Chapter Text
Richie woke up to the sound of a door slamming. He bolted upright.
Shit.
He scrambled out of bed, throwing on clothes as fast as he could. Footsteps stomped through the living room, echoing through the house. Maybe it’ll wake Mom.
He knows it won’t.
“RACHAEL!? I TOLD YOU TO FUCKING CLEAN THIS SHIT UP YESTERDAY! YOU USELESS FUCKING CUNT!” His Dad's- Wentworth’s voice rattled the walls. Shaking the house as he stomped up the stairs.
Oh man. I am so screwed.
________________________________________________________
Richie barely made it to school on time.
First stop: the bathroom.
He stared at himself in the mirror under fluorescent lighting and pulled out his mom’s foundation. It was too dark. Definitely too dark. But maybe if he blended it enough… Maybe if he covered everything… Maybe if he styled his hair just right… Nobody would notice. And by nobody, he really only meant the Losers.
Who else was there to notice?
________________________________________________________
He slipped into class with a tardy pass in hand. They were watching a movie. Dark room. Thank. God.
“Hey, Rich,” Eddie whispered. “Why’re you late? Don’t tell me you slept in again.” Richie flashed what he hoped came across as a sheepish grin. “Hey, Spaghedd Head.” He ruffled Eddie’s hair, talking loudly, earning a sharp look from Ms. Whats-her-name.
Richie had never bothered learning her actual name. They weren’t going to quiz him on it. And there was no way she was married–
She was kind of a bitch.
A sharp kick landed against his leg, snapping him out of his thoughts. “Don’t call me that, asshole,” Eddie hissed.
DIRECT HIT!!
A normal person might’ve flinched. Richie didn’t. He was used to pain. Besides, Eddie had hit a sore spot from this morning. If Richie reacted, Eds would freak out. And Richie absolutely did not have the energy for that. Even if it was a little cute.
________________________________________________________
The lunch bell rang shrilly throughout the classroom. Richie startled awake, blinking away any leftover drowsiness, feeling his stomach growl.
And immediately realized he’d forgotten his lunch. Shit. He didn’t have a school account. He always packed food. The Losers would notice if he didn’t eat.
Okay. New plan. Be extra obnoxious.
Distraction tactic.
He and Eddie waited outside the cafeteria, talking about stupid stuff. The rest of the gang joined them — Stan, Beverly, Bill, Ben — all animated and loud. Richie turned it up a notch. “As your mom last night, Eds—”
“Rich, why aren’t you eating anything?” Beverly cut in gently. Of course she noticed. Beverly Fucking Marsh. Perceptive as always. Inwardly, Richie groaned. Outwardly, he grinned. A full, excessive, shit eating grin. “Sorry, Bevvy Boo, my love, I’m so full after my passionate time between my tongue and Eddie’s mom’s vag—”
“Beep Beep, Richie!”
“Jesus Christ, man,” Eddie muttered.
Mission success. Mentally, Richie punched a fist the air.
Beverly didn’t smile. In fact, she, somehow, was managing to frown even harder than before. “I’m serious, Richie. It’s not healthy to skip meals.”
Or not.
“Look, Bev, it’s not a big deal. I was tardy you know, just got here. Ate before I left. Chill.” Richie shrugged, playing carefree and unbothered.
Inside, he felt cornered. Trapped. Like a wild animal.
Thankfully, she dropped it — mostly. “Take this granola bar. Eat it later, okay?” “Yeah, yeah, fine, Mom.”
Richie knew it would only end up getting puked down the toilet in a couple of hours, but it was the thought that counts, wasn't it? “Quarry this weekend?” Stan suggested smoothly. He didn’t enjoy talking about emotions very much. Richie, personally, had never been more grateful. “It’s supposed to be hot.” Everyone agreed.
Except Richie. He went quiet. I know, crazy right? Unbeknownst to them, he was having a complete mental freakout. Fuck. Summer. The quarry. They’re going to know. They’re all going to know.
Ben noticed. He always did. He was too nice for his own good. “Rich? You okay? You’re being weirdly quiet. And your skin looks kinda… darker? Not tan. Just… is that… makeup?” His voice quieted near the end, not wanting to embarrass his friend.
Fuck.
The bell rang. Richie was gone before you could say “Trashmouth.” Fuck. Shit. Oh my god. Can he tell? Of course he can tell. Oh my god.
And so, Richie did what any rational kid would do. He ran. The only class he shared with the Losers was first period. They wouldn’t notice if he disappeared for a bit. There was a department store nearby. Makeup. He counted his money. $1.65. Oh my god. It's not enough. I'm not going to have enough.
________________________________________________________
Richie stood in front of the display, staring at the varying shades. His reflection warped in the plastic packaging. Did it look obvious? Was he bad at this? Could everyone tell?
“Can I help you?” Richie flinched. A middle-aged employee stood behind him, an eyebrow raised, looking down his nose at Richie.
“I—uh—no. I’m good.” He grabbed the lightest shade he could find. Hoped nobody saw. Ran to leave before he got caught. His heart pounded like he’d committed a felony. Then, he turned to leave and nearly ran into a woman. She glanced at the makeup. Then at him. “You tryna get that for your girl?” she asked with a small smile, eyes sparkling with amusement. “That’s sweet. Go on. I won’t say a word.” She winked and moved toward the register.
Thank fuck for that.
Richie slipped out of the store, shame and relief twisting together in his chest.
He didn’t know which felt worse.
________________________________________________________
Back at school, he reapplied everything carefully. Lighter. Blended. Natural.
Later, when it came up again— “Actually, never mind, Richie. Must’ve been the cafeteria lighting.” Exactly what he needed. Exactly enough for his friends to believe him.
Richie left early, biking straight home, instead of hanging with the losers like usual, claiming family plans. Bullshit, obviously. Richie couldn’t name one time his family had willingly gone out together. But it worked. He got away. He had to.The more time they spent with him, the more they noticed that something was wrong.
________________________________________________________
When he got home, there was a note. Wentworth had skipped town again. Fucking Deadbeat. Only stayed a day. Richie shrugged. Atleaast he took mom with him this time. He didn't think he could handle another day of laying her on the couch, not sure whether or not she would wake up or even remember this time.
The front door was locked. So was the back. The spare key was gone. Nobody was home.
So Richie did the natural thing. He started climbing. He’d always kept his window unlocked. Just in case, for Eds. he thought every night, checking it was still unlocked.
Wow. Thank fuck for Ms.K's shitty parenting I guess.
He climbed carefully, brick by brick, still sore from this morning. Then— The neighbor’s cat yowled. He startled. Slipped. Fell. He hit the ground hard.
The air left his lungs in one violent rush, leaving him empty and almost numb for a moment. Then the pain hit. It exploded up his leg, spreading like wildfire. Richie grabbed his ankle by instinct. Instant regret. “FUCKING—SHIT—OH-MY-GOD—--THAT–HURTS–LIKE–FUCKING–SHIT—--WHATTHEFUUUUCK—” His voice broke. He looked down. Wrong. It was wrong. Bent at an angle ankles do not bend. An angle they aren’t supposed to bend. “Oh my god.” Black spots clouded his vision.
Not dead. Probably not dying. Just completely, catastrophically screwed. Blood soaked through his other pant leg. “Fantastic. We love buy-1-get-1-free’s around here” Richie muttered sarcastically. He tore off his sleeve and tied it tight around the cut, ignoring the way exposing his arm made his fresh cuts from last night sting against the cold afternoon air. Then he stared at the locked door. No way inside. And if someone saw him trying to scale the house again, there would be questions.
Questions were not allowed.
He grabbed a fallen stick, hoping it would suffice as a cane, seeing as it was kinda the best option he had at the moment. Forced himself upright. Pain immediately detonated through him, his vision going black and his mind swimming. He nearly collapsed again.
“Nope,” he hissed. “We’re not doing that.” He lifted the injured leg. Tested hopping. Putting light pressure. Agony. But survivable.
The clubhouse wasn’t far. He had blankets there. Snacks. A first aid kit Eddie insisted on. He could make it. Probably. So Richie Tozier — professional loudmouth, world-class idiot — started hobbling toward the clubhouse. Jaw clenched. Vision swimming.
He’d dealt with worse. He would continue to deal with worse. He didn't mind though.
He had Eddie.