Apricity || Stozier

𝒯𝓌𝑜

[kinda not really edited]

Reaching his street didn't bring any sort of relief one would have after having just had to walk an hour because of falling asleep on the bus, which was primarily not supposed to force any sort of need to function apart from breathing. Richie wasn't glad he was almost home. No, he definitely wasn't fucking glad. He was having a hard time deciding wether the extra time away from home was going to end up with the joys of having to spend less time within those horrid green coloured walls, or with him having another of his stupid fucking episodes.

Episodes.

That's what he liked to call them. In truth, Richie wasn't really sure what they were exactly, but he did know one thing for certain. They were messy.
The rain had most likely soaked right through his backpack and drowned his books, and the only thing the tall boy was still trying to keep as dry and safe as possible, was his Walkman. Richie remembered the many mornings he spent delivering newspapers, slowly but surely saving up for what was not his most prized possession. If he ever were to succumb to his imagination and run away, he knew that's the one thing he wouldn't be able to leave without.
Everything else could go to shit, but not his Walkman. It would be just the two of them against the world.

Richie's doorstep wasn't what he wanted to see at this moment, yet here it fucking was. The door was unlocked, and the overpowering smell of cigarettes and, -oddly- lemons. Richies mother always bought more lemons than their whole street combined. She would make lemon juice, and then watch as she poured it out their back door every single morning. Richie never knew, and probably never would, know why. All he did know was this it was a waste of the goddamn money they didn't actually have.

Richie's father was sprawled out on their couch, asleep. His mother, was sitting in the kitchen, smoking a cigarette, a far-away look in her eyes. She was influenced by drugs. Again.
Richie sighed, he wished he wouldn't have to say this. This was supposed to be the other way around. His parents, telling him. 'Mom, if you don't stop, it's going to kill you.'

His mother didn't spare him a glance but when she answered him, her voice was raspy, the kind of voice you have after smoking for years on end. 'Did I ask for your fucking opinion? No, I don't think I did. So do me a favour and get the fuck out.' He did.

The problem with their house, was that in order to get to the stairs he would have to pass the living room, and more specifically, walk right past his father. This was not good for two reasons, his father seemed to find happiness in his pain and... was a second reason even needed? That should be plenty enough.
But Richie knew this wasn't true however. His parents loved him. They just loved him slightly differently to how everyone else loved their children.
As he moved to walk past, his father stirred. The boy was about to make a dash for the stairs, when a hand wrapped itself around his wrist. In that moment Richie felt like the bones in his wrist were made of dry twigs. So delicate.

'Richa-,' his father broke out into a series of horrible coughs, still clinging onto his son's wrist.

'Dad, my hand.' Richie wanted so desperately to yank his hand out of his fathers grip and run upstairs. Yet he knew he couldn't. The chubby fingers only tightened around the teens wrist and a stabbing sort of pain pulled through it.

'Why are you-' broken off by yet another series of coughs,'so late, Rich-ard?' The old mans voice was deep and choked up, it was clear to see that he wasn't exactly sober.

Richie stayed quiet. Though he could be quick to defend himself outside of his house, something about the fact that this was his parents always made him choke up, unable to form words. Maybe it was the knowledge of his wrist, feeling the bones evermore crushed as the time went on; he winced.

'You idiot, that was a question!' His father growled, and Richie muttered out a quiet answer. 'What? Speak up, boy!'

'I missed my stop.' He spoke, louder this time. The boy, black curly hair and huge coke bottle glasses with a heavily freckles face; he had tried to sound brave and confident, but even he knew that he was everything but.