Chapter Text
Richie sort of doesn’t want Potsie to leave his room—if he leaves, then it’ll just be him and his dad, and then after his dad leaves, just him. And Richie really doesn’t want to be alone right now. Because once he’s alone, he’s going to have to start thinking about the night he’s just had, and then he’ll probably think himself right into a nervous fit.
But Potsie being Potsie, he leaves just as soon as Richie’s dad shows up. And then his dad says goodnight, too. And now Richie is alone, and he’s got to take off this stupid get up before he goes crazy. The wig wasn’t so bad, honestly. He kind of liked how warm it kept his neck. But the dress was too drafty for his taste, and the socks he’d stuffed down his chest were just plain uncomfortable. He throws the clothes into a corner and sits down on his bed again in just his Y-fronts, staring at the opposite wall but not really seeing it. He should be cold without anything on but he isn’t. He’s hot, honestly. Sort of like when he has a bad cold in the summertime, and he gets flushed all over, sticky and sweaty and red from head to toe. But he knows he isn’t sick. Well, not physically, at least.
It was just—well, it was Fonzie’s fault, that’s what it was. Richie blames him entirely, and then he feels really bad about blaming him, even in the privacy of his own head, because he knows deep down that Fonzie probably hadn’t meant for this to happen. He’s pretty positive, actually.
Fonzie hadn’t known it was Richie in the wig—he hadn’t known it was Richie when he was dancing with him, putting his hand on his back, blowing in his ear for Christ’s sake! Richie knows this, and it still doesn’t change a thing. Because no matter what Fonzie had known, he’d still done it. And no matter how bad Richie wishes he hadn’t liked it, he had . Oh boy, he had. Oh , boy .
Richie rubs his hands over his hot face and lays back on his bed. Then he springs up, because he’d forgotten to take the makeup off and now he’s rubbed it all over everywhere. He creeps his way to the bathroom, not wanting Joanie to wake up again and bug him.
His reflection in the vanity mirror is rough: lipstick smeared across his chin, mascara streaked around his eyes. He looks like one of Joanie’s old dolls she used to maim as an even littler kid, painting their faces with their mother’s makeup, chopping their hair into uneven hack-jobs with kitchen scissors. He used to think it was funny when she did that. On himself, though, he just thinks it looks ridiculous.
It takes him about ten minutes to get it all off with a hot washcloth, and by that point he figures he should have just taken a shower, but then it’s too late. He’s so tired, all he wants to do is go to sleep and forget the whole night ever happened. Back in bed again, he lays in the darkness of his room and tries to do just that. But each time he closes his eyes, and his body begins to try and sink into sleep, all he can feel is the phantom touch of Fonzie’s arms around him—good God, he can almost smell him. He’d never even noticed Fonzie had a smell before, ‘cause he’d never been that close, for good reason! But he does, and now that he knows he can’t forget it: motor oil and cigarettes and something deep and smoky that reminds Richie of a campfire, only more intense—like the smell of a summer night that he hasn’t lived yet, but somehow remembers. Oh, brother, he's losing it, waxing poetic to himself over Fonzie’s smell !
He sits up again in the darkness, covers pooled around his waist, breathing heavily in his silent room, willing his heart to calm down. Tries telling himself that it’s just some sort of horrible mix up—his body was confused, because he put himself in such an abnormal situation, that’s all. Dressing up like a girl, dancing with a boy—it’s an unnatural thing, and his teenage hormones just didn’t know what to do. It could have been anyone—he could have danced with Ralph, like Potsie did, and maybe this still would have happened! Only Richie begins to doubt this conclusion almost immediately, because just the thought of slow dancing with Ralph Malph makes him feel sick to his stomach, in the way that it should, in the way that dancing with Fonzie should have made him feel. But it hadn’t, and that’s the big problem, so now Richie’s back to square one again, and he throws himself back on his bed with a groan. It takes him another twenty minutes of laying there in agony, thoughts racing in this tortuous, endless loop of dead-end conclusions, before he realizes he’s not getting any sleep right now. So he dresses in his regular clothes, staring daggers at the pile of girl-things slumped pitifully in the corner the whole time. He’s out his window before he can do any more thinking. Then halfway down the street, before he can change his mind like he’s afraid he will, he starts to run.
It’s quite a predicament to be in, when the person you usually go to for advice just so happens to be the person you need advice about . Richie paces the strip in front of Arnold’s a few times before he works up enough courage to go inside. He feels crazy being out here again, feels downright foolish . But he doesn’t know what else to do. And Fonzie will know. Fonzie always knows.
The place is almost dead. It’s five minutes to midnight, so Richie figures that makes sense, but gee, he wishes it wasn’t so lifeless in here. The jukebox is playing some Glenn Miller song to the few customers sitting around, most of them couples who are probably trying to make their evenings last as long as possible before curfew, their heads bowed close together over melting milkshakes. Fonzie’s not one among them. But his bike was out front, so Richie heads towards the bathroom and only pauses for a moment with his hand on the door, taking a deep, drawn out breath, before pushing it open and stepping inside.
“Hey, Red, what gives? I was digging that hairdo.” Fonzie’s leaning on one of the sinks, his pen scribbling his latest philosophical contribution onto the wall. He didn’t even glance at the door when it swung open, so Richie doesn’t know how he knew it was him.
“Hah, yeah, it wasn’t really my color, I guess . . .” Richie posits lamely. He swallows down the lump that’s already forming in his throat. Just the sight of Fonzie’s starting to make him hot all over again—he curses himself, wills himself to pull it together. He steps closer towards the sinks, and Fonzie finally turns to face him, tucking his pen into his pocket. “Listen, Fonzie, I, uh, I need some help.”
Fonzie stares at him and doesn’t say anything. He’s waiting for Richie to go on, Richie knows, but it still doesn’t make him feel any better. He feels too known under that gaze. As if Fonzie can just tell exactly what’s got Richie so worked up. Oh, he hopes to God Fonzie can’t tell.
“What is it?” Fonzie asks. And that jolts Richie into speaking, because when the Fonz asks, you can’t help but answer.
“Well the thing is, I couldn’t, um, couldn’t sleep, I guess.”
Fonzie stares at him again. “You came back here in the middle of the night to tell me you can’t sleep?”
Richie grins miserably, rubbing the back of his burning neck. “Yeah, I guess so. I don’t know.”
“You don't know why you came to see me, or you don’t know why you can’t sleep?”
That makes Richie swallow again, and panic begins to set in. What an idiot he was to think that Fonzie wouldn’t be smart enough to see right through him. “Uh—I—I’m sorry, Fonzie. This was stupid. I’ll just—I’ll go. Sorry—”
Fonzie’s standing between him and the door in a flash. Richie’s eyes go a little crossed from looking at him so close all of a sudden. He backs up a step.
“Cool your jets a minute, pal. It’s alright.” Fonzie slings an arm around Richie’s shoulders. It makes Richie a bit weak in the knees, but he plays it off like he’s just tired, and he lets himself be led back to the sinks. Fonzie puts his arm down, but smooths his hand over Richie’s shoulder in the process. It leaves a hot patch on the skin, even through Richie’s letterman jacket. “See, what I have found, Cunningham, is that getting things off one’s chest is usually the simplest and most effective solution to these late night bouts of insomnia.” He pats Richie’s chest, then. “So whatever it is that’s got you all worked up, spill it.”
The beginning of a million lies flash through Richie’s mind. He tries desperately to latch onto one that’ll seem believable, but they all slither away before he has a chance. His head is empty. He’s looking down at his own tennis shoes against the dirty floor, because if he looks over at Fonzie right now he thinks he might just start crying, and that would really be the icing on this social-suicide cake, wouldn't it? He can’t lie, but he can’t tell the truth, either. Or can he, by way of omission?
“I don’t think I can tell you,” he says, his voice a quiet thing in the echo chamber that normally is Arnold’s bathroom. It’s the half-truth, anyways. He really doesn’t think he’d be able to get the words out.
If Fonzie’s offended he doesn’t show it. He hums, as if in understanding, in that oddly philosophical way of his. “Don’t think you can, or don’t want to?” Once again, it’s as if he’s tapping into Richie’s thoughts. His voice is softer now, too. Richie doesn’t think he’s ever heard the Fonz talk like this. It breaks him open a little bit more.
“Both.” The word feels heavy on his tongue. A sharp glance at Fonzie’s face tells him the other boy feels it, too. His eyes seem to focus in on Richie even more, his brows drawing together ever so slightly. Like he’s zeroing in on the truth. He takes his time, like always, before he speaks.
“D’you wanna get outta here? Go someplace quieter? I don’t like the vibrations of this bathroom much, do you?”
It’s the last thing Richie should be doing, going someplace alone with Fonzie. It’s a bad idea—it’s going to get him into so much more trouble. He ought to say no. He ought to leave right now. He’s never been all that smart, though.
“Alright. Yeah. Let’s go.”