Chapter Text
Eleven’s dreams weren’t always the greatest, but this one in particular was off. It started with red balloons, they flew around the sky and seemed to circle her. Raspy laughing emitting from every single balloon, and they popped, screams replacing the usual popping noise. After every balloon was popped, she was standing on a street, it was dark and gloomy, the clouds were grey and the moon was full. She looked around, but her eyes were drawn to the missing posters that plastered the buildings, a few different faces marked the papers.
She tried walking, but each step seemed to get her further and further away from the building that caught her eye, an old worn down house at the end of the street. The sound of a bicycle sped by, it held no rider.
“You’ll float too.” She turned around, a small boy in a yellow raincoat stood there, he held a paper boat in his only hand, he was missing an arm. The boy repeated these words over and over, giggling at Eleven’s panicked expression. She backed away and ran towards the strange house, hoping maybe that’s where she was supposed to go.
As she took each step, the ground began sinking and sinking, and eventually she had fallen through the dirt and landed into a strange area. Piles and piles of junk lay in the center, bodies orbiting the largest pile. She looked around for a way out, a way to wake from the dream, but instead saw someone else. A boy, who looked similar yet different than Mike. This boy had thick-rimmed glasses that rested on his freckled nose, his hair was a bit longer and curlier, and his eyes were pearly and glazed over, which she had a feeling wasn’t normal for this boy. He was floating above the air, but seemingly staring at her nonetheless. He didn’t speak the same words as the young boy had, instead his breathless voice uttered out three words.
“It is coming.” The words repeated over and over, making it hard to forget. The boy seemed to be chanting it, and eventually, he fell back and disappeared. The last thing she saw before she woke up was two yellow glowing eyes that wouldn’t stop following her. When she tried approaching, she instead found herself breathing heavily in her bed.
“El, El?!” She looked up to see Hopper gaze at her with worry, he seemed to be shaking her. “Are you okay? What happened?!”
“Nightmare,” El said in her simple wording, which Hopped decided to accept and move on from the subject.
“Want Eggos for breakfast?”
///
Hiding his bike behind the shed, Richie bit at his lips anxiously. He’d been gone for a week, his mother might not care, but his father would surely notice the absence of his annoying brat of a son. Richie still had hope that his father wouldn’t throw a fit about it, though that hope was quickly draining as he approached the dreaded house. Part of him wanted to just climb in through the window and pretend he was in his room sleeping, but his father would eventually go in the room to check, so there was no better option than to face it head-on.
He opened the creaky door, the stench of alcohol filling his nose within moments. The house was a mess, furniture was moved around and paintings had fallen to the ground, his mother lay drunk on the couch as cartoons played on their TV. Wentworth wasn’t in the main room, so Richie decided to sneak upstairs to his room, but the moment his foot made it to the stairs, he felt his hair being tugged violently as he was dragged to the wall.
“Where the hell have you been, boy!” Wentworth Tozier was a mess, to say the least. There were dark bags under his bloodshot eyes, and his clothing was wrinkled and stained from alcohol. The man held his son against the wall, a hand on the boy's throat as he struggled to breathe.
“I-I was j-just at a friends.” Richie managed to say, stuttering like Bill. Richie normally didn’t stutter, but for some reason, his father brought the worst out of him. Though he thought Bill’s stutter was cool, his own occasional stutter was horrifying to him. “S-Stan’s.”
Wentworth liked Stan, in fact, Stan was the only friend of Richie’s he allowed to stay at the house, though Richie rarely invited him over anymore. Richie always left the house to hang out with his friends, and though it pissed Wentworth off, he didn’t find it in his heart to care. He only cared when the boy would be gone for days, and then the man would return home to find the place a mess, and his wife black-out drunk on the couch.
“You can’t just leave for a week!” Richie’s father raised his fist and punched the boy in the face, his other hand held a tightening grasp on his neck. Richie couldn’t breathe much at that point, he desperately clawed at his father's hands to free them but it was no use. The man just got more angry with him, and more hits were directed at him. “Your Mother could have died! Look at her!”
Richie didn’t want to look at her, he wanted to go to his room and forget about everything and retreat back into his mind. “I-it’s not m-my j-J-Job to t-ta-take care of h-her!” His words were rough and pained but he was glad he could still let the words escape his mouth.
His father released his neck, Richie fell to the floor and desperately breathed in as much air as possible, his hands on his neck to ease the aching. He watched as his father’s foot neared his body, and closed his eyes. The man began relentlessly kicking at him, he covered his face with his arms and waited for everything to end. Part of him wanted his mother to wake up and pry her husband off of him, to save her son that she neglected for so many years, but she lay unconscious and oblivious on that wine-covered couch.
“I’m sorry, I j-just didn’t think y-you’d care!” Richie sobbed out, his ribs burned and his face ached and everything hurt. He wanted to close his eyes and die. His father grabbed a picture frame from the wall and threw it at him, the glass shattering on his head and spreading all over his curled up form. He felt blood trickle onto his face, and many other places stung.
His father didn’t say anything else, he eventually walked away and grabbed a bottle of beer from the fridge, chugging down the liquid as if it were water.
Richie just layed there, his eyes closed as he refused to see how bad his father hurt him. Tears silently fell down his cheeks as he tried to find solace in the situation. His dumb jokes couldn’t make him happy, though they never brought him any joy. They were simply his way of dealing with his emotions, if anyone asked too many questions, he’d dodge them with a joke. If someone started to pry on why he’s all bruised up, he’d probably joke about fucking their mom or something. They seemed to find him funny, their ‘beep beeps’ always seemed to hide a bit of laughter as they said it to him.
His father walked to the basement, and Richie took that opportunity to carry himself upstairs to his bedroom. The room was messy, though that was his own fault. Clothes were scattered on the floor and old tapes overflowed over his desk. His backpack lay by his bed, though it was August and he didn’t have school for another few weeks. He looked in his mirror in horror, he needed to find someone to help bandage up his wounds. Eddie would worry if he saw Richie like that, so Richie crossed him off the list. Stan and Bill were the closest to Richie’s house, and they both were living down the street. He grabbed a jacket and threw the hood over his head, hoping maybe he’d look less panicked. His glasses were broken, and they were his last pair. He’d have to make do with them, and so he opened the window and sighed as he climbed down. The screen of his window was cut out, he remembered spending half an hour on the tedious task as he wanted a quick and easy way of sneaking out as a kid. His parents never noticed, and quite frankly, he didn’t think they cared as much as they let on.
His legs ached, his arms were burning, and he just wanted to rest. He knew he couldn’t, he knew how bad the injuries were. He needed to find someone to at least patch him up. He reached the grass as he hopped down, his legs began to burn even more and it only seemed to increase with each step. Stan would be worried, he’d probably grab a first aid kit and sneak Richie into his room to help him. Bill would probably try and ask Richie about what happened and worry way too much, probably stutter at every word. Bill would insist on taking him to the hospital, and Richie couldn’t afford a hospital stay. He started heading towards Stan’s house, which sounded like his best bet. He kept walking and walking, the hot August sun burning against his layers of clothes that he hoped would cover all his injuries.
“Richie?” He heard a voice call out, and he looked over to see Mike Hanlon. He was in his truck, he parked to the side and walked out to Richie. “What happened?”
“‘S’nothing, Mike. I’m on my way to Stan’s house, I’ll probably sleepover.” Richie shrugged it off.
“Weren’t you Just at Stan’s? He said you stayed over for a week.”
“Yeah, I miss him so I’m goin back.” Richie smirked, “Though I should visit Mrs. K soon, I think she’s starting to get jealous I’m spending my time with another person.”
Mike frowned, “I’m worried about you Richie.” He brought a hand towards Richie, who frowned as Mike slipped the hood off of his head. An array of bruises and cuts were spread across his face, his glasses cracked beyond use, and his neck had a hand-shaped bruise on it. Mike slowly grabbed Richie’s hand, leading him towards his truck. Richie hesitated at the touch but allowed the boy to lead him into the vehicle.
They both sat down in the front seats, Mike stared at the steering wheel and Richie stared out the window.
“What happened to you?” Worry was clear in his deep voice. “Bowers didn’t cause this, did he?”
Richie sighed, “No, he didn’t. Though I kind of prefer that over what actually happened.” Richie was glad Mike found him, the older boy understood him in a way the other Losers didn’t. He listened and wouldn’t press for information if Richie told him not to. He would remain calm and not freak out, he’d treat Richie with care. Richie liked that, and so he figured that the solace he was looking for was Mike.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“No, not now. Can we go to your farm or something? You have a first aid kit, right?” Richie asked, though he started to feel his eyelids becoming heavier and heavier.
“Yeah, are you sure you don’t want to have a doctor help? Those injuries look pretty bad if I’m being honest.” Mike started driving, and Richie continued to stare out the window. He frowned when they passed the Tozier household, and Mike noticed.
“I-I don’t need to see a doctor. I’ll b-be Fine.”
“You sound like Bill right now.” Mike sighed, “Listen, I don’t expect you to tell me what happened, but I just have to ask… are you safe at home?”
Richie looked over and shrugged, though his eyelids were starting to close. “I’m fine, Mikey. Don’t worry ‘bout Richie over here..” he was quiet as his eyes closed.
“Richie?” Mike looked over, Richie’s eyes were shut and his breathing was slow. He passed out, and so Mike changed his route from his farm to the nearest hospital.
///
Mike stared at the window, the doctors were working on fixing Richie up, and Mike wasn’t allowed in the room until he woke up, and even then his parents were the ones who had to come first. When he had given the nurse the Tozier house phone number, they told him no one answered. So he decided to call someone to be there with him, he felt like he needed to ask if anyone knew about Richie’s parents, the boy never talked about his own family.
He entered the phone number and picked up the phone, listening to it ring twice, then he heard the familiar voice. “Hello, you’ve reached the Uris house.”
“Stan, it’s Mike.”
“Hey, is everything okay?” Stan seemed to notice the worry in Mike’s voice.
“It’s about Richie... I was driving by and he.. he wasn’t looking too good. He passed out, so I took him to the hospital. Do you think you could come here?”
There was a short silence from the other line, and then a sigh. “Yeah, I’ll be right there.”
Mike nodded and hung up the phone, sitting back down in the waiting room.
The nurse walked up to him with a frown, “Do you know how this happened?”
Mike shook his head, “I found him covered in bruises and cuts, I offered to take him to the hospital and he refused. He passed out in my truck so I decided that he needed to be here.”
A different nurse frowned, “smart for someone like you.”
Mike ignored it, as he ignored everyone who even showed a little dislike of his race. He was proud of it, and small comments were the least of his worries.
“I’m sorry about her, she’s a bit small-minded.” The nurse whispered, and he shrugged.
“It’s fine, I’m more worried about my friend.”
It took another ten minutes before the familiar curly-haired teen walked through the doors. Stan sat next to Mike and frowned. “How’s he doing?”
“Only his parents or legal guardians are allowed to know that information until he wakes up.” He looks Stan in the eyes, “They didn’t even answer the phone.”
“I didn’t expect them to.”
“Has Richie ever told you anything about his parents? I can’t even remember him saying anything about them.”
Stan leaned against his seat, which seemed very unlike the neat boy who always sat upright on a seat. “Of course he told me, we’ve been friends since kindergarten. He just.. he doesn’t like talking about his family.”
“Do you think they did this to him?” Mike whispered, he didn’t want to risk the nurse hearing. He didn’t know what she’d do.
Stan sighed, refusing to make eye contact. “Could’ve been Bowers.”
“He said Bowers didn’t do it.”
“Then probably his Dad. His mom is drunk all the time, she probably is right now.” Stan tugged at the collar of his shirt, “his dad gets really violent, take it out on Richie a lot. Probably mad that Richie was gone for a week and took it too far.”
“You've known his dad hurts him? And you’ve never done anything?” Mike sounded angrier than he was, but he really was just worried.
“Don’t say that like you know what I do to help him. If he is at my doorstep with a bruise on his face, I don’t question it, I let him in and I feed him. I let him stay until he says he’s ready to go back, and I let him because I know he knows better than I do. He eats our kosher food without complaint, he’s even stayed over during Hanukkah. Sometimes he’ll even come to the synagogue with us, and my parents love him. He’s not Jewish but he respects our culture so much that my parents don’t question it when he’s at our doorstep at one in the morning.” Stan closes his eyes and massaged his temples, “if he ever comes over and wants to talk about it, I listen. I don’t tell him any of my problems, I just listen and don’t question when he doesn’t want to talk.”
Mike was about to speak, but the nurse walked over to him, “His parents still haven’t answered the phone, but he’s awake. Would you like to see him before I start asking what happened?”
Stan immediately stood up, and Mike followed his actions. “Yes, please,” Mike said, and Stan nodded.
The nurse led them to a hospital room, and they saw Richie sitting uncomfortably in a hospital bed, he was wearing a hospital gown and had bandages all over his body. An IV was in his arm and he itched at the skin around it.
“Stan the man! Homeschool!” Richie smirked, watching the nurse sit in the corner. “I missed you two!”
“Missed you too Richie.” Stan sat down next to Richie’s bed and stared worriedly at Richie.
“Eddie’s gonna kill me if he sees me like this, does anyone else know I’m here?” Richie asked, his smirk faltering.
“No, just us. Your parents don’t even know, they won’t pick up the phone.” Stan told him, and Richie nodded.
“They probably won’t for a while. Mom was napping and dad was getting ready to do the same.” The words seemed strange, as if there was a message hidden, but Stan just nodded in understanding.
“Was she napping on the couch?”
Richie nodded, “Dad was being really loud and she still didn’t wake up, she’s a heavy sleeper I guess.”
Mike looked over and noticed the broken glasses sitting on the table next to Richie’s bed. Richie noticed Mike’s gaze and chuckled.
“I wish I could see, those don’t do shit right now.”
The nurse stood up and gently smiled, “alright, I’m gonna have you two go back to the waiting room, I need to ask Mr. Tozier some questions.”
Richie nodded in understanding, and Stan did as well. Mike and Stan walked out of the room and back to the waiting room.
Stan stared at the ground, a monotone gaze on his face. “I knew this would happen one day.”
///
“Do you remember what happened?”
Richie remembered every second, every punch and kick and especially the picture that fell onto him and spread shattered glass all over him. He remembered walking to Stan’s house and then Mike found him and went to take him to the farm, and that’s where it got fuzzy. The next thing he knew a doctor was bandaging the cut on his face. “Not really, it’s a bit fuzzy at the moment.”
“You did get some pretty bad head injuries, but we don’t think you have a concussion. Do you know anyone who would do this?”
“No, probably just some random street thug, I really don’t know.”
“I think you do know.” Her words surprised him as he looked up into her eyes, even through the blurriness of his vision, he could see they were glazed with worry.
“I-“
“I don’t want another excuse, you know. Richard-“
“Richie.”
“Richie, we can’t help you much unless you just tell me.” Her eyebrows were furrowed, her soft smile was replaced by a frown. “You can trust me.”
And that’s when Richie started crying, “My dad, he gets really angry at me and he takes it all out by hurting me. My mom is always drunk and unconscious on the couch, she doesn’t really take care of me. My dad expects me to take care of her, but it’s not my job to do that, so I don’t. I deserve it though, I really should be taking care of her... it’s not her fault and I’m just a bad son..”
The nurse wrote something down on her clipboard. “Richie, it’s not your fault he hurts you, you don’t deserve any of this.”
“Yes I do, it’s really nothing. You don’t need to worry, he just went a bit far today and it’ll be fine.” Richie tried to assure himself more than her, but even he didn’t believe his attempts.