Archive of Our Own ^beta

Max has had two near-death experiences—if you don’t count the overwhelming number of times he’s felt the chill of death when his father so much as looked at him. 

The first time was when he was six years old, and he’d been at the Hatchetfield Pool and Rec Center with his mom. She’d been busy helping a girl who’d scraped her knee, and he’d thought: I want that attention. So he went under the water and held his breath, thinking if he went long enough it was bound to be impressive. Then, he’d started to feel his lungs tightening. Someone had noticed the flailing of his limbs as he struggled to get back to the surface when his head hurt so bad, and his mom had jumped in despite doing so soaking the sundress she’d had on over her swimsuit.

The second time was after his mom had left. Despite it being about four years since then, his dad never got less angry about it. If anything, the anger grew and puffed up like a nasty rash no medicine could treat. He’d been fourteen, and freshman year had just started. 

Upon his father’s request, he’d tried out for football, and there was this one guy—he was a senior, one that didn’t even do football—sorta watching them while smoking in the shade of the bleachers. His clothes were a bit different from those Max was used to: all leather and plaid. 

When Max had talked to him, curious, the boy had been nice. He’d told him he could get him weed if he ever wanted it, saying his girlfriend had connections he’d been getting closer with. He’d watched him talk a bit and had felt enraptured. They’d told each other their names, him gaining an “Ethan” to attach to the pretty face. 

Except, he’d let it slip he was a freshman, and Ethan had freaked out a bit, retracting his previous offer and patting his shoulder in a way that felt silly and embarrassing. Max didn’t realize until his dad’s car had pulled out of the parking lot that there had been another pair of eyes on them. The speed went higher and higher, his father’s hands clenched on the wheel. Max had apologized about twenty times, swearing on his mother’s grave that he wasn’t something he’d been pretty damn sure a half hour prior that he was. 

There’d been a car pulling out onto the road in front of them, and his father had slammed on the brakes. He remembers his heart leaping from his chest, his back slamming against his seat in a way that hurt more than he’s used to. They’d hit the car in front of them and dented the side, and the week after had been such a mess of drama that Max almost forgot to check if he’d gotten onto the team. The acceptance had made it all okay, somehow. 

This is all to say, that he knows what it’s like to feel the blood rushing in your ears, life flashing behind your eyelids. 

Which is how he knows exactly what’s happening before he even knows how it’s happening. 

He’s smiling and laughing, praising the nerds that just made him feel braver than he’s ever felt, and then his foot slips. There’s creaking and splintering, but all he focuses on is that his heart is in his throat. He’s suddenly nine years old, crying into his mom’s arms. He’s sixteen, scared to take his driver’s test. He’s in his living room, watching his dad shine his loaded Glock 17. 

It’s almost ironic, how happy he was just a second ago. 

Except, he feels someone hug him tight and pull his body forward, and then there’s multiple arms all holding the arms holding him. 

His eyes, which apparently he’d closed when his body started to be pulled down by gravity, open and he sees blue. Just, blue.

Once his vision focuses, he realizes the blue comes from Lipschitz’ eyes. The blue-dipped ends of his bangs frame them, emphasizing the color. He follows an invisible line down his shoulders and to his arms, realizing that Lipschitz is the one who’d grabbed him. 

Steph and Spankoffski have a grasp on them both, and Fleming seems to be gripping Steph. Grace Chastity is standing where she was a moment ago, eyes wide, but not in a way Max recognizes as fear. 

They all let go, stepping away. It all hits them at the same time, faces going pale.

I almost just died. 

He confirms this theory when he looks at where he was just standing and sees what has to be a two story drop to jagged wood shooting out straight towards them. 

“Holy shit.” He barely recognizes his own voice.

Still, he has unfamiliar words on the edge of his tongue, a “thank you” ready to give the nerds, when he hears erratic breathing. 

Max turns around and spots Richie, sitting on the floor now, and holding himself with panic. His breathing comes in gasps, air barely getting a chance to enter. 

“Ruth, backpack!” Spankoffski orders, fear replaced with determined worry. It’s what he’d looked like last night when standing up to Max.

Fleming grabs a backpack with way too many colorful pins on it, and unzips the front pouch. Her hand digs around for barely a second before pulling out an inhaler. She tosses it nervously at Spankoffski, who catches it like a pro (and isn’t that a surprise). He squats down and hands it to Richie, who’s shaky hands grip it instantly. 

“Uh-“ He feels awkward, tall and blocky and useless. His hands itch to do something , because he hates feeling this stupid. 

Richie begins to calm down, breathing normally as he holds his inhaler close. His eyes are shiny and so blue . Said blue eyes move over to stare at him, wide still with fear.

Everyone else seems to follow his lead and look at Max, but Grace’s expression is especially terrifying to him. 

Her eyes are normally quite dark, a color he associates with tree bark, but there’s specks of red in them now. She looks at him, lips set in a frown, and he gets the distinct impression that she isn’t pleased with his survival. 

After a moment of silence, he chuckles, ignoring how strained his throat feels. “I’m over this fuckin’ place.”

Spankoffski helps Richie up, holding his wrist gently. “For once in my life, I agree with,” he pauses and swallows, looking very broken up about his own words, “ Max Jägerman. ”

Steph nods. “Let’s leave.”

——

Steph takes Spankoffski, Fleming, and Grace home in her car, Lipschitz shaking his head to refuse the same offer as he mentions someone named Paul, which has the two other nerds nodding in understanding. 

Lipschitz sits on the steps outside the house, clutching his backpack in his lap. He’s doing this thing with his hand—biting the skin of his lower thumb, then rubbing it speedily with his other hand before biting it again. One of his legs is bouncing, knee continuously hitting the corner of his backpack. 

Max watches him for a while, realizing belatedly that he can leave whenever. He drove himself here, beer in the passenger’s seat, so he could just drive himself home. 

But he doesn’t.

He spends a few minutes watching the repetitive movements of teeth to skin. After a bit, he steps down and sits with a good distance between him and Lipschitz.

Or- That’s not his name, he supposes.

“You go by Richie, right?”

The other boy pauses, teeth still pressed into his hand in a way that has to hurt a bit. His eyes lock onto Max, hand slowly lowering from his mouth. 

“Yeah.” His expression is a tad bitter. “I’ve said that before.” 

After a bit of silence, Richie looks away and resumes his motions. There are teeth imprints growing darker against his skin. 

There’s that phrase on the tip of his tongue again, one he knows is needed by now ( thank you ), but he feels a weird stinging in his throat. He opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again, and— 

“Th-“

A car stops in front of them. Behind the wheel is a slightly disoriented man in a brown suit, eyes very blue like Richie’s. 

Richie blinks up at the car, lowering his hand from his mouth again. He shakily stands up and glances at Max. 

“Do-“ He turns his head to look at his bag. “Do you need a ride home?” 

There’s a part of him that considers it, wonders what it’d be like to engage with the skinny nerd who didn’t even hesitate to save him despite everything . 

But, he has his car here. So he shakes his head, laughing a bit simply because he still can’t quite believe the circumstances. “No.”

There’s a weird emotion passing over Richie’s face, but it ends quickly with a nod. Then, he slips into the passenger’s seat and the car disappears down the road.

——

Max remembers having friends. 

Back when everyone was young and life was simple, he'd joke with the other boys. They'd spend recess' running around like carefree dogs, and he'd go home smiling. 

Except, when kids would plan sleepovers and parties, he'd never be able to do the same. Nobody was allowed at his house, and each fun story his peers would mention about their fathers wouldn't connect with what he knew. 

Puberty came, and boys grew meaner. Suddenly, Max was too nice, too soft. His dad's opinion became more important as others' faces twisted like his would upon seeing Max. They'd frown when he'd include the weird, quiet kids in games. They'd jeer when he'd be nice to the girls. He had to be meaner too, and then people would look at him differently. His father would look at him differently.

When middle school began, he stopped having friends. He had reputation, and puzzle pieces in his image... not really friends, though.

——

Monday rolls around, and Max has come to a few important realizations (and decisions):

He’s an asshole (That one isn’t surprising). He doesn’t want to be an asshole (That one is surprising). So, he won’t be bullying any of the nerds anymore. He’ll let Kyle date Brenda (after warning him that she doesn’t like all that romantic shit he does). 

The biggest thing he thought about is that he wants to be Richie’s friend. All of that group of nerdy weirdos might’ve meant a prank to bruise his ego, but they did something that for him , was meaningful. Now he knows what kind of people they really are, and he wants to be a part of that. 

Granted, he’s aware that the likelihood of them wanting to be his friend is probably… low. Which is why he wants to talk to them. He’ll start with Richie, apologizing and trying to establish a new dynamic where they can be equals. 

Max arrives at school, eyes filtering out anything that isn’t blue. 

Telling Kyle he can date Brenda boosts the boy’s mood enough that he doesn’t even question Max’s change in attitude towards the school's nerds. Jason gives him a look throughout the day, clearly confused, but he seems to accept it. 

By the time his last class hits, Max hasn’t managed to find Richie. He’s not even spot him once, but he’s seen the other two in that trio once in the hallway. He needs to talk to Richie first, he’s not sure why, but he does. It’s a feeling in his gut. 

Except, he spots Grace as he walks towards practice, and decides maybe she needs a different kind of apology.

“Grace!”

She stops abruptly, posture straight and tight as always. Her eyes look at him differently from before though, and for some reason, Max feels unsafe under her gaze. 

“Max Jägerman.”

He stumbles through an apology, promising her that he won’t come onto her anymore. She’s made it clear that she doesn’t want that from him. 

It’s sort of cleansing, being able to be something other than “Max Jägerman, Literal Monster”. He knows if word gets back to his dad though, he’ll be fucked, so he heads to football practice once he’s made his main point. 

If he gets his grades up… somehow, and he does perfectly with football, then his dad won’t focus on the other stuff—probably. Maybe if he can manage a scholarship for after graduation he’ll be able to put some distance between them anyways.

There’s this clarity he has, now that his life has felt so close to over for a third time. His dad is an asshole, but he doesn’t have to completely replicate his behavior simply to survive. 

Max wants friends. 

Not the kind that are scared of him, he wants the kind that care .

People that are truly good in the way Richie and his friends seem to be. If only he’d noticed sooner. Maybe…

—-

It’s Thursday, and he needs to get some ingredients to make spaghetti, his good luck meal right before major practices. He knows it’s silly, but he truly hasn’t been able to bring himself to risk it. 

He also thinks Richie might be sick. The short boy has been completely unseen in the hallways this week. Max hasn’t spotted him once. He’s barely seen his friends either, and when he went to ask them where he was, they scattered like mice.

A week ago, he might’ve found it a bit powerful of a feeling. All that control and confidence he craves (one of the few good things that only school provides) would’ve overwhelmed the guilt and unease at people running away from him. Now, he just wishes they’d not notice him so soon—if only so he could try to show that he doesn’t want to hurt them anymore.

So, he’s at the local Hatch Grocer’s. 

Max walks down the aisles and stops at a shelf, noticing chocolate. 

People like chocolate right?

It’s on sale, but he wonders if spending his feeble money on a gift he’s not even sure will be well-received is worth it. He shakes his head, moving along and finding the aisle with the pasta. 

When he walks into the aisle, he notices an employee across the way, loading bread packages onto a shelf. The employee’s frame is small and skinny, hair a warm brown color with—

Partially-Blue hair?

“Richie?”

The employee jumps, eyes darting over and confirming that he’s right. Richie’s eyes go wider at the sight of Max, his hands beginning to shake. He clutches a bagged loaf to his chest and clears his throat. 

“M-Max Ja-ägerman.” 

A smile grows on Max’s face, happy to finally see the person he’s been looking for desperately for the last few days. 

“Can I-“

Richie drops the package of bread into one of the boxes on his trolley. He grips the handle of the bright red thing, and promptly speeds out of the aisle.

Wait, what?!

Max shakes off his stunned confusion, and takes off in the direction that Richie went. He walks speedily, using every bit of his almost 6’0. 

Rushing about the store, he spots Richie’s blue hair in the frozen foods aisle. Some random woman in nurse scrubs is clutching a small hand-held basket, and listening as Richie quietly explains something, pointing in a specific direction.

When the woman walks away, he approaches the other boy. “Richie-“

Yet again, when Richie spots him, he grabs his cart and bolts in the opposite direction. 

“Wait-“ 

Huffing out a breath (he can’t get angry), he rushes down after him. It becomes evident extremely fast that Richie, despite being shorter and practically bones, is quick. Max finds himself breathing a bit heavier, sort of like his warm-up runs he does. 

Richie goes towards push doors labeled “Employee Only”, and Max despairs. 

“I just want to-“

The other boy disappears behind the doors.

“-talk to you.” He finishes lamely. 

With a sigh, he walks back to the aisles, grabs what he needs, and leaves.

—-

Friday seems to consist, again, of no Richie. He’s not sure where the other boy is. So, he forces down the feelings in his stomach, bubbling up to clog his mind, and approaches Peter Spankoffski when he sees him alone at his locker.

“Spankoffski?”

Peter jumps, whirling around to face him. He’s just the tiniest bit taller than Max (really what’s a few inches more), yet he always seems to hunch down when near him. 

I’ve never noticed that before.

It only makes the swirling nausea in his gut worse, but he swallows it down. 

“I want to talk to you.”

Brown eyes flicker around anxiously, but Peter eventually seems to come to some conclusion, because he straightens up and stares Max down. “Go ahead.”

Max clears his throat, beginning to struggle to form sentences to match the bullet point list in his mind of things he needs to mention or say. 

It’s awkward, and he’s sure that he sounds like an idiot.

He looks away quickly enough, a bit embarrassed when thinking about how Spankoffski is probably better at this sort of thing. Soon that embarrassment mixes in his chest to create a bit of anger, a familiar emotion.

“I’m so fucking bad at this—“ He growls out after a while, shaking his head and running a hand down his face. 

“Whatever, I tried to make my point. I’m sorry, and I’m going to… try to not be an asshole anymore.”

Peter closes his locker, drawing Max’s attention back to his face. He’s got a frown on his face, but it seems to be one of instinct rather than really much of a specific reaction.

“Alright.” He takes a deep breath, turning out towards the hallway as the bell to end the passing period rings. “Good luck with your other apologies, I guess.”

Max starts to watch him walk away, but remembers with a rush.

“Wait, Spankoffski!” 

The other boy turns his head, eyebrow raised. “…Yeah?”

He feels his nerves light up. “Do you know where Richie’s been?”

A cocky grin hits Peter’s face, and he looks like a different person. “Avoiding you.”

By the time Max has found his ability to speak, Peter is gone. 

Well, it could’ve gone worse.

—-

The practice goes well, with Coach confident about the homecoming game against Clivesdale next week. Most of his speech goes forgotten, Max notices Zeek the Fighting Nighthawk leaving the field earlier than normal. 

They only ever have Zeek for the last practice before a game, but Coach had to cancel the two practices next week, so Zeek was here today.

He tried to say hi to the mascot earlier, but whoever was under the costume just awkwardly waved and dashed away.

Did I do something?

Probably, he settles on. Max isn’t actually sure who Zeek is, despite him being the same person since the beginning of Junior year. However, he learned a long time ago that most people at Hatchetfield High don’t like him. 

Sure enough, they’re gone when he gets to the locker room. He sighs and heads out. 

When he reaches the parking lot, he notices the shape of someone hiding behind a random car. They’re hard to spot, but not impossible thanks to a bright purple and green shirt. 

Max approaches, slowly recognizing the figure as Richie. He’s sat on the concrete with his knees to his chest, typing away at his phone. His back is to Jason’s car, a nice thing (Jason’s always had more money to spend). 

With some effort, Max gets his steps to be lighter and slowly gets to where he’s within about an arm’s length, maybe more. 

Knowing what’ll happen if he doesn’t say what he wants to immediately, he forces all his strength into forming two tiny words.

“Thank you.”

Richie jumps, head banging against the side of Jason’s car. “Fuck!” His phone drops to his lap, hands rushing to cradle his head. Fingers press into slightly oily blue and brown hair.

Then, carefully, his eyes peel open and blink over at Max. His shoulders shake.

“W-What?”

“Thank you,” he starts, deciding to sit beside him on the concrete. His eyes lock onto Richie’s head, feeling a bit guilty. “For a week ago.” 

The other boy simply stares at him, so he continues.

“You saved my life, man.” His eyes move to his hands, and he wrings them out a bit. “I’ve been trying to thank you for that this whole week.” He pauses. “I’m not really sure why you caught me… or how, ‘cause no offense you look-“

Max glances over at him and tries not to stare too much at arms that, in a simple t-shirt and thin long sleeve underneath, look to have a bit more muscle definition than he’d guessed. 

“Small.” His mouth feels dry, and he looks back at his hands. “You didn’t hesitate though, and you saved my life. So, thank you.”

There’s a bit of silence, uncomfortable, but then Richie laughs a bit.

He drags his attention over to the other boy’s face. His laugh is a bit strained, more apparent from the shock painting his cheeks and expression. Blue swirls with surprise around his pupils, and Max tries not to be enraptured by it.

“I-“ Richie’s hands dart to his mouth, but he blinks at them and traps them under his knees. “I thought you were going to beat me up or something. Our little—“ His lip gets caught by his teeth, gnawed on, then released. “‘party’ almost killed you, and then I…” 

“I don’t want to hurt you anymore,” Max confesses, words quick and jumbled together with the anxiety that burns his chest.

Richie blinks at him owlishly. “Really?” His voice hums with doubt.

Max nods, noticing the way the other boy’s painted nails twitch as his hands resist… something . He feels his mind scour for explanations, before the image of him biting his hand shoves to the forefront of his head.

Clearing his throat, he gestures lazily to Richie’s shaky fingers. “You can do that,” he pauses, unsure what it exactly is, “thing with your hands?” 

Blue eyes go wider. “W-What?” He looks at his own hands, and the twitching lessens with effort. “How’d you know I-“

He shrugs. “You were doing it that night at the Waylon place. I don’t know what it is, but I could care less if you do it or not.”

That cracks Richie’s anxious expression, his lips forming a temporary and tiny little smile. It makes Max’s heart clench, maybe. “It’s s t imming,” he over enunciates the ‘t’ sound, “and I guess I thought-“ He shakes his head, and soon enough his teeth are digging into the skin of his thumb, repeating the motions from a week ago.

Max watches, a bit fascinated, and also, strangely, a bit concerned. “Doesn’t that hurt? You dig your teeth in a lot.”

Richie pauses, staring at Max. He rubs his fingers across the indent of his teeth. “That’s sort of the point. My uncle doesn’t really like that I do it, but I don’t like to stim too much with my wrists.” His eyes dart away. “It tends to be hard to do for a long time.”

Something tugs at him. He doesn’t even realize he’s pushed out his hand till Richie raises a brow at it. The teeth indents in his hand stare up at Max. 

“What?” 

Shit.

His chest tightens, and he decides to shove out his hand further. He’ll just have to trust whatever gut or instincts made him do it in the first place. 

“You can mess with my hand. I don’t know if that’s the same sort of thing.” He licks his lips, trying not to think about how dry his throat feels. 

It takes a moment, but Richie cautiously takes hold of Max’s hand with both of his. He runs his fingers atop Max’s, rubbing them. Worn black nails dig lightly against the top of his hand, before squeezing and running across it. His touch is a gentle sort of pressure, and Max finds his body relaxing as he watches Richie. Said boy is focused with his lip between his teeth. He breathes in and out as his fingers move up and down, rubbing or squeezing Max’s own. Air breezes by them gently, the night chill hugging their hands as they occupy the same small space. It’s sort of pretty somehow.

Neither of them speaks, and Max wonders if Richie is also afraid of shattering whatever accidental moment they’ve both stumbled into.

It’s this wave of worry and relief, he thinks. His hand is in Richie’s grasp, no longer his. Yet, any moment he could regain control of it and grab at Richie to make him hurt. He chooses to keep his offered hand limp enough for the other boy to touch. Richie chooses to make that touch soft and harmless despite all the infinite reasons not to.

It’s a mutual… something. Trust, Max remembers. 

They’re establishing a trust.

He opens his mouth, ready to quietly say-

“Max?” 

The two of them startle, jumping away to the point that Richie loses his balance against the car and winds up falling onto the ground sideways. Max bounces to his feet and ignores the humming of his skin in the absence of Richie’s hands. 

“Jason.”

Said boy looks between them two with a confused look, but nods slowly. “I didn’t mean to,” his brows furrow, “interrupt? This is my car.”

Richie flounders to his feet, gripping his arm like it’s the neck of someone he’s trying to kill. “S-Sorry! I’ll get out of your way.”

His form vanishes quickly, running off towards the other side of the parking lot. 

Jason frowns, and looks over at Max. “You guys are friends now?”

Max flexes his hand, unable to ignore it. “Yeah, man.” He fist bumps him and walks to his car with a weird energy thrumming through him.

—-

Sunday starts with his dad yelling at him, so he grabs his letterman and drives around. 

He winds up at this old playground closer to Sycamore. Ever since they built a better one attached to the Main Street park, not as many people really go to this one. It’s a bit depressing, not to mention hard to navigate since it’s surrounded by thickets of bushes. 

Max parks against the road and walks along the thin path inwards. He shoves his hands in his pockets, energy buzzing through him from this morning. 

Damn it.

There’s a figure in the distance, some teen sitting on the swingset. He’d hoped to be able to exist here completely solo.

Except… as he gets closer, the teen’s features become more and more recognizable.

His feet come to a stop when he’s only a few feet away.

Just as he’s about to open his mouth to call out to the other boy, Richie glances up. His hand comes to pull out an earbud, eyes widening.

“Max?”

My name sounds so nice. 

There’s a small notebook or something similar open in Richie’s lap, and his hand covers it the second Max begins to glance even slightly in that direction. His hand slaps down so fast that it sends his small blue pen (it has a cat sticker on it) rolling into the wood chips below. 

Carefully, he walks over. Making eye contact with Richie, who looks away in a panic, he leans down to grab the pen. There’s a tightness in his throat again, but he moves on from it and offers the pen to Richie. 

Richie peers over, and blinks at the object for a moment before taking it.

“Th-“ He takes a breath. “Thanks.” 

Max kicks at the chips on the ground and gestures lamely to the swing beside Richie. 

“Can I?”

The other boy flushes pink and fidgets with his pen. “Of course, I don’t own this playground.” He laughs in a strained, small sort of way.

He sits down, and waits a moment before turning his attention towards Richie again. His arm covers his notebook still, and he keeps fidgeting with his pen.

It’s a difficult mental debate to decide whether or not to ask about it. Since the last time they saw each other was… good, he’d like to think they’re on better terms maybe sorta. Except, Max hasn’t done even remotely enough to warrant Richie being at all nice to him. The nerd seems incapable of being mean like how Max is capable of.

“What’s,” he gives into his curiosity inevitably, “in your notebook?” His guesses finally wind up realistic in his head. “Are you doing homework out here?”

The smaller boy startles, clutching his notebook to his chest. “No!” His face flushes, and he looks at the ground. “I’ve already finished it. This is… different.” He squeezes his eyes shut, form tightening like he’s trying to make himself smaller. 

“It’s stupid.”

Max swings loosely, feet sliding through the wood chips. “I’m stupid, so it’s not like I’d care.” 

Fuck, he’s never said that out loud before.

Richie’s head snaps up at that, and his pink, worn lips are downturned. 

“You aren’t stupid.” He taps his pen against the metal bars of the swingset. “I have no good reason to boost your unhealthy ego, so you have to believe me.”

That makes him laugh, and he leans back in the swing. His hands tighten in grip, holding his weight up using the chains of the swing. He looks up at Richie with a grin. 

“I’m definitely not as smart as a nerd like you.” His hands pull him upright. “So you know I’m not lying when I say that I couldn’t care less about whatever nerdy thing you’ve been doing out here.”

Blue eyes meet his. “You won’t laugh?”

“If I do then you can slap me. I’m sure you’ve always wanted to do that anyways.”

With a hint of a smile, Richie nods. “It’s crossed my mind.”

He rolls his eyes, strangely content in this little bubble of a moment. “Then it’s a win-win either way for you.”

After a moment, one that has Max wondering if Richie is even going to say anything, the smaller boy quietly whispers: 

“It’s a sketchbook.”

“Huh?”

Richie hunches over the object, hair falling down in a way that hides his eyes from view. 

“It’s a sketchbook. F-For drawing.” His pen tapping starts up again. “I’m not any good, but I’ve always wanted to be good. But I’m not. It’s stupid.”

Max leans closer, grabbing the closest chain of Richie’s swing to drag their seats together. He stares curiously at the shaky fingers hiding whatever mystery drawing the boy's been working on.

“You’re better than me, I’m sure.” He grins. “Can I see?” At Richie’s frown, he continues. “Don’t you wanna bruise my ego? Show off your superior ar’istry?”

Shit. A small part of him cringes when he messes up the first ‘t’ sound in the word, but he tries to ignore it.

He watches Richie giggle a bit, the sound light and sweet. Max really thinks that Richie doesn’t sound like most people. “I’m not as self-centered as you are.”

Apparently, his expression to that ends up quite funny, because Richie giggles more. His whole body shakes, laughter starting out light and simple with amusement only to grow slightly hysterical. Blue eyes squeeze closed, and he starts to choke on each incoming laugh like a drowning man too scared to swim. Richie’s hands begin to flutter up in panic which pushes his sketchbook flying into the wood chips, forgotten in the face of wheezing exhales.

Fuck. Max isn’t sure what’s even happening. One moment it all seemed fine, going well even, and now he’s witnessing what almost feels like Richie’s deathbed.

“Richie? Dude? What’s going on?!” He notices tears bead up in the other boy’s eyes, hands trembling. 

The smaller boy’s mouth opens to speak, but only coughing comes out. This propels him to wheeze more, hand gripping his own shirt like his life depends on it. Maybe it does, Max isn’t sure.

One of the trembling hands reaches Richie's pocket of his shorts, and he fumbles with it. Each time he’s almost got a grip on the button keeping it closed, the shake of his hands puts him back at square one. Tears stream down his face faster.

Max reaches out and opens the pocket himself, reaching inside to pull out… an inhaler. Right, asthma, that’s what this must be. He holds out the inhaler, and Richie grabs at it fearfully, immediately holding it to his face. 

As his breathing starts to grow steadier, Max stands up and walks over to pick up the sketchbook that had gone flying amidst the attack. He holds it gently, wiping off the wood chips and injuries from the fall. 

When his hand has cleared it all away, he’s left staring at a drawing of a clock with vines pulling the hands backward. It’s messy, sketched out in the blue ink of Richie’s pen, but the details are clear enough to decipher. There are small little cracks at the bottom of the clock, and the beginnings of what he can guess were on their way to being flowers around the central image. It feels strangely poignant, despite the fact that he isn’t quite sure what the meaning of it is supposed to be. He feels sort of miniscule, standing there with his mind locked in on something so intricately thought out. It’s not even really his intention to flip to another page, but he feels sort of like a pirate searching for more gold in the ocean. He sees sketches and drawings of characters with bright hair that he doesn’t recognize, some drawn in a messy replica of some sort of battle or pose. There’s a page full of hands, ones that Max can recognize as Richie’s for some reason (he’s deciding not to think too much of it). There’s a page with a drawing of a creature that looks like a man and an owl all at once. 

There’s a page with him. He blinks at it, freezing instantly. It’s of him in his football gear but without his helmet. There’s even a small unfinished Kyle (with his helmet though) below him on the page. 

“Don’t-“

The anxious voice snaps him out of his staring, and he glances over to see Richie reaching out to grab the sketchbook. He’s breathing with only a bit of panic now, and it seems there’s no more tears running down his face. Instead, there’s the red flush remnants of tear tracks and a deeply twisted frown that makes Max want to cry.

“Oh shit.” Max hands over the sketchbook, stepping away from it as his hands almost burn. He watches in horror as Richie notices the page, and then closes it with shakier hands. His face is pale, lips trembling—yet voice loud.

“I think I’m gon-“ 

“That was something an asshole would do wasn’t it?” 

Richie startles, blinking at him. “What?”

Max shoves his hands in the pockets of his letterman. “I’m not really sure what… being a good person qualifies as. I’m trying to learn, and I have references. I just-“ He kicks the ground. “I got invested in the stuff I saw, so I kept flipping to see more. You look like you might pass out or start dying again, and you look like that a lot when I’m being an asshole.”

Clearing his throat, he stares into the red-rimmed blue eyes in front of him. “So, I asked.”

There seems to be some sort of consideration that crosses through the other boy’s mind because his eyebrows furrow and teeth dig into his lip in a confused manner. 

Then: “You have to ask before snooping through people’s stuff.” 

A wave of assertiveness washes over Richie, and he takes a step closer. “I have a right to privacy, and you didn’t respect that.”

It’s a bit weird, having one of the nerds he used to look down on suddenly lecturing him like he’s a child. It’s weird, but it feels good weird—like the lines that he used to keep so clear and different are finally blurring. 

“I’m sorry.” He scratches the back of his neck, unsure if he should add something to the apology. “I liked them. The drawings.” 

Richie sighs, running his hand along the book before moving his thumb to his mouth in a way Max is becoming familiar with. 

“Right.” 

It’s like he doesn’t believe him, Max realizes. He wanders back to his seat at the swings and kicks the ground in frustration. Being nice is a lot more draining and difficult than he’d like. 

“I’m not sure how you even know who’s number is who’s on the team, but I thought you drew it all well, seriously.” He adds to his point by tossing a wood chip at Richie’s leg. 

When there’s no response, he looks to Richie and notices his eyes are locked on Max with a bewildered, wide-eyed look. It’s sort of funny, and maybe even kind of cute. Fuck, ignore that.

“What?”

His mouth forms a surprised little smile, pink lips stretched upwards in a strangely interesting fashion. “I’m Zeke.” 

And oh boy, is that a revelation. Every functional thought or phrase leaves him, his mouth definitely falling open a bit in his new daze of information. A daze that Richie seems to take as confusion because he continues:

“The mascot.” His smile slips into a more self-conscious one that Max vaguely knows he hates. “I’d thought you knew, but I guess I was avoiding you at practices for no reason this whole time.”

That definitely feels like a punch to the gut, and Max’s hand actually comes up to grip his thigh as he tries to remember that being angry at himself won’t change anything. He’s watched enough mental health youtube videos in the last week to know that much. 

The smile is barely a smile anymore. “Most of the team knows I think, that’s probably why they always laugh when I fall or trip in the costume.” There’s a wave of panic on the boy’s face suddenly. Does he just look angry? “Not that I blame them! My cousin, he’s in the drama program, bet me that I wouldn’t have the guts to try out for the role. I needed the money he’d bet me, so I did, but nobody else was even trying to go for it. They didn’t even really choose me so I’m not any good. Though, you know that.”

Before he can continue further, Max finally gets his mouth to work again. 

“I’ve always liked Zeke.”

That works like a charm, shutting Richie up instantly. In fact, he even flushes a bit pink, hands awkwardly clutching his sketchbook.

Max leans back somewhat, clutching the chains so he doesn’t fall. “If anyone laughs at you from now on, tell me. My team doesn’t pick on their own.”

Richie gasps, grin overtaking his face. This time it’s bigger than before. “Their own?”

“Duh.” He rolls his eyes with a smile. “You’re part of the team, practically the most important part.”

The grin grows a bit amused. “Oh yes, what would you all do without me falling on my ass.” He finally wanders back to the swings, sitting back down. “You know-“ He shakes his head, closing his mouth.

“What?”

His teeth begin to dig into his thumb in that same sort of motion. He stares at his knees too. “I’m… afraid of saying something that’ll upset you.”

And fuck if that doesn’t give a guy a guilty conscience. He can hear the word ‘pathetic’ in his head, voiced by his dad. There’s gotta be something simply damaged about him, and he’s always known it. He’s always been curious if his mom realized it, and maybe that’s what scared her off.

He inches to the side, digging his feet into the ground so his swing doesn’t pull to the center. It takes a bit of mental debate, but he pushes out his hand, hovering it near Richie’s arm. 

Said boy blinks at it mid-bite and lowers his hand. His eyes trail up Max’s hand to his eyes, looking for a moment. Something in his expression must be worth a damn, because Richie gently grabs his hand. His touch is the same as the other night, and Max is warm from it in the same way. He barely even notices the sweatiness of Richie’s palms, because he’s too focused on the soft and sweet fidgeting of his fingers.

“I don’t want to hurt you anymore, I’m not going to change my mind on that.” He could say more, and he’s tempted—

Richie smiles down at their hands, squeezing his hand. It sends a shiver down his spine.

Fuck it.

“I don’t like myself.”

The movement of Richie’s hands pause, his eyes peeking up at Max in curiosity, but he looks back down and resumes his fidgeting quick enough. 

“‘Cause of what you’ve done?”

Max shrugs, flexing the hand a bit to feel his fingers rub against Richie’s palm. 

“I think that just… distracted me. I feel shit about it now, but even before recently…” He normally would swallow down all this weakness, but he thinks he might want Richie to know. He’s sort of becoming attached. Maybe. 

“My mom left when I was younger, and I’ve always assumed it was my fault. My dad-“ His voice quiets in volume, “is awful, and I’m turning into him. Have been for ages. Probably scared her.”

When there’s zero response other than the continued touch of soft pressure, he forces himself to continue. 

“I like controlling Hatchetfield High, but really I can’t even stand up to my dad to tell him how tired I am of all his shit.” He exhales sharply. “You nerds, at the Waylon place, you were so prepared to do whatever you could to knock me down a peg. You didn’t just… sit there and take it anymore. Like I’ve done.” A laugh bubbles from his throat. “Is it weird to say I’m jealous of that?”

Richie pauses, hands going still. He looks to the side, biting his lip. “I think you’re making us sound cooler than we were.” One hand goes to rub strands of his hair, but the other stays and starts to fidget with Max’s fingers again. “I just stood there with my camera like a wimp. Meanwhile, you believed in the whole thing, but you were still so brave.” 

A wave of annoyance washes over him. “You haven’t even done anything since then, but here I am, having asthma attacks the second I think you’ll be mad at me again since believing you of all people want to be my friend is harder to believe than that.” 

Max frowns, and he reaches out with his free hand, grabbing Richie’s from his hair. He holds in similarly to how Richie holds his other hand, but instead of fidgeting, he simply just holds it. 

“You saved my life, man.” 

“Barel-“

“No,” he interrupts him before he can get back into whatever mental space he keeps falling to. “You saved my life, didn’t even hesitate. That’s badass. Why wouldn’t I wanna be friends with that?” His grin grows when Richie smiles with flushed cheeks at the compliment. “Own it and don’t be afraid to fuck with me. I probably deserve it anyways.”

“Damn.” Richie laughs, his whole body drooping in his seat like softened butter. “Ruth is going to freak, when she hears that Max Jägerman thinks that I’m a badass.” 

They both laugh so hard that Max has to use his grip on Richie’s hand to prevent him from falling off the swing.

—-

Something changes in the air, in Max, from then on. 

Monday rolls by, and he starts a train of apologies that finishes by the end of Tuesday. Richie stands nearby him, helping give him advice on how they all go. 

Max starts to enjoy school, and it seems his peers feel the same way if the slow release of previous tensions is any sign. Jason and Kyle begin to actually hang out with him, and Jason especially is friendly practically instantly.

He also starts to experience actual studying, due in entirety to his new tutor—Richie. They meet up after school two times before the week is over. The first time Max learns he probably has something called ‘dyslexia’. The second has him finally pinpointing the reason Richie’s voice seems so different to him:

“You say your ‘t’s weird.” He blurts mid-session after school on Thursday.

Richie’s head shoots up, lips twisted in a frown. He’s currently leaning over some sort of Calculus homework. Max is working (and only half succeeding) on his civics essay. 

“Oh.” 

The boy’s face falls more and more into a stricken expression. His eyebrows furrow, framing his swirly blue eyes. The pen in his hand shakes, eyes locking into the worksheet in front of him.

“Okay.”

Fuck. Max jumps forward, leaning across the library table. “No no-“ 

Interrupting him, Richie shakes his head, sniffling a bit in an anxious way where he probably is trying to be subtle. “It’s okay Max. Everybody mentions it at some point, and I know it’s weird. I tried to stop, but it’s hard because it’s sort of linked to my anxiety and my au- well Uncle Paul thinks maybe I just can’t instinctively pronounce stuff the same as most people even if I know how to say it right. I’m sure it’s annoy-“

He grabs Richie’s shaky hands. “No- I don’t mean it as a bad thing, dude!” His smile is hopefully conveying his honesty. “I like the way you say stuff. It’s nice.”

Blue eyes meet his, blinking. “…You do?”

Max nods, rubbing his thumbs over Richie’s hands like he’s felt the boy do more than once now. “Why would I fuckin’ lie?” He lets go of his hands and leans back into his chair. “I pronounce stuff weird too. I always mess up the ‘t’ sound, so it ends up not there.”

Wide-eyed, Richie nods slowly. A smile grows on his face and sends trickles of warmth through Max’s blood. “Skele’on.” He whispers. 

Hearing him mimic Max’s way of saying it feels electric. Vaguely, his eyes lock onto Richie’s lips as he says it. He watches them in fascination, only looking up a few seconds after the word has already left the other boy’s mouth. 

Weird. He clears his throat. “Are you coming to the game tomorrow?”

Richie raises an eyebrow, amused. “I’m the mascot.”

Heat rushes to Max’s face. “Oh right.” He taps his knee, bouncing it. “You should come to the party after. Brenda is hosting it.”

“You want me there?” Richie slumps into his chair. “Things really have changed.”

He sits up straight, fidgeting with a beaded bracelet on his wrist. “Could Pete and Ruth come with?”

Max shrugs. “Sure. Maybe if Spankoffski gets wasted enough, he’ll finally grow the balls to make a move on Steph.”

Choking on a laugh, Richie takes out his phone. “I’ll skip over that part. He still thinks he’s being subtle.”

“Didn’t he walk into a locker the other day because she braided her hair?”

There’s the faint noise of a sent text message, and Richie pockets his phone again. “I never said he is subtle, he just thinks he is.” He hums, resting his head in his hand. “I can’t rag on him too much, since Ruth and I are living vicariously through his actual love life.”

“You could land with some girls here if you tried, dude.” He points his pencil at him to emphasize the second half of his sentence.

Richie’s entire body tightens, eyes downcast—which, fuck, Max hates how much he keeps trying to be good only to fuck shit up. 

“Well, actually, I don’t like girls.” He bites his hand, not bothering to rub it afterward. “I don’t think there are many guys in Hatchetfield that I could… ‘land’.”

Oh.

With an exhale, he tries to make his face neutral. He’s known the truth about himself since that day in freshman year with Ethan, but it’s not like he can mention it breezily when his dad is, well, the way he is. Yet again, Richie is capable of so much more than Max. He’s barely hesitated in correcting him, and maybe that’s why. He wants to be the same kind of brave that Richie is.

“I like guys too.”

Their table is silent for a moment, and Max wonders if he actually said it or if he deluded himself into simply thinking it instead. Except, when he chances a lookup, he sees Richie staring slack-jawed at him in silence.

“What?” Instead of the loud shock that would match his expression, Richie says the word real quiet. Maybe he’s trying not to grab attention. 

Max uses his finger to roll his pencil around the table, keeping it from going far with his notebook. “Obviously I like girls too. Really anyone can be hot if they want to be.” 

“Pete always thought you were homophobic.” Richie whispers it with a guilty edge to his voice, but he smiles at him when their eyes meet. 

“My dad is. I don’t—I’d never—“ He swallows down what might be a sob. “Did I ever bully you guys? For stuff… like that?”

Richie rushes forward, grabbing his hand. “No no! He just assumed, I guess. Brad Callahan has bullied us- me for being queer since before I even knew I was, so y’know.” He squeezes his hand, and Max feels instantly better. “He’ll warm up to you eventually, he’s just… healing.”

The thought is nice, Spankoffski—Pete seems like a good friend to have. However, one specific detail bothers him and steals his attention more than that. 

“Brad bullies you? Currently? ” 

“It’s…” Richie starts to pull away his hands, but Max readjusts to hold them in his own. Neither one of them looks down at their hands, let alone mention it. “It’s worse for the underclassmen. You targeted the people your age, but he tends to really fuck with the freshmen.” 

Max frowns. He’s avoiding it.

“How-“ He hates the question, but he knows he’ll regret not asking it. “How many people bully you?”

The smaller boy flinches, moving one hand away to itch his arm. “Um.” He’s quiet before giving up. “Really it was mostly you, so now that you’re improving it’s practically not an issue—“ 

“Richie, please .”

There’s a moment of pause.

Then, he just sighs. “Kyle used to, but you changing made him stop too.” His voice gets shaky. “Brad is probably the worst when you aren’t, y’know, but sometimes even Brenda and Stacy would…” His hand gestures vaguely. “Say stuff, I guess. They started these rumors about me ages ago because of my hyper- my overactive sweat glands.” He shakes his head. “It’s not as if they’ve ever done more than gossip though.”

Fuck. “I’m sorry.”

Richie shakes his head again, running his thumb over the skin of Max’s hand. “It really isn’t all you. You were, well, the worst obviously, but Brad’s been mean before I ever even met you. I’m used to it.” He smiles, “I’m just glad that we’re friends now.”

Used to it? Fuck, why did he ever… Max digs his teeth into his lip, trying not to get overwhelmed by the guilt drowning his lungs. Richie’s too good, too kind, and he’s just a duplicate of his fucking dad. 

“I wish I never…” He pauses. “I wish we’d started out as friends. Now I’ve fucking—I just made it all so much worse for you.” His hands grip Richie’s. “I’m so fucking sorry, Richie.”

“You don’t deserve the way we’ve treated you.” He adds after a breath.

Baby blue swirls around, pretty in the same way the waters surrounding Hatchetfield are pretty. He swallows, opening and closing his mouth without a word. Then, words finally leave him.

“Okay.” 

His eyes wet and well up, and Richie rips his other hand from Max’s to scrub at his face. “Okay.” He gets a bit aggressive, pressing against his face. “Okay.” After some scrubbing, there’s a groan as his hands come up to cover his face. His shoulders shake.

“Okay.” 

Fuck. Max feels like an idiot again. Why does that keep happening? How is he supposed to know what to do in these situations? Maybe if he’d been different all those years, he’d know. Is that something he would’ve learned? Is that what being nice and making people happy does? Maybe he’s just stupid.

“Dude-“

Richie grips his face tightly, sniffling. “Okay. Okay. Okay.” A sob strains from his throat, making him hunch over and shove himself into the space of his lap. “Okay.”

Max stands up from his seat. Fuck it. He carefully circles the table and sits in the chair closest to Richie. He slowly moves his hand out and rests it on Richie’s back. The boy flinches, hard, so he rips it away in a flash. So much for that idea. 

“Uhh… was it something I said?”

“Okay,” he mumbles into his knees. Richie turns his head to the side a bit, away from Max. “No, I-“ He takes a deep breath in. “Okay”, he whispers, “Nobody’s ever really apologized to me before.” 

Damn.

He grips his knee to prevent himself from doing something pathetic, like hugging him. “Not Spankof- Pete or Ruth? You guys never fight?”

“Our fights are never that big of a deal.” He shrugs. “They always show that it’s better, but I don’t know.” Another deep breath, another pause. “My uncle apologizes all the time, even when it’s my fault. It never feels… it’s different somehow.”

Forcing himself to chuckle a bit awkwardly (he wants to cringe at how dumb he feels), he offers out, “Maybe I should apologize to you more. Get you used to it.”

Richie laughs, sitting up with a hand over his face. He sniffles a bit, reminding Max loosely of a wet cat. “Ugh, I’m such a loser .”

“Nah.” Max nudges his shoulder, aiming for both earnest and outstandingly charming. “You’re just a crybaby.”

The smaller boy rolls his eyes with a smile, finally looking at him again. “Fuck you.”

—-

Brad Callahan leaves after school Friday to find every single one of his tires slashed.

Nobody knows who did it.

Especially not Brenda and Stacy who spend the whole day a lot less chatty than normal.

—-

Homecoming gets canceled. Thanks Grace. 

Naturally, the buzz shifts to Halloween the week after the game. 

Max used to love the holiday, back when his mom would bake pumpkin cookies and the two of them would go to thrift shops and malls to find a little costume for him to trick-or-treat in. She’d do a witch cackle and take the majority of his candy he’d gathered, but he’d always get it back to comfort every scraped knee or angry father. 

When she left, she took the festivity with her. Halloween became just another stupid day in a stupid year in a stupid life.

Which is why— “Matching costumes.”

Pete raises an eyebrow, pinching the fabric of his pants. 

“What?”

It takes him spending Monday and Wednesday lunch at Richie’s table with the nerds (plus Steph), for Pete to approach him, but he does. Max has a suspicion that Richie is involved in it all somehow, but he has very little evidence. All he knows is that for the first time, Pete walks up to him at his locker.

He flushes red and monologues about how Max is friends with Steph, how maybe now that he’s changing as a person he’s willing to talk more about her history with guys, and at one point he tries to make it seem like he’s changing the conversation completely, only for him to “accidentally” bring up Max’s own dating life as means of asking him for love advice.

The whole thing goes way past the bell, but, apparently, Grace isn’t patrolling the halls today, because Pete talks for at least five straight minutes into fourth period before finally taking a minute to breathe.

This leads them back to Max’s insane idea that is clearly the result of intense unconscious influence from everybody’s Halloween mania and not because he’s got a sticker of Jack and Sally on the inside of his closet door from sixth grade.

“Try to bring up the idea of matching costumes. She matched with Brenda and Stacy two years ago as the witches from Hocus Pocus, so it’s not inherently romantic. You can suggest characters that date. I’m sure all that is subtle enough for you.”

Pete stares at him wide-eyed. “That’s actually,” a grin washes over his face, “a really good idea.”

Max rolls his eyes, gesturing behind him in the vague direction of his class. “Are we good? I’m actually trying to pass my classes now.”

The other boy, who stands to his full height without a slouch, startles and glances around. He looks in surprise at the empty halls. 

“I didn’t realize class had started.” He blinks in thought. “FUCK I’M LATE FOR MY GOV PRESENTATION!” 

And he’s gone.

Despite being late, his mood remains pleased. He keeps hearing “good idea” replay in his head. 

That’s never happened outside of football before.

——

Before Richie, only three people knew about his father, what he was like. The first is his mom, who considering that she left with her car and half her things years ago, isn’t really relevant anymore. She might’ve left because of his dad. Maybe she left because of him. He’ll never know. The second is his third grade teacher. She used to look at him with this hollow expression, nails painted with pity and lips stained with sorrow. Once, when he hurt his hand during recess, she asked about his mom. Told him that boys should always hug their moms, ‘cause they need it just like he does. By the end of the year, her outfits consisted mostly of sweaters and scarves, and she never came back the next year. 

The third is Steph.

In sophomore year, during the first week of school, she came to school with her hair entirely bleached blonde. Her nails had been painted bright emerald green (her favorite color), and she’d radiated the confidence of an upperclassman. 

It made her extra noticeable in Miss Mulberry’s classroom for after-school detention. He’d planned on skipping, but Coach reminded him when he’d shown up for practice. He spent the whole time walking back inside wondering how he’d even known that he’d gotten detention. 

Steph was the only other person there, and while Max had heard of her and seen her around, they’d never interacted. 

“What’d you do?” She’d asked. 

He shrugged. “Got caught skipping chem. You?”

“School found out I’d swapped the number in my file to mine instead of my dad’s.”

The concept had instantly intrigued him, bizarre. “Damn. Seriously?”

Her eyes gleamed with anger. “I’m tired of his bullshit.”

The two of them had clicked, spending detention talking about their shitty fathers. Afterward, they’d stayed friends (in the way that two people obsessed with their reputations are friends), but never once did they ever mention each other’s dads again.

She’s the only person Max has ever been able to connect with about that sort of thing. Nowadays, she’s the only person he can properly connect with about his budding friendship with Richie (and his little trio). 

“I’m surprised you haven’t asked Pete out.” He mentions during their shared English class. 

Steph scoffs, flicking his arm in a friendly manner. “You know that I don’t do that. They have to have the balls to ask me out.”

Max groans. “Whatever, keep pining.” He closes his book, head hurting from squinting at the words. Richie’s been teaching him various tricks to make it easier, but he thinks he’ll just ask the other boy to read the chapter to him later. 

“Are you busy Saturday?” She asks after a minute or two has passed. He glances at her and notices that there’s a bracelet similar to Richie’s blue beaded bracelet on her wrist. Her’s is green. 

Saturday. Halloween, he’s pretty sure. “Halloween? Not sure yet, Jason isn’t doing any sort of bash like he did last year.”

A grin twists on her face. “You should come to my place. My dad’s outta town for some sorta political shit, and I’m gathering together a bit of a group.” Her expression grows pleading, her grin taking on a desperate edge. “You can help me do stuff for it, get you some ‘good boy’ points or whatever for you to use to get Richie to smile at you.”

What.

His face burns, and he glares at her. “I don’t do that.”

She laughs. “Don’t what? Stare at Richie’s mouth every time he talks? Or wag your tail when he smiles at you?” 

Gritting his teeth, he kicks her chair lightly with his leg. “I’m not a dog.” He flexes his hand, his heart buzzing. “And I do not do that, you’re just projecting.”

Her own face flushes, but she doesn’t deny it. “Will you help me or not? It won’t be a big party, but I’m inviting Richie.” She adds, “and the others who you definitely hang out with a ton too,” after he glares at her. 

“Whatever, sure.”

——

“Why exactly are you so nervous?” 

Steph jumps, almost dropping the bag of candy in her hands. “Jesus fuck! Did you already finish putting up the lights?”

He nods. “Yes, and you can’t avoid the topic.”

She frowns, but relents. “They’ve never gone over to my house before. We’ve only hung out at Richie’s or Ruth’s.” She pours the candy into a big black and white bowl. “I know it’ll be fine, but I guess I’m still antsy.”

Max leans against the counter, hands in his pockets. He’d been planning on dressing up as a zombie, but the references online reminded him too much of the Waylon place (it’s been four weeks yet he still dreams about it), so he’d grabbed a black hoodie and ski mask for a low-effort Jason.

“What have you guys done when hanging out before?”

“Geeky stuff, mostly.” She pops a starburst into her mouth. “One time me and Richie did everyone’s makeup and nails for fun-“ Max perks up at the boy’s name. “-But that was when we watched Back to the Future, so you could make a case of it still being a bit nerdy.”

I love those movies, he thinks.

It’s a tricky experience, trying to act casual. “I didn’t know Richie did, uh, make-up.” Fuck. That was not casual.

Steph raises an eyebrow but thankfully doesn’t say anything about his interest. “He does cosplays and stuff, apparently. I actually really like the job he did on my nails.” She holds out one of her hands, so he can see said nails.

Each nail is painted a mint green, but the thumb has a white and orange flower on it, while her ring finger has multiple smaller similar flowers. It’s different from Richie’s usual black polish. 

“Can’t bring myself to change them yet.” She pulls back her hand. “I’m glad he’s got experience, ‘cause he was the only one who’d hold still when I was doing eyeliner.”

He can’t completely picture in his head what Richie with eyeliner might look like, but even the vague mental guesses make his stomach twirl. Shame keeps him from asking if she has any photos.

Her eyes watch him curiously until a doorbell jolts them both. He follows her to the door, energy thrumming through him in anticipation.

The door opens to Pete, dressed to match Steph. The two had settled on a couple from Star Wars (Max has no clue what caused Steph to agree to that), and he’s got a vest over a loose-fitted tan shirt. He looks nothing like his usual self, outfit far too laid back for his anxious stance. Steph is dressed in a white gown, with her hair in the buns that one princess has. 

Behind Pete is Ruth, dressed in a yellow skirt and blazer. Max doesn’t have any clue what she is, but the outfit suits her. She looks a bit more confident in it too.

As they enter, he realizes that Richie isn’t with them. “W-“ He pauses, and decides to wait. “What’s your costume, Ruth?”

Ruth grins. “Heather McNamara, it’s from a musical.” 

“It suits you.”

That makes her giggle and grin, fiddling with her skirt. Pete still has yet to say anything, eyes locked onto Steph with absolutely zero subtlety. 

Steph, the angel she is, nudges Pete’s arm to ask, “Where is Richie?” 

Pete flushes, rubbing his neck nervously. “He said he was going to stop by the store on the way here to get some drinks.” His lips form a smile, the more he looks at Steph. It almost gives Max a toothache. “Paul has a big thing about never being an empty-handed guest, and Richie’s learned the same mentality.”

“I’m still not used to you calling him his name instead of Mr. Matthews like you used to.” Ruth snickers, poking Pete’s arm.

Said boy rolls his eyes, gently slapping Ruth’s hand away. “I can’t call him Mr. Matthews anymore. It’s too weird now that my brother is head over heels for him.”

She smiles, fanning herself. “Ted Spankoffski .”

“RUTH, GROSS!”

He tunes them out, rude or not.

They all wander back to the living room, and quickly begin discussing what spooky movie they all should watch. Max tries not to laugh as Steph and Pete squeeze into the loveseat. Ruth sits on the far end of the couch from Max. He vaguely remembers that Richie invited Grace (apparently they’re friends somehow), but she rejected due to Halloween being “satanic” and “an excuse to perform witchcraft”. He’d told Steph that she shouldn’t invite Brenda, and with no Brenda is no Kyle, and with no Kyle is no Jason. In the end, it really is just them nerds (Not that he and Steph are really nerds).

After a while, there’s the faint thrum of an engine, and Max bounces up in excitement. He even ignores Steph’s knowing glance, because he focuses instead on his feet dragging him to the front door. 

Max pulls open the door, leaning against the doorway in time to see Richie talking to some awkward looking man behind the wheel. That must be Paul. He’s not sure what his costume is from just Richie’s head in the window, but soon enough the conversation inside ends. 

Stepping out, Richie clutches a full tote bag to his side. Max frowns, because what is he supposed to be?! It makes him feel dumb, the idea that he’s probably the only one with zero clue. 

Richie approaches, wearing a sweatshirt with a black and white bear on it. Tied around his waist is not only a black hoodie, but also a dark brown blazer with the sleeves tied together at his back to create some weird hoodie-blazer skirt. He wears navy blue boots with a bit of heel. 

“Oh Max, hey!” Richie smiles upon noticing him, stopping in front of the doorway to look up at him. His hair, usually sporadic and sticking up like crazy, is mostly normal today (minus a small group of strands near his part that still sticks up a bit). It looks so soft that Max’s hand itches.

“Hey dude, you’re just in time. They still haven’t picked a movie.” He reaches out and snags the tote bag of sodas, walking off with it before Richie can stop him.

“Wait, Max!!” 

He rushes to grab a big bowl to fill with some ice for the sodas, managing to get two amidst the ice before Richie pops into the kitchen. There’s a pink to his cheeks, walking forward and lightly hitting his arm.

“Jerk.”

Max places another two sodas in the ice. “Steph made me her vice host, these are merely my duties.”

“Vice host?” His hands reach forward, swatting Max’s so that he can take multiple sodas from the packaging to place in the ice. He also grabs the tote bag itself, clutching it protectively before Max can finish taking the drinks out of it. 

“Suppor’ing host? Host two? I don’t know what you call it.”

Richie steals the last soda (a Dr. Pepper), and pops it open to sip. “I like vice host, it’s fun to say.”

Together, they walk back to the living room. 

“Richie, thank god, would you rather watch Conjuring or Scream, becau-“ Pete freezes, eyes narrowing as he stares at Richie’s outfit. He probably knows what it is. 

“Scream.” Richie sits down beside Ruth, who now is also staring at his outfit. “We have to watch Corpse Bride or Nightmare Before Christmas too though.”

Pete frowns. “Richie… where’s your costume?”

Said boy tightens up, gripping his soda can enough to make a small dent. “I decided not to wear it.”

Oh. He isn’t missing something, though he remembers the light in Richie’s eyes when they talked about Halloween and Steph’s party a few days ago. Maybe he’d misread Richie as a bigger fan of Halloween than he actually is.

Ruth nudges the boy’s arm from her place beside him as Max sits down on the other side of Richie. 

“What about your picture earlier?” She whispers something more in his ear.

His face flushes, but he gives an awkward shrug, lightly pushing her away. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

It takes a moment of them all staring at each other, but Ruth and Pete sigh in a way that definitely means they’re giving up whatever internal conflict the three were having.

“Okay, no clue what that’s about, but I still think we should watch The Conjuring.”

“Exactly!” Ruth grins. “It’s so much scarier.” 

Richie crosses his arms. “Conjuring is too supernatural. We can’t do it.”

“What do you-“

“We can’t do it,” his hand gestures sneakily to Max, who has zero clue what’s going on. He’s not seen either of these movies. 

Steph’s eyes widen in some sort of realization, and she nods. “Oh shit, you’re right Richie.” 

Ruth slumps down a bit. “Yeah…”

Pete grins, “Scream it is, then.” 

As the movie begins, Max settles in with a soda to sip. He feels Richie press against his arm, leg close enough that they could be touching too if Max just moved his own a tiny bit. 

“What was that about?” He whispers, using the lean towards his ear to move his leg, touching it against Richie’s. 

“Nothing, I just wanted a movie that’s less scary.” His arm pushes into Max, forcing him to lean away. “Watch the movie, you’ll like it.”

Despite how much he feels Richie is leaving out, and how his explanation is not remotely the full truth, Max obeys and focuses on the movie.

—-

After Scream, Nightmare Before Christmas, and Sweeney Todd, most of them are either asleep or on the verge of it. Ruth is halfway over the armrest of the couch, while Steph and Pete are cuddled up without much awareness. 

Richie grabs the remote from its abandoned spot on the coffee table and turns off the TV. Standing up turns into a stretch, his back arching in a way that draws Max’s attention in the dark. 

“Could you grab some blankets for them?” He whispers, holding the bowls of their snack pile in his arms. 

“Sure.”

Max watches him disappear into the kitchen, unaware of the soft smile on his own face. He walks over to a basket in the corner of the room filled with silky, fancy blankets. Ruth slides down onto more of the couch, body shuffling into more of the blanket he puts on her. Steph and Pete simply slump further against each other. If Max was feeling particularly devious, he would take a picture to show them when they’re awake. Lucky for them, he’s feeling more merciful tonight.

Instead, he wanders into the kitchen. Richie’s back is turned, the sink running with water as he washes a bowl.

“Y’know, you don’t have to do that right?”

The other boy startles a bit but relaxes quickly. “I know. I just wanted the distraction.”

He situates himself between Richie and the corner of the counter, reaching out to snatch up the bowl in his hands. “Something wrong?”

Richie frowns at him but turns the water off (not before scrubbing his hands clean though). “No. It’s nothing, really.”

Bingo.

“So there is something?” Max places the bowl on the counter, staring at him.

“You know, your Jason costume is really good. Don’t think I said anything earlier.” He smiles, a distractingly pretty thing, but Max is smarter these days (tutoring does wonders). 

“Thanks.” He leans forward, looking down at Richie with a grin. “Nice try, but I don’t respond to avoidance.”

Leaning back, Richie fiddles with his sleeves awkwardly. “It’s stupid.”

Max sighs, reaching for his hand. When there isn’t any rejection, he grips the other boy’s hand in his. “No. It’s not.”

Richie blinks at him, laughing a bit. “I um,” his voice is so soft that Max has to lean in a bit more. “Okay. I sorta lied earlier.” He pauses. “I sort of only regretted my costume on the way here.”

“Huh?”

He fidgets with Max’s fingers. “I’m wearing… the costume I made right now. I just got in my head, so I borrowed Paul’s blazer and stuff to hide in.”

Wait what?

His eyes dart down to the outfit he’d barely questioned earlier. “Well, now you have to show me.”

“What?!” Richie lets go of his hand, pressing the fabric around his waist into his legs. “No way.”

“Please?” Max falls to his knees dramatically. He puts his hands together, pouting up at Richie. “If I laugh you can punch me. I won’t, though.”

Giggling, the other boy shoves his shoulder, but he doesn’t lose his balance. “Fine, go get my tote bag if you’re that desperate.”

“Anything for you, sire.” He smirks as he gets another laugh in response. 

It doesn’t take much time at all to find the boy’s tote bag next to the couch, so he tosses it around his arm with ease. Pete snores a bit, holding onto Steph in his sleep. It’s sickeningly domestic.

The sight is sweet enough that he walks into the kitchen with his head turned to watch them in their blissfulness. His chest feels airy and light knowing he helped them get to this moment.

“I’m tempted to get a picture of Steph and Pete, they look-“ He glances back to Richie, pausing. 

Richie stands nervously in the center of the kitchen, clutching in his arms the sweatshirt and whatnot he’s been wearing. A navy blue, pleated skirt hangs from his waist. Connecting to it is a white top with some sort of blue sailor collar with a yellow bow attached. 

He itches his arm, hands shaky. “I, um, put the gloves and choker into my bag earlier—“ 

Max looks into the bag, digging through until he spots matching white and navy gloves alongside a blue choker. He steps forward, handing them to him silently. His mouth feels too dry to speak.

Biting his lip, Richie nods in thanks and slides on his gloves. He tilts his head forward, placing on his choker without too much struggle. His hand quivers, itching his arm again. 

“I know I look silly.” 

It’s the first time Max has ever seen his arms bare before, what with all the boy’s layers. The gloves squeeze against his skin. He looks lower and tries not to stare. It’s nearly impossible with him wearing a skirt, and one short enough to highlight his bare legs. 

“Max? C-Can you just say something?” Richie’s voice wavers. “You can even laugh.”

Every cell in his body is on fire, but he forces his mouth to work.

“Dude, you-“ He can’t even think of what to say, so he just blurts the truth. “You look hot. ”

Richie blinks in confusion, eyes wide. His cheeks flush with so much red that Max’s eyes lock onto it. “What? ” He blushes harder when his voice cracks. “I think I misheard you.”

No point in backtracking now. He could just lie. Play it off. Except… he would really like to wipe the nervous expression away from Richie’s face. 

“You look hot, man.” He exhales, chest warm. “You made that? ”

“Oh! Yes, I- Well, not the skirt or anything—really it was more tweaking pre-existing stuff! I wanted to make most of it from my old fabrics to make use of them, but that would've taken a while, so I'm going to use them for a future project.” He flaps his hands, looking away. “I’ve already got Tuxedo Mask, and well, Sailor Uranus was the first genderqueer character I ever saw in a show so I had to-“ 

Max drops the tote bag onto the tiles, getting his feet to pull him closer. His hand twitches, yet he forces it forward to hold Richie’s cheek. 

What is he even doing? 

The smaller boy goes silent. Eyes staring holes into Max’s hand. “M-Max?”

He swipes his thumb against Richie’s cheek but pulls his hand away quickly. “Sorry dude.” His hand trembles, the ghost of Richie’s skin on his fingertips. “Why’d you hide it? None of us would’ve made fun of you.”

Richie clears his throat. “I know, it’s-“ He rubs the sides of his neck, radiating anxiety. “I ran into Brad Callahan at the store, and he said some stuff that messed with my head.”

Anger sparks in Max’s gut, and he clenches his fist at his side. “What the fuck did he say.”

Blue eyes widen up at him. “Nothing all that different from what he’s said before.” He grabs Max’s arm, squeezing. “I’m okay.”

Max calms at the touch but pulls Richie to sit at two bar stools next to the counter island. He holds his hand, thumbing at his knuckles. 

“Clearly not.”

With a sigh, Richie leans to rest his head sideways on the counter, looking up to Max. “He called me a freak, and… well he called me a girl. Kept asking me if I-“ He rolls around, facing away from Max. “Kept saying how at least I ‘don’t have to worry about fitting a dick under my skirt’.”

They sit in silence for a second or two, Max staring at the back of Richie’s head. 

“Fucking dumbass.” He watches Richie slowly turn to peek at him in curiosity, letting him speak. “I’ve pissed in the same bathroom as him, and he might qualify for the World’s Smallest Dick.”

Richie coughs in surprise, the sound turning into a fit of snickers. “There’s no way that’s true.”

He shakes his head, putting his head on the counter to mimic Richie (despite his back aching from the awkward position). “It’s true!” A chuckle shakes through him. “I don’t even know how he can piss with the thing!” 

Blue eyes meet his, and Richie giggling is all he can see. “Should I be concerned that you’re snooping at people’s dicks?” 

“It’s natural to glance once or twice.” Max laughs, holding onto Richie’s hands under the counter. “He’s probably just jealous that he can’t pull off a single piece of clothing like you pull off a skirt.”

“You think so?” Richie smiles. 

“I know it.” Max smiles back.

——

When Brad Callahan shows up to school on Monday, he disappears after the third period. 

In fact, he doesn’t show up till Wednesday, and nobody asks him about where he got the bruises on his face. 

He’s awfully quiet lately.

——

[Me] can i come ovr?

[Richie] sure! Paul is out with Ted n Emma right now

——

Richie opens the door with a smile, wearing a black hoodie with cat ears attached. “Hey!”

“Hey.”

His smile falls, eyes scanning Max. 

“What… happened?” He grasps Max’s hand, pulling him inside. 

Max knows what he’s referencing. He’s not looked in a mirror to actually see it yet, but he can feel the pain forming a bruise and the cut on his forehead. So, he skips over avoiding the obvious:

“My dad and I had a fight.” He grips Richie’s hand, glad for the safe physical contact. “It’ll blow over in a day or two, I think.”

“Oh shit.” Richie guides him to the couch, sitting him down. “Let me grab the first aid kit.” 

Back when the Waylon place incident happened, Max had come home to his father passed out drunk. Those sorts of sightings are always a sign that his work has been extra stressful because he copes the way most alcoholics do. 

He’d looked at the sleeping form of his father, the one person he can never stand up to, and it’d been obvious. It’d felt silly to continue on as things were. His body had felt lighter, and it was a fresh rediscovery of hope. Max’s mortality had followed him into nightmares of a world where he became worse, and he’d wake up thinking about Richie’s blue eyes. If someone that kind can care enough to save his life, to help him feel brave, then why was he still living by his father’s rules? What was the point? He’s already eighteen, but he’d been so scared of being something his father hated even more. 

There’s a pain in his face, but for the first time: he isn’t alone in dealing with it. 

He has friends. He has Richie.

Said boy returns to the couch with a small first aid kit. His feet bump Max’s as he sits down, close.

“Could you lean down for me? I promise to make this quick.” 

Max obeys, watching his hands work. The disinfectant doesn’t sting enough to phase him, but his heart leaps from his chest when Richie’s other hand comes up to hold his jaw. It’s hard not to melt into the touch, familiar and safe. He feels like swimming in the blue of Richie’s eyes, focused on him. He really is an idiot. If he’d been different, they could’ve been like this before. His thoughts echo in his mind. Maybe more than this.

“I’m surprised you’re so good at this.”

Blue eyes glance at his, moving back to his forehead quickly. “You don’t want me to explain that to you, Max.”

Confusion is instant, but he can feel the gears of his mind tick and tick. There’s no reason why he needs to be so vague, why would he be-

Vomit threatens to crawl up his throat. It’s filled with chunks of guilt that overwhelm him till he feels faint, blue in the face. “ Oh. ”

“If it helps… I learned before you. I’ve just gotten good practice in recent years.” His hands leave his face, digging through the first aid kit. 

“I’m sorry, fuck man.” Max almost wishes his Dad had bruised him more , but then it’d be more work for Richie. That’s not what he wants. 

“Again,” Richie pulls out a small bag of bandages. “You weren’t the only asshole to ever make my life hell. I’ve known how to take care of my own scrapes and bruises since I was six.” 

That catches his attention. “What?”

“My parents didn’t plan to have a kid,” is all Richie says. His face is neutral, cold even. Max decides to not ask anymore questions.

A single bandage is pulled from the bag. The bandage has little colored stars on it, and it must look silly on him—‘cause Richie smiles with a quiet little giggle once it’s on. His laughter extinguishes the tense silence, making Max release a breath he’d been holding. The last thing he does is rub some bruising gel into his skin. Their eyes meet when he glances up, and ,vaguely, Max gets an urge to kiss him.

Oh shit.

Richie leans back, face two shades pinker. “You should be good.”

“Thanks.”

Both of them stay close together, despite plenty of space left on the couch. It’s an awkward clicking clock of silence, until Richie reaches out for a TV remote. 

“Do you want to watch something?” He tries to flatten down his small cowlick, but it pops back up quickly. 

“Sure.” Max grins, swatting the other boy’s hand. “Leave it.”

Glaring at him lightheartedly, Richie drops his hand and begins to flick through his TV. He hums as he goes, shaking his head a bit every time he decides against something. It’s entertaining, his eyebrows furrowing or unfurrowing based on whatever his thoughts are of the various movies. 

Eventually, he clicks on The Hunchback of Notre Dame, and settles down. His arm presses against Max’s, other half of the couch ignored.

“Why’d you pick this one?” He yawns, wrapping his arm loosely around Richie’s shoulders (in a totally subtle way). 

“It’s a musical, you like those.” He leans back into Max’s arm. “Plus, I really like the songs from this one. I used to watch it and Howl’s Moving Castle a lot when I was younger.” 

When did Max mention he likes musicals? Maybe he’s so stupid he can’t remember, but he’s pretty sure the only time they ever even sorta talked about that was when they went to see Hatchetfield High’s production of The BBQ Monologues, and Richie mentioned his uncle hates them. It wracks his brain so hard that Richie seems to notice something from his expression.

“Ruth said you two talked after her show about it. That you encouraged her to try out acting in the future. And, and well you listened to Hamilton with her. I guess I inferred.” Richie shrinks. “Is that weird?”

Max laughs, tuning into the opening number of the movie. “Not at all.”

“Oh. Okay, good.” He smiles.

The opening makes him uneasy, but by the beginning of the second song, the tightness of his chest lessens. Quasimodo starts to sing a song of longing (Ruth called them ‘I want songs’), and any discomfort is eradicated by a familiar voice. 

He glances to the side, and notices Richie watching the movie with anticipation. His mouth moves alongside Quasimodo’s, the faint melody of his voice. Max can’t quite hear much more than bits and pieces, his version of the song overshadowed by the noise of the movie. It stirs in him, this sadness—the longing to hear Richie’s tangling voice burns in him.

So, naturally, he grabs the remote as soft and quiet as he can, turning the volume down. 

“All my life I wonder how it feels to pass a day,” Richie’s voice is confident, the song a piece of him. The familiar comfort of each pronunciation and note of his voice reminds Max of being young. Lullabies from his mother, her face a bit blurry in his shaky memory of her, ring through him. He leans closer, closing his eyes to block off distracting visuals. “Not above them-“ 

“Max?” 

Richie’s looking at him when he opens his eyes, hand atop his. His fingers gently push against Max’s, stealing the remote to pause. He fiddles with the string of his hoodie.

“Was I bothering you? I’ve heard the songs so much, I guess I didn’t even realize I was-“

“Can you sing louder?” 

His eyes widen. “Huh?” 

Max flushes, running a hand through his hair. “I like singing—that’s probably why I like musicals… but I love hearing people I know sing. It was bothering me that I couldn’t hear you.”

“W-What about the movie?” 

He shrugs. “If you’re louder than I’ll keep the same volume. I won’t even look at you.” Probably.

“Um,” Richie blinks owlishly, but looks back at the TV. “Okay, but I don’t like all the songs, it’s really just specific-“

“Just sing when you want to, Richie.” 

Nodding, he unpauses, turning the volume up a bit more. He fiddles with his hoodie strings more, so Max holds his hands with one of his own. It takes less than a few seconds for him to feel the usual sensation of Richie’s fingers fidgeting with his. It takes a moment of struggle, but he drags his attention away from the other boy to watch the movie.

Music floods and soars.

“Out there among the millers and the weavers and their wives,” Richie’s voice gets an edge to it, finally confident in his volume. There’s a sense of urgency, of understanding, in the way he sings along. It makes Max wonder if this is his favorite song.

His attention sways along the melody, attached to the smooth animation and honey-sweet hum of the singing in his right ear. 

As the last note rings out, Richie holds it. His voice cracks a bit, but he continues on until it’s over. It’s remarkable .

Max spends the rest of the movie looking forward to the songs Richie likes.

——

The movie ends. They watch another, this time Hercules (Richie says that he’s like him, but then takes it back under the guise of “not inflating your ego, Max”). 

By the end of this movie, Richie’s eyes are barely open. He’s stopped singing along after ‘Go the Distance’, and now he’s slumped into Max’s arm so much that it’s almost gone numb. 

“Richie?” 

“Hmm?” The smaller boy sways into his side, resting his head against Max’s shoulder. 

“You think maybe you should move to your room?” He grins, resisting a laugh at the way Richie’s hood threatens to slide off his head, the fabric cat ears lopsided. 

Richie shakes his head, the hood fully falls off his head, but he’s more tucked into Max’s shoulder and neck than before. “Mmm… comfy.”

“Alright.” He grabs the remote, flicking about in search of something to watch. He may be resigned to sitting here however long Richie is using him as a glorified pillow, but he won’t be sitting here in silence .

He settles on Ferris Bueller's Day Off, a movie he’s seen three times before but liked more with each rewatch. 

Whenever he laughs at one of the jokes or scenes, Richie squeezes his hand in his sleep. His hair tickles the skin of his neck, and it reminds him of how on fire his body seems to be. 

Fuck.

Max holds Richie closer, groaning. “You make me weak.”

The front door opens halfway through the movie, and Paul steps inside. His eyes widen at the sight of Max, shoes taking a tad longer to take off. 

“Hello Max.”

“Hello, Mr. Matthews.”

Paul nods his head at the TV. “You picked the movie, I assume?” His eyes linger on Richie before reaching his. 

“This one, yeah.” He uses his free arm to gesture to Richie. “He fell asleep near the end of Hercules.” 

The older man cringes, nodding. “Fun.” He smiles tiredly, walking past towards the hallway. “Feel free to spend the night, kid.”

Warmth overwhelms Max, and he grins at Paul’s retreating form. “…okay!” His anxiety is slowly fading around Paul, and it just makes him feel normal.

He glances down at Richie, asleep with strands of his hair stuck in various directions. Ha, cute. 

Max closes his eyes, and leans his head onto Richie’s. It’ll be for just a moment.

——

Somehow, they end up with Richie lying on top of Max on the couch. Max’s arms are around him, holding tight in the same way Richie’s arms are tight around Max’s chest. 

Neither of them mentions it. 

——

“When are you going to ask him out?”

Max frowns, turning from his English assignment to glare at Steph. “ I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he bites out.

She rolls her eyes, scooting her chair closer. “I know you aren’t so blind to not see that he’s just as downbad as you are, so what’s your actual excuse?”

He groans, setting down his pencil. “I’m lucky enough to have him as a friend, I’m not ruining that.” 

“I know you wish you guys could go further.” Her knowing smile goes gentle. “I know it’s scary to… go against what your father wants from you.” 

“ Steph .”

Steph shakes her head. “No, listen to me. My dad is different from yours, I know that, but-“ Her hand comes up to rest on his lower arm in a way he’d only let Steph (and maybe one other person) do. “You’re eighteen, and in enough months, you’ll be graduated. It’s okay to take a few risks already.” 

Sometimes he forgets how smart she is. Maybe he’s just a lot dumber. Except… his grades are almost all Cs (and his remedial algebra class is almost at a B). Thanks to Richie, he’s changed .

“What if he finds out?” 

Her eyes brighten. “We’ll be here to help you manage it.” 

“…okay.”

——

Turns out that asking out Richie Lipschitz is a lot harder than it should be.

Exhibit A, two days ago.

Max shows up at Hatch Grocer’s, and Richie is stocking stuff in the chip aisle. The blue-brown hair catches his attention immediately, and a small part of him wonders if he subconsciously intended to be here when Richie was.

“Hey there.” He leans in close to whisper in the boy’s ear.

“FUCK!” Richie startles, almost dropping the box in his hands. “Give me some warning, you asshole. ” His head turns around to glare, lips fighting against a smile.

“Sorry.” His tongue pokes out from a grin, and they both know that he isn’t all that apologetic.

It’s easy to slide into some lighthearted banter. He watches Richie place boxes and bags onto the shelves, chuckling when he bumps his head and flails backward to prevent tripping. All he’d planned on getting from here was a bag of chips and a Redbull, but he can’t even remember why he wanted those. 

“-and he shows up, tells him that he’s L.” Richie waves one hand, explaining one of his anime things. 

“Wait, but won’t the dude with the book-“

“Light Yagami.”

“Yeah yeah, wouldn’t he be able to kill him then?”

Richie grins, “glad you brought that up, you see-“ He reaches up, standing on his tiptoes to place some bags on the top shelf. “L’s name isn’t-“ Stretching further, he almost drops the bags. “Isn’t-“

Max rolls his eyes, taking the bags from him to place on the shelf without the painful display he just witnessed. His eyes dart over to look at Richie only to meet blue. Oh. They’re a lot closer than he’d intended. 

“T-Thanks.” Richie exhales awkwardly. “I uh-“

“Y’know, Richie,” He starts at the same time, remembering his conversations with Steph. 

“Oh, sorry, you first!”

“Okay,” Max places a hand on Richie’s shoulder. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about something.”

A blaring voice sounds overhead. “RICHIE TO COUNTER THREE. RICHIE TO COUNTER THREE.”

They both startle, stepping away from each other. Max watches Richie’s eyes dart away nervously. 

“I should go see what they need.” He smiles softly, taking hold of his cart. “We can talk later.”

He nods, agreeing like an idiot. “Of course.”

——

Attempt two occurs during school, Max leaning on the locker next to Richie’s. The bell rings before he can even finish the first sentence of what he wants to say. He tries to tell him to wait, but Richie insists he go to class in lieu of the whole “trying to raise his grades” thing. 

So that’s a no go.

——

Attempt three is during one of their tutoring sessions. He gets distracted from his point after Richie says he’s proud of him for his improvement. What the fuck.

Max is starting to wonder if he’s cursed.

——

“I cannot believe I’m doing this.”

Steph drags him behind her, laughing. “Get over yourself. Would you rather ask Paul ?”

He shudders. “No way, I can’t ask his uncle for advice about how to ask him out. That’s insane .”

She rolls her eyes. “ I know . That’s why Pete is your best bet. Ruth too, but she can’t keep secrets, so you’re lucky I’m not forcing you to talk to her.”

Max pouts in silence, walking behind Steph. The two of them stop in front of her car, where Pete stands with his bag. His eyes widen upon seeing Max, hands unsure. 

The two of them have been “officially” dating since early November, but since about two weeks ago they’ve become self-proclaimed “relationship experts”. They’ve been helping Ruth get together with Brooke (the two went on a date a few days ago), and they even counseled Trevor through a fight with that Swedish kid Rudolph. All the nerds of the school see Pete with someone like Steph , and flock towards them with their woes. 

Apparently actively ignoring Steph’s teasing is the same as that. 

“Max?” 

Steph nods. “He still hasn’t asked out Richie.”

“STEPH!” Max whacks her arm. “What the fuck!”

Pete raises a brow. “What did she do? I already know you like him.”

He might explode. “What?! How?!” Max runs a hand through his hair, wracking his memory. Did he tell Pete? Would he forget that? Shit who else knows?! This is just like him, to not know anything. Fuckin’ idiot.

There’s the overwhelming feeling of vomit in his throat, his dad’s car behind his eyelids. It’s speeding. His heart is speeding, his breathing is speeding. It’s all speeding.

“Max,” Steph grabs his arm, squeezing it. “Max, calm down.” 

Max blinks, and the car is gone. “R-Right.” He curses himself, forcing himself to toughen. “How do you know?”

The other boy shrugs. “I know what it’s like to feel that way about someone you didn’t expect.” He laughs, “plus you both aren’t that… affectionate with anyone else.”

“Okay.” He shrinks. It really is obvious, huh?

“If this was the beginning of the year, I’d be giving you my best attempt at a threatening speech or trying to scare you somehow,” Pete steps forward. “But you’ve changed a lot these past few months.” 

A buzzing joy swirls in his veins. He makes eye contact with Pete, watching the boy continue.

“I’ve been friends with Richie since freshman year, and he might not seem like it, but he’s a romantic.” There’s a genuine smile pulling up Pete’s face. “I’m glad you’ve grown close.”

Steph smiles too, kissing his cheek. “I think we should take this conversation elsewhere now.” Her eyes turn to Max. “You okay coming over with me to Pete’s for a bit? We can help you plan out something.” 

Their hands are twisted together, and Pete stares at her like she’s the stars.

Max watches them, jealous. He wants that. Fuck, he really does, doesn’t he?

“Okay.”

——

Winter break comes much faster than any plan to ask out Richie, so they decide he’ll try in the new year. 

Long school vacations have always made his skin crawl. There’s this mental mold that grows with each day spent in his room, mind seeing the same four walls, the same smells and sounds. He can only leave for food, not wanting to risk seeing his dad. So, his room is his prison. The sheets tangle to his skin, and it’s sort of like he’s some sort of stone statue growing worn with moss and vines. 

School is active, there’s shifting faces. He roams the halls, a wolf howling through the trees of a thick forest. 

He’s not very good at living without it.

Max runs laps to avoid decomposing. It’s colder, but he has multiple warm hoodies, so he deals. Wind brushes past his face. Houses around him provide new colors, new shapes for his eyes to see. Smells change too, from the smoke of active fireplaces to the trash in someone’s overflowing bin. It’s honey when put against the wafting stench of beer that permeates his every waking hour at his house. 

Buzzing from his phone forces him to a stop right at the three way stop in the road. 

[Richie<3] hi

A smile drags up his face, a feeling unfamiliar to him the past few days.

[Me] hey thre

[Richie<3] do u have plans 4 xmas?

[Me] nope

[Richie<3] would u wanna come spend it w me and Paul?

[Richie<3] and probably Ted Pete

[Richie<3] Emma too but they all only spend part of xmas at mine

Staring, he vaguely hears birds chirping. There’s the smell of freshly cut grass. He might even taste the first bite of warm cake.

[Me] id luv too rich

[Richie<3] ok!!!! that way i can give you your gift then!! :D

Gift?

[Me] u got me a gift ?

[Richie<3] yeah!! 

It’s dumb to cry, but the tightness of his throat is close enough. He can feel the tears behind his eyes, holds his breath to try and prevent them. 

How does someone like him get to be friends with someone so fucking kind?

He feels it’s a bit unbalanced, and he knows that the horrible void of shittiness inside him, that keeps haunting his every action, is going to one day explode like a dying star. There’ll be a black hole or something (he’s only recently started paying attention in astronomy), and Richie will be the victim to it all. His heart seeks out that feeling of good , and he wants to be like that, but maybe that’s not possible for him.

When he gets home, he takes his car to Pete’s (or rather Pete’s older brother’s apartment since that’s where Pete spends time more often). 

This is all stupid. So so stupid (but so is everything sometimes). 

Max still knocks on the door, and doesn’t even run when Ted Spankoffski opens the door. 

The man is honestly someone that he sort of sees himself in. Or maybe he wants to be? It’s confusing, but he sees a man who’s older than him, yet just as shit as dealing with his emotions (at least that’s what Pete’s told him), and it’s a comfort he didn’t know was possible. 

Maybe he’s just jealous of his charisma. 

“Oh it’s you.” Ted frowns. “Fuckin’ hell, what was your name?” He looks off somewhere, counting with his hand. “Not Steph, not Richie, not Ruth, probably not that one chick with the ugly purple sweater, hmm.”

“Max.” 

Ted grins, snapping. “Right! You’re close with Richie or something, yeah? Paul’s mentioned you.”

Paul’s mentioned him?

He bites down the temptation to ask what things Paul’s said about him. “Is Pete here?”

Rolling his eyes, Ted looks behind him. “Dweebus! Some friend of yours is here, come fetch.”

Pete appears in the doorway a moment after Ted disappears. His eyes widen when he notices Max. 

“Max?” He opens the door to let him inside. 

“Hey Pete.” His feet follow slowly, dragging him inside to the open living room of the apartment. There’s a sharp cinnamon sort of smell to this apartment at all hours, courtesy of candles (only lit when Pete isn’t there) and a hidden air freshener. Steph told him last time he was here that Ted has meticulously hidden various items around his apartment that Pete has found on different occasions (it took ages for Pete to finally admit that those items are usually condoms, lube, magazines, and miniature combs). The older Spankoffski brother is anything but shy which Max can respect at least.

“What’s going on?” He sits down on the couch, a dark brown well-cared for thing. 

Max sits beside him, clutching his phone as if Richie’s soul is inside their text messages for him to hold onto. “Richie invited me over for Chris’mas.”

Surprisingly, no new emotion washes over Pete’s face. “Yeah, he asked me if I was cool with it.” The other boy scans his face. “Is that an issue?”

“No no-“ Max feels stupid and childish, face flushing with a distinctive awkwardness that only started popping up frequently after the Waylon place. “He said he got me a gift. ”

A smile drags up Pete’s face. “Yeah, he does that. Another trait he inherited from Paul.” Laughter bubbles out from him. “When I finally got my license last year, Richie got me a Star Wars DVD inside a Cars case.”

He finds himself grinning, imagining the endearing smile that Richie probably had when giving Pete the DVD. His eyes probably crinkled, freckles and swirling blue making him look like a paint-speckled canvas or even a page of the boy’s sketchbook. Even more likely, he said something dorky like “Kachow” as Pete opened the gift. It’s almost weirder for him not to find the image cute as fuck.

Pete nudges him, and he realizes he wasn’t even paying attention to him anymore. 

“You planning to inform me as to why him getting you a gift prompted you to come here?” His expression turns a little smug. “Your pining can be done at home.”

Ignoring the second part of what he said, Max sighs loudly. “I’m not sure what I should get him. I’m broke as fuck.”

Something in Pete’s brown eyes sparks, his hand coming up to adjust his glasses carefully. “Well, you could make something.”

Max snorts. “Like what? I’m pretty sure any arts and crafts project would give him nightmares.” 

“Ol’ Rich is shit at getting gifts.” A voice supplies. 

The two of them turn to see Ted leaning on the back of the couch, face strangely somber. 

“Yeah, he always keeps them, but feels guilty about receiving them in the first place.” Pete agrees. 

A memory of Richie scrubbing tears of his face in the middle of Hatchetfield High’s library crawls to the forefront of his head. 

“Nobody’s ever really apologized to me before.”

Ted continues, “he overanalyzes gifts too, unless they’re from Paul.” He groans. “Remember when I gave him that aloe vera candle?” 

Pete cringes, frowning. “Oh god yes. He was trying to sneakily ask me if his room smelled bad every single time I came over for at least two months.” He sighs. “Still used the candle though. Said that it helped his anxiety.”

“Do you guys have a blank notebook of some kind?” Max interjects, a shaky idea forming in the back of his mind.

Raising an eyebrow, Pete nods. “I have a bunch, why?” 

‘Make’ a gift it is.

——

Ever since Mom left, Max stopped celebrating every holiday. His dad hates the fuss of most of them anyways, so it’s not like he has much of a family to celebrate them with anyways. 

When he was a kid though, he loved Christmas. He’s never been a fan of the taste of peppermint, but the chocolate-peppermint bark that his Mom used to make on Christmas Eve is the exception. She’d wait till Dad left to work (Christmas Eve shifts pay more, and he’d use it as a way to get shitty half-assed gifts last minute for them both). Her voice would fill the house, humming and singing along to every song with the word snow or Christmas in the title. On occasion when he was really little, she’d grab him and lift him up to her, holding him to press her forehead to his. She’d sing, bouncing him in her arms, twirling gently around with him. 

The last Christmas before she left, she didn’t make her chocolate bark. She didn’t sing. Max had known something was wrong, but never asked. Never got a chance to after her things vanished in late January.

Richie offers him a piece of chocolate bark when he opens the door. It’s different, M&Ms littered throughout the layer of chocolate messily (definitely handmade), but the sight of it makes Max’s mouth go dry. 

He accepts it, not even noticing that Richie’s bark has more peppermint than his Mom’s had. 

The apartment is less decorated than he expected—a small tree stands in the corner of the living room along with an anime figure of a girl with blue pigtails dressed in a typical red-white dress that sits proudly on the stuffed full bookshelf against the wall. There’s a little banner of paper stars painted in watercolor over the doorway into the kitchen, and Max can picture Richie hunched over the coffee table making it. 

“Max, how are you?” Paul greets him, dressed in a red sweater that looks both offensively ugly and comfortable as hell. It matches Richie’s sweater, an oversized blue one that is way less ugly (he looks cute in anything, really). 

“I’m alright, Mr. Matthews.” 

A tired smile worms itself on Paul’s face, heading into the kitchen as he says, “You can call me Paul, kid.”

Richie giggles, dragging Max to the couch. He takes the flat box from his hands, glancing down at it. “Who’s this for?”

“Guess.” Max grins at him, memorizing the way his skin crinkles between his brows when he gets confused. 

“Is it for Pete? ‘Cause let me tell you, he spent like all his money on a gift for Steph, so the likelihood of-“

“Richie. ”

“Yeah?” He blinks at him, mouth parting slightly as he seems to think it over a bit more. “Oh. Wow.” His eyes dart down to the box in his hands, “You didn’t have to, I mean my gift really isn’t even that good and you might not even-“

Max takes the box back from him, a fond warmth like honey in his veins. “I wanted to dude.”

Faint pink colors Richie’s cheeks. “Okay.”

They both walk over to the tree together, and Max sets it down there. It’d be insanely embarrassing for Richie to open it now . 

There’s not many ornaments on the tree, but he notices one of a Hatchetfield Nighthawk. His fingers graze it, running over the edge of the shape. 

“Paul got it for the first Christmas I was at Hatchetfield High.” Richie’s voice is soft. “We both wanted to commemorate me not being with the Sycamore kids anymore.”

“Gross, fuckin’ Timberwolves.” He gags, and grins when there’s a short laugh as a reward.

A voice calls from the kitchen. “Richie, could you come help me?” 

“Coming, Paul!”

—-

The festivities are new but warm. The Spankoffski brothers get there with Emma around noon, and the six of them play a game of charades as instrumental holiday music plays from Paul’s mini-speaker. Charades is amusing to say the least, with Paul practically sinking inside the couch when Ted attempts to use innuendos to lead them to what his prompt is. Emma turns out to be insanely good at guessing, with the rest of them spending the whole time working as a group to try and stump her. 

Paul isn’t a perfect cook, an apology slipping easily from him the second he reveals the chicken stew that he’d made. Max thinks it’s killer, but Pete is a future food snob in the making, eating less than anyone else. 

Ted and Richie mostly lead the conversation, with Emma chipping in her commentary frequently enough to be a major contender too. Paul mostly listens, and Max can see Pete texting Steph under the table. 

It feels like a weird, unorthodox family in a way. The whole scene keeps festering a single question into Max’s mind: is this what I could’ve had this whole time?

Around four thirty, Emma leaves with Pete (perks of being Ted’s younger brother is that nobody will snitch to his parents when he goes to spend the night with Steph). Paul and Ted have a conversation that wanders with them into the kitchen for wine that Paul refuses to give a small sip or glass of to him or Richie (he’d not even been planning to ask for some).

That leaves Richie and him, sitting on the couch. Richie’s arm is pressed against his, talking with vague gestures throughout about something called ‘Enstars’ and some sort of singing war?

His eyes dart to the tree, only two things left underneath. Emma and Ted had brought gifts, but they had already disappeared somewhere (apparently Paul doesn’t like to open gifts in front of people or something). 

Max stands up, walking over. Richie pauses his explanation, watching him. He crouches, taking the small flat box he’d brought. 

“The one beside it is yours.” Richie voices from behind him.

The wrapped present beside Max’s is square, about the size of his fist. It’s covered in colorful stickers. He takes that too, placing it on top of his gift. Turning around, he notices Richie is up from the couch. 

He looks at Max nervously. “Do you,” Blue eyes glance quickly behind them at the kitchen where Paul and Ted are. “Do you wanna go somewhere?” Every twitch and fidget drags Max’s attention, a constant visual detail to drink up. “There’s this playground nearby-“

A warm special kind of grin overtakes him. “The one with the swings. From back in October.”

Richie nods, playing with the end of his sleeve. “…Yeah. I wasn’t sure if you’d remember that o

I remember every moment with you. He thinks briefly, but he stamps it down quickly. God, he really is pathetically into the nerd in front of him.

“Nah I remember it.” Max winks at him before he can stop himself and only doesn’t smack his head into the wall in shame because Richie blushes down to his neck. 

“Paul, we’ll be back!” Richie calls. 

“Be safe!” Paul responds at the same time that Ted calls, “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!”

Considering how many things Ted would do, Max thinks that sentiment doesn’t really limit them all that much. 

The two of them begin the short walk, Max following Richie’s confident steps. Their hands bump against each other as they walk, knuckles to knuckles. 

“Ruth keeps saying it’s gonna snow soon,” Richie says after a moment of silence. “I’m hoping she’s wrong because that would suck. ”

Max frowns, bumping his shoulder. “Why? Snow is nice.”

“No way.” Richie bumps him back. “Snow is cold and annoying. And within a day it gets gross, so it’s barely even visually pleasing.”

He pokes his cheek. “I think I could make you like it.”

Richie rolls his eyes. “Okay Mr. Ego, you can try, but I know the second that it snows I’m going to be inside waiting for it to be gone.”

“Shut-in.”

“Narcissist.”

“Don’t you like my face?”

Blue eyes widen, the barest of pink flushes overtaking Richie’s face, and then—he gently shoves him, rolling his eyes with a sigh. “I repeat Narcis sist .” 

Max grins at the overpronunciation but doesn’t comment on his actual response in the face of them reaching the park. His mad dash to the swings turns into their mad dash when he instinctively grabs Richie’s hand without thinking.

The two of them collapse into the swings. Max’s arm wrapped around the two little gifts. He passes the flatter gift to Richie, keeping the sticker-covered one in his hand. 

“Do you want me to open yours first?” Richie fiddles with his fingers, kicking his feet against the wood chips below.

“Sure, but-“ His voice gets quieter, and there’s a thrum in his veins. “-it’s a bit… odd.”

“O-kay.” His voice is faint, hands carefully tearing away the tape. Max can’t stop himself from staring, the usual electric association of Richie’s gentle hands, boney and sweaty. He can close his eyes and picture them, each different shade or freckle. 

Richie raises an eyebrow at the notebook, rolling up the wrapping and shoving it in a pocket. 

“Open it.” He instructs.

His hands pull open the notebook to the first page, eyes slowly blinking as the words process. Then, a flush pulls at his cheeks, and his teeth dig into his lower lip. Max tries not to stare. 

“What-“ His voice cracks. “There’s mul tiple hand writ ings? Who wro t e this?” Each word stumbles through his mouth, overpronounced in some way, shaky in another.

The pages of the notebook aren’t locked in detail in Max’s mind, but he remembers the first page enough that he can guess what Richie is looking at. 

‘Richie Lipschitz is brave.’

He wrote that one, but under it is two from Ruth.

‘Richie is able to talk to people.’ ‘He stands between me and bullies.’

“I don’t get-“ Richie closes his mouth, flipping the page. 

Max knows somewhere on the next two pages is some from Paul.

‘Richie Lipschitz makes me proud to be his uncle.’ ‘Richie is creative in ways I’ll never understand.’

The pages after are when Richie’s eyes start to well up. Max only really remembers some of the ones he did on these pages. 

‘Richie is a good tutor.’ ‘He’s patient when I get mad at myself.’

The notebook is small, no bigger than the pockets of Richie’s cargo shorts, but Max got help from enough people that the pages are filled to the brim with how people view Richie. He even got some from Kyle and Jason. 

“F-Fuck.” Richie scrubs at his eyes, flipping to the two blank pages at the end of the notebook. “Sorry, I-I like it, I just-“ His head falls into his hands, body hunched over. 

This time, when Max tests the waters to see, Richie doesn’t jerk away from his hand on his shoulder. He waits a moment, and Richie lets it stay there, so he leans as far forward as he can to properly reach him. One arm wraps around his shoulders, and the other sneaks under his head to meet the first.

“Let me guess,” Max whispers, “never been given a notebook?” 

He feels Richie’s hands come up to grip his t-shirt, head tucking into his neck. “Not quite. N-Never been gi ven one with such t errible hand writ ing.” 

Max laughs, letting Richie pull away after a moment to scrub at his eyes again. His lips are turned into a smile, eyes are bluer than ever. 

“Ran out of ideas for the last two pages?” He jokes, awkwardly blinking away the red in the creases of his eyes.

“Those pages are for you actually.” Max grins. “I’m giving you homework.”

Richie blinks, breathing out a quiet laugh. “I’ll try my best, Jä ger- man.”

Something electric tingles up his spine.

Thin fingers tap the surface of the box in Max’s lap. “It’s not nearly as…” He frowns. “Well, hopefully you like it.”

Raising a brow at him, he nods and slowly rips off the packaging. Each sticker gets carefully torn around so as to not rip them, and he can feel the grin tugging at Richie’s lips more than he sees it.

When he finally gets the paper off, he’s face to face with a small dark blue box. It has black lettering done in thick paint on the top spelling out ‘Max’. 

“Open it.” Richie instructs, echoing his same two words earlier.

The box opens to showcase a blue and white bracelet that matches the ones Richie and the others have. It has the letter M in the middle. Through the middle of the bracelet emerges a small wooden flower. Taped to the underside of 

the lid is a drawing, and Max recognizes it as Richie’s handiwork immediately. The center of the drawing is Max, but he isn’t alone. Richie leans on his side, and behind them both is Kyle, Jason, Steph, and Pete. He vaguely recognizes two little doodled heads in the corner as Ruth and Brenda. 

“Wow.” He runs a thumb over the drawing, feeling a bit warm throughout his chest at how close drawing-Richie is to drawing-Max. 

“Um,” Richie leans forward, and his hand swats away Max’s gently. “Let me-“ He twists a small hoop protruding from the side of the box, hand disappearing quickly after.

Music hums from the box, the flower in the center spinning slowly. The song is a lot more simplistic than he’s used to, but within seconds he’s recognizing the same melody he’s heard all throughout high school. His mind floods with memories of every winning game, and crowds cheering. He thinks of Zeek tripping on his ass or school assemblies.

“The school anthem?” 

Richie fiddles with his fingers. “You mentioned a while back that you like hearing people you know sing, and well—“ He fidgets with his fingers more, spinning a ring he’s been wearing more lately. “It’s not that exactly, but I thought maybe a familiar song and familiar faces would be close enough?”

And fuck , if that doesn’t make him cry. He twists to play the music a second time, staring at the drawing and realizing that Richie is right . He feels like a kid, listening to his mother hum, and he can hear the soft voice of the boy in front of him from that night in his apartment. 

Tears sting his eyes, and he closes the box carefully after the music finishes for a second time. 

“Damn guess I’m a crybaby too.”

Smiling, Richie reaches forward to grip his hands. “It’s okay, I won’t tell.”

——

It takes almost three months of them being friends for Max to invite Richie over. New Years is in a day or two, which means that his dad is working more to earn extra for holiday shifts. 

So, naturally, Richie ends up at his house holding a sketchbook in one hand and a plushie of some anime character in the other.

“You’re going to love Jujutsu Kaisen, or well-“ He walks past Max into the house, placing the plushie in the crook of his arm so he can shake his hand rapidly. “-I hope you enjoy it, I thought that you might not enjoy the mass gore of AOT, but there’s still a lot of action in Jujutsu, and-“

He gently guides the rambling boy upstairs and into his room, where he stops talking the second they walk through the doorway. 

Instead, his blue eyes scan the room, mouth open with the curiosity of a young cat. “Wow, Max Jägerman’s room. It’s not what I’d imagine.”

Max tries to mentally shove away the assumption that Richie is judging him for how bare and undecorated his room is, identical to a used motel room. His heart pulls his attention, reading into every possible implication from the simple sentence.

“You’ve imagined what my room would look like?” He leans an arm onto Richie’s shoulder. “What sorts of things are you picturing going on in here?” He tacks on a wink, for good measure.

Richie goes bright red, practically teleporting away with how fast he dashes to sit on Max’s navy bedspread. “You t-trip ping on your ass, that’s what.” 

Rolling his eyes, he walks over and sits down on the bed beside Richie. He pulls out his laptop, letting the other boy type in to find the site for ‘Juju Kitesin’ or whatever it’s called. The two slowly situate, Max quietly putting an arm around Richie to drag him to his side. 

Without question, Richie cuddles into Max’s side, leaning his head against his shoulder in a way that practically burns . Max thumbs at the bone of the boy’s hip on top the fabric of his shorts, obsessed with every bit of touch he can get. There’s zero comment on it, and if he darts to look, Richie is flushed pink down to his neck, lips forming a small smile.

The anime starts to play, “dubbed” since Richie said he’d probably struggle otherwise, and he finds himself staring at Richie almost as much as he’s staring at his laptop screen.

There’s this grin the size of the football field on his face, eyes bright in excitement. After a few minutes, he even grabs Max’s hands and starts to fidget with it.

It feels all strangely domestic. 

—-

Four episodes in (and only seven pauses for Richie to explain random background information) later, Max glances out the window and notices white. 

Small dots of snow flutter down outside the window, dots becoming clumps, clumps becoming full dancers of ice twirling their way to the ground.

“Dude, look.”

Richie pauses the episode, clicking it to rewind a bit for when they unpause (he takes it all very seriously, determined that every second is important, but Max mostly just finds it amusing). 

His face scrunches up. “Ugh, I don’t wanna walk back in that.” 

Max raises an eyebrow, flicking his arm gently. “Stop pretending that you aren’t going to force me to drive you home again.”

A cheeky grin crawls up Richie’s face. “I mean now that you mention it…” A small laugh breaks his feigned innocence as he fiddles with his sleeves. “I suppose I can tolerate it existing if I don’t have to walk home in it, though.”

“Just tolerate?”

He stares at him, deadpan. “I still don’t like snow.” 

A half-formed idea emerges from his brain, and Max decides to jump to his feet. His hand is clutched in Richie’s within seconds, using bare minimum strength to drag the other boy to his feet and towards his closet. 

“Max, what-“

Inside—he pulls on hangers of hoodies, digs for the scarf someone gave him four years ago, and grabs the singular hat that he owns. He pulls a hoodie on, shoving his letterman jacket at Richie’s face. It falls almost to his thighs before he has the sense to grab it, eyes wide.

“Are we… going out? In the snow?” His voice gets high at the end, squeaky.

“Yes,” Max tries to ignore the smirk pulling at one side of his face. “Now put on the jacket.”

Richie frowns, grumbling, but he slips on the letterman (it’s big enough to be amusing) without complaint. He melts into the fabric, and Max feels an electricity tugging in his chest at the sight of Richie in his letterman. 

“You sure you don’t want to wait a bit longer until it stops snowing? You can enjoy some dog’s day-old piss snow!” 

Max gives him a look. “Don’t be so… cold.” He grins at Richie’s horrified expression and tugs his sleeve to pull the boy after him. “You’ll enjoy it, just trust me.”

When they get outside, the snowfall is still going just barely. Small flakes of white land into Richie’s hair, one even perfectly balancing on his nose until the boy scrunches up like a cat and bats it off.

“It’s cold .” He drags out the ‘o’. 

“C’mere you whiney lil’-“ Max zips up his letterman, tugging it tight over Richie. His hands pause against the other boy’s chest. 

Blue eyes stare up at him, and he feels a lot warmer than he’d imagined considering the weather. Pink colors the shorter boy’s cheeks, and Max’s hand unconsciously comes up to hold it. There’s a warmth that spreads from his hand down his entire body, and he’s practically burning from the way Richie stares, eyes locked on something below Max’s eyes.

He’d know, his eyes drag to around the same spot on Richie’s face. He watches teeth dig into a chapped lip, and he wants to bite it himself.

Fuck it, he thinks, what am I waiting for?

“Hey… Richie?”

He drags them towards the brick of his house only to be caught off guard when Richie starts to slip against the snow. His feet trip over a small chunk of snow, and he smacks into Max, sending them both into the snow. 

Max groans, rubbing his head to shake out some snow. His eyes blink towards Richie and feels a bit possessive at him fumbling against his chest, awkward. 

“This is why I hate snow. It’s plotting against me!” Richie tries to stand up, but doesn’t step far enough over Max and ends up face-first in the snow again. 

“You’re like a newborn animal,” Max snickers, and he watches Richie wiggle onto his ass, glaring at him with all the annoyance his pretty blue eyes can muster.

“Har har.” He crosses his arms, pouting. “You’re just a sadist who enjoys watching me struggle.” 

Fuck, he’s cute. 

Fighting back a smile that would have Steph gagging, he stands up with much more ease than the other boy. He holds out a hand, letting it stand between them. 

Richie stares at it, pouting more. “When I stand up, am I going to get to go inside or is more snowy torture all that awaits me?” 

“We can go inside if you ask nicely.” Max jokes, wiggling his hand. 

Taking it, Richie lets himself get pulled up, but doesn’t let go once he’s standing. Instead, he squeezes the hand, batting his eyes with a purposeful pouty frown. “Please Maxie ? Will the big annoying Max Jä ger -man join me in leaving this cold prison?” 

Every thought leaves his head, mind a puddle of warmth as he fumbles to figure out something to say. It’s all far too electric— his veins, his heart, his muscles. A burning heat swarms his face and, god, he wants this freaking nerd. 

“I-“ Max shoves his free hand into Richie’s face, trying to get his heart to stop pounding. “Okay, okay- I get it.”

He lets himself get dragged inside.

The two of them step out of their shoes, Max watching Richie pat off some of the snow on the letterman. The blue jacket swallows him whole, and Max feels something in him snap.

“Richie?”

“Hm?” 

Max grabs the front of his own letterman and pulls Richie closer. This gets the boy to stop swiping off the snow onto the front mat, his attention zooming to Max. His eyes are wide.

“I’d like to kiss you.” 

He lets his arms fall down to circle Richie’s waist, grinning even as the nerves eat his gut. 

“Did I- um-Did I mishear you?” Richie blinks, face darkened each second into a stronger red. “I thought-“

“You heard me.”

“Oh.” The smaller boy lets out a little gasp, mouth parting. “I’d like that.”

A genuine smile overtakes him, and he leans down just as Richie reaches up. 

At first, he can only focus on his own heartbeat, but then he gets a bit more adjusted. Max is used to kissing people like Brenda, girls with experience to their name. Richie is neither of those, but he still gives it his all, following Max’s lead. Quick learner, that’s what he is. He grins into the kiss, using his grip on Richie to pull them both towards the kitchen.

“You drive me insane.” He whispers against the other boy’s lips. It gets him a sweet little honey giggle, so he just continues with his mission. His grip proves extra useful as he guides Richie into sitting on the counter.

Richie goes with this swiftly, digging his hands into Max’s curls. He hums as Max slips his tongue into the mix, licking around Richie’s mouth. His tongue only retreats so Max can finally bite the lip that’s been forefront of his mind for ages. 

“Ruth isn’t- isn’t- going to-“ Richie struggles to get out as Max moves his mouth lower, kissing the other boy’s pale jaw. “going- g-“ He gulps, a motion that Max can feel against his teeth when he drags them down Richie’s jaw to his neck. He kisses and licks at one particular spot with determination.

“She wo- belie- um-“ Max bites down on the skin, and Richie gasps. 

With a kiss to make it better, he retreats his head. “Too much talking.” His mouth dives back in to steal another kiss from Richie.

The two continue the song and dance as Richie gets more and more of a hang of it.

In fact, Richie’s mouth starts to move to kiss at Max’s jaw this time, when—

The front door slams open. 

Both of them jump apart, Richie stumbling off the counter while Max just backs away from it entirely. His eyes dart to where his father is standing staring at them both with a tight frown.

“Maxwell.”

Fuck fuck fuck-

He steps forward, placing himself in front of Richie in a last-ditch attempt to keep his father from paying him any attention.

“Dad.”

—-

Two days after Max slept over through Hunchback of Notre Dame, Richie had been the one to finally bring up the inevitable conversation.

“Can I ask about it? Your dad? You mentioned you’re scared of turning into him before.”

Max sighs, setting down his pencil. His algebra is actually more compelling than this conversation, but he knows not to avoid it. Richie already knows a lot more about him than he’d ever been comfortable with in the past. 

“What’s there to know? He’s an asshole. I’m one too.”

Richie frowns and pokes him. “No, you aren’t. You’re a person who’s made mistakes, but an asshole wouldn’t be friends with me.” He grins. “I have better taste than that.”

Instead of pointing out that Richie definitely doesn’t, he just takes the small comfort of Richie's smiling affection. “Well, he wants me to be like him, anyways. Or at least a big proper man like him. Football and a powerful reputation. Those didn’t used to be things that mattered to me, they started to matter when I realized that he’d treat me better sometimes ‘cause of them.” 

The smaller boy remains silent, letting him continue, but reaching over to squeeze his hand. 

“You’re smart, so you’ve probably figured it out, but he takes out his anger on me… a lot. Barely tolerates me enough to let me stay in his house. Sometimes I think it’s ‘cause of Mom leaving, but then I remember that he simply had a different target when she was here.”

Richie frowns, squeezing his hand again. “My parents would ignore me.” His eyes dart up to read Max’s face before continuing. “I’m explaining this, because I do get it… sort of.”

His voice is quiet. “They’d leave me alone by myself when I was really little, and I’d just sit there waiting. My mom, well, she would remember my existence when she could use me like a doll to show off to her friends. She’d ignore me though. Only cared about her perfect ‘daughter’.”

Max holds his hand in return, squeezing it. Richie smiles at that.

“When I was at Sycamore Middle and the bullying got really bad, they didn’t even notice . It was like I barely knew them, yet I tried to get them to notice. I’d wait the whole day to treat my own wounds, seeing if they’d even glimpse my way. They didn’t.”

A shudder wracks him. “It was sort of accidental that I ended up with Paul after they passed, but he noticed immediately. Continues to.”

He takes a deep breath. “My point is, that I know what it’s like. To want them to care. Sometimes they just don’t. But… I care. So if you ever need to come over again, you can.”

Max remembers the affection rushing through his body like a storm as he’d simply nodded.

—-

He isn’t sure why that conversation comes to his mind as he stares down his dad, but it does.

“How was work?” He forces out.

His father kicks his shoes off, letting his keys hit the entryway table with a loud ‘thunk!’. “It was work. I got off early.” Teeth snare like a particularly scary dog. “You didn’t plan for that, did you?”

Max doesn’t get a chance to answer, his father too quick in stepping towards him with an anger that permeates. 

“That must be why I come in to see you behaving like a queer. ”

“That’s not-“ Max is quiet quickly, a familiar pain hitting his face as the sound of hand meeting skin rings in the small space. 

Shit.

“Don’t give me excuses, boy.” He growls out. 

His vision is blurry, fear having frozen him. Which is why it takes far too long for him to notice Richie sneaking around him. He worms his way in front of Max, eyes determined somehow. (His hands are squeezed under his armpits though).

“Hurting him won’t do anything!” 

Shit no no. Richie-

There’s a spark of the sadistic nature he knows is deeply rooted in his father, it sparks up like a flame in his eyes. Max hasn’t seen it targeted at someone else in a long time. 

“You must be the thing infecting my boy.” He grabs Richie’s arm, and Max practically feels the way the other boy flinches. “Are you even a real man? You look like a fuckin’ girl.”

Richie’s confidence drains out of him like liquid, body shaking. “I-If I’m a girl, then M-Max isn’t-“ He swallows. “He’s not what you called him.”

The older Jägerman scoffs, gripping Richie, and raising him a bit into the air without too much effort (the boy’s always been lightweight). “It’s got quite a mouth on it. This is what you’re into, Maxwell? Some pathetic, talkative fairy?” 

Max tries to move closer, but his father just uses Richie’s shaking body to shove him back. He’s so fucking stupid. He should’ve been more careful. How’d he been so stupid as to get distracted ?!

Instead, he’s shaky in his own way, fearful of the monster in front of him, when he sees Richie’s body shoved into the wall nearby. There’s a loud cracking sound as his head hits the surface of white plaster. If he lets himself focus on it, he’d even hear the quiet whimper of pain released as the wall scratches against Richie’s head on his way down.

The blue-haired boy sinks to the ground, breathing erratically. He’s gasping for air, and fuck-

He’s having an asthma attack. 

This is different from the pool or the drive home from tryouts. This is different from the Waylon Place. Max is used to worrying about his own life, but he’s never had to worry like this for someone else’s. He almost wants to cry, watching Richie clutch his chest in panic.

“God, he can’t even breathe?” His father rolls his eyes. “You sure know how to pick them, Maxwell.”

His inhaler is upstairs. It’s upstairs.

“Shut up.”

Oh. Max said that. He feels something snap in himself, limbs rebuilding themselves, stronger. 

“Excuse me?” Big hands grab at his hair, tugging him forward. “You think you got any right to talk like that to me right now?”

Max, fueled by eighteen years of building anger, kicks as hard as he can. He watches his father groan loudly, hand loosening on his hair. Pride fills him, but he hears Richie’s wheezing and remembers the current emergency. 

He darts up the stairs, feeling heavy footfalls coming from behind him.

“Get back here!”

His head start drags him to his room, where he shoves it closed with the lock just in time to hear pounding fists. 

“You ungrateful little bitch-“

Richie’s bag, covered in pins, sits beside his bed. It stares at him like it did all those months ago, and he digs around to find the boy’s inhaler. When he finds it, he shoves the small thing in his pocket. 

Pounding echoes out, making his skin jump in every direction. He’s seven, he’s nine, he’s ten, he’s twelve, he’s- He’s eighteen, and he’s lived through these things enough times to let the sound fade from his mind. 

I’m brave. I’m brave. I’m brave.

Max reaches into his closet and grabs the old baseball bat from when he was younger. He swings it once, just to test the weight in his hands. The wood is a little rough at the top, scuffed from childhood, and dusty from years abandoned. 

Thunderous knocking bangs around his ears while he creeps up to the door. His left leaves the base of the bat, unlocking and twisting the door open quickly. He steps back as fast as he can, pulling his left hand back up to meet his right. 

The older Jägerman stumbles forward, catching himself quickly. His eyes burn holes into Max’s spine. “Look who’s trying to grow a spine now! C’mon boy. ”

His hand plunges forward, a familiar image that Max knows like the darkness of his inner eyelids. He puts his strength into his bat, remembering childhood baseball.

‘Remember to keep your weight distributed between your feet evenly, Max.” Gregory, his coach, used to tell him.

He shifts his feet. He hears ‘Eyes on the ball’ ring through the vessels of his ears. He stares at the tanned fist, and lets his mind picture it—skin for cowhide, fingers for red stitches. It’s not so scary when it’s just a memory. All a violent instinct he’s trained into his competitive winning spirit.

Hit.

When his father is thrown off rhythm by the pain of wood against bone, Max pushes past him. Feet against sneakers against wood, he carries himself down the stairs with every bit of air in his lungs.

Run.

Reaching Richie is a mess of goals: Give Richie his inhaler. Get out. Hold Richie close, safe. Get out. Hide. Get out. Fight. Get out.

The door isn’t too far, but the sound of footsteps from the stairs worries him. Max grabs Richie, clutching his shaking form in his arms, and uses the sting of electric adrenaline in his feet to push him to the door. It’s awkward, the bat resting clumsy in his hands as he uses one hand to keep a good grip on the gasping boy. It feels surreal, his busy fingers fiddling with the door knob as his father shouts from behind them. He’s reminded of that bit in songs, the musical number with that heightened energy near the end, where every emotion feels extreme to the point where every audience member gets their body lifted. Gravity shifts, and he doesn’t feel human. He feels powerful.

Running down the street, he turns a corner, and it’s only once he manages to sneak into a small fenced bit on the side of someone’s tall house, that he stops running. Feeling returns along with gravity, and he tries not to cry.

An uneven breath catches his attention, and he sets Richie down carefully, fishing out his inhaler to give him. He helps his hands become steady around it, making sure he’s able to lean close to get puffs of it. There are small tears in his eyes, but soon enough he’s able to breathe. His blue eyes settle on Max, and everything is okay again.

“W-What… what jus t happened?”

It takes a moment to find his voice. “I’m not really sure myself.” His hand finds Richie’s, and this time the familiar is what he lets ground him. “I don’t think I can go back there. I’ve never… hurt him back.”

Richie squeezes his hand. “It-It’s okay. Le t ’s go to mine, and we can figure it all out. It’s been,” His eyes meet Max’s, and both of them exhale a breath they’d been holding, “a lot .”

—-

Paul reacts about as well as you can expect from a walking wet, stressed cat of a man. This is to say that he stares at them in horror as they both recount the event through shared bits and pieces, then goes to make them all tea. His hand never leaves Richie’s hand, identical to Max’s hand which has remained locked together with Richie’s for hours. 

He’d watered with care, telling Max to stay. Offering him anything he might need in the form of Paul slipping on shoes to make a nighttime trip to the store.

“When’s he working?”

“Supposed to tomorrow morning.” Max runs a thumb over the speckles of sweat on Richie’s palm, over and over. 

“Okay.” The older man shrugs on a jacket. “Tomorrow we’ll go to grab anything you need that you left there. Emma and Ted will come along just in case.” 

Emma and Ted? What-

Richie reads his mind. “She’s got the brawn, and Ted’s got the height. Scary combo if they try.” 

“Okay.” He swallows, making a mental list of what he’ll need to grab, but knowing he’ll probably just have to discuss it with Richie later when he can’t think further than ‘Letterman’. 

“I’ll be quick.” Paul pockets a written list of a few basics. “Keep him company, Richie.”

“Planning on it.”

It’s hard to tell that Paul even shuts the door with how gently his hands pull it closed. It’s a strange contrast that he’s not noticed before.

Silence washes over the two of them, Richie staring at the coffee table. Max thinks of opening his eyes that night at the Waylon place only to see blue. He holds onto the feeling of safety the color provides him, clutches onto how that color hasn’t hesitated to protect him. He bathes in the blue, both ocean waves and gentle rain. Then the blue catches onto him, swirling like river splashes. 

Max squeezes the hand in his, nudging the smaller boy’s shoulder without much strength. 

“Wha’cha thinking about?”

Richie hums, leaning his head against Max’s shoulder. 

“Things.”

With a breath of a laugh, he leans his head against Richie’s. “Wanna gimme a recap?”

He feels more than he sees or hears Richie laugh. “I’m thinking about how I made things harder. Earlier, I just-“ His voice softens to a whisper. “I got so scared, and I couldn’t help you.” 

“Richie-“

“I know.” His voice turns to a rumble, growing to a louder sound that is soft in all ways except actual volume. “It’s not something I could’ve controlled , but I still wish I could’ve done something .” 

There’s a pause of silence where Max opens his mouth to respond, but Richie says more.

“I also keep thinking about us, y’know-“ His hand gets sweatier against Max’s, “kissing.” 

Oh.

Max wraps his free arm around Richie. “And what are you thinking abou’ it?”

Warm weight presses into him, and he wonders how he’s survived without Richie for so long. “I didn’t think you liked me, to be hones t .” He corrects. “Like that, at least.”

“Well, I do.”

Richie nods a little, and Max smiles at the way the other boy’s head moves against his. 

“Does that mean we’re like,” Richie sounds hopeful, “boyfriends?”

All he can really do is shrug. “If you’d like to be. I certainly don’t care to kiss anyone else these days.”

A squeeze of their hands.

“I’d like to.”

“That settles it then.”

It’s all a bit easy to understand, after so many experiences with Richie.