Chapter Text
From the moment Richie pulls his brother out of his bed and past the quickly growing inferno in the living room, Seth futilely fights him to get to their dad. But Richie doesn’t pause in his escape attempt, holding onto Seth tightly enough to leave bruises with one hand, burning the palm of the other on the metal knob on the front door as he struggles to get it to turn in the increasing heat of the room. Even after they spot Ray crawling towards them across the floor, his body engulfed in flames, a lost cause if ever Richie had seen one, Seth still tries to reach out for him, to help him somehow.
Before he can, the door gives in, slamming open and hitting the wall with an audible crash as oxygen rushes into the room, fueling the flames. Richie grabs his brother around the waist and lifts him off the ground, sweeping him out the now open front door just as the fire roars to life behind, following them out the door, getting so close that it singes the hair on the back of his neck.
On the lawn, free of the searing heat, Richie keeps his grip on Seth, holds him tightly against his chest while he struggles to escape back into the wall of fire that led into the living room. Faintly, over the roar of the flames, Richie can hear pained screaming, growing louder and louder, until it crescendos, one final agonized howl, the sound echoing through the still midnight air. Silence falls over them, heavy and static, and Seth falls limp in his arms, all of the fight leaving his body in a single breath, the sudden dead weight of him dragging them both to the ground.
Richie doesn’t hear the sirens, doesn’t even see the lights, too transfixed by the flames pouring out of the windows, reaching up into the sky, not unlike Seth had reached for their dad, like it was the last chance he would ever have and he’d be damned if he’d didn’t at least try. It's not until one of the paramedics tries to pull Seth from his arms that he notices the cavalry had arrived. He doesn’t let up his grip and after a while, one of the medics crouches down next to them on the grass. The man watches them steadily and Richie watches him back, stares at him unblinking until he breaks, clearing his throat and looking away. After a beat, he says, voice cigarette rough, “Look kid, I ain’t got all night. Let me patch you two up so we can all get the hell out of here.”
Richie complies begrudgingly, releasing his grip on Seth just enough for the man to take his blistering hand. While the medic cleans and bandages Richie’s burnt palm, he watches the firemen attempt to battle the inferno that had almost fully engulfed the house.
Seth starts to cry when the medic moves on to him, his hands shaking so badly that the man can’t get the blood pressure cuff on him. Richie tears his gaze away from the fire and focuses his attention on his brother, taking his hand firmly, holding him steady enough that the medic can get his blood pressure.
Without a word, the medic walks away, clearly finished with them. Not even a minute later, a tall man steps in front of them, taking the medics place. Richie recognizes the navy blue uniform pants and looks up to see a young police officer staring down at them, a short, thin woman standing next to him, with a smile that was too big to be genuine and hair so blonde it hurt Richie's eyes to look at her.
The cop asks them some basic questions. Was there anyone else home? Did you notice anything out of the ordinary tonight? Does your father have a history of alcohol abuse? Does he smoke?
Having already practiced his responses Richie answers for them both. Yes. No. Yes. Yes.
After the officer asks his final question he passes them off to the woman, who he introduces as Susan, their new social worker before walking away without another word just like the medic before him.
Susan ushers them into the back of her car, driving away quickly, rambling all the while in a sickly sweet voice about the home they were going to. “Lucky for you two, it's real close to your uncle's place, practically next door!” She laughs, the sound bubbly, bouncing around the inside of the car. “It’ll only be for a few days, maybe less. Just until your uncle can get back into town..”
Her voice makes his teeth hurt, so he stops listening to her. He twists back in his seat and watches through the rear window as the flames slowly start to die out. He isn’t ready to leave, not yet, not until he knows for sure. He wants to know without a doubt that they’re safe, that Seth is safe, that they’re finally free. He wants to see what’s left of Ray and spit on his ashes, he wants to sweep up the pieces of him and throw them down a well, just in case he tries to Frankenstein himself back together again, his rotting corpse coming back for his revenge.
As the house grows more distant, Susan's voice filters back in, “That uncle of yours is sure a hard one to get a hold of. Must be an important man. You boys should be counting your lucky stars you’ve got someone like that to look out for you. Not everyone gets that.”
Richie finds himself hating this woman quickly and fiercely. How could she sit there and smile at them like she hadn’t whisked them away from the smoldering remains of their lives? Like they were just two normal kids? How dare she call them lucky ? She should be crying, sobbing, wrapping them into her arms and whispering soothing words into their hair. Your dads in a better place, she’s supposed to say even if he isn’t, not ask what their favorite animals are or what cartoons they like to watch. That’s how it always happens on TV. Why isn’t she sad or at least pretending to be? But the same could be asked of him, who sat twisted in his seat, watching what was left of his house crumble to dust before his own dry eyes.
-
Eddie’s lived in the same tiny ramshackle house for as long as Richie can remember. It’s always been the one constant in their lives. Ray moved them around a lot, especially after he stopped working, dodging angry landlords and eviction notices all over KC, dumping them off on Eddie’s doorstep until he could find another sap willing to rent to him, which started getting harder near the end.
So most of his memories were somewhere on the property. Sitting on the warped tile of the kitchen floor watching his mom and Eddie laugh with each other over steaming mugs. Holding Seth's tiny, sticky hand and walking with him through the shoulder-high grass in the yard, pretending that they were Lewis and Clark mapping the uncharted wilds of America. Mom, her hair almost blue in the sunlight, singing softly as she painstakingly sewed, Seth cooing in a cot next to them. Eddie teaching him how to throw a knife against the side of the perpetually half-built shed in the backyard, how to find the center of gravity and use it to his advantage. He knows the place better than he knows himself, from the scratches Peaches left on the fence in the backyard to the bloodstain on the front door where Eddie had accidentally hit Richie in the face with it when he was a baby.
Being at Eddie’s was the closest thing him or Seth ever got to being normal, let alone happy. Eddie would take them out to the movies or to the arcade in town. He bought them new clothes that he let them pick out for themselves. And every single night he would tuck them into bed.
The last time they’d stayed with him he took them to Graceland for Seth’s birthday. He made himself sick eating fried peanut butter and banana sandwiches and it’s evident in the picture Eddie still has hanging above his fireplace. The three of them holding their best Elvis pose in front of the mansion, Seth’s face a subtle shade of green behind his wide grin, just moments before he blew chunks all over the sidewalk and they were escorted off the premises.
Last summer, Ray found a new place and a new job, and he decided that he wanted the boys to stay home. That was that, no more being dumped on Eddie’s doorstep, no more summer visits, no more almost happiness. Eddie still visited, at least at first, but when he did he would fight with Ray and eventually, he resorted to phone calls. The social worker was right when she said he’s a busy man, he’s always out of town on some kind of business, mailing them expensive presents that Ray took from them and turned for a profit, and calling with stories that Richie and Seth both knew were straight out of the movies.
“We’re here!” Susan chirps from the front seat, her shrill voice pulling Richie from his thoughts. He glances out of the windshield and sure enough, the house sits in front of them at the end of a very long dirt road. “Just think about all of these new friends that you get to meet! Aren’t you two excited? I sure would be!”
As they get closer, Richie can start to see the house in more detail. At one point, it must have been painted a dark red but over the years the color had faded and bleed, now it was a burnt rust, like a car that had been left to dissolve in the elements. The house itself is tall, so tall that a small slant of light peeking out over the roof is the only evidence of the slowly rising sun behind it. Two down curving windows on the top floor, paired with the large gaping porch giving it the image of an eerie grimacing face. The front yard is permanently cast in shadow, a wide line the size of the house visible on the front lawn, the grass fading from living to dying, green to brown.
Richie's first thought as the house comes fully into view is that it looks angry. Like it’s seen many terrible things pass through its doors, carrying the weight of all of those horrors in its foundation, and it did not wish to carry their tragedy as well. He knows it the way he knows most things, intrinsically, without question, from a deep, dark part of him that he didn’t like to think about.
Susan parks the car and steps out quickly. Richie sees his chance, whispering his brothers’ name, the word echoing through the blessed silence of the car, trying to get his attention, but when he moves to continue, to ask him, can you see the house watching us? I think it can smell us, I think it knows. The words get stuck in his throat, tiny claws digging into his larynx, fighting him on their way out. Even if he could manage to get the words out it wouldn’t matter, he can tell that Seth isn’t listening anyway. He’s still crying, still staring out of his window and gripping the quilt around him so tightly Richie worries that he might rip it. His body might be here, but his mind isn’t, a feeling Richie knows all too well, so he lets it go, at least for now.
It’s not until Susan pulls them from the car and over the line of living-dead grass that Richie starts to feel sick, his stomach revolting against him with every movement. The long path leading to the stairs is broken in places, edges of chipped concrete threatening to catch the sides of his singed sneakers as he steps over them. He wants nothing more than to turn heel and run as fast and as far as he can from this horrible place, dragging Seth behind him the whole way, but he knows that won’t accomplish anything. So instead, he reaches out and takes his brother’s hand firmly in his own, reminding himself of exactly what was important right now. The edge of the quilt brushing his wrist and the heat from Seth’s palm makes the walk up the jagged, cracked front steps that much easier.
When the social worker knocks on the door Richie feels it echo inside of him. It might be from dehydration or smoke inhalation or the fact that neither he nor Seth had any real sleep that night, but Richie swears he can hear the house, whispering to him in a quiet groan, you have no place here firestarter, leave this place before my bones crack under the weight of you. He does his best to ignore it, and slowly, the whispering fades until he can no longer hear it over the birds chirping, signaling the official arrival of morning.
After a long while, a portly older woman in a faded floral dress answers the door with an annoyed look. Behind her, the house is dimly lit and eerily silent, the floor littered with toys and loose pieces of clothing, the only thing in the dreary room showing the fact that the house was apparently full of children.
“I told you already, there's no more room here.” The woman hisses, glaring at Susan, not even glancing at them. At the top of the stairs just barely visible from the outside of the front door Richie sees a blinding white flash followed by a quiet whirring sound, he turns to Seth to ask him if he’d seen it too, but Seth waves him off, stares ahead with a clenched jaw, his eyes dry but still red, watching two adults bicker over their future.
“It's just for a few nights I promise. Their uncle will be here by Monday.” Susan’s voice is still sickly sweet, barely phased by the woman at the door, like she wasn’t an actual person but some kind of fembot, one of the Stepford Wives brought to life.
“Does no mean nothing to you people? Take them somewhere else! I’ve already got a full house.” The woman says with a flourish towards the empty room behind her.
“Beverly, please.” For the first time in the hours they had known her, the social workers smile breaks. Just a fraction, but enough for Richie to see underneath the surface, the cracks in her blindingly bright surface, the weariness she hid so well. In a quieter voice, one they’re obviously not meant to hear, she adds, “There is nowhere else.”
“Maybe I can take one, but-” The woman- Beverly- gets cut off by the sudden appearance of a young girl grabbing onto her arm, gently tugging at her sleeve. She turns towards the source of the intrusion, annoyance written clearly across her face.
“They can have my bed.” The girl offers in a soft voice, glancing up at Beverly through her eyelashes, her lips pulled down into a perfect pout. Richie has seen Seth use that look on Eddie before to get something out of him, but he’s never been able to master it himself. Puppy dog eyes, Eddie calls it . “Ben and I can share. Please?”
Beverly glances from the girl to the boys and back again before sighing heavily and turning on Susan. “Fine. They can both stay for a few days. But you owe me.”
The social worker smiles again but the cracks are still there, maybe were always there, he just didn’t notice them before. He needs to start paying more attention, especially here in this house full of strangers that can speak to him. Susan tells them, don’t worry, your uncle will be here in just a few days. You’ll be safe here until then. Richie doesn’t believe her, but there’s no use in arguing. She leaves without so much as a backward glance, wiping her slate clean of them, like the medic and cop before her.
Beverly brings them inside, muttering about all the dirt they were tracking in behind them like they weren’t covered head to toe in the ashes of their previous life. As soon as the door shuts behind them, she waves them off, walking away without so much as another word.
The girl jogs up the stairs quickly, gesturing for them to follow. At the top, she stops suddenly, leaning down and whispering with a small brown-haired boy who sat on the edge of the top stair, clinging so tightly to the banister that his knuckles were white.
While the two of them whisper with each other, Richie takes the opportunity to study them closely, wary of missing any other crucial details. The girl is rail-thin like she hasn’t seen a good meal in her life, and at least a head taller than Richie. Her hair was pulled back into a loose braid, trailing down to the middle of her back, the color reminded him of a sunset, of the sun reflecting orange and burning through the clouds. Her skin was pale, almost translucent, even in the dim light of the room, what little he could see of it was covered in freckles, almost like someone had splattered her with brown paint. Barely visible from underneath the edges of her shirt he can see thick, white, raised lines littering the back of her arms and neck. Immediately he recognizes them as welt scars, most likely from a belt. He would know them anywhere. He saw them every day.
Where the girl is rough, all sharp edges and long thin limbs, the boy is soft and small. He’s about Seth’s size, with more weight to him. His jaw is rounder, softer than the girls, his cheeks fuller. His skin is slightly more tanned, his hair a dark shade of brown, like a strong coffee. It’s not until they both turn towards him that he sees the resemblance, that he marks them as siblings. It's the eyes that give them away. A warm shade of hazel, shifting in the dim light, the girls into a light green, the boys into a stormy gray.
As quickly as the girl stopped, she starts again, walking them away from the boy and down a long dark hallway full on both sides with doors. Carefully, Richie takes in his surroundings, walking slowly behind the girl, cataloging everything his gaze falls on.
“I’m Brooke, that’s my brother Ben. He’s crazy shy.” She talks as quickly as she walks, the words falling in a rush out of her mouth as she leads them down the hall. Richie barely hears her anyway, too focused on the doors. Some were dark brown, others white, a few had clearly been drawn on with crayons and markers. But the thing that stood out the most was that not one single door was the same, not the shape or size, one was even too small for its frame, a large slant of light peering through the top of it. Most of them were closed, but a few were cracked open, other children peeking out and watching them make their way down the hall with cold, hard eyes.
More weight to carry, the house groans when Richie steps on the wrong board, reminding him of its presence. Each board told him something different. More bodies to warm, step, more mouths to feed, step, more more more.
Leave this place in peace, it whines at him as she opens a curved wooden door at the end of the hallway, ushering them into a small room with a low, slanted ceiling. There were two beds pushed against the wall on either side of the room, a large window above the one on the right, a small desk between them. Other than the unmade beds and the strap of a backpack peeking out from beneath the left bed there was no evidence that anyone lives there. It feels more to Richie like a cell than a bedroom, but he knows better than most that looks can be deceiving.
“The bed on the right is yours. I gotta go help Bev get the younger kids ready for school, we’re running real late.” Before either of them can reply, she’s gone. Richie can hear her steps as she moves quickly back down the hall, listens until they disappear entirely before he turns back towards his brother.
For a moment, they both stand awkwardly in the middle of the room watching each other. As usual, Seth breaks the tension, sighing heavily as he sits on their borrowed bed. “This sucks.”
“Tell me about it.” Before he can stop it, a small manic bubble of laughter escapes his lips. He tries to cover it with a cough but Seth shoots him a dirty look, tears returning to his eyes.
“Richie, what are we gonna do? Our house burned down. ” The words echo throughout the room, a touch too loud. He continues, quieter, voice breaking, “Dad’s dead .” Richie manages to stop the smile that threatens to creep to the surface, reminding himself, not the time, not the place .
“Hey,” Richie says softly, sitting next to his brother on the small bed. “when Eddie gets here it’s all gonna be okay. I promise.”
Seth sniffles, wipes his sleeve across his face the way Richies been trying to get him to stop doing for ages, and looks up at him like he’s the only person on earth that he can trust, asking him in a small voice, “You really think so?”
“Of course I do. And I’m always right, so stop worrying so much.” Richie pulls the quilt off of Seth and drapes it around them both, pulling his brother against him in a tight hug. “Hey, at least we still have this.” He didn’t know if Seth remembers where it came from, who made it, why it was the only other thing Richie had grabbed on their mad dash for the door.
“Yeah.” Together, they lay down on the bed, covering themselves with the last tangible piece of their previous lives. A life jacket protecting them from the storm raging ahead. “At least we still have Mom.”
He might not have a lot of things, like parents or clean clothes, but he still has his brother. And really, that's all he needs. All he’ll ever need.
-
Richie wakes sometime later to the sound of distant, frantic screaming. He jumps out of bed, ready to grab a still fast asleep Seth and run when the sound stops as quickly as it had begun. Over the sound of his racing heart, he can hear laughter, bright and cheerful from just outside the window above the bed. With a deep breath, he looks out of it warily.
Through the dirty glass, he sees a handful of younger kids wearing a rainbow assortment of clothes chasing each other down the long driveway leading to the house. Backing the group he instantly spots Brooke, her red hair like a beacon in the midday sunlight.
For a moment he thinks about turning away, almost does, but something draws him back. And when he looks again, he can see Brooke, close enough now that he can almost make out her features, jumping up and down, waving her arms wildly in the air. She almost hits Ben in the face but he ducks under her arm at the last second, the move practiced.
Cautiously, he raises his hand and waves back at her.
-
When Brooke finishes herding the younger kids, who she affectionately refers to as babies even though the youngest is at least 5, into the backyard, she shows them around the house.
Ben follows close behind, her smaller, softer shadow. There are rules, she tells them, but there’s only one that really matters. Don’t cross Bev. She’s in charge here, and she’s got about as much patience as the Queen of Hearts, so you better keep a tight grip on your head while you still got it.
Most of the house is off-limits. Other kids' rooms ( unless you wanna lose a hand) , the living room ( unless you wanna get beat) , even the kitchen ( unless it's your turn to clean) . She says that most of the kids just do their chores and spend the rest of the day outside.
Soon after the tour, Brooke passes them off to her brother, citing her extra chores as an excuse before wandering off into the forbidden living room. Ben doesn’t talk, just gestures towards the backdoor and up the stairs, giving them a choice before walking up the steps.
Seth bolts out the backdoor before Richie can stop him. Through the sliding glass door, he can see his brother diving headfirst into the nearest group of kids, a smile across his face. Every inch of the yard is claimed, from the far corner of the fence to the back porch, there's at least one person sitting in the overgrown grass and there’s no way he’s up to that much socialization right now, so Richie follows Ben’s lead and heads up the stairs and back to the room.
Inside, Ben sits at the desk, hunched over something. Richie steps closer, glancing over Ben’s shoulder. It's a drawing, only half-finished he assumes. A plain vase filled with a bouquet of sunflowers. The lines are light, practically invisible, the curves so perfect it’s almost as if they were traced. “You like to draw?” Richie asks after a few moments, when it starts to feel like he's watching something private, something he isn't meant to see.
Ben jumps, moves to close his sketchbook, but he pauses, hovering for a moment before moving his hands back to the surface of the desk, whispering his answer, “Paint, mostly.” His voice is just as soft as he is, just as quiet and jittery. Honestly, he’s surprised that Ben answered at all, he’d expected a nod or maybe a stony silence, not actual words, and he sure doesn’t expect him to continue but he does, voice a touch louder. “Do you?”
Without really thinking about it, Richie answers swiftly, the words easily falling out of his mouth, it wasn’t everyday that he gets to talk about his art with someone who understands. “Yeah, Seth and I have our own comic called Discount Reality. It's about a P.I. named Saul Vitahl who lives in the Golden Age of Hollywood and he takes jobs from movie stars. We had a whole bunch of them before…” Richie trails off, thinking about the notebook on his bookshelf back at the house full of the only copies of their storyboards and sketches, all of their hard work burnt to a crisp.
Without another word Ben flips his sketchbook to an empty page, ripping it out and handing it to Richie along with a pencil. He takes it cautiously, waiting for the other shoe to drop.
When it doesn’t, he sits on the floor, using the wood as a base to hold the paper still. He draws what he had seen earlier. Seth, king of the misfits, diving headfirst into a group of strangers, his smile like the beacon of a lighthouse, guiding him back home during a storm.
-
Later that night, after an awkward dinner, a much-needed shower and a semi-fresh change of clothes, Richie goes back to the room fully intending to fall into a deep and blissful sleep, only to find Seth already deep asleep, spread out across the bed looking more peaceful than Richie had seen him in years.
The sight of his brother, spread out on the stained sheets, face open and serene, makes his guilt lessen, if only a bit. He’d done the right thing, he’d set them free, there were no other options. But even as he thinks it he can taste the ash in his mouth again, feel it coating his skin. The house begins to whisper to him again, calling him firestarter, murderer, and suddenly he needs fresh air, more than he needs sleep. He needs to be somewhere that he can’t hear the house anymore, the whispers and the groans growing by the second.
Richie soon finds himself in the backyard, surprised at how different it is from the front. He’d seen it earlier, but it was almost a completely separate place in the darkness, devoid of all life. The grass is long and luscious, overgrown in patches, toys hidden in the dense foliage. A half-broken swing set stands tall and inviting to the right of the lawn, wood sun-bleached and cracked from the elements. The sun obviously shines back here.
He sucks in a greedy lungful of fresh air, lying down in one of the patches of soft grass. Watching the fireflies zoom over him, he sees the moon as if for the first time, with fresh new eyes. Never before had it looked so bright, so full, never before had he noticed how much light it reflected. He felt like how he imagined a phoenix would feel as it rose from its ashes, powerful but also frightened by this new world he found himself in, relearning what it meant to simply be.
The quiet whirring sound and bright flash from before shakes him from his thoughts and he looks towards the source of the sudden light, finding Brooke standing a few feet away from him, a camera cradled gently in her pale hands.
“Sorry about earlier.” She says softly, taking a step closer as she pulls the picture from the camera. “Bev’s pretty strict about chores.”
Richie watches her steadily, letting the silence grow between them like a wall, hoping she’ll take the hint. She drops the camera, letting the strap around her neck catch it, slipping the picture into her pocket.
“I just wanted to bring you this.” Stepping closer, she drops a backpack onto the ground next to him. He sits up slowly, watching her warily even as he grabs the bag, only taking his eyes off of her when she sits down across from him.
Inside the bag he finds clothes in roughly his and Seth's sizes, much cleaner than the ones they had been given earlier, some basic toiletries, an almost empty notebook, and a set of playing cards still in the plastic wrap.
“Thanks.” He finally manages to say around the knot that begins to grow in his throat at the mere thought of clean clothes.
“No problem.” She laughs quietly, holding her camera up again, pointing it at the sky. A whir and a flash. She sets the picture gently on the ground.
“How long have you been here?” The question slips out of his mouth before he can think it through, his curiosity getting the best of him.
“Too long.” Another whir, another flash, another picture.
“Do you like it?”
“There's a lot worse places to be.” Whir, flash, picture.
“What happened to your parents?”
She laughs, louder than before, startling him. “They died.”
“How?”
“Same as you.” She says quietly, with a pointed glance in his direction, her eyes briefly flashing in the light of the fireflies, suddenly serious. For a moment Richie sees himself reflected back, but it passes so quickly he isn't sure it even happened.
“Oh.” Did you set it? He thinks but doesn't ask. If you did, how? Lighter fluid? Gasoline? How did you get away with it? Why did you do it? Instead, he asks her, “ Did you know that there are over 2000 species of fireflies? The most common is the photuris pyralis. They defend themselves by giving off foul odors and releasing a sticky substance. It's known as reflex bleeding. What if people could do that?”
“The world would smell a lot worse.” She crinkles her nose, waving her hand in front of her face like she was clearing the air. Richie doesn’t crack a smile, but she keeps going anyway, either unaware of him or simply not caring.
“But you’d be able to tell who the bad people are. No matter how good and clean they looked, you’d be able to smell it. And then you could protect yourself. Before it's too late.” Not entirely sure why, he finds himself trying to get her attention, to reason with her, to get her to see the meaning behind his words.
Slowly, she turns towards him, her smile gone. “It's never too late for anything.” She says in a voice so quiet he isn’t even sure she said anything at all. The final polaroid joins the others on the grass and the puzzle is complete. A panoramic of the fireflies movement through the night sky, almost like a comet. She grins at him and for a second he swears he can see something dark behind her teeth, but she stands before he can check again, gathering her pictures quickly and walking back into the house.
He stays in the grass for a long while, watching the fireflies move through the sky until only two remain, dancing a fiery pa de deux, leaving trails of light behind them. After he gets too cold, he follows her inside the house, wondering idly if maybe the dark thing he had seen was the house taken root in her. Or maybe she was the house, maybe it was her that had been whispering to him. Maybe the whispers were not threats but warnings.
That night he dreams of a forest on fire. Of a tall thin figure watching him from inside the flames, beckoning for him to join them. He almost does. Almost. But before he can, Seth is there, grabbing onto his arm and pulling him away from the fire, shouting at him all the while, we need to get out of here .
-
The next day is Saturday, so the place is gonna be jam-packed , Brooke tells them, unless you wanna get stuck babysitting, you better get your chores done fast and get out the door.
Since Richie and Seth are still considered guests, they haven't been assigned chores yet so they help Brooke and Ben with theirs. Together the four of them make quick work of the kitchen. After about 20 minutes the place is sparkling, or at least as close as it ever will be, and Brooke calls it good. Ben goes upstairs, returning with a tattered army green backpack that he hands off to Brooke.
She leads them out back and over the fence. Richie tries to ask where they’re going, but Ben waves him off, mutters, roll with it , under his breath just loud enough for Richie to hear, so he reluctantly does, following his brothers lead. He’s never been a go with the flow type of person, not like Seth. No, Richie likes things neat and orderly, a place for everything, and everything in its place . He hates surprises and he hates being spontaneous and more than anything he hates not knowing.
Seth follows next to her, jogging to keep up with her long stride, chattering up a storm all the while. Richie and Ben trail behind them, a comfortable silence between them.
Eventually, after what feels like hours of walking, they come to a small bridge overlooking a murky green creek, so shallow you could see the rocks covering the bed, even through the dark water. Brooke climbs over the concrete ledge and jumps without a backward glance. Richie and Seth run to the edge, glancing over it nervously, expecting to find her sitting in the creek with a broken leg, but she's nowhere to be found.
Ben follows close behind her, dropping off the ledge and landing gracefully on the edge of the water, gesturing for them to follow. Seth goes next, landing in the middle of the creek with a laugh, splashing through the water.
Richie climbs up onto the ledge, his legs dangling over the edge, fully ready to jump, but when he looks down, something makes him think about the book his class was reading, Bridge to Terabithia. He’d torn through the entire thing in one sitting and instantly regretted it. He couldn’t stop thinking about Leslie, about what it would feel like to drown, alone, knowing that no one was coming to save you. Would it be better to be unaware as your life slowly drained from your body? Or would it be better to be awake? At least then you had a chance to reflect before the silence overtook you.
Silence. No more splashing, no more laughter. Panicked, Richie quickly looks up from the water, finding himself alone, Seth nowhere to be found. He may not have been born with guts, but he didn't have to die without them. “Seth!” He shouts as he jumps, landing on his feet near the edge of the water, thankfully sparing his shoes a good soaking.
“Richie!” Comes a reply from further down the creek. He runs after it, heart racing, worrying thoughts filling his head. “Hurry!” The voice calls again, much closer and clearly Seth’s, followed by a series of splashing. Richie ducks into the trees where the source of the sound is coming from and almost falls headfirst into a small lagoon.
“Hate to break it to you, buddy,” Seth shouts at him, swimming over, “But you’re too late, you’re the rotten egg.” Seth splashes him with freezing cold water, swimming away before Richie can retaliate.
In the murky water, he can see Seth, swimming back towards deeper water. Brooke floats along past him, lying on her back, arms outstretched, face turned towards the sky. On the shore, Ben sits on a tattered blue blanket, sketchbook open in his lap, a box of paints next to him. “What about him?”
Brooke’s voice startles him, closer than he’d expected. “Ben doesn’t count.” He turns back to the water, Brooke and Seth are right on the edge watching him.
Uncomfortable under their combined scrutiny, he blurts out the first excuse he can think of, “I don’t have a swimsuit.”
Brooke shrugs, the water shifting underneath the movement of her arms, the straps of her tank top just barely visible. “Neither do we.”
Finally, he gives in. Sits on the blanket next to Ben and slowly peels off his clothes, leaving only his underwear and t-shirt on. Slowly, he makes his way into the water. Before he can get used to the temperature, Seth jumps on his back, dunking him under the murky surface.
-
“You guys play poker?” Brooke asks after they call it quits and move into the sunshine to dry off, the corner of her mouth tugging upwards ever so slightly as she pulls a well-worn pack of cards out of her backpack.
Seth laughs, “Does the pope shit in the woods?”
“Watch your mouth.” Richie chides him, turning to Brooke, “What are we playing for?”
“Is my friendship not enough?” She jokes, dumping the contents of her backpack out onto the blanket. There’s some loose money, maybe around $14 total, a seemingly gold watch that he doesn’t truly believe is real, a silver necklace with a small green stone in the shape of a teardrop attached to the chain. But what really catches his eye is the knife, long and slender, with a light cherrywood hilt, which he instantly recognizes as a Linder, his dad's favorite brand. Say what you will about Krauts, but they sure know their pig stickers. His dad's voice rings in his ears, but he ignores it, focusing on the knife. He wants it, no, he needs it. “The winner today will get their pick of the litter.”
“I’m in.” Richie says quickly, already imagining the way it would feel in his hand, the weight of it, how far he could throw it.
-
Brooke almost wins, but on the last hand Richie lays her out with a straight flush. To her credit, she takes the loss well, much better than he would. Seth and him were both sore losers, always have been, but Richie was always much worse, even he could admit that. It wasn’t all their fault. For as long as he can remember his dad was telling them, if you’re not first, you’re last, and there ain’t nothing worse than a loser. Did a damn good job beating it into them.
“Deals a deal,” She gestures towards the loot pile, waving her arms through the air dramatically. Richie snatches up the knife as quickly as he can. He tests the weight of it, handle-heavy, the sharpness of the blade, dull like it had never been sharpened before. “Go ahead,” Brooke continues in a voice that he’s sure is supposed to be Vanna White. “Take your pick. Just don’t let anyone see you with your prize.”
She says it with such conviction that Richie almost laughs, catching himself at the last moment. “Why, they stolen or something?”
“It’s more like finders keepers.” Brooke shrugs, “Not every kid comes back for their stuff, and whatever gets left behind is fair game.”
The sun had started to set during their game, so as soon as Richie picks his prize, Brooke tells them it's time to head out. Some of the high schoolers come here to party after dark and you don’t wanna be here when they show up. She shoves the rest of the loot back into the backpack, followed by Bens sketchbook and paintbox, and finally the blanket.
The walk back to the house feels longer than it did earlier, maybe because of the hours they’d spent swimming. Either way, Richie finds himself falling behind again, Seth and Brooke walking ahead, chattering up a storm, just far enough that he can’t hear them.
Ben taps Richie on the shoulder, startling him into stopping in his tracks. He hands Richie a folded piece of paper before walking off, as silent as ever. He unfolds the paper slowly, wary of what might be written on it, but it’s just a picture.
A bouquet of sunflowers in a blue and yellow vase, the same drawing he’d seen Ben working on the day before, but that had just been a sketch, this was the final product, and it took his breath away. The colors are vibrant, the paint strokes precise and nearly perfect, but what really gets to him are the flowers themselves. Instead of seeds, the heads are small pieces of red hot charcoal, the petals are the flames, licking out from the center of each flower, edging up towards the top of the painting like fingers reaching for the sky.
-
The next day they go back to the lagoon. Brooke brings a notebook with her. She tells them each to make two lists, one of the things they lost and will miss, and one of the things that they won’t. That way, she tells them, it’ll be easier to start working on replacing what you can.
It takes them a few hours, but eventually, Richie and Seth finish their lists. Brooke takes the papers from them, folds them into tiny squares, and drops them into a metal bowl she pulls out of her bag.
“ Fire doesn’t just destroy ,” She says, striking a match and dropping it into the bowl, “It also creates. It purifies. In some places, they start forest fires on purpose. Its called a controlled burn. The trees need the fire, they need to burn. If they don’t, they get sick, they start to rot, they get infested with bugs and the dirt turns to poison underneath them.” She puts the bowl into the water and pushes it out. “People are a lot like that too. If they stay in one place too long, standing too still in the same old dirt, they start to rot just the same. They get sick and mean and in turn, they make others the same way, until pretty soon there’s a whole forest full of rotten trees. And by then, the only thing you can do is burn the whole thing down to make way for new growth and hope that the rot doesn’t creep back in.”
-
Eddie shows up early Monday morning, just after the rest of the kids leave for school. Pulling up to the house in a huff, eyes red-rimmed, clothes sweat-stained and disheveled, his hair not much better. He’d been in California for the last couple of months, fishing and drinking and napping on the beach he’d told them over the phone the week before when they had finally managed to get ahold of him. One look at him and it was clear that he’d been driving nonstop since he’d gotten the news.
Eddie crosses the feet between them in a series of quick steps, almost crashing into them as they step off of the porch, wrapping both of them up in his arms, hugging them almost painfully tight against him while he talks over them to Beverly. Eddies thanks her profusely for watching them until he could make it back to town, tells her, I owe you one ma’am. Bev grins at him, a new woman, no longer old beyond her years, no longer bitter and cold, but young and warm and almost friendly . It makes Richie feel sick, the disingenuousness of the whole exchange, but he doesn’t say anything, just lets himself bask in the warmth he felt in Eddie’s embrace, the familiar smell of gun oil and strong coffee, letting out a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding.
At that moment, his face smushed into Eddie’s chest, his brother’s breath on his neck, Richie feels safe for the first time in years. This is what he’d wanted from the social worker, that nameless thing he had craved. He’d wanted to be comforted, cared for, maybe even loved.
Eddie shuffles them into his car as quickly as he can, chattering mindlessly about his plans for their future. For the first time in the days since their lives had gone up in flames both Richie and Seth forget about their troubles, even for just a moment, and let themselves be hooked on Eddies every word. They let themselves fall so deeply into a sense of hesitant hope that they momentarily forget about their new friends, and don't even think to look behind them, to go back inside and gather their things.
If they had, Richie might have heard the house, groaning out a rough, goodbye . For even though it begrudged the weight of them, the house loved its children and mourned the loss of each one.