Chapter Text
Richard’s a sophomore this year. He doesn’t know what that means, other than that he’s no longer a freshman, though he’s still smaller than his classmates and younger than most of them too. The only thing he was thankful for when they moved out to California was skipping sixth grade -- up until this point -- up until high school. Instead of making him feel smart, he just feels weak now. His grades are sparkling, mostly, but everything is so boring , and everyone else seems to know everything that’s important, meanwhile he just knows how to ace tests. Usually.
It’s three weeks into the start of the year, and he’s skipping out on gym class again, sitting out on the bleachers, reading. Coach is harassing him, but he’s doing his best to ignore it. The rules say you can’t participate if you don’t have proper clothes, and Richard is quick to remind him of that. Coach gives up quick enough, like always. Richard supposes he has to at least pretend to make an effort, as to not lose his job. Richard doesn’t care, he only cares about re-reading Two Towers for what is probably the 5th time in his life.
He has a Global Studies exam next class block and he’d do better to study, but he hates that class and he knows the tests are easy, so he’ll take his chances and try his damnedest to put it out of his mind instead. Besides, he can always retake it if he flunks, which he won’t. High school is such a joke, and he can’t wait to get to college. At least, he hopes, college won’t be boring .
Last year, he had gym period with Nelson, and that was at least marginally less terrible, despite being first fucking thing in the morning. Participation wasn’t as horrifying if he could at least have the solidarity of a friend to throw a basketball back and forth with, or to leisurely walk around the track while the rest of the kids jogged past them.
At least, if nothing else, it’s a nice day -- sunny but not too hot and not too bright, big fluffy white clouds that don’t seem to want to threaten rain. The field still smells faintly of fresh-cut grass, and it’s a pleasant scent, not the overpowering dewy green smell it had first thing this morning. It’s mid-September and it feels like it, and that’s not bad.
He hears a heavy sigh far to his left and turns.
Bertram Gilfoyle is also sitting out this class, but doing well to ignore Richard, like always, headphones on and attention diverted. He was a junior, or a senior maybe, Richard couldn’t remember, and had maybe exchanged all of five words collectively with him over the past year. He was … strange. All Richard knew about him is that he was incredibly smart, and that he dressed in all black (except for when he dressed in grey), and that he listened to music that split Richard’s ears, and that he played Magic.
They could have maybe been friends in another life, Richard considers, but something about Gilfoyle unsettles him, and like with most of his peers, the other kid had absolutely zero interest in him. Richard was staring, but the kid took no notice, and Richard goes back to his book, just waiting for this hell-period to be over with. At least taking an exam would be more engaging.
The remaining Fellowship and King Theoden had just reached Orthanc when a frisbee beams Richard right in the ear.
He nearly topples off the bleachers, skinny as he is, he could have slipped right between the rails. Thankfully, he doesn’t. Richard thinks he hears Gilfoyle chuckle, but is too startled to properly care about being embarrassed.
“Fuck!” He curses, hand shooting out to rub at his stinging ear. Is he bleeding? It felt like he could have been bleeding. Then he’d have to wash it out and disinfect it and … okay, just banged and scraped -- his hand comes away clean. But Christ, it hurts!
“Sorry man!”
Richard hears someone shout, off to his right, an almost-gravelly voice that’s some kind of familiar, but that Richard can’t entirely place. He looks down at the grass and sees the owner, another senior, Richard recalls.
Erlich Bachman, that was his name, right? It’s something weird , but Richard is pretty sure he’s remembering it right. He’s a tall, big, shaggy looking kid that looks like he should be on the football team, or maybe a Viking ship, but is too lazy and not nearly cool enough. Cool being used in the ironic sense.
Richard’s ear is still stinging, a biting pain that would make him cry if he was five years younger. He’s willing away the tears that want to pool in his eyes and feels childish. That really fucking hurt.
“It’s fine,” Richard says, exasperated. “Just fucking hurts.”
“So … can I uh, can I have my frisbee back?”
Richard decidedly hates this kid. But he searches for the frisbee anyway, because he’s not going to be a dick . While he’s looking, surprisingly, it whizzes past his ear, fluidly finding its way back to Erlich.
“Yeah, thanks, man!” Erlich nods, looking past Richard.
“Don’t care,” Gilfoyle responds, disinterested, and then pulls out a book that Richard can’t quite catch the lettering on, shielding it in his lap, almost like he’s trying to hide it. What a weird guy , Richard thinks.
Erlich lingers a little too long, tossing the frisbee lightly up in the air a few times, not saying anything but looking like he wants to. Then, without another word, he jogs back off to the small group of kids he was playing with, who look as irritated waiting for him as Richard feels.
The rest of the period goes by without any more event, thankfully, and Richard manages to finish his chapter, Gandalf stealing the young Peregrin Took away to Minas Tirith just as Coach blows the whistle. The class is being dismissed back to the locker rooms. Richard could sit out here and wait the five minutes until next period and keep reading, but he supposes he might as well call it while he’s between chapters.
He sorts through his bag, exchanges his paperback with his Global textbook, and then stumbles down the bleachers because he can’t do anything without his sense of balance giving out on him. His motor skills have never been fantastic, and it’s half of why he hates things like physical education so much -- maybe if he could spend less time tripping over himself and daydreaming he could manage to actually participate without being humiliated.
Instead of falling face first into the dirt, there’s a heavy, warm weight against his shoulder and he’s miraculously upright. His ankle hurts pretty bad, but it’s still carrying him.
Richard knits his eyebrows together and looks up. It’s Erlich, if that is his name, and he’s giving Richard a goofy sort of grin. Something squelches in the depths of Richard’s stomach and he tears away from the contact. He hates when people touch him. The disgust of human contact is right up there next to sauerkraut, dirty sponges, and public restrooms.
“Hah, nice one,” Erlich says, there’s humor in his eyes, but Richard doesn’t feel like he’s being made fun of, strangely. “You’re lucky I came back over.”
“Hah, yeah,” is all Richard says, straightening out his rumpled sweater because it’s something to do and he’s uncomfortable. “Erlich, right?”
“Right,” he says, and doesn’t ask for Richard’s name and probably doesn’t know it and it makes Richard feel like garbage. “So hey, yeah, you looked pretty pissed off and I just wanted to say sorry, like, honestly. No hard feelings?”
Richard wonders why this kid cares so much about apologizing to him, nerdy, awkward insignificant Richard Hendricks -- that everyone either makes fun of or forgets exists. Erlich isn’t part of his social sphere, not exactly, but he’s not one of the popular kids either. Richard doesn’t know what his aim is and he’s suspicious. Nobody ever talks to him. Well, unless they’re trying to fuck with him.
Richard says nothing, only eyeing him with suspicion and giving him a quick, affirmative nod.
“You wanna skip class with me and Gilfoyle?” Erlich asks, as casual as ever, making a smoking gesture against his lips.
Richard wrinkles his nose.
“Wait, what? No?” Was this some kind of trick? A joke? Probably.
“Alright, well, suit yourself. Offer’s there if you change your mind.” Erlich slaps him on the back, a little too hard, and Richard grips at his bag, trying to keep his balance on his sore ankle.
Why was this kid doing this? Did Erlich somehow have him confused with someone else? And why was he skipping class with Gilfoyle , who seemed intensely disinterested in him not even a half hour ago? Before he’s able to fully process what had just happened, Erlich has already taken off across the field, away from the gymnasium, out to the back parking lot.
That was, well, weird . Really weird.
Richard hears the bell echo faintly from inside the building nearby, curses under his breath, and hurries off to class, trying to put all of it out of his mind.