Chapter Text
“..... Here goes nothing.”
Richard tightens his fist and gives three loud knocks on the door.
He waits.
And waits.
He feels his hands getting cold and clammy on him the second his knuckles hit wood. Heavy, sinking dread fills his lungs with each passing second, until eventually even the act of breathing starts to hurt. The longer he waits there, the more Richard wonders how he manages to even stay upright with just how much the sheer anxiety is getting to him.
He doesn't know what he's so scared of, really. In all these years of passing by this particular house, he had never seen him again, not even once. In fact, he hadn't seen anyone leave or enter it since that time ten years ago. The house is eerie, dark, and desolate always—even at night. There’s just no way that anyone would still be living here, especially after all this time.
It’s been a decade. A lot could happen since then. Between never seeing him again even once, and the obvious signs of neglect surrounding the house, Richard’s almost certain that the bastard had to have already moved by now. Maybe he’s not in the same state, or even the same country, anymore—and Richard was just working himself up all for nothing. Maybe he’s already up and died since then, even.
Yet, despite having had all this time to process, to let go and move on, Richard... doesn’t. During the daytime, his heart clenches painfully in his chest whenever he catches sight of the house in his peripheral. He's hyperaware of his surroundings constantly, wondering and worrying if he'll ever come across the older man when he least expects it. He can't leave his house without carrying mace on his person, though even that brings little relief. Nights are no less terrifying for him either, when instead of his heart it's his mind that takes turns tormenting him—with nightmares of this place, rehashed from old memories after they're warped and twisted enough beyond comprehension—until he wakes up clutching the nearest pillow, screaming. If anything, the more time passes the worse he feels it eats away at him; Richard finds himself constantly exhausted from the back-to-back barrage of stressful days and sleepless nights, and he knows that the combined effects of the two only work to exacerbate each other over the years.
The only thing that remotely helps him nowadays is taking his father’s straight razor to his thighs. Never the inside, mind you—he doesn’t have a death wish, after all—but thin, long slices to his outer thighs; just enough to get him through the day. The nature of his demanding career doesn’t allow him to lose himself to alcohol, and the last thing he really needs on top of already being stupid is being useless. In addition to that, cutting is the one release he can always count on when his emotions overwhelm him; he could practically feel the years of bubbled up anger, guilt, and self-loathing physically released whenever the blood flows out from his thighs. These past few years, Richard’s turned to harming himself more and more as a way to cope with the pent up trauma. It almost goes hand-in-hand now; when the nightmares, the panic attacks, inevitably come, so too does the straight razor from out of his pocket.
He knows he can’t keep living like this forever, though. The more he gives in, the more he has to take away later, and the worse he'll feel after either way. He feels himself running out of too much too fast—options; patience; unmarred flesh in his thighs. If he doesn’t do something soon, he’s going to lose it entirely.
But what else can he possibly do?
What else... but confirm for himself that the worst is already over?
That's why Richard finds himself here now, at the front door of the house from his nightmares. He can make all the excuses, rationalize his disappearance all he wants, but at the end of the day he has to see it for himself to believe it. It's the only way he knows that will give him the peace of mind he so desperately needs.
And he needs it, badly.
Richard stares at the splintered wooden door in front of him. He knows he’s just being paranoid at this point. As always he can’t see any lights, any signs of life from the battered old windows of the house, yet he feels as if Rivers is going to burst through that door at any second and surprise him. But even at the height of his anxiety he knows how ridiculous he sounds right now; that's why it only makes him even more determined to see this through.
The longer he waits there, though, the more he can feel the edges of a panic attack start to creep on him as he waits.
Maybe… maybe he really should just leave. Turn away from this wretched old house and never look back—because the old bastard has to have moved already by now, right? It’s been 10 years; how old would Rivers even be now, anyways? He really shouldn't need to prove anything like this, even to himself. It’s perfectly normal to assume that he could have left within that span of time, if it weren't already obvious by the house's neglected state. How long is he going to wait at the door before he’s satisfied with the obvious answer glaring at him? Richard has to accept that this may be the best resolution he’s ever going to get. If he just can get his brain to accept that no one lives here anymore, then he never has to keep doing this to himself.
Richard sucks in a deep breath. No. It’s been 10 years. A full decade of letting this win over him for so long. What's a couple more minutes to him anyways? He has to learn to get a grip on himself. He has to see this through.
If not now, then when?
Against the thrum of his raging anxieties, Richard continues to wait.
...
After waiting for ten entire minutes at the door, even he's decides he's given it long enough. He starts by prying his hand away from the door, slowly. He urges the rest of his body to follow suit but it refuses to budge at first, locked joints still much too stiff from the sheer anxiety. He lets out a long drawn-out sigh before softly smiling, then laughing despite himself. He was right to have come here: all these years, and it was all just in his head. That old bastard Rivers is gone—probably has been for a while now—and there really was nothing else for him to see here. Just an empty, rundown house that can't hurt him anymore. And now that he's went all this way to confirm it, he knows for sure that the worst is finally over. He takes a deep breath and hugs himself, practically melting under the new, warm bliss of relief that warms the very core of his body.
It's over. His nightmares are finally over now.
He breathes yet another sigh of relief. It's getting late, he realizes, and there's really no use in staying out here for any longer. Richard pulls out his phone to quickly check the time.
8:51 PM; 7 unread messages from Katie.
Ah, that's right; he never told her his change of plans, did he? Richard feels a pang of guilt at that, especially after scrolling through a few of her strongly worded texts from his lock screen. He had meant to at least let her know he was going to come over late tonight, but he had gotten so caught up in his head over all this that he must've forgotten. Not that he could ever tell Katie that this was where he was; she'd probably kill him, then freak, then kill him again for being so brash and stupid. But it doesn't matter, anyways; none of it matters anymore. After tonight, he can apologize and properly explain everything.
But before he can even attempt to even turn himself around, the brass knob suddenly twists from below his line of vision. In his shock, his phone tumbles from out of his hands and smacks face down onto the pavement. Richard never gets the chance to pick it back up as his eyes lock with the familiar set of gray ones from behind the door.
“Hey,” the older man greeted curtly. “Somethin' I can help you with?”
No.
No.
No way.
All the color drains from him upon seeing the face before him. His knees buckle from underneath him, and it takes everything within him not to scream.
He can’t help it. He can't. He can’t. He hasn’t seen him in so long—wasn’t expecting to see him ever again—that seeing Rivers again like this hits Richard hard in a way he could never prepare for.
It doesn’t matter that the older man himself seems to have forgotten all about him. Standing here, face-to-face with his childhood abuser, Richard feels ridiculously small. Trapped. Helpless. As if he’s 13 again and not 23, here to offer his preadolescent body for the twisted love and attention of a monster.
He could feel his breakfast starting to come back up. If he’s ever felt the desperate, gnawing urge to take his razor through his thighs, it would definitely be now—
“... You alright there?”
Richard opens his mouth to respond, but no words tumble out. He stammers, lips parting and closing like he’s a fish out of water gasping for air, and the only thing that manages to slip out in the end is a choked off little cry. He turns around sharply without thinking, intent on sprinting away and never coming back, when he feels a hand tightly grip his shoulder from behind.
“Now hold on a minute, babyface...”
Richard yelps as Rivers forcibly turns him back around to face him. He stares into him for a good long minute, cocking his head as a slow, devious smile spreads across his face.
“Noo, don’t tell me…” the older man drawled, eyes gleaming with a mix of recognition, amusement, and something much more sinister. Predatory.
“Richard?”
He freezes.
“ Richard Carson? ”
He knows he should just. Shrug the hand off his shoulder. Reach for the mace in his pocket. Run. Something other than the pitiful way he stands now—stock still, with his eyes wide and muscles locked in place, like a frightened deer caught in the headlights.
But he just… can’t.
He knows.
He knows.
“Well I'll be,” he grins, chuckling gruffly. “Richard!” The older man slaps one hand firm on his back, making Richard nearly jumps out of his skin. If Rivers notices this of him he ignores it, in favor of rubbing his back with the hand that holds him in place.
“What a pleasant surprise. Boy, look how you’ve grown." Rivers takes his other arm and holds Richard close to him, taking advantage of his petrified state to lock him in a cruel parody of a hug. "My little star student, comin’ back to see your old man after getting all tall and handsome on me all these years."
“I’m glad, y’know,” Rivers slowly leans his head forward to whisper his next words into his ear, eyes dark and voice dripping with lecherous desire.
“I thought I was the only one. I’ve really missed you too, Dick.”
No.
No, no, no, no, no!
Richard shakes his head. This was a mistake. A huge, huge mistake. He should have never stepped foot here. He should have just minded his own damn business. What the hell was he even thinking?! This is exactly what he gets for being so stupid; he just had to be stupid, so stupid, and now—
Now he’s hyperventilating. Simultaneously drawing too much yet too little air into his system, and on the very cusp of mentally breaking down in the arms of the older man. His head feels too light, too detached from the rest of his heavy, trembling body. This can't be real. This can't be happening. He’s gotta be dreaming right now, stuck in of one of his nightmares, because this just cannot be happening to him.
"Oh? What's wrong?" The older man leaned back to take a better look at him, mock concern written all over his expression. "You look a little sick there. Why don't you come on in and let ol' Mr. Rivers take care of you?"
Sick. It’s a bit of an understatement, given how close Richard feels himself to fainting at the moment. But, even in all his hysteria, he realizes that’s he’s been handed an out—he just needs to use it well enough so he can finally run and get the hell away from there.
"Ah... that's right..." Richard says, words barely a whisper as he struggles to keep himself calm. Roll with it. Play along. "I... I think I might be coming down with something, sir. I-it's fine, though, don't want to get you sick or anything... so I'll just—"
He tries prying himself off the older man and screams when he's suddenly yanked even closer than before. The older man grips him tightly by his shirt collar, scowling.
“Oh? That's new. You've never tried runnin' away from me before."
All of a sudden there's pain—searing and white hot, radiating from the side of his neck throughout his entire body in a flash. Richard would have screamed, were it not for every muscle in his body seizing up and painfully contracting on itself a million times a minute. The pain is intense, vibrating his very being with an animosity unlike anything he's ever known, and he blissfully passes out just a second before the older man lets go.
"Now," Rivers chuckles, sliding away the little taser back into his pocket. He kicks the forgotten phone into the curb along with the other trash piled on there, before heaping the crumpled body onto his shoulders and heading back inside. "Let's try that again, okay?"
"You look a little sick there, Dick. Why don't you just come on in and let ol' Mr. Rivers take care of you..."