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Jake didn't have a chance to think, when he first found out that Rich started a fire. He found out when he was standing in his living room, people running outside, screams ringing in his ears. For a moment, he was frozen in place, the smell of smoke and someone tugging desperately on his arm only half registering in his brain; instead it was taken up by the thought ‘Rich started a fire’ and that nobody had seen him yet. That Rich was nowhere to be seen, which could only mean one thing. In an instant, he was running from his friends, tearing up the stairs as fast as he could. He didn't think about why; he was scanning the upstairs hall, following the billowing smoke. He didn't think about the conversation he’d have with Rich; he was covering his face with his t-shirt, coughing as the thick smoke filled his lungs. He didn’t even consider the aftermath, because he was running through the blaze to the body on the floor, still and small amongst the huge flames crawling across every available surface. Instead he was cradling Rich to his chest and leaping out the only available exit (the window) without a thought, because Rich wasn’t moving, and no way was Rich dying on him. No way.
When it hit him, when he was sitting in the hospital with broken legs and a friend that wouldn't answer his texts, he didn't know what to say. Mostly because he had nobody to talk to, because for all the people who came to visit, who brought cards and flowers that died way too quickly and chocolates he didn't have the stomach to eat, nobody really came to talk. They came to feel better about themselves, or follow the story of the year or whatever. Chloe didn’t turn up, because she hated hospitals and he didn’t want to force her. And nobody mentioned the fire. Like it was some big secret, how Jake broke his legs. They all knew. They knew because the tag #richsetafire was everywhere; he only had to open his phone and he was swamped with questions he didn’t know the answer to. People who dared question why Jake went back into the house. One person had begun a sentence with why and he just glared, knowing what they were going to ask.
“Why did you save him?” “Why did you risk your life for him?”
Fuck if he knew. So, it just sat in his mind; it was a dead wait, a reality that wouldn't go away. Rich burned his house down, and he wasn't even answering his texts.
When Jake received a text, Jake wasn't sure what to say back. He wasn't sure how he was feeling; a churn of multiple emotions creating butterflies in his stomach. He wanted to be angry, or maybe he was and felt bad about it. He wanted to see Rich, but maybe he didn't want to want to. It made his head hurt. It didn’t help that the text was flooded with nonsense; squips and popularity and coolness and all sorts of bullshit that made his fists clench. They were friends, and Rich owed him the truth. He fucking owed him that at least. He could have told him that; he could have begged for a real explanation; he could have told him to fuck off. Instead he just stared at the screen until the message swam in front of his eyes and in the end, no words came to mind. So, he said nothing, putting the phone on silent and leaning back in his hospital bed.
When he returned to school, he tried to say nothing. In reality, it wasn't his story to tell, and just thinking of Rich twisted his stomach uncomfortably. He tried to ignore it all; the nonsense about something called 'a squip' in Rich's text littered with apologies and formal 'Jakes' as if he'd forgotten they were friends (where they friends? Friends didn't burn each other's houses down); the mass of people obsessed with the story and pretending to care about what happened, inserting the sad face emoji and tagging Jake in posts he didn’t want to see; the fact that the hospital wouldn’t tell him how Rich was doing, and he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to feel so worried. So, he tried to block it out, all of it. Even the ache in his chest when he realised Rich wouldn't sit with him at lunch, or tell him his stupid jokes, or laugh at his own stupid jokes. The ache that reminded him that maybe they’d never get to do that again.
Then Jake got the squip. The little voice that Rich talked about. The one that made you cool, that ‘told you what to do’. For a brief moment, he had loved it. The squip could help him, he thought. The squip could help him do every school activity he wanted, the squip could help him figure out why the fuck his parents wanted nothing to do with him, he could figure out whatever it was about Rich that made him feel so…conflicted. Until he’d felt strange, his whole body frozen in place. He’d been moving, but he couldn’t control it. He watched as he cornered that Jeremy kid and his friend who always wore headphones. He watched as Jenna and Chloe and Brooke all moved in sync and he didn’t like it. The way his head swam with overwhelming thoughts, the way he couldn’t think straight, the way he could feel adrenaline pulsing through his veins but it felt wrong.
Like he was scared for his life.
In all honesty, the next thing he remembered was waking up in hospital. It took him a while to figure it all out, partially convinced he’d drank some spiked Mountain Dew at the play. He had to read through Rich’s texts again. He had to read through the clutter that was all the messages he received from the other students in the play. He had to close his eyes and truly, truly think.
And then, he had a thousand things to say to Rich. To explain. To ask. Everything in his text made sense now, every tick or something that seemed odd. Every time Rich got drunk before and seemed more honest, dorkier with an occasional lisp that slipped in, before Rich stopped drinking altogether. Why the quiet guy in freshman year that Jake always wanted to talk to seemed to disappear before he ever got the chance.
It was this chain of thought that lead him trailing along the hospital corridors, searching for Rich’s ward. He managed to fumble with the doors while struggling with crutches, swearing and sighing. He got into Rich's ward, his bed next to Jeremy's now-empty bed (he was back at school now, and going out with Christine if he remembered correctly) and took a deep breath, ready to say everything in his head.
But he couldn't.
Rich lay still in bed, fast asleep and calmer than Jake had ever seen him. He lay curled inwards, seemingly smaller than normal. And the burns. Most of them were covered with bandages but he could see sections uncovered slightly and his heart leapt up into his throat. And with all the tubes coming out of him, and the hospital robe that seemed to strip Rich of all his personality (even his signature red streak was faded) he looked so fragile. Jake simply made his way over to Rich's bed-making note of his bedside table, empty of get-well-cards and flowers-and sat, waiting for Rich to wake up. And he didn't say anything.
When Rich woke up, Jake simply took in Rich's fear filled eyes and his shaking hands and how he tried to cover his burns and how he looked anywhere but Jake's eyes. He took in that in all this time his dad hadn't visited Rich: nobody had. He took in the flinch every time he said a word and his lisp came out. He took in that Rich was alive and safe and here. There were so many thoughts in his head, but nothing louder than the thought that Rich was alive. That despite everything, there was a shot to make things right again. So, Jake ignored Rich’s lisped apologies; he ignored that Rich was acting as if Jake was mad at him; he ignored any thought of his house or his legs because, despite what Rich seemed to think, that wasn’t really important right now. Jake simply wrapped himself around Rich, bringing him into his chest and relishing in the feeling of Rich, warm and real and alive against him. Jake felt him pause, before gripping Jakes sweater tightly and not letting go, sobbing and shaking as if he'd never stop. And Jake didn't say anything, because there was nothing to say.
Things did get said. Much later, once Jake’s parents had used the insurance to buy a house almost identical to the old one (and how they did the whole transaction from abroad, so Jake didn’t even get a quick visit from his parents through the whole ordeal). Rich ended up practically living with Jake, visiting him almost every day. And almost every day Rich would trail down to Jake’s basement and they’d play videogames until they couldn’t keep their eyes open anymore.
One night, halfway through a level, Rich just stopped playing. He put down his controller and stared at the screen, eyes almost glazed. Jake laughed, nervously asking what was wrong.
And then Rich talked. About everything.
About freshman year, where he felt like he’d never stand out, never fit in, never be anything.
About his mum who’d off and scarpered, and his dad who was too blind drunk to notice Rich and his brother at all.
About how the squip was a short-term solution, the only solution, and it basically reaffirmed everything Rich hated about himself and broke it down and rebuilt the rubble into a self-conscious, desperate, scared little kid.
And nothing stuck in Jake’s mind quite like the image of tears silently rolling down Rich’s cheeks, eyes wide and saying with cold sincerity that he set the fire on purpose.
And he didn’t plan on surviving it.
And what the fuck are you supposed to say to that?
After everything, things changed. Things were bad, before they got better. Jenna couldn’t stand how she no longer felt as connected to people, slowly becoming more absorbed in her phone in a desperate attempt to right that. Christine started to lose confidence in theatre, in her escape; she choked up at auditions more and for a while just stopped going. For ages something hung unsaid between Michael and Jeremy, and when it blew up they didn’t talk for weeks and Jeremy was a wreck. And Rich. Rich extended his vocabulary so he could avoid saying as many words with ‘s’ in them as he could; he always wore shirts with sleeves even when it was boiling hot; Jeremy and Rich would do something and flinch as if struck my lightening, their eyes wide. All of them (Jake included) had moments where they could hear the voice reappear in their head and it would all come back in a rush, and it feel like they’d taken two steps backwards.
But- as crazy and cliché as it sounded- time healed. Chloe and Brooke, who had danced around each other for years and never seemed to understand why they were so jealous of each other’s boyfriends, one day got blind drunk at a party and made out, only to wake up the next morning and realise that they didn’t want to forget about it. So now they were even more sickly sweet than usual, hands touching all the time, heart emojis galore in the group chat. But Brooke smiled more, and Chloe didn’t seem so desperate to impress any more, and Jake couldn’t ask for anything else, really. Jeremy and Christine, the ultimate duo, finally realised what everyone already knew: the two of them acted more like close friends then girlfriend and boyfriend, and Jeremy was madly in love with Michael anyway. Jake wasn’t sure when or how it happened, but one Friday Jeremy and Michael weren’t talking, Jeremy looking more dead-on-his-feet than usual, and then come Monday morning Jeremy and Michael were holding hands and Christine was grinning like she had something to do with it (she probably did). Jenna started to trust that she could be honest about who she was, and it turned out she was a hardcore Star Treck fan and horror movie buff (much to Michael’s delight). She and Christine also slipped into this strange limbo where nobody was sure whether they were just close or genuinely dating or just on the cusp of dating; everybody decided to leave them to it (although Brooke and Jeremy were placing bets). Rich stopped monitoring his lisp all the time, maybe after realising that nobody was bothered by it (truthfully Jake’s heart skipped a beat because how could Rich get any cuter) and the day Rich wore a tank top, his scars shining along his arms in full view, Jake realised he was better. In fact, all of them were.
And Jake did figure out what he felt. Figured out the heart skipping and the warmth in his cheeks and why he didn’t want to just date anyone anymore. He figured it out and tried to supress it as long as he could, telling himself it was futile; he laughed at Rich’s jokes and pretended he didn’t want to kiss that beautiful smile of his.
But one day, when Rich came over to play video games, they found themselves laughing hysterically on the floor, bumping shoulders and grinning. They found themselves ridiculously close, not wanting to be any further apart. Jake found himself gazing at Rich’s lips, and when Rich noticed he didn’t pull away. Instead Rich was leaning in, and kissing him so softly it almost wasn’t a kiss; when he pulled away he was smiling and blushing and Jake just kissed him again. And again. And again.
When they were lying curled up on the beanbag’s later, Jake’s arm wrapped around Rich and his fingers trailing up his arm (just to remind himself that Rich was here, in his arms, where he needed him to be) Jake found himself staring at Rich, and saying nothing.
Because there was nothing to say.