Archive of Our Own

“Show me your angry face.”

“Dude.”

“What about a happy one?”

“That’s not-”

“Crying?”

“I-”

“You can cry on command, right, Frank?”

Frankie stares back at him, unimpressed; when four seconds of silence go by, Frankie’s eyes glimmering with annoyance, Richie finally groans and signs, “Frank, dude. This is serious.”

“I know, Rich.”

“It’s your first day on set.”

“I remember.”

“Like, this is the day.”

“You know when I told you to come instead of Dad for moral support?” Frankie asks, rolling his eyes when Richie grins, “Yeah, that was a huge mistake. Next time, I’ll ask Uncle Bill to fly over or something.”

“That cuts deep, Franklin,” Richie says with a dramatic sigh; he laughs when his stepson reaches over and lightly shoves his shoulder, wrapping his arm around Frankie’s neck and tugging him close to give a noogie. He snorts when Frankie actually slips out of the chair and onto the tile floor, using all of his near-sixteen year-old force to try and get Richie to loosen his grip — and Richie has to hand it to the kid, Frankie’s pretty strong, much stronger than Richie remembers him being the last time they play-fought.

(An image of Frankie at eleven years-old, not that long after Richie and Eddie became serious: Frankie’s hair untidy and his cheeks chubbier, only coming up to Richie’s sternum, running at Richie full-speed and trying to knock him over while Richie held something over Frankie’s head.

Frankie had mashed his face into Richie’s chest, peeking up at him with big, brown eyes that looked so much like Eddie, before flushing and pushing off of Richie, bashful and shy and trying his best to jump up to grab it out of Richie’s hand.

And now there’s Frankie, taller than Eddie, almost fucking six-feet tall — he’s literally in the top height percentile for his age, Richie, when he was a kid, he was always the smallest in his class, and now- god, where did that come from? Not my side! — who’s already asking them to buy him razors and whose voice doesn’t crack nearly as much as it did weeks ago, who’s growing muscle mass and whose shoulders are broadening. He’s still a string bean, of course, still a baby, but god, he’s turning sixteen in a few weeks and is aging so fucking fast.

Where, oh where, did the fucking time go?)

Frankie scoots on the tile floor, finally getting Richie’s arms off of him; Frankie gives him a light punch to the side of his knee before lifting himself back onto his chair, arms crossed over his chest.

Richie teases his stepson for a little bit longer, keeping an eye on the time; at any moment, Frankie will be called over for a wardrobe change, and Richie can see the way Frankie twists in his chair, the sudden flush growing on his cheeks and the tips of his ears.

He’s nervous, Richie realizes, which — can’t blame the kid. It really is his first day, and even though SVU episodes run pretty quick — a week at the max, working around Frankie’s school schedule and everything — it’s still fucking nerve-wracking. Richie knows that more than anyone, and he knows he’s not nearly as level-headed and cool as Frankie is.

“Hey,” Richie nudges the teenager.

Frankie’s gaze slides over to meet his.

“You know you’re gonna knock ‘em dead, right?”

“Ironic, considering the episode’s plot,” Frankie points out, which — true. Thankfully, Frankie’s episode is not nearly going to be as insane as SVU plots tend to go, but he’s going to have to provide a heavily emotional performance, especially during the interrogation scene.

There’s a brief moment where neither of them say anything, until Frankie signs, “I’m not- I mean, it’s not going to be hard or anything. I’m just gonna say some lines and go home.”

“Yeah.”

“And- it’ll be cool. It’ll be on like…you know, television or streaming or wherever people watch the new episodes now.”

“True that.”

Frankie nods and doesn’t say anything else, but Richie watches Frankie look away, his fingers twitching in his lap.

Richie gnaws on the inside of his cheek; the worry that he’s felt for Frankie over the past few weeks, that’s grown after their last family vacation to North Carolina and ever since Frankie started his sophomore year, is only continuing to mount.

To say that Frankie’s been off is an understatement; it’s probably not anything that anyone who knows the kid on a surface level would be able to tell. But Richie knows Frankie inside and out — or, well, he likes to think that he does. Frankie is very good at hiding the things he doesn’t want anyone to see or ask him about, true, but the one thing that Frankie doesn’t have a good poker face for is his agitation.

Frank likes to blame it on puberty, and- yeah, okay, Richie can buy that. But Frankie’s been more agitated than not lately; he hasn’t been screaming or kicking down doors, thank god, but he seems to be on edge. He goes into his room more frequently, sleeps in late, even on school days — late enough that it’s become a part of their morning routine for Eddie or Richie to have to go into his room again and remind him to get up for school.

Richie’s been hoping that Frankie getting the part in SVU will be helpful for him; he feels like the distraction and the accomplishment that he’ll feel when it’s done and out will be good for him.

“You’re going to do great, kid,” Richie reminds him; Frankie nods again, and Richie, going out on a limb, goes, “You know, you ‘n your old man’s birthday is coming up in a few weeks.”

Frankie nods.

“You’ll be sixteen, Eddie will be forty-five.”

“Good memory.”

“Thank you,” Richie laughs, and he hesitates before going, “And- I mean, you have any ideas on what you want for your birthday?”

Frankie blinks. “I don’t know. I don’t have a list or anything.”

“Yeah, but you must have something you want.”

“A million dollars.”

“You know, maybe I can figure something out,” Richie jokes back; Frankie actually laughs at that.

His stepson shrugs. “I don’t know. I’ll think about it, I guess.”

“Yeah,” Richie murmurs, and he wants to say something more — to cue Frankie in on the masterplan, since it’s been killing him not to have his favorite co-conspirator in on everything, but there’s a reason why it’s called a surprise.

The party is technically not a surprise — neither Frankie or Eddie are idiots, and they know that Richie’s been cooking up something. But with Frankie turning sixteen and Eddie turning forty-five, it’s a big day — a massive birthday, a landmark one, if you will, and between Frankie’s general off-ness and Eddie’s stress at work, Richie wants to do something special for them.

In a few more minutes, it’s Frankie’s cue to get his hair and makeup done, and then after that, he’ll be actually shooting — pending everything runs on schedule which, for a production, never really happens, but he won’t tell Frankie that; his son’s definitely nervous enough as it is.

Richie gives him a fistbump as Frankie walks off; Richie knows that Frankie can’t seem to decide on whether or not he finds it embarrassing that Richie is here with him in the first place — i should be able to stand on my own two feet, rich — or if he’s glad to have him here as a buffer, but Richie hangs back and scrolls through his phone while Frankie’s off getting gussied up for his big day.

After a little while, someone comes to sit next to him; Richie looks up and realizes it’s the sign language interpreter that they have on-set, and he gives a wave when he sees her.

“Oh, hey,” he signs.

“Hi there.”

“So, excited about the shoot?” Richie signs to her.

The interpreter watches him and beams. “Oh, wow. Frankie’s not kidding — you actually are pretty good.”

Richie doesn’t mean to brag, of course, but he knows that his ASL has gotten much, much better over the years — he knows he’s not far off from Eddie now in terms of his fluency.

“Thanks,” he tells her, and then laughs, “Yeah, yours isn’t too bad, either.”

The interpreter chuckles; they sit next to each other as they wait, making idle smalltalk.

“That’s just- I mean, I wish I didn’t have to say it,” the woman goes on, sighing. “But it’s so rare for a hearing family to learn sign for their children; when I heard that you learned it for your stepson, I just- I mean, it shouldn’t be so earth-shattering or anything. But…”

Richie knows the statistics well: something like ninety percent of Deaf children are born into hearing families, and less than twenty-five percent of those families learn sign language for their child.

Richie doesn’t like to pretend like he’s an amazing person or father — he tries his best, obviously — but to this day, he can’t wrap his brain around why someone wouldn’t want to learn for their family member.

(“Wait,” Richie blinked, flopping down onto the leather couch, “You know sign language, Eds?”

Eddie rolled his eyes; the seven of them were gathered around the otherwise empty front lobby of Derry Home, less than thirty minutes after Stanley’s miraculous appearance — and Richie kept looking towards his best friend’s profile, wondering why Stan couldn’t look them in the eye, if it was just being back in Derry or something else, maybe something to do with what Stan’s wife, Patty, had said on the phone-

“For the last fucking time,” Eddie grumbled, “You’re not thirteen anymore: my name is Eddie,” And then Eddie’s eyes had grown surprisingly soft, his expression fond as he continued, “My son’s Deaf.”

Despite the murmurs and whispers about their impending doom, everyone’s head snapped over to look at Eddie, shocked. Richie still couldn’t believe that Eddie was a father — Stan, weirdly enough, made complete sense. And it’s not that Richie didn’t think Eddie wouldn’t be a good father, far from it, but it was just that Eddie and babies didn’t seem to mesh well, at least not at the time: the germs, the spit, the mess, the crying.

“Really?” Richie had asked, blinking once, twice.

“Yes,” Eddie shrugged. “So- I mean, when you have a Deaf child, you should learn.” And at the time, Richie didn’t know the full context of course, but now, he knows that Eddie — even then, before Richie and Eddie had kissed in Eddie’s hospital room, before they made love after Eddie’s discharge — was thinking of Myra.)

If Richie were a shitty person, he’d comment about how yeah, Frankie’s mother didn’t learn — the doctors told her not to, she said that Frankie needed to use oral language more to practice, that she was afraid of him getting speech or learning delays from it. Eddie had seemed on the verge of cursing when he’d told Richie about it — so Richie knows that all too fucking well.

He could say that he’s seen how the language barrier has been a contributing factor — among many things — to why Frankie and Myra’s relationship is so fucking tense.

But Frankie’s in the other room; the man of the hour peers out from the hallway, just having finished with his hair and makeup.

He’s playing a kid at a boarding school, so Richie — once again — gets a flashback to Frankie from back when he was in middle school, back in his Catholic school uniform.

Richie gives Frankie a high-five and reminds him he’ll do fine as his stepson is called to another room; right before the interpreter leaves, Richie finally goes, “Yeah. I’ve seen how shitty that can be.”

—

Richie isn’t always able to take naps anymore; having four kids means that generally, when the sun is up, he can’t get a second of rest, whether it’s the twins running around and causing havoc, or Frankie and Shay fighting down the hall about something completely random, but that day, with his son and oldest daughter in the living room playing with their younger sisters, Richie’s finally able to get a minute to lay down.

Frankie did really fucking well; Richie’s not that much of a helicopter parent that he hovered around while the scenes were shot, of course, but from the bits he did see, Frankie did…well, amazing.

Richie’s always gotten the impression that Frankie would do really well if he pushed himself; Frankie’s done great in all of his school plays. When the pair of them have gone through lines together, Frankie doesn’t just repeat or act out the scenes well — he’s able to put his own interpretation onto it, to guess what the character is thinking or feeling. Sometimes, when he’s gone against what Richie’s advised, the ideas that he’s come up with make sense.

And today, he did phenomenal. Richie might be biased, sure. But he could see it on the crew’s faces; no one had necessarily known what to make of Frankie Kaspbrak, but Richie had heard one of the lighting guys murmur, “You don’t get a kid like that every day.”

Frankie had just shrugged his shoulders when Richie complimented him, rolling his eyes and nudging him back; but by the time they got home, Frankie went off to his room for a bit and then seemed to catch up with Shay when she practically let herself into Frankie’s room, demanding for him to tell her how everything went.

And then, twenty minutes later, when the kids decided to hang out in the living room, Richie laid down in bed and promptly fell asleep.

Richie’s found that, post-Derry two-point-oh, he dreams much more than he used to. It’s not every night or every week or anything, but when they do happen, they’re often quite memorable, sticking with him for the rest of the day. He finds that the dreams he’s had since then — since the Deadlights, he reminds himself — seem to make more sense than any of the dreams he can remember from his young adulthood.

That nap is no exception; in it, Richie dreams that he’s in a parking lot near a wooded area. The car he’s standing next to seems to fade in and out between the car he had before moving to Manhattan, and a gray Nissan Altima, and there’s something about that — about the type of car, the color, something that Richie feels like should be important, somehow, but at the moment, he’s both confused and a little groggy, memories of the day, of Frankie and his first real day of shooting amongst the millions of other things that he has to do, nothing quite makes sense.

Something is bugging him about it, though — it feels like he’s missing something, or not remembering something. He can’t quite understand it, but what he does know, however, is that he feels like he’s not alone.

It’s nearing dark, but he has the feeling that he’s supposed to do something. That it is very, very important that the task that he’s set out to complete is done before…before…

a flash of yellow eyes, buck front teeth and red lines over the eyes

In front of the woods, Richie folds his arms on top of the car, peering past the parking lot and down one of the foot trails; he tries reading the sign, squinting as he tries to make out the lettering when he feels a tap on his shoulder.

“Richie,” It’s Frankie’s voice, and his eyes snap open to see his stepson peering down at him, frowning.

Richie jolts awake, rubbing his eyes and fumbling for his glasses. “Yeah, yeah man, what’s goin’ on?” When he and Eddie first started dating, he always joked about how Eddie seemed to be in constant flight mode whenever he got woken up in the middle of the night; now that Richie has four kids himself, he understands now that you quite literally never have a moment to rest. “Yeah, what’s up? The girls okay?”

Frankie stares at him, frowning and holding up the remote to the television in the living room. “We need the Hulu password.”

Richie flops back onto the bed, his heartbeat slowly evening out again; he can’t tell whether it’s a fatherly instinct, or something else that’s got him so on edge. Compared to all of the dreams he’s had in his life, especially post-Derry, that one doesn’t even top the list. So why…

“It should still be your ‘n your old man’s birthday.”

“That’s corny,” Frankie bites back, but then shakes his head. “But no, it’s not that one.”

“It’s not?”

“We already tried it.”

“Maybe your pops changed it; try my birthday, or the twins or Shay’s birthday. Anyone’s.”

“Already did.”

“One-two-three-four?”

“No.”

“Zero-zero-zero-zero?”

“No.”

“I dunno, text your dad.”

“He said to ask you since you’re the one who uses it all the time.”

“Ask Shay.”

“She said she didn’t change it.”

“Ask- dude, I don’t know. Just do a password reset.”

“I don’t think you put the right email — you haven’t gotten the email alert on your phone yet.”

“You’re looking at my phone?”

“We just want to watch something on Hulu, Rich.”

“Just try another app, then.”

“It’s only available on Hulu.”

“Frankie,” Shay pops into the room, throwing a granola bar at the back of Frankie’s head to get his attention; the teenager swivels his head around and looks at the girl, “It was their wedding anniversary.”

Even though Richie’s groggy from his nap and confused, there’s still a part of him that thinks: aww.

“Oh,” Frankie crinkles his nosebridge. “Okay, yeah. Wow, that’s so sappy.”

“Get outta here and watch your show,” Richie shoos Frankie away. “Go on, scram.”

“And pick off my granola bar off the floor, bitch,” Shay signs to Frankie.

“Language, missy,” Richie half-heartedly grumbles at the pair of them.

Frankie tosses Shay her granola bar, but right before he leaves the room, Frankie hesitates in the doorway, turning to look at Richie. Richie sets his phone down on his lap, rubbing his eye and readjusting his glasses, looking up at his stepson and meeting his eyes.

“You okay, Rich?”

Richie blinks. “Huh?”

“You just,” Frankie shrugs, “I dunno. You were tossing and turning a lot when I came in. I didn’t know if I should wake you up or anything.”

“You were watching me sleep?” Richie half-heartedly jokes. “That’s creepy.”

Frankie doesn’t laugh; he just watches Richie for a moment, brown eyes slightly narrowed and locked onto his. Although Richie loves every aspect of his children, Frankie’s ability to lock you into place with his eyes is one that sometimes Richie finds endearing, but other times, finds himself quite uncomfortable with when he’s the one on the receiving end of it.

(There’s a moment, very brief, where Richie reminds himself that it’s a look that Frankie has that reminds him of Myra.)

“Were you having a nightmare?” Frankie asks, and Richie looks at the teen.

“Not really,” Richie admits, frowning. “Just a dream. Not even really a weird one, but…,” He shrugs. “It’s been a long day.”

“You don’t have to tell me that,” Frankie mutters, shrugging. “Okay. Just- go back and do whatever it is you do during the day, I guess.”

“Who’s the parent here, me or you?”

“I parent myself,” Frankie jokes, and even though his stepson smirks at the joke, Richie does not; Frankie does that sometimes, make little comments here and there that remind Richie of the fact that Frankie’s life has been marked with so much change and adjustment, and that the kid has never really had the chance to be a kid himself.

Before Richie can say anything, Frankie disappears and goes down the hallway, presumably to watch whatever it was that’s only available on Hulu.

—

“Right, okay,” Stan’s saying on the other end of the line; Richie’s got his phone nestled in between his shoulder blade and the side of his jaw while he tries to figure out how to put Charlie’s hair in pigtails. “Patty and I can take care of the cake and some of the decorations.”

“Ugh, have I told you that you’re a lifesaver?” Richie sighs dreamily, frowning when he finishes putting up one of Charlie’s pigtails and realizing, very quickly, that they’re lopsided. “Fuck,” he hisses under his breath, and when he sees Phoebe glance up at him, he quickly amends, “Fudge, baby. Daddy’s just thinking about chocolate.”

“Nice save,” Stan says from the other end of the line.

“You have no idea,” Richie jokes back and then, sighing deeply, undoes Charlie’s pigtails and restarts.

“Daddy, we’re gonna be late,” Phoebe reminds him, pointing up at the clock on the wall. “Papa says that being on time is important.”

“Papa likes to say a lot,” Richie mutters to his other daughter, redoing Charlie’s pigtails.

“Let me guess: the twins' hair is giving you trouble?” Stan correctly guesses.

“You’d think I’d have gotten it by now, man,” Richie mutters. “Did Wren and Quinn’s hair give you trouble when they were babies?”

“Not particularly," Stan says, quite unhelpfully.

Charlie’s pigtails are finally in a better state, and so Richie tells her, “Scram, kiddo; it’s your sister’s turn,” and when Charlie hops off the stool, Phoebe takes her place.

“We have ten minutes, Daddy.”

“What’re you, the time keeper?”

“Yeah.”

Richie shakes his head fondly, and then, to Stan, continues, “So — you guys are on cake and decoration duty. Maybe balloons-”

“Definitely not balloons for us,” Stan cuts in, “Caleb can tolerate them once they’re blown up and in one place, but if he sees them being blown up, that’s it.”

“Okay, I can ask Bill or Ben to do that,” Richie pauses. “Ben. Definitely Ben.”

“Wise choice,” Stan mutters, and then, after a brief moment of silence, asks, “So, how are the kids?”

“Shay seems to really like Townsend,” Richie tells him, finishing off Phoebe’s pigtails and watching as the twins go down the hallway to finish getting ready — the fact that they’re in preschool already feels so surreal. “She says that the coursework can be a lot, but I think the fact that she and Frankie are going to the same school has been good for them.”

“That’s good to hear.”

“And the twins just started pre-K, and it’s like…dude, where is the time going? Just yesterday, the girls were in diapers and crawling around, barely able to talk, and now they’re in preschool. They’re going to be in kindergarten next year.”’

“Oh, believe me,” Stan murmurs, his voice soft, “I can’t believe it, either. My oldest are in high school — Wren’s going to be a senior next year — and it feels like just yesterday, Caleb was small enough to hold in one arm.”

“Don’t remind me,” Richie whines. “When did we get so old, man?”

Stan hums on the other end of the line; there’s a moment — brief, flashing in the sudden way that things like this tend to do more often than late — where Richie feels like he can envision Stanley in his home, over a thousand miles away in Atlanta, standing in the middle of his living room and thinking the same thing that Richie is: that, at more than one point, neither of them thought they’d ever be able to have this.

(And there’s a moment, although he prays that Stan can’t pick up on the slight hitch in Richie’s voice as he goes on to talk about Frankie’s scenes on SVU and how fucking amazing the kid is doing, where Richie thinks of the parking lot of the Jade of the Orient. Patty’s voice on the other end of the line-

I don’t know what happened, he just- I don’t- what does IT mean? What is he talking about? What’s IT? Do you know?!)

“I don’t think I ever doubted that Frankie was going to do amazing,” Stan goes on; hearing the other man’s voice is a welcome distraction from the memory, and Richie breathes out a sigh of relief — they’re all here. Everything is okay now, it’s better. The clown is dead, Stan and Eddie are here.

Stan pauses briefly, and then murmurs, “How’s he been doing by the way?”

Richie watches as the twins patter down the hallway; Shay and Frankie are long gone by now, after Richie embarrassed them both by following them in his pajamas down the sidewalk and to the subway station a block from their townhouse. And Eddie’s going to leave at any minute, dropping the twins off at preschool on the way; it’ll just be Richie and the cats, but thankfully, he has a few phone calls to make — he’s gotten the heads up from Bill that the Silent Hill project is getting closer and closer to becoming something.

But now, in the brief quiet of the townhouse, Richie thinks about his stepson.

“Frankie’s been okay,” Richie says, and he mostly thinks that’s true, however: “But I’m…I mean, I’m kinda worried about him, man,” Stan hums on the other end of the line, encouraging Richie to continue, “I just- you know, back in Kitty Hawk. Seeing him have- I don’t know what else to call it other than a mental breakdown.”

Frankie’s told he and Eddie over and over again that he’s fine; he’s declined to go back to therapy for the moment, telling Richie and Eddie that he really just needed some sleep in Kitty Hawk. That he was a little shaken up by the memories of Roscoe, Ben and Bev’s dog, being attacked, and from that fucking weird interaction with that strange man at the grocery store, but other than that, he was fine.

(“I’m fine,” Frankie repeated, rolling his eyes and huffing when Eddie frowned. “I just needed the space away from Kitty Hawk, I think. But I’m fine.”)

“Has anything else happened?”

“Not like that, no,” Richie murmurs, but he thinks back to some of Frankie’s odd behaviors over the past few weeks since the trip: sleeping in later. How jittery Frankie seems early in the mornings, or when he’s caught off guard — and Frank’s normally so level-headed and cool, so seeing him jump a foot in the air sometimes when Richie or Eddie round the corner is odd, to say the least. How much more quiet the kid seems at times.

Most of the people that Richie’s talked to remind him that Frankie’s on the cusp of turning sixteen; that sometimes, teenagers just go through shifts like this, and the only thing to do for them is offer to be there for them. To listen.

At sixteen years-old, Richie had been terrified of his own shadow, and even more terrified of the fact that he knew he was in love with one of his best friends, that all of the snarls and jabs at him for being-

fucking queer, burn in hell, faggot.

-gay wouldn’t stop in Derry, that the fear that followed him his whole life would continue well into his adulthood.

And thankfully, Frankie, his siblings, and his cousins don’t have the whole “evil space clown” thing-

(but that picture, richie, the picture frank drew when he was little — come on, you and eddie can keep ignoring it until frank turns eighteen or whenever the time crops up, but what did that mean? don’t you think frank looks a lot like how you did the first time you saw the clo-

No, Richie thinks, shutting his eyes briefly. My son isn’t anything like that.)

-going for them. Pennywise is gone and dead for good.

Richie supposes he just doesn’t know a lot about teenagers; he knows he and the Losers were moody shits, save for Ben and Mike. And Frankie, well…

“I kinda…,” Richie finally murmurs, taking the phone away from his ear to listen for Eddie — thankfully, his husband is still in the shower, which Richie knows means he has at least fifteen more minutes of total solitude, because if there is one thing that Eddie Kaspbrak does not play around with, is his skincare and washing routine. “I feel like it kinda has something to do with Frank’s mom, honestly.”

Stan is quiet on the other end of the line.

A few weeks ago, Frankie had seen text messages from back during Eddie and Myra’s divorce — they’d been mean, nasty. Myra had let Eddie and Richie both have it, but especially Eddie; although Richie’s seen and heard her say much worse, Frankie had been shielded from that side of his mother.

Richie doesn’t know much about what’s been going on with Myra since Frankie came back from vacation; Eddie hasn’t said anything to him, and Frankie’s been radio silent. Any time Eddie or Shay have brought up Myra casually, Frankie usually just nods and gives one word answers and changes the subject entirely — it’s a stark difference from his norm.

“I imagine it was difficult for him to have to see that,” Stan finally says. “Has he talked to you guys about it?”

“Not really,” Richie admits, biting his bottom lip before continuing, “He hasn’t really been talking about her like, at all. He seems annoyed whenever anyone brings her up.”

Stan’s quiet, urging Richie to continue.

“I don’t know,” Richie murmurs, “I mean- I don’t… I guess I just don’t know how to react to all of that, really. You know?”

“Not exactly,” Stan admits, again a little unhelpfully. “What does Eddie say about it?”

Eddie’s thing with Myra is complicated. If Frankie and Myra’s dynamic is hard for Richie to make heads or tails on, Eddie’s dynamic with his ex-wife is that times a hundred.

“I don’t know, man,” Richie admits. “I mean…I think he’s kinda glad- well, maybe not glad, but relieved? I guess? That Frank knows a little more now. But he keeps saying how he doesn’t want Frank’s relationship with his mom to change, and…” The twins totter back into the hallway; Phoebe keeps announcing that they have only a few more minutes, so Daddy, can you please tell Papa to get his butt out here and take them to school now, and Richie laughs and waves his girls towards the kitchen, reminding them to go and grab something to snack on before they leave.

“I just,” Richie thinks back on Eddie and Myra. “I don’t know. You’d think after like, all these years, I’d know how to feel about…you know, her, and even though I can’t stand her, the more time passes, the more it seems to be confusing. I don’t know. I’m just fuckin’ rambling at this point.”

“I’m used to it,” Stan murmurs, and then there’s a sharp sigh on the other end of the line; Richie waits, hearing Stan move around on the other end of the line and murmur something to someone else.

After a good while of silence, Richie finally goes, “You need to go?”

“In a minute,” Stan says and then, sighing again, goes, “You know how you just said everything is too complicated?”

“Yeah.”

“My father’s going to be living with us part-time for…well, I don’t know how long, exactly.”

Oh. That’s news.

Richie hasn’t talked to Stan’s father face-to-face in- well, decades, but he’s heard little updates from Stan and Patty and their kids here and there about Donald Uris: much older now, still very serious, and apparently a doting grandfather.

“Oh,” Richie says, frowning. “Damn. What’s…?”

“He’s getting older,” Stan pauses, “A lot older. He can’t exactly live on his own anymore, and he’s been adamant that he doesn’t want to go to a home full-time, so…” Stan sighs sharply again; Richie can picture the other man now, his forehead wrinkled and nose bridge scrunched, the look of disdain in his eyes. “Well. You know.”

Richie knows that Stan and his father don’t get along; Rabbi Uris was always stern and serious, expecting quite a bit from Stan from a very young age. Richie got along with the man fine, or — well, at least he thinks he did. The last time he heard from the old man — about a year or two ago, when Stan’s father stopped by to visit his grandkids — Donald Uris had fixed Richie with a long stare as he waved hello on the other side of a Facetime call, nodding slowly and going, “Ah, yes. Richard.”

“Sorry, Stan,” Richie says, because he’s not quite sure what else to say — probably about the same that Stan feels towards him in his current situation. “I mean, it’ll probably be okay though, right? He gets along great with the kids.”

“He does,” A pause. “More than he and I ever have, anyway.”

There’s not really much else to say about that, Richie knows; Stan’s the type who will come when he needs you, and right now, he definitely wants to stay in his office punching away at his numbers or whatever it is that accountants do.

“So. The cake and some of the decorations.”

“I won’t forget.”

“And we need a fuckton of candles, dude. What’s-”

“Sixty-one.”

“That’s why you’re the accountant, boss man.”

“Please never call me that again.” A pause. “I know what to get Eddie, but is there anything Frankie needs? Wren and Quinn told me about this game he wants for his…what’s the newest game thing? The Switch, right?”

“He has like, every game imaginable, man.”

“Well, what does he need? I don’t want to be that uncle that buys him clothes or something; give me ideas.”

“That’s exactly the kind of uncle you are.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“You’re the boring uncle.”

“Really.”

“Yeah. I’m the cool one, Eddie’s the neurotic one, Bill’s the try-hard one, Ben’s the sweet one, Mike’s the patient one, and you’re the boring one.”

“I’m about five seconds from ending this phone call.”

“You would never hang up on me, my dear,” Richie thinks. “Honestly, and don’t tell anyone else this, but I’m freaking out about my own present to him, dude. Frankie’s like- I mean, he has so much stuff, but I haven’t gotten my big gift for him yet. I’m lowkey freaking out about it.”

“Oh,” Stan hums. “Well, in that case, have fun, I guess.”

“Wow. You’re a dick.”

“Sure am.”

“Anyways, remember the-” Eddie suddenly appears from the hallway; the girls run past Richie to grab onto him, Phoebe reminding her father once again that they’re going to be late, and that traffic is just positively terrible this time of day — which, for a four year-old, is pretty impressive. But when Eddie looks up at Richie, Richie just throws on a big grin and goes, “-and yeah, Mom! Eddie just got out of the shower — Ma says she loves you, Eds.”

“You’re such a child,” Stan mumbles on the other end of the line.

“Oh, wait, that’s Mags?” Eddie pads closer. “I need to-”

“Ma, what’s that?” Richie turns and frantically whispers, “Remember the damn cake and candles, Stan,” before going, “Oh, damn. Yeah, I’ll let him know. Tell Dad to put some ice on it!”

Richie hangs up the phone and tosses it to the side of the couch, and when Eddie looks up at him, he just goes, “Dad stubbed his toe; total emergency, babe.”

Eddie gives him a look that tells Richie that he knows he’s full of shit — after all, both Eddie and Frankie know that Richie’s cooking something up, but everyone in their odd family has been sworn to absolute secrecy, so, take that — but thankfully isn’t able to pry farther, as Phoebe tugs on his pant leg and reminds him once again that today is going to be show-and-tell, and she does not want to be late.

“It’s show-and-tell?” Richie asks, putting his hands on his hips. “No one told me that! What’re you bringing?”

Phoebe goes into her little cat backpack and pulls out a DVD: it’s one of Richie’s made for the five-dollar bin at Walmart movies from way back when, and even though Richie awes at it, Eddie makes a face and frantically tries to grab it from the girl to check it, up until Charlie goes, “Daddy, look what I’m bringing!” and pulls out a gecko from her goddamn pocket, shoving it in Richie’s face.

“Charlie!” Eddie leaps back. “Where did you get that?!”

“Frankie gave it to me!” Charlie says, holding the gecko — who’s actually pretty chill, hanging out in the little girl's hand and making no move to run off — up against her chest protectively. “We named him Chip, ‘cus he ate my potato chips.”

“Your brother…” Eddie blinks once, twice, spluttering, “Oh my god, we’re going to be late.”

“Bye Daddy!” Phoebe jumps up to hug Richie, planting a kiss on his cheek. “I love you!”

Richie's heart swells. “Not as much as I love you, Pheebs.”

“What about me?” Charlie asks, pouting.

“I love you so, so much, Charls,” Richie promises, letting Charlie hug him one-armed.

Charlie raises her fist to show the gecko again. “What about Chip?”

“Uh,” Richie blinks, locking eyes with the gecko as the thing swipes its tongue out of its mouth to lick its eyeball. “Yeah, he’s okay.”

“We are not keeping Chip,” Eddie reminds Charlie as he herds the girls outside. “Chip is not going in my car.”

“If Chip goes,” Charlie proclaims as Richie watches his husband and youngest daughters go down the steps and down the sidewalk to head towards the parking garage, “then I’m running away, too!”

Eddie looks over his shoulder and rolls his eyes; Richie mouths back an i love you, smiling as his husband blushes.

—

To say that Frankie looks like he's in another world on set would be an understatement in Richie's opinion: the kid has brief moments where he seems like he doesn't quite know what to do or say when someone approaches him — as anyone would, something that Richie himself knows he can write the book on — and how different actually shooting something is, and being involved in the creation of a product definitely is an adjustment, but just like how Richie expected him to, Frankie seems to easily find his footing on the set of SVU.

Eddie had been worried, as is his way; whenever they leave to go and shoot, Eddie always lingers on the sidewalk, nervously trying to fix Frankie's hair or giving him a once-over. Frankie tells him later on that, when Richie’s back was turned, Eddie had given him a long, meaningful hug, squeezing him tightly for a few seconds before letting him go.

"If you think that's bad," Frankie had muttered later on, rolling his eyes fondly, "You should've seen him on my first day of kindergarten, dude. Dad almost stayed in my classroom with me, until- well, until Oliver showed up."

(Richie's heard this story many times over; Frankie doesn't make any mention of Myra — which definitely raises up a warning flag, subtle in Richie's mind: what's going on with you and her? — but Eddie's told Richie the story countless times over.

How, on Frankie's very first day of kindergarten, Eddie hadn't known what to do with himself; he and Myra had been overly nervous, Eddie grasping Frankie's hand and kneeling down to the five year-old's eye level, and reminding him that Daddy loved him very much and that it'd only be for a little bit, and that they'd see each other at the end of the day — and how Frankie, in a way that makes Richie's heart ache with a longing to have actually been there with Eddie and Frankie, to see it for himself, had just looked at both his mother and father and tried to pull away from them, whining and pointing towards the classroom — he wanted to go inside and play, and didn't quite get why both of his parents seemed so afraid, despite the fact that Frankie's kindergarten teacher had spent countless hours with both Eddie and Myra before the school year began to go over all of the accommodations that Frankie would need.

And then, of course, how Oliver — still one of Frankie's very best friends — had wandered over and saw Eddie and Frankie using some sign language and told Eddie, "My Mommy and Daddy are both Deaf, too. I can talk to him if you want me too," and the two boys had wandered off together, effectively leaving both a nervous Myra and Eddie behind without a glance behind him.

The point of the story is: Frankie's always ran headfirst into everything with barely any trace of fear.)

And now, of course, despite all of Eddie's — and Richie assumes Myra's, too — worries, Frankie seems to once again adapt to his surroundings.

It helps that the kid is quick on his feet, both literally and mentally, and perceptive as all hell.

Richie's had a lot of moments over the years of being proud of Frankie Kaspbrak: seeing Frankie bond and accept his sisters easily and with love; seeing Frankie stand up for what he believes in, despite everything it's cost him; Frankie getting into one of the top high schools in New York City; and, of course, seeing Frankie grow over time, the beginning of the wonderful man that Richie knows he'll grow up to be already beginning to show.

But, if Richie's being completely honest, this moment right here, seeing Frankie on his very first actual show, after passing rounds of auditions with incredible feedback from the casting directors, is one of the moments where Richie feels the most proud of his son.

He never thought, back when he and Eddie got together, that he and Frankie would have this together — he'd just been hoping that the kid would at least like him enough to be okay with him dating his father, especially after a shitty divorce.

But this, seeing his son flourish and look so goddamn proud of himself — seeing a light shine in Frankie's eyes that has been absent these past few weeks — brings a sense of pride and accomplishment that's so strong, all Richie wants to do is fucking scream from the top of his lungs that this is his boy, this is his son, newcomer Frankie Kaspbrak — ready to take Hollywood by storm, if he so dares!

During a break between scenes, Frankie uses a towel to wipe a bit of sweat off his brow and plops into the chair next to Richie; this scene isn't too demanding, but he was walking around outside for a while.

"You have a degree in this, right?" Frankie asks, and when Richie meets his eyes, his stepson grins ear to ear, the metal of his braces shining underneath the lamp light.

"And what's that supposed to mean, my dear grasshopper?"

Frankie just shrugs and takes a long drink out of a bottle of water. "Just," He smirks, "It's not that hard, man."

"Oh really, Mr. Oh my god, Richie, I know it's like, midnight and I'm gonna see you on Sunday when I go back to my dear sweet Papa's house, but can you pretty please tell me if the way I look when I'm saying these parts is okay or not, I really don't want to embarrass myself!"

Frankie glares at him. "Man, whatever."

"You might be naturally gifted, Kaspbrak, but I still paid for you to go to a few acting classes, remember?"

"Why are you even still here?" Frankie jokes, jabbing Richie's shoulder roughly with a finger. "Don't you have like, stuff to do?"

"Being a proud parent is my full-time job now, kiddo."

"Ugh, great," Frankie rolls his eyes. "Between you and my fucking overbearing mother, I don't know how I'm gonna get a moment of peace."

If this was anyone else, Richie would laugh at the joke at Myra — and sue him, alright, it's not like she's fucking nice when it comes to him anyways — but hearing Frankie, since he said it in oral English, not sign, use that kind of language about Myra, his tone going from teasing to actual venom, is...well, it's jarring.

Richie just stares at him, frowning.

Frankie meets his eyes, blinking. "What?"

Richie's never had to do this around Frankie, is the thing: stick up for Myra. Not only Eddie, but Bev and Bill as well, have said to Richie a hundred times that he has to be very, very careful never to encourage Frankie to talk about her like this.

"You just," Richie clears his throat; this is so fucking awkward. "Uh, maybe dial it back with the language, dude. And you know you shouldn't-"

"Oh, please," Frankie rolls his eyes. "Since when do you like my mom?"

I definitely don't, Richie thinks automatically, but to Frankie, he goes, "You know you shouldn't talk about her like that, kid."

Frankie gives Richie a look that's so judgmental and annoyed that Richie loses his train of thought momentarily.

Thankfully, he gets back on track long enough to go, "Come on, Frank. You-"

"Be nice," Frankie parrots back, rolling his eyes. "Whatever, man. We were talking about acting, right?" And before Richie can say anything, Frankie starts to ask him a few questions about his upcoming scenes; the interrogation scene is the one that Frankie seems the most nervous about, which Richie understands, since it's going to be the one that requires the most effort out of him emotionally, and is pretty much the climax of the entire episode.

As a rule of thumb, Richie tries not to pass off these kinds of things to Eddie — Eddie already has to deal with everything to do with Myra, which Richie knows is fucking draining. But in this case, he can't deny that he's glad for the change in subject: the idea of having to defend Myra is already odd, but especially within the context of everything else. Frankie saw the text messages between his mother and Beverly — which were admittedly tame in comparison to everything else she said in that time period — and it'd taken everything for Richie to not sit Eddie down and tell him fuck it, to hell with Myra.

So he gives his stepson advice and tries not to notice the way that Frankie's phone lights up in his lap every now and then; Richie does not snoop into his children's business at all, but there's a moment where Richie thinks he knows — even though he can't see the name, doesn't want to look too closely — that Frankie is letting his mother's texts go unanswered.

—

Richie's in the middle of helping the twins pick out an episode of Bluey to watch when he hears a door slam down the hallway; he instantly sits up straighter and finds a random episode, putting down the remote and reminding the girls to watch their show while he gets up and pads down the hallway.

He almost collides with Frankie; his stepson shoots him a glare before looking back down the hallway, where Eddie is stalking up behind him, looking exasperated.

"I already told you," Frankie says, rolling his eyes. "I'll text her back when I want to. She doesn't need to check in on me every five fucking seconds!"

"And I already told you to watch your goddamn mouth," Eddie fires back, throwing up his hands. "Frankie, I've always asked you to check in with your mother — for her to call me at work and-"

"Myra called you?" Richie cuts in, bewildered; Frankie glares at Richie again before looking back at Eddie.

"I didn't want her to bother you at work," Frankie mutters, a flash of shame in the teenager's eyes. "But she just-"

"Frankie, regardless of everything else," Eddie interjects. "The one thing your mother and I always ask you to do when you're over one of our houses is to check in with us. You need to be respectful of-"

"Like Mom is so fucking respectful of you," Frankie snarls back, turning his back and stalking into his room; he slams the door shut so hard that Richie can feel it vibrate.

Richie walks over and gives it a knock; if he knows his stepson well-enough, he knows that Frankie's probably already tore off his cochlears and is underneath his covers. "Don't slam the door!"

Richie looks back at Eddie. "I think I can use context clues to gather what's going on," he says; Eddie shakes his head, running a hand through his hair.

"She calls me at work to tell me that Frankie's been ignoring her, demanding to know what we said or did to make him ice her out," Eddie whispers harshly. "And-"

"You gotta tell your receptionist to stop transferring her calls," Richie can't help but mutter.

"It's not funny, Richie," Eddie grunts back, but before Richie can say that he knows it's not, that it's a force of habit, one of the other doors opens and Shay pokes her head out.

"Who the hell is slamming doors?" Shay's got one earbud in, what looks like some skincare mask on as she peers at them. "And why are you guys whispering in the hallway?"

"It's nothing, sweetheart," Eddie tells her, sighing. "Just-"

Shay frowns. "Is Frankie okay?"

"He's fine," Richie gestures to her room. "You don't have to worry, kiddo; it's all fine."

Shay looks at Eddie, then Richie, and grumbles something under her breath as she moves back into her room, not closing the door behind her; when she reappears, she has her slippers on and texts something on her phone, walking past them and crossing her arms over her chest as she waits in front of Frankie's door.

"Shay," Eddie tries, but a moment later, Frankie's door unlocks and it opens an inch; Shay quickly steps inside.

"Stop slamming the door," Shay says as the door clicks shut behind her; both Eddie and Richie look at each other.

"Daddy, Poppy," Charlie runs into the hallway, eyes wild, "Chip's gone!"

"Who's Chip, baby girl?" Eddie asks, tearing his eyes away from the door and blinking down at their younger daughter.

"Chip as in...," Richie wracks his brain. "Oh shi- Snickers! Don’t look at me like that, babe, it was a good save — Eds! The lizard!"

"Charlotte Kaspbrak-Tozier, you did not let a gecko loose in my house!" Eddie practically squeaks, running past her and into the living room.

"I didn't!" Charlie whines as she dashes after both Eddie and Richie. "Phoebe opened his cage and let him go!"

"No, I didn't!" Phoebe yells back.

"Since when did we get a cage?" Richie asks, staring down at the little crate that's been left wide open on the coffee table; it's the size of a pencil case, and he definitely does not remember buying that — none of them would buy something that tiny for a living creature.

"Shay gave it to me."

Richie turns over a couch cushion. "Did you tell Sissy what it was for?"

Charlie crosses her arms over her chest. "No. I told her I let Chip go, because she doesn't like him."

"Well, I don't either," Eddie mutters, on his hands and knees looking under the couch.

Eddie and Richie spend the next fifteen minutes looking around the living room — the couch, ceiling, walls, behind every nook and crannie — for the lizard, but it’s not until one of their cats, Bunny, jumps down next to Eddie to help him look that Eddie and Richie lock eyes with each other, wincing — the cats.

"Uh," Richie looks at Eddie, and then back at the twins, who are shuffling around on their hands and knees, mimicking their fathers and looking for Chip. "So...okay, so girls — you know how Bunny and Salem get really excited when they see birds and little animals outside?"

"Uh-huh."

Salem flicks his ear, cocking his little head as Richie looks at him.

"Well...."

It's then that they hear a little scream down the hall; Eddie nearly leaps to his feet as his fatherly instinct takes over, tripping on the carpet a little bit and falling onto the side of the couch.

"Get it out!" They both hear Shay screech; Richie audibly sighs in relief as, just a moment later, Frankie appears in the doorway of the hallway, stalking across the living room and picking up the little crate, plopping the gecko into it and closing the lid.

"We're gonna go to the park tomorrow and let Chip find a better home," Frankie says to Charlie, and before the little girl can protest, he goes, "You like Central Park, right?"

"Yeah."

"Don't you think Chip would like it too? You said a little while ago you wanted to live there."

"Yeah..."

"Well, Chip needs a bigger home."

Charlie sighs deeply and nods, the tantrum effectively warded away.

Frankie glances at Eddie and Richie before disappearing back down the hallway.

After making Charlie and Phoebe promise to keep the lid closed for the night, Eddie and Richie eventually make their way to Frankie's room; it's opened just slightly, and after Richie knocks, Shay tells them to come in.

Shay and Frankie are laying in his bed — Shay with her head on the pillows, Frankie laying lengthwise on the foot of the bed, his upper back propped up against the wall and his legs dangling down — and Shay waves at them when they come in.

“It was next to my ear,” Shay tells them with a shudder, rolling her eyes when Frankie snickers at her; Shay reaches over with a socked foot and shoves it against the side of Frankie’s neck.

Frankie reaches over and slaps his hand down on her calf, hard, and before Richie can tell him to knock it off, Shay grins and slaps him back across the chest.

Frankie doesn’t seem as angry as before; he’s on his phone, and when he looks back at Eddie and Richie, he sighs and shrugs.

“I’m not doing a part two,” he tells his father, crossing his arms over his chest when he’s finished signing.

Eddie sighs deeply; he crosses the space between them, easing himself onto Frankie’s bed and wincing. “Frankie, I told you not to eat on your bed-”

“It’s a free country.”

“Says the kid that doesn’t pay rent,” Richie interjects, smirking at Frankie’s eyeroll.

There’s a moment of silence between them four of them — Eddie looking at Richie silently for backup, Richie not knowing where to even begin with everything, Frankie looking a little irritated at the two of them, and Shay rolling her eyes at all three of them before she finally cuts through the silence with: “You three are so annoying sometimes.”

Before Richie can say anything to defend himself or Eddie, Frankie goes, “Look, Dad, I’m sorry she called you at work,” And Frankie actually looks upset. “I just- like, I go one day without talking to her, and she’s already blowing up your phone and yelling at you. Like, what the hell?”

“Frankie,” Eddie warns softly.

Frankie flares his nostrils, but before he can say anything, Shay nudges him again with her foot.

“Look, just text her back every now and then,” Shay interjects, rolling her eyes when Frankie looks at her. “Dude, you don’t scare me. And also,” Shay continues, holding up a finger as Frankie tries to cut in, “You need to ask them, dude.”

Frankie sighs deeply; Eddie and Richie look at him, waiting, until he finally goes, “I wanted to try out for the soccer team at school. The tryouts are in a few weeks, and Travis told me I’d probably get in, ‘cus the team lowkey sucks anyways and we’d take over if I got in, so…”

That’s the first that Richie’s heard of it — although it does make sense. Frankie’s always seemed to like sports, but especially soccer; he’s definitely kicked all of their asses more often than once whenever they’ve played. He’s fiercely competitive and seems to enjoy soccer; the thought doesn’t surprise Richie at all.

“Dude!” Richie grins, leaning over to high-five the kid.

Eddie frowns. “Why didn’t you say something earlier?”

Frankie blinks. “I figured you’d be all,” He gestures to the side of his head, and at first, Richie’s confused, wondering why Frankie would ever think that, until he sighs sharply and continues, “Worried about me getting hurt, with the implants and everything.”

“I mean,” A flash of concern flares in Eddie’s gaze, but Richie watches as his husband tries to work through it, tapping his fingers against his thigh before continuing, “I mean, okay, it’s not boxing or hockey, right? You’re not supposed to have anyone kicking you in the head or anything like that,” Eddie looks a little green at the thought. “I mean, if it was football, I’d be more worried, but…”

“Oof, he sucks at football,” Shay randomly intones.

Frankie glares at her. “No, I don’t.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Nuh-huh.”

“I think,” Richie interjects, watching as Frankie shifts a little in his seat, “That it’d be a good idea, Frank — I mean, you’re almost done with SVU, and that’s a lot that will be off your plate. And wait, aw, you’d get a little uniform and be on a team-”

“Anyways,” Frankie rolls his eyes, but he seems a little more at ease; no one’s shutting down the idea, and he looks like he’s calmed down a bit from earlier. “Anyways. Yeah, Dad, I guess — I mean, it’s cool, right? If I…”

Eddie looks a little nervous — it’s in his nature, of course, especially with Frankie.

But Richie gives him a long, meaningful look; they trust Frankie, of course they do. Frankie will be fine — the concern about any head trauma, especially with his implants, is a valid one, but again, it’s not like the kid is doing football or kick-boxing or anything.

(And, of course, Richie really just thinks Frankie needs this: he needs something to do. SVU is great, and Silent Hill is hopefully close to at least being something, but god, the kid needs something else to do, something to be excited about. To say that Richie is worried about Frankie would be a goddamn understatement.)

“It’s fine with me,” Eddie tells him, smiling as Frankie gives a dramatic, deep sigh of relief; after a brief pause, however, Eddie tests the waters: “Have you asked…?”

Frankie just stares at his father; either Frankie has not told Myra, or it didn’t go well when he attempted to.

“Frankie-”

“I’ll ask her later,” Frankie mutters, rolling his eyes. And, so subtly that Richie doesn’t know if Eddie picked up on it, their son adds, “But I don’t really give a shit what she says.”

—

It’s a few days later, right after Frankie texted Richie to come and pick him up — mentioning that the interrogation scene that he had been ever so worried about really wasn’t that hard, rich, i don’t know why you were so freaked out about it, and when Richie gives his stepson a wave from the street, one of the producers smiles at Frankie and goes, “Hey, Frank — you mind if I talk to Richie for just a second? I think there’s some leftover pizza in one of the trailers.”

“Is he in trouble?” Frankie asks, grinning when Richie rolls his eyes before translating.

“Not today,” the producer jokes; Frankie simply shrugs before going off to grab some extra pizza, promising not to save Richie a slice, and it’s when Frankie’s out of sight that the other man turns to Richie and goes, “So. He did really, really well today.”

“I told you,” Richie feels a sudden burst of pride that’s so strong, he almost doesn’t know what to do with himself, “The kid’s a goddamn natural."

"He's very good," the producer says and then, after a brief pause, adds, "And- you know Steve asked me to send some reels over to uh...who's the guy doin' the reboot?"

Richie blinks.

"The video game one. Resident Evil?"

"Silent Hill."

"Right, yeah, that's the one," Nodding to himself, the guy goes, "Yeah. Steve told me that he's really interested in seeing what Frank's got."

Although Steve had mentioned it to Richie what feels like ages ago, it's surreal to realize that Austin Jung — the guy who's writing and directing the whole thing — actually is interested in seeing Frankie's potential.

"The footage has to be edited, but the shit he did today — I think that's going to be it. Definitely will be the highlight of the episode."

"He was good?" Richie believes in Frankie full-stop, no questions asked, but when the producer smirks, a burst of pride threatens to explode in Richie's chest: he knew, he always knew, that Frankie had it in him. Always, always, always.

"He's good, Rich. I'd definitely say to keep up with the acting classes if he's interested."

With a promise to have some of the reels sent to him when they've been polished, Richie bids him a goodbye and says hello to a few of the people he recognizes on set as he tries to find Frankie — if he knows his stepson (which he does, of course) he knows that Frankie is still probably in the food trailer, scarfing down the last few pizza slices he can grab. Frankie calls it puberty; Eddie and Richie like to call it his tapeworm.

Richie's almost there, his stomach practically rumbling as he smells the pizza — and praying that Frankie saved him a slice, at least, although knowing the kid, most likely not, the cheeky little shit — when he stops dead in his tracks, literally only two or three yards from Myra.

Myra doesn't see him at first; she looks like a fish out of water, a little owl-eyed as she sees the hustle and bustle of a set, but of course, she turns her head to the right just slightly and locks eyes with Richie.

She crosses her arms over her chest, rolling her eyes and clenching her jaw; he can see her foot tapping on the cement floor, before she finally gives him a withering glare and snaps out, "I'm just here to see my son."

Richie had no idea she was even coming — but then again, Frankie's been radio silent on everything to do with his mother for the past few weeks. Just a few nods and grunts, and then some hostile words over the past few days.

"Oh," Richie clears his throat. "He's getting food, I think."

Myra nods, refusing to look at him; he knows it's killing her to be this close to him, to have to even speak to him — not like he enjoys it much, either. The last time he and Myra were face-to-face was a little under a year ago, when Frankie first auditioned for SVU and Myra had made it very clear that her opinion on Richie was still just as negative as it's always been, and that she still hates his fucking guts.

(That's not completely right, Richie has to remind himself: there'd been that moment, in the gymnasium of Frankie's school, when the crack in her armor had shown just slightly: i do appreciate that you love him, Myra had admitted, her voice weak, i guess it’s just not easy for me to accept that in less than five years, you managed to have a better relationship with my son than i ever have.

Richie still doesn't know what to make of it, all this time later. The admission to him, not to Frankie, or even to Eddie, that her relationship with Frankie, especially in the way it contrasts with Richie's, bothers her.

It didn't bring a sense of triumph or fucked up glee to him when he realized, in all honesty. If anything, Richie just feels an odd sense of overwhelming pity for her, even if it's not his fault, and especially not Frankie's. Richie still believes that some things between her and her son would be fixed, or at least have a good start, if she just tried harder.)

Thankfully, Richie doesn't have to spend too long with Myra alone, because the door opens and Frankie appears on the other side, smiling when he sees Richie and then stopping in his tracks when he sees his mother standing just yards away.

Richie watches as Frankie's expression hardens; his stepson flares his nostrils and walks over to her slowly, only giving Richie a small side-glance as he crosses the space between them.

"So," Myra tries to smile when she sees him, crossing her arms over her chest and shrugging. "This is the set, huh?"

Richie can only see Frankie's profile; the teenager blinks once, twice, and then nods slowly. "Uh-huh."

Myra's eyes flicker as she clears her throat, "It's...well, a lot different than I imagined. I never thought I'd-"

"You didn't say you were coming," Frankie cuts in, his voice tense.

"It's not like you've been answering my text messages lately," Myra snaps harshly; Richie's never actually seen much of the relationship between the two of them — only fleeting glimpses and secondhand accounts from both Frankie and Eddie, but he finds himself both largely uncomfortable and unable to look away as Myra continues, "So."

Frankie takes a long minute to answer; Richie tries to look away and make it seem like he's not snooping, taking the pizza slice that Frankie offers him just to have something to do with his hands.

"You don't need to text me every single day," Frankie says slowly, patiently.

"Since I only get to see you twenty-six weeks out of the year, it's nice to be able to talk to you when you're at your father's," Myra counters.

"It's not my fault that I have to bounce back and forth between you guys," Frankie tells her, his tone sharp and harsh.

Myra's cheeks tint pink ever so slightly; Richie sees her glance at him specifically, eyes locking on him and a look of disdain crossing her features.

Frankie follows her gaze and rolls his eyes. "Mom, seriously, it's-"

"I just wanted to come and see you, to congratulate you," Myra raises her hand. "But, you know- I'm so sorry to bother you. Really, I didn't mean to inconvenience and embarrass you-"

"You're not embarrassing me, you just-"

"Frankie did really great," Richie blurts, unable to stop himself.

Myra's eyes widen slightly, looking from him, and then to Frankie, eyes locking on her son's profile and watching, waiting, for him to elaborate.

"I did alright," Frankie finally grumbles, shrugging.

"I knew you would," Myra tells him, and her expression surprisingly softens as she regards the teenager. "This is you we're talking about."

Frankie just shrugs again, moving a napkin that’s been left on the floor with the toe of his sneaker. "Okay."

Myra purses her lips, looking away again; it's not the reaction she was expecting, and this whole thing is so different from what Richie expected. He's used to having to raise his hackles and come to Eddie's defense when Myra's involved, and he knows that this is nowhere near the true harsh, gritty reality of the actual fights between Frankie and her, but this is...

It's sad, Richie realizes, to watch Myra trying in her own odd, upfront way, to try and bond with her son. For Frankie to finally have more context on the past relationship between her and his father and to not be interested in bridging the gap between them, at least not right now, not when everything is so raw.

Richie has no love for Myra, and she doesn't for him; he doesn't think there will ever be a day where they will bury the hatchet between one another. He can't look past the way she treated Eddie, and she can't see him as anything else other than the man who uprooted her whole life — even if she's happier now with Darren, even if Myra and Eddie needed to be away from one another, her pride and stubbornness clouds her from being able to see that, even now. And maybe Richie's just as stubborn and doggedly loyal in his own way: he remembers Eddie, a day after he announced the divorce, flying to LA suddenly and appearing at the front of Richie's apartment, in complete disarray as he said, I left her, and- god, Richie, it's all so fucked, I don't...

He can't forgive her so easily. He doesn't think Frankie owes her any explanation, and he — of all people — has every right to choose how he wants the relationship between he and his mother to progress in the future.

Richie's used to being the peacemaker between Eddie and Frankie when they argue; to do this for Myra is so fucking bizarre, he'd have thought he stepped into the Twilight Zone if it wasn't for the fact that there's a very warm and delicious slice of pizza in his hand, and he's trying to remember Ben's advice from what feels like ages ago: it's not your job to shoulder everything, rich, but it is your job now to help frankie however he needs you to.

"Frank, you should show her some of the stuff around the set," Richie finally says, nudging the teen. "Frankie said you watch the show all the time."

Myra doesn't look like she wants Richie to even be speaking to her, but he sees the flash of hope — or is it desperation? — when Frankie finally nods.

"Did you want something to eat?" Frankie asks his mother, gesturing to the door behind him. "They've got...you know, food."

"I had something before I came," Myra murmurs. "But thank you."

"So...yeah, just- you know, you can look at some stuff," Frankie grumbles, walking alongside his mother; Richie doesn't think he should follow or intrude anymore than he already has, up until Frankie gives him a subtle backward glance and mouths dude, come on, and Richie slowly trails them, internally groaning — it's already so, so fucking awkward.

Frankie shows his mother a bit of the behind-the-scenes things; Myra still seems a bit stiff — probably due to the fact that Richie isn't too far away which, ma'am, he doesn't particularly want to be this close to her, either — but it's insanely obvious to Richie that she wants to be here, near Frankie.

After a little while, Frankie checks the time and goes, "I think we've got to go, though. They're gonna shoot some other stuff and probably want me to clear out."

"Oh," Myra nods. "Well, um- thank you, sweetheart. I really...," She glances at Richie again, her expression flickering with minor annoyance, before she leans towards Frankie and murmurs, "I really wanted to see you here. I'm so proud of you, baby."

Frankie nods; he's not as stiff as he was before, and Richie swears that he can see it in Frankie's expression, subtle but still present: affection.

"We're going to see each other in a few days, so," Frankie just shrugs again. "Yeah. I dunno."

Myra nods, and then opens up her arms; Frankie hesitates for a moment before groaning and throwing up his arms, and Richie knows — despite the fact that he's much further away now and pretending to be on his phone — that Frankie is joking. He does this with Richie and Eddie and the Losers all the time: pretends to push them away and grumble at affection, and he's a good enough actor where, if you don't know the kid very well, you'd believe it — but he has his tells, of course, the crinkle of his nose bridge being the biggest one.

But Myra does not seem to realize that Frankie's joking; her expression flickers with hurt as she steps back, crossing her arms over her chest in a manner that's very, very reminiscent of Frankie himself as she draws away from him, flinching back completely.

Frankie stares at her, frowning.

"I was just joking, Mom."

Myra purses her lip and looks away, before awkwardly stepping forward to give Frankie a parting hug; Frankie looks stiff again, signifying that the wall has come right back up between them.

Frankie turns away from his mother and walks right over to Richie, jerking his head towards the exit and signing, "I'm tired."

Richie can feel Myra's eyes boring into his back as Frankie and Richie begin to walk off — not with her, but away from her, heading in the opposite direction down the sidewalk.

—

"It was so fucking awkward, Eds," Richie tells Eddie later than night, groaning as he drags his hands down his face. "Like, fuck, man. I didn't- I mean, it's clear Frank didn't even know she was coming, true, but..."

Eddie shuts his eyes and flops back into bed; he looks exhausted laying there next to Richie.

"And it's always like that? Like..."

"I have to go and talk to him," Eddie mutters, shaking his head. "Before Sunday, before..."

Richie wishes he could tell Eddie that it's not his job to fix the relationship between Myra and Frankie — Myra has to be the one to do that herself, after all. That Frankie's acting like this out of loyalty for Eddie, due to loving his father so much — but Eddie carries on:

"I just don't want them to end up like..." And when Eddie trails off, when the emotion flickers in his husband's eyes, Richie already knows what's coming next: like me and my mother.

"Eds."

"I just," Eddie rolls onto his stomach, sighing sharply through his nostrils, "I can't even begin to explain to anyone — my therapist, the Losers, fuck, even you — how complicated this shit is, Rich."

"I mean, I think I have a little bit of an idea, babe," Richie inputs softly.

"I know you do," Eddie sighs, pressing his nose into the pillow and sighing again; Richie waits for his husband to continue, Eddie pulling his face out of the pillow and murmuring, "It's like, on one hand, Frankie's extremely good at setting his boundaries and he's so, so emotionally intelligent — I have no idea where he gets it from, I swear. He has every right to be pissed off at her and to...I mean, I'm not even trying to bash her-"

"Once again, you give her so much more credit than she ever does for you, but, continue."

"-but Frankie's had to swallow so much hurt and resentment. And I'm not trying to be the ex-husband who cheers him on when he's angry at his mother, but it's his right to set boundaries with her and...," Eddie shakes his head. "But then..."

Richie waits; he's become better at that over the years that he's been with Eddie — letting his husband work through what he's thinking and waiting for him to get it out, rather than interjecting and trying to figure it out for him. In the beginning of their relationship, it caused quite a few nothing fights, up until Richie realized that sometimes, he just needs to be a bystander for Eddie and let him work out his feelings.

"Frankie and Myra are so, so different from me and my mother, Rich," Eddie begins, as if he needs to tell Richie of that fact.

No matter how much Myra makes his blood boil, Richie knows for a fact that she's no Sonia Kaspbrak — not even close.

"And it's like- when I was his age, I wish I was as intelligent and emotionally strong as he is to be able to stand up for myself."

"Eds," Richie says softly, kindly, "You know that's not true."

Eddie doesn't comment on that; a battle for another day, Richie supposes.

"But I just, I keep thinking of like...when I went no contact with Mom, when I started ignoring Sonia's calls and letters, I hadn't heard from her in weeks, Rich, by the time that I got the call from her neighbor that she was sick."

Richie's heard this story before; it was told to him over whispers years ago, back when Frankie was much shorter and only slightly less stubborn. It breaks his heart every time — not for Sonia, of course, but for Eddie.

"I didn't want to see her," Eddie goes on, shaking his head. "I didn't want to see her, and — I mean, I'm not saying I should have. I'm not saying I was...you know, it was wrong. I couldn't have her around Frankie, Richie, I refused. I couldn't let her get to him — it'd be over my fucking dead body before I let her do that to him, too."

"I know."

"She was dead in her house for almost a week before I got the call, Richie," Eddie finally says, and even though his husband isn't crying — not this time, at least — Richie can see how draining this is for him. After a long day of work and worrying over their son, now he has to rehash this. "I'm glad I went no contact with her. I needed to. It was her job as my mother to protect me, not to..."

"Eddie..."

"And I'm not- I hope that doesn't happen with Frankie and Myra. God, I'm not- I'm not like, fucking jinxing it or wishing for it to go like that. I don't think she realizes how much I wish she and Frankie could get along like how he does with us or the Losers; I hate that they fight so much. I hate that I couldn't get her to just fucking- to just see that learning ASL would help him, that it's what she should have done. I hate that it's like this between them now, that he read those texts and that he..."

Richie almost interjects; the desire to cut in and tell Eddie to be kinder to himself, to stop carrying this weight on his shoulders, is so fucking strong, that he almost does it, until Eddie goes on:

"But I just- no matter how much I know I needed to be away from Sonia, that it wasn't my fault, that I never asked for a mother like her, that all I wanted was for her to be a real mother, it's so fucking sad that that's how everything ended between the two of us," Eddie finally says, shuddering as he gets it out. "My mother gave birth to me, raised me on her own, and- sometimes it feels like I repaid her back by cutting her off and never speaking to her again, and the last time I hear anything about her, she's been dead in her house for a week in Brooklyn, less than an hour away from me, knee deep in a hoarders nest."

Richie knows that he should be very, very glad that he'll never understand this type of pain first-hand. He knows that it's a good thing for himself that he can't even begin to work out how it feels to carry that with you.

From an outsider's perspective, all Richie wants to tell his husband is that no, none of that was ever his fault. That Sonia Kaspbrak made her bed many, many years ago, and Eddie was right on all accounts to go no-contact with her; his therapist has said it countless of times over. Richie, the Losers, everyone has told him — and he knows that Eddie knows that, of course.

But he doesn't remember that right now; all Eddie is thinking is how he's watching his son go through something similar, despite the situations not even being remotely the same in Richie's eyes.

(But again, from an outsider perspective.)

"You really do carry the weight of the whole goddamn world on your shoulders," Richie tells his husband, placing the palm of his hand on the small of Eddie's back. "You know that when I married you, I told you I was going to help you carry it, right?"

"I know," Eddie replies softly, numbly.

"And you do know that all you can do is support Frank, no matter what he chooses, right?"

"I know."

"And if he wants some distance from Myra after he turns eighteen, that's his right — you can't let your own memories and shit cloud what he wants."

"Yeah."

"He loves you so, so much," Richie goes on. "I do, too — you kinda have that effect on people, babe: making people love you so much."

"You're corny."

"Guilty as charged. But he- look, I'm not going to defend Myra Lee — and thank God she and Darren got married and she took his last name — or anything, you know that. She started it. But she's a grown woman; she has the capability to find people in her life that can help guide her and give her the reality check she needs. I know you want to support Frankie — and I do too, always — and when he needs backup, you'll be there in a heartbeat. But he just- he's gotta work through this, Eds. He saw...you know, a glimpse of that side of his mom — and honestly, it sucked seeing him react to that, you know. Seeing how much it hurt him; I didn't..."

Richie didn't exactly expect to feel the way he did when he saw Frankie's expression when Eddie told him a little bit more about Myra; it didn't make Richie feel cathartic or anything at all. It was just overwhelmingly sad.

"But," Richie continues, trying to brighten his voice, "Look, you're right: he's emotionally intelligent. Knowing him, when he figures out what he wants to say to her, he'll sit down with her and try to talk with her about everything. But no matter what, we just...you know, we gotta be a support system," Richie shrugs. "It's the most frustrating thing in the goddamn world to have to just like, sit back, man, you know it drives me insane. But..." He trails off, finally finished.

Eddie rolls on his side and stares up at him, flummoxed. "When did you get so articulate?"

"I have a way with words," Richie purrs, leaning forward to kiss Eddie; Eddie melts into his lips like always, pressing his nose into the side of Richie's neck when he pulls away. "You okay?"

"Tired."

"How tired?"

"Well...in a minute, we can do that. I need a moment to think."

"Yeah, this isn't really the best pillowtalk."

"Definitely not."

"But..."

"You're a pig."

"Not that," Richie rolls his eyes, flicking Eddie's shoulder. "Can you promise to stop being such a micromanager?"

"That's my job," Eddie tells him, shrugging. "I spend all day at the office staring over everyone's shoulder. It's a hard habit to kick."

"Well, hopefully soon you finally decide to give that place the middle finger and do something else," Richie says; Eddie shrugs again.

"I'll be forty-five in like...god, my birthday's coming up. I'm going to be forty-five soon, Rich, what the fuck."

"My old man."

"I'm only a few months older than you, freakazoid."

"Freakazoid? I loved that show."

"Shay called Frankie that the other day. I thought it was a nice throwback."

"Shay's hilarious."

"She is," Eddie pauses, "I love her and Frankie's relationship. She actually gets through to him sometimes."

"I know. And I think he's really helped her get out of her shell, you know? She seems so happy whenever he's here."

"I know."

Eddie noses his jaw. "I think I'm gonna call Bev later, just to..."

Richie understands: there's a lot of things that Bev and Eddie have in common, that none of the other Losers will ever begin to understand. It's not that they want to, of course; Ben and Richie have had this conversation countless times, about how sometimes, the only person that Bev or Eddie need are each other.

(Richie remembers a week or so after Rosie had been born; Bev called Eddie in a fit of panic, telling him how she didn't feel right, how she simultaneously felt amazing and happy and at peace but also fucking terrified out of her mind and different, how she was so goddamn scared of everything but also knew that she'd never love anything the way she did Rosie. And how Eddie had simply gone: yeah, that's what I felt when Frankie was born.

Or how when Eddie had been thinking of his mother, terrified and unable to settle himself down, immediately called Bev and talked with her for hours — sometimes about nothing, other times about things that even to this day, he won't be able to phrase to Richie in the exact same way.

The point is: those two understand each other in a way that Richie knows he never can.)

"Send her my love," Richie sighs, chin on Eddie's hair. "And Ben, too. Mmm. Now, that's my second choice if you ever decide to leave me for Bill, like you wanted to when we were kids."

"Richie, for the last time-"

"You told Stan you wanted to marry Bill when we were kids."

"When me and Bill were five, Richie. I didn't meet you and Stan until like, a year later."

"Whatever. Stan was my first kiss, so."

"It was truth-or-dare. That doesn't count."

"It did to me."

"On second thought," Eddie's laughing now, rolling over to whack Richie with a pillow. "Never mind about having sex; go and call Stan for a booty call."

"I think Patty's got that booty covered, babe."

"I don't want to talk about our friends sex life, Richie."

"Okay," Richie smirks, rolling over and caging Eddie in his arms. "So let's talk about our own."

—

In the midst of planning the Eddie/Frankie Kaspbrak Grande Birthday Spectacular (patent pending, of course), Richie gets a call from one of the last people he expected at that given time, but someone he definitely was waiting to hear from: Austin Jung.

"Yo, man!" Richie says as soon as he answers, holding a finger up to his lips when Shay looks over at him. Big kahuna, he mouths to her; Shay looks unimpressed, going back to holding her phone up to show Bill and Mike the store front where they'll be getting some of the food for the party — Richie had reminded her that it was very, very important to make sure that Bill, especially, physically sees the store. "What's up?"

"You have time to come to Poughkeepsie next week with your kid to run through a first audition?"

Richie almost falls onto the sidewalk and drops the undercooked Crumbl cookie that Shay forced him to get — two out of five stars, by the way.

"What?"

"How far is Poughkeepsie from Manhattan, anyways?"

"I don't..." Richie blinks, looking over at Shay. "Poughkeepsie from Manhattan? You know how far it is?"

Shay blinks at him. "Poughkeepsie? Who's asking you about Poughkeepsie?"

A quick Google search reveals that it's about an hour and forty-five minutes, pending no traffic, which — for getting out of Manhattan, ha.

"I..."

"I'm going to be over there to look at some sets," Austin carries on, voice cheery and nonchalant. "And Steve got the reels of Frankie from SVU over to me — you didn't tell me that your stepson had range, dude. He needs some work, sure, but he's definitely promising. When do his braces come off?"

Richie's used to writers and directors firing off a million miles a minute; he knows he has the habit as well when it's him on the other end of these types of phone calls, but...

"Austin, slowdown," Richie says, leaning against the side of a building; a few pedestrians roll their eyes at him, and Shay continues to sip on a matcha that she told Richie to get her (much better than the cookie, a solid four out of five stars), chatting with Bill and Mike and awwing when their pitbull, Blue, jumps into the frame. "One thing at a time, man."

"I'm gonna be in New York next week," Austin repeats, still sounding nonchalant. "Will Frankie be with you next week to come up to see me? I know it's kind of informal, but I mean — this is an indie project, dude, so the whole thing is kind of all over the place. And your friend, Bill — really nice guy. His husband seems really sweet, too — wasn't Bill married to Audra Phillips? She was so good in that uh...what movie was it called again?"

Richie blinks once, twice.

"Frank's gonna be with us next week," he finally says, finding his voice. "It's- I mean, it's a school week, so..."

"One day, tops," Austin promises. "I'll write a doctor's note for him if his school is like, hella strict."

"Hella...?"

"Did you just say hella?" Shay asks, eyes round as she turns to look at him.

"I know it's really short notice, Rich," Austin carries on, and he sounds apologetic as he goes, "But- I mean, the timing works well for me, which like....never fucking happens in a project, so. Can you squeeze some time in to come and see me? You and Frankie both — you still have to audition too, man, I gotta see if I still like your face enough to put it in my movie."

"I have to work it out with my husband, but," Richie blinks again. "I mean- if we can dude, yeah. It's a long drive, and gas is fucking expensive, so-"

"You literally lost my car, Rich."

"I didn't lose it, it- dude, whatever."

"See you next week, Richie."

By the time Richie pulls the phone away from his ear, Shay's off the phone with her uncles; she's sipping on her matcha, wordlessly offering Richie another bite of her cookie — a different flavor, and when Richie takes it from her, he wrinkles his nose in disgust after he takes a bite. Even worse than the last one.

"So..." Shay raises her brow.

"I think," Richie says, blinking. "We're going to go to Poughkeepsie next week."

—

The following week, Frankie, Richie, and Shay decide to drive up to Poughkeepsie together.

Eddie had been floored when Richie told him the news; Myra, if the look of annoyance on Eddie's expression is anything to go by, wasn't too pleased, but Eddie somehow managed to work some magic to get her to chill the hell out, at least.

Frankie seemed perplexed; he pretended like he all but forgot about the Silent Hill project, up until Richie caught him watching a gameplay of the first game on his laptop one night, Phoebe and Charlie asleep on either side of him while his laptop was propped on top of his knees.

Bringing Shay was necessary in Richie's mind; he's felt bad that there's been so much going on with him and Frankie and doesn't want her to feel left out — she hasn't said as much, but he wants her to be just as included as Frankie is in everything.

Now, Shay sits in the passenger seat and acts as Richie's co-pilot as they drive up Manhattan and towards Poughkeepsie; Frankie grumbles and crosses his arms in the back seat, annoyed at being told to sit back there despite being so much taller than her — my knees, shay, my knees are killing me!

"Lalalala," Shay sings-songs as Frankie tries to protest again; Frankie watches her, eyes narrowed, smirking when he knees the back of Shay's chair. She jolts forward and turns around before Richie can blink, roughly slapping Frankie's knee.

"Richie, she just-"

"You started it, man," Richie tells him, and then, when Shay and Frankie start trying to hit each other, goes, "I'm driving! I swear on everything, I'll pull this car over and make you two walk the rest of the way."

"You know what I want for my birthday?" Frankie asks later on when they're pulled over at a gas station; he munches on a honey bun, leaning against the side of the rental car as Richie tops off the gas.

"What would that be, my dear son?"

"A car," Frankie says, which — yeah, Eddie had told Richie he figured Frankie would ask at some point.

"Oof, now you and I both know..." Richie begins, not wanting to get involved with that — it's been a constant battle between Eddie and Frankie, with Eddie reminding Frankie (and Richie too, when he asked) that it wasn't about Frankie at all. It's quite literally every single other person on the road who doesn't care about anyone else or themselves.

"Ugh," Frankie groans, flopping back onto the hood of the car; the car actually makes a noise, and Frankie definitely feels it, if the way he lifts himself off of the hood slightly to check that it's not dented is any indication, giving Richie a little smirk before laying back down. "Not you, too."

"If I have to pay for damages, that's coming out of your college fund, kid," Richie reminds him, giving Frankie's knee a sharp nudge with his own.

"I'm pretty sure I qualify for like, twenty different scholarships just off of me being Deaf alone, Rich; keep your money," Frankie jokes back.

After a moment, Shay comes back with a slurpee; she hands it over to Frankie, making a face when the teenager takes a long, unfiltered sip of it.

"Asshole," Shay laughs as she slaps the back of his head, roughly taking it back from Frankie's grip.

Richie watches the two of them and, right before they head back into the car, goes, "Look, Frank — I'll try to talk to your old man, okay?"

Frankie looks up at him wordlessly; there's a flash of hope in his eyes that reminds Richie of an eleven year-old Frankie, not the nearly sixteen year-old standing in front of him, just a little under three inches shorter than Richie is now.

God. This kid is growing up so, so fast.

"I can't make any promises," Richie reminds him quickly, "And it's not you — it's literally-"

"Everyone else," Frankie repeats, sighing. "I know, man."

"I'll talk to Eddie," Richie tells him, nudging him with a shoulder. "But- okay, outside of a car. What do you want for your birthday, little man?"

Frankie shrugs. "I dunno."

"There has to be something, kid."

"I don't really know," Frankie tells him. "I mean, if I think of anything..."

"You know where to find me," Richie nudges him again. "You excited to meet Austin?"

"I guess."

"Very enthusiastic."

Frankie shrugs again, but he's smiling a little more now — progress.

"Yo," Shay slaps the top of the car. "Come on! Some people want to get there before sundown, you know."

"Yeah, yeah," Frankie rolls his eyes. "Whatever."

Shay reaches over to give him a rough shove, but before Frankie can do it back, she laughs and ducks into the car; Richie watches them with a fond little smile, his heart welling with emotion at the sight of seeing his older children getting along so well.

—

Poughkeepsie is different from Manhattan; granted, there's really nowhere else in America, maybe not even the world, that's like Manhattan.

But it's like an entirely different state altogether; it's hard to believe that this is really New York. It's vibe is much more relaxed and small town like, cozy in a way that reminds Richie of Kitty Hawk, the place where their vacation home is.

And maybe of Derry, if Derry wasn't so fucking cursed, but- you know, whatever.

The kids seem to like it; neither of them have ventured into upstate New York much, apparently, even though Eddie had told Frankie just the other day that they'd gone to Albany years ago.

(Apparently, Frankie had forgotten about that trip up until a flash of recognition shone in his eyes and he went, "Oh, yeah. That's the trip where Mom got angry at me for eating a sundae with peanuts on it, or something, and we almost went home early. Ha, fun times, right, Dad?")

After getting a quick lunch, they venture a little bit downtown until they finally, finally meet up with one Austin Jung.

Austin's still just as laidback as Richie remembers; he high-fives him and gives him a once-over and thumbs up.

"You still look alright," he finally says, nodding. "Yeah, your face would look okay on the posters."

"Wow," Richie rolls his eyes, but there's a sudden rush he feels at seeing someone from his days back in LA; he and Austin weren't the best of friends or anything, they both knew the same people, but it's a past that Richie hasn't been able to think much of. His life in New York is so time consuming and sickeningly domestic; he loves every bit of the life he has with Eddie and their children, of his new start with the Losers.

But as Austin gives Frankie a low-five and tells him how tall he is — you look like your dad, but you must've gotten the height from richie, huh? — and talking to Shay for a good five minutes about some of the best bookstores in Manhattan, there's a strange, sudden sense of...maybe longing isn't the exact word he’s looking for, but it's the first word that comes to mind.

Richie knows he's still involved in his career; it hasn't taken a complete standstill, and he knows he's almost on the cusp of a comeback. He can't exactly tour like he used to; leaving Eddie with four kids and two cats is torture, after all. But...

I miss it, he thinks as he chats with Austin about SVU.

He misses bits of his old life, and even though he knows that he'd never, ever give up the life he has with Eddie for anything or anyone — no fucking way, not after everything — there's a moment, even in Poughkeepsie, New York, where he imagines what it would have been like if he and Eddie moved to LA. If they packed up everything and went across the country together, their kids and the cats in tow, and went to the West Coast.

Richie buries the fantasy immediately; it's too impractical. Frankie was the entire reason why they couldn't move back then — not that Richie ever asked Eddie to. He knew from the moment he kissed Eddie goodbye in the parking lot of Derry Home, Eddie nervous and a little queasy but promising him that he'll call him as soon as he got there, that he was going to explain everything to Myra, to hug his son extra tight and tell Frankie, that Richie would follow him to New York eventually.

And now they have three other children, all with equally as important footing in Manhattan; Shay's lived there her entire life. She's had to adjust to even more change than Frankie or any of them could ever dream of — to ask her to move would be a lot on her emotionally, he imagines.

But still, Richie thinks as the concept of them all on a beach somewhere, the traffic just as chaotic but the buildings and everything so much further apart, more space for all of them not to be on top of each other, comes to his mind before he can push it away again. It'd...you know, the thought is nice.

—

Austin and Frankie hit it off well, to literally no one's surprise; Austin immediately seems charmed by him, and Frankie seems to like him quite a bit.

The four of them hang out together while Austin explains some of his ideas for the project, even calling Bill at one point to get his input on particular parts in the script; it's casual and fun, reminding Richie so much of the projects he did back in his early twenties. Indie projects have their faults, make no mistake about that, but it's so different from major studio ones.

"And, you know," Austin leans back, sipping his milkshake as he goes, "I've been teaching myself a little bit of sign, too. Like, once I thought about the other protagonist being played by a Deaf actor, I was like...huh, how would that affect the dialogue and characterization?"

Frankie sets down his drink and watches Austin, brown eyes unreadable.

"You have a killer stare," Austin tells him with a nod. "Nice."

"Okay," Frankie blinks. "What did you come up with?"

"Sign language is very direct and to the point," Austin goes on, which is quite true; Richie learned that very early on. He thinks it's why Frankie's as direct of a person as he is. "But there's so much emphasis on expression and intent when someone signs."

Frankie nods.

"And it's like, you know, you and Richie," Austin nods over to him, "The chemistry you guys have together — it's insane. Has anyone ever told you that?"

"I don't know," Frankie glances at Richie.

Many people have told Richie that; it's one of the first things people tell him when they're around him and Frankie for extended periods of time.

"I just think that it'd be hard to replicate that with anyone else," Austin goes on, shaking his head. "I still want you to do a proper audition, you know, come to LA and meet some big people, but you seem like a tough kid, Frank. And I feel like I have a lot to learn from you."

Frankie sits up a little straighter in his chair; it's a high endorsement from a stranger, Richie thinks, to be told something like that.

Frankie nods slowly. "I mean, yeah. I'd...like, I'd love to audition."

"Okay, cool. It'd be before the year ends, man — you got school and everything, and you need to whip your old man back into shape," Austin jerks his head at Richie. "I think he thinks he's off the hook just 'cus he's done a few crappy projects before."

"Excuse you," Richie says with a huff. "My SVU episode got amazing feedback."

"You were good," Austin admits, but then looks over at Frankie and says, "But have you seen the full scenes from Frank yet? I think with some fine tuning, he's going to be a major threat one day — and that's a compliment, kid."

—

After they do a little more sightseeing in Poughkeepsie — and after Richie Facetimes Eddie to say a goodnight to the twins, who pout and reach towards the phone on Eddie's end of the line when they see Richie's face — since it's getting late, Richie gets a motel for him and the kids; Shay immediately calls dibs on the bed even though Frankie's much taller than her, but Frankie just rolls his eyes and grumbles before going to the pull-out couch, flopping on top of it and heaving out a dramatic sigh before going on his phone for a bit.

The three of them talk for a bit about everything and anything; Shay once again asks Frankie what he wants for his birthday, even though Frankie just rolls his eyes and reminds them both again that he doesn't know yet, but they'll be the first people he'll tell.

"You guys are sneaky," Frankie randomly says, eyeing them. "I don't like being left out of the loop."

"What loop?" Shay asks cheekily, grinning when Frankie rolls his eyes.

"Whatever, who cares," he mutters.

After a little bit, it's time to go to bed; Richie texts Eddie for a little bit, craving Eddie's warmth. He always misses him when they're apart; he hates taking solo trips and being without the other man. Maybe it's a little codependent, but Richie's reminded why that is when he falls asleep that night, and has another dream.

This one is similar to the others: he's near a wooded area, and he knows, although he's not sure why he knows this or how he would, that he's either been her before, or that it's very important for him to know where it is: there's always the feeling that there's something so familiar about this place, something he's been shown before.

And then, it's Richie almost decides to say fuck it and try and figure out someway to drag himself out of this dream, that he turns and sees, in the very distance, right in the middle of the entrance to a foot trail - and wait, waitwaitwaitwait, is this-

derry?

-that he sees Henry Bowers.

Still with that stupid fucking mullet and a lot more burly and unhinged than he ever was as a teenager, eyes still mean and vacant. Swaying side to side ever so slightly, gaze locked onto Richie's.

They're yards away from one another, and considering the fact that Richie's the one who killed the man — put the fucking axe in the back of his head and everything — he doesn't know why he's the one who's terrified right now. Henry Bowers has been dead for years, and...

Bowers is mouthing something; Richie wishes in that moment that he were Frankie and had an insane skill for lipreading, but alas, he has no idea what the other man could possibly be saying, or...

Bowers takes a step forward; Richie takes one back. His grade school tormentor grins, then, teeth bloody and skin gray, he reaches towards Richie.  Richie can see that his fingertips are bloody and dirty, as if- like he'd dug-

"Come here, Richie," Bowers croaks, and-

Richie jolts awake and clutches the bedsheets to his chest; his heart hammers against his ribs as he turns his face into the pillow, breathing heavily.

Fuck, he thinks, shutting his eyes. Fuck, fuck, fuck....

The teens aren't awake, thankfully; it's past three in the morning, and Richie quickly brushes his sweaty curls off of his forehead and slips on his crocs, taking the room key and locking it behind him as he goes out into the front of the motel room. They got a room on the first floor, and there's a little lawn chair down the way that Richie brings over to the front window, just so he can sit near the door in case one of the kids wakes up, but he needs the fresh air. Fuck, does he need the fresh air.

Eddie is most definitely asleep, and Richie runs the risk of waking up the twins if he were to call him — he can't access his favorite person right now. Stan’s in the same timezone as they are. Bill, Mike, Ben or Bev are better bets — the time difference means one of them could be awake, right?

His phone call to Bill goes unanswered, as does his call to Bev; Richie shuts his eyes and presses the cool front of his phone to his forehead as he breathes in and out.

It's just a dream, he reminds himself, trying to believe it. He thinks of the dream he had ages ago with his nephew, Caleb; of some of the ones he's had post-Derry where, to anyone else, they could be dreams, but for him feel...

Real, Richie thinks. Like they happened, or are happening, or happened once before.

Even though Stan would tell him not to do it — no evidence, rich — he Googles Henry Bowers name, just because he can't stop himself.

Very old articles; considered to be a dead-end by most. Richie doesn't think that any officers in Maine are looking for the man, probably given up hope or assuming — correctly, Richie half-heartedly jokes — that he was dead. Nothing in the last two years, Richie thinks, up until he clicks around and somehow ends up on Reddit.

Any weird stories from your small towns? One Reddit thread asks, and Richie sees the highlighted comment: I grew up in Derry, and...

It's an old thread — dated in 2018 — and it wasn't very popular; this particular comment only has two upvotes, but still, Richie can't fucking help himself:

I grew up in Derry, and it's a fucking weird place, man. It's this tiny town in Maine, but the history is dark: hate crimes, mass killings, children coming up brutally murdered and torn apart. My mom's friend when she was in middle school was literally like, ripped in half and found in the sewers.

People around Derry don't talk about it, and when you google it, barely anything comes up about Derry. I don't really remember a lot of growing up there — we moved away sometime during 2016 — but sometimes, I feel like something really bad was going on. Maybe a government coverup or a fucked up serial killer or something.

Sometimes, I feel like ITs still

The comment cuts off there. Richie doublechecks that he's on his side account — untraceable to himself, without any comments or identifying features — and downvotes the comment and reports it, just for good measure.

The door to the motel room cracks open; Richie nearly leaps out of his skin, turning to look as Frankie peeks out, brows furrowed.

"Dude," Richie breathes, "You just- you scared me, kid."

Frankie blinks. "You okay?"

Richie shrugs, leaning back in the lawn chair; Frankie comes out of the room entirely, shutting it behind him and leaning against the door with crossed arms. His hair is tussled, his eyes tired.

"I could ask you the same thing," Richie mutters, frowning up at his stepson. "You okay, dude?"

"Just couldn't sleep," Frankie says, yawning behind a fist and turning to face the parking lot. At three in the morning, it's dead quiet; there's the faint sound of crickets and the sound of a car going by in the distance every now and then, but right now, it feels like it's just the pair of them.

"You wanna sit?" Richie asks, putting his hands on the arms of the chair; Frankie shakes his head.

"Can we take a walk?" Frankie asks, glancing towards the door. "Not a long one, 'cus of Shay, but..."

Richie blinks. "It's the middle of the night, dude."

Frankie just shrugs and picks at his pajama pants; Richie pretends to heave out a sigh but relents, suddenly eager to stretch his legs.

He and Frankie decide to walk around the perimeter of the motel; it's tucked away on the side of the highway, with some light woods in the distance. The motel sits in front of a nice field, though, and Frankie takes the lead and walks a little bit out into the grass, his hair billowing in the night breeze as the teenager stops and stares up at the night sky.

Silently, Richie follows his gaze: it's a full moon, and that gives Richie enough light to see his son's features, the distant look in Frankie's eyes.

Richie feels like he knows Frankie very, very well; he likes to think it's just because of how perceptive he can be, but Richie felt lately like there's something more to it. It reminds him a lot of the bond that he has with the Losers: that feeling deep within his bones that he knows the other person inside and out, that they're

connected.

Frankie's able to see him enough in the moonlight to see Richie sign, "What's going on with you, man?"

Frankie blinks. His stepson glances down at the grass, and then lowers himself into a sitting position; Eddie would kill them both if he were here, but he's not, so Richie sits next to the teenager and turns to face him, frowning.

"I just," Richie thinks back to their trip to Kitty Hawk a few weeks ago. Seeing Frankie meltdown and throw a plate and a glass, screaming at them to shut up. The way his son looked towards the kitchen — to the window, Richie thinks — and had a wild, terrified look in his eyes. "I'm worried about you."

Frankie stares into his eyes. "You're the one who was already sitting up outside of the motel room," he points out. "Maybe I should be asking you."

"I'm not the one who's been locking himself in his room and sleeping in all the time," Richie counters. "You've been..." Off, he thinks.

Frankie looks away and up at the sky again; there's more stars here than there are in Manhattan. Richie grew up in a town where you could see almost every constellation and a good number of planets to boot; he wonders if Frankie's ever seen the Little Dipper or Jupiter.

"Sometimes," Frankie finally says, turning to look back at Richie, "Everything just feels like it's so...much."

Richie watches him.

"I can handle the school work and the soccer team and acting," Frankie admits, shrugging. "None of that bothers me. I can understand like...you know, the paperwork of everything if- I don't know if that makes sense, but like, you know, the extras. I understand all that and it's fine."

"Right."

"I just," Frankie bites his bottom lip, shuts his eyes briefly. "I don't know what to do with the emotional side of everything lately, man."

Richie blinks; he suspected as much, but...

"I know Dad wants me to get along with my mom," Frankie goes on, his jaw clenching. "But I just- I'm angry at her, Rich. I'm angry at her, and I'm- I just feel like nothing makes any sense to me anymore. I feel like..."

"Buddy," Richie says, reaching over to touch his shoulder. "Frank-"

Frankie looks like he's on the verge of saying something big — it's a look that he shares with Eddie: that sort of i'm going to tell you something that's earth-shattering, and i need you to be cool about it look.

"I just," Frankie shuts his eyes. "What do you do when you feel like...like not everything is real?"

Richie stares at him, shocked. He wasn't expecting that.

"What do you mean?"

"I just," Frankie looks a little panicked, blinking. "I just mean that I don't- I feel like I don't understand anyone anymore. My mom and my dad, you, I feel like I can't tell what's really going on with anyone, and I just..."

"Me?" Richie blinks.

"You kept tossing and turning all night," Frankie says, "And then you came out here and spent like twenty minutes looking at your phone and freaking out. And you're trying to just be normal Richie when you're not, and- you know, you always pretend like you're the cool one, but sometimes, I feel like you're just as fucked up as my dad is."

Damn.

Richie stares at him, eyes slightly widened.

"I don't mean fucked up in a mean way," Frankie elaborates. "I just...my dad had a shitty childhood, and Aunt Bev did, too. And Uncle Bill lost his brother, and then you just- you pretend like you're the only normal one sometimes. Like you're cool Richie, when sometimes, I look at you and I can tell you're freaked out."

"Frankie-"

"Richie, I swear to god, if you tell me that you're okay, I'm going to steal the key from you and leave you outside until morning," Frankie rolls his eyes. "You spend so much time worrying about me and Dad and refusing to talk about yourself, and it pisses me off."

The only people he's ever opened up to have been the Losers, and Eddie's the only one who's seen the very worst of it.

"You told me that something bad happened to you when you were younger," Frankie carries on, searching his gaze. "What happened?"

Frankie seems desperate to know; he's searching Richie's face as if it's the most important thing on planet Earth for him to see what Richie has to say. That he needs to know.

Eddie will never forgive Richie if he told Frankie about Pennywise right now. Eddie has agreed to wait until Frankie's just a little older — he's saying around the kid's eighteenth birthday, which seems reasonable to Richie.

Richie can't say for certain if he wants to tell Frankie right now, anyways; it's not just about Eddie, either.

It's the fact that, staring at Frankie right now, there's a moment — brief, but still there — where all he can see is Neibolt. Eddie with blood coming out of his mouth, a fucking hole in his chest.

I almost took your dad away from you. 

It's not the first time that Richie's thought this, and it won't be the last: this will be the reason that he tells Frankie later on, tears in his eyes and begging for his stepson to understand why he couldn't muster up the courage to admit everything right then and there, in the field behind the motel in Poughkeepsie.

But right now, swallowing back the memory, Richie spends a good minute figuring out how to say what he needs to say before finally going, "I saw someone die once."

Frankie stares at the side of Richie's head; a cool breeze rolls over the pair of them, and Richie listens to the sound of the grass stalks rubbing against one another, the faint cricket's song in the night.

"There's...you know, there's a lot of context to it," Richie tries to elaborate, shutting his eyes. "But I saw someone...." I loved, "I saw someone die, and it's followed me around ever since then. I've hurt a lot of people, Frankie-" I killed someone too, kiddo; your dear stepdad's a murderer, "-but that? That shit fucks with you, Frank."

Frankie stares at him, his expression unreadable.

"I think about it all the time," Richie admits. "Sometimes, when everything is quiet, it's all I think about. And it was my fault, you know. They died because of me, for me, and..." And he married you, he loves you, and he'd kick your ass and remind you he did it because he loves you, too, and he always has, "...and I guess I'm just- I'm still very fucking guilty about it, you know."

Frankie blinks. "Does my dad know about it?"

Richie turns to lock eyes with Frankie; Frankie stares at him, brown on blue, and the pair of them don't say anything for a while.

Richie wants to tell Frankie everything. He wants to shut this conversation down and never speak of it again.

He wants everything to go back to how it was before. But maybe there is no before — maybe it's always been this, and always will be this: Richie will always carry this trauma with him, and one day, his son will know. He'll know and realize that Richie almost took the one thing Frankie has always counted on to be there for him, even when everything else was taken away from him.

Richie feels like a parasite, he realizes. Maybe that's why he's too much of a coward to tell Frankie the truth, why he's letting Eddie call the shots: because one day, Frankie will have to know that Eddie died — albeit brief — for Richie. That if Eddie were not here anymore, from the miracle of Pennywise dying or whatever theory Mike has now, he would have caused Frankie to be fatherless.

(The night after they defeated Pennywise, when Eddie was laying in the hospital, Bev told him years after the fact that she had a dream: it was of a boy that she said she'd thought was Eddie at first, only until she saw the auditory aides on the sides of his head and realized that this must be Eddie's son.

She said the dream went from a funeral, Frankie tucked into Myra's side with a distant look in his eyes, and then flashed to many years later: Frankie much, much taller — taller than Mike, even — and covered near head-to-toe in blood. She said she could not see the source of the blood, but there was an overwhelming sense of horror that she felt when she realized that Frankie seemed to be looking at her, eyes wild and full of rage — and she said that the only thing she could really understand, with a deep, terrified shudder, was that Frankie, that version of him, seemed to be fueled by pure hatred and a deep seeded need for revenge.

He's such a sweet kid, and- Richie, I don't fucking know what any of this means, why I have these fucking flashes and dreams and shit, you know that, Bev told him, shaking her head, but sometimes I like- I wonder if there's alternate universes or some shit, you know? If...)

"Yeah," Richie finally croaks, nodding. "Your dad...he knows."

Frankie looks away; his stepson furrows his brow, looking into the night sky for a while before signing, "My dad doesn't really believe in anything, though. He's so...I mean, I love him. But I feel like he's so....I don't know."

If you only knew, Richie thinks, and then goes, "Frankie, your father has been through a lot," he tells him, and when Frankie looks at him, he continues, "Your dad has seen a lot and- I mean, we've all been through a lot of shit. We've all seen and heard things-" Frankie blinks when Richie says that, brow furrowing, "-but...you know, through all of the shit I've been through and done, you know who's been there?"

Before Frankie can say anything, Richie goes, "Your dad has had to shoulder so much when it comes to me, kiddo. He's been so accepting and loving when it comes to all of my baggage; I just- I don't know where I'd be without him, you know? We've been through everything together; I've seen how much your father has been through, and..." Richie shakes his head. "He's just- he's a micromanager, sure, and he always feels like the weight of the world, of everything, is on his shoulders. But he always wants to be there for us, for me and you and your sisters, and..."

Richie feels a strong sense of love and affection flourish in his chest when he thinks of his husband, his beautiful, sweet Eddie. Selfless and loyal and brave as fucking hell — he's so happy be here with him, to have this life with Eddie. Even though Richie doesn't know what the future holds, what any of the residuals from Derry fucking mean, what he wants Frankie to know is:

"Your dad would do anything for you," Richie finally says, sighing. "He'd shoulder any burden for you, because he just- he loves you, Frankie. You can talk to him about anything, you know that, right?"

When Richie finally meets Frankie's eyes, he's extremely confused at Frankie's expression.

Frankie is staring at Richie with wide, uncomfortable eyes; he looks at Richie for a long, long time, not saying anything at all.

"Frank?" Richie tries, frowning. "What...?"

"I love Dad too," Frankie signs quickly, looking away. "We should- let's go back, Rich. I'm kinda tired."

For a long time, Richie will have no idea that instead of comforting his stepson — something that comes so naturally to him, something that he's fucking good at — all Frankie understood was: your father has had many, many burdens, and you're only going to keep adding to them if you open up to him about anything, but especially about the things you're seeing and experiencing. keep your head down and don’t cause anymore trouble for him than you already have.