Chapter Text
To his credit, Pete had said at the very beginning of it all that the place was structurally unsound. He said so in that tone that he usually does, diction all articulated and tenor timbre cracking, like he was aware without a doubt of every possible environmental consequence that could result from such a sketchy situation as playing a massive prank on Maxwell Jägerman in the lot of the abandoned Waylon place.
Looking back on it, if the nerds had taken the vulnerable architecture more seriously than they had, perhaps such a terrible tragedy wouldn’t have occurred. If the nerds had been more aware of the dangers of running around on rotting wood three stories above ground, then perhaps no one would’ve fallen through such weak infrastructure. If they moved even just a couple more feet, then perhaps Max wouldn’t have triggered a collapse, and Richie would not have acted the way he did.
Now, Richie does not consider himself to be the type of person who sacrifices himself for other people. He harbors affection and worries for his friends, yes, but not enough to throw himself between them and a bullet if the moment arises. Despite how shittily quotidian it’s been living with a target on his back his whole life, Richie likes routine. He doesn’t like getting bullied, but if it’s expected protocol, he might as well submit to it.
He’s not ambitious enough to want to change the pattern he’s practiced since middle school. He’s not ambitious, period. If he were forced to step off the beaten path for even a second, he’d need some time to develop a system. He would surely create a large, step-by-step plan to do something as drastic as save someone’s life before he’d do it. He’d at least stop to overthink it before anything else.
But Richie didn’t think. Not this time; not even for a second. It was like his body took control before he could. The moment he heard the snapping of the wood beneath Max’s feet, it was as if he were a puppet, yanked forward by strings on his limbs. He threw himself forward, tripping over his feet to push Max out of the way (a feat in itself) just before the dilapidated wood gave way beneath Richie’s weight instead, and he collapsed through the hole, plummeting three stories of Waylon Hall before meeting the demise of Saruman—impaled and pierced by a splintered piece of wood through his chest.
It was the worst pain Richie had ever felt. It was like a tree trunk had sprouted through his ribcage. His useless inhaler had fallen from his pocket and slid across the floor, mocking him as he wheezed and cried out, unable to take in any oxygen at all. He could hear the echoes of screams and shouts from above as the other teenagers thundered down the flights of stairs but Richie could not hear what they were saying. He could not feel anything but the heavy weight in his chest, the warm blood in his throat, and the terror flooding through every vein in his body as he coughed and gasped.
Ruth cried. Richie could barely register her tinny voice wailing his name through the ringing of his ears as the four teenagers scrambled toward him. Her voice was a siren as she shrieked for her friend, devastated and whining around the vowels as she fell to her knees in despair. Richie had expected less from her, truly. Tearfully, she might beg him for his body pillows if he died, but Richie did not expect such a heartwrenching reaction from her. It almost hurt to watch her weep as much as his body hurt.
Pete also cried—not as intensely as Ruth, but enough for Richie to feel Pete’s tears fall on his cheeks as he crawled over him to reassure him that he was there with him, to just focus on his hands and nothing else. He babbled gibberish to his friend, shit Richie could not hear as he cupped his face, drenched with sweat and blood, surely staining his hands enough that Richie knew would otherwise make Pete recoil.
Grace stood in the background, as still as stone. She watched the scene in silence, doe eyes wide and glazed over as she stared at him. She was a pearly pillar in his blurry vision, an angel statue that did not move amidst the chaos around her. It was terrifying to no end. Richie had never seen Grace so affected.
Steph, bless her heart, tried her best to comfort Richie though she never was the closest with him. From a safe distance, she told him to stay calm; they were going to get him help, they would call an ambulance, but even her aloofness had crumbled in the face of such doom. No one was safe from the shock of Richie’s fall and the inescapable end he was nearing. His friends’ confident moods had withered away, leaving behind nothing but a raw, utter helplessness and desperation Richie would usually avoid with a ten-foot pole.
All of them, all of them were feeling feelings Richie never knew they felt.
And Max…
Richie had never seen him so vulnerable.
The bully’s face, filled with such spite and determination only moments before, usually so twisted in a sharp, scary scowl had suddenly become an open book, a contortion of disgust, horror, and a strange sensitivity Richie wasn’t able to decipher through the haze. Similarly to Grace, Max silently stood over Richie while the nerds flitted about him, as still as stone with blue eyes wide and hands quivering like thin reeds.
The only thing Richie was able to focus on as he gasped and wheezed, trembling fingers gripping the wooden beams sticking through his chest, coughing up blood that stained his friends’ skin, was the sheer vulnerability Max was dressed in. As if he saw his own life flash before his eyes. Trapped in an alternate timeline, wondering what would’ve happened if Richie had not pushed him out of the way, wondering what would’ve happened if he were in his place.
It had shocked Richie, truthfully, to see Max so unmasked. With Pete’s ghost and Ruth’s skeleton, Max was terrified, yes, but not to this extent. Not to such a human thing. Dealing with the undead and the becoming dead are very different calls to action, and while the nerds’ reactions were expected, the sudden steps Max took towards Richie, slow, careful, as he bent down before him to carefully touch his arm was louder than any words he could have said in that moment. It hurt Richie’s head to think about. He lolled his head back with a wet whimper and the five teenagers all shuddered like the spirits of Waylon Hall had passed through them all.
There was no logical possibility that medical assistance would reach Richie before he passed. Even through his fear, he understood that, somewhere in the back of his mind. Damn his useless inhaler having slid out of reach, damn his weak resolve, and damn the fight leaving him like smoke, Richie’s breathing stuttered, body going limp against the wood with a tearful, “tell m’Uncle Paul ’m sorry,” before the world dissolved like sand around him, falling into a gritty, sticky darkness and taking his friends with it before bleeding into pure nothing.
There was no explanation for where he was. There was no explanation for where he wasn’t. He could not see. He could not hear. He could not feel, not taste, not smell, not exist as his soul was surrendered. Fear had pumped healthily through his veins, a daunting resignation sparking grief in his heart that forced his mind to quiet, and Richie felt all life drain from him, be sucked from him, and with tears in his near-sighted eyes, he was dragged under the sepulchre of his brain by the quiet but insistent slender hand of death.
Like thunder without lightning. The last tick of a slowing clock. The crumbling of pebbles off a stiff, red mountain. Whatever legacy Richie thought he had was carefully stripped from him in layers until he too dissolved within the purity of nothing, and that was that. He had let go. Forever gone, forever alone, forever forgotten.
And that was the end of it.
And that was the end of everything.
And that was the end of the beginning, and the end of the end, and the end of it all.
Richie did not breathe anymore. He did not need to.