Chapter Text
Richie knew he was so totally, unequivocally, fucked.
He desperately trying sucking air back into his lungs, looking up for any trace of where Max had dropped him from the ceiling. Wheezing breaths escape from his mouth, and he whimpers as Max suddenly appears, looming over him with a crazed smile, exposing pearly bone-white teeth contrasting with gums turning a blue and particularly rotten shade of green. A violent, deadly game of cat and mouse, coming to an end.
“I want you to repeat after me…” Max demands of him, squatting by his head.
“Och- Okay!” He replies as fast as possible, his voice faltering under Max’s intense gaze and his own fear.
Max stands, circling Richie like a lion playing with its food. And Richie, in spite of all his terror, was mystified by Max Jagerman, whose gaze turns from vehement murderous intent to something softer, much more distant. The harsh setting of a glower never left Max’s face, but there was more to it now, more weight than a surface level anger. His voice comes out soft, prayer-like, almost...beautiful. It was entrancing.
“Who will pray for me…”
“who will pray for me.” He repeats, struggling to his knees to…
He didn’t know what. To get a better look? Took look pitiful, to beg some more? Max’s lips as he sang stretched over his teeth, more than a normal person’s would. Almost as if he was baring them, but his expression fluctuated, just for a second, from from vengeful to vulnerable. Just for that one second, Max himself looked entranced, fixated on some distant train of thought.
His mouth was parted, exposing his teeth, but his jaw was relaxed. He wasn’t looking at Richie, his blue eyes clouded and unseeing, staring straight forward. Richie couldn’t tell if it was the lack of oxygen to his head, or the fear twisting inside of him, the but all the colors of the room seemed to be distorted. He couldn’t tell if Max was reflecting the light or was the light, but his entire form was illuminated in this bluish glow.
He looked ethereal, almost glittering. Plastic wrap hanging off him with, maybe insulation fibers, fiberglass? Richie wonders. Blood spattered, ghastly, but ethereal. And then the second passes.
“When I’m gone…”
Max makes a small huff, and readjusts his jaw, lowering his gaze back on Richie. It was heavy, and turbulent, and Max draws ever closer as Richie scoots further away. It felt like the fear was making him burn from the inside out, angry flames licking from the inside of his stomach. He had been picked up by Max, by what Richie could only describe as force-like powers, and thrown like a rag doll and he was pretty sure his ankle was broken. Like he meant nothing. And to Max, he probably didn’t.
“When I’m gone.” He repeats, swallowing hard.
He had never thought about what would happen after he died. He never though very much about whether or not anyone would care. Pete and Ruth would be definitely surprised he imagined, but probably better off in the long run. His family would have one less mouth to feed, less bills to pay over all. He had thought, and to be fair it had been brought up for a college based conversation, that they could rent out his room while he was away. At College. Grace might pray for him, in passing, if she heard.
God, Max really meant it when he said he was gonna kill Richie.
Maybe- maybe he could hold out! He wasn’t built for speed or strength, but he had endurance and stamina. It was a big game tonight- and the team would definitely come to find him, they thought he was cool- was important! All Richie needed to do was keep Max entertained enough to keep him alive, just for a little while. Until the team came in- until Ruth and Pete came to find him.
That hope dwindled just a bit as Max coaxed him into his next line.
“Or until another Richie comes along.”
And the softness of such bitterness invoked by his name was almost more painful than a physical strike. What did that mean? Another Richie? Surely he wasn’t that replaceable, by his family, his friends? Maybe that made sense to Max. If anything had happened to Richie, Max would’ve had more than his pick of losers with no one brave enough to face off against him.
Max’s face really contorts into something evil then, as he leans forward towards Richie, he lips stretching to expose his gums once more. His eyes, that glittered maliciously wide and bloodshot, roll back into his skull with quiet squelching sounds. It makes Richie feel even sicker than before.
“Cou-Can you repeat that one?”
And Max unleashes a rush of energy that sends him flying into something. The wall or the lockers, but it doesn’t matter. It feels like he’s gonna split open, like he’s about to fall apart entirely. The world turns red, and Richie’s head is spinning. Max is what matters, lashing out and practically howling.
“Who will pray for me, when I’m gone?”
It’s as if a storm has blasted its way through him, suffocating winds, thunder crashing from within his skull. Max is almost battling with himself, clawing at his arms, his throat, his chest. Thinly, Richie can make out the ghostly silhouettes of people crowding around them. Teammates, classmates, his friends. Looking around at all the illusion-people, he wonders if they’ll find his body. If there’ll be enough of him left to find.
Or will they write him off as another missing person in Hatchetfield? People practically go missing everyday, to the point that no one asked if Max had been seen. No missing posters were put up, no amber alerts, really no concern at all that their star quarterback was simply gone. Forever, without any good reason.
“Or is this the eternal dark without a dawn?”
Max-
His expression again returns to the lost gaze, but it was intensely more frightened, his movements more frantic. His voice hit a peak, rough and sincere, piercing through Richie.
It occurs to him then, maybe Max isn’t simply targeting him for the good ol’ nerd reason. Or even for the share of blame Richie possessed in his death. Max faced death, a painful humiliating death, all by himself. Who knew how long his spirit wandered these past two weeks, watching seemingly no one care for his absence, even celebrating it. Max spoke about being defiled earlier, and upon closer inspection, the massive hole in his chest was covered up by his shirt where the area where the axe…
Max watched them. Break apart his body. And the memories flashed through his mind, like his brain was searching for something-some sort of answer. And the one he got was truly horrifying.
He hadn’t been looking Max in the face, merely watched from the sidelines as he used the last of his energy to swear to- to kill him. Kill them. He watched as Max practically powered down, slowly slumping over and leaning to the side, exposing the long stretch of his neck. That wasn’t the memory that horrified him.
What truly made his heart practically fall to his ass what the memory of miniscule movement while everyone was panicking about what to do. The planks, jagged and perforating Max’s body, was twitching. Or more accurately, pulsing. He had been too busy preoccupied that he had filmed incriminating evidence rather than checking if he was okay- But in his defense, Steph and Pete had both check his neck for a pulse! They were the ones who said he was dead!
But Richie didn’t check. If he had looked for just even one second, took one step closer, maybe he would’ve notices the gently twitching and pulsing of the wood. Maybe he would’ve noticed that Max’s heart was still trying to beat.
Oh. God. Oh God.
He must’ve been dead when he was dismembered, he desperately tries to convince himself. Otherwise, how would he have known- would’ve seen it?
Did they disturb his peace by dismembering him, or was Richie doomed from the moment Max fell through the rotten planks at the Waylon House? Does this mean the rumors about the Waylons were true, that nothing could ever truly die in their house? Was Max stuck? Somewhere in between living and laying his soul to rest?
Could he not feel the warmth of the sun outside? Why now? Why was Max back after two weeks, right when Richie could finally genuinely say that he was happy, that he loved the opportunities that life could provide? And where was he, where did he go where he died? It must’ve been dark, cold- terrifying.
Is that what awaited Richie, too?
He pointedly avoids thinking about how they moved Max’s body, Richie watching as his head lolled back, those blue eyes rolled partially upwards beneath open eyelids, glassy and fixed with the pupils gone wide. He tries to escape the thought that Max was still alive, that Max had merely passed out due to immense pain and exhaustion. He tries not to think about how, even if he was awake, Max’s back was more than likely irreparably broken. Max wouldn’t have been able to move his legs, probably not his arms either, unable to fight back. Unable to tell them that he was still there!
Max was going to play the long game, was going to make him suffer, and feel the same fear, the same loneliness he did. Dying knowing there were people around who could stop this, could help him, but won’t. Not until it’s already too late.
Richie thinks he should be getting sick right now, watching as Max reaches into his own face, fingers digging underneath the skin of his eye sockets, his nose, his mouth. The skin stretches, mottled and bruised on the outside, but still shiny and wet on the inside. But everything that stretches eventually has breaking point, and for a moment, it looks as if Max’s head bursts apart in his hands- leaving his statement ringing inside of Richie’s skull.
He pivots back to Richie, eyes pupil-less, the face of his skull cracked, and points accusingly.
Max loved to claim that he was God, and truly looked like he was living up to the title. Omnipotent, the final judge.
“Who will pray for you-” Max snarls at him, clearly more in control of himself now.
“Who will pray for me!” Richie repeats, screwing his eyes shut.
His head was pounding, the earth seemed to pulse beneath him, like the beat of a drum. He didn’t want to look at Max anymore, look at what he’d done, or what Max was going to do.
“When your body’s gone?”
“When my body’s gone-”
He wonders what Max will do with him. He wonders what would happen if he had fallen instead. Would Grace hack him into pieces, would Ruth- actually Ruth might still be Ruth. Would Max have ripped him apart? He hadn’t deserved it. He still didn’t. But Richie couldn’t take it back now, couldn’t fix it.
“This is the consequence for what you’ve done!”
“I’m not a loser!”
Richie was surprised by how bright, how strong his voice was, his last defense against Max. The other boy in question, launches at him, snatching him from the ground and forcing him up against the walls.
“What did you say?” Max screams at him with his fist reared back, undead spit and blood dripping down on Richie’s face.
“Don’t kill me,” he pleads, gasping for air between his words.
“I’m not a nerdy prude- I’m not a loser!” He tries to explain, to rationalize.
He could see it. He could see Max’s face, distorted and ripped apart by his own hands. The skin and flesh that remained hung loosely from his skull, like snapped elastic, bloodstained hair disheveled and slipping. And he can see the moment his words seem to soothe Max’s inner turbulence. He drops Richie and pulls back, running his hand over his face, almost as if smoothing his hair back into to place. And he was whole again, wiping his mouth, his frame relaxed as he stands backs into a more casual stance. His movements were still aggressive- antagonistic, but his voice became gentle once more.
“Of course not...Richie…”
His stance, the small jerking, tilting motion of his head frightened Richie, still trying to calm himself down as Max slowly readjusts the way he was standing. Max stands over him, his gaze soft as he extends a hand down to Richie, a small smile exposing his teeth. It was almost kind.
Tears roll uncontrollably down his face, and Richie looking up at Max, trying to figure him out. He looks down to his hand, blue and green fingertips, blue veins and cracked skin highly emphasized. Maybe they can find a way to fix this, bring Max back-
In seconds, his thoughts spiral.
Max could touch things, and Richie could see him- so maybe the others can too! If the Waylons found some way to keep a spirit around after the body died, surely they could find a way to put Max back together. Richie, looking back at Max, still standing patiently and smiling above him, and smiles back just slightly.
He lifts his hand, and his heart pounds at the thought of locking fingers with Max Jἄgerman of all people, before lightly slipping his hand into Max’s, and shuddering at the sensation of fingers gliding on his palm.
The hope for forgiveness died instantaneously as Max grips his wrist so tight it pops, digging his fingers into Richie’s hair and yanking him up by it. The pain makes him gasp, and Richie freezes in place under Max’s rage, their faces so close that he can feel Max’s lips moving.
“But you have lost… everything.”
He shoves Richie’s head forward, slamming their skulls together, and Richie gasps feeling his lips graze the side of Max’s cheek before he’s shoved to the ground again. He’s picked up, and slammed down repeatedly, being kicked, being punched relentlessly, and he can’t breath. Max begins laughing, not the regular mean laugh. He genuinely sounded insane, between yell or a scream, and maniacal laughter.
“No- No, please!”
Max doesn’t give him a second of peace, no matter how much he scream or begged or cried. He’s dragged to the bathrooms- kicking, and writhing and screaming- but it barely stands out in night. His screams of terror are outweighed by the crowds of the game tonight. Literally, they’re all right there, and they’re never going to think to look for him.
He had begged, he ran, he fought. He had fought for his life, trapped by locked doors, gifted the false hope that he had finally gotten away, only to be snatched back into a bathroom. And Max had literally torn him to shreds. He had been slammed against mirrors and sinks, with a horror beyond his comprehension using the shards to cut into his face, carving out pieces of him. But eventually, the pain-the fear- It became so overwhelming, that it was almost as if he couldn’t feel it anymore.
But it wasn’t enough to slam him against the bathroom linoleum. It wasn’t enough to stop beating him, forcing him to uses his inhaler, only to wrap hands around his throat and hold him up against the wall and kick him. Max slams him back into a stall making him cry out, as his legs kick and jerk almost automatically before going numb.
Max stands over him again, almost straddling him, before reaching down and ripping his shirts off of him. All of them, all at once. Max lays hands on his chest, digging his nails into the flesh. And then the fear became much deeper than being beaten to death.
“No, please, no, no no- Max! Please no- please-”
Max ignores him, but does show him one small mercy, particularly by being fixated on his nipples. It hurt- it hurt like a bitch, being pinched and twisted and abused, but Max didn’t go any further in terms of hurting him in the other sort of way. He would stop, and beat him again, cut him again, before going back in and pinching and twisting and pulling-
The blood ran warm, all over his body.
The torment lasted forever, and the only word he could get out by the end: Max.
And even then, if was more of a long, drawn out groan of agony.
It was seemingly winding down, when Max quieted his taunting, preferring simply to maim, the only audible sounds being Richie’s harsh and stifled breathing, blood dripping and spattering, and Max soundlessly- relentlessly- beating the ever loving shit out of him. At this point, the beating felt much less personal in comparison to when it started. More like Max hitting him just because he could, because it made him feel good?
Eventually, even the beating stopped, leaving Richie half undressed, blood pouring from him, pooling on the floor. He curled up on his side, gurgling and choking on blood and his failing airways. Max stood by his head, glowering down on him in disgust, huffing in breaths that would never leave him satisfied.
“Max- please-”
Richie doesn’t know what is worse. Living like this, probably already beyond saving, or finally dying. The only thing the Rich could still see was Max, angry and hateful like never before.
“Oh Richie…” He says softly, only this time Richie doesn’t delude himself into believe the facade.
“I’m almost done...there’s just a few more things from you-”
Richie chokes as his body is pulled upright off the floor, puppeteered to the wall, every fiber of his being burning. Max is behind him, using his body to press him up against the wall. Slowly his bully turned murderer, laces their fingers together, bringing up Richies’s hand and using him to scrawl something across the wall. It was so dark and it was getting cold, and he was just so tired.
His lungs burned from exhaustion and the lack of oxygen, and he finds his head falling back against Max’s broad shoulders, feeling his body shut down. He doesn’t even have the strength to shudder when Max chuckles lowly into his ear, dropping him back to the cold, hard, floor.
“It’s fine, Richie. I’m almost done. Just one more joke, for the road…”
“Max…” He tries to say, but it comes out long and gurgled.
Something glints in the light as Max bends to drag him over to a stall, a necklace that fell out from his shirt. Richie didn’t remember him wearing one when they buried him. It was a thin chain with a small golden cross dangling from it.
Richie would never guessed that Max would have a belief in-
“God?”
Max smiles brilliantly, Richie’s mind remembering the excitement and gratitude he had shown in the Waylon house, mere minutes before falling to his death. Physically, it was the same smile, but there was something sick and distorted behind Max’s expression now. Richie is dragged across the floor in the span of seemingly less than a second, and Max drops his head into the toilet. Richie gags on the scent of toilet water and the feeling of cool porcelain made slippery by the blood on his skin, before Max lifts him back up by his hair.
“Exactly- I’m God. Say it again. Say I’m your God, Richie.”
Max is breathing, the air cold and harsh next to Richie’s ear. Richie isn’t sure if he can speak anymore, and even if he did- did it really matter? Max beat up Pete for speaking out, everyone knew that Max was a flaming asshole, but outside of remedial classes and workshops on bullying that could be an email, nothing would done about it. It occurs to him then, that his attempt to be not a loser, his final attempt at defense, meant nothing. It didn’t matter what he said, because Max was the judge, the jury, and the executioner. Sure, Max gave him a little hope, conceeding that Richie wasn’t a loser- or a nerdy prude.
Because he deemed Richie something lesser, something worse. A nobody.
A nothing.
Max takes his silence as refusal, pushing his head down and holding him there in the water. Richie clenches his teeth, struggling to raise his hands against the glass bowl, feeling them stick and slip away. He tries to shake Max off, but he’s just barely able to move. His throat and lungs feel just as tight, and he needs to cough- he needs his inhaler, and everything in his body is burning. He tremors, and that’s all he can do.
Shake and clench his teeth, and pray that Max will let him up for air.
And surprisingly, he does- pulling Richie up just as his resolve gives way, his urge to cough and gasp outweighing the fears of swallowing water. He feebly cries out, choking on air and the blood and water running down his face.
“Call me God- Call me God and I might forgive you-”
Richie can only choke and sob, air uncomfortably trapped in his chest. He gurgles and burps, desperate to get any sound out, finally able to settle hands on the rim of the toilet seat. Just as it finally looks like his breathing begins to settle, Max shoves him back down, right as he’s inhaling. He feels his wrists pop under the force of him trying to resist.
He screams soundlessly under the water, thrashing as it fills his mouth and nose, fighting the urge to wretch. He’s desperately spitting, clamping his mouth shut and swallowing, as if his mouth being empty and dry would relieve him in any way. If anything, it made it worse, sucking on the inside of his cheeks, like there was extra air stored there.
It was terrifying.
He wished that Max would’ve just beaten him to death, or left him there to bleed. Richie doubts that anyone would’ve found him in time, especially if no one has come to find him yet. It was impossible to hold out, and wasting energy on hope was useless. Hope was not going to save him.
But it hurts, just as bad as his worst asthma flare ups. Swallowing and coughing and gasping, to no avail. It hurt, feeling himself getting weaker, the world growing dimmer, and still being in so much pain- so much fear. And then Max pulls him up again. He doesn’t say anything, just panting in his ear and listening to Richie struggling.
“Max- God- you’re God, my God-”
Max probably didn’t understand him, it was impossible to. Even being out of the toilet, Richie’s entire world was dimmed and spinning, the pain and fear slowly beginning to ebb away, no matter how desperately he clings to it. He spasms and twitches, trying to widen his eyes and crane his head, trying to find Max in the darkness consuming him. He’s swallowing, mouthing swears of worship and fealty, opening his eyes as wide as possible and hoping Max was watching, could see him- on his knees before him.
Before God.
Lifted up and slammed against a stall wall, something hard hits him, crushing his face and nose. It feels like a vortex forms inside of him, forcing water out. He vomits up nothing but clear water, all over himself, stuck laid out on the floor being promptly dropped. Its the best feeling in the world, and one of the most painful, finally breathing in again. Or maybe, its the feeling of peace that overwhelms him, the coldness giving away to warmth that starts in his head and stomach, spreading all throughout his body. He can feels his eyes rolling, and struggles against the inclination to drop his heavy eyelids.
He didn’t want to die, not when he had finally just started to enjoy living.
He wanted to go home, and tell his uncle about how he mattered to people, call his mother and father on the phone- even if it was only to hear them lecture him about the importance of hygience, or dismiss his interest in Japan and anime. He wanted to study filmography, and video editing, he wanted to learn about animation, and creating a world out of nothingness. He wanted to go to Japan and experience a world so distant and foreign, that he only could know through media. He wanted to warn the others- Ruth and Pete. He wanted to go see Ruth’s work on stage, even if she was only behind the curtain. He wanted to see Pete and Steph get together. He even wanted to see Grace again, grow into herself, confident without repression.
He wanted to grow- to change. He wanted to go to college, he wanted to have a future!
Just faintly, he catches the ghostly blue glow of Max, who kneels beside him, flashing a devastatingly handsome, malicious grin. Richie reaches out, the last thing he sees being Max watch his hand trace his pale, bruised neck with amusement, catching on the gold chain before he goes limp.
He’s still alive. He can still hear Max. But he can’t feel anything, anymore. It’s all distant from him, nothing to distinguish him from anything around him except for the knowledge that he existed. It was oddly peaceful, and he could find a contentment with it. This was a peace not afforded to Max.
The peace was massively, overwhelming shattered when light returned to Richie’s world.
It’s as if every injury he sustained hit him all at once, and he can see himself falling unimpeded head first into a swirling toilet bowl- the image disrupted by a blinding blue light, making him scream in complete agony. Like hot iron rods were worming and twisting themselves to fit inside of his brain, melting him from the inside out.
And the memory of the Waylon House two weeks ago plays in his mind like a film color-graded in blue. It’s at the very end of everything, or the beginning of the end, Richie half-heartedly laments. Max is vibrantly smiling, politely bowing to Ruth as he compliments how special her skeleton work was. For once, it was a genuine smile, like a little kid receiving a treat on Halloween. Being terrorized in a rotting house was, as Max claimed, the nicest thing ever done for him.
Richie doesn’t believe Max deserved to die. He plays back the memories of life before the “prank”. In hindsight, Max made the most of his God status in high school, because he had no hope for his own future. Hatchetfield High School was the one place Max could have total control over and security in. Richie thinks of how sad it was to hear Max repeats his father’s word, call himself a cuck to try and find courage to defend himself. That having to be where he drew his courage from.
In the probably less than two minutes Richie had of Max being kind to him, he could see Max being a good guy, a really good kid. Just one who- God, he was thinking like his parents- needed more guidance or structure in his life. He just needed people who cared, people who were willing let Max be open, and give him a place just to breathe…
The searing bright light bends and melds any conscious thoughts he may have, although the world around Richie becomes more vibrant, more real. He can feel the floor and space around them, breathing in the stale air and scent of mildew, and he can see Max calming down- smiling.
He knows exactly what will happen next, Max will look around and reconsider the way he had been operating for the past four years. He wants to compliment their “party”.
It will take less than four seconds for the wood to give way beneath weight, sending him to fall three stories to his death. A painful, humiliating death- drunk and embarrassed that he dared to think people would care for him. And Richie believes that the boy deserved to live. They hadn’t even meant to kill him in the first place!
Richie sprints and reaches out, realizing half way through the plan that it was probably stupid, trying to retroactively change the outcome of the memory. But he wanted to try, he was willing to die for Max to have something better, to protect Ruth and Pete from a vengeful, indestructible ghost. If it didn’t work, what could possibly happen to him. He dies again?
He isn’t expected the world to bloom into full color when snatches at Max’ arm, pulling him towards the rest of the group, almost swapping places. He smells like beer and cologne, and looks confused, almost offended at Richie’s interruption. That is until floor breaks beneath the both of them, and they both scream on the way down.
Max doesn’t fall all the way, maybe only one floor, but he’s heavier and Richie can watch him hit the landing below- absolutely winded by the impact. But to his credit, he rolls as Richie himself breaks through the second landing, fingertips are just barely able to graze Richie’s arm. Richie appreciates the effort, but braces himself for the impact he knows is coming. There’s nothing anyone can do to help him now, covered in splinters and insulation, and who knows what else. He closes his eyes and tries to accept it, hoping that it won’t hurt too bad after everything else he had just been through.
He feels the impact, hard, but it doesn’t hurt. And even more surprising, while winded, he opens his eyes to see he landed just barely to the right of the fallen debris pile. Glass and a pile of broken planks, ominously leering down at him, almost appearing angry that they were deprived of spearing through his body. As he opens up his mouth to make some sort of noise or call out, he’s still choking and gurgling on blood. He tries swallowing and spitting it up to no avail. Where Max had been pinned in an upright position, he was laid out flat- a hard impact on his side and back. He wishes it just would’ve killed him outright, but it wasn’t really like he felt pain.
He can make out Pete and Ruth’s shrill voices coming from above, yelling the frantic yet cautious stampeding of sneakers down the wooden stairs. He decides to close his eyes, sighing in contentment as he allows himself to relax.
“Fuckin’ hell, Lipschitz-” Max swears, and Richie can hear the scuff of his sneakers.
He keeps his eyes closed. First of all, he was afraid to open them up and see the undead Max, the one beating him and torturing him in a school bathroom, like all of this was trick to make him feel better and snatch away his closure. Secondly, the memory came to mind of Max dying before him, the life leaving his face whiles his eyes remained open, slowly rolling slightly backwards. It had been something that lingered in the back of his mind, Max suffering and spitting with rage and betrayal as he died. He didn’t want to leave everybody with that.
He wanted them to not think of him suffering, but he feels a smile creep up onto his face as a traitorous part of his mind cheerfully supplies:
Being Meguka is suffering.
“Holy shit- He’s still alive down here!”
Glass and wood crunches underneath his “friends” and Max’s feet, and Richie can hear Ruth and Pete scrambling and trying to get him to talk, hands on his shoulders and body. He gasps reflectively at the contact as Max tells them not to move him.
Richie opens his eyes to look around, watching as Ruth and Pete leave him as Max approaches and kneels by him. Max’s arm had to be broken, or something, hanging limply by his side. He uses his other hand to prod at him, his neck, arms, and chest, and he cringes as he does so.
“What the fuck- why? Why did you do that?” Max whispers close to his ear, dropping his normal jock “accent”, while everyone else is panicked around them.
“I can’t change anything- if I won’t sacrifice everything-”
Ruth shrieks.
“Don’t paraphrase Attack On Titan, Richie! You’ll be okay! We still need to save up for the naked Titan Diorama!”
She was really more of his friend in comparison to Pete, who Richie was just barely getting to know better in the past two weeks. Or future two weeks, he guesses. Before the prank, they were more friends of proximity, no thanks to Max being a major asshole and designating them losers and nerds. Still friends, he guesses, comfortable enough to take shots at each other without really worrying much.
Pete, Pete was a textbook nerd, a smart, reedy kid with glasses. At least there were some people in the world interested in that type of thing, even if they weren’t in Hatchetfield. Richie, on the other hand, was probably doomed to be a basement dwelling, weeb loser-nerd forever. Not that he minded hiding away from the world, surrounded by a fortress of body pillows.
The one good thing about dying though, he thinks, is that now he can actually realize there was more out of life than that.
He was gonna miss Ruth, even with her filthy humor, and her refusal to admit that Attack on Titan was a genuine work of art and far superior to Star Wars. She and Ruth were pretty similar, just written in different fonts. More than once, she had gone on a tangent about her illicit love affairs with pillows, threatening to defile his dear Rei and Asuka He looks upward in her direction, and tries to smile, but he finds that he can’t move his lips.
Maybe she’ll be brave enough to stand on stage after this. Nothing screams ‘take life to the fullest’ quite like watching one of your only friends fall thirty-five feet to his death. Maybe Richie can come back like Max did, and two weeks from now, Ruth could be brave enough to try out to be at least a background character in whatever was coming up for the drama nerds. Barbeque whatever the Fuck. Not to be rude, but they were already practically background characters in their own lives. Being under some brighter lights wouldn’t really change it.
He looks back to Max when he feels a light tap on his forehead. Grace is standing above him, behind Max, jaw practically on the ground as she stares at the back of his head. His expression is austere, and he’s speaking, but Richie can’t hear him. He can’t hear anything thing. He can only just barely feel Max fingertips crossing his chest.
The last thing his sees is the darkness blooming before him, consuming Max whole.