𝐆𝐀𝐑𝐃𝐄𝐍 𝐒𝐇𝐄𝐃

𝕧𝕚. 𝕓𝕠𝕣𝕕𝕖𝕣𝕝𝕚𝕟𝕖 𝕜𝕚𝕕𝕤

just listen to your friends/ they
only care and hope you're alright
- Bastille, The Draw

/

Here's the thing about having a wild imagination - it only gets worse as the years go by.

Now here's the thing about being a kid - you're standing on the front porch steps, and you know the house in front of you is just that, a house, albeit one with a broken porch light and a faded outline in front of the door where a welcome mat used to be, but the longer you stare the more it twists into something terrible, the front entrance no longer a doorway but some gaping maw leading straight into the belly of the beast. It's a little like a movie, the scene just before the climax, except Richie has no wisdom or powers or lead pipe to keep the monsters at bay, just a smart mouth and an L-shaped scar forming on his shoulder.

"Do you want to come back to my house?" Stan had asked as they stood at the corner, shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot, but he looked like he was about to take off running for the hills, and Richie didn't blame him one fucking bit. He'd liked to have done the same. He still does.

It's remarkable how soundproof the walls of their house actually are, Richie thinks, because the second he gathers his wits enough to actually go through the front door the intensity of his parents fighting dials up to an almost laughable degree, as if someone has accidentally leaned on the TV remote. Fuck, it is laughable, so Richie ducks his head and muffles one into the back of his hand. It's either that or cry, and he'd rather swallow broken glass than cry in front of his dad. Or his mom. Or anyone.

They're fighting. Of course they are. How stupid it would be to assume that they could coexist under the same roof for more than five minutes. Richie laughs again, probably louder than he should, and their screams come to a halt. It makes his stomach lurch the same way it does when he goes on the chair swing at the winter carnival after drinking three cups of hot chocolate. Even despite the whole vomiting thing afterwards, it's a nice memory, one Richie keeps at the ready in one corner of his mind as he urges himself forward. Just think of the carnival, Richie.

His parents are in the kitchen, and when he turns the corner they're both looking towards the doorway expectantly. Think of the carnival and how Stan always screams like a little girl on the ferris wheel. The room reeks of whiskey, but Richie doesn't need that hint to know his mother is fucking trashed. No wonder the argument seemed extra loud. She always gets loud when she's in too deep, as if she's trying to get someone's attention to help drag her out of it, but Richie doesn't know how and his father doesn't seem to care enough to try.

There's a very specific approach one must use when talking to someone like Wentworth Tozier, Richie has come to learn over the years. It's sort of like stumbling across a venomous snake - be calm, don't bother it and it won't bother you. But Richie has always had a nasty habit of prodding at things he shouldn't, and his father has never been an exception to that. Richie's had his mouth washed out with soap more times than he can count; the bitter taste of it isn't something he'll ever forget, but it's never stopped his brain from letting his mouth just say whatever the fuck it wants.

"Hey, pops. Good to see ya. It's been a little while. Didn't realize dentists did so many overnights at the office."

His father looks at him, and Richie can't tell if he's taken aback or offended or angry or a terrifying combination of the three, but the expression on his face is so ridiculously perplexed that Richie wants to laugh again. He has to bite down on the inside of his cheek very, very hard to keep himself from doing so. Think about Georgie begging Bill to give him a piggyback ride because his feet are tired from walking.

There's a split second where Richie is absolutely convinced that he's about to get smacked across the face, but then his father simply hooks a finger under the loop of his own tie to loosen it. It's burning up in the house despite the cool March air outside, and his father's looking a little swollen, sleeves clinging a little tighter to his forearms in the heat, tie leaving a red mark around his throat like a noose. Richie can't be held responsible for the shameful thrill the idea brings him.