[text] Bullshit, you can’t be.
But it (although it’s equally possible, if not more so, that it’s the concrete offer of temporary reprieve from the confines of the latest crappy motel room) seems to be whatever it is he needs to pull him out of his funk over Seth’s refusal to humor him, because there’s sounds of movement behind the bathroom door where he’s holed himself up. The creak of plastic and vinyl as he gets off the toilet seat, the scuff of shoes against linoleum as he shuffles his way to the door, the drag of feet that always characterizes his more churlish fits.
"Anywhere?" It’s muffled, but close to the door itself, as if he’s leaning against it or near enough. There’s a soft thunk as he makes contact with it, forehead pressed against artificial wood and decals and cheap glue. He doesn’t open it yet because he’s not ready, needs further confirmation that Seth’s not just saying things to get him to come out, like he’s a kitten stuck in a drainpipe.
His phone chimed and Seth lightened the screen with a single touch, scanning his irises over the digitalised words. It was then that the subtle sounds of soft scuttling drew the same eyes (and by nature his attention) towards Richie's location. He shook his head and stood, battling ego's pride as he strode quietly over. A chipped pane of wood separated them but Seth knew Richie's presence was close enough to hear him. Almost tentatively, Seth laid his hand upon the wood: fingertips first, fixed onto the surface like tiny pillows that cushioned the placement of his palm. Then, his forehead obeyed also.
"Anywhere, Richie. You know that." Apparently his eyes had closed, an instinctive reply to meaning that had become his trademark where Richie was its source. He removed his forehead but his hand remained at the door, pressing slightly less now. "Come on. Come on out here before I retract my offer, and we can talk about where you wanna go."
