Richie wakes up with a pounding migraine, promising himself never to drink that much again. He hardly remembers anything last night, having blacked out so early.
He stumbles to the bathroom, taking a quick hot shower he desperately needs. He wonders if Mike ever returned home last night but quickly shakes his head. He remembers seeing him last night through the haze that has settled over his mind.
He gets ready and approaches the kitchen, stopping at the entryway. The place looked like he was robbed of all of his liquor. That or a bar fight had happened, and the smell was retched.
He tries hard to remember what happened, but nothing comes to mind. Maybe some ibuprofen and water will help while he cleans the place up. He sets to work, regrets forming in his stomach as he remembers the living room might not be in better condition. God, he should really stop drinking.
"Fuck," he groans as he steps into a puddle of who knows what, soaking his slipper.
He sweeps up the glass, passing over the stain in the wall before stopping. He slowly makes his way back towards it, scrutinizing it closely. He tried to put the stain on a memory that was no longer there. Washed away with the multiple bottles he consumed. The area was stained a burgundy color, and a tiny crack in the wall from where the bottle had hit had formed. It dripped to the floor, and Richie wondered what caused him to throw such an expensive bottle.
It was like a stuttering reel film before his eyes of the argument he and Mike had. How the kid tried to put him to bed, and he refused. He didn't remember much, but what he could had his stomach churning. He thought he had emptied his stomach earlier but was near gagging as he stumbled slightly.
"Oh god," he whispers. He ran towards the sink, the sound of retching being the only noise in the deathly still house. "Oh god," he chokes as he drops to the floor. "What did I do? What did I-" He stops and looks towards the stairs. He needed to check on Mike. He got up, starting to head that way, when he stepped on a piece of glass he had missed.
"Motherfucker!" He cried, gripping his foot in pain. He leans against the counter as he pulls the piece of glass out of his slipper, wondering why he didn't put actual shoes on. He hobbles toward the downstairs bathroom, pulling out some gauze before getting to work on his foot.
He went over what he could of last night's events and decided to wait for Mike to come out on his own. He knew the kid would need some time to himself before he talked to him. First, he will finish cleaning and remove all his alcoholic beverages. Then, he was going to get help. He needed help. Bad. He wasn't about to risk putting Mike in danger like that again.
Getting up, he sets to work, clearing up the glass and mopping the kitchen and living room. He decided to call Grace after he got rid of everything and have her go through everything. Make sure he got all of them.
He grabs multiple bags, picking up empty and full bottles alike, dumping each down the drain before tossing them away. He cringed every time he did, but he knew he had to. For Mike, he would.
As he was going through his cabinets, he called Beverly.
"Richie? Is everything ok?"
"Of course! Why wouldn't it be?" He dropped a bottle on the counter, and Beverly heard the clink.
"You're not drinking, are you? This early?"
"No! No. I, um, am actually throwing all of my bottles out."
A beat of silence passed before Beverly spoke. "Really?"
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FanfictionA year had passed since the defeat of IT. Since the death of Stan... Of Eddie. And Richie was not doing so well. From constantly drinking, losing his job, and having sex with any man that resembled Eddie. His life was other shit. What the fuck was h...
