Chapter Text
Max Jägerman was the king and monster of Hatchetfield high, everyone with a functional frontal lobe knew that. And when they weren’t aware, he would make them. Nerds quivered in fear when he would walk the halls, prudes would pitch tents in his likeness, and chicks would flock to him like moths to a flame. The lead quarterback always got what he wanted no matter how trivial said thing was, and as of recent… he had his eyes on a beautiful Christian girl that absolutely loathed him.
He wanted her peach so badly. Regardless of how long it took, every girl fell for him eventually. But Grace Chasity was a tough nut to crack, with the whole uh… Bible thumper thing she’s got going on. He wasn’t exactly a fan of that aspect of her, but he looked past it because she was still smoking hot. He could turn a pure soul into something dirty no problem, and he was going to prove so tonight at his friend Kyle’s birthday party. Grace was invited because everyone knew she was too kind to outright reject invitations, no matter how snarky she seemed about it.
Max had it all planned out from the start, you see.
Once Grace was on the ‘dance floor’, he would have Kyle change up the music to something slow and romantic, Max would then stride on over to her all cool and collected to ask for a dance, the two of them would share a heartwarming moment together and gain new character development, and then he would take her upstairs into the guest bedroom to get it on.
The plan was set into motion the minute he saw her shoving past a few other people, stammering out quick apologies with each shove as she began making her way to the front door.
Which… was already deviating from his plan, because why was she already trying to leave after only just arriving a mere ten minutes ago?? Hell, he’s only seen her sip from a red solo cup and head for the bathroom before this!
He pushed off the wall, red cup crushed in his fist without even thinking, and cut through the crowd like he owned it—because damn it, he did. People move for Max Jägerman.
“Grace!” His voice cuts through the music, loud and sharp. She froze near the door, shoulders stiffening. Doesn’t turn around though. Still playing holy little miss unbotherable, unfortunately. He stepped up behind her, close enough to catch that vanilla-scented hair of hers… but not too close. Didn’t wanna scare her off… yet.
“You’re really gonna bail on Kyle’s party?” He tilted his head, smirk playing on his lips even though she couldn’t see it. “Dude cried when he opened your card. Like actual tears.”
Was he lying? Maybe. But she doesn’t need to know that.
“You barely danced,” He added, voice dropping lower to a smoother tone. “C’mon, you know what they say… every good girl deserves a sin or two.”
Grace’s right hand balled up into a fist at her side, clenching tightly before relaxing with an exhaustive sigh. “Give Kyle my condolences or something, thoughts and prayers. My dad needs me back at the church for something important.” She explained with a raised voice, whipping her head back around to face him.
Bullshit.
There’s no way her dad would actually need her this time of night for anything important. Everyone knew Grace was the good girl who would never do anything bad. A pure, prude little Christian girl like her could do no wrong.
He stepped towards her, smirk widening. She still had her back against the door, and he was getting rather close. Almost trapping her between himself and the wood. His gaze darkened with something predatory, a look that all girls have learned to fear.
“You sure your father needs you now, Grace? Really sure?” He murmured, one hand pressed beside her head as he towered over her shorter frame.
Grace’s body tensed in place as she swallowed, nodding stiffly at him before ducking underneath his arm to reach for the doorknob. “Yep! He’s full of surprises, always getting random signs from the Lord!” She pressed her body against the door while turning the knob, avoiding any kind of potential contact between them.
“Signs?” He echoed, eyebrow raising in a skeptical manner. His foot planted next to her’s to keep her from escaping, the smirk on his face only growing. She was clearly uncomfortable. Good, he could work with this. He tilted his head again, gaze flickering over her form. She was wearing a simple sundress… but damn if it didn't hug the curves of her body in all the right places.
“You look all dressed up for a boring old church night, don’t you?” His free hand reached up to grab a loose lock of her brunette hair.
“Don’t.” Grace barked, smacking his hand away harshly with a surprising amount of strength. For someone so small she sure could pack a punch. “I was never going to stay here for long, trust me. I’ve seen enough of this place, maybe too much. I need a proper holy cleansing after this!”
His smile returned after the mild surprise, leaning more of his body weight against the door. She was stuck now, there was no way out until he allowed her out. She could fight him all she wants, but the difference in size alone was enough to overpower her.
He towered over her… crowding her, not letting her leave until he got what he came here for.
“You’re not going anywhere, Grace. Not before dancing with me first.” He whispered through a tight smile, adrenaline flowing through his chest as he went on to reach out for whatever he could touch, whatever he could get away with.
…Which wasn’t a lot apparently because Grace’s hold on her solo cup became violent before it was suddenly flying at his face like an unmovable force sent by God himself to strike him down. The cold splash of cheap beer struck his face and eyes before he could weave himself out of the way, blinding him momentarily while Grace made her escape out the door.
A handful of people behind him were whispering amongst themselves, cackles and obnoxious meatheads going “Oooo” filling the harsh awkwardness that was… rejection.
It stung like a motherfuck, and he had to blink the liquid out of his eyes. He could hear the whispers from the people around him, the jeers and the snickers from all corners. He went from king of the party to the laughing stock in an instant.
He clenched his jaw, anger growing inside him as he wiped the beer from his face. “Shut the fuck up, all of you!” He snarled, glaring harsh daggers at anyone who dared laugh during such a difficult moment for him and his ego.
He pushed through the crowd without a word, shoving his way through people and ignoring the complaints of those he bumped into. His gaze darkened when a few of Kyle’s friends laughed at him as he passed, one of them daring to smack his ass as he walked by. He spun on the guy, grabbing onto the front of his shirt to yank him in closer. “What was that for, huh? Think you’re funny?” His voice lowered into an aggressive growl.
The other guy, clearly too drunk to know better, only grinned and laughed while trying to push Max off him. Max let go of the guy’s shirt only to swing back and clock him across the face with a closed fist instead. The impact sent the dude stumbling back into some others before falling onto their asses.
Silence fell over them like a ton of bricks as they stared at Max with wide eyes full of fear rather than mockery now. No one would dare laugh or jeer again after seeing what happened. Not if they valued their faces intact anyway.
He straightened his jacket out before storming towards Kyle’s kitchen, grabbing another beer from the fridge without saying anything.
“Hey, uh… bro?” He hadn’t even realized someone was nearby until he spoke up, causing Max to swerve himself around with a slight breathy hitch. Kyle stood there, holding a half-melted cupcake in one hand and looking at Max with that dumb, concerned puppy-dog expression he always wore when someone lost their cool. The lights above buzzed like angry wasps.
“Dude… Grace kinda baptized you,” Kyle said, voice low. “You doing okay after that?”
Max let out a bitter laugh, popping the tab on his beer with a sharp hiss. He took a slow swig, eyes flicking up to meet Kyle’s in the dim kitchen light. “Yeah. Peachy,” he muttered, voice rough at the edges. “Just another night of being rejected by a girl who thinks i’m Satan in letterman sleeves.”
He leaned back against the counter, knuckles white around the can. The silence buzzed heavier than the lights. “…Why does she hate me so much?” He whispered quietly.
Kyle gave him a weird look that told him he may be stupid, which was rare for Kyle because most of the time he doesn’t dare question his word or stray from giving negative feedback. “Well… you did kinda corner her like a serial killer, bro. I don’t think she liked that.”
Max froze, can halfway to his lips. Then he scoffed, tossing the beer onto the counter with a clank. “I wasn’t cornering her. I was.. I was just...” He trailed off, jaw working as he stared at the sticky floor.
“Okay. Yeah. Maybe I got a little close.” He ran a hand through his hair, messing it up in frustration. “But she’s always running! Every time I try to talk to her, she’s got some Bible verse ready to throw at me like holy water! How am I supposed to show her I’m not… that guy… if she won’t even look at me for five damn seconds?”
Kyle popped the rest of the cupcake into his mouth and put his frosted covered hands together, like he was getting ready to say something controversial. “…Um. Okay, no offense man, but… have you ever thought that maybe… you are that guy?” He asked in a tiny, unsure voice.
Max’s gaze flicked up to him, incredulous.
He opened his mouth to argue, but found that all the words he had got caught up in his throat. He closed his mouth, swallowing the lump that had formed there.
Oh, this cupcake eating bitch.
"I didn't ask for a lecture, Kyle," He snapped, voice tight. He shoved off the counter, grabbing another beer from the fridge like it might save him. "She's just... different." He popped the tab too hard—foam hissed out over his fingers. "You ever feel like no matter what you do, you're still that messed up kid in everyone's eyes?"
Kyle blinked, frosting smudged on his lip.
Max didn’t wait for an answer. He slammed the can down and stormed toward the front door, his exit this time, leaving a trail of beer drops behind like breadcrumbs to nowhere.
The cold air hitting his face was far more refreshing than the beer, all things considered.
He stalked down the street with no specific goal, except to get as far away as he could. From the party, from Grace, from thoughts that were much too real for comfort.
His sneakers slapped against cold concrete, the rhythmic thumping almost in tune with the thudding of his heart. His mind replayed that stupid little party over and over again, Grace’s defiant face, the humiliation of being doused in beer, Kyle’s stupid goddamn advice. Shit, why did he have to park so far away?
“Fuck him. Fuck her. Fuck everyone in this stupid ass town….” He grumbled under his breath as he turned his head after a shooting star caught the corner of his eye. Huh… it was kinda rare to see shooting stars in Hatchetfield.
He stared at the streak of light until it vanished, jaw unclenching just a little. "Guess even heaven's gotta dump its trash somewhere," he muttered, kicking a pebble into the gutter.
A sharp, distant squeal caught his attention next. It sounded like one of those annoying ass fireworks that everyone and their mother set off during the fourth of July, but it wasn’t July. It was nowhere near July.
He tilted his head upward as something solid came whirling from the sky, shining bright colors that screamed panic as it headed toward the old field at a rapid speed.
Something just fell outta fucking space.
Legs pumping, he sprinted toward the field as the flaming object screamed through the sky behind him. He could hear it now—hissing, crackling, like a firework possessed. It slammed into the overgrown grass with a thud that shook the ground under his feet. Dirt sprayed up in a dusty wave. Half of it was on fire from how fast its descent was, shiny metal turned bent and ruined beyond repair.
Max skidded to a halt, heart racing from both the shock of the whole situation and the quick sprint. He stared down at the wreckage in awe and confusion.
What the hell is that?
He took a cautious step closer. The wreckage was like nothing he'd ever seen before—sleek lines, strange symbols he couldn't identify, shining even in the dim light. It had a shape that seemed almost... natural, yet somehow impossibly graceful.
It was definitely not from around here, that much was for sure. Maybe it was a weird ass looking satellite? He’s heard of those things crashing back down to Earth after a long while. He slowly circled the twisted remains, taking in every detail. This thing was foreign, alien even. Its smooth surface sent a shiver down his spine. He reached out a hand, fingers brushing over the cool metal.
A faint hum, barely perceptible at first, started to fill the air. The sound was strangely mesmerizing, almost like an otherworldly melody. Max swallowed hard, unable to tear his attention away from the wreck. A sharp, metallic creak echoes from the wreckage—the sound of something shifting inside. A hatch groaned open with a hiss of pressurized air, revealing a dark interior. There was something inside… there was something living inside this thing.
A gangly figure tumbled out of the wreckage in a flurry of limbs, brown hair sticking up at wild angles. Max could’ve sworn it was a human at first.. until his brain registered the pale blue skin and otherworldly costume that looked like a D&D nerd’s wet dream. The boy… creature thing… staggers to his feet, shaking like a leaf in a hurricane. His wide, crystal blue eyes darted around in sheer panic before locking onto Max.
"LS VD DSZG RH GSZG?! LS UFXP ZIV BLF Z SFNZM!? LU ZOO GSV KOZXVH R XLFOW'EV XIZHSVW RG QFHG SZW GL YV VZIGS!" What sounded like… absolute gibberish left the thing’s mouth with a sharp tongue, narrowing his eyes as he continued looking around.
Max stumbled back, nearly tripping over his own feet. Holy shit holy shit holy shit—
"Uh," he said intelligently, hands raised like that might protect him from whatever the hell this was. "English? Or like… Spanish? I took Spanish freshman year. Habla… uh… alien?"
The thing blinked at him, tilting its head curiously. Was it studying him…? It took a few steps closer, its tall, slender frame surprisingly graceful despite how gangly it looked. The alien’s eyes darted over Max, taking in every detail, almost as if trying to place him or something. Its mouth was parted slightly, displaying a set of slightly odd-looking teeth that sparkled like a row of diamonds. It took a deep 'breath' and opened its mouth again.
“Svool?? R nvzm, fs... Hello?”
Max’s eyebrows shot up. Okay, that was English. Sort of. Close enough to understand, anyway. He exhaled sharply, shoulders relaxing slightly but not completely. He still wasn’t sure if this guy was gonna laser-beam his face off or something. “Uh… yeah. Hello.” He eyed the wreckage behind it, then back at the creature. “Dude. You crash-landed here? In the most stereotypical spot imaginable??” He gestured broadly at the shitty little town around them. “You couldn’t have picked like… New York? Vegas? Anywhere cooler?”
The alien blinked rapidly, looking around at the surroundings as if realizing for the first time just how small Hatchetfield was. His shoulders slumped, the sparkle in his eyes dimming slightly. “I… did not choose?” He said slowly, accent thick and voice uncertain. “Ship malfunction. Controls… bad. Bad-bad. Very bad.” He made a vague explosion gesture with his hands, accompanied by a soft “pshhhh” noise.
Max snorted despite himself, shoving his hands in his pockets. Yeah, okay— this thing was a lot less scary now that it was just talking and not… y’know, shooting death rays out of its eyes.
“Malfunction? You some sort of space pilot or something?” He asked, taking a few steps forward to look at the wreckage again. Most of the ship was engraved into the ground, showing no signs of moving anytime soon unless it’s pulled forcefully by a strong machine of some sort.
The alien scrambled to follow him, arms flailing as he nearly tripped over his own feet. "I—yes! Pilot-in-training! Certified space cadet!" He puffed out his chest proudly before deflating slightly. "...Or, I was. Until this happened." He gestured dramatically at the wrecked ship, his expression crestfallen. "My instructors are so going to kill me. If the atmosphere doesn't melt my skin off first!"
He suddenly froze, eyes widening in horror as he frantically patted himself down. "Wait, am I melting?! Oh stars oh stars—" His head whipped around to look inside what was left of the ship and stuck his hand in, fishing out a manual of some sort that seemed severely… burnt.
He slipped back into his native tongue in a panic, flipping through the ruined pages. "Ls ml, ls ml... gsrh dzh zoo nb Vzigs pmldovwtv! Sld zn R hfkklhvw gl hfierev mld!?"
Max slowly held his hands up in weak assurance. “Dude, chill. You’re not melting. I think.” He squinted at the alien’s skin. “I mean, you look fine. Unless you’re supposed to be, like… purple or something.” He hesitated before adding, “...You are supposed to be blue, right?”
The alien paused mid-freakout, staring down at his arms like he hadn't even noticed his own color before. He flexed his fingers, twisting his wrist as if checking for imperfections. "...YES! Blue. I am very supposed to be blue!" He nodded rapidly, clearly relieved. "Blue is good. Blue is correct."
He clutched the ruined manual to his chest. "But my documents!" He whined, sounding utterly devastated. "All my coursework! My certifications! My—!" He flipped through another blackened page and groaned miserably. "My homework for Human Studies is gone! Oh, come on! I just got that done…”
Max blinked. "Human... Studies?" He repeated slowly, disbelief dripping from his tone. "Wait—so you’re, like… some kinda exchange student? From space?" He rubbed his temple, trying to wrap his head around the absurdity. "Okay, let’s back up." He held up a hand. "First—what’s your name, space cadet?"
The alien straightened, puffing out his chest like the question was the most important one in the universe. "Right, names. Important... introduction... formalities." He repeated the last word under his breath as if he was committing it to memory. "I am—" He hesitated, as if searching for the word, then suddenly snapped his fingers. "Irxsrv! But I suppose it is Richie in your human dialect.” He gave Max a dazzling, gap-toothed grin, looking at him in an expectant, proud sort of way. "Your turn! I am also supposed to ask for your human name!"
Max bit back a smirk and nodded. "Right, right. Human names." He rolled his eyes dramatically before straightening up as well, hands shoved back in his jacket pockets. "Max Jägerman. Just call me Max." He gave a crooked grin back at Richie, eyebrow raised. "You can say I'm a big deal around here."
Richie’s eyes widened, like Max had just declared himself royalty or something. He clasped his hands together excitedly, bouncing on the balls of his feet. "Ohhh, so you are the alpha of this territory?" He whispered dramatically, as if it were some grand secret. Then he leaned in, eyes darting around suspiciously. "Do I need to submit to you?" He whispered. "Or is this one of those 'friendship rituals' my manual was talking about?"
Max choked, cheeks heating up instantly. Submit—?
"N-no! Dude! No submitting, Jesus Christ—" He rubbed his face, groaning. "Listen, I'm just the quarterback. That's like... a football team leader. Not—not whatever weird space hierarchy you're imagining." He jabbed a finger at Richie’s chest. "And never ask anyone that again unless you wanna get slapped."
Richie recoiled, eyes wide like Max had just yelled at a puppy. He clutched his chest dramatically and whispered, “Too… intense… for Earth customs…” before quickly flipping through the charred remains of his manual again.
“Ah! Yes! The quarterback!” He nodded rapidly, regaining confidence. “A sacred tribal leader who throws the inflated animal bladder to achieve glory in battle!” His voice boomed with sudden enthusiasm before he paused and tilted his head. “…Wait. Is that not correct?”
Max stared. "...Holy shit, you are such a nerd," he muttered, rubbing his temples. “Whatever. Close enough. Yeah, you could call it a 'sacred tribal thing'. It has been around for a while, I guess…”
Richie’s eyes lit up. “Ohhhh! So you are a warrior-priest of Earth sports! That makes so much sense!” He took a deep bow, almost knocking himself over. “My deepest apologies for not recognizing your sacred status sooner, O Max of the Inflated Bladder.”
He went on to clasp his hands together, eyes practically sparkling in the dark. "So! As the quarterback—the sacred thrower—do you think you could help me? I need to make repairs… and also learn how to blend in." He gestured to himself, suddenly self-conscious. "Before someone sees me and alerts the government death squads?"
Max groaned, rubbing his face again. This guy…
"...Okay. Fine. First, no one’s gonna call government death squads, dumbass. It’s Hatchetfield—people see weird shit all the time." He gestured vaguely toward the town. "Second, yeah, I can help you not stick out like a sore thumb, but only 'cause I'm bored and you're really entertaining."
He smirked, already pulling out his phone. "I got a friend who works at the mall. We’ll get you some real clothes tomorrow.”
Richie perked up, his eyes widening in excitement. "The mall...?!" He repeated, sounding both amazed and perplexed. "Is that some kind of marketplace?" He looked down at his outfit, which was clearly something from another century, before back up at Max. "This isn't... acceptable? It was my best space-traveling outfit…" he muttered, tugging at the sleeve of his tunic. Though he did seem rather distressed by the idea that it wasn’t ‘normal,’ he was also ecstatic about going shopping.
Max snorted, eyeing Richie’s weird get-up like it personally offended him. “Bro, you look like you robbed a Renaissance fair.” He gestured up and down at the ridiculous outfit. “Like, yeah, maybe the drama kids would dig it, but normal people? Hell no.”
He reached out, flicking one of Richie’s stupid sleeves. “Tomorrow. We’ll get you jeans. A hoodie. Some normal shit.”
Richie winced dramatically and clutched his chest when his sleeve was flicked, as if it had just been hacked off by a medieval guillotine. "Not my sleeves... so many hours in the embroidery-loom..." He sighed and slouched his shoulders in defeat, giving in to Max's fashion expertise. "Okay, okay! I yield to your knowledge of Earthian 'normality'! I shall be in… uh... jeans and hoodie.” He said, testing out the new words in his mouth like he was sampling candy.
Max scoffed, hiding his laugh behind a cough. This guy had more flair than the entire theater department combined. "Yeah, yeah, stop being a diva. I'm saving you from getting laughed at by everyone else in town." He started walking toward his truck, gesturing for Richie to follow. "Come on. You're staying with me tonight... I’m not leaving you to your own devices.”
Richie scrambled after him, looking around the environment in awe before falling into step next to Max. He seemed to be taking in every detail, eyes darting over the town, the houses, the strange lights and sounds.
He kept shooting looks over his shoulder at the wrecked ship, a look of regret and homesickness in his eyes. But soon, he was distracted by the sight of Max's truck. He gawked at the vehicle like a peasant in the presence of the king's carriage, eyes almost comically huge as he ran his hands over the side. "It's... beautiful." He gasped. “Have you named it??”
Sure, his truck was nice (nicer than anything in this dumb little town), but he'd never seen someone react the way Richie did. “I didn't name it. It’s my truck, not a freaking dog." He mumbled, opening the driver's door. "Get in."
Richie hesitated, staring at the seat like it might bite him. “Uh… do I need a ritual? A password? An offering of gasoline?” He whispered, eyes wide. Then he cautiously climbed in, gripping the seatbelt like it was a sacred relic. “I now declare this vehicle… blessed by my people!” He said dramatically before snapping the belt on with a click and grinning at Max. “Proceed, O Sacred Bladder-Thrower!”
Max groaned, rubbing his face as he turned the ignition. "I swear to god, if you start saying 'blessed by my people' every time you get in here, I'm leaving you on the side of the highway for the locals to find."
Richie immediately slouched in his seat, clutching the door handle as if expecting the truck to explode. “I will behave! I promise!” He whispered, eyes wide and sincere.
Max's annoyance melted away, unable to find the energy to stay mad at an alien acting like he was getting onto a rollercoaster or something. He snorted, shaking his head as he put the truck in drive. "Relax, dude. It's just a truck. I'm not gonna wreck it." He muttered, pulling out onto the main road. "You've probably got way cooler, high-tech vehicles on your home planet, right? Why the hell are you scared of a beat-up pick-up truck?"
Richie shifted in his seat, looking almost bashful. "The vehicles aren't the issue…" he muttered, voice almost too quiet to hear. "It's just… humans don't exactly have the best reputation for not crashing things."
He looked out of the window again, taking in the sights of the town as they passed. He looked almost wistful, like he missed something dearly. He reached out and gently trailed his fingers along the glass, tracing the reflection of the passing buildings in the moonlight.
Max went quiet for a minute, studying Richie in his peripheral vision. It was… a little unusual to see someone so fascinated by something as mundane as a shitty small town. He could tell there was a hell of a lot more going on behind those big blue eyes. It took him a moment, but he eventually spoke up again.
"....You're kinda far from home, aren't you?" The question sounded oddly gentle.
Richie froze, his breath fogging the glass where his fingers still lingered. For a moment, he didn’t speak… just stared at the blur of streetlights streaking past like distant stars. "Twenty-seven solar cycles… at maximum warp." He swallowed hard. "Back home, they’re probably thinking I’m dead." His voice cracked slightly. "Or worse, they think I failed."
He turned to Max then, eyes shimmering with something raw and unguarded. “You know what it’s like… right? To feel like everyone already thinks the worst of you?”
Max felt himself stiffen, his knuckles turning white from clutching the steering wheel. He kept his gaze resolutely fixated on the road ahead, jaw clenching. "I-I mean I guess," he said shortly, voice low. "I dunno. Probably..."
Richie was perceptive enough to pick up on the hint of unease. The silence that hung in the truck was thick enough to cut, and he fidgeted in his seat, searching for something to ease the tension. "You have a, uh… family?" He started, carefully testing the waters. "Parents, siblings...? A pack?" He tilted his head curiously, studying Max's face in the low light.
Max gripped the wheel tighter, jaw set in a firm line. "No." He bit out, the word harsh and absolute. "Don't—don't ask me about my family, man. It's... complicated. I live with them but that’s about it.”
"Oh." The alien fidgeted with the door handle again, suddenly lost for words. The atmosphere in the truck felt heavy, thick with the weight of unspoken secrets. But as the silence stretched on, it became increasingly apparent that Max wasn't going to elaborate further.
Richie sighed, fiddling with the seatbelt. "...Sorry I asked." He mumbled.
Max exhaled sharply through his nose, forcing himself to relax his grip on the wheel. The tension in the truck was suffocating—he wasn’t used to shit like this. He wasn’t used to someone caring enough to ask. “Don’t worry about it,” he muttered, flicking on his blinker as he pulled onto his street. “Just… forget I said anything.”
The truck rolled to a stop outside a modest house—dark inside except for the dim glow of a TV in the living room. His dad must be passed out drunk again. Typical.
Max cut the engine, finally glancing at Richie again. “…Welcome to Chez Jägerman.” He smirked, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Try not to freak out at how boring it is.”
Richie pushed the door open and hopped out, looking around the neighborhood. It was quiet and dark, the only sounds were the distant hum of crickets and a few faint voices from the neighbors down the road.
He turned to Max, who was walking up the front path like it was an everyday routine. Richie hesitated, then hurried to follow.
Max dug his keys out of his pocket, unlocking the front door quietly. He held it open for Richie, gesturing inside with a half-hearted smirk. "Home sweet home." He muttered, voice low—his dad hated being woken up.
The inside was... honestly kinda depressing. Empty beer cans littered the coffee table, dishes piled in the sink, and the TV was still blaring some old rerun—but his dad was nowhere to be seen. Probably passed out in his room. Max rolled his eyes and grabbed the remote, turning it off.
"Uh... yeah. My room's upstairs." He jerked his thumb toward the staircase. "You can crash there."
Richie was about to open his mouth to ask about something, but Max was already starting up the stairs. He hurried to follow, glancing back at the dark living room one last time before disappearing onto the second floor.
Max shoved his bedroom door open—it wasn’t anything fancy, but it was his. Posters of bands and football players covered the walls, clothes were strewn haphazardly across the floor, football trophies on his dresser, a laptop on his nightstand, and the faint scent of cheap cologne lingered in the air.
He flopped onto his bed with a tired sigh, kicking off his shoes.
"Alright. Here’s the deal—don’t touch my shit, don’t wake me up before noon, and definitely don’t let my dad see you." He shot Richie a pointed look. "And do not tell anyone that you’re an alien. Not unless you wanna get dissected." He grabbed an extra blanket from the foot of his bed and tossed it at Richie. "Floor’s yours."
Richie caught the blanket clumsily, still taking in the details of Max’s room. It was fascinating to him. He gently ran his fingers along the spines of a few books on the shelf, inspecting the trophies with wide-eyed curiosity before kneeling down on the floor to arrange his makeshift sleeping spot.
“Understood,” he whispered solemnly, like they were sealing some kind of sacred pact. “No touching your… shit. No waking you. No alien-talk. No Dad.” He nodded, repeating the rules under his breath as he spread out the blanket. “You have a nice nest, far more colorful than mine.”
Max grunted in acknowledgement. He propped himself up on one elbow, watching the unfamiliar alien with some amusement. "Yeah, whatever, dude." He leaned back against the headboard, watching the other boy carefully. "You gonna be able to actually sleep on the floor? Or will you get all prissy about it and whine?"
Richie blinked, shifting slightly on the makeshift bed. He frowned, looking at the blanket like he wasn’t entirely sure how it worked. "...My sleeping accommodations back home were… slightly different." He admitted hesitantly, glancing up at Max. "But I shall adapt!" He declared, puffing out his chest like a proud warrior before immediately flopping face-first into the blanket. “I’ve had to sleep in the middle of war zones, you know.” His muffled voice stated.
"Yeah, yeah, sure you have," Max teased, rolling his eyes. "Just try not to snore. I actually need to sleep." He turned off the lamp on his nightstand before flopping back against the pillows with a tired sigh. "Night, space freak... don't choke on the carpet or whatever."
"...I don't snore." Richie mumbled indignantly, voice muffled by the blanket. He shifted around, trying to get comfortable as the room plunged into near complete darkness if it wasn’t for his ever so slightly glowy skin.
He settled on his stomach, wrapping himself up in the blanket like a burrito. He fidgeted a bit before falling still, eyes staring into the darkness as he listened to Max's breathing even out into a gentle, steady rhythm.