I just never know where to put it.”

“I forgive you. I get it. You’re talking to Mr Anger Issues.” He laughed dryly, glancing down at his hand. Max frowned at the reminder. It was hard to forget the way Richie’s face crumbled when he started to cry next to that stall. “But honestly, singing is a great way to release rage. You should try it out.”

“I don't think I have much of a voice.” Max replied, smiling weakly. 

“I bet you sound great.” 

Max tore his eyes away from Richie’s, feeling hot.

“...do you want to go skateboarding?” 

They were both relieved at the distraction. 

“How do you not just fall forward when you slow down?” Richie watched anxiously from the curb while Max skated up and down the ramps at the skate park. Max turned around with a smile, skating over and setting his board down beside Richie. 

“I could teach you, if you want? Been skating for a while, I'd like to think I'm mentor material.” 

Richie held up his bandaged hand, frowning. 

“It'll be a cold day in hell.” 

“I actually just checked the weather down there, and you will not believe how cold it is.” Max replied, pushing the board towards Richie with his foot. 

“You're stupid.” Richie scoffed, a smile tracing his lips. 

“I won't let you fall, Richard. Promise.”

“I'm gonna whack you over the head with this board if you call me Richard again.” 

“Is that a yes?” Max smiled sheepishly, trying not to wilt under Richie’s death stare. His smile widened a little, and he stepped onto the board with an exaggerated sigh. 

“If I fall on my hand-”

“You won't.”

“If I fall on my hand, you are paying for my hospital bills.”

“You're not gonna fall.” He repeated firmly. Richie conceded, standing up with a sigh. He placed his hands on his hips and waited for instructions. “Okay, what you wanna do is keep one foot on the floor, and push yourself forward. Then once you've got enough speed going, you're gonna put that foot back on the board. You try it. Just a straight line.” 

Richie turned his head to stare at Max like his life was actively flashing before his eyes. He slowly extended his foot out and pushed himself forward. He slowly skidded forward, wavering the entire time. It took every ounce of Max’s willpower to stay composed. “That was fantastic.”

“I'm going to push you down the ramp, Max.” 

“Amazing. Okay, try again a little quicker.”

Richie pushed himself forward again. He immediately leaned forward and started to fall face first onto the concrete. Max staggered forward to grab him before he could land. Richie ended up awkwardly hugging him to pull himself back up. 

Richie met his gaze and stayed there, just looking.

It felt like Max had been struck by lightning when Richie moved his face away. 

“Okay. No more skateboarding. Thanks Spider-man.” Richie was flushed, but he was rushedly dusting himself off to avoid looking up. “Those reflexes. How'd you get so quick?” 

Max grimaced. He didn't think the real answer was the one Richie wanted. 

years of dodging, years of flinching when people walk past, years of having to live in fear because it's the only way to guarantee i will not be hurt.

“Football.” He muttered, staring blankly forward. Richie nodded gently. Max’s initial hesitation had already given him his answer. 

“This is fun. I'm having a good time.” Richie said, sitting back down. 

“Me too.” Max was struggling to recall a time when he felt happier than this. He felt warm, like his heart was full of light. It was bursting out of him. 

The light faded away to nothing when his phone started to ring. That ringtone. It made every hair on his arms and back stand up, it made his hands go cold and clammy. Every time, without fail, that ringtone would have him wondering if he was better off dead. The afterlife sounded nicer than whatever beast was waiting for him on the other line.

Max rejected the call, breathing out a faux-casual laugh. He didn't need to check the caller ID. Richie was watching him a little closer now. 

“Prank call.” He said, not sure he'd really said it. He was drowning. He wasn't really here, was he? He was probably at home, bleeding somewhere. But Richie’s face looked real. 

Why did he leave the house? 

“So, uh, do you like the show?” Richie asked, his voice gentle. The silence must've irked him. Max wasn’t hiding his fear well enough. He never did.

“I just like it when you sing.” Max stammered, unsure of what else to say. It's not like he was knowledgeable enough to come up with any real criticisms. He settled on the truth instead. The one thing he knew for sure. 

“Yeah, we have a really good ensemble this year. I rarely pick out people who are out of pitch.” Richie replied, blissfully unaware of the fact that Max didn't understand half of that. 

“I meant just you.” He replied quietly. Richie’s pupils widened. Max felt like he'd lost half his lung capacity. He must've said the wrong thing. 

He always said the wrong thing. Nothing was ever good enough for anybody. Max felt a phantom sting on his cheek. He clutched it with his right hand, closing his eyes. Usually if he waited, the sting went away. But the sting wasn't real. Nobody had hurt him. Not yet. 

The ringtone again. Max was sure someone had wrapped some kind of cord around his stomach and lungs. Or maybe it was a snake winding around his insides, stealing his air. It was the only way to explain this feeling. He couldn't breathe. The cord was tugging, and tugging, and tugging, and Max’s chest was getting tighter. Richie’s brows were furrowed, his hand was reaching out. 

Reaching out to do what? 

Max inched away and pulled himself up in an instant, staggering away. Richie stood up to level with him. He was speaking now. Max couldn't seem to make out the words anymore. The ringtone. He could only hear the ringtone. Every time the call went to voicemail it came back.

“It keeps coming back.” Max whispered. The cord around his stomach tightened even more. Max's heart hurt. Richie was trying to hold him, his hands were grasping. He was trying to take him away. Max kept stumbling, shaking his head now.

Weren't they just skateboarding? Everything was perfect. Richie had smiled at him. What happened? 

Max slowly lowered himself to the floor and tried to breathe. Richie's face was inches away from his now. You’re safe , was all Max could make out. His breaths didn’t slow because he knew that wasn’t true.

Max was in a car now. He didn't know who it belonged to, but Richie was beside him. That was enough to make him relax. He blinked away the mist in his eyes, looking around. Richie was staring at his knees. He looked sad. In the front seat was who Max assumed to be Richie’s uncle. He couldn't remember if he'd seen him before. Maybe in photos. Maybe in person. Max couldn't think of much right now. That damn cord was still suffocating him. 

Max felt a warm, comforting sensation in his left hand. Richie’s hand was holding his, their fingers interlocked together. Max squeezed Richie’s hand gently, like he wasn't sure it was really happening. Richie lifted his head and smiled at him. It was a small smile. A meek, closed-mouthed one, like it was meant for Max only. His eyes were kind. Max wondered when he'd stopped seeing Richie as sharp and prickly. He'd been cautious at the beginning, his eyes were wary. Did Richie like him now? Max really liked Richie. He wanted to keep holding his hand forever. 

He really wanted to apologise but the words just wouldn't come out. Where was his phone?

It had been ringing. Over and over and over and over. Max wasn't meant to leave the house today. 

“I wasn't meant to leave the house today.” He whispered, and Richie’s brows furrowed again. He did that a lot. It was like everything Max said set some alarm bell off in his brain. Or his eyebrows. “I'm grounded. I was grounded.” He mouthed it to himself, like a mantra. Richie had picked up on the words, because his lips were curved into a deep frown. 

“Are you going to get in trouble?” A nicer version of the question he wanted to ask. Max just looked at him. That was probably a sufficient answer. 

“Where's my phone?”

“In the trunk with your skateboard. Sorry, I just threw them both in there.” 

“Where are we going?” Max was starting to feel like a child. Ceaselessly nagging. Richie didn't look bothered at all. 

“Back to my place for a while.” 

Max nodded.

“You flinched.” Richie whispered, his voice low and soft. 

“What?”

“Nothing.”

… 

Max didn't show up on Monday, or the day after. So Richie waited. He checked his phone every chance he got, and he waited. Richie made it to Wednesday — his hair greasy and unbrushed, his eyes red and bleary — and Max still wasn't there. Richie was starting to blame himself.  

He had let Max go back home that day. He'd been on edge from the moment he set foot in Richie's apartment, like something terrible was imminently about to happen. He insisted he had to leave, undeterred by Paul's offers of food and a place to sleep. Richie saw the desperation in his eyes. He saw how much Max wanted those things. He wanted shelter, he wanted safety, but he was too hellbent on going home. Richie had been through it all, he knew that look. He still let Max leave. 

What if he was hurt? What if he was-

Thursday hit like a truck. Another day of radio silence.

“Richard. All good with you?” 

Richie was back in History, sitting next to Steph. Usually he had the courtesy to maintain polite conversation with her in this class, but he just couldn't stomach it today. He opted to bury his head in his hands and catastrophize. 

“Richie.”

Oh right, Steph . Richie lifted his head up, shooting her a death stare. It wasn't enough to make her stop trying to talk to him. 

“You look like shit.” She added. Richie slowly inhaled through his nose. 

“Do you have an empathetic bone in your fucking body?” He whispered sharply, anxiously throwing the teacher's desk a glance. He was unphased. “You have no idea the hell I have been going through this week. I am-” Richie’s breathing hitched, and he tried to swallow it back. Tears were pooling in his eyes. “I am so worried.” 

Steph pursed her lips. 

“Alright, we need a walk.” She grabbed Richie’s sleeve and guided him out. He was fully crying now. Steph dragged him out to the library, and Richie sat down on a beanbag, hugging his knees. He wasn't going to say a word. Steph sighed. “Talk to me, Lipschitz.”

Richie swallowed thickly. 

“I think Max is in trouble.”

“Ah.”

“It's my fault.”

“I guarantee it's not.”

Steph grimaced, watching Richie wipe his eyes with his sleeve only for more tears to roll down his cheek. 

“What if he's hurt?”

“I'll tell you one thing about Max, Lipschitz. He's strong.” Steph looked off into the distance, like she was remembering. “I have never met anyone as strong as him and I never will. We used to be friends, when we were younger. It was so easy back then. We played with our toys, we talked about TV shows. It got a little harder when our mothers both died within the same month. Crazy coincidence, right?” Steph smiled sadly. “Max’s first. Mine a week and a half later. And let me tell you, I didn't see Max for a single one of those ten days. He locked himself and his grief away, only coming back when I needed him. We never talked about his mom. He wouldn't allow it. We only ever talked about me and how I was feeling. It was like he thought talking about it would make it real.”

“So he hid.” 

“Yup.” 

“So what do I do?”

Steph bit her lip, her eyes full of pity. She looked at him for a while, trying to find the words to make her point. 

“Richie, do you know what cats do when they get sick?” 

“They run away to die alone.” Richie replied almost immediately, staring off into the distance. He wasn't sure when or where he'd learned that. His stomach sank a little when he made the connection.

“When it gets hard, they run and hide to spare their loved ones the pain of watching them die.” Richie’s eyes widened. “I'm not saying Max is dying. I'm saying he thinks he's doing you a favour by staying away until he's all patched up. I'm not going to lie to you and say I think he's okay. He's not. I know what goes on in that house.”

Richie hugged his knees tight. He was starting to realise he’d been wrong about Steph. Her life wasn’t as glamorous and perfect as he’d previously assumed. 

“Find him, Richie. Tell him you can help him. I wish I tried harder.”

The last place Richie wanted to be was at after-school rehearsals. The last thing on his mind right now was choreography. Richie was usually quite good at compartmentalising. Even when his life was at his worst, he could show up to rehearsals and forget for a few hours. It was his foolproof method. Distractions meant he didn't have to think about his situation. 

It wasn't working this time. Richie had never sounded worse, never danced worse, and everyone noticed. His mind was on nothing but Maxwell Jagerman, despite his best efforts. 

“Richie, what's going on?” Grace asked him, a touch of caution in her eyes, but the concern was still visible. “You’re not right. Not in the normal, stressed out, we’re getting close to the musical way. You’re acting off in the Grace Chasity is concerned for your psychological health way.” 

Richie let out a quiet sigh. 

“I'll be okay.” He replied, waving her off half heartedly. She frowned, but she didn't push any further. She seemed to have learned her lesson from the bathroom stall incident. Richie hoped she didn't blame herself for that. It was just a wrong place, wrong person, wrong time kind of situation. Richie didn’t like to be prodded, even when he knew the intentions were pure. “I'll be fine.”

Everything was fine. Like always. 

Richie spent most of the evening lying in bed on his back, mulling over Steph's words from earlier that morning. 

find him, richie. 

Richie felt selfish. He was selfish. He'd spent so much time worrying about his hand, and Ruth and how damaging this crush could be. Max's world was crumbling around him and he was still finding the strength to muscle through the rubble to get to Richie. And he'd given him nothing in return.

Richie was going to find him. Even if he had to march into that house alone. Richie grabbed his jacket from the hanger by his door and swung his door open. He rushed down the corridor and over to the front door like a man on a mission. 

“Richie? Where are you going?”

“I have to do this.” Richie muttered, opening the door and stepping out before Paul could ask any more questions. He was eighteen, he was grown. He could leave if he needed to. Door closed, down the steps, through the entrance, across the parking plot, onto the sidewalk, round the corner, walk-

Max. 

…

Searing, red hot pain in his head, then his stomach. A tooth in his palm. Then the metallic taste of blood followed, thick and coating his throat. His phone was gone. He vaguely remembered being forced to unlock it. It hurt. He wanted his mother. 

The following days were a blur. Max didn't remember much of it. He was a shell, wandering around the house aimlessly, waiting for the pain to stop. It wouldn't. Ceaseless waves of agony holding him under the water just long enough to take his breath away, but never enough to drown him. He would never be that lucky. 

Max didn't have a phone. He took it. He vaguely remembered seeing broken glass scattered along the ground. And a baseball bat. Max hated baseball. That had been his father’s first project, moulding Max into a baseball star. It turned out Max was built for football. 

He hated football. 

no son of mine. no son of mine. 

Max didn't dare return to the living room to see if the shattered remains of his phone were still there. He had worked his ass off for months to buy that phone. His head hurt. The house was filthy again, like his effort to clean it meant nothing. Maybe he didn’t even clean it. Maybe he dreamt it. 

Max slept, and slept, and slept. He was still exhausted every time he woke up. So he went back to sleep until the shock of the pain frightened him awake again. 

no son of mine.

Rinse and repeat. He wasn't hungry. His stomach hurt. 

What day was it? Max's brain was static. He couldn't walk on his right leg anymore. He went back to sleep. 

A whistle pierced the air, signalling the start of the game. Max sprinted out with the team, his chest tight. He felt several pats on his shoulder as they ran. Each one felt like hatchets slicing through him.

“Go get ‘em, Jagerman!” 

“We’re counting on you, quarterback.” 

Max kept his eyes on the ball and ran. That was all he'd ever known. He watched the ball fly through the air and he leaped up to catch it. He felt the ball land in his arms, and then hit off his chest. It was getting a little harder to breathe. Max took off running the moment he felt the ball brush against his palm. He could hear the roars and footsteps surrounding him as he made his way across the field. He just needed to keep running. If he kept running his Dad would be proud of him and then everything would be okay. It would all be okay forever. 

Max felt something ram into his side. He felt the air leave his lungs and he felt his body crash into the ground. An involuntary slow groan escaped his throat as he rolled over onto his stomach. He watched the ball roll across the field and helplessly watched the opposing player grab it. Max didn't pull himself up and nobody ran over to help. 

“Nice fucking job, Jagerman.”

“Star quarterback can't even take a little shove.”

“Pussy.”

Max clutched his chest and dragged himself to his feet. The crowd wasn't cheering anymore. Nobody was encouraging him to keep going. It was like the game stopped, but it didn't. The players were still roaring and running, chasing after the ball.  The cheerleaders and mascot were just standing there with their arms crossed. 

Richie. 

Max limped over to the cheerleaders and costumed Richie, still holding his chest. He couldn't breathe. He felt like he was dying. 

“Richie. Help me.” He choked out, desperately trying to take in air and still feeling just as out of breath as before. The mascot stood still. “Please help. I can't breathe. I think I'm drowning.”

The mascot pulled off its helmet and it wasn't Richie. 

Maybe it was, but all Max could see was vines and ivy wrapped around its head. The thorns were poking into it, ripping its skin as they tightened around it. It just kept winding and winding, more thorns materialising out of nothing. Max could see the lines of crimson blood running down its neck. It didn't speak, just watched the terror flood into every orifice of Max’s body. Max let out a loud wail, grabbing the mascot's shoulders and begging for help. He wasn't sure what he was asking for anymore. There was nothing this thing could do for him. Nobody could do anything to help him. His face was surely purple by now. His heart felt as if it was on the brink of exploding from the pressure. 

“It looks like it hurts.” The mascot said, and the vines and ivy disappeared. Richie’s face, covered in gashes and littered with deep cuts, stared back at him as he choked on air. He didn't look concerned. He didn't look like he was in pain. He was just looking, lifelessly staring into Max’s eyes. Max's cries were starting to sound more like screams. A patch of Richie's cheek was gone, and exposed flesh, pumping blood took its place. The blood was pooling on the floor in front of him, soaking his costume. He smiled with faux pity. Max collapsed. 

Max didn't scream when he woke. He hugged his pillow and wailed until his throat hurt. 

you went on a date? 

Max had missed three rehearsals. Everyone was going to hate him even more. His brain was static, one sentence kept cutting through the white noise. 

no son of mine. 

Max tried to sit up. Lying back down and succumbing to sleep sounded much nicer. It didn't feel right to sleep this much, but he was still so sleepy. 

Richie. What if Richie was thinking about him? Max needed to show him that he was okay. He sat up and the room started spinning. He was trapped in a whirlpool. Max pushed himself up against the wall, leaning on it. His stomach was churning uncomfortably. The sun shining through the curtains felt like fire in his retinas. Too bright. It hurt. Max clutched his mouth, sliding down the wall and failing to stop himself from retching. He closed his eyes. 

Thursday. The man on the radio said it. Surely it hadn't been that long. The hurting started on Saturday, and Max barely remembered anything happening since then. Max opened his eyes, staring at the light bulb hanging from his ceiling. He didn't remember there being two. 

“-a sunny day, coming in at a beautiful 45 degrees. Not too shabby for winter! Expect clear skies in Hatchetfield today and tomorrow! We can only pray that our neighbours in Clivesdale are enjoying the rain. We're coming up to 6pm folks, drive safe and enjoy the tunes. We've got some good ones.” 

Six? 

Far too late to be sleeping. Max was late for rehearsal. He pulled himself up, staggering over to the door and letting himself out of his bedroom. Where was his phone? He didn't remember losing it. Max slowly crept out to the front door. His stomach ached. 

He wasn't really sure where to go once he'd made it outside. He missed Richie’s face. Maybe he would be home. Max started walking, wondering why his right leg hurt so bad. Did somebody hurt it? 

no son of mine. 

Max’s brows furrowed. He staggered on. 

He knew this block. Richie was around here somewhere. His apartment complex wasn't far. Max’s head was starting to feel heavy again. He lowered himself to the ground and sat down on the curb. He needed a second. Just a moment to catch his bearings and he'd be fine. 

“Max?” 

Max lifted his head to see Richie staring at him, terrified. His eyes were wider than Max had ever seen them, and his breaths were quivering. He stood there, shaking, taking in the scene before him, taking in Max , before kneeling down in front of him. He cupped Max’s cheeks between his palms and looked into his eyes. Max smiled dimly. It was nice to be held. Richie was speaking, but Max wasn't catching most of it.

“Your pupils are dilated.” He said, and Max wished he knew what it meant. Richie was crying now. Max wanted to ask him what was wrong but he couldn't find the words. “What happened to you.”

“I don't remember.” Max muttered, his voice slurring. He wasn't drunk. He wished he was. Richie touched Max’s forehead gently, patting the dried blood with his pointer finger. Max welcomed the kind touch. Richie pulled out his phone and called somebody. Max just wanted to go back to sleep. His eyes fluttered shut and he felt Richie’s arms wrap around him.

Chapter Text

Richie was sitting on his bedroom floor in the dark, his back leaning against the wall. It was probably close to 4AM, and Richie had no plans of sleeping.  Max was asleep in his bed. He hadn't moved a muscle since he passed out on the curb. Richie's stomach turned at the thought of it. He pulled his knees up to his chest and took in a shaky breath. It was like Max didn't even know where he was. His eyes had been foggy and distant. 

Max had been alone like that for days. He left their date, trembling and afraid, and then a man, a monster, did that to him. Did he think he was going to die? Did he blame Richie for letting him go home when the signs were there? Richie closed his eyes and tried to forget. He grabbed a lock of his hair and pulled as hard as he could. The burning sensation on his scalp distracted him from his guilt for a fleeting moment. Richie stood up, his eyes landing on Max. He looked almost peaceful when he was asleep. Almost, because Richie could see the slight furrow of his brows, the tiniest frown etched into his features as he slept. 

Richie heard the quietest knock on his door. He watched Max carefully for any sign of disturbance. He was still sleeping soundly. Well, sleeping. He slowly crept over to the door and opened it as quietly as he could muster. Paul was standing at the door, looking about as worried as Richie felt. 

“Thought you might be awake.” Paul whispered. It was then Richie realised he was holding a side plate with cookies on it, with a mug of what looked to be hot chocolate in the other hand. Richie wondered how Paul always telepathically knew exactly what he needed. “How is he?” He asked, craning his neck to peer inside. 

“Sleeping.” Richie frowned. He took the plate and mug, thanking Paul and putting them down on the floor beside his locker. He sat back down. “I don't like how much he's sleeping.”

“Concussions make you sleepy.” Paul sighed, pushing the door shut quietly and sliding down the wall to sit down beside Richie. “You know we can't take him to hospital without his father finding out.”

“He's eighteen.” Richie protested, imagining the fear in Max’s eyes if he saw his Dad walking into his hospital room. He didn't want to see Max like that ever, ever again. 

“He's a highschooler.” Paul grabbed a cookie from the side plate, chewing it in silence. Richie let the quiet linger. He knew Paul was thinking now. “We're gonna figure something out.”

Those words felt like a hug. Paul always figured it out. Richie’s eyes welled up with tears.

“Do you- do you think it's my fault?” The question hung in the air. Paul wasn't going to dignify it with an answer. “I let him go home.”

“You didn't know, kid.”

“But I think I did.” Richie wiped his eyes, keeping them fixed to his knees. “I think I did know and I let him go anyway.” 

“We have him now and we're going to help him.” Paul wrapped his arm around Richie and pulled him into a hug. “That's all that matters.” Richie hugged him back tight. 

…

Max was standing in the living room at home, but it wasn't the filthy version of it he'd grown accustomed to. The one with beer cans littered everywhere, with worn, damp laminate flooring, the wood covered in blisters. It was home how he remembered it. Warm, clean. Toys littering the floor instead. Max could see his wind-up fire truck toy by the coffee table. He was young, happy. He was still in the good days. 

The smell of puff pastries wafted in from the kitchen, and Max knew he would find his mother in there. Puff pastries were her favourite to make, and Max’s favourite to taste-test. She always said they made the perfect team. He walked towards the smell, noting how much taller everything seemed. He was still little. That explained why she was here. 

“That you, Maxie?” 

Max felt a pang of pain in his heart upon hearing her voice. He kept quiet, hoping she'd say his name again if he didn't respond. 

“Staying quiet today?” She turned around, smiling down at him like he was extraordinary. She always made him feel like he was something. She was tall with brown hair and a kind smile, the features Max was proud to share with her. He had his father's eyes, though he tried to pretend he didn't. Max stepped into the kitchen, not saying a word. He just wanted to stay with her. As she looked down at him, her smile turned to a small, sad frown. She knelt down in front of him, cupping his cheeks in her hands. Even while dreaming, he was able to note that Richie did the same thing. Max closed his eyes and tried his hardest to store both moments in his memory forever. 

“Were you okay while I was gone?”

“I’m grown now. I'm okay on my own.” Max replied, refusing to meet her gaze. He always felt the need to insist he didn’t need protecting. 

She didn't respond to that, she just watched him, scanned his face the way she always did. It was like magic. He would come home from school every day and she seemed to be able to tell how his day went from one look, even if he tried to hide it with a smile. She was omniscient. 

“You don't need to do everything on your own, you know.” She stared at him knowingly. Max swallowed thickly.

“I don't think he can deal with… all of me.” He replied. 

“You don’t need to be… easy to be lovable, Max. He sees that. You just need to try.” 

Max hugged her, slowly watching his home lose its colour, until he couldn't feel her embrace anymore. His home became a house again, he was hugging the air instead of the only person who knew him. 

Max opened his eyes. He looked up at the unfamiliar ceiling, blinking the tears from his eyes. He didn't know where he was. He felt warm and comfortable, almost safe. Something in him was prohibiting him from moving, a sort of survival instinct. If he moved, someone would catch him and he would be dragged away from this warmth. His head still hurt, but the brain static seemed to be lessening. He could almost form a coherent thought. Max clutched the blanket draped over him, pulling it over his shoulders. It felt heavier than a normal blanket, like there were little weights in it. It felt like a hug. Based on the limited light shining through the window, it was dawn. Max wanted to go back to sleep. He wanted to see her again. 

He heard a gentle, content sigh from the floor beneath him, and everything in his body froze up. The world seemed to stop spinning for a moment, the hairs stood up on his arms. As slowly and as quietly as he possibly could, he lifted his head up from the pillow to look down. 

Max’s heart melted all at once when he fixed his gaze on Richie, wrapped up in blankets on the floor, fast asleep. Max stayed right there in that moment for a while, not daring to move and ruin it. 

Was he really safe? 

Max gently brushed against his own cheek with the tips of his fingers. It felt real. He could feel the slight tingle on his skin. He pressed down a little harder. It still felt real. 

Max's breath caught in his throat, and a wave of every kind of agony seemed to crash into him all at once. He let out a sob that wracked his entire body, tearing out of his throat while he tried to muffle it with his palm. Richie’s head shot up in an instant. His eyes were wide and frightened, immediately fixing onto Max. 

Max cried harder. Harder than he had ever cried in his entire life. 

Max sat at the breakfast table with his head down. He wasn't really used to eating formally at a table like this. He usually ended up slinking up to his bedroom to eat, so he wasn't exactly versed in table etiquette. Back when he did eat at a table like this, he'd been little, and correct etiquette hadn't really mattered. Nobody tried to make him speak, which he was grateful for. Richie was sitting right beside him, their chairs so close together they were practically touching. Trevor was across from Richie, sitting with his legs pulled up against the side of the table. He was scrolling on his phone, completely unphased by their uninvited guest. He must've been briefed on why Max is here already. Richie was stealing glances at him occasionally, and he pretended not to notice. The attention was nice. Paul put a plate down in front of Max without a word. He was about to say he wasn’t hungry, but then the scent hit his nostrils, and suddenly he’d never been hungrier in his life. He stared at the plate of eggs and bacon in front of him, his hand twitching to grasp the fork beside them. Richie’s eyes were on him again. 

“Thanks,” he tried to say, but nothing came out. He grabbed the fork and clutched it in his shaking hand. He kept his eyes fixed to his hand, like it'd stop shaking if he thought hard enough. He listened to the quiet clinking of the forks against the other plates as they ate. They probably thought he was acting weird. 

He stabbed into the centre of the egg, watching the yolk spill out. He near-winced at the sight of it. He vaguely recalled holding his nose while equally viscous blood spilled out of it. A stream of water, flowing out with no sign of stopping. 

Max decided he didn't want the egg anymore. He took a bite of the bacon and chewed on it slowly, savouring the taste of it. He never took food like this for granted. 

Richie was looking at Max like there was something he really wanted to say. Max didn't want to talk about it, so he kept his eyes on his plate. There was nothing to talk about. This wasn't different to any of the other times it happened. 

“We all missed you at rehearsals.” Richie eventually said. 

“You sure did.” Trevor muttered, masking it with a loud cough. Richie cast him a murderous glare, choosing to keep his mouth shut. 

“I'm sorry I missed them.” Max's voice returned halfway through the sentence, and he let out a weak cough. He then loudly cleared his throat, trying to sound a little less pathetic. 

“Don't be sorry, dumbass.” Trevor managed to lace his words with both sarcasm and sincerity. “It doesn't sound like you missed them on purpose.” Max didn’t have anything to say in response. Usually he’d have some kind of quip or retort to fire back with, but he was just tired. “You'll catch up pretty quick. The show is still a hot mess.”

“That's true.” Richie smiled dimly. “Miss Mulberry has been close to tears during almost every single rehearsal we've had.”

“She's been pulling out all the classics. ‘THE FIRST PERFORMANCE IS TWO WEEKS OUT AND WE HAVE NO SHOW!’ That one is my favourite.”

“Can't forget ‘I'LL WAIT.’” 

“An oldie but a goodie.”

Max cracked a cautious smile. The muscles he used to smile feel stiff from lack of use. Richie smiled back, the same kind of smile as the car ride back from the skate park. Like it was just for him. 

Max’s chest tightened, and he looked away. That flutter in his stomach meant trouble. It meant pain, and punching, and confusion. He could survive on Richie’s warm smiles forever, but they could also be the end of him. Max pushed his plate forward, leaving the bleeding egg alone next to the fork. He thanked Paul for the food and told Richie he needed some fresh air. Richie looked like he didn't want to let him leave. He still did.

Max twisted the key in the lock, pushing the front door open after some struggle. It seriously needed to be replaced. Not that anyone was ever going to do that. His dad certainly wasn't, and Max was hoping to never return to this place pretty soon. He walked inside, armed with a pocket full of pain killers, a cheap burner phone he picked up on the walk home and a crumpled up piece of paper. Hopefully the house was empty. He had a feeling his dad would leave him alone, anyway. He always ignored him for weeks after going too far. 

He shut himself into his bedroom and sighed. This was going to be one of the last times he locked himself in here. 

The air seemed to die when Richie biked past the Hickory sign. It wasn't uncommon for people to say they felt uneasy driving into it. It wasn't an area that was particularly sought after when it came to the housing market. Most houses were derelict or in disrepair. Even the intact ones didn't sell because of the reputation the place held. It was an unspoken truth in Hatchetfield: Hickory was fucked. Richie knew all of this. Despite knowing this, he was biking to the old Waylon place, the manor with possibly the worst reputation of all of them. He was going there to meet who? Max Jagerman. Because of course he was. He wondered how his GPA was so high when this was the level of street smarts he was dealing with. He skidded down the pebbled path leading up to the house, holding down on the brakes to stop himself from riding right into it. He thought it might collapse like a house of cards if he did as much as touch it. 

He saw Max’s skateboard resting against the wall near the entrance. It was the only one there, so the odds of him being jumped by a group of jocks were lowering. Richie parked his bike beside the skateboard, smiling down at it. The stickers adorning it were unfortunately adorable. Richie pushed the old wooden door open and walked inside. Dust filled the air, the particles occasionally catching in the moonlight. It was almost beautiful. Each step Richie took sent puffs of dust upwards to join the rest. 

“Max?” He called out anxiously, his eyes flitting around the house. It was starting to occur to him how stupid he was. 

“Hey.” Max was sitting at the top of the staircase, looking down at Richie. It looked like he had a six pack beside him. Richie frowned internally. 

He waved awkwardly, trudging up the steps to meet him. He tried to look anywhere but Max as he made his way up. It felt quite serial killer-esque to maintain eye contact while ascending a staircase. Max pulled himself to his feet, grabbing the six pack. “There's a balcony in one of the bedrooms over here,” he said, starting to walk towards it. Part of Richie was still hesitant to follow, but he did. He'd probably follow Max anywhere. 

“You come here often?” Richie asked, wishing he would have not said that as soon as he did. Max huffed out a laugh. 

“Yeah.” 

Max’s letterman was covered in stains, Richie noticed. He was always wearing it at school, but it was surprisingly never all that dirty. No one had cleaned it in a while. Max was probably the one who did the laundry at home. They made it out to the balcony, and Max turned to meet Richie’s gaze. 

“If you're feeling risky.” He pointed to the slanted roof jutting out from above the window beside the balcony. It had several missing slates. Richie looked him up and down. 

“You're out of your mind, Max.” 

Max smiled. He leaned over the balcony and dropped his beers onto the roof, knowing he'd won. 

“You don't mind.” He replied, jokingly. He was right though. Richie pulled himself up onto the balcony railing, jumping onto the roof. He was pleasantly surprised he didn't fall right through it. He turns to give Max a victorious smile, and he sees Max staring at him, looking a mix of impressed and something else. It made Richie’s cheeks burn. 

“Repeating the same PSA as the last time. My potential medical bills are your problem.” 

“Wouldn't let anything happen to you.” He smiled, jumping over the balcony and sitting down beside Richie. Max's tone was still light and jokey, but Richie’s breath still caught in his throat a little. 

“How are you feeling?” Richie asked. 

“Fine.” He droned, any modicum of joy left in his voice dying in an instant. 

Silence settled between them. Though comfortable, it still gave Richie the space to worry. Max let out a quiet, content sigh. 

“How did you text me?” Richie asked. 

“Got a burner phone.” Max replied. He then huffed out a quiet laugh, making Richie cast him a weird look. 

“What’s so funny?”

“Nothing. Just been noticing that you really pronounce the letter t.” He replied, grinning. Richie’s shoulder’s stiffened. He was inclined to believe he was being mocked. It wouldn’t be the first time. 

“Yeah, and what? It's because I used to have a speech impediment and then I overcorrected it and now I over-enunciate certain letters and words and-”

“It's cute.”

Richie stopped talking. 

“Oh.” 

Max silently dragged his finger along the slates in front of them, writing his name in the dust. Richie wrote his name beneath it. Max carefully drew a heart around it, his lips pursed. He seemed to be holding his breath. 

“Your handwriting is… tidier than I expected.” Richie muttered, staring at the heart and listening to his own heart beat a little quicker. Max smiled. 

“Yeah. I worked really hard on it when I was little.” He replied quietly. Each letter had a gap between it, and they weren't really stylized at all. It looked like something right out of a handwriting practice book. Like the default. “I write real slow to make sure it looks okay, and the gaps help me understand the words.” 

Richie mouthed a silent oh. Yet another admission that convinced Richie he didn't know Max at all. 

“I have dyslexia.” Max whispered it, keeping his eyes trained to the ground. It was like he was expecting Richie to cackle. 

“It's pretty common these days.”

Max looked up. 

“Is it really?”

“Mhm. Trevor has dyscalculia. I'm autistic. There's a whole world out there.” He deadpanned, looking back at him. 

“You know, I tried for years.” Max drew a little star beside the heart containing their names. Richie tilted his head. “To be… smart.”

Richie hummed quietly.

“Still always failed everything, no matter what.” He continued, balling his fists and staring at them blankly. “So one time, I decided I was gonna study so fucking hard. I was gonna do everything I could to pass.”

“But you failed anyway.” Richie whispered, finishing his sentence. The words stung coming out of his mouth. Max gave a subtle nod. 

“So I didn't try anymore.” 

“I would've helped you.”

Max cleared his throat, turning away for a moment. He tilted his head, cracking his neck like he was resetting himself. 

“Well, your handwriting sucks.” He noted, startling a laugh from Richie. 

“And you don't put the umlaut over the a in your second name. You can't even spell your own name right.” He snapped back, grinning. 

“No one takes the time to write those out, dude.” Max dramatically added the two dots over the a in Jägerman, then looking back to Richie with a ‘happy now?’ expression on his face. 

“You seem to have no issue taking the time to make your writing look like a font, though.”

“Thank fuck. Wouldn't want my writing to look like your chicken scratch.”

Richie let out a cackle. A loud, unguarded one that made Max laugh along with him.

“In my defense. In my defense, Trevor has a calligraphy hyperfixation and I had to make a statement. You can't have two good writers in a family.” 

“Hyperfixation?” Max questioned. Richie didn’t think of Max as a dumb jock anymore, but his current bewildered expression wasn’t helping his case. 

“Oh, uh, it's like an interest that takes over your life, basically.” He explained. Max nodded slowly. 

“Oh, so is football mine?” He asked. 

“Well, do you like football?” 

A long pause. 

“No.” They both froze. Richie should’ve expected it. “I don't.”

A longer pause. 

“Mine is whales.” Richie mumbled, trying to break the new layer of tension. “You ever heard of Keiko?”

Max shook his head. 

“He's the orca from Free Willy. His story fucks me up, but I love him.” 

“Why?” 

“I guess I see myself in him.” Richie muttered. Max quietly took another beer from the six pack. Richie took a can when he was offered. He had nothing to lose. “It’s stupid, but I do. For starters, he was given a girl name when he was born, even though he wasn't one.” 

Max was staring at him carefully, now. 

“He was raised in a pool that was more shallow than he was long, so he constantly felt like he was suffocating. He had so much growing to do, and no room to do it.”

Richie cracked open his can, clinking it against the one in Max’s hand. “Cheers.”

Max huffed out a laugh. 

“Cheers.” 

“Keiko was bullied by orcas that were bigger and meaner than him. He was never really the same afterwards.”

The jock swallowed thickly. 

“The water Keiko was in wasn't right for him, but no one noticed. Not his guardians, not anyone. So he got sicker, and sicker. Nobody noticed. If they did, they just didn't care.” Richie’s voice was starting to rise in volume. He didn't notice. “The conditions were more suited to dolphins, which Keiko wasn't. Maybe he thought his parents- his guardians wanted him to be one. The dolphins hated him because he wasn't one of them, but Keiko probably would've given anything to be like them. He would've given up everything to fit in.”

“Richie?” 

Richie thought he might have been yelling. He wasn't done. 

“Nobody liked Keiko and he was positive it would stay that way. Once the damage had already been permanently done, they tried to get him released into the wild. He had new carers now. Kinder ones who understood his needs. He should've been happy now, but it wasn't that simple. Keiko was used to a life of suffocation. The horizon can feel even more suffocating when you've lived in tanks and pools your whole life. The ocean was too vast for a whale like Keiko. Because, you wanna know the worst part? Keiko still searched for his old carers, even after he was freed from them. Because he still loved them despite it all, even though they probably never loved him. He was irreparably traumatised and ruined because of them, and he missed them every single day.” 

Richie felt a hand on his shoulder. He slowly brought himself back to the present, realising he was fighting to breathe. He was taking in short, sharp breaths. He realised next that he was crying. Hard. His third and final realisation was that the hand on his shoulder belonged to Max. 

“You're not talking about the whale anymore.” Max said softly. Richie tried to take in a full breath, wiping the tears from his face. He grabbed the beer, gulping it down greedily. Max eyed him nervously. 

“I'm not.” He responded faintly, his eyes flicking downward to look at Max’s hand, still firmly holding onto his shoulder. “But you know. Keiko was free for a little while before he died. Maybe he wasn't happy, but he was free. That’s something, isn’t it?” He looked up, giving Max a crooked smile. 

“You don't have to end up that way.” Max finally took his arm off Richie’s shoulder. He missed the touch now that it was gone. “You don't have to end up like Keiko. You can be free and happy. You can have both.”

“Like you'd know about that.” 

Richie winced as soon as he said it. Max grimaced.

“I will.” He said quietly. 

“You will?”  Richie’s throat felt dry all of a sudden. 

“I'm leaving.” 

Richie’s brain shut off and switched itself back on in an instant. Nothing changed when he booted back up. Max was still eyeing him cautiously. 

“Hatchetfield?” He choked out. Max nodded. 

“The water isn't right for me here… this tank is… too small.” Max was speaking slowly, like he wasn’t sure he really understood the metaphor. 

Richie found himself shaking his head involuntarily. 

“You can't just… go.”

“It's not like you'd miss me.” 

“I've actually gotten pretty attached to you, asshole.” Richie’s voice shook, his eyes aflame and staring right into Max’s. He didn't think it possible for someone to have the audacity to take over his life like this and then try to leave. 

Max leaned forward, until their faces were scant five inches apart. 

“Prove it.” He whispered.

Richie grabbed his face and kissed him hard. 

…

This felt different. It was unlike anything Max had ever felt in his entire life. It felt new, and fresh, and like it had opened a door he would never be able to close. The spontaneity of it all had him struggling to grasp what was happening. 

He tried to put together a list in his mind. He inanely noted that Richie's hands were cold and trembling. Max could practically feel them vibrating, even while they were holding his cheeks. 

Reality crashed in before he could add any more to that list. Richie was kissing him. They were sitting together on the rooftop of the old Waylon place, both more than a little tipsy, and they were kissing. The realisation hit, and instead of pulling away, Max found himself leaning into it. He let it wash over him, the feeling of Richie's hands caressing his face, of their lips touching. Richie started off rough and frantic, like he'd been dreaming of this moment for a long time. The roughness quickly faded, and he grew more tentative, cautious, awaiting reciprocation. When Max leaned in, something seemed to click between them, everything slotted into place. Richie tightened his grip on Max's face, and Max was brought back to Richie holding his head up last night. After he'd found him on the curb, pupils dilated and head pounding. Max vaguely felt his head buzzing, even with the pain meds dullening it. 

He pulled himself back to reality, his fingers carding through Richie's hair. He kept his eyes open, trying to document every inch of Richie’s face. His hair felt more wiry than Max's. There was a lot of it, but it was quite thin. Maybe stress had whittled it away over the years. It was dyed a navy blue colour, but Max could see the dark brown roots peeking through. Max had always thought Richie’s hair was naturally black, but he could see the brown strands from here. His freckles looked cuter up close. They littered his nose and cheeks, with a lone few scattered across his forehead. He had a small birthmark above his left eyebrow, barely noticeable to anyone who wasn't as close to it as Max was. His eyes were closed, blissful, but Max knew they were blue. 

He wanted to remember it all. This moment, where he wasn't scared of the repercussions, even a little bit. This moment, where he was this close to Richie without feeling a pang of fear in his chest. It felt nice, it felt right.

For a moment. 

Max pulled away, suddenly terrified. 

“I've been waiting to do that.” Richie smiled giddily. 

Max had just made a mistake. He had just made a massive, terrible, irreversible mistake. He tried to put distance between them, his breath catching in his throat. Richie’s smile dropped. 

“I'm sorry. I- I need to-” He shifted away from Richie, starting to stand. He needed to go now. 

“Don't go.” Richie grabbed his wrist, hard. His tone was final, and his gaze was sharp, transforming in an instant. It was what Max needed and he knew it. He needed someone to wade through the waves of fear and panic, and tell him it was fine. 

He stayed put. He ignored everything in him telling him to run far away. He shut out the parts that spoke in his father's voice, the parts that told him he was worthy of nothing but rot. He stayed right there, on that rooftop, sitting next to this boy. The boy who just held onto his face and kissed him like he was about to disappear. Max sort of wished he would. He wanted a wave to crash into this house and sweep him away, leaving Richie unscathed. Richie let go of Max’s arm and instead slotted his hand into his, their fingers interlocking. Max’s breaths wavered as he looked down at it. 

“Don't leave.” Richie leaned forward again, his eyes flitting down to Max’s lips. “Stay with me. Until we figure something out.” 

He wanted Max to stay with him. He didn't feel worthy of that fortitude, that peace. Had he really earned that?

“I can’t do that.” He whispered. 

He had to go. 

Richie kissed him anyway. His lips were trembling, his eyes were open and watering. Max closed his eyes. 

Max went home that night. He walked Richie home while they both cried silently. Max sat on his bedroom floor all night and let the kiss play over and over in his mind. He planned. Max was going to go to school tomorrow and then drop out. He was going to disappear without a trace. He was going to get on the ferry to Clivesdale, then he was going to rent a car and drive until he stopped feeling like he was suffocating. Maybe he'd end up in New York or Texas, maybe he'd decide Chicago was far enough. Hell, maybe he'd end up in California. Once he found home, he was going to find a motel, or an apartment, or a trailer, anything. He had worked summers for years to do this. 

It was funny. Max thought his life would turn out differently for a second. Swept up in that desperate kiss, in leland blue eyes, in interlocked fingers, he really thought it could be the rest of his life. The pangs of terror Max had felt his entire life returned, and reality followed. Max was living in the real world now, and he needed to go. 

He had always wanted a home in Grand Rapids. 

Max sat on his bedroom floor, pressed against his mattress and a suitcase full of everything that had ever mattered to him. His letterman laid on the bed. His father could keep that. It was never really Max’s. Beside the letterman, a note. Rewritten over and over, pages repeatedly torn and thrown away. Some drafts were heartfelt, some drafts were apathetic, some drafts were so full of rage that Max shook as he wrote them, some drafts were tear stained. Max decided he didn't need to waste his words on an explanation that wasn't earned. Four words, carefully written. It was enough.

you were so mean.

Max skipped rehearsals. He avoided every corridor he knew Richie walked down. He wanted this to be as pain free as possible. He knew if he took one look at him, he wouldn’t be able to go. 

“Yo! Jagerman!” 

Max whipped his head around to see Steph speed walking towards him. Grace wasn’t far behind her, clutching her books to her chest. Max was almost tempted to turn around and run. 

“Hey, Steph.” He grumbled, sighing. 

“You don the haunted expression of a man who has discovered his sexuality.” 

Max felt his body freeze up. He eyed her nervously, managing to choke out a shaky, “What?” 

Was it that obvious? Who knew? Did Richie tell her? Who else had he told? Max tried to breathe. 

“Woah, lucky guess.” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Max muttered, finding himself falling back into that machismo persona he’d molded over the years. His walls were building themselves back up. 

“Come on, Max.” She was grinning, like there was anything funny about this. 

“Steph. Just because you came out the fucking womb with yourself all figured out, it doesn’t mean I did. I made a mistake.” 

It felt like his heart shrunk. The world quieted. 

“Oh.” She whispered. Max swallowed thickly, his eyes fixed to the floor. 

“Your soul is going to be tortured for several reasons.” Grace said quietly. Max looked up. “Kissing a boy is not going to be one of them.” 

She grabbed Steph’s arm and tugged her away.

The last class of the day was shop class, the only one Max was going to miss. He spent the hour sitting in the back of the room and working, shrugging off everyone's queries about where he'd been. He was trying to chisel a whale into the side of a small chest he'd been working on. He thought Richie might like it. Every time he thought about Richie, he didn't want to leave anymore. But then he'd think about going home. 

The hour passed too quickly. Before he knew it, the bell was ringing and students were filing out of the room. Max stayed sitting down, chiselling away. Tom was the only teacher he wanted to say goodbye to. 

“Jagerman.” Tom walked down to Max’s table, placing a bottle of water down in front of him. “Noticed you didn't drink the Gatorade last time.” 

“Thanks, coach. Uh, Tom.” He wasn't coach anymore. Not that he knew that yet. 

“I was looking for ya.” He said, his stare a little withering. “Thought you'd dropped out or something.”

Max choked out a weak laugh. 

“Listen. Uh, Tom. I have something to tell you. A couple things.” Max found himself fidgeting with his hands, struggling to get the words out. 

“I'm all ears, kid.”

Max took in a deep breath. 

“I'm, uh.” Max felt his throat closing up. “I'm leaving Hatchetfield. Today. Forever, I think.”

Tom's eyebrows raised, but his face mostly remained unchanged.

“Right. Why?” 

“I lied to you.” He muttered. Tears pricked his eyelids and he wasn't sure he'd be able to get through this sentence without breaking down. “When you asked me if things were okay at home. Things… aren't. They never were.” 

Tom didn't look particularly shocked. He sighed, putting a steadying hand on Max’s shoulder. 

“So, I have to go.” He whispered. 

“Look, kid. I'll only say this once, and you can pretend I didn't. I have a spare room in my house. I have food.”

Max wished he could scream at him to stop talking. 

please don't give me another reason to stay.

“Just putting it out there, if you don't want to leave your life behind. I'd hate to see you throw your future away because of the cards you were dealt.”

Max felt sick to his stomach. He was supposed to say his goodbyes and leave Hatchetfield before he had the chance to mourn it. He was supposed to make this painless, to finally lock the safe and leave his past behind. It wasn't supposed to hurt like this. He was saying goodbye, and Tom had the audacity to try to prolong it? To stop it? 

The worst part is that it was so fucking tempting. 

Max was about to respond when Tom greeted someone standing in the classroom doorway. 

“Hey, nighthawk! You better not be showing up to tell me you're gonna bail out on us again.” 

There Richie was. He was standing by the door, hugging his books, shrinking into himself. He wore a massive baggy hoodie that nearly swallowed him whole, and donned his usual black cargo shorts. His eyes and nose were bleary and red. His hair was somehow messier than usual. The sight of him made Max wish he'd never even thought about avoiding him. 

“No, no, um. I was just- um, I thought Max might be in here.” Richie’s voice, already at a low murmur, trailed off as he spoke. “...sorry.” Tom looked between Richie and Max for a second before seemingly coming to a realisation. He reached into his pocket, pulling out a key and handing it to Max discreetly. 

“Offer is always open.” He whispered, patting Max's shoulder again and walking out, brushing past Richie and also patting his shoulder. It seemed to be his thing. Richie stood there for a little while. He was already silently weeping, wiping his eyes over and over. The tears just kept coming. 

“Hey.”

“Hi.” 

Richie’s mouth was twisting, his lips pursing while he tried to compose himself.

He started to walk towards Max, and his approach felt like an eternity, like time slowed down. He sat down next to Max, eyeing the small wooden chest. “What's that?” He asked, his voice still trembling.

“A chest. Maybe a music box. I haven't decided yet.” He replied, a little stiffly. “I've been working on it for a while and I thought you might like it.” He picked it up and showed Richie the side. “I tried to carve a little whale on the side.” 

Richie looked at it for a second, then he looked at Max. He burst into tears again. 

“It looks more like a shark.” He blubbered miserably. Max rushedly covered the whale with his hand.

“It's okay. I can sand it off.” He soothed, and Richie laughed wetly.

“That's not why I'm crying, you fucking idiot.” 

“Oh.” 

They stopped talking for a second while Richie slowly pulled himself together. 

“Max?”

“Mm.”

“If you ever get another burner phone, would you call me?”

Max nodded faintly, knowing his tear ducts would betray him if he spoke. Richie nodded back, forcing the saddest smile Max has ever seen. Max leaned forward and planted a kiss on his cheek. 

Richie completely crumbled in an instant. He stood up, staggered out and he was gone. He didn't take the chest. Max could hear his shaky breaths, his sniffles as he ran down the corridor. Max was left to stew in that. He looked at the key in his hand. 

…

“You poor creature.” 

Richie had been reduced to a sobbing mess on Ruth's bedroom floor. He was lying with his head resting on Ruth's leg while she gingerly patted his head. She had known he was going to the woodwork room to find Max and had walked home without him. She answered the door almost immediately when he knocked, pulling him into a hug when she saw he was already crying. He hadn't really stopped crying since he woke up. It had been a fun day explaining that to everyone who asked. 

“I'm never gonna find anyone ever again. I'm gonna die alone.” He croaked, covering his face with his hands. 

“We can get married if you're still lonely when you're thirty.” Ruth replied, trying to shift her leg and stopping when Richie whined. 

“I don't want to marry you, Ruthie. I'm gay.”

“And you're ugly. We all have to settle.”

Richie giggled quietly, his mouth stiff from frowning all day. 

“Why am I not enough for him to stay?”

Ruth sighed. 

“Richard, he's leaving because of what happened to him after your date. Would you stick around if that happened to you?”

“If I loved somebody.” Richie replied. 

“Have you guys even kissed yet?” She asked, getting her answer when Richie wouldn’t respond. Richie wasn’t sure what she’d taken away from his silence, but he was praying she thought they didn’t. He didn’t want anyone to know. He got the feeling Max would freak out if he thought anyone knew. Ruth leaned forward to look down at him. She was frowning. “Alright, look. We're young. I know you don't wanna hear that.”

“You're right. I don’t.”

“We're young,” She reiterated, and Richie groaned loudly, “and there are plenty of vaguely bisexual dumb jocks in the world.” 

“He isn't dumb at all.” Richie replied, sitting upright. He hugged his waist. “He isn't. He's so… different with me.”

“A vaguely bisexual dumb jock who can act.”

“You can't fake the way he was!” He insisted, quickly growing frustrated. Ruth pursed her lips. 

“Alright. I'm sorry.” 

“I'm going home.” He muttered, standing up and grabbing his school bag. Ruth didn't try to stop him. 

“Don't kill yourself.” 

“No promises.”

Richie lay awake all night, watching the sun gradually rise and shine through his curtains. It was going to be another Richie sick day. His eyelids were swollen and his throat was raw. Paul knocked on the door once and Richie got his message across with one loud shriek. He was going to have to apologise for that later. 

Max was probably halfway to his new home by now. Richie hoped he felt free. 

That was a lie. He wanted Max to feel nothing but regret and turn around.

That was also a lie. 

It was also tech week for the show, just to add to the pile of amazing news he'd been getting. They would have to survive without him. Today was a day for lying in bed and crying, exclusively. This was happening more often than Richie would’ve liked. It would be a cold day in hell before he got up to go to school.

“It'll be a cold day in hell.” Richie pushed the skateboard towards Max, shaking his head. 

“I actually just checked the weather down there, and you will not believe how cold it is.” He replied with a grin. 

Richie repeatedly slammed his pillow into his head and tried to forget. How was he supposed to get over him when he'd barely gotten him? Their story wasn't over yet. This wasn't how the rom-com ended. 

It wasn't like Richie could do anything about it. He wasn't quite insane enough to steal Paul's car to chase him down like the airport chase scene from Love, Actually. Ruth Fleming had poisoned his mind with romantic comedy scenarios. In the real world, sometimes the boy just left, and that was it. 

Richie felt his lip quiver. 

There was a knock on the door, and Richie almost let himself get his hopes up that it would be Max. Maybe he'd be holding a bouquet of flowers, smiling dopily with his hair messy and ungelled. Richie’s brief fantasy was squashed when he heard Paul answer the door. It was Ruth. 

“I'm assuming Richie is staying home.” It wasn't even a question. She knew him too well. 

“Yup. Sorry, Ruth. I’m about to leave for work.” 

“Can I come in?” 

Richie audibly groaned. She was going to drag him out of his room by his legs if she had to, and he knew it. He heard Paul say yes and knew it was over. Ruth immediately started aggressively knocking on the door. 

“Wake up! We’re gonna walk to school.” 

Richie threw his pillow at the door and immediately regretted it. He sat upright and listened to the knocking for a while. 

“Alright.” He grumbled. “I’m awake.”

“And alive?”

“Barely.” 

Ruth let herself in, opening his wardrobe and throwing clothes at him. Richie stared at the outfit, and then back up at her. She continued to stare him down until he dragged himself out of bed.

“I’ll be waiting.” She said, smiling triumphantly and walking out. Richie couldn’t decide if he hated her guts right now or if he appreciated the effort. He put on the outfit she threw at him, not bothering to check if it was even remotely cohesive. It was clothes. He had more pressing matters on his hands. 

Richie took one look at himself in the mirror and suddenly his outfit was the most pressing matter. He opted for the baggiest hoodie he could find, instead of the crewneck Ruth picked out. His worst days usually coincided with the days he felt the most insecure. The hoodie hid all the parts of himself he wished he could get rid of. He ruffled his hair a little, but his cowlick was as stubborn as it always was. 

He stepped out of his room and was met with a quiet golf clap from Ruth. 

“Looking beautifully grubby, as always.” She said, and Richie just brushed past her to get to the kitchen. 

“Stop kicking me while I’m down.” He muttered, pulling a box of pop tarts from the cupboard. Ruth sat down on a stool at the kitchen island, frowning. She was probably expecting some kind of witty response from him. Richie was all out of wit. All he had to offer was Shakespearean sorrow. 

He sat down beside her, checking his phone while he ate his pop tart. He knew Max couldn’t text him even if he wanted to. His phone was in pieces somewhere. That didn’t stop him from sending him a text anyway. 

Maybe this was all for the better. Richie had been playing with fire. Max wasn’t good for him, he had a lot of healing to do before even thinking about dating. That didn’t make Richie want him any less. They could ruin each other. Richie didn’t really remember what he used to think about before Max consumed his life. He didn’t even realise it had happened until he was gone. He didn't even take the chest Max made for him. It would've hurt too much to look at, anyway. 

“We should go.” Ruth said, a little quieter. She seemed to be giving up on the tough love approach and giving in to pity. Richie slid off his stool, grabbing his bag from its handle by the door and stepping into his shoes. He turned back to Ruth expectantly, waiting for another remark. She hugged him instead. Richie’s first inclination was to push her away, but he really just wanted to be comforted. He allowed himself to melt into it for a second. Tears pricked his eyes and he blinked them away. “You’re gonna be okay. Seriously.” 

“I hope so.” He whispered. 

History class was usually one of Richie’s favourites. Today, staring at his phone while he tried to conceal it under the table seemed much more appealing. He had made it abundantly clear to Steph from the get-go that he didn’t want to speak to her or anyone, so now she was periodically glancing at him like she had something to say and it was physically hurting her that she couldn’t. He was honestly surprised she was sticking to her joking vow of silence. 

Trevor and Ruth had shockingly similar methods of trying to cheer him up. It wasn’t really a method at all. It was just being slightly annoying until Richie either giggled or fixed his situation out of spite. It was all falling flat today, but deep down he appreciated the effort. He knew a real talk from Trevor was imminent. He wasn’t the type to have a deep conversation through text. 

Richie started idly doodling in his copybook, not really sure what he was drawing until it was in front of him. A little curly haired boy in a white sweater with blue sleeves. It was the first time he had ever seen Max. It was elementary school, third grade. Richie must've seen him before that, because Max had been in Hatchetfield Elementary since first grade, just like Richie. Third grade was the first memory that stuck out, though. It was still clear as day in his mind, like his brain had always prioritised it. 

It was during recess. Richie had been in the middle of a game of tag with Ruth and Pete. While running, he had caught a glimpse of Max, and something about him made him pause. Richie had found himself stopping in his tracks to just look at him. A mess of curls on his head, freckles on his cheeks that must've faded over the years, and the widest, sweetest smile Richie had ever seen. He's yet to see one as radiant as Max’s back then. Max's smile doesn't quite reach his eyes anymore. 

He had a white sweater with blue sleeves, and baggy blue jeans. He had scuffed bright red running shoes on. He had been talking to another kid, a boy, and Richie remembered feeling this red hot anger, deep in his chest. 

Richie knew now that it was jealousy. Even as a little kid, he was hopelessly obsessed with him. He let out a dry laugh, and Steph cast him a sideways look. 

Richie’s dazed state had given Ruth time to catch up and tag him. She paused when she noticed what his eyes were fixed to, like a deer in headlights. She had looked at him, and then back to Richie, and then back to Max. She had giggled.

“Do you have a crush on him?” 

She'd asked, and Richie had loudly shushed her, panic spiking in his chest. His parents had told him that he wasn't supposed to talk about things like that. Boys weren't allowed to talk about other boys like that. 

“He's a boy, Ruthie! Don't be stupid! It's not allowed.”

Ruth's mouth had sunk into a frown, and it stayed that way for the rest of recess. She had been distant for a little while after that. Richie hadn’t known what he’d done and she never told him. 

Was that why Ruth came out to Pete before him? 

“Is that Max?” Steph asked quietly. Richie tried to slowly turn his head towards her intimidatingly, but he didn’t really have it in him. She was pointing at the doodle in his copy. Richie sighed, then nodded. 

“Unfortunately.” He covered the doodle with his hand. 

“Did something-?”

“Happen between us?” Richie completed her sentence. It came out a lot sharper than he’d intended. She looked a little taken aback. “No.” 

“Alright...” She didn’t sound entirely convinced, which Richie wasn’t happy about.

“Did he say something to you?” He asked, and Steph seemed to hesitate. She bit down on her lip. 

“No. No, he didn’t,” was her eventual response. 

She was lying. Richie didn’t try to push it any further. Maybe he didn’t want to know. 

The day ended quicker than expected. He wasn’t out of the woods yet, though. He still had a three hour rehearsal ahead of him. The show was really looming over him now, and Richie didn’t think he was ready at all. He sort of got the impression that nobody was. He met Grace outside the auditorium, and she was looking at him the same way Steph was. Like they both knew something he didn’t. 

“Hey, Grace.” He leaned against the wall beside her. She smiled at him. 

“Hi, Richie. You okay?” 

“Yup. Fine. All good.” Richie replied stiffly, and they left it at that. Grace sighed softly. Richie wished he was better at feigning happiness. It felt physically and mentally impossible to pretend to be invested in anything other than what had been plaguing his mind. Maybe he just needed to give in. “What would you do if Steph left Hatchetfield, just, out of the blue?”

“Sounds more like something I’d do.” She replied, not even questioning the sudden subject change. Richie gave her a look. “...I don’t really know. I think I’d lose my mind a little.”

“Would you try to get her back?” 

Grace pursed her lips, mulling it over. 

“I don’t know if I would.” She said quietly. “I think if she wanted to leave, there’s not much I could say that would change her mind. If she came back of her own volition, then that’s what’s right.” 

“But that sucks, right?” Richie combed his hand through his hair, frowning. He felt childish for it, but ‘it's not fair’ had been repeating in his mind all day. 

“Yeah.” She tilted her head to look at him, really look at him. “Guess it does.” 

… 

It was warm here.

Max had spent a long time trying to figure out if the key to Tom's house was a way out, or a way to prolong the inevitable. The thought of being able to stay near to Richie was… nice. It felt right. But the thought of staying in Hatchetfield, near his father, made him feel sick to his stomach. He'd started to walk to the car rental place after school yesterday, actively trying to stop himself from turning around and running. It felt like a sisyphean task, figuring out which was best for him. 

Max clutched the wooden chest in his hands, looking down at it and feeling his heart sting. He was sitting on an unfamiliar bed in an unfamiliar room, with unfamiliar duvet covers on it. All new. 

He felt a little exposed without his letterman. It sort of ended up being armour for him. When the letterman was on, he was Max Jagerman. Respected, feared, a fraud. Without it, he was just Max, sitting on a bed, anxiously kicking his feet back and forth. He felt so young, like he didn't know anything at all. 

He knew one thing. The chest in his hand tethered him to home. A mess of blue hair and perpetually baggy outfits. That was home now. Max stood up from the bed, willing himself to open the door of the room. He took a deep breath and twisted the handle. 

“You unpacked?” Came a voice from the living room, and Max remembered that's what he was supposed to be doing. He smiled sheepishly, walking to the source of the voice. 

“I forgot.” He replied. 

Tom let out an exaggerated sigh. “Jesus, Jagerman. I knew you were an airhead, but I didn't think it was this bleak.” 

Max laughed quietly, feeling a little bit of joy trickling back into his system. It felt nice to really laugh again. 

“I'll get it done, coach.” He replied. 

“Well, I'm not coach anymore.” Tom said, and Max grimaced. The relief and sadness were battling each other, and he wasn't quite sure which one was winning. “Are you sure about quitting the team?”

“Yeah. I'm sure. I know it's not… smart.” Max tugged at his sleeve absently, avoiding Tom's gaze. He'd been nothing but understanding, but a part of Max still worried that he was disappointed. “But it was someone else's dream. You'll always be coach, though.”

Max hadn't seen a smile that warm come from Tom before. 

“Been an honour to coach you, kid.” He held out his fist for Max to bump. Max gladly obliged, smiling back. The relief, previously held back by reluctance, finally washed over him. This was the liberation he dreamed of. He finally understood what it felt like. It felt like floating. After years of drowning and thrashing, he was finally floating. 

“Thanks Tom.” Max suddenly felt an overwhelming sense of urgency. He knew where he needed to go. “Now, uh, I've got somebody I need to talk to.”

 Tom huffed out a laugh. “I'm not your babysitter. You're eighteen, kid. You can go wherever you want.” He waved him off, and Max didn’t need to be told twice. For the first time in his life he could go wherever he wanted. He was going home.