Chapter Text
"Maman!" Richie called out in his house, trying to find his darling mother and ask her for the teeniest, tiniest favor.
He finds her in the kitchen, on the phone with someone. He doesn't think to wonder who it is at the moment. She says a few affirmative responses to the other person. Richie, like always when someone is in another conversation, doesn't think to wait it out.
"Momma, can I ask you something?" He says to try to gain her attention. He realizes, right after he says it, that that was stupid and he shouldn't bother her or make her mad by trying to interrupt her. Then he fears, and hates himself.
Except, all she does is hold up a finger to signal in a minute. He nods, waiting impatiently.
"Alright, talk to you later." The call ends. She puts the landline back on the wall. "What is it?" She prompts once she's free.
"Yes, right," He gains back his composure. "Bill said this weekend he wants to bring us all to go see a movie, and my dear mother, I may, sort of, possibly, need money."
"Right. And your allowance money is where?" She asks with a raised eyebrow.
"Well..." Uh oh. His allowance money is in the pockets and wallets of some underpaid teenager or other uncaring workers that Richie had bought candy and comic books from. Well, not all of his allowance went to just that. He lent money to Beverly when she said she needed new clothes and was a few dollars short. In Richie's defense, she looked exhausted and beaten down. Of course he would help out a friend at his own expense, that's what he's there for! (While he recognizes that can sometimes be harmful, he tries his best to do it in a way that wont affect himself too horribly.)
"What movie and how much would a ticket be?" She sighed. She may have been exaggerating, but Richie still felt guilt burn it's way down to his stomach till it felt sour.
"It's Arachnophobia, and it's only six dollars." He says in his most innocent, persuading tone. She gives him a look.
"A horror movie?" He nods. "You wont get nightmares?"
"No, I wont get nightmares." He whines.
"Okay... Well, I suppose if you get your chores done then you can go." She negotiates.
Fuck. Chores. Oh Bill, the things I do for you and a good movie. "Deal." He agrees.
"Deal." She concludes. As he's about to thank her and turn to quickly go see how bad his room is—his chores are usually to clean his room, vacuum all the rugs and carpets, and take down the laundry. She gave him chores he should and would actually do at his age and status—she says something. "Oh, and I just got off the phone with your Aunt Emiline. She said that they can be free on the fifteenth to visit, so she's talking to the rest of the family with me."
"Visiting?"
"Yeah, the family reunion, or whatever your grandfather calls it." She smiles fondly and looks away, while Richie is battling demons in his mind.
AAAAAUUUUULLLLLGGGHHH. FUCK THIS SHIT. I FORGOT ABOUT THAT. GOD-FUCKING-DAMNIT.
1
Richie was cleaning his room now, which consisted of dirty clothes pretty much everywhere. Maybe it was bad that he could barely see his own floor, so he brought all of the clothes to the laundry basket. Now, he did have comic books and old toys scattered everywhere that he has no clue where to put, but his biggest issue was the dishes on his bedside table. They weren't quite piling yet, but they were practically threatening to.
Am I disgusting? He didn't entertain the thought, nor did he even bother to give himself an answer. The thought existed for 1 second and was brushed off before it was finished forming. He had bigger fish to fry, currently.
Five random empty cups were sat on the table. He had no clue which was oldest or newest, and he didn't remember what he even put in them. He's just eternally thankful that none of them had grown mold.
Two plates sat under everything, which Richie thinks one had toast, the other? No idea.
Six bowls were stacked on top of those aforementioned plates, one was used for cereal, two for ice cream, one for a snack he made himself (dino nuggets or chips, really), and- uhhhhhh. Yeah, he didn't know about the last two.
He took them all down to the sink. He didn't have to wash them because his mother knows he can't be fully trusted, and besides, she also knows that if he has to wash any dishes with leftover food or something in it he may throw up. Or at the very least gag three times. Yeah, he wasn't good with textures and whatever category that can be put in.
Good, he was done. Mostly. give him this one thing.