Notes

Hope you all enjoy this chapter! Had a lot of fun writing it, though had to put Richie through all kinds of hell before I could call it a finished chapter. D: Feedback and comments are all very very much appreciated, and I have to be honest and say that I'm thrilled with all of you who have read and supported the story since it debuted almost two years ago. If I could distribute cookies over the internet I would totally do it.

Now crossposted on my livejournal, for those of you who prefer to read stuff on that platform instead. Other chapters will be coming, but for now the permalink to my fics, fanart, etc is [ community . livejournal . com / daikontime / ].

Chapter 5: Slackened Ties


It wasn't just "Thomas and a few others" like Madelyn had said. Looking back, Richie realized that he really should have expected something like this.

The place Madelyn called "home" was a three stories of swanky, modern beach house, all clean lines and mood lighting, and her parents—wherever they were—apparently were open to the use of their house as an after-hours gathering for half the senior class. There must have been at least a hundred fifty Dakota High students in the whole place, half of them in the house and half of them taking advantage of the white sand beach that was Madelyn's back yard.

"This is gorgeous," Daisy murmured, as Madelyn led them on a grand tour of the house. This set of cherry oak cabinets is actually what they call a "Chinese apocathery." My parents got it in Beijing last year when they were visiting President Hu Jintao. Apparently the party had gotten started a little while ago and the lady of the house—Madelyn, that is—had carefully orchestrated it so that she'd be welcomed with fanfare to her own party. Oh, this vase? My dad says it's a genuine Etruscan piece, but I'm convinced it's an 18th-century French replica. Richie was torn between the desire to gawk at all the general opulence of Madelyn's beach house and the desire to roll his eyes at his date's self-aggrandizing behavior. We had the pool put in a few months ago, but my mom couldn't stand swimming in the cold, so now we have a retractable greenhouse roof so you can swim at three in the morning and it'll still feel seventy degrees.

Their crowd scattered, met up with others, people that they were surprised to see, people they normally wouldn't see. Madelyn had amassed a wide range of cliques—the Asian nerds, looking surprisingly put together in their crisp shirts and tuxedo pants, the wrestling team, unsurprisingly engaging in an arm-wrestling contest on the kitchen island, the It Girls who were all dressed in skintight satin gowns and giving Madelyn looks of approval in varying levels. For some reason, it was as if senior year had really kicked in, finally, and everybody was moving on beyond the old high school tropes, converging into some sort of inter-class unity. Richie supposed it was also because everybody was just having a good time.

Thomas had been long abandoned by his date but was engaged in some conversation with Frieda by the patio bonfire. They approached and Thomas stood up straighter, eagerly waving them over.

"Where'd Joanne go?" Richie found himself blurting out, despite a sharp look from Daisy.

Thomas looked embarrassed and nodded ambivalently. "Frieda was just telling me she saw her hooking up with one of the wrestlers—well, not that it really matters, I guess I was holding her back long enough…"

"Anyway," Daisy chimed in, sparing Thomas the awkwardness of having to explain any further, "how has your night been so far?" She looked at Frieda.

"Yeah, we haven't seen you at all," Virgil said.

Frieda looked slightly embarrassed, glaring playfully at Daisy. "Well, as you know, my choice of date was a bit… how do I put it? Risky."

Daisy sighed. "So where'd Francis go now?"

Richie and Virgil shot each other alarmed looks at the same time. Hotstreak? Richie could feel his eyes bugging as he mouthed at Virgil, wasn't he expelled?

Virgil looked a little more in shock at the fact that Frieda had succumbed to the ministrations of his old freshman year romantic rival, more than anything else. "You came with Francis?"

Frieda looked confused at his outburst, and then defensive. "He's changed a lot since freshman year, okay? He said he was out getting a few drinks, and that he'd be back soon—"

Virgil puffed out his chest, glaring at nothing in particular. "Probably out stealing a car, if I know him well enough."

Frieda looked defensive, but not angry. "Look, he was really sweet when he asked me—"

"The only sweet thing that kid could care about is how sweet his next ride is going to be—"

"Virg—" Richie and Daisy both started, before Madelyn's voice cut them off.

"There, there, my vanilla soul." She was speaking to Virgil, patting him on the head and ruffling his dreadlocks—as best as anybody could ruffle them, anyway. "Don't get your panties in a twist. Some of us do better than others, in the long run." And she looked pointedly at him before taking Richie by the arm in one smooth motion. "Hey Foley, come upstairs with me for a second."

She had an iron grip on his arm as she led him up the stairway, the other hand pulling up her dress so she wouldn't trip on the hem. Richie stumbled to keep up after her, and was surprised to suddenly find himself in her room with the door shut behind them and Madelyn fumbling around in her closet.

"Where is it… ah-ha! Here you are!" She turned around and flourished a dark red bottle of—Richie squinted.

"Is that alcohol?" He squeaked, and then wondered if it was gauche to appear shocked.

"I've been saving it for tonight." Madelyn grinned at him. Richie thought that the impish look suited her. "Snuck it from my parents' wine cellar last month. I thought that maybe we could split it."

"The whole thing?" Richie felt his eyes bugging again.

She rolled her eyes. "We can invite the others up in a little bit. You're my date, right? I figured—" She pursed her lips, as if hesitant, or embarrassed. "Look, I just figured you weren't going to do anything romantic, so I might as well... Not that this is—" she caught herself again, and glared at Richie. "I'm not trying to wine or dine you! Don't get the wrong idea!"

"I'm not so sure—"

"It's just wine, dummy," Madelyn said hotly. "What, your parents never let you have any on the holidays?"

Richie had to contain a laugh while reminding himself over and over that Bruce wasn't going to come flying through the window and trussing him up like a goose to turn him over to the police for underage drinking. Well, technically it wasn't even underage drinking yet—they were just looking at (and holding) a bottle of pinot noir.

Madelyn's face was a mixture of shyness and anticipation and indignant fire, and Richie did laugh. He felt warm from his head to his toes, special, and untouchable, almost. He could sense that she wanted him to be here—needed him to be here, in some way, with her hand gripping the wine bottle like she was holding onto it for dear life, like she didn't care what Richie thought of this when they both knew very well that she did.

The words were on the tip of his tongue—Sorry, Madelyn, I don't drink— but suddenly she looked so sad, so melancholy, so vulnerable, and Richie knew that she had really worn her heart on her sleeve the moment she brought out the bottle of wine for them to share, that she'd wanted to strike a truce between them.

"You're much more mellow these days," he said, taking the bottle out of her hands, absently reading the label. "Whatever happened to the high-strung class president candidate we all used to know and love?"

She looked sharply at him. "Going through all kinds of crazy mutant shit will do that to you."

Richie returned her look. She smiled at him again, almost wanly, as if remembering something she'd rather not be thinking about—he felt guilty for bringing it up.

He took a deep breath. Batman has better things to do than patrol a teen party, he told himself. He's a busy man. Probably sitting busily in his big leather chair right now, looking over expense reports and planning the latest way to pimp out the Batmobile. And Virgil-- His hand went in his pocket and he pulled out a multipurpose knife, whipping out the bottle opener widget with a little more gusto than necessary. He can just hang out with Daisy all evening, just like he's been waiting to.

Whatever. He drove the point of the uncorker into the tip of the bottle, watching with some satisfaction as Madelyn's eyes lit up.

"Cheers."

There was the bottle, now half-full—Madelyn had taken a good bottle of wine, not a cheap, two-dollar kind Richie had often seen stacked miles high in the alcohol section of the grocery store, and there had been no tannis or bite at all to the liquid as he swished it around in his mouth as Madelyn had instructed, feeling the heat and tanginess in his mouth spread to the other regions of his body, warm and golden and thick all at once. It helped, of course, that they were almost lying prone on her bed, her comforter feeling a mile thick and them sinking it into it pleasantly, like birds on a warm cloud.

"There are five S's to wine drinking," she said, her grin a little bit loopier than usual. Actually, Richie couldn't remember her ever smiling like that, and decided that he didn't dislike it. "There's sight—" she held her glass up to the light, and Richie mirrored her movement. The wine glimmered a faint, washed-out burgundy.

"I always thought that darker wines were better," Richie thought, and then did a mental double-take. Actually, that wouldn't make any sense, if his basic knowledge of winemaking served him correctly—the longer a wine was aged, the more precipitation would settle at the bottom, lending it a lighter color when it was corked—

"Actually, older wines are lighter," Madelyn said. "I dunno why, but that's just what I remember from the tour I took with my parents."

"And what are the other S's?"

"There's—" Madelyn squinted at the glass, still held up to the light, and brought it down. "Well, there's swish, where you swerve it around in your glass like so," she demonstrated. "Like you see them do on television. I think it releases the aromas or somethin', lets the wine breathe a little."

"Let me guess what the third one is—smell?"

"Yeah, followed by sip, and savor." Madelyn set down her wine glass and held up the bottle. "God, I hope my parents don't realize that this is gone. I think I took one this from their vintage cabinet." She giggled. "Oops."

"Just fill it up with grape juice and let it sit for a while," Richie chuckled. "It'll probably taste even better when they open it."

She stuck out her tongue at him and refilled their glasses. "I guess it would have helped if I had told you this stuff earlier— it's almost gone, anyway."

Richie squinted, eyes unfocusing, then focusing again. "Weren't we—supposed to invite the others up?"

"Mmm—" Madelyn leaned back against the headboard and closed her eyes. "I didn't really wanna, anyway. Frieda is such a know-it-all, and Daisy is—seriously naïve, or something. God, I hate girls like that." She cracked open one eye. "I know they're your friends, but I have to be honest with you."

Richie couldn't find it in him to protest, and let the words wash over him instead, a small smile settling on his face. A minute passed, and then he was aware of a shifting movement beside him and suddenly there was a shadow over him. His eyes opened wide, heart thumping loudly in his chest. He wondered if she could hear.

"Plus," Madelyn said, her words gusting over his mouth and nose as she leaned forward, "I'm having fun with you."

He registered the movement too late and then her lips were on his, warm and wet and sticky from the wine, and he was frozen and didn't know what to think, his mind a perfect blank. She didn't venture any further, either, lips just resting lightly on his, as if waiting for something.

She rolled off after what seemed like an eternity, and Richie released a breath that he didn't know he'd been holding. "Um," he said, unintelligently.

"Thought I'd try," Madelyn replied. She sounded sullen.

"I—" What did people say in situations like this? Richie was racking his brains for the correct response, the right script, the one that people were supposed to use, and he thought that it might sound something like, "at least we're still friends," but he didn't really know what to think at this point, his mind only recovering gradually from the white precipice it was balanced on earlier, and—

"There's someone else."

Madelyn turned around curiously, still prone on the bed, and Richie wondered why he hasn't sat up, either. Blamed his incapacity on the wine, and then realized what he had just said. He hadn't had a lobotomy as far as he could remember, but wished that he did, so he could blame the brain-to-mouth disconnect on that.

"Who?" Madelyn was curious, of course.

"Somebody."

More intently, "do I know her?"

Richie flinched. "Well, I mean—"

"Who is it?" Madelyn was back up now, almost jittering with excitement. "C'mon, I'm not going to tell anybody."

"Nothing's ever going to happen," Richie said, before he could catch himself. He sounded adamant. "So—"

"So all the more reason you should make something happen." She flopped off the bed, giving him a look that was somewhere between a glare and a smirk. "Like I did just now."

"Do you—er—" Richie left the other words unspoken, do you like me? Or something? The thought was unfathomable, but she seemed to pick up on the words without him having to say them out loud.

"You look good tonight," she offered by way of explanation. Madelyn's voice was scathing but Richie sensed that the compliment was sincere. More thoughtfully, "well, I mean, half the school looks decent tonight."

He didn't even bother to try and disguise the disdain in his voice. "So you'd try to hook up with half the school like you did with me?"

"You're not getting out of this one." Another smirk. "Who's the lucky lady, Richie? And why didn't you ask her out instead of me?"

Something bumped against the door outside Madelyn's room, and whomever it was laughed, giggled, and shuffled away. Richie could hear the beat of the music shaking the whole house, coming up into the room in quiet, muffled pulses, all washed-out bass and the humming white noise of everybody talking at once.

"Let me guess—" Madelyn sounded sympathetic now. "Already taken?"

"You could say that," Richie exhaled. He swirled the remaining wine in his wineglass and downed it in one shot. A little duller, "it sucks."

"Do tell." Her voice sounded like it was coming from very far away, through oceans.

"I just—" The thumping on the door, louder this time. Madelyn glared abstractly in that direction before refocusing her attention on Richie. "Day in and day out, it's like—they just expect me to be this friend, but they have no idea how I feel, and on top of that there are all these other issues—it just ends up being so complicated I wonder how I even get through the day." He felt like he was being a bit melodramatic, so he hastily added, "sometimes."

"Well!" She flopped off the bed, hands on her hips. "If you're looking to make a move without consequences, now's the night."

Richie is mildly assured, but catches himself and forces an appropriate reaction. "You mean—" he blanches.

"Look, I'm drunk, and I can blame it all I want on the alcohol." She grinned, and gestured at the two of them. "See, no awkwardness, right?"

Richie's expression was wry. "I think there's plenty."

"Well, that might be because you're an exceptionally awkward person." Madelyn stuck out her tongue and blew a raspberry, then reached over to pull him physically out of bed. "Now get over it. We have a party to attend."

It's loud downstairs, louder than the fight a few months ago with a Bang Baby who called himself "Sonic" whose specialty was blowing out other people's eardrums temporarily with his mentally-produced, high-frequency wavelengths. Not that it was a skill that boded well for petty crimes—Sonic allied himself with a gang, but being a particularly scrawny sort, was left behind once the going got tough. Richie almost felt sorry for him until the Bang Baby had done his thing and everything had felt like slow motion going by all of a sudden because all the sound had been blown out. He remembered the way Virgil was gesturing and yelling frantically at him as he'd stood there, dazed and unable to hear anything except for the mute echo of the blood pounding through his head.

It's kind of how he felt now, the alcohol having kicked in fully and Richie feeling a rosy red sort of warmth and weight spreading in his veins with every step he took down the stairs. Virgil was at the bottom in a conversation with somebody from the school paper, but looked up anxiously when he saw Richie, worry clear in his eyes.

Richie felt a ridiculous thrill of glee at that, felt it reflected on his already-red face, and then was further embarrassed by the fact that he hadn't even made any effort to straighten himself out before he left Madelyn's room—

Madelyn, two steps ahead of him, already putting a finger on Virgil's lips, effectively shushing him. "Now now, darling," she slurred. "We were just having a little bit of fun. No need to judge."

"Don't listen to her, Virg, we were just—um—"

Virgil looked very disconcerted, glaring back and forth between Madelyn and Richie and then some, and Madelyn just tittered and wandered off into the crowd, all trailing fingers and flirtatious glances, and Richie supposed that he shouldn't feel whatever thing that felt like jealousy was currently manifesting in the regions of his chest but she had just kissed him and now she was off ready to hook up with some other—

"I was worried about you," Virgil said, and then took two steps back. "Erm, Rich—" and now the other boy was the one who was flushing, possibly with anger, but through this red miasma Richie could distinguish nothing—"have you been drinking?"

"Just having a good time," Richie parlayed in what he hope was a smooth manner, leaning back on the banister and nearly tripping over a stair. Virgil started forward, as if to catch him, but held himself back. "You're looking tense, yourself."

"Actually, there was something I wanted to talk to you about," Virgil said, biting his lip. "But if you're drunk, I mean—"

"Virg, it was wine." He felt more exasperated than he sounded, and smiled winningly at the other boy, ignoring the way his heart was pounding even louder now and he was sure he was as red as a tomato but just do like Madelyn said, right, and blame everything on the wine. "I'm sure that you've had some when you celebrate—your birthday—"

Darker skin flushed even darker. "My birthday?"

"Holidays, whatever." Richie squinted at his hands, wondering when they became so… fuzzy around the edges. "It's too noisy here," he said instead, and took Virgil by the arm, relishing the way he could curl his fingers around a strong, muscled forearm without fear of retribution from—whatever it was. Virgil himself, maybe. Absence of fear and from fear and he was feeling so good and maybe it was because Virgil wanted to tell him something, something, so he leaned in closer than usual and said in Virgil's ear, almost secretively, "let's go talk somewhere else."

They found a spot on the far side of the pool, a gazebo overlooking the ocean, and from this distance Richie could see the wavering lights of a few distant ships sailing out at sea against the murky blackness of the ocean, occasionally interrupted by the cresting crush of a wave colliding with the shore, audio of beaten sand and water and clams stuck in their shells coming to mind, his tongue caught in his throat and his sudden wish for the tide to come and sweep him under complete and absolute.

"Rich?"

"Just go—"

He tries again, catching his breath, resurrendering himself to this tangle that some people like to call life.

"You should go tell her, then." His smile, he's sure, is red, like the rest of him, but in the dark it will be hard to tell. Their backs are to the light, after all.

Virgil replies brightly, sunshine lost to the dark around them, "you think?"

"I don't know, man. Whatever you want to do. Hey," he gasps, but it sounds like his normal voice. "I—promised Madelyn I'd—well, I should go find her—"

"Thanks, Rich," a hand catches him by the shoulder, and he looks back fleetingly, only to reassure Virgil that he's still engaged in this, that everything's normal between them, of course.

"No problem." He spins around and doesn't look back, but he knows that Virgil's not looking at him, anyway, he's looking down somewhere at his shoes or out at the waves, all lovelorn and unsure and pained at his confession and god, they've never been so close together, have they, or so far apart? And Richie won't admit it to himself no he won't no he won't.

He finds Madelyn standing in the middle of some group of athletes—not footballers, so Richie doesn't feel intimidated when he ushers his way into the center and tap her on the shoulder and tip his head back in the universal sign for shots, watching her eyes brighten as she excuses herself.

One of the footballers—and Richie's apprehension returns, a little, but at this point he's feeling nothing and everything so keenly that he just pushes through—has brought a few handles of vodka and they sit lazily, gleamingly on the kitchen table. Madelyn runs to a cabinet and wrangles through for a set of glasses, setting them down on the table with satisfaction, glass slamming sharply and flatly against the granite countertop. The vodka gets poured and it's lukewarm and heavy down his throat, all of this happening at the same time that they're raising their glasses and making toasts to the coming summer and the promise of beachy days and Thomas Kim hooking up with some girl in a corner at the other end of the room and Madelyn, their wonderful hostess, and the loudest cheer of all for being seniors—

He doesn't care, doesn't care, but he tips his head back anyway and takes the shot, all aggressive camaraderie and things that have fermented for too long—alcohol and feelings and thinking—

Madelyn stops after shot number two but Richie plugs on into his fourth, fifth, drink-for-drink with an alpha-male athlete who isn't backing down yet, brow furrowed in wet, sweaty concentration, and Richie's not Irish for nothing, he's seen the way his dad chugs beers. Somewhere a part of him tells him, rationally and surprisingly composed, given the chaotic circumstances inside and around him, that this is killing brain cells and he will be what they call too hungover to finish the Z-Machine schematics and all the costume modifications he was planning to do this weekend—

Doesn't care, doesn't care, doesn't care

Except when he finally calls it quits, the alpha male footballer across from him raising his hands in victory and the rest of them hooting and hollering and some of them even congratulating Richie, didn't know you had it in you, bro, and thought you were all booksmarts, man, he feels something like pride mixing with the sickness and the emerging tide in his throat, and asks Madelyn, please, where's the bathroom on this floor?

Just right around the corner on your left after the hall, Madelyn says, and mentions that she'll come check up on him in a few minutes. And so, when he turns the corner, he sees Virgil kissing Frieda, and then

Doesn't care, doesn't care, doesn't care

For a moment everything is clear and hazy, like tunnel vision. Richie hears a roaring in his ears, his heartbeat thumping distantly, like a lonely giant's footsteps through snow, journeying up a mountain, braving the wind and blizzards. Everything is whirling around him and he tastes the sickening sweet-pungent taste of alcohol rising in his throat, a backwards trajectory. It's one thing, he thought, to be able to form an intelligent hypothesis based on facts and research-backed extrapolations and conservative speculations, and another thing to see the phenomenon in real time, real space.

Richie runs to the kitchen and vomits in the sink, much to the chagrin and surprise of two lacrosse players, who have the decency to look worried. "Yo," one of them puts his hand on Richie's shoulder tentatively. "You okay, dude?"

He coughs a few times, refusing to be controlled by the stinging in his throat, the wicked, pinching feeling behind his eyes. "Yeah," his voice is hoarse. "I'll be fine. Just had to get it out of my system."

"Take it easy, Foley," the other one says, and for a second Richie was deeply, unapologetically touched by the gesture, he doesn't even know this guy's name, and back at school he knows that they won't even talk to him, these lacrosse guys, moving in totally different circles and all that, but it's this same convergence toward inter-clique unity that's causing this concern right now, because Virgil and Frieda have finally gravitated into each other's orbits after four long years of pining—well, at least on Virgil's part—Virgil, who had never forgotten his first, after all, and it makes Richie's head spin like a neutron star, caught in the middle of it all, and just like that he feels sick to his bones and just like that he's vomiting into the sink again, one hand on the faucet to wash the evidence of his shame away, the other hand gripping his own hair, as if trying to rouse his brain back to its rightful place, physically reminding him to get a fucking grip on himself.

A hand on his back, stroking up and down, soothingly. Richie doesn't have to guess who it is—Virgil has been sneaking up on him all night, entering stealthily when Richie least expects it; showing up in his room the day he got his college acceptance letter, perched on top of his dresser as he got out of the shower, creeping up on him in the bathroom at prom to show him how to dance. Forget about stealth fighters, Virgil is a fucking stealth sniper, triggering Richie's feelings and wearing away at his self control and the barriers of his denial like a dull knife scratching at the string that keeps his hands tied together, don't touch. A hostage is escaping him, once tied up and now beyond the walls of prison, finally free to feel with a vengeance, except it's raining torrents, mud everywhere, the taste of vomit, gravely and orange-red, still sharp in his throat.

He turns around to face Virgil, who wears a look of desperate concern on his handsome face. It's a handsome face in every regard—high cheekbones, a straight nose, bright, kind eyes, full lips, the very picture of morality and virtuous behavior. Richie is shaking with anger, breath coming harshly and head turned away, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, despising the way he must smell right this moment. He pushes away Virgil's hand and takes two steps back, trying to calm down, but every nerve in his body is jangling with embarrassment, resentment, fury,

betrayal.

"How fucking ridiculous are you," he barks, the blood rushing to his head, a pit in his stomach. His eyes are filling with tears, hot points of mortification in his vision, not knowing whom he was saying it to, whether he's accusing Virgil or everybody else in the house, for being complicit in this, if he's talking to himself.

"Rich—"

"Don't." He keeps his voice low because he doesn't trust himself to speak any louder, otherwise the rumble might become a roar, and god, he's still a traitor to himself, he just wants to get out of here before he says anything else, but he can't stop himself. "You can't do that to Daisy," Eyes wild, flickering madly around the room, trying to find her in the crowd, his impromptu ally. They both feel the same way, and it isn't wrong to stick up for his friend, feeling for her now, paying the price for his bitterness all this week, for all the sullen looks he'd been giving her as she fawned openly over Virgil, as she'd put her arms around him for the slow songs, for the way she picked out her dress to match his tuxedo, for the cologne she'd bought him for his birthday that Richie despised—they were in this together, all of it. Virgil was supposed to be—fuck, Virgil was supposed to be the fucking defender of the city. He isn't even drunk, look at him, standing up like a fucking paragon of justice, concern unclouded by alcohol or anything, no, this is just Virgil, same old Virgil, one hundred percent Virgil, what you see is what you get Virgil, no hidden feelings or secret wants or skeletons in his closet, no closet, even, looking at Richie like they are the only people in the world.

His sincerity is unbearable.

Richie stumbles away from the sink, wanting desperately to sink into the whirlpool of emotions and sensations threatening to envelop him, still fighting it at the same time. "You're supposed to be with—with—" he hiccoughs and spits into the sink, feeling dirty, unclean, crumbling all the way through. "Daisy."

"Rich, you're—you're drunk." Virgil doesn't even look alarmed as he delivers the accusation, just worried, and tense, and—scared. Richie's lip curls in half-sadistic amusement.

There are a few people starting to look their way now, varying degrees of concern and curiosity, and a bark of laughter escaped him, abrasive and mirthless. "Nice one, Sherlock. And what's your excuse?"

"Come on." Virgil purses his lips, the fear gone from his eyes, looking every bit the strong, resolute hero. He slings Richie's arm around his shoulders and begins to walk, and Richie tries to walk with him, but his legs are sluggish and they won't move, don't want to move. He resists the feel of Virgil's body behind him, warm and firm and welcoming. This, all for him. It's too much. "We're getting out of here."

Madelyn's face comes into view for a minute, almost despairing, definitely worried, and Richie tries his best to smile reassuringly at her, but feels his head drop onto Virgil's shoulder, head swimming inside and out, Virgil close enough for him to smell, Daisy's cologne had worn off now and Virgil just smells like Virgil, like any other boy, clean and like soap. He felt himself breathe harshly, in and out. In and out. It was as if he couldn't breathe enough to satisfy his lungs.

Overwhelmed.

"What's the matter with him?" Madelyn put one hand on Richie's forehead, as if feeling for a fever. Virgil pulled back a step, his expression pained and angry at the same time.

"I'm taking him home," he said. "He needs to go home."

"What the hell did you do to him?" Madelyn's head snapped up and she sneered at Virgil. "He was fine right before he went to go—"

Virgil blinked a few times. "I found him by the sink—"

But Madelyn wasn't listening to him. She had her hands on Richie's cheeks, patting his face gently in an effort to get him to open his eyes. "You're such a baby," she murmured balefully. "A few shots and you're completely out of it." She shook her head and leaned in to speak into his ear. "I'm going to call you tomorrow, okay? You be good now."

"Hi," Richie slurred, cracking one eye open to look at Madelyn. "I…mm—fine."

"Remember what we talked about, okay?" She smiled at him. "If you black out I'm going to kill you."

Richie's face was dazed, but he nodded as if he knew what she was talking about. "Got…it." He suddenly wrenched himself out of Virgil's grip and into Madelyn's, almost knocking her over. "I saw—" he said, and Madelyn's eyes widened at his next words.

Virgil watched something flash in Madelyn's eyes—and then that white-hot gaze turned on him, and he had to will himself not to flinch. "We have to go," Virgil pulled Richie back. The blond fell into his arms, compliant, body limp like a doll's. He looked helplessly at Richie before glaring at Madelyn. "You're lucky I'm not calling the cops on this party. Look at what you've done to him."

Her lips curled in disgust. "Look at what you've done to him, you fucking self-righteous prick," she shouted. "You're lucky that he still trusts you enough to lean on you!"

Virgil gritted his teeth, trying to contain the sparks that threatened to fly out of his head. "What do you know about anything, huh?"

"More than you think, Hawkins," she snapped coldly. "Just take him and try not to kill him with your obliviousness, okay?"

"Kill—what? I don't even know what he's upset about!"

"Sure, Hawkins, blame it on something else." Madelyn sneered. "It's so like boys to shift the blame like that. Oh, it's that time of the month. Oh, it must be the alcohol. You have no idea what—"

"You should just mind your own business," Virgil said hotly. "Don't act like you know Richie like I do, not when you only started talking to him a week ago."

Madelyn's face sunk in vulnerability, but it was gone in an instant. "Just take care of him tonight," she muttered, suddenly deflated. "Make sure he drinks lots of water, even if he just pukes it out later."

"I got it," Virgil said briskly, and turned around, heading for the door. "Come on, Richie—"

"—just one step at a time."