Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/12203262.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      F/M, M/M
  Fandom:
      IT_-_Stephen_King, IT_(2017)
  Relationship:
      Richie_Tozier/Stanley_Uris, Ben_Hanscom/Beverly_Marsh
  Character:
      Richie_Tozier, Bill_Denbrough, Eddie_Kaspbrak, Stanley_Uris, Beverly
      Marsh, Ben_Hanscom, Mike_Hanlon, Georgie_Denbrough
  Additional Tags:
      Diners, no_pennywise, AU, Everyone_Is_Alive, Fluff, Alternate_Universe_-
      Teenagers, Richie_makes_jokes_about_wanting_to_fuck_stan, does_he_mean
      it?_who_knows_bc_this_is_from_Stan's_POV, mentions_of_self_harm, Mommy
      Issues, Implied/Referenced_Underage_Sex, slight_Bichie, Underage
      Drinking, Implied/Referenced_Alcohol_Abuse/Alcoholism, Underage_Smoking,
      Slow_Burn, Anxiety_Attacks, Mentions_of_OCD, Smut, wet_dreams, Many
      unwanted_boners
  Stats:
      Published: 2017-09-27 Updated: 2018-03-13 Chapters: 10/? Words: 42425
****** do you want fries with that? ******
by gaypasta
Summary
     Richie spends the best of times annoying the hell out of Stan in
     work, Stan just wants to do his Goddamn job. Richie starts annoying
     Stan a lot more frequently, and Stan remains oblivious to all of the
     not-so-subtle flirting Richie is sending his way.
Notes
     I wrote this before work so there might be some mistakes, please
     point them out and i will fix them asap. i love tozier and i havent
     seen enough love for them, so I wrote some! this fic wont be very
     long and there will be some time jumps. i hope you all enjoy. my new
     IT blog is @stanurinal so please follow to request fics x
***** Georgie don't say fucklets again *****


Darkness still painted the sky over the town of Derry. Streetlights spilt an
orange glow onto the pavement which sparked like the tail of a firework during
Derry’s Halloween annual firework show when Stanley Uris cycled through the
puddles. The orange sparks fell back onto the frosty ground, all the heat from
the warm day before had been lost over the course of the night time. Birds
chirped faintly in the background, Stanley couldn’t distinguish which direction
the almost dream-like sounds were coming from - it felt as though they were
circling him on his usual bike ride to work.

The warmth and brightness of summer mornings were slowly retreating back into
hibernation, much to Stan’s displeasure. Having to start work at six o’clock
was enough of a chore without having to cycle in the darkness. Nonetheless,
Stanley enjoyed his weekend job as much as one could; the pay was decent, the
hours were okay and all of his friends worked alongside him.

Except Richie Tozier.

Thank God.

Derry’s Waterfront Diner was a small venue with a fair amount of traffic. It
was built only a few years prior just a mile from Derry’s centre. It’s not by
any means in the heart of Derry, it is the only building in the long stretch of
road before you enter the town. It was a popular rest-stop for people driving
through the town to get to a better, more modern town. It wasn’t often that
Stan saw a customer more than once, except maybe on their return back home.

Stan didn’t believe that he had deserved or earned the job as weekend
supervisor, not just because he was only 15 but more so the fact that he hadn’t
had an interview. Or applied for the job. Or even really wanted it. Bill had
proposed it was probably because him, Stan, Richie and Eddie were the only
regular customers and had gotten to know the staff. They would go to the diner
every weekend after whatever shenanigans they had gotten up to in the past four
years. Stan had remembered when they brought Georgie out for his birthday
several months ago, and the owner - who was a fat, balding man but with a kind
face and stubble that wasn’t quite ever shaven right - had brought out a cake
along with a badly wrapped box with a gaudy bow sloppily sellotaped to the top.
If Stan’s memory was correct - which it usually is - the group were the only
ones in the diner that summer evening. Richie turned the vintage jukebox up as
loud as it would go and grabbed Georgie out of his chair and danced in a way
that wasn’t unlike a seizure. Stan had pointed that out and everyone laughed.
Except for Bill, who was thanking the owner off to the side, trying to give him
whatever amount of crumpled up dollars he had in his pocket to pay for the cake
(and the damages caused by Richie’s dancing).

It was that evening, when Stan had cleaned up and righted all the chairs which
had been knocked over and pushed to the side to make a crude imitation of a
linoleum dancefloor that the Mr.Denton had offered Stan a job, if he wanted it.
Stan had said yes, a decision he hadn’t really spent the appropriate time to
think about. The job hadn’t interfered with school work or his hobbies yet so
Stan had no reason to quit or go back on the offer. It wasn’t a fortnight later
when Bill showed up during one of Stan’s shifts, wearing a white apron and a
smile which suggested he was excited and nervous, the feeling Stan recalls
having before his first ever shift. Not two days later did Eddie show up,
wearing rubber gloves that were probably intended to go half-way up the forearm
but hugged Eddie’s elbows and a waterproof apron. The goloshes were overboard,
Stan had thought. Eddie bussed like no bus-boy had ever bussed before, the
plates were cleaner than they probably were when they were first bought.

Stan pulled up into the diner, the retro design along with the neon sign had
Stan feeling a sense of nostalgia for a decade he never lived in. He rode round
past the front door into the side, he hopped off his bike and kicked up his
stand beside the smoking area, if he parked it anywhere else he feared a
careless delivery driver would run it over. Stan unlocked the door to the large
gated back entry, which held the large commercial garbage cans were stored to
prevent wild animals rummaging for leftovers. Stan carefully side-stepped a
garbage bag which had tipped over during the night and spewed mouldy hamburger
buns.


Stan continued to do all his morning duties with monotony. He’d been here long
enough and done the same thing every weekend where he doesn’t have to think
about what he’s doing, it comes naturally. It was almost embedded into his
head.
Unlock the back doors. Turn off security. Turn on lights. Turn on fans and
dishwasher. Turn on heating. Pre-heat oven for Bill. Move the chairs the table
back to the floor. Unlock the front door. Check wastage from the night before.
Prep the breakfast food for Bill. Write up next weekend’s rota.

The front of house was small, there was maybe a half a dozen tables and two
booths. Stan didn’t mind the horrible bright red and white floor tile, which
matched perfectly with red walls and very gaudy 60’s-era decorations which
basically covered the wall. It was any wonder that he could tell what colour
the wall is at all. Although the decoration was, in Eddie’s words, ‘a fucking
nightmare come to life’, the place was always clean, the floor always shone and
Stan had never found any chewing gum under tables or seats. He checked every
time.

The back of house was much bigger. The were two large benches for prep and
cooking beside a large industrial sink and a large oven which was taller than
Bill. The top shelf was never used, it was tightly pushed against a large
griddle, which is where the magic of Bill’s pancakes were made.  Beside the
red-circle windowed door which led to the front of house was two fryers which
had probably seen better days. There were more steel benches beside the fryers,
which ended at a wall about four foot high. On the other side of the half-wall
was Eddie’s ‘station’. A pretty clean and spacious area for cleaning dishes and
various cooking utensils. It was always immaculate when Eddie left it. The back
door was beside the counter where all the clean plates and bowls were stored,
about 10 feet from the sink.

Stan had just got his pen and a clean sheet of paper to begin the rota when he
could hear the familiar haphazard dismount of Silver. Not moments later he
could hear Bill rustling with the fallen garbage. Bill would pick up other
people’s garbage, that’s just the kind of guy he was. Stan likes to think of
himself as that kind of guy too - but Stan has a good enough sense of self to
know he’s not like Bill in that way. He’s like Bill in some ways, but not in
the touching mouldy food way.

The back door opened and Stan looked up from the prep bench he was leaning on
to greet Bill. Bill was adorning the uniformed white apron and white diner hat.
That was where their uniform ended, but it was an unwritten rule to wear a
black or grey t-shirt and black bottoms, mainly just to avoid ruining good
clothes.


“Hey Bill, I have your prep done. All you have to do this morning is cook them
off.”

Bill grinned as he shrugged off his coat and hung it up on the hooks beside the
door. “T-thanks Stan. Has M-M-Mike come with the deliveries yet? W-we were out
of eggs l-last night.”

Stan shrugged his shoulders. “Not yet, but it’s raining so he’s probably just
taking it easy with the precious cargo.”

Bill laughed and walked into the large fridge which was tucked away beside the
oven. “It’s w-w-w-warmer in here th-th-than outs-s-ide.” Stan couldn’t see
Bill, but if he walked into the fridge he’d imagine he could see his breath.
“Eddie coming in at n-n-n-nine?” Bill said, slightly louder than before as he
hunted for the items he’d need for breakfast at the back of the fridge.


Stan thought for a second, to try to remember what he had written on the rota
before answering Bill. “Yeah, he’s in nine to five today as usual.” Stan’s eye
caught a handwritten note which was taped to the wall beside him.

Stanley, I will be conducting interviews for new staff members this week for
weekends. They will be starting next weekend, keep this in mind for next
weekend’s rota.
 Thanks, Louis Denton

“Hey! Did you know we’re getting more people next weekend?” Stan turned to
Bill, who was walking out of the fridge with about 6 boxes of bacon and 4
bottles of pre-made pancake batter. Stan pretended not to notice him almost
dropping one.


“W-we are? C-cool! We should t-t-tell Richie. Maybe he’ll st-stop asking us for
money. I th-think Eddie must give ab-about half his w-w-w-wages to Richie for
the Arcade.” Bill dropped the supplies with a large thump onto the bench. Stan
stood in horror at what Bill was suggesting. “W-we need someone to work out fr-
front, waiting and working the d-drinks and c-cash, R-Richie could do that.”

Stan could literally not think of anything he needed less in his workplace than
Richie running about around ovens and boiling oil and knives. “Nope. Absolutely
not happening. I can man out front fine on my own.”

Bill smirked. “T-That’s not what you s-said last week when you w-w-were on the
verge of a muh-muh-mental breakdown.” Stan rolled his eyes.


“We were busy and Eddie had phoned in sick, you were stressed too, asshole.”

“E-Eddie’s mom, you mean.” Bill corrected.

Stan rolled his eyes lightheartedly in response and continued to write up the
rota, bringing one of the evening workers in a longer shift to cover for Stan
doing training. He didn’t think Beverley would mind, she always asks for extra
shifts. She would probably work every night and day if he asked. He’d make sure
to ring her at a more reasonable hour than six-thirty to check, as per routine.


It was afternoon, the eggs had been delivered and the Bill gave Mike a free
waffle to eat as he signed delivery papers. Stan thought maybe he should be
more professional and not give away free food, but Mike gives them a discount
so he thinks it’s fair. Stan was waiting orders, there wasn’t a whole lot,
mainly truck drivers and a family of 4 visiting relatives 4 towns over.

It was a calm atmosphere, it was lunch rush and there was only 2 tables filled
and 3 men sitting at the long bench where Stan was refilling coffee. Eddie came
out with a container full of freshly clean white coffee cups. Sweat was beating
down his face and his inhaler was protruding out of his pocket.  
“Eddie, it’s not a race, you know? You can slow down before you have an asthma
attack.” Stan suggested.

Eddie looked at him as if he called him every incredulous name he could think
of. “Do you know how quickly bacteria multiplies? If i slow down a plate might
sit for ten minutes. By that time the bacteria has spread tenfold. And what if
one of them happens to be freaking… Salmonella or something? Then do you know
what happens, Stan?” He sucked his bottom lip into his mouth in an overly-
panicked habit.


Stan started unloaded the cups from Eddie's arms onto the shelves behind him.
“What happens, Eddie?”

Eddie’s eyes blinked about six times as he tried to force the words out of his
throat as fast as he possibly could. “Someone eats,  I don't know… a slice of
freakin apple pie or something and feeds it to their kid. Children’s immune
systems can’t handle salmonella, Stan. The kid is dead because I took too long
to clean the plate. That’s what will happen.”


 Stan took the last of the cups from Eddie, expecting him to walk back to his
station, but he didn’t. He stood his ground expecting a confirmation. “Eddie,
that’s not going to happen. I mean, it could, but statistically, it’s very
improbable.”
Eddie gave Stan an offended look and walked out. Stan heard the trigger of his
aspirator through the swing of the door. Stan continued to serve people with a
fake smile. The mother from the family at the table had flirted with him, he
was flustered but held his cool and continued to be professional. She gave him
a $5 tip.

 After a few hours it had quietened down, there was only and old Polish lady
sitting beside the window drinking coffee, so Bill and Eddie came out front to
relieve themselves of boredom. Stan was keeping himself busy polishing the
cutlery, Eddie - who had taken off his ridiculous gloves - was messing with the
jukebox, trying to play some better music than whatever was drifting through
the speakers now.
 
“Hey! This piece of shit doesn’t even have   Raining Men . What kind of
bullshit is that? Stan I want this rectified by next week.” Eddie complained
from the jukebox. Stan barely lifted his head from cleaning a spoon.

 “I d-d-don’t think that Stan has control o-o-over the music.” Bill piped up
from a magazine he was flipping through. Stan glanced at it. It was a furniture
catalogue.
 
Eddie laughed, “Yeah, there’d be worse music coming out if it was Stan’s.”
 
Stan scoffed. “Cyndi Lauper is far better than any of the crap you listen to,
Eddie. It’s not my fault your brain’s broken.”
 
Eddie looked offended. Stan often wonders how Eddie can spend so much time
around Richie when he gets defensive about everything. Once Stan commented that
Eddie got a haircut and Eddie’s face was red as a tomato by the end of his
defensive tangent. “I actually think, that according to the latest Rolling
Stones magazine, Clash has been rated one of the best music legends of the 20th
century.”
 
Bill cut in, “One of the b-b-best. Cyndi L-Lauper could be up t-there.” Eddie
responded by giving Bill the finger, muttering something about Bill being a
shit-stirrer. Bill raised his hands in defensive and smiled out of the side of
his mouth at Stan. “I-I’m just st-st-stating an ob-observation, Eddie.”
 
Stan shook his head and continued polishing spoons. They didn’t really look any
different, but it gave his hands something to do.
 
The front door slammed open with such force that Stan thought that it had
shattered. The Polish lady didn’t flinch. She made him feel uneasy.

 “What is up fuckers and fuck-lets!?”
 
Stan closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “Richie, language. You could get
us in trouble.”
He saw what he assumed was Georgie drowning in one of Richie’s hoodies cross
the threshold into the diner. “What’s up fuckers?” Georgie beamed.
 
Bill choked on his own tongue as he tried to say something but could not, for
the life of him, get any words out. Eddie, of course, was laughing. “Dude
that’s messed up, look-” he gestured to a flabbergasted Bill - “you’ve broken
Bill!”
 
Stan shook his head and deadpanned. “Richie, what the hell?”

 Richie, naturally found this hilarious and had a shit-eating grin on his face.
Stan wanted to punch it. Georgie was completely oblivious to what was going on,
but was happy to see Bill. He ran up to the counter and struggled to get
himself onto the tall stools. Richie’s hoodie was shielding his eyes and all
Stan could see was his tongue poking out in concentration.
 
Stan bent over the counter and helped hoist Georgie up. He poured him a glass
of milk and set it down onto a coaster. Stan patted Bill on the shoulder and
went to go refill napkins.

 “Guh-Guh-Georgie, don’t s-say th-that aguh-again or Mom will be c-cross.” Bill
managed to force out of his body, he seemed like the words actually physically
exhausted him to say. Richie laughed again.
Georgie looked up at Bill or tried to at least. Bill pushed the hood off
Georgie’s face to reveal a big frown. “But Richie said it would be funny,
Bill.”
 
Bill reached for a straw from the cylindrical container on the counter and put
it in Georgie’s milk. “That word is for grown-ups. It’s a bad word.” Georgie
nodded solemnly, taking Bill’s words as gospel.
 
Richie walked over and took a napkin out of Stan’s hand and blew his nose with
it. It was a loud, animal-like sound, or maybe a tuba. Either way it was
disgusting. As Richie pulled it away from his face, a long green string kept
the napkin and his own nose connected. Eddie, who had turned round after
hearing the distressing noise had gagged violently and sprinted out into the
back and away from this nonsense. Stan screwed his nose up at Richie, who
seemed unfazed by this green string of snot. Richie wiped his nose again with
the other side of the napkin and threw it at Stan.

 “Dude! What the hell that’s disgusting!” Stan jumped back, his hip clipped the
side of the row of shelves behind him. Richie laughed in response. “I’m serious
Richie, pick it up.”
 
“Are you gonna kick lil ol’ me out, Mister Stanley?” Richie spoke in his
Southern Belle voice, pouting his lip and fluttering his eyelashes. “All I
wanted to do was share fluids, Mister Stanley. Don’t be mad!”
 
Stan visibly grimaced at Richie, moreso at the terrible accent than the words
he was saying. “Actually I can.”
 
“Share fluids?”
“Kick you out. Out you go. See you at school Richie.”
 
Stan began pushing Richie to the door while Richie just allowed Stan to
manoeuvre him. “You can’t kick me out! I work here!”
 
Stan stopped in his tracks, hands still touching Richie’s shoulders. He leaned
slightly closer to him, maybe only by an inch. “What did you just say?”
 
Richie grinned at Stan, as if he was showing off a prize. “I have an interview
tomorrow. I’ll win him over with my good looks and charm,  easy .”
 
Stan briefly considered quitting. The thought of putting up with Richie
Tozier’s mouth and obnoxious touching for now 7 days a week made Stan wonder if
he could pull off a homicide.

 Richie noticed Stan pausing and wrapped his arm tight around Stan’s shoulders.
“I know, Stanny-boy, it’s hard to contain the excitement, but please - don’t
cry! I promise that there’s enough of me to go around - and I mean  plenty.”

 Stan shrugged off Richie’s arm. “I peed beside you in the urinal last week. I
know that’s not true.”
“Have you been replaying us peeing together in your head at night? When no one
else is around? Say it ain’t so Stan! You like me! You really, really like me!”
 
Stan took a calming breath and turned back round to go back to work.
 
“See you next Saturday!” Richie yelled as Stan walked away.
 
“Mister Denton hates you after you drove your bike through the doors last year.
No way he’d hire you.” Stan quipped before disappearing out back.
 
Bill looked up from Georgie, “I m-mean, he’s n-n-not wrong.”
 
Richie blew a raspberry at Bill. “Georgie, you do it too.” And as commanded,
Georgie blew a raspberry at Bill, who started tickling him.
 
“Now can I get some actual fucking service around here?” Richie demanded, Bill
didn’t even have to ask what he needed. He nodded his head as he went to go
make two rounds of pancakes. He ruffled Georgie’s dusty blonde hair and
followed Stan’s departure.
 
Richie didn’t actually think he’d get the job. Mr.Denton actually did hate him.
Just because he broke a single window that one time! And then once more after
that, but he insists that it was Eddie's fault for daring him to kick a
football through an open window and that wasn't actually open. It was worth a
shot, Bill never complains and Stan doesn't mind working there. Eddie complains
but he complains about everything. Plus, it means he gets to annoy Stan every
day.
He smiled. He loved the disgruntled look on Stan's face everytime he said
something that irritated him. Or the way that Stan would give him that
trademark deadpan look. He was the easiest to get a reaction from, but his
reactions were so subtle and that's why Richie loved them.
Georgie started to blow bubbles in his milk. Richie gave Bill’s brother a pat
on the back.
 
He really can't wait to nail this interview. (Or at least that's what he keeps
telling himself)
 
***** The messiah has returned in the form of Stanley Uris *****
Chapter Notes
     I'm dyslexic and I haven't written in 2 years, so I apologise if it
     isn't great. But practise makes perfect I suppose, and who better to
     practise on than Stozier x
II
 
One Month Later.
 
The cold Autumn afternoon was quiet - much to be expected in this weather. It
was an almost supernatural bitter wind which cut through the team members on
their way to work, and judging by the frost build-up on the front door - it was
due to stay the rest of the weekend.
 
Mike - who now works alongside Bill after Stan realised the only thing Bill
didn’t burn was pancakes - had been late, the foreign country roads froze up
worse overnight and Mike had to walk his bike for a mile until he had got onto
the populated roads where the dozens of cars had slowly lifted the ice. It was
understandable - Stan would rather Mike be late than drop his eggs (which Mike
continued to donate to the Diner every weekend) or even worse, hurt himself.
 
Slowly, but surely, the entire Saturday gang had begun to arrive at work. Bill
following Stan by half an hour. Mike and Beverly (after her first Saturday
shift Stan had put her on every weekend after that. She was a fantastic worker
and the customers loved her) arrived at eight. Ben and Eddie arrived at nine.
Eddie continued to do dishes, even though he almost had a breakdown a few days
prior because he had touched someone’s chewing gum. Ben helped Beverly out
front, and even refused breaks if she needed someone to help wait tables.
 
Then there was Richie. Who was also meant to start at nine, but Stan doesn’t
think he can recall a day yet where Richie was any less than fifteen minutes
late. And sure enough, today wasn’t any different. Richie had bounced through
the doors at eleven, after 2 hours he had barely done any work. He didn’t seem
to be overly bothered about anything besides showing off his new sneakers.
(They were ugly.)
 
Stan was trying to fill in wastage reports (Bill tried to cook hash browns and
almost set the smoke alarm off), which was proving to be a more difficult task
than usual because beside him, Richie was squeezing washing up liquid into
Eddie’s sink, making a 2 - foot wall of foam.

 Stan had a headache, and his name was Richie Tozier.
 
“Ha-ha! Eddie, look, there’s almost enough suds for your mom to use to shave
her legs.” Richie’s voice was like sandpaper.
 
“Dude, stop! This is gonna take ages to rinse. And my mom waxes, you know
that.” Eddie complained, desperately trying to grab the washing up liquid out
of Richie’s hands. Eddie, however, had barely grown an inch (or so it seemed)
from they were thirteen. Richie had grown considerably, he was now taller than
everyone except Stan.
 
“Oh, I know she waxes, I’ve seen it up close. Tell your future little brother
that I’m sorry I can’t pay child support, too busy pimping.”
 
“Dude, that’s disgusting. Plus, child support comes out of a direct deposit,
asshole.”
 
Richie dropped the bottle into the sink, causing a splash of hot soapy water to
wave over the sink and wash Eddie’s apron and goloshes. Maybe they weren’t such
a bad call after all. Stan stared at the puddle of water which had soaked the
floor under Eddie. Richie turned around and caught Stan’s eye. He gave a cheesy
grin.

 Stan continued to stare directly into Richie’s coke-bottled eyes. It was
almost like a battle of dominance, which was ridiculous. Stan was clearly in
the dominant role, I mean - he was the supervisor. Not that Richie cared, he
didn’t treat Stan any differently in work than he did at school, he carried no
concept of a work/home barrier. Anything someone said in work, he would carry
with him home. Stan recalled when he didn’t speak to Bill for three days
because Bill had told him to stop being lazy and do some work during a rush
hour. Stan didn’t really get it, they work to support a business and provide
good customer service, having disputes with each other in work was inevitable,
 all of the Loser’s Club (as they had dubbed themselves) had different
personalities and different approaches to work. Stan didn’t see a reason not to
leave it at the door. Regardless, Richie was in work - work which Stan took
great pride in - and he will do his job as he is being paid $3/hour to do.

 “Richie, please clean that up. The last thing we need is someone falling and
cracking their head open.”
 
Richie looked down at the puddle, then back to Stan. “I’m the only one who
comes near Eddie because he has AIDs.”
 
“Good, maybe if you slip it will knock some sense into you.” Stan quipped as
took his pen back from the counter and continued to try to calculate how much
money was lost by letting Bill cook. Stan heard a short slapping sound,
followed by a yelp from Richie along with a string of explicites. Stan ignored
it, choosing to do his work.
 
If twenty hash browns were thrown out, at sixty cents each - that’s $12. Plus
the bottle of milk Richie crashed into on his bike this morning - $12.80, then
the pancakes Bill had sneezed on, $13.80. Stan put the biro in between his lips
to free his hands as he rustled through the binder looking for the wastage from
the last week. His brow furrowed as he read the wastage from Thursday. $45?!
How the hell did they manage to waste $45 worth of food? He began to
recalculate all which was written down, in a desperate assumption that someone
had made a mathematical muck-up. Stan had a habit of sticking his tongue out or
sucking his cheek when he was concentrating, in lieu of his cheek he absent-
mindedly began to suck the pen.  He faintly recognized movement out of the
corner of his eyes. It was Mike bringing Eddie more dishes, stopping to wipe up
the mess Richie had made.

 Stan let out a smile of triumph. Someone had made a mistake and the wastage
wasn’t nearly as high. He made a mental note to go back and double check the
wastage as far back as he could, lord knows how their accounts didn’t notice
it. He quickly, but neatly, corrected the maths and changed the subtotal -
still letting the pen rest between his lips. It wasn’t until he moved the paper
up from the counter to put it back into its folder did he notice Richie staring
at him. Not the staring that Ben usually follows Beverly with, more alike to
how your eyes fixate on something as your mind wanders, and it isn’t until
minutes later that you realize you’ve been staring at someone.
 
He waited several moments to see if Richie would notice, but he didn’t. He just
continued staring with eyes fixated on Stan’s chin.
 “Is there something on my face?” The underlying tone was ultimately ‘can I
help  you, Tozier?’

 Stan could almost see the point where Richie had stopped dissociating as he
had moved back about half an inch in surprise. Richie sloppily fixed his
glasses - which weren’t that overly askew to begin with, Stan noted. “Yeah,
jizz from that pen if you keep giving it all that attention.”
 
Stan went to snipe back, but Richie had skittered off towards Bill to pull at
his apron - untying the bow and letting his apron fall loose, before spinning
out the front to help Ben and Bev serve. Bill was carrying a tray of freshly
baked peach pie from the oven, and he gingerly tried to step over the trails of
his apron. Stan set his pen atop of the folder he was working with and made a
beeline for Bill after Bill almost tripped on his apron with a shout.

 “Hold still.” Stan made delicate work of re-tying the apron. It felt strange
tying a bow from the front now, after doing his own so many cold mornings. Stan
used his own apron as oven mitts and took the pie off Bill when he was done
tying it.
 “T-thanks Stan.” Bill traced the bow on the back of his apron. It was firm and
unmoving. “W-when did we start doing p-peach pie?” Bill asked curiously, his
head leaning to one side the way that it does.

“Oh, Mom had some leftover Peaches from Rosh Hashanah. They were just going to
be binned, so…” Stan had trailed off. Feeling somewhat uncomfortable that Bill
had asked. Stan could cook, and bake, and sew. His Mother firmly believed in
order to be a well-rounded person it was important for him to develop both
‘feminine’ and ‘masculine’ hobbies and skills. He enjoyed baking with his
mother, in fact, it was some of his most cherished memories growing up. But
he’s not nine anymore, he should be doing more exciting things on a Friday
night than making a peach pie for work the next morning.

 Bill’s eyes lit up in amazement. “You made t-this? It smells am-amazing. It
looks so much b-better than that cheap frozen s-sh-shit.”  Stan moved his eyes
off Bill, looking out to the front of house instead. “C-can we taste it, I
mean, we sh-should know what it t-tastes like before serving it, r-r-ight
Mike?”
 
Mike looked up from frying fries and nodded. “If Stan doesn’t mind, of course.”
He sent a reassuring smile to Stan, who straightened his back and nodded.

 
“Fine, but only one slice. Between everyone, not each.” He sent a warning look
to Bill, who was probably thinking about bringing a slice home to Georgie. Stan
would allow him, of course, but Georgie would more than likely stop by to meet
Bill and cycle home with him. Stan would give him a slice then. Stan lowered
the plate onto a clear counter out of the line of sight from the customers. He
walked over to beside Bill’s prep area and pulled a sharp butcher’s knife from
the wooden knife block.

Mike lifted the fries and left them in the basket, allowing the grease to drip
out back into the fryers, and made his way over to Bill and Stan. Stan used his
apron to hold the hot plate in place as he made eight almost exactly equal
slices into the pastry.

“I’ll go get a p-plate.” Bill jogged over to grab an immaculate white plate,
peaking Eddie’s interest from a stained coffee pot. “Here, I got forks t-too.”
Bill gently lowered the plate and the forks onto the counter. Stan lifted the
slice and fluidly transferred it onto the plate. Like he had done dozens of
times before. Using a fork, he cut the slice into seven equal pieces, which
appeared to be about a mouthful each. Stan pierced one with his fork, they
reminded him of the hors-d'oeuvres his mother had made for his Bar Mitzvah.
 
He looked around to realise that not only had Eddie joined the gathering, but
everyone had their eyes glued on the pie. “Um -” he really didn’t know what to
say.

 “You have to try it first, I m-mean. It’s yours!” Bill smiled using his hands
to usher the fork closer to Stan.

 “I get that, but do you all have to watch? I never considered eating a
spectator event.” And with that said, they shrugged and all joined Stan in
having a taste of his own baked creation. It was a strange feeling, knowing
people were eating what you made. It felt almost personal, Stan had a
temptation to slap the forks out of their mouths before they took a bite. That
would be ridiculous though, of course.
Eddie wasn’t a massive fan of peach in the first place, so Stan didn’t think
much of it when he screwed his nose up and shook his head. Bill and Mike,
however, loved it. Bill made a weird groaning noise that Richie would probably
make a crude comment about. Mike just took a heavy breath, as if preparing
himself to recount the taste.

 “St-st-stan! This is s-so good. It’s like, fifty thousand t-times better than
the ones at the b-bakery on R-Richmond Street.” Stan could feel his heart begin
to swell the way it does when you’re happy. Bill’s family had exclusively
bought their Sunday dessert from that bakery since as long as Bill could
remember. Stan could remember joining Bill several times, but he never really
was one for sweets. Usually, he just picked up a fresh loaf of bread.

 Mike nodded in heavy agreement. “I used to deliver eggs there, Mrs.Dotts
always gave me a slice of something for the road.” He patted Bill on the
shoulder. “I gotta agree, this is good stuff. Like, money-making good.”
 
Bill called in the rest of the group to taste. Their reactions were much the
same, except Beverly had never had fresh pie before, only one from the
supermarket - she was blown away.  

Richie took the biggest piece between the three and chewed it obnoxiously close
to Stan’s ear. Stan was waiting patiently for what he could only anticipate as
being irritating feedback. Richie’s head nodded as he ate it, making an obscene
parody of the noises Bill was making earlier. Stan rolled his eyes. Richie
swallowed loudly and threw his hands up into the air.
 
“Hallelujah, boys and girl! The messiah has returned in the form of Stanley
Uris. Who knew Jesus would reincarnate as a Jew after his Jewwy demise?” Richie
praised into the ceiling, wrapping an arm tight around Stan’s neck.

 Stan shoved the boy away, “Don’t call Jesus - or anything for that matter -
‘Jewwy’. It sounds a toddler trying to say ‘Jerry’, also it’s offensive to my
culture.”

 “Go cry into your Yakuza.”

 “Yamaka - and you were there when Bowers and their gang of underachievers
threw it into the sewer. Also, shut up.”
 
Richie looked up in thought for a moment before clapping loudly. “Don’t you all
have work to do? Ten-hut soldiers!”
 
The group shuffled away, probably wanting to get as far away from Richie’s loud
army-colonel impersonation as possible. Stan began to collect the dirty forks,
before Richie grabbed his forearm.
 “Dude what the hell-”

“I need your help.”
 
Stan stared quizzically at Richie’s change of tone. It threw him off and left
him feeling uneasy. “With what?”
 
“It’s my Mom’s birthday, I blew this week’s paycheck on cigarettes and the
arcade, also I owed Eddie money.”
 
Stan snorted, “You owe all of us money.” He pointed out.
 
Richie waved his hand in the air in a dismissive manner. “Yeah, I’ll get to it,
Mom.  I need you to show me how to bake a cake, or a pie or a fucking doughnut
or something.”
 
Stan looked down at the pie and back up to Richie. “That good, huh?”
 
“Dude shut the fuck up, it was a solid ten out of ten, and I can’t even lie
about it to annoy you, that’s how good it was. Please?” Richie raised his
eyebrows and held his hands together, like a child begging. “I’ll jerk you off,
Mr.Uris? For extra credit?”
 
Stan inwardly grimaced at that. Moreseo the use of ‘Mr.Uris’ than the offer to
jerk him off. “I already have your sister for that.”
 
Richie laughed loudly, clapping Stan on the shoulder, making him stumble
slightly. “Boom! Stan the Man hits us with another good one! I’ll see you after
work, bring what we need!” And with that, Richie was off, heading towards the
back door, a cigarette already in his mouth to take an unauthorized smoke
break. Beverly followed him, it was almost as if they were on a nicotine timer.
 
Stan stood there, the realisation dawning on him that Richie had just invited
him over to his house, without really giving him an option. Stan tries to
remember the last time anyone apart from Bill was at Richie’s house. He can’t,
so he starts making a mental list of what to bring to Richie’s that night.
 
Richie better actually fucking help make his own mother’s cake or else Stan
might just cook him along with it.
***** You're Thinking Of The Hymen *****
Chapter Notes
     Goddamn it Richie it's called a yarmulke.
     welcome to the great loser's bake off
Richie’s house was neater than he expected. He was aware that Richie’s parents
weren’t home a lot, so with Richie being the only head of house for the
majority of the time, he had expected the place to be a mess. Instead of
tripping over piles of shoes and discarded coats at the front entrance, he
stepped cautiously onto a clean rug and past a pair of converse neatly lined
beside each other.  They were white and black respectively. The carpet was
slightly damp in some places and smelt of a sterile hospital softly masked by a
mix of citrus fruits and … Stan sniffed again, he had definitely smelt this
smell before. He stood there for a moment, wracking his brain before moving off
again picturing how strange it would look if Richie had walked in to see him
sniffing his hallway. He was carrying a large mixing bowl his arms, the bike
ride over had been tedious as the bowl was too big to fit into his backpack
alone, nevermind with everything else he had to bring with him. The clinking of
the glass tupperware Stan had in his back clinked as Stan walked. The sound
must’ve alerted Richie of his presence, as his goggle-eyed head peered through
what Stan assumed was the entrance to the kitchen. Stan had knocked, but
perhaps knocking by belting his elbow into the door because he couldn’t free a
hand while carrying all this stuff was either too quiet for Richie to hear, or
was mistaken for the house settling. To be fair, Stan had called Richie to let
him know he was on his way and Richie told him to let himself in while Richie
took a nap and would wake up to a gorgeous three tiered cake. Stan told him to
get fucked.
 
“Roll up ladies and gentleman, next up into the kitchen is a Mister Stanley
Uris!” Richie mock-presented. He cupped his hands around his mouth and made a
whisper-shout to imitate a booming crowd. “Standing at five foot ten, weighing
a whopping ninety-nine pounds, eyes as steely blue and dreamy as Harrison Ford
our hero is up against the one, the only…” Richie paused for suspense. Stan was
not suspenseful. “Richie Tozier’s kitchen!”
 
“Meh, that one needs work. Hold the door open for me so I can set this down.
It’s heavier than it looks.” Stan took steps towards the double glass doors,
Richie opened the door from inside and held it open, giving an exaggerated bow
and curtsy.
 
“Anything for you, oh master Chef.” His tone then fell back to normal. “Put the
bag wherever. I would say sorry about the mess, but I’m not really.”
 
Stan stepped past Richie, keeping an eye on his hands as he passed through the
threshold. The last time Richie held a door open for him he had smacked Stan’s
ass. Hard. Stan dropped the mop bucket he was carrying in surprise and he made
Richie clean it up. He winced thinking about it, he had eggs in this bag.
 
Thankfully Richie’s hands didn’t wander any farther than to close the door
behind them and Stan was left without sexual assault. For now. For now? Stan
was worried what kind of torture Richie would later impose upon him, he was in
Richie’s domain after all. Stan was doing him a favour, though. If Richie got
too overbearing or he got to eat too much cake batter that it went to his head,
Stan could just stop making the cake which he was so gracious enough to bake
for Richie. And by that he means help Richie bake. Yes, it will be a joint
effort.
 
Richie’s kitchen was fairly messy. There were cups and plates piled up into the
sink - some looked as though they had been sitting there for a while. Is that
porridge or mashed potatoes? A few cupboard doors lay open, threatening to clip
the side of Stan’s head, he closed them as he walked past them. A few tell-tale
jars of Richie’s breakfasts and late night lunches sat beside a chopping board
covered in crumbs. Stan noted that  unlike the front entrance, a dirty pair of
black slip-ons lay haphazardly beside the table along with a crinkled pair of
shorts. Did Richie really just come home and strip while making a sandwich? I
guess when you basically live alone there’s no one to witness your indecency.
Stan set the large mixing bowl on a clutter-free section of the small kitchen
and began unloading the Tupperware filled with preciously measured ingredients
from his backpack. He had considered not pre-measuring the ingredient, but
figured it would be more straightforward if he did. Imagining Richie with a bag
of icing sugar could have gave Stan nightmares, so that may have been a
contributing factor.
Richie stalked over and stood, as usual, slightly too close to Stan. Maybe Stan
had a bigger area of personal space than what Richie was used to, or maybe
Richie did it to annoy him. Either way, Stan shifted slightly to be a more
socially acceptable distance from his friend. His nose had caught a quick whiff
of that smell from the hallway again. It smelt too strong to be  body-spray,
but not as perfumed as cologne.
 
“So, what are you making my wonderful Mommy for her birthday?” Richie peered
into the boxes, as if a tub of flour would be a clue.
 
“ We  are making Victoria sponge cake, since when I rang to ask you what she
liked, you didn’t answer.”
 
“I did answer!”
 
“Roast beef Sunday dinner isn’t a flavour combination I could work into a
cake.”
 
“That’s quittin’ talk, Uris. Slap some gravy into a muffin and there you have
it. Happy Birthday, Maggie!”
 
Stan rolled his eyes. “Here, put this in the freezer, it’s too soft.” Stan
handed Richie over a stick of butter, cut into the weight that they would need.
 
“I can think of better ways to get it up than that, Frosty. But whatever floats
your goats I guess.” Richie grabbed the butter and threw it into the freezer,
mimicking playing basketball.
 
“Boats, you mean. Why would goats float?”
 
“Well, look what happened to the Titanic. Boats aren’t too great either.”
 
Stan rolled his eyes and pre-heated the oven. He shifted his bag off his
shoulders and moved it to Richie’s kitchen table. He began adding ingredients
into the bowl, while Richie’s eyes lazily followed his hands. Somehow, Richie
already had flour on his gaudy Hawaiian shirt. The sight of the floury patch
pressured Stan into get his apron from his bag, Richie’s eyes stalked him, like
he was calculating Stan’s every move.
 
“I’m putting on my apron.” Stan felt the need to justify his actions.

 “And where’s mine?”
 
Stan raised an eyebrow. “I know for a fact you have plenty of aprons. I’ve
given you three new ones this month alone. I doubt you’ve lost them.”
 
Richie looked at him as if he had just said the most ridiculous thing. “If I
didn’t lose them, how come I can’t find them?”
 
“Have you cleaned your room at all in the past month?”
 
“I call it organized chaos. Sorry we can’t all be OCD, Mr.Perfect.”
 
Stan rolled his eyes as he raised the neck of the apron over his head, using
his left hand to keep his yarmulke in place.
 
“Crack four eggs into an empty bowl and don’t get any shells in.” Stan
commanded.
 
Richie did just that, after searching around in a dusty cupboard for a bowl.
“Now what Captain?”
 
Stan tied the back of his apron in a perfected bow. “Beat the eggs, I doubt you
have a whisk, just use a fork.”
 
“I don’t normally use a fork to beat eggs, if you know what I mean.”
 
Stan stared blankly.

 “You know, like  eggs .”
 
“You’re thinking of the hymen. You need to whisk harder, you’re not getting
enough air in.”
 
Richie looked at him through the side of his glasses, a strange look that made
Stan feel slightly intrusive.

 “How would you know?”
 
“I’ve been making this cake since I was nine. The eggs should be a pale yellow
and fro-”
 
“About the hymen. Didn’t take you as a womanizer, Stanny boy. But who can
resist those curly locks, am I right ladies?” Richie made a high five motion to
the empty space to his right.
 
“We sit together in Biology. You copied my homework on female anatomy last week
because you were too busy cramming for Chem to spend five minutes labelling a
diagram.”
 
Richie stopped staring and stared at the wall opposite in deep thought,
hopefully not thinking that deeply about female anatomy. Richie barked a laugh.
“Oh yeah. Who can forget the vulva?!”
 
Stan grimaced. “Please stop talking.”
 
Stan added the now perfectly beat eggs into the large bowl, instructing Richie
to mix it gently until it’s just mixed. Not too much or the cake will go tough
because the gluten will have been worked to much. He started to explain to
Richie the importance of properly mixing the cake in great detail as he got the
now less-melted butter from the freezer.
 
Richie pretended to listen, nodding his head while watching Stan lean into the
freezer. Stan smiled, he was happy that Richie was listening one of his ‘boring
science’ speeches. He didn’t think it was very boring, Stan actually thought it
was really interesting the difference that simply adding in an ingredient
slightly too quick or too warm could make.
 
As soon as Stan instructed Richie to mix, it became apparent that Richie was
overestimating how much force was required, as almost instantly he was greeted
with a huge blob of batter on his flowery shirt. He promptly dropped the fork
and stepped back, afraid that the bowl might decide to spit at him again.
 
“Stan… this is my favourite shirt…” Richie frowned, almost comically.
 
“Is it ruined?”
 
“Not if i wash it before it dries.” He pulled at the shirt, assessing it for
any further damage.
 
“Damn.”
 
Richie shot him the finger before swiftly jogging out the door, pulling the
shirt off before he even exited the kitchen. Stan’s eyes lingered where
Richie’s bare shoulders were. It reminded him of when they used to go swimming
in the quarry. He remembers holding those freckled shoulders, water droplets
cascading from Richie’s hair into the crevices between Stan’s fingers, while
attempting to drown Richie for pulling his underwear down while he was
swimming. Richie had soft shoulders.
 
Stan began cleaning up globs of batter with a roll of kitchen roll which was
sitting beside the sink. He wished he could disinfect the area, it involved raw
eggs. Not that Richie would really care. He wound up the dirty sheet into a
ball and placed it inside the egg carton, which Richie had put the egg shells
back into. Stan didn’t want raw egg sitting out for long, too much risk of
cross-contamination. He reached under the sink to where he assumed the bin
would be, and opened the cupboard door.
 
The kitchen rang out with the sound of maybe a dozen or two glass bottles
clanging against the harsh linoleum floor. Stan initially panicked, thinking
that a bottle had smashed, but he mistook the sound of  a bottle breaking into
pieces and the shards cascading to the floor with the small landslide of
bottles. Stan dropped to his knees to begin picking them up, before stopping as
his eyes skimmed the labels. They were mostly beer. All the same brand. Two
bottles of what was once whiskey had fell too. Stan lowered himself to peer
into the cupboard and sure enough, there sat at least 5 large empty bottles of
whiskey, which had been pushed to the back. Underneath several bottles which
hadn’t spilled out, Stan could make out some dishcloths and washing up liquid.
Stan frowned. Why the hell was there so much alcohol in this cupboard? He
picked up a stray whiskey bottle and began to read it. Fifty-five percentage.
From what Stan remembers from Bill’s last birthday party (they were all wasted
after four beers) that’s hell of a lot. Were these Richie’s? Surely if Richie
drank this much, Stan would know by know. Right? He’d have hangovers in school
or when they were in work. Besides, Richie could barely hold back a beer,
nevermind all this.
 
“Hey good lookin’ what you got c-” Richie, who had barged through the door, had
fell silent for a split second upon his eyes meeting the mess. Stan met his
eyes and barely had time to blink before Richie shot over and began stuffing
the bottles back in. He looked angry, as he threw the beer bottles back into
the cupboard with too much force. Stan thought he heard one break, actually
break this time. Stan gently placed the bottle he had been examining back in,
before Richie had a chance to grab it from him. Richie glared angrily at the
bottle Stan had placed back, as though they had an unwritten term of agreement
and the bottle had just broke it. Stan’s heart didn’t know if it should beat
too fast, or slow down, so it settled for both and Stan felt like his heart was
gonna fall out of his chest.
 
Richie closed the cupboard and just stared at it for a moment, Stan noticed
Richie was sitting barely an inch away from the cracked eggs and batter-covered
towel. If Richie chose to sit down from sitting on his knees, he’d surely sit
on it. Stan gingerly leaned over, pushing the carton away from Richie’s
possible line of movement. This had meant leaning over Richie, and he could
feel his messy black hair tickling his neck. He retreated slightly, but not
completely, he could feel his own curls fall against Richie’s hair as he moved.
His eyes darted to Richie’s as soon as he knew he could’ve seen the boys face.
Stan knew what had happened. He wasn’t one to make assumptions, but he read the
situation enough to know he shouldn’t ask. As he moved further back, perhaps
only a foot away from the other boy’s face he could feel a force make him
pause. He wouldn’t have paused of his own accord, he’s too close. This is his
personal space and Richie is sitting in it, looking almost frightened in anger.
Like when you finally stand up for yourself against your parent, knowing you’ll
get in trouble, but you’re too angry to stop yourself. Stan had never seen
these emotions painted on his face, he admits, regrettably, that he never
really thought of Richie as someone who could feel such a complex tide of
emotions. There was an unspoken silence between them for several moments.
Neither of them moving, Stan continued to watch Richie like a hawk, looking for
any sign that he could move away, or speak.
 
Richie had made several noises over the course of a minute or two, which
sounded like the start of a sentence which he hadn’t thought to finish. Richie
rubbed his eyes in frustration, displacing his glasses. Stan moved back, and
let out a breath that he had been holding, in fear that even something small
like breathing too loudly would interrupt what Richie was trying to say.
 
“Do I really need to go into it?” Richie asked to the ceiling, he moved to sit
against the cupboard that had betrayed him.
 
Stan looked at the cupboard, then to Richie. “I mean, kinda. A brewery's worth
of alcohol just came out from underneath your kitchen sink.”
 
Richie sighed, to the ceiling again. “Can’t you just put two and two together
then we can leave this conversation.”
 
“If your sink has a drinking problem you should probably address it.”
 
Richie let out a breath of air, the ghosts of laughter. Stan smirked as Richie
shot him a look, followed by a thumbs up. “Good one, Stan the man.”
 
The kitchen fell back into silence. Stan moved to lean his back against the
cupboard beside Richie. Their two postures were so different, they almost
looked comical. Stan’s head rested on his knees, his brown loafers pointing
straight forward while Richie sagged beside him, his legs apart and dirty socks
pointing to the Gods. He looked like a wax figure who’d been left in the sun
slightly too long.
 
“My mom’s not home much.” Stan nodded, he knew this, but he could tell this was
the start of a  conversation . “Neither is Dad either, not that I give a shit.”
Richie seethed his words, Stan didn’t know much about his family life, but he
had always read between the lines of Richie avoiding any mention of family that
it wasn’t great. “Mom just...drinks a lot. All the time, Stan. She’s not always
drunk or anything, well she’s gotten worse lately but… fuck, she always had a
drink in her hand, but she could put herself to bed and remember how to lock
the doors and she’d be up in time to get me up for school and go to work. It
worked, I mean she wasn’t a great mother, when she was far gone she’d …” Richie
picked at the skin at the side of his nails, watching his own fingers with
intent. “She’d not be great. When I was in second grade I drew our family
portrait with her holding a bottle of beer instead of my hand, for fuck’s
sake.”
 
Stan was watching Richie’s face carefully. Taking in this moment as if it would
be a moment which would grant him life or death. He stored every word Richie
said into his head. Richie started to jiggle his leg, Stan knew he was craving
a cigarette. Stan didn’t like it when Richie smoked around him, so Richie
usually didn’t.
 
“I’m sorry, this is stupid. I sound like such a faggot crying about my Mommy
issues.” Richie wiped at his eyes again, Stan didn’t notice any wetness, and
suspected Richie was trying to wipe away moisture as it came.

 “So you wanting to fuck Eddie’s Mom is all just a big roundabout Oedipus
complex?” Stan was so used to Richie providing comedic commentary, Richie being
down isn’t something he’s ever considered happening. He figured the situation
needed lightening up though, before one of them takes the smashed bottle from
the cupboards and slits their wrists with it.
 
Richie let out a shallow but honest laugh. “Probably, but me and your Mom? Pure
fiery unhinged passion.”

 Stan knocked shoulders with him, and Richie retorted as well. He reached into
his jeans and pulled out a pack of cigarettes, taking one into his mouth
directly from the packet. He gave Stan a look to ask if it was alright, and
Stan nodded. Richie needed this right now. He can figure out how to get the
smell of smoke out of his shirt later. Richie hopped up and lit his cigarette
on the gas-fired hob.
 
“I know I don’t need to say it, but this is between us, ok?”
 
Stan nodded. “You didn’t need to say it, Richie.”
 
Richie sucked on the cigarette, letting the smoke flow out of his words as he
spoke. “It wouldn’t be fair not telling you after telling Bill. I’d feel guilty
for feeling like I had to ask Bill not to speak if I didn’t have to ask you.”
 
Stan blinked, partly because Richie accidentally blew smoke into his eye. “You…
you told Bill?” A part of him feels upset that he wasn’t the only one Richie
had told, he felt cheated that Richie would disclose such a personal secret to
their other friend. Stan felt bad, he shouldn’t feel special, he shouldn’t feel
as though he and only he should be privy to Richie’s personal tragic backstory.
Yet, he did.
 
Richie took a long drag, letting the smoke sit in his lungs a few moments
longer than normal before he blew out, watching the smoke disappear into the
air. “Yeah, It’s Big Bill y’know. You feel bad keeping anything for him.” Stan
nodded, he understood, Bill had a way about him, that by keeping a secret from
him, no matter how little involvement is on Bill’s behalf, you’re still riddled
with guilt for not telling him. “I didn’t get much of a choice. In case you
couldn’t tell - I don’t exactly boast about this shit. He was staying over for
the first time since we were probably…” Richie trailed off and tapped his
finger against his thigh. “About nine? Eight or nine. It was two years ago,
after your thirteenth birthday party, I told Bill he could stay at mine because
I live closer and it was getting dark. And right as we were about to fall
asleep, Mom falls into my room, thinking it was hers.” He let out a sad laugh.
“Bill was scared shitless because Mom was yelling at us to get out of her room,
it took a while, but I got her to bed. It killed me because afterwards Bill
would barely look at me. I don’t know if he was embarrassed, or guilty or
pitied me or whatever. But it fucking hurt.” Richie tapped off the ash onto the
floor. “I liked Bill, a lot, I was head over heels infatuated with him, and the
first night we’d have a sleepover in ages without having Georgie creep in at
midnight, I had all these moments planned out in my head. We’d kiss, maybe we’d
confess our feelings, maybe I’d give him a blowjob. Then turn of a coin, he
wouldn't look at me for a week.”
 
Stan sat in shock at what he was hearing. Richie liked Bill? Stan was replaying
every interaction he watched Bill and Richie have over the past few years. He
felt like he’d been hit with a concussion. What the hell was going on? Did Bill
know? Were they secretly dating?  Are they secretly dating?
 
Richie stubbed out the butt of his cigarette on the floor, leaving a faint
black mark. “It’s okay though, he knows. He’s cool with it. It was a while
ago.”
 
Stan shot him a look, Stan had no idea what kind of  look  it was, but
apparently Richie did, he laughed and patted his shoulder. “Don’t worry Stanny
boy. I like my dick uncut, so you don’t have to worry.”
 
Stan elbowed him in the stomach, making Richie cough. “Don’t be such a dick.”
Richie laughed as he rubbed where Stan’s elbow had been. “Wait, you’re gay? The
man who talks about fucking all the chicks and their mothers, is a homosexual?”
Stan wasn’t shocked, it was Richie Tozier they were talking about - who knows
what curveball that boy is gonna throw next.
“Don’t worry, there’s enough of the Tozier Train to go around. Now stopping at
both male and female stations, buy your ticket early though - the waiting list
is almost as long as my dick!”
 
Stan rolled his eyes so hard he felt his optic nerve burn. “I’m not bringing up
the urinal again.”
 
Stan got off the dirty floor and held a hand out to Richie. “Let’s finish this
cake before any more secrets get exposed.”
 
Richie smirked and jumped up, looking brighter in the eyes. “Hold onto your
yahtzee, it’s gonna be intense.”
 
Stan hit Richie with a wooden spoon. “It’s a yarmulke, you dick.”
 
 
 
It took thirty-five more minutes, and by the time they were done curfew had
long been in place, but they had finished it. It was a work of art. Perfectly
golden and spongy, with silky cream and some of Mike’s mother’s homemade jam
she had given out to all of the group. It was sweet, the jam gave it just the
right amount of bitter to compliment the sweet. Not that the boys knew, they
couldn’t have any. Richie was overjoyed, jumping up and down like a child in
victory, “I’m a better cook than Bill!” Stan decided not to point out that it
was his recipe and the only thing Richie did was mix the ingredients - and lick
the spoon, to Stan’s horror.
 
Stan placed the cake delicately in a decorative box, so it wouldn’t take in any
weird tastes and smells that are more than likely making home in Richie’s
fridge. Richie smiled at Stan when all is done, and all is left to do is give
it to his Mom when she gets home from work the next day.
 
Richie wrapped his arm around Stan’s shoulder, and Stan lets him. “We did good.
But I am fucking starving.”
 
“I’m not making you food, Richie.”
 
Richie threw his hands up in the air. “Then what kind of wife are you?!”
 
Stan rolled his eyes and began to pack his things into his bag, ready to head
home. He had work in the morning and it was already - Stan checked his watch -
21:04.  Fuck. Stan picked up the pace, not even bothering to put the lids on
his Tupperware before placing it in his bag. His Mom’s gonna freak if he’s not
home soon, he was meant to be home two hours ago. Richie sashayed over to the
table, where Stan was having a small freak-out. He rest his head on his hands
and bent over.
“Where you goin’ in such a rush, sweet-pea?” Richie drawled in his Southern
Belle voice - Richie had began to recognize it as Stan’s favourite, a more
accurate wording would probably be least-hated.

 “I have to get home, it’s late. My parents are gonna freak.” Stan suddenly
smelt the smoke from Richie’s earlier cigarette on his collar. “Richie, I smell
like smoke! What gets out smoke?” He began to lift his shirt, smelling it all
over.

 “You can borrow some of my clothes, it’s no big deal.” Richie was staring
absentmindedly at his exposed stomach, zoning out again more than likely. Stan
almost died at the vision of him walking around in one of Richie’s ugly
Hawaiian shirts. He pulled his longest curl down to his nose and gave it a
sniff, he recalls Beverly complaining that smoke sticks to your hair,
especially if it’s thick - and she was right. “Fuck - it’s in my hair too.”
 
Richie shrugged. “Just stay over, we’ve shared a bed before.”
 
Stan recalled back to one of their many sleepovers. Stan had got the short
straw and Richie had got kicked onto the floor not even an hour after lights
out. The smell of smoke attacked his senses again. Stan looked over to see
Richie lighting another cigarette.

 “Dude what the fuck?!”
 
Richie gave him an almost cheshire cat-like smile. “Well you just  have  to
stay now, no chance of getting smoke out of your hair.” He blew smoke into
Stan’s face and Stan swatted the cigarette out of Richie’s hand.
 
“You’re a premium-level dick, do you know that?”

 Richie grinned as he pulled Stan out of the kitchen, cigarette bouncing softly
between his lips. “Yeah I know. But a slumber party, Stan!"
 
And with that, Stan had laughed a genuine laugh. Not that Richie had said
anything particularly funny or got seriously injured in anyway. But he was
having fun, genuine boyish fun, clambering up the stairs, fighting each other
on who gets to shower first and Richie attempting to give Stan the ugliest
pajamas he could find. Stan was having so much fun, he forgot to call his
Mother until 22:35. He laughed at his own forgetfulness and hung up the phone
after calming his mother, going back to trying to wrestle his yarmulke out of
Richie’s hands.


***** Richie's Fucking Lava Lamp *****
Chapter Notes
     thank you to @stannnuris for beta'ing my ass x
Stan checked the red illuminated numbers of his watch, the bright LED lights
hurt his tired eyes.
[01:40].
Stan groaned as he shifted slightly in Richie’s bed, trying not to wake the
sleeping figure next to him - who was currently splayed out like a starfish,
forcing Stan to grapple onto the edge of the bed before he was pushed into the
mountain of dirty clothes and comic books which was Richie Tozier’s bedroom
floor. Stan couldn’t sleep. Normally he was asleep in his pristine white bed by
ten o’clock, but not tonight, because tonight he wasn’t sleeping in his
familiar abode - he was bunking with a hoarder.
 
Stan was exhausted - the soft glow of the stars peering through Richie’s half-
closed curtains were burning his eyes, feeling as though the moon is mocking
him for the restless night. Stan had never had difficulty sleeping with one of
the Loser’s before. Eddie’s room was always fairly clean anyway but Bill always
spent the day before hosting a sleepover cleaning the house if he knew Stan was
attending. Stan wasn’t as bad anymore, he takes his medication and he can deal
with small things like Bill’s posters being slightly lopsided, or Eddie’s pill
bottles being arranged alphabetically instead of by size, or even the way
Richie’s glasses were never quite sitting on his face right. Stan suspected he
had sat on them and never bothered to get them fixed.
 
But  this  situation, even with the medication - was driving Stan crazy. He was
itching to clean Richie’s room just so he could sleep. Stan tried to take his
eyes off the glass of soda Richie had left teetering on the edge of the desk,
or the open closet door, which showed clothes thrown in, with no hangers and
Stan thinks he can make an outline of a shoe sitting on top of all Richie’s
clothes. Stan could feel his hands were beginning to fidget, picking at the
pair of ugly Christmas pyjamas Richie had given him to sleep in.

 No, he’s fine. Stan is fine. He just needs to wash his face and he’ll be fine
to go back to bed. He just needs a minute out of this… hellhole.
 
Stan lifted the duvet off his body tenderly, trying to keep it as motionless as
possible to avoid waking Richie - the duvet which didn’t have a cover - and he
stepped onto the floor. Well, onto a notebook which had been permanently
crinkled beyond usability. Stan tried to navigate Richie’s horde of junk - not
junk, Stan knew that some of this stuff was probably of great importance to
Richie, which is why he was being so delicate with his footwork - only to step
on an upturned plug from Richie’s stupid fucking lava lamp, which didn’t even
fucking work. Stan made an agonized noise in the back of his throat as he
rubbed the sole of his foot. He hobbled out of Richie’s room and into the
bathroom to wash his face.
 
Stan pulled on the shaving light to examine his face in the mirror. His eyes
were already beginning to form bags and he had a pimple developing under his
lip - the joys of puberty. Stan splashed the arctic cold water onto his face,
the shock of the cold water lifted his mind from Richie’s room for a moment,
and he felt cleaner. Stan rubbed his face dry with his shirt and went to switch
off the light before he noticed something in the corner of his eye.
 
Reflected in the mirror, was a framed photo of Richie from when he was probably
around six. Stan turned around and picked it off the shelf, bring it towards
the light to get a better look. Richie looked much the same - a pair of buck
teeth, glasses and a  mess  of black hair, Stan felt warm. He remembered this
day, this was the first day where him, Bill, Richie and Eddie were all in the
same class. Stan wonders what would’ve happened if one of them had been in the
other class, what if Stan was put in the other class and never met his friends?
Stan decided to focus back to the picture. Richie was sitting beside a thin,
pale boy with such rounded cheeks that he looked almost like he was having an
allergy attack. The boy reminded Stan of Georgie, they looked almost identical.
Almost as if they were … brothers. Stan closed his eyes and took a patient
breath, it’s Bill. Of course it’s Bill - who else would it be?!  Bill’s arms
were wrapped tightly around Richie’s neck, and Richie’s head was leaning
against the mop of Bill’s hair. Stan snorted, such children. Stan, even at such
a young age wouldn’t have taken such a photo, he would’ve stood up straight
with a modest smile - nowadays wasn't much different, but his smile wasn’t
painted anymore.
 
Stan traces the edge of the frame softly with his finger as he tries to recount
how many photos exist of just him and Richie. He puts the photo back where it
was. He couldn’t think of any. He made his way back to the room, feeling
slightly calmed.
 
Stan watched the floor with concentration as he avoided stepping on any other
rogue items, he hastily stepped over a pair of Richie’s tighty-whities. Stan’s
hands ghosted over the duvet to find the corner - only to trace into a cloud of
tangled hair. For some reason, Stan’s hand stopped in its place, maybe because
he hadn’t been this close to his lifelong friend in years, or maybe it was
because it felt exactly how Stan imagined - coarse, thick and most definitely
unbrushed. Or maybe it was because a pair of half-lidded eyes were staring back
at him. Yes, that was probably it.

 “Stanley?” Richie’s voice was deep and gravelly. Stan almost had to look
around him to make sure that the voice had, in fact, been Richie’s. “What’s
wrong?” Richie had begun to move back over to his own side of the bed. Stan’s
hand fell to the mattress.
 
“Nothing, Richie. I just went to the bathroom.”
 
“If you wanted to jerk off-” Richie yawned “you could’ve just woken me up.”
 
Stan huffed a laugh. “Why? Just to watch?”
 
“Never seen a jew dick before. Wonder what it looks like without all that
foreskin.”
 
Stan shoved Richie farther over the bed and softly got under the blankets.
Richie’s socked foot was softly kicking against Stan’s as Richie closed his
eyes. Stan’s eyes were fixated on Richie’s hair. It needs to be brushed so
badly that it  hurts.
 
Stan laid on his back for what felt like hours, with Richie breathing
practically into his armpit, but the red glowing lights on his watch told him
that it had only been eight minutes. The only sound in the room was Richie’s
heavy breathing, he was a mouth breather - Stan recalled with contempt - and
the soft buzzing of Richie’s digital alarm clock on his bedside locker. The
buzzing was loud and the moon was far too bright.
 
Richie shifted in his sleep, turning more to lie on his stomach, Richie’s arm
moved and found a place over Stan’s abdomen. Richie’s fingers were twitching
beside his nipple. That wasn’t bothering Stan, what was bothering Stan was that
he could feel Richie’s mane of hair against his arm. His unkempt, unbrushed,
peninsula of hair. Stan’s disorder hasn’t been this bad in years, but Richie
hadn’t expected Stan to stay over, so Stan can’t fault Richie for the state of
his room. Stan could hear the kitchen clock ticking like a countdown. The light
from the moon twisted around Richie’s floor, showing off all of the socks and
candy wrappers and crumpled up pages of homework, presenting them to Stan like
a cat showing off its kill.

 Richie rubbed his head against Stan’s tensed arm and Stan has  had  it. Stan
jerked his arm away and resumed his earlier position of teetering off the edge
of the bed in an attempt to get as far away from Richie as he could. The sharp
motion of Stan moving away must’ve stirred Richie from his attempt to fall back
asleep as Richie groaned.

 “What’s wrong? Go to sleep.” Richie grumbled from the pillow.
 
It would be so easy, just press his head into the pillow. Stan’s stronger than
Richie, he could keep him there, hold him down until he passes out. Richie has
no idea how infuriating his hair is. How offensive it is. Stan could feel the
straw-like texture all over his body. The knots of Richie’s hair wrapped around
his Adam’s apple and threatened to squeeze. Stan couldn’t get it off.

 “Your hair, Richie.”
 
Richie turned to look up at Stan. “My hair.”
 
“Yes, Richie. Your fucking hair!” Stan sat up straight in the bed, hands
clenched. “Your hair is so messy and you obviously haven’t brushed it in ages.
Years probably. Do you even use conditioner?! No, of course you don’t I’d be
shocked if you even used shampoo. Your hair is so coarse with knots and I can
feel  them on me, rubbing up against my neck and my arms and my legs and your
room is so fucking messy and your lava lamp-”  Stan began finding it very
difficult to get oxygen into his lungs, he was breathing shallow breaths and he
could feel perspiration beading in his armpits.
 
“Oh - oh fuck, okay Stan, it’s ok.” Richie kicked the blankets off his legs as
soon as he noticed Stan’s voice begin to break in a close encounter with
hysteria. He pushed the blankets off Stan too, letting the cool air soothe him.
 
“-and your homework, it’s everywhere and I can’t see the floor and there’s - a
shoe, Richie there’s a shoe in your closet, on the clothes. That’s not where it
goes and the tacks in your posters are all red except the bottom right one on
Freddy Krueger it’s green, it’s green, green isn’t your favourite colour yours
is red, but your walls are blue and it doesn’t match your carpet but I can’t
see your carpet because your room is too fucking messy.”
 
Stan could feel his heart racing and he couldn’t breathe, the knots of Richie’s
hair were squeezing his lungs now and constricting his chest. The moonlight
pierced his eyes like daggers and Richie’s hands rubbing circles on his back
felt so soft, so distant that it might’ve been a dream.
“Okay, Stan come on. Move, we’re going, you’re fine I promise.” Stan could feel
Richie grabbing his forearms and pulling him off the bed. Stan wasn’t sure what
was happening, all he could focus on was his lungs. His other senses were a
distant memory. He wonders if this is how Eddie feels every time he has an
asthma or an anxiety attack, does he spiral into this dream world too? Richie’s
hands were like fire on Stan’s icy arms and it  burned.  Where is Richie going?
Is he leaving? No, of course he’s not. He’s holding onto the clammy forearm and
dragging Stan out of the room.  No, we’re not in the room, we’re in the
hallway.  Stan didn’t remember Richie leading him down the stairs. Stan faintly
heard the grandfather clock in the living room chime, it echoed around his head
like the beat of a drum. Stan could feel Richie’s hair squeezing his face,
suffocating him even more. Stan tried to get it off, clawing at his face with
his perfectly manicured nails.

 “Stan! Stan stop it! Please, don’t you’re going to hurt yourself.” Richie had
grabbed Stan’s hands and held them tight. Stan’s hands were in Richie’s hands.
There was no hair on his face it had faded from existence when Richie’s voiced
had pierced into it. “Hey, you’re fine, Stan. You’re fine. You’re in the living
room it’s ok.” Richie gently pushed Stan into a sitting position on the sofa.
 
Stan tried to focus his eyes onto Richie, who was crouched on the floor in
front of him, but he couldn’t move them. There was a stain on the coffee table.
It was glaring at him, threatening him. “The coffee… the table. Richie it’s got
a stain, you need - you need- a cloth. No… I don’t know what gets out…stains on
varnished…wood.” Stan didn’t speak. Or at least it didn’t feel like he did. He
heard the words on the inside of his ear, but he didn’t feel them leave his
throat.
 
Richie took off his shirt and folded it as neatly and as quickly as he could
over the stain, Stan’s eyes slowly met his. Richie’s glasses weren’t wonky.
Richie’s hair was… gone? No, not gone, Richie was wearing a hat. It looked like
one of Bill’s baseball team caps.  
 
“Yeah, see. No hair, okay? Now you need to breathe, Stan. You know how to do
the exercise, the one you make Eddie do?”

 Stan nodded. He remembers.
 
“Okay, that’s good. You’re going to do that, okay?”
 
Stan did it. He breathed. Richie was rubbing circles into Stan’s thighs with
his thumbs. It was warm, it didn’t burn.
 
Stan breathed for several moments as his lungs slowly filled with oxygen, and
he slowly tip-toed back into lucidity. (The red LED lights on Stan’s watch had
said that it had been twelve minutes).
 
“Okay, you’re okay Stan. You good?” Richie moved his head to catch Stan’s eyes,
which were flickering around the room to take in his surroundings. Stan’s eyes
stood to a halt when he saw Richie, crouched in front of him with hands gently
rubbing his thighs. He just nodded, he wasn’t sure he could trust his voice.

 “Do you want me to bring you home?” Richie’s voice was soft, Stan didn’t like
it. He shook his head. “Okay, do you want me to make the bed in the spare
room?” Stan shook his head again.
 
Richie sighed and took Stan’s wrists into the palm of his hands. “What do you
need me to do? I’m not good at this shit, Stan. I need you to tell me what you
need.”
 
Stan stared blankly at Richie for several moments. The words escaped his mouth
without permission. “Brush your hair, please.”
 
Stan’s voice was so brittle that Richie had almost missed it, but he didn’t.
Just because his sight is gone to shit doesn’t mean his hearing is. He nodded
and patted the pad of his pointer finger softly against Stan’s hand. “Okay.”
 
He left Stan. Stan was exhausted now, but mostly he was embarrassed. He hadn’t
had an attack like that in years, he had almost ruled out the possibility of
having one ever again. He was such a nuisance, Richie had invited him over to
help and he just ended up causing a scene over what? His hair? Stan put his
head in his hands and groaned. He felt like he was eight all over again, crying
and sobbing over his peas touching his carrots. The tone Richie had used, he
was so soft and gentle, as if Stan would just shatter under his tongue, and
Stan loathed it. He wasn’t fragile or weak, he had been brought up for so long
being treated like a porcelain doll by his family, he didn’t need his friends
treating him like that too.
 
Stan always appreciated Richie for that reason, he never went easy on Stan.
When Stan was struggling with his faith, Richie went even harder with the ‘jew-
jokes’. When Stan had failed his first ever class (physics), Richie poked and
prodded at his intellect with jokes. Stan had told him to fuck off the majority
of the time, but the contrast Richie gave to everyone else’s reaction was like
nicotine. Stan needed Richie’s bite when everyone else was cooing him. Richie
always took it too far, and sure - sometimes it annoyed Stan, and sometimes
Richie’s jokes actually hurt people’s feelings. But Stan appreciated that
Richie wasn’t worried about treating people softly. He wasn’t afraid of
crossing boundaries, he tackled boundaries to the ground and spat in its mouth.
 
Stan heard the soft padded footsteps of Richie coming down the hall, and not
shortly after did Richie appear in front of him with -  holy hell.

“Is that better?” Richie asked, modelling his hair.
 
Stan, uncharacteristically - burst out laughing. He laughed so hard his sides
ached and his throat was raw. Richie stood, not knowing whether to be deeply
concerned because his friend may have just lost his mind, or to be overjoyed
that Stan is laughing at something he’s done. Richie’s contradicting emotions
were plastered on his face and that only made Stan laugh harder. “You - you
look like you stuck your f-finger in a fucking electrical socket.”
 
Stan was entirely correct, Richie’s hair had gone frizzy after it had been
brushed, it stuck out in hundreds of directions, it looked as though his hair
was trying to get as far away from Richie as it possibly could while still
being attached.
 
Richie tilted his head at him. “Isn’t that what you’re meant to do?”
 
Stan’s laughter broke into sharp broken squeals as his vocal cords began to
fail. Richie laughed with him, but not nearly as much.
 
It took a few moments for Stan to settle down, he was red-faced and had a dopey
smile on his face that he couldn’t wipe off. Richie sat beside him, their
shoulders brushing against each other anytime they fidgeted.
 
Richie turned his head to look at Stan, and the movement caught Stan’s eyes.
Stan didn’t like the sad look on Richie’s face. He knew that this was going to
be a thing. It didn’t need to be a thing. It’s happened before, it just so
happened that it happened again.
 
“Stan, what were you thinking about?” Richie bit his lip, not just bit. Gnawed,
like biting through his lip would make this conversation less painful.

 Stan sat back into the sofa. Richie had shared his dirty laundry with him, so
it’s only fair. “I just- your hair was so messy, Richie. I was tired and it was
just too much-”
 
“No not that.” Richie waved his hand dismissively.
 
“Then what?”
 
“What were you thinking of when you jerked off earlier?”
 
Stan rolled his eyes, but a smile painted his entire face. “Thought about
drowning you, watching the life leave your eyes.”
 
A smile danced dangerously across Richie’s lips. “Wow, didn’t take you as the
kinky kind, Stan. Want to cut off my head and fuck my corpse?”
 
Stan got off the sofa. “I’m sleeping outside. Bye Richie.” He waved as he left
the living room, making a motion for the front door, waiting for Richie’s
reaction. He didn’t get one he was expecting.
 
Richie grabbed Stan’s arm and pulled him into a hug. It was painful as Richie
had twisted his arm in the process, but it was tight. Richie held onto Stan’s
form so tight, Stan wondered if Richie thought he would try to wriggle out. He
didn’t. He let Richie hold him, and he ran his fingers through Richie’s combed
hair.

 “What is it, Richie?” Stan spoke softly. 
 
Richie’s head moved into Stan’s hands. “I haven’t seen that happen in so long,
it freaked me out. I thought you were gonna explode or something.”
 
“I don’t think I would explode.”
 
“I thought you would, all because you can’t handle a bit of dirty underwear,
you queer.”
 
Stan slapped Richie’s head. “You’re not one to be calling people queer,
Richard.”
 
Richie moved his mouth beside Stan’s ear. Stan’s entire body shuddered as he
could feel Richie’s breath coast his earlobe. “Call me Richard again and see
what happens, tiger.” Then Richie licked Stan’s entire ear and Stan pushed him
off.
 
“You’re disgusting.” He used his pyjama shirt to clean his ear of Richie’s
saliva. “I’m going to sleep, you better put a shirt on before coming to bed.”

 “Why, can’t handle all of this?” Richie flexed. Nothing else flexed with him.

 “I think Georgie has more muscles than you.”  Richie huffed and retreated to
the living room to get his t-shirt. Stan made his way back into Richie’s
bedroom. Stan noticed that there was less junk on the floor that there was
earlier.

 Stan crawled into bed and shortly after he felt Richie flop ungracefully
beside him. They both sat in silence to get some well-needed rest before work.
Out of the corner of Stan’s eye, just before his heavy eyelids fell shut for
the night, he noticed all the tacks on the Freddy Krueger poster were red.
 
Stan and Richie were fast asleep when Richie wrapped his arm around Stan’s
waist, and Stan wriggled closer.
 
***** bill denbrough, beatboxing champion *****
Chapter Notes
     thanks again to @pastelstanuris for beta'ing this work of art.
     couldn't do it without u sis.
Sunday morning was cold this day in Derry. Much chillier it usually was, even
at five in the morning. Frost licked the edge of Richie Tozier’s bedroom window
as the sun continued to sleep below the horizon. Stan could feel the heavy
sheet of cold nip at his exposed feet, as he stirs from his short slumber.
 
[05.32]
 
The red LED lights buzzed at Stan, calling for his attention. Stan’s eyes
fluttered open, reading the time and reading it again hoping that he had read
it wrong the first time. But no, he had read it right and it was time to get up
and get ready for work.
 
Stan tried to keep his weary eyes open, which was proving more difficult that
Stan was used to. Getting up at five was draining enough most mornings, but
with a brutal concoction of few hours sleep and being mentally spent from the
antics of last night - he was running on empty. As his body began to melt into
the world of the waking, he felt a warmth on his back, a warmth which wrapped
around his body like a circuit. He could feel the coldness lick at his face and
he briefly considered staying in bed with this warmth a little longer. He felt
something move around his stomach, softly tracing along his naval.
 
Stan knew deep down that Richie had began spooning Stan at some point during
the night, but a part of him concluded that if he didn’t look behind him and
didn’t have any visual proof, then he was blissfully unaware of who’s warm body
was holding him.
 
Because apparently, watching Richie’s chewed-up fingers tracing circles into
his stomach wasn’t proof enough. Stan watched - half paying attention, half
looking just for the sake of looking - Richie’s fingers make lazy movements, it
was almost ticklish, but the traces were so gentle that Stan could barely feel
it. Stan, as gentle as a feather, lifted Richie’s arm off his stomach and
delicately got out of bed.
 
He began tugging off the offensively bright pink pyjamas Richie had gave him
and folded the night-shirt neatly on the bed. He began the search for one of
Richie’s shirts to borrow for work - he knew Richie wouldn’t mind - even though
he’d probably not even notice it was gone in the first place. He began to
search through Richie’s traumatising closet for a shirt but was stopped by the
sound of Richie groaning ineligibility.  

“Are you awake?” Stan whispered.
 
Richie let out an animalistic noise while stretching from under the covers.
“Yes. What time is it?”
 
“Just after half five. I need to get going, I’m borrowing a shirt.”

Richie made an affirmative grunt and turned back over. Stan eventually found a
plain grey t-shirt hidden in the corner of the wardrobe, and he pulled it on.
His arms were covered in goosebumps and he was shivering furiously. Stan
quietly got ready and packed his things, he would have preferred to shower
before he left, but he didn’t have time.
 
When he left Richie’s house, he had done so quietly and so swiftly, that when
Richie turned back over to talk to him, he was gone. Richie felt the cold a
little harsher then.
===============================================================================

Stan was finishing up filling in delivery forms when Bill walked in, his hair
was slightly windswept and he was making a beeline to the oven to warm his
hands, which were burning red from the cold. He had knocked the temperature
gauge slightly in his rush. He gave Stan a friendly greeting and the two
conversed for a while about a new movie playing in the Aladdin next weekend.

“We should go see it.”

“Yeah.” Stan agreed. Not really making any intentions to see the new adaptation
of the same recycled comedy movie that he had already seen seven times this
year.  No, he wasn’t a huge fan of comedy, he mentioned that to Bill.
 
“That’s fine, S-Stan. I’ll ask R-R-Richie instead. N-no point wasting money on
a m-movie you don’t like.”
 
Stan nodded. He’d ask Richie. Bill and Richie have been best friends from
kindergarten, it wasn’t really a surprise that Bill had Richie in mind. Stan
found himself slightly irritated, and he didn’t exactly know why. There was a
rage kindling in his stomach and he couldn’t put his finger on it. He shook it
off and went back to work, filling oil into the fryers for Mike.
 
The next few hours weren’t overly eventful, Richie was late - as usual. Stan
continued doing work, he served coffee, he fixed a wobbly chair, he watched
Beverly flirt with a flustered Ben. His day was normal, absolutely nothing out
of the ordinary happened.Yet, Stan felt like vibrating in annoyance. There was
something wrong and he couldn’t place it. He wanted to pull his hair out and
slam his head into the wall, it’s bad enough being annoyed, but it’s a thousand
times worse when you don’t know why the fuck you’re so wound up.
 
Apparently, Stan had a stormy face, according to Beverly, she had mentioned it
while refilling the coffee beans. She popped her gum and it rang out like a
bullet.
 
“No I don’t.”
 
“Yes you do, you look like someone pissed in your cornflakes.” She absent-
mindedly rolled her earring between her finger. “What’s up? Sunday blues?”
 
“No, I just couldn’t find my yarmulke this morning.” Stan replied, not really
giving much effort into the conversation.
 
“You misplaced it?”
 
“Yes.”
 
Beverly laughed. “Bullshit. You’ve never misplaced anything. You keep your
receipts in a colour-coordinated folder!”
 
Stan was getting more and more pissed off. “Bev, drop it. I just lost it okay?
I don’t see why it’s such a big deal.”
Beverly’s smile fell from her face and twisted into a look of concern. She
stopped what she was doing and looked around briefly before opening her mouth.
“Are you okay? You’ve been weird all morning, Bill’s noticed it too.”
 
Stan rubbed his eyes, of course Bill noticed it. Normally Bill wouldn’t notice
if a car had smashed into his bedroom and broke his neck, but of course he
noticed Stan was slightly irritated today. Stan could hear the sound of Beverly
chewing her gum in his stomach, it was driving him crazy. He curled his fists
into a ball to compose himself. “I didn’t sleep well last night.” His tone was
short and he intended it to be the end of the conversation, and thankfully
Beverly had picked that up.
 
Beverly nodded solemnly, respecting his space and went to serve a customer who
had taken a seat at the bar. If Stan were a smoker, he would have needed a
cigarette. But he doesn’t smoke, so he made a beeline for the back door and sat
in the smoking area, he held his face in his hands as his leg bounced up and
down.
 
There were cigarette butts scattered haphazardly on the ground, and looking at
them - some of which had rings of red or pink around the lip made Stan want to
kick them out of his view. The longer he stared at them, the more irrationally
irritated he became, until the thought - which by all logic, should have been
his first thought when he woke up, but for some reason, it wasn’t - hit him.
 
He hadn’t taken his medication this morning.
 
Stan’s heart dropped in panic. He hadn’t missed a pill since the day they were
prescribed to him by a grim- looking man in a grim-looking office. He took one
with a cup of coffee and two slices of lightly buttered toast every morning,
for the past half a dozen years or so. Stan’s head filled with images of Bill’s
windswept hair, the oven temperature which had been knocked to 191, Beverly
loudly popping gum, some of it had stuck to her lip and stayed there. Ben had
his name tag upside down, Eddie’s pill box rattled in his fanny pack every time
he moved.
 
Stan didn’t think he was going to have another attack, but he didn’t even want
to chance it - after all - he had thought that last night, too. So he sat
there, in the cold, the icy wind cutting into his skin as he breathed.

In, 1…..2…..3
 Out, 1….2….3
 
Rinse and repeat until you no longer want to rip your own eyeballs out . And it
was in the middle of these breathing exercises that he had been ripped out of
his own head by a loud crash and an unceremonious “Fucking hell, well that
hurt.”
 
Stan wanted Richie over here. He didn’t know why, but he did. Richie calmed him
last night, he can calm him now. Even though he most definitely doesn’t need
Richie Tozier’s help, he would just prefer it than being alone in the cold.
“Richie,” Stan called over, forcing his voice to sound as flat as possible.
 
Richie popped his head round the corner, his elbow was bleeding and he had
leaves stuck to the side of his face. “Hey, how was the walk of shame?”
 
Stan didn’t know what to say, he hadn’t really planned out a conversation. He
just wanted Richie to sit with him for a while.

Richie picked a leaf off his face and watched it as it was picked up by the
wind. “Hey, nice shirt. I practically own you now if you’re wearing my clothes,
Staniel.”
 
Stan sat back into the chair, bringing his knees together to appear more
composed. “You’ll get it back tomorrow.”
 
Richie pulled a cigarette out of the box from his pocket and his face lit up,
as if Stan had reminded him of something. “Oh yeah, here,” Richie rummaged in
his backpack and pulled out Stan’s shirt from last night. “Washed and
everything for you.”
 
Stan looked at him dubiously. Washed and dried in a matter of hours? In this
weather. He was doubtful, but nonetheless, he took the shirt off the boy. It
smelt like Richie had smelt last night.

“Did you spray cologne on it?” Stan held it up to his nose, the smell of smoke
was gone, at least. He hoped that it was gone from his hair as well.
 
Richie shook his head as he lit the cigarette, it took multiple tries with the
wind snuffing out the flame. “No, why?”
 
“It smells like…” You.“Cologne, or something. Smell it.”
 
Richie walked forward a few steps and pushed his face onto the fabric. “Oh no,
that’s Febreze.”
 
Stan blinked at him. “You...Febrezed yourself? Last night, you Febrezed
yourself?”
 
Richie shrugged. “Times are tough, we’re going through a recession and the
polar bears are dying.”
 
Stan folded his shirt into his lap. “We’re not in a recession.”
 
Richie looked around as breathed smoke out of his nose, not seeming to care he
was hours late for work. Stan didn’t particularly care either.
 
“What are you doing out here anyway? It’s fucking freezing and you’re walking
around in a t-shirt like you’re David Hasselhoff or some shit.”
 
Stan shrugged and squinted up at Richie, the low winter sun was harsh on his
eyes. “I’m just not feeling too great. Just needed some fresh air.”
 
Richie gulped and looked at his cigarette, choosing to continue the last few
drags before adding it to the collection of butts on the ground. “Well, my good
fellow! Doctor Tozier on the case! I think our little pippins needs some urgent
attention.” Richie’s terrible English impression almost made Stan laugh at how
bad it was. “I think I might have just the thing to fix up our young patient!”
Richie pulled a familiar rattling tube from his bag and threw it into Stan’s
lap. Stan stared at it for a few fleeting seconds before touching it, just to
make sure that it was real. It was as if Richie read his mind.
 
Stan immediately popped the lid and took one of the small, blue pills. He
usually found himself staring at the tiny pill in his hand, wondering in awe
how such a little thing could change his life, manipulate his emotions. Fix
him, even. He dry swallowed the pill with ease and carefully placed the bottle
into his folded shirt.
 
“Did you break into my house to bring me my pills?” Stan was… well, he didn’t
know what. He was happy that Richie would do that, but he was embarrassed that
Richie felt the need to. He felt warm, incredibly grateful that Richie even
thought about his medication, nevermind cycling ten minutes in the opposite
direction to get them.
 
Richie’s coke-bottled eyes stared back at him. “It’s not technically breaking
in.”
 
“Technically?”
 
“Your bedroom window was unlocked.”
 
“My room’s on the second floor.”
 
“I’m used to climbing into your Mom’s room so I scuttled up with ease.”
 
Stan stroked the collar of the shirt in his arms. Staring at Richie in silence
for a moment, Richie waiting for a reaction that wasn’t going to come. Stan
decided he should go back to work, he felt better now. He walked towards the
back door, but stopped to give Richie’s shoulder a quick squeeze.

“Thanks Richie, I actually really needed them today.”
 
Stan went to lift his hand, but it was stopped by Richie’s own hand squeezing
his. Richie opened his mouth to say something, but no words came. Stan’s hand
was released and he walked towards the back door.
 
“Your yogini is still at mine, I’ll bring it over to the Synagogue after work.”
Richie called, before the door closed behind Stan.
 
“You know it's a yarmulke.” He replied, not knowing if Richie would hear it or
not.
 
Stan felt a little lighter on his feet.
 
===============================================================================
 
It was almost 3 pm - which meant that it was almost time for Stan to go home.
 Stan couldn’t wait - Richie had been particularly annoying today, following
Stan around - untying his apron, “accidentally” getting maple syrup over his
clothes, popping gum loudly and angrily at him after Stan mentioned that his
breath stank. In fact, Richie had almost exclusively bothered Stan today - with
the exclusion of pouring a cup of water down Eddie’s goloshes. (Eddie walked to
the store to buy new socks). And now, Richie had dramatically fallen over his
shoelace -which Stan had mentioned to him multiple times, was untied - and sent
two dozen eggs spiralling towards the ground, because he was too busy pulling
silly faces at Stan to look where he was going.
 
“Richie, for fuck’s sake.”
 
“It wasn’t my fault!”
 
“You were holding it, and you tripped over your shoelace.”
 
“It is your responsibility as Supervisor to ensure we are all working in a safe
work environment - and you failed, Stan.”
 
Stan folded his arms amongst an entire pallet of cracked eggs. The yolks were
staining Richie’s pristine white sneakers - serves him right.
 
“The only thing I failed in was not killing you when I had the chance.”
 
“And Physics,” Riche noted.
 
“And Physics.”
 
Richie and Stan were having a stand-off. Neither of them believed that the
puddle of egg on the floor was their fault, and neither were making a move to
clean it. The egg began to creep into the cracks of the floor, where Stan knew
that it would stay for years. They stood bickering for what might’ve been
another ten minutes before Bill decided to intervene.
 
“H-hey, it’s okay. Me and R-R-Richie will clean it up. Stan, j-just get us the
mop will you?” Bill slid into the conversation smoothly, like satin slipping
off the skin. He put his hand on Richie’s shoulder and squeezed when Richie
went to retort. It was as if Bill had complete control over Richie, like a
ventriloquist and his puppet. Stan’s eyes caught the quick glance the two made
to each other - and the small, almost undetectable lifting of the corner of
Bill’s mouth. Bill ushered Richie to his knees and they began to lift eggshells
with an unspoken routine. Their hands accidentally brushed against each other,
Richie moved his hands away like a shot had been fired, Bill didn’t appear to
notice, and if he had - he didn’t seem to care.
 
Stan left quickly, shoes almost skidding in the eggs as he went to the cleaning
cupboard to get the mop. He closed the door behind him as he struggled to look
for a mop head that wasn’t falling to pieces. He filled a steel bucket with
optimistically lukewarm water and began to search for disinfectant - it was raw
egg after all. He was pushed off into the closet while Bill and Richie got to
be out in the open, laughing and having that unique bond that Stan never got to
have. Sure, he and Richie were close, but it wasn’t a proper friendship. He
wouldn’t make plans with Richie alone or ring him when he needs help like he
can with Bill or Eddie. He then wondered, with pain in his heart, if his
friends thought of him that way too?
 
Sure they’d ring him for homework help, they used to ring Richie until Richie
began purposely giving everyone the wrong answers. Stan felt pretty lonely
then, realising that he could never be the go-to-friend like Bill was for him.
Even though he considered Bill his best friend, he knew it wasn’t mutual and
Stan wasn’t going to lie, it kind of hurt. In fact, Richie and Bill were
probably mutual best friends - if that was all they were. Stan’s face twists as
he thinks about Bill and Richie’s “Non-Virgins Only”sleepovers, as they had
been dubbed, which was almost laughably appropriately now. It doesn’t
particularly make Stan want to laugh, though.
 
Stan tried his best to banish the thought from his head as he left the closet.
Stan didn’t think that they were dating, no - he knew Bill wasn’t the type of
person to be into boys. Stan wondered, well what type of person is then? He
returned to Bill and Richie whispering to each other, faces so close and so
relaxed that for a split world-shocking moment Stan thought they were kissing.
Richie caught his eyes and immediately the whispers capsized into a
particularly violent coughing fit, inches from Bill’s face. This made Bill
scuttle back and kick Richie out of his breathing space.

“D-dude! Yuh-you coughed in my fuh-fuh-fuh-fuh-fuh-”
 
“Face?” Stan interjected.
 
“I w-was going to say ‘fucking face’ b-but thanks.”
 
Richie continues to cough his guts out in the corner. Stan watches hopefully.
 
“Any more stutters and I think you would’ve technically been beatboxing,” Stan
commented as Bill went over to give Richie a hard wallop on the back.
 
Richie jumped up to his feet almost immediately and yowled. “Holy fuck Bill,
what fucking steroids have you been taking. I think you knocked out at least
six vertebrae.”
 
Stan began mopping up the remaining spillage as Bill laughed at Richie. His
ears perked up when he heard them talking in a slightly lowered voice,
indicating that Stan wasn’t part of this conversation. He listened in anyways.

“Do you want to come see that new movie with me?” Bill asked.
 
“A date? Sounds good, bring the condoms - I left all mine in your mom’s room,
so…”  Bill laughed after elbowing Richie in the side. Stan tried not to notice
how relaxed and natural their connection was.
 
When he was with Richie he wasn’t relaxed, he was always on guard for a stupid
joke or jab or for Richie to take his yarmulke and play frisbee with it. He
couldn’t talk about any stupid thing with Richie, they didn’t have that much in
common and sometimes it was almost a chore trying to hold a long conversation
as it trailed off into an awkward silence, where even Richie would be sat
twiddling his thumbs. Stan clenched his jaw as he heard Richie and Bill
bantering in the background.
 
Ten more minutes.
 
Stan was mopping particularly violently at a particular spot on the floor when
Richie commented, “Damn, if that’s the way you work a mop - I’d love to see you
work a pole.” The comment lacked the usual bite Richie’s jeering comments
usually had, Stan chose not to respond, just shooting him a dirty look as he
continued working. He noticed that Bill was gone, probably away to talk to
Beverly.
 
“Playing hard to get?” Richie clicked his tongue, “But honey, you’re already
falling for me - you’re wearing my clothes and everything.”
 
Stan flicked the mop at Richie, sending droplets of dirty water at him.
 
“Hey! You’re making me wet!”
 
“Funny, I didn’t hear your mother complaining about that last night.” Stan’s
face of forced confusion added to his delivery, and Richie lost it.
 
He roared and laughed and wiped away fake tears, fist-pumping the air with a
shout of triumph, “Stan the man gets off on a good one!” He brought Stan into a
bone-crushing hug and jumped up and down. “The operation was a success! The
stick from your rectal cavity has been removed!”
 
Richie leaned into Stan’s ear and delicately pushed a curl behind Stan’s ear.
Richie’s hands felt almost like an extension of himself with the ease and
softness of his touch. “Want me to insert it again?” He repeated the action
from the night before of leaving a slobbery trail along Stan’s ear - and like
before, Stan shoved him away and wiped his ear furiously.
 
“Not funny, Richie.” Stan was trying not to laugh, not because it was funny,
but because Richie was lying against the counter, crippled over in laughter
which began to sound more like desperate wailing than laughs.
 
Stan couldn’t explain why he felt happier when Richie laughed like that, or why
his heart suddenly felt like it had caught a fever, but he felt too content to
worry too much about it.
***** richie sodomises the groceries *****
Chapter Notes
     many thanks to everyone who waited patiently on this chapter! I'm not
     overly happy with it, but it is what it is.
     The next chapter is going to be .... a Lot
Stan waited patiently outside the Synagogue for his friends. It was early
evening and the sky was greying with the night. Temple was over and he was
standing outside the backdoor, bike leaning against him as he waited for his
friends, like he did every Sunday. He had pulled an oversized grey jumper that
his Gran had knitted for him last Hanukkah over his dress-clothes he wore to
temple. His Father never liked him going out in them, but he hadn’t got them
dirty yet so Stan didn’t really see an issue.
 
He wasn’t impatient, Stan just waited - looking up at the stars and trying to
recall as many constellations as he could, wondering what it would be like to
see the Earth from that distance. He could hear the familiar sounds of laughter
and talking begin to float in from the distance, he climbed onto his bike so he
could join the army of his friends without making them stop.
 
Bill was leading, shouting something to Mike who was to his right, who was
laughing and looking at Eddie, who was scowling at both of them and pedalling
with such force that Stan was afraid he might go over the handlebars. His eyes
caught Richie’s who waved furiously at him, before wobbling and almost knocking
over Ben, who had Beverly sitting on his handlebars.

 Richie fixed his glasses before shouting something at Ben, who went bright red
- it made Bev give Richie the finger. Stan didn’t really want to know what
Richie had said, but it was more than likely a dig about Ben’s crush on
Beverly. Stan kicked his bike stand up before slowly pedalling to join the mass
of bikes which were throwing greetings to him as they passed by.
 
Stan joined at the end, keeping his distance from Richie who appeared to think
he was playing bumper cars, trying to swerve into people. He swerved into Bill
and Bill pushed him away, causing Richie to cycle face-first into a tree.
Everyone laughed at him while he rubbed his nose and gave Bill the finger. Stan
laughed a bit harder than he probably should have, Richie gave him the finger
too. Richie jumped back on his bike and rode beside Stan, pulling faces at him
every chance he could.
 
They slowed down as they turned into the almost hidden entrance to the quarry,
going slowly to avoid crashing into trees or hedges, they were basically
walking through a forest after all. the dirt was skitting up onto Eddie’s brand
new jeans- which he proceeded to complain about for what seemed like hours.

 “Eddie, I’m nuh-not carrying you again,” Bill announced, making Eddie’s face
go red as he sped up and stomped down the hill.
They all reminisced over Bill carrying Eddie through the quarry. It was last
year, when Eddie broke his arm and he was in a bulky cast. His shoes were
slipping on the ice and after almost falling about six times, Bill had rolled
his eyes and lifted Eddie over his shoulder. Eddie garbled out a string of
swears and begged to be put down, Bill ignored his requests and held his legs
to stop him kicking.  When Bill had put Eddie down at their previously
favourite spot beside the river, Eddie’s face was beetroot red and he was
repeatedly telling Richie to fuck off every time Richie opened his mouth.
 
They walked their bikes to their usual clearing and let them drop to the
ground. Stan kicked his stand up and stood his bike up, because he wasn’t a
monster.  This clearing had become their new usual spot, it was overlooking the
river and was so densely packed with trees and wild bushes, that it was almost
impossible to see into it from the outside. Bev had stumbled across it one day
while taking a stroll with Ben, it had been since christened, ‘The Marsh’,
which Ben had suggested, since Beverly was the one who found it. The only
visible opening was between two aging oak trees, which led to a cliff which
looked over a particularly deep part of the river. The ‘cliff’ was maybe only
ten feet tall, but it was tall enough to dive off in the summer. Every summer
Bill would carve away at the dirt to try to make a ladder to climb back up and
every summer it wouldn’t work and whoever took the chance with Bill’s
landscaping skills would fall back into the water.
 
Bill began discussing with Mike whether they should light the fire pit, Mike
had said it was cold, so yeah - but it would be difficult to find dry enough
wood in this weather. Mike unfolded the picnic blanket he always brought from
the basket in his bike and laid it beside the soon to be blazing fire pit.
 
Stan and Eddie made a beeline for the blanket and sat down, neither wanting to
sit on the dirty ground. Bev and Richie were standing by the oak trees,
lighting up a pair of cigarettes and arguing about something or other. Probably
movies, Richie had been on a Die Hard craze, and Beverly always argued that it
wasn’t  a Christmas movie. Richie always argued back, ‘ Yes it is! It’s set at
Christmas, therefore it’s a Christmas movie, Bev!’
Stan didn’t think it was a Christmas movie, but he’d never seen it so he
refused to get involved, no matter how many times Beverly asked him to back her
up.
 
He thinks he sees Bill and Mike creeping off out of the Marsh over the hedge
that Richie had accidentally cycled into a few weeks ago, which had ended up
being the easiest point of entry and exit. Probably to get wood for the fire,
Mike was brilliant at all the outdoors stuff, Stan was too, since he was in the
boy scouts - but that didn’t mean he liked it, so he always sat back while Bill
followed Mike’s instructions.
 
Even with his jumper on, it was pretty cold. He probably should’ve brought a
scarf like Eddie had. But then again, Eddie was bundled up, looking like he was
going off on an Antarctic expedition. Stan can hardly fault Eddie, considering
he was sitting tying his shoelace with ease while Stan’s teeth were almost
clattering from the cold. He gave a quick glance over to Richie, who was
wearing shorts and a long sleeved-shirt with a dog eating an apple on it. He
doubted Richie even sensed the cold at all.

 Ben was showing Eddie his mixtapes, Eddie was carefully scanning each and
every song title and commenting on them. Stan was vaguely paying attention too,
but this wasn’t really his style of music so he didn’t have much of an opinion
on the songs Ben had picked for Beverly’s mixtape but he nodded and told Ben
they looked great anyway. Eddie was interrupted from talking to Ben about
Duran Duran  by Richie shouting for him.

 “Hey, Eddie, get over here I have something really cool to show you!”
 
“Richie, I swear to God if you show me your belly button lint again I will end
you.”
 
Richie scoffed, “No, I swear! Come here quick, before it’s gone.”
 
“If it’s a bug I’m not coming over.”
 
“No, it’s my boner, Eddie, come give it a tickle!”

 Eddie sighed a swear under his breath and got up, moving around Bill and Mike
who had just re-entered the Marsh with hands full of almost-dry moss and
sticks. Mike moved with Bill to set up the fire, Beverly offering them her
lighter. Stan watched as Mike’s expert hands crafted a bed of moss, building
the sticks on top of it, like a Native American teepee sitting on a hill.
 
“Richie, what the  fuck,  get off!” Eddie screeched, causing everyone’s heads
to snap to the scene of Richie trying to push Eddie into the river, while Eddie
was clawing at Richie’s arms and grabbing onto his shirt to stop himself
falling.
 
“Richie, s-stop, it’s c-cold out.” Bill had scolded, but his face looked
anything but scolding. He was stifling a laugh and tried to hide his face from
Eddie, who was looking around in panic, eyes pleading for help.
 
Richie laughs around his cigarette as he managed to release himself from
Eddie’s grip and Eddie let out an animalistic yell before plummeting into the
water. Bill sighed as he tenderly tried to inch his way down into the river to
give Eddie a hand up.
“Richie, he’s guh-guh-gonna kill you.”
 
“You can only hope, young one.” Richie’s eyes fell on Stan, who was sitting on
his own as Ben and Mike went to get more sticks for the fire, which now was
needed to be burning bright and hot to stop Eddie getting hypothermia. Richie
marched over, flicking his half-smoked cigarette off to the side before lying
beside Stan, so close that his only slightly knotted hair had splayed out on
his neatly ironed black slacks.
“Did you see that?”

 Stan looked down to Richie, who was looking up at him, waiting for an answer.
“You throwing Eddie into a freezing cold river? Yes, Richie, I saw. We all saw
and we all agree that you’re a dick.”
 
“Hey! That’s not true, right Bev?”
 
Bev shook her head, “It was kind of a dick move.”
 
“Well, Bill thought it was funny. He’s the kind of friend I need in my life,
someone who will encourage me, not berate me for my personality. I can’t help
it if I’m a dick! It’s who I am, and you, as my friends, should accept that.”
 
Stan rolled his eyes as he softly gave Richie a slap to the head. “I don’t
think we need to accept bullying someone the size of an eight-year-old as part
of a personality quirk.”
 
Richie scoffed, “He was asking for it.”
 
“By doing what? Sitting quietly and minding his own business?”
 
“Exactly!”
 
Stan scoffed in response, his eyes caught a soaking wet Eddie being lead
through the bushes back into the Marsh by Bill, Mike and Ben. He looked as if
he was being walked to his deathbed by three reapers, his lips were almost blue
and he was shaking profusely.

 Stan ushered himself away from the fire, making a space for Eddie, who sat
beside him with a  plop.  Eddie was soaking the blanket, not that anyone really
took notice. Water dripped off his eyelashes and fell down his face, he shook
his hair with his hands to dry to dislodge as much water as he could.
 
“Richie you’re a fucking asshole.”
 
“Awww, Eddie don’t be so grumpy. You know you love me.”
 
“No. Fuck off, I’m mad at you. I’m gonna catch hypothermia and die and it will
be all your fault.”
 
“You know, sitting in wet clothes is gonna make you sicker.” Eddie’s face
paled, “You should probably strip.”
 
“Richie leave him alone, you’re freaking him out! Look at his face, he looks
like he’s about to faint.” Beverly began petting over Eddie, trying to reassure
him that he wasn’t going to get sick.

 “Actually, Richie’s kind of right.” Stan piped up, Beverly shot him a glare,
as if he was lying. “You should probably get into some dry clothes, the wet
ones will just make you colder.”

 Eddie nodded, knowing Stan wouldn’t lie, taking off his scarf, which had
appeared to double in weight by the sound it made when he dropped it onto a
rock beside him. Beverly helped him unbutton his giant coat, his fingers were
shaking too much to even try to do it himself.
 
It wasn’t long before he had began to pull off his t-shirt, which was hidden
under four other layers of clothing. Bill had shrugged off his flannel shirt
from underneath his jacket and gave it to Bev, who helped Eddie button it up.
Mike donated his denim jacket, and much to Eddie’s mortification, Bev had
slipped off the leggings she was wearing under her skirt and let Eddie wrangle
his wet legs into the skin-hugging fabric.
 
Richie had donated his glasses, since he was already wearing the bare minimum.
Eddie smacked his glasses out of his hands and no one helped Richie look for
them. It took him five minutes and they were covered in mud.
 
After about ten minutes of everyone fussing over Eddie, colour began to flow
back into his cheeks and he stopped shivering. It wasn’t long before he was
back to the world of the living. Bill was still fretting over him, acting like
a mother hen.
 
“Richie, did you b-b-bring cocoa or tea or a-anything in your thermo today?”
Bill asked while Richie was rubbing the dirt off his glasses with the apple on
his shirt. Stan winced at the sight of a giant smudge of mud spread on his
previously clean shirt.
 
“Nah, we had nothing in the house today, sorry kid.”
 
“Wait, so you didn’t bring anything?!” Eddie complained, glaring at Richie.

 “You  always  bring the fuh-fuh-food on a Sunday, Ruh-Richie.”

 Richie raised his hands defensively after sliding his mostly clean glasses
onto his face, “All I had in the fridge was butter and raw onions, so if you
all want to go back to mine and raid the luxuries of the Tozier refrigerator,
then be my guest.”
 
Bill sighed, exchanging a look of disappointment with Eddie before digging into
his pocket and procuring a crumpled $5 bill. “Here, go and buh-buy something,
h-hot if you can. Bring Stuh-Stan.”

 Stan nodded as he glanced at his watch, “It’s late, I should probably get
going now anyway.”
 
Bill shrugged, with a small grin playing on his face. “It’s late, who know what
kuh-kuh-kind of trouble Richie cuh-could get into? You should go with h-him to
the store at least.”
 
Stan’s face deadpanned. “So I’m babysitting Richie? Because I don’t do that
enough at work?”
 
Richie jumped up and took the crumpled note from Bill’s hand and began pulling
at Stan’s arm, “C’mon, Dad told us to go, Stan, get off your ass.”
 
Stan gave Bill a look that could kill, before getting up and giving Richie a
small shove towards their bikes. Bill just smiled back at Stan, “Th-thanks
guys! See you at school, Stan.”
 
Stan waved his hands in farewell to his friends, some he would see tomorrow
morning in school, some he wouldn’t see until tomorrow evening, at the same
location.
 
Stan walked his bike out of the dense trees and back onto the suburban roads of
Derry town, Richie talking excitedly in his ear about what he was going to buy.
 
“You’re not going to get a pineapple upside-down cake at eight o’clock on a
Sunday night, Richie. Everywhere is closed.”
 
Richie frowned as he pedalled down the main street, “So we’re gonna have to go
to the twenty-four hour?” He scrunched his face up. “That place sucks though,
the owner is such a creep - did you know he made a pass on Beverly last week?”
 
“What? Really?”
 
“Yeah, right - we were cutting class - don’t give me that look it was only Bio
- anyway, we were cutting class and we went to buy some smokes -”

 Richie began retelling the tale, right up until their bikes skidded to a halt
outside said creepy-man’s store, Richie hopped off to walk in, looking back
when he realized Stan hadn’t shifted.

 “I’m not going in.”
 
“He’s not gonna make a pass on  you.  Don’t flatter yourself.”
 
Stan shook his head. “Not happening.”
 
Richie rolled his eyes and sighed dramatically as he marched into the store. He
came out barely two minutes later with a paper bag full of sugary snacks,
probably. Richie tossed the bag into the basket in the front of Stan’s bike and
lifted his own bike from the pavement.
 
Stan was just about to cycle off before Richie’s voice made him halt. “Shit, I
still have your Yogi Bear at my house. I just looked at the empty space on the
back of your head and realised I forgot to bring it to you before temple or
whatever you call it.”
 
“You’re not even trying to get it right, are you?”

 “Nope. We’ll go get it on the way there.”
 
Stan shrugged, “Okay,  as long as it doesn’t take you an hour to find it, Mom’s
pretty annoyed at me for not coming home last night.”
 
Richie stuck his tongue out and began pedalling down the orange-lit roads.
Trees seemed to fly past as they pedalled down to Richie’s house, which wasn’t
that much of a diversion - it was maybe an extra five minutes onto their
journey.
 
It wasn’t long until Stan was stood inside Richie’s bedroom while Richie looked
through the drawer in his bedside locker.

 Richie’s room was actually  clean . Like, not just tidy, but  clean.  His
mirror had even been polished. Stan stood in awe as he inspected the floor,
that he could see! All of Richie’s comics had been neatly stacked on his desk,
and his trashcan had been emptied and his closet, oh his closet was closed. It
wasn’t spilling out clothes, you could actually close the door. Richie noticed
Stan looking around the room in awe.
 
“Yeah, Eddie offered to clean it.”
 
“Offered?” Stan was doubtful.
 
“In exchange for a blowjob. You’d be surprised what people would do for one
from me, you know.”

 “No, I don’t know.”
 
“Do you want to find out, then?” Richie winked at Stan, fluttering his
eyelashes from behind his glasses.
 
“Have you found it yet?” Stan sighed.
 
Richie nodded and threw the round hat at Stan, who caught it in one hand.
“Yeah, I was gonna use it as a frisbee, but I thought It would work better as a
jerk-off sock.”

 “Shut the fuck up. Does your Mom have hairpins? Dad already thinks I’ve lost
this, so if I came home without it again he’d probably lecture me on the
importance of keeping track of my belongings.”  
 
“Oh, Mom loved the cake, by the way. She ate nearly half of it on her own
today.” Richie smiled, “She went to the liquor store and only brought home one
case of beer, so it must’ve been out of this world.” Richie ruffled Stan’s hair
in thanks, and Stan batted his hand away out of habit, but he was smiling.

 “Hairpins?”
 
Richie nodded enthusiastically, “I will fetch them for you, my dearest master.
Do not strain yourself! I will rub your feet for you too.” Richie bounced off
out of the room and into what Stan assumed, was his mother’s room.

 Stan sat on the bed and waited for Richie to return, softly tracing the edge
of his yarmulke as he looked around the room. He had spent quite a lot of time
in Richie’s room this weekend, it was starting to feel familiar, like he was
meant to be here. Stan felt comfortable in Richie’s room, even comfortable
talking to Richie himself. The conversation didn’t feel forced tonight, it was
light, topics flowed easily and swiftly through their words and Stan felt
pretty happy listening to Richie’s stories tonight.
 
Richie came parading through the door, carrying a palm-sized silver tin, which
rattled when he walked. “What did you think of that voice? It’s a new one I’m
trying out, so be kind.”
 
Stan took the tray off Richie in a nod of thanks and opened it to a dozen or so
bobby pins. “It’s definitely not your best, but it has potential, especially
for Bill.”
 
“Yeah, for when Bill’s being super bossy,” Richie started attempting to imitate
Bill, “D-do that Richie, do this. Don’t puh-pull my pants down again! Puh-
please stop being so hot, you’re muh-making me develop a fuh-fever.”

 Stan snorted as he placed a triad of pins into his mouth, as he set upon
beginning to pin the yarmulke into this hair. “That wasn’t very good.” He
commented out of the side of his mouth.
 
Richie didn’t respond, he was too busy staring at the bobby pins which were
delicately placed between Stan’s lips. He was probably grossed out that Stan
had put them in his mouth, but it wasn’t technically  in  his mouth, Stan was
just holding them with his lips.
 
Stan sat in concentration as he attempted to open the pins enough to slide it
into his hair, but it was near impossible. It kept slipping out of his thumb
just as he was about to clip it in, he let out a sound of frustration, which
made Richie jump.
 
“Jesus Christ, chill out. Here, I’ll put it in there’s no need to turn into the
Terminator.”
 
Richie took the bobby pins out of Stan’s mouth a little forcefully,
accidentally brushing his hand against his lips. He stood up and told Stan to
spin around on the bed, so his back was facing Richie.
 
Richie pinned Stan’s yarmulke into his curls, only stabbing him in the scalp
once or twice. Stan couldn’t see how it looked, but it felt like it was in the
right place, so he didn’t comment. Besides, he’d be taking it off in less than
an hour when he would be going to bed, so it didn’t really matter if it was
perfect.

 Stan could feel the yarmulke pinned securely on the back of his head, yet he
could still feel Richie’s fingers going through his curls and fiddling with
certain strands of hair. Perhaps he was fixing Stan’s hair. So Stan stayed put
for another few minutes, while Richie played with Stan’s hair in an almost
trance-like fashion before they both agreed it was time to move out.
 
Out of the corner of Stan’s eye when he was leaving the house, following
Richie, he noticed his half-eaten cake on the kitchen counter. He smiled to
himself and left the house, the cold wind biting his face as he walked towards
his bike.

 “I’ll walk you home.”
 
Stan looked at him quizzically. “Why?”
 
Richie looked offended, “Because I’m a gentleman,  Stan .”
 
Stan had no real reason to retort, it was Richie’s own time he was wasting, so
he murmured a soft  ‘Okay’  and began cycling home.
 
They were laughing at a story Richie was telling about Bill falling flat on his
face in Gym the other week, blood pouring out of his nose as he swore at the
ground. Stan was glad Richie didn’t try to swerve into him because he doubted
that he would be able to steer away in time to avoid a collision.
 
They talked and laughed together underneath the orange glow of the mostly
functioning streetlights, hair being thrown backwards by the cool wind. Stan
could feel the wind penetrate the small holes in between each stitch of his
jumper. It felt refreshing.
 
Stan pulled up at his house five minutes later, and gave Richie the bag of food
from his basket, wondering how he was going to cycle back to the Marsh one-
handed. He parked his Bike by the letterbox and made his way to the front door,
the porch light had made Stan almost glow through Richie’s glasses and just as
Stan had begun to turn the door handle, Richie had yelled out, without really
meaning to.
 
“Stan!”
 
Stan blinked, head shooting back to Richie. “What?”
 
Richie looked like a fish out of water, mouth opening and closing and eyes
wide. Stan wondered why he would shout if he had nothing to say. But he did,
Richie in fact, had a lot to say, he just wasn’t sure how to put them into
words, so he did the best that he could.

 “You’re my best friend.” Richie scrunched his eyes up as soon as he said it.
That was the best that he could do.
 
Stan blinked. Feeling doubt ripple in his stomach. “No, I thought Bill was your
best friend.”

 “Well, he is but… you’re my best-best friend. Like if I had to rank all of
you, which I do every time someone crosses me - just to let you know, for the
next time you don’t laugh at my jokes -  you’d be number one. Bill would be
number two, Beverly  was  number three, but after that dirty look earlier,
she’s being demoted to number four so… congrats to Mike, I guess.”
 
Stan let his hand fall off the front door and he stood on his porch, looking at
Richie. “What led you to that… conclusion?”
 
Richie’s face fell, he tried to hide it but Stan noticed it, “I mean, it’s cool
if I’m not in your top three, that’s fine. It’s not a big deal.”
 
Stan brushed a stray curl out of his eyes, “No, I just mean, why?”
 
Richie tilted his head in confusion, “Why?”
 
“Yeah.”
 
Richie leaned back on his bike and took a deep breath and let a long whistle
out, “Well, if you want me to list everything you’ve ever done or said that
bumped you up that list I  can.  But it would take like fuckin’ twenty years
and it’s a school night so…”
 
Stan nodded, a lump was in his throat and he couldn’t quite make it go away.
 
“But uh… I guess it’s just as simple as you’re a pretty cool guy. Well not
cool.  Definitely not  cool.  But, you’re a good friend and I like you. I like
you being my friend. Because we’re friends.”
 
Stan couldn’t help the smile that snuck up onto his face, and he couldn’t quite
help the bubbling feeling in his stomach. “Yeah, I think you’re my best friend
too.”
 
Richie coughed and hid a small smile. “Good.”
 
They stayed like that for a few moments longer, Stan almost feeling dizzy and
Richie awkwardly scuffing his shoes against the pavement, swatting at mosquitos
every time the tried to invade his personal space.
 
Stan couldn’t quite feel the cold as harsh as he could earlier and he began
wishing he didn’t have to come home. He has a best friend, which is a pretty
new development in his life, which is probably why his stomach feels so
strange. It felt the same way it had when he had his first kiss with Lucy
Braxton, which Stan supposed meant he was  really  happy to have proper best
friend.
 
“Well um…” Richie had started, holding the paper bag tight on his lap, he
must’ve really wanted to keep that food safe, Stan didn’t think he needed to
hold it that tight. “The sexual tension here is too much.... so, if you want a
booty call you know where I’ll be.”
 
Richie waved with one hand, as he fumbled his way down the street, swaying
dangerously and almost knocking over the neighbour’s trash cans. Stan waved
back, before quickly moving through the house and up to his perfectly kept
bedroom.
 
When he got into bed, all he could think about was Richie.
 
But, to the embarrassment of Stan the next morning, it seemed that Richie
stayed on his mind all night, even in his dreams.
***** lets go to the pineapple upside down *****
Chapter Notes
     oh my lawd

 “Fuck...Richie,” Stan moaned into the darkness, it was pitch black and Stan
couldn’t see a thing, he couldn’t see Richie’s hands pawing at his erection or
Richie’s mouth attacking his neck but he could feel it and every time Richie
touched him, volts of electricity would fire to his crotch and it was making
him so hot, “Please…”
 
Richie’s hand stopped flirting with Stan through his underwear and Stan felt
Richie let out a small laugh against his neck, the feeling of air washing over
where Richie had previously been biting and sucking like an animal on the verge
of starvation made a shiver run down Stan’s spine. Stan felt like he was going
to melt, he had never been this horny in his life, with Richie’s hands ghosting
every inch of his body, fingers softly trailing down his sides and over his
nipples and thumbs gently stroking Stan’s hips. Stan wonders if Richie would
grab them when he was fucking him? Holding his hips in place to stop him moving
away. Stan groaned at the thought of waking up with bruises in the shape of
hands on his hips, like a brand. A brand which proudly proclaims ‘property of
Richie Tozier’.  
 
“Please what?” Richie nipped at Stan’s neck again - just above his collar bone
this time and Stan writhed under him, wanting - no - needing Richie. Stan
wanted something to happen, not just Richie rubbing his cock through his
underwear, the fabric was practically soaking with pre-come and Stan could see
the pink of his head through his no longer opaque white briefs. He grinded up
into Richie’s hovering hand, trying to show Richie what he needed. “No, I want
you to say it, I don’t know what grinding into my hand like a bitch in heat
means.”
 
Stan groaned and pulled Richie closer, their bare chests colliding in a sweaty
mess. “Anything. Please. Anything Richie, I need - oh!” Stan’s almost frantic
begging, which had tumbled out of his mouth like a river blasting through a
dam, had been interrupted by Richie’s hand snaking under his briefs and
grabbing his cock. Stan felt his tongue choke on the words as Richie began to
stroke him at an achingly slow pace. His fingers were calculating and precise,
Stan doesn’t want to imagine how many times Richie has jerked himself off to
achieve that level of expertise. Maybe he jerked off thinking about Stan? The
thought of Richie coming with Stan’s name on his breath and his own breathless,
shaking body on his mind made Stan’s heart rate increase even more - Stan
didn’t think that was possible but with Richie’s body - which generated the
heat of a nuclear reactor at rest -was hot and heavy above him, pressing over
his body and trapping him into the mattress, it was enough to threaten a heart
attack. The thought was soon shoved to the back of his head when Richie started
stroking faster and gripping him tighter, twisting his wrist at the base and
twisting it back at the head.
 
Stan was so close, his mouth fell open and a slurry of words and moans. Richie
held his thighs, which twitched in his hand as he could feel the rush building,
only maybe five seconds away from his high to come crashing down in a flurry of
euphoria. That was of course, until Richie slid his hand out of Stan’s
underwear and held his knee in place, keeping Stan’s legs spread as they had
been.

  “R-Richie, what are you-”
 
“Trust me, Stanley.” And Stan did, as Richie lowered himself into the space
between Stan’s legs and began kissing his thighs - starting beside his kneecap.
The kisses were gentle, but not innocent. They were like poison, small, tender
kisses bled onto Stan’s thighs and they made Stan’s breathing hitch. Stan
thread his fingers into Richie’s nest of hair and held onto it tight, Richie’s
hair was the only thing keeping him grounded and if he let go, let his hand
fall to the mattress then all he would have to focus on is the soft kisses and
occasional nip that Richie was tracing up the privacy of the inside of his
thighs and he would probably come by the time Richie got to the space just
beside his crotch.
 
Stan let out a loud, unashamed moan when Richie began sucking on a sensitive
part of his inner thighs, it was too much. All the blood was rushing to Stan’s
dick and he was so hard he could cry. He felt tears prick his eyes and he
pulled Richie’s hair - but that only seemed to encourage him, as he began to
make a mirror of the bruise he had left on Stan’s other thigh.
 
Stan was panting and gasping for air like he had never experienced before - not
even after cross-country in Gym. A layer of sweat coated his body, which
normally would repulse him, but Stan was too far gone to care. “Richie… please,
I can’t do this anymore.”
 
Richie lifted his head from his new hickey and rested it on his propped up leg.
His fingers kept tracing it though, like he was admiring an art piece,
delicately and fleetingly. “Want me to make you feel good? I can make you feel
good, Stan.”
 
Stan nodded furiously in response, “Please,”
 
“Want me to blow you? Do you want your cock in my mouth? Do you want me to lick
you and suck the cum right out of you,” Stan groaned in anticipation as Richie
moved his lips to his dick, breath catching on the wet fabric, “or, do you want
to fuck my mouth? Grab my hair like you were doing and shutting me up the right
way, by shoving your dick down past my tonsils.”
 
The blankets twisted under Stan’s fisting hands, almost ripping holes in the
fabric with his nails as he just begged for Richie to suck him off, please,
just put your mouth on my dick, please Richie, please.
 
Stan’s briefs were slowly pulled down past his knees and Stan had to awkwardly
shuffle to get them past his ankles with Richie sitting between his legs,
unmoving. Richie mouthed at Stan’s dick, giving it short licks and wet kisses
as Stan’s thighs shook beside his ears. Stan’s entire body was shaking, in
fact, he was vibrating with arousal and he was so on the edge that he knew he
would more than likely come within a minute of Richie taking him into his
mouth.
 
Richie kissed from his balls right up to the head, swirling his tongue around
the head as if it was an ice-cream beginning to melt. Stan let out a cry which
sounded like he had been wounded when Richie, in one swift motion, took all of
Stan into his mouth with ease. Stan moaned and cried freely and without will as
Richie moved up and down on his cock, hands firmly holding Stan’s hips down as
Stan’s hips tried to follow Richie’s lips every time he came up for air.
 
Richie licked long, wet strips on the underside of Stan’s cock and left sharp
bites on his hips, before bringing his mouth back to the main course of action,
and swiftly sinking. He took Stan’s length with relative ease, Stan felt Richie
gag slightly when he forced himself down further on Stan, his dick passing his
tonsils and Stan had never felt heat like this in his life. He was only in
Richie’s throat for a second before Richie lifted himself back off, but it had
felt like Stan had died and gone to heaven for those few moments.
 
Richie repeated this action several times, and Stan was left a quivering,
incoherent mess. Stan couldn’t even string a coherent thought together with his
dick in Richie’s throat, nevermind a sentence. So he breathed out curses in
between loud moans and whimpers but a pair of dexterous fingers had soon cut
through the moans and pressed on the bottom lip of Stan’s open mouth. Stan
immediately took Richie’s fingers into his mouth and sucked, moving his tongue
around the digits as if he was looking for buried treasure, he had barely
noticed when Richie took his mouth off his dick completely to watch Stan take
his fingers and enthusiastically bob on them as he sucked and licked at the
digits inside his mouth.
 
“Stan.” Richie said, breathlessly, his own erection straining in his boxers,
“I’m going to fuck you senseless.”   
 
BEEP
BEEP
BEEP
BEEP
BEEP
BEEP
 
Stan crashed his hand down to mute the incessant noise which had jerked him out
of his sleep, he rolled over and switched the light on and began his normal
morning routine for school.
He made his bed, had a shower, got breakfast, brushed his teeth. It was in the
middle of brushing his teeth, mouth frothing with foam when the thought struck
him so powerfully and so suddenly that it had almost winded him.
 
He had a sex dream about Richie Tozier.
 
The toothbrush dropped out of his hand and clattered in the sink. This was most
definitely not good.
===============================================================================
 
Stan was sitting at one of the booths at the Waterfront Diner, head buried in a
Physics textbook and hand meticulously writing notes in his tall, almost
microscopic handwriting. The page was filled with numbers and letters which he
didn’t understand, his head was reeling at the thought of this test in a few
days. If he didn’t learn three weeks worth of information on longitudinal waves
in two days, then he would most certainly fail. He really couldn’t afford to
fail another Physics test, his grade was already trailing limply behind all his
others at a low C.
 
He re-read his notes and tried to gather any sense from them and failed. He
pinched his nose and closed his textbook, deciding to work on some Spanish
homework instead. Surely a break would help clear his head from numbers. He was
in the middle of translating the long paragraph he had been assigned when a
school bag was fired into the seat in front of him, he knew it was Richie’s not
because Richie had asked him to meet up with him after school, but because the
bag wasn’t even slightly closed and a flurry of pens and lonely pages fluttered
through the air, one of Richie’s many scented erasers landed on Stan’s
homework. It was shaped like a turtle.
 
“Did you like my dramatic entrance?” Richie hopped into the seat opposite Stan,
who winced when Richie’s ass made home right on top of what looked like a part
of Richie’s English essay. He remembered Richie begging Bill to write it for
him in lunch today. Stan found it difficult to wrap his head around how Richie
could find anything in the mess of his bag, Richie called it ‘organized chaos’,
but Stan had his doubts.
 
“Your eraser collection is everywhere.” Richie’s eyes flicked to the ground and
he quickly got to his knees and began picking up multiple colourful erasers. He
worked his way under the table and Stan could feel his hair tickling at the hem
of his shorts.
 
“Phew! I almost lost my favourite, my pumpkin-scented pumpkin, where would I be
without you, little buddy?” Stan winced when he heard a sloppy kissing sound
from under the table. Stan’s thankful he didn’t have to watch Richie kiss the
eraser which was probably caked in dust now, Richie should be thankful too,
 because if Stan had witnessed that he would have no other option than to kick
Richie in the face.
 
Richie clambered up from under the table and rested his head on his hands,
staring at Stan. Stan ignored him for several minutes before the eyes drilling
into his head became too much to bear. “Yes?”
 
Richie replied before Stan even finished, “I have a question.”
 
“What?”
 
“Is it called Jew-Jitsu because it is the art of the Hebrew hands of fury?”
 
“No, it’s spelt entirely differently and it’s Japanese - although some people
argue that it can be traced to Indian monks,” Stan said, not looking up from
his homework.
 
“How the hell do you know so much about martial arts? Have you been taking
self-defense classes or some shit?”
 
“No, Richie. Some people just know things. Are you going to do any homework?
Meeting up after school was your idea.”
 
Richie flipped through the menu, even though he knew it off by heart. “Um,
actually I wanted to share a romantic meal but  someone  had to bring academics
into it, way to make a guy soft, Stan.” Richie spit out the word ‘academic’ as
if it was mud hiding behind his teeth.
 
Richie’s dick sure wasn’t soft last night. Remember? He was grinding on your
leg and making those noises you liked so much.
 
Stan rubbed at his neck and whatever retort he had to Richie’s comment died in
his mouth. Not of natural causes, it was gunned down by the images of last
night’s dream that plagued his brain. Richie flopped the menu back down on the
table and stared out the window, tapping a tune that Stan could almost pinpoint
as Queen. The sky was beginning to grow dim and the sun lay low, bathing the
ground in an ocean of orange for the last hour or two of its presence before
dipping below the horizon at the early hour of six o’clock. Richie, had, of
course, been half an hour late - Stan had expected this but couldn’t bring
himself to show up any later than ten minutes early.
 
They sat in silence for a while, Stan getting the majority of his homework
done, even with Richie trying to initiate a game of footsie to distract him.
Richie, staring out the window, tapping his fingers and looking out at the sky
the same way Stan was looking at his Physics textbook - with trepidation and
with the signs of an internal battle. The soft neon lights from inside the
store painted all of the pages on the table a medley of purples and pinks. The
sight brought Stan’s mind back to when him, Bill, Eddie and Richie would all
cram into a booth and stay until it was dark, playing board games and writing
their Christmas lists for Santa over milkshakes and fries. Richie always dipped
the fries into his milkshake - he managed to bring Bill over to the dark side a
few months ago, but at least Eddie still had his wits about him. Once when they
were barely eleven years old, a few months after they had discovered the
Waterfront, they had started a game of monopoly (Richie  insisted  that Stan
play as his naturally allocated role as the bank, Stan kicked him in the shin)
that drawed on for hours, when they began to pack up, Mr. Denton had told them
to leave everything as it were, and they could return tomorrow and play it,
ever since then the Diner had been like a home away from home. The neon lights
always made Stan feel at ease, like coming back to your bedroom after being in
an unfamiliar place. The lights even bled onto Richie’s face, pinching it with
soft hues of purple.
 
Just like how Richie’s teeth pinched purple into your thighs, you were shaking
and even crying for it, you remember.
 
Stan dated his homework and carefully put it back into his bag, giving in to
the beckoning calls of his Physics textbook. As much as he hated studying, he
knew he had to - especially if he wanted to pass. The movement seemed to catch
Richie’s attention as he began to kick his legs under the table, “So what are
we doing now, my boy?”
 
“ I  am studying for a test,  you  will continue to stare quietly out the
window and give me some peace and quiet so I can concentrate.”
 
Richie put his fist under his chin in a mockery of the Thinking Man pose,
“Hmm... seems false, don’t think that’s going to happen. Let me lay it out for
you-” he began gesturing with his hands, spreading them out as if he was
assuming a threatening mob-boss position, “I am going to order us food, using
my own money because I am a charitable soul who looks out for those less
fortunate than himself. Then, we are going to eat said food and we will have
fun and be great pals.”
 
“Richie, this test is important, I need to study,” Stan said, opening up the
textbook and turning back to his notes from earlier, but still maintaining eye
contact with Richie.
 
Richie waved his hand in the air in response, “Just cheat, that old crow
wouldn’t even notice if you dyed your hair green.”
 
“I’m not cheating, Richie.”
 
“What kind of Jew are you?”
Stan shot him a dirty look and Richie flopped dramatically against the seat,
defeated, “I guess  I,  the known charitable genius of Derry, will help you
bump your sad little grade up.” Stan looked at him, unconvinced, “Hey! You know
I get straight A’s - don’t give me that look. I only ask for one thing in
return, uno pequeña favore.”
 
Stan stared Richie down, weighing up the options of failing Physics vs. owing
Richie Tozier a favour - which after Richie had made Beverly paint his  entire
body blue for Halloween - Stan knew that was a dangerous game. On the other
hand, an F amongst proud A’s would be quite the blemish on his report card and
although he knew that he could potentially pass this test with his own hard
work, it was a gamble. Stan reckoned the risks outweighed the reward, so he
gave Richie a defeated nod.
 
“Okay - but I want to know what you need from me first. I don’t want a repeat
of Halloween, Beverly’s costume was ruined.” Richie fisted the air in triumph
and grabbed Stan’s hand to fist the air with him. Stan rolled his eyes but it
was endearing.
 
“Great! I’ll get the food, then you can listen to my master plan while sucking
on a good thick milkshake - just the way you like it.” Richie gave Stan a wink
before jumping out of the booth and bouncing to the bar, practically vibrating
with energy. Meanwhile, Stan was sitting slack-jawed in his seat.
 
“Fuck Stan, I can feel your dick through your pants…” Richie was grinding down
on him, rolling his hips in teasingly slow circles and rubbing their clothed
erections together, “It’s so hard… I bet you have a big cock, Stan. Such a good
little Rabbi’s son - I bet you rub one out every night thinking of me squirming
on your thick cock. Do you think about fucking me, Stanley? Do you fuck me slow
and gentle, leaving me hovering on the edge for hours, teasing me and drawing
it out long and slow? Do you make love to me? Do you kiss me and tell me how
much you love me riding your cock? Telling me how good I look bouncing on you.
No… I bet you think about fucking me hard, making me scream while I scratch
your back into a bleeding mess.”
 
“Stan?! Hello, are you in there or have you finally lost it? Oh ma lawd! Mister
Stanley is gawn... what ever will we do withawt our hansome man?”
 
Stan didn’t even notice Richie coming back over until he was about four inches
away from his face and speaking in his Southern Belle voice. Stan knew he was
blushing, he could feel the heat in his face but that was the least of his
worries because he could feel the blood rushing to his crotch. Of all people he
could’ve had a sex dream about - it  had  to be Richie. It made sense, Stan
desperately defended, Richie was the last person he talked to last night and
when his hormones went into overdrive in the nighttime, they just picked the
last face he had seen and the last voice he had heard. Yeah, that makes sense.
If he had talked to Mike last before bed, he would’ve had a …..dream about
Mike. It was all relative. As comforting as that conclusion is, it didn’t help
Stan’s erection go away.
 
Stan swatted Richie away from his face, “I’m fine - I just smelled your B.O as
you were walking past and it gave me a mild concussion.” Richie let out a loud
laugh in response, clapping Stan on the shoulder so hard that it jostled him.
 
“Stan gets off on a good one!” He laughed again, more of a cackle this time.
Richie then dropped himself back into the seat, bringing his hands behind his
head, “So this favour…”
 
Stan’s head dropped into his hands, not feeling any optimism with Richie’s tone
of voice, “Please, get it over with.”
 
“It’s Beverly’s birthday on December 4th.”
 
“Okay?”

 “She’s never had a birthday party before.”
 
How could Beverly not have had a birthday party, she’s been on this Earth
nearly sixteen years and has never celebrated a birthday? “What do you mean?”

 “I mean nadda, Stan. Zilch. No balloons, no presents, no punching people in
the face to get to the cake -”
 
“Only you did that Richie, stop trying to project your messed up psyche onto
innocent individuals.”

 “I’m going to keep pushing it until it happens. No, but she’s never had
anything. Last she remembers was her eighth birthday and her Mom bought her a
dress and a cake, that’s the extent of her Birthday celebrations. It’s like her
family are fucking Jehovies or something!”
 
Stan frowned, he didn’t know much about Beverly’s life, she kept it pretty much
under wraps apart from an odd comment about her Father, who seemed to be an
over controlling parent at the least. Stan’s best memories with his friends
were usually at someone’s birthday - when you’re hopped up on juice and candy,
everything was exciting. Stan nodded at Richie.

“Okay, I’m in - what do you need?”
 
Richie lifted a notebook out of his bag and opened to a page labelled ‘ TOP
SECRET PARTY FOR BEVERLY’S SWEET 16TH’.  The page had multiple people’s
handwriting on it - Stan suspects he got Ben and Bill to weigh in on the
matter. It was littered with ideas, Stan stifled a small laugh when his eyes
found  ‘bill strip teases?’  in Richie’s writing followed by a  ‘absolutely
not.’  by Bill’s chicken scratch lettering. Stan didn’t think anyone would want
to see that.
 
“Her birthday falls on a Saturday, which is fate. I basically have everything I
need, I’m getting booze, Bill’s bringing snacks, Mike’s acting as a chauffeur,
Eddie is bringing decorations, Ben insisted on being DJ - I tried to stop him,
Stan, I really did. Now, what I need from you, my boy, besides your undivided
attention, is your home.”
 
“My home?”
 
“Well as vintage as street parties are, I don’t think Derry is ready for that
kind of throwback.”
 
“Absolutely not.”
 
“Staaaaaaaan,” Richie whined.
 
“I can’t just kick my parents out of the house, Richie!”
 
“Ah-hah! Bill is one step ahead of you, he has booked a table for four at
Viscount’s restaurant for his parents and your sexy familia will join them for
Bill’s Mom’s promotion or something - I don’t know I didn’t really pay
attention to that bit, all I know is that your parents are gonna be gone until
the next morning.”
 
Stan fiddled with the pen he had on his hand, “I don’t know, I barely trust any
of you in my house as it is, nevermind under the influence of alcohol.”
 
“And copious amounts of drugs.”
 
“No.”
 
“Fine! No drugs, just you welcoming us into your home and looking after us and
making sure we don’t break anything too valuable?”

 Stan dragged his hand down his face, “Fine. As long as no one throws up on
anything.”
 
Richie put his hand over his heart, “You have my word.”
 
Stan doubted Richie would go through any kind of effort to prevent someone
vomiting on Stan’s living room rug, in fact, Richie would probably make Eddie a
wild concoction for the sole purpose of trying to get him to puke.
 
The waitress presented their order and they small-talked for a while, she had
practically watched them grow up, after all, and with a ruffle of Richie’s hair
she was off again. Richie had ordered a plate of unsalted fries and a vanilla
milkshake for Stan, and a double bacon cheeseburger with a chocolate milkshake
for himself.
 
“Let’s get this other shit out of the way,” Richie said, swivelling Stan’s
handwritten notes around so he could read them.  “See, this is why you’re
struggling, you’re doing it all wrong!”
 
Stan’s eyebrows furrowed at the accusations, “No, I’m copying the textbook.”
 
“Exactly! Those fuckers don’t have the dolliest what they’re talking about.
They probably piss out half of these equations, here - like look at this one,”
Richie grabbed one of Stan’s pens and used it to point to a long equation, “You
can take out like, half that shit and get the same answer - forget about those
brackets they’re bullshit -”

 Richie went through all of Stan’s notes and wrote down better and easier ways
to do the equations, even giving him rhymes and songs to remember them by. It
took the better part of two hours and their food had long been eaten. Stan
appreciated Richie’s help, Stan knew Richie hated helping people with their
homework because that’s all people used to use him for. Yet here he was,
patiently explaining the difference between transverse and longitudinal waves
to Stan, not leaving any question unanswered or any problem unsolved.
 
When Stan waved Richie off as he rode home, he felt confident that he would get
an A.
===============================================================================


Stan parked his bike outside the diner. It was 8:00pm on a Thursday night. The
wind was cool and the clouds weighed heavy in the sky. Stan carried a large
cake tin in his arms through the front door.
 
Tonight was a night that Richie was working, Stan remembered because Richie
groaned about how much he hates the cleandown shift. Today was also the day,
that Stan got his grade back from his Physics test, and he nailed it. He got an
A+ and the teacher had called him into the room, asking if he had cheated. Stan
of course, would never cheat and he was affronted that she thought he had.
Nonetheless, It had managed to bump his grade up to a breath away from a B and
knowing that had given Stan a newfound confidence in the class, if he could do
it once, he could do it again.
Stan couldn’t find Richie at first, he wasn’t cleaning the coffee machine or
stocking up the sugar packets. So Stan checked out back, he wasn’t cleaning the
griddle or the oven - and Stan didn’t even bother to check to see if he was
cleaning the dishwasher. So Stan walked out the back door and into the smoking
area, where Richie was standing with a cigarette between his fingers, staring
up at the sky.
 
“You shouldn’t be out here.”
 
“JESUS FUCKING CHRI- Stan, what the  fuck, dude?!”  Richie had jumped in the
air and let out a scream, flinging his half-smoked cigarette somewhere West.
“It’s fine, it’s not like I almost had a heart attack or anything.” He said in
response to Stan laughing, almost keeling over at Richie’s reaction.
 
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you. Would you like a change of pants?”
 
“Fuck off, what are you doing here? You doing random spot-checks on me now?”
 
Stan shook his head, “Can we go inside, it’s cold.” Richie shrugged and
followed him back inside.

 Richie perched himself on the counter, swinging his legs and looking at the
tin in Stan’s hand.

 “I brought you something,” Stan felt his face heating up, he wasn’t used to
giving gifts, it felt almost too intimate and it made his hands start to go
clammy. “It’s uh - a thank-you gift. I got an A+ in that test the other day,
and as reluctant as I am to say it - it was thanks to you, so I baked you
something.” Stan gestured to the cake almost violently, wanting this exchange
to be as swift and painless as possible. Much to his dismay, Richie’s face lit
up and he jumped off the counter - walking right past the cake.
 
“You got an A?!” Richie asked, his smile was spread clumsily on his face.
 
“Well, an A+, so I suppose.”
 
Richie grabbed both of Stan’s hands and held them in the air and cheered,
bringing Stan into a victory dance. They circled each other as Richie chanted
words of victory and celebration into the empty diner. Even though they were
the only people there, the amount of energy that Richie was making felt as
though Stan was at a disco, and he couldn’t help but give in to Richie’s antics
and dance along with him.
 
Richie let out another cheer when Stan started hopping with him and Stan
laughed. Richie grabbed both of Stan's cheeks in his hands, Stan’s mouth was
slightly squished.
 
Stan stopped dancing and so did Richie, Richie moved closer to Stan’s face.
Stan’s hands were sweating and his heart rate was through the roof, he had
never been in a situation like this, with Richie’s face inching towards him so
slowly that Stan started to wonder if the passage of time itself had slowed
down with him. But no, the soft ticking of the clock led Stan to believe that
time was passing normally, but why did it feel so  slow .
 
Richie’s mouth was so close to his face now, he could feel the ghost of his
breath along his lips, Richie’s lips stealing all of Stan’s oxygen from his
lungs, like a reaper sucking the soul out of him.
 
Richie’s lips traced the underside of Stan’s erection as he slowly pumped two
fingers, which had been well lubed by Stan’s enthusiastic sucking, in and out
of him. At first, the thought of Richie fingering him had disgusted him, but
for some reason, the words never left his mouth. So here he was, writhing under
Richie’s fingers in a beautiful mix of pain and pleasure, moaning to the
ceiling with blasphemy breaking out of his lips. Richie started pumping his
fingers into Stan faster and harder until Stan was breathing out moans which
were only a few decibels short of screams, his breathing matching the pace of
Richie’s fingers. Richie let out a short laugh before taking his cock into his
mouth, forcing himself down until his nose was buried in Stan’s short pubes.

 “Holy fuck! Rich...Richie… Richie please….” Stan didn’t know what he was
begging for with such wanton need, but when Richie added another finger, Stan
felt like his entire world had shifted on its axis as his nails dug into
Richie’s scalp.
 
Stan gulped, a lump in his throat as the dream rushed back into his head, he
hadn’t thought of the dream in days and it reared its ugly head again.
 
Richie moved closer before propping himself up on his tiptoes and placing a
kiss to Stan’s forehead, “I’m proud of you.”
 
Stan tried to clear the lump from his throat and shuffled back from Richie,
leaving a good distance between them. Stan tried to will the blood away from
his crotch. Think of Grandma, think of Grandma, think of Grandma.

 Richie moved his attention to the tin, tracing his finger around the rim,
before opening the lid with some amount of difficulty. The lid popped off
anyway and Richie was left staring into the tin while a great big smile grew on
his face, “Is this pineapple upside-down cake?”
 
Stan nodded, “You didn’t get any on Sunday.”
 
Richie laughed and closed the lid, bringing Stan into a side-hug and nestling
his hair into Stan’s neck. “If I would’ve known you were gonna bake me stuff, I
would’ve married you long ago, Stanley.”
 
“Shut up and get back to work, trashmouth.”
 
Richie laughed and punched Stan’s shoulder, Stan managed to dodge in the nick
of time and avoided the punch, Richie always had a habit of misjudging his
strength and knocking the wind out of Stan.
 
Stan’s face was still burning red when he was leaving and his stomach was
fluttering right up until he went to sleep. He didn’t understand why his
stomach was doing flips when Richie moved close to him, or when Richie pressed
a soft kiss to his forehead, but his stomach had been filled with hornets
rather than butterflies, they were buzzing so much that Stan was almost in
pain. Stan silently cuddled into a pillow beside him, resting his head on top
of it and stared at the wall.
 
Stan didn’t fall into sleep until long past midnight, if you asked him what had
kept him up, he would’ve said he didn’t know. Stan knew though, he knew that
the butterflies were more violent than his first kiss, he knew that they meant
something and he spent all night trying to figure out what they meant.
***** richie gives amazing gifts *****
Chapter Notes
     sorry for the long wait for this chapter! i've been super busy but
     it's here and it's queer so get it while it's hot
Everything was going to plan, or at least according to Richie who was currently
arguing with Ben over his music choices. Stan was almost taken aback by the
organisation skills Richie had presented when it came to getting everything set
up in such a short amount of time, his parents had only left an hour beforehand
and  Beverly was due any minute now. Eddie had overestimated the amount of
balloons that were needed - Richie however had  insisted  that all of them were
to be used, so Stan and Bill - being the tallest - had spent the better part of
an hour tacking balloons to the wooden skirting on the ceiling. They were
planning to use Helium, so they wouldn’t have to use tacks but Eddie refused
and began listing off all the types of cancers related to the inhalation of
Helium and Richie lay defeated under Eddie’s wrath.

 Stan carefully stepped over a puddle of balloons which had been left ‘for
dramatics’ on the kitchen floor. There was nothing dramatic about a kitchen,
Stan had thought but nonetheless, Richie was the Lieutenant in this operation
and Stan pretty much gave him free reign of his house - after removing all
breakable ornaments from the space and covering the seats in a plastic lining -
and Richie was doing great. He had all the snacks laid out on the kitchen
table, the candles were going to be lit as far away from the alcohol as
possible and the lights were dimmed, but not so dim that you couldn’t see
people’s features - but dim enough that Richie’s light-up sneakers were
bouncing bright lights across the floor.
 
Above the archway which connects the living-room to the kitchen hung an
obviously homemade banner with ‘Happy Sweet Sixteenth, Beverly!’ written in
black marker. The writing was slightly lopsided but Stan didn’t cast it much of
a second thought. A few pictures of Beverly and the rest of his friends were
taped to the wooden supports for the archway, Stan hoped that the tack from the
tape didn’t take off any of the varnish. Most people wouldn’t notice if there
was a small line of exposed wood peeking out behind the varnish, but Stanley’s
parents were much like himself in the fact that they were rather pedantic, they
knew their home and knew exactly the way things should be. Stan traced his hand
over a picture Bill had taken on his Polaroid camera. Stan, Beverly and Richie
were skipping stones down at a particularly deep part of the Quarry and Richie
had been over-enthusiastic in his throwing, and slipped on a patch of algae and
fell right into the water. The photo captured Richie’s sour expression and Stan
and Beverly laughing at him, stones falling from their hands and almost
slipping into the water themselves. Pinned underneath was another one, labelled
‘ July 6th’  - clearly a sunny day, Bev lying on the grass in one of Mike’s
fields, with Mike braiding daisies into her hair. Her hair was shorter then,
she had grown into the short haircut well and although it was a shock when she
had cut it, no one could imagine Beverly with long hair anymore. Stan smiled
fondly, that was the day Mike needed help with silage - a grueling task that
they all agreed to help him with, since his Grandpa was getting on in the
years. Even Georgie had came down to ‘help’ - which ended up translating to
Richie dragging Georgie off to pet all the animals.
 
There were easily a dozen more photos all including Beverly, even the picture
Bill had taken for her ‘Employee of the Month’ poster in the Diner and a
picture of her sharing a smoke with Richie during Halloween night, covered in
paint. Stan inspected them all with care - making sure he didn't tousle them
too much that they’d fall. He appreciated Bill bringing his camera, although he
always groaned when Bill insisted they all take a photo, Stan knew that in
time, he’d appreciate the pictures - even the ones of himself - like the way he
is appreciating these ones.
 
It was in the middle of examining a picture of Beverly giving the camera the
finger, there was a red solo cup gently nudged against the back of his hand.

 “Here, you deserve a drink.” Mike insisted gently, Stan waved his hands.

 “I’m staying sober, Mike. I don’t want anything broken but thanks for the
offer. You should give it to Richie, he’s still arguing with Ben and I think he
brought up one of Ben’s boy bands so things might get ugly.”
 
Mike laughed and dropped the cup into Stan’s hand, “I’m the designated driver
for tonight, I’ll make sure no one gets up to any badness.” He stopped himself
and looked at Richie, who was trying to do a handstand - presumably to make a
point to Ben, as he was red-faced and shouting while doing it, “Well, not too
much badness.”
 
Stan nodded as he took a small sip of the liquid, it was cider, “Thanks Mike,
I’ll not get too drunk.”
 
Mike laughed, “I’m not expecting anything out of the usual, don’t worry.”
 
Stan nodded and took another drink, staring out of the window in thought.
Richie assured him that everything was going to plan but it didn’t feel right.
He felt as though there was something missing and it was toying with him. He
went through the checklist and everything was there; the spare bedroom was made
in case someone passed out, the bathroom was cleaned, the glasses have been
replaced with solo cups, Beverly’s cake is sitting on the island counter, the
porch light is on, the thermostat is set at a comfortable 72 degrees and is set
to turn off at 1:00am. He couldn’t think of anything that was missing and yet
he still had a nagging feeling like something was wrong, that something
wouldn’t go right and Beverly wouldn’t enjoy it.
 
Maybe it was her gift, Stan didn’t know her exact dress size but he bought her
a dark blue pinafore and it  looked  as though it would fit - and he knew she
had a pair of blue converse so he wasn’t afraid of it not matching her
wardrobe. Maybe she wouldn’t wear it - Stan had never seen her wear a pinafore
before, except her brown one from years ago.
 
“You alright?” Mike’s voice was littered with concern, but his face was soft as
always, “You look a little spooked.”
 
Stan sighed, “Yeah, it’s nothing.”

 “If your trouble leaves your mouth it leaves your head, you know.”
 
“I’m just worried Beverly isn’t going to like it. What if there’s a reason she
doesn’t celebrate her birthday and we trigger something she had intentionally
swept under the rug?”
 
“Like a bad memory?”
 
“Yeah, something like that.”
 
“Well, I think the only way to fix that is to make good memories about her
birthday. To overshadow the bad ones.”
 
“That makes sense. What if she wants it quiet, though? A quiet night in instead
of a party.”
 
Mike raised an eyebrow at him, “Have you ever known our Bev to want a quiet
night in?”
 
Stan chuckled, many memories being called to attention, “You’re right. Remember
that time she and Richie climbed out of your window and tried to ride your
horse?”
 
Mike’s face lit up, “Yeah, and the horse was so spooked we couldn’t ride her
for two weeks, Eddie made them apologize to Grandpa.”
 
They laughed about the horse for a while, exchanging memories, before Richie
piped up from behind them, “Hey! What did you losers get Bev for her birthday?
I got her an axe.” His chest was pushed out in a show of pride.
 
Stan almost dropped his cup, “An axe?! Richie, why did you get her an axe? In
fact, more importantly - who sold  you  an axe?”
 
“I had to cycle to the next town over to get it, I went to seven different
stores in Derry, and no one would sell me one!”
 
“Yeah, because everyone in Derry knows that the first thing you’d do with an
axe is accidentally cut your fingers off,” Mike said.

 “Michael, I am disappointed.” Richie said incredulously, “Remember that time,
four score and many years ago, that I cut a log for you?”
 
“It took you ten minutes to cut one log and you dislocated your thumb,” Stan
said flatly.
 
Richie scoffed, “Kids these days don’t appreciate hard work.”

 “Guys! I see her bike! Everyone get down!” Eddie shouted from the kitchen, and
they all took their places as Eddie rushed to switch off the lights. Richie and
Stan rushed towards the same location - behind Stan’s loveseat. There wasn’t a
lot of room for the two boys, admittedly they were the tallest of all their
friends - but it didn’t bother either of them enough to move. Stan was peering
off to the side of the couch to watch for Beverly’s shadow. Stan could feel
Richie’s warm breath tickling under his collar as Richie leaned forward,
vibrating in excitement and wanting to be the first one to jump up at her. It
wasn’t moments later that  Stan watched Beverly’s shadow ghost over the room as
she walked past the porch light and knocked on the back door twice. Stan had
told her to use the back door - most people did, after all. The front door was
really only for formalities.  After no answer the door knob tentatively twisted
open and the door slowly creaked open into the darkened room. Before she even
got the chance to announce her presence, the light was switched on and Beverly
was encapsulated in confetti from party poppers.
 
A strong chorus of ‘SURPRISE’ rang out as everyone jumped from their hiding
spots, Richie jumped on Stan’s toe and made him curse and push him off -
bumping slightly into Ben, who was too busy staring at Beverly with wonder to
even notice. Beverly looked shocked initially, with the sudden noise and
movement but she quickly embraced the situation and began laughing as she
looked at the decorations and the presents - many of which were poorly wrapped,
not for lack of care - which were piled up on the kitchen counter.
 
“You’re all fucking losers.” She laughed as she brought Eddie, who was standing
within grabbing distance, into a tight hug and gave him a kiss in his hair as
she made a beeline to the kitchen counter, where Bill was waving her over.

 “What is the birthday girl’s drink of choice?”
 
Beverly took the bottle of vodka from his arm and winked, before taking a
straight swig - resulting in loud cheering from Richie and Bill, “Anything and
everything.” Her voice sounded gravelly from the burning in her throat, but her
face hadn’t flinched. Stan, who sometimes found it difficult to drink beer,
wondered how she could drink liquid akin to gasoline without a twitch.
 
Everyone, including Stan himself crowded into the kitchen to give their
Birthday wishes over drinks, Beverly’s face was flushed at being the center of
attention but she was smiling and laughing and even trying to get Eddie to take
a shot of tequila with her - he didn’t, mumbling about liver disease and took a
sip of his soda. Stan’s worries slowly melted away and he finished off his
cider without realising, until Richie handed him another cup with a wink. The
wink, which only Stan had caught, made his face break out in a smile and his
cheeks flush, both of which he hid behind the mouth of the cup as he took a
drink. Stan stood with Richie as he played barman, making Ben a fruity cocktail
as requested and Ben almost spitting it out because of how terrible it was,
Richie just laughed and told Ben to get stuck in. Surprisingly, after a few
minutes Eddie came to Richie with a request.
 
“Richie I want a drink.”
 
Richie and Stan looked up from their conversation with wide eyes, unbelieving
that those very words had come out of Eddie’s mouth. His eyebrows were furrowed
and his arms were crossed in an attempt to appear broader than he actually was,
it was almost comical. Stan and Richie exchanged a look, neither particularly
wanting to challenge Eddie, although he was only five foot and a bit, he had a
lot of fight in him and when Eddie went off, he went  off.  Richie took a gulp
and stood up straight, fixing his glasses.

 “Sure big guy, what’ll it be?”

 Eddie stared at Richie for several moments, “Uhh…” he was almost wide-eyed,
like a deer caught in the headlights, but not wanting to look inexperienced,
even though everyone who was attending knew that Eddie very rarely drank,
“Whatever you think.”
 
Richie gave an obnoxious ‘aww’ at Eddie and began searching through the row of
liquor he brought - Stan briefly wondered why he required four different brands
of vodka but decided that it was best not to ask questions. Richie poured a
handful of different drinks into a cup and presented it with a flourish, “A mai
tai for my guy.”
 
Eddie gingerly took the cup, giving it a sniff before  downing  it, to both
Stan and Richie’s horror.
 
“Um, Eddie…” Richie tried to lower the cup but his hand was slapped away.

 Eddie threw the empty cup to the ground and wiped some remaining pink off his
lips, “That was disgusting, make me another one.”

 “That… wasn’t really a drink to down, that’s a cocktail - you don’t  down
cocktails.” Richie was met with a glare and he quickly went to fix another mai-
tai, with a lot fewer spirits in it that the previous one, Stan noted.
 
“Eddie I thought you were worried about liver disease?” Stan said, as Eddie
peered over Richie’s shoulder to watch him make his drink.

 “I’m making an executive decision not to think about that right now.”
 
“Atta man! Die young like the rest of us, fall at your peak.” Richie cheered,
handing Eddie his drink, “Now sip this one, otherwise you’ll be sick and I’m
sure as hell not cleaning up your barf.”
 
Eddie’s eyes widened momentarily before he nodded and moved to the living room,
slowly sipping his drink while he talked to Bill, who was handing out presents
to Beverly. Stan and Richie watched Beverly’s reactions from the kitchen, her
face lit up when she opened Stan’s present. She gave him a thumbs up and a
flurried ‘thank you!’ before being very gingerly handed the axe, which was
unwrapped bar a bow on the iron head and a jagged ‘love Richie’ carved into the
handle. She gave it a few practice swings, which were more violent than
necessary before Mike managed to wrestle it out of her hands and he opened the
back door and threw it into the yard, knowing no one would be bothered to put
their shoes back on to go get it.
 
The following few hours were a flurry of lights, sounds and dancing - Ben
played music that everyone loved but would later object to the accusation, Bill
and Mike danced - Bill, despite having a dozen beers in his system, was the
much better dancer. Eddie had only had two more drinks, but was fairly buzzed,
as was everyone else. Stan had drunk slightly more than intended but luckily he
had paced himself and he wasn’t nearly in the same state as Beverly, who was
dancing and singing loudly, stumbling over her own feet without a care in the
world, which is what Stan intended. He wanted Beverly to let loose for her
sixteenth birthday.
 
Richie had pulled him to the centre of the living room, brushing everyone to
the side and told Ben to change the song, Stan blinked for a few moments in
confusion and asked Richie what was going on. Richie shook his head and told
Stan to  shush . Richie stretched out his arms and legs as if preparing for a
marathon while Ben fumbled the new cassette tape into the boombox. Stan tried
not to laugh as his favourite guilty-pleasure song began to fill the room, he
failed though, when Eddie grumbled, “Fucking Cyndi Lauper, for real?”.
 
Richie belted out the lyrics as though there was no one else in the room,  “I
came home, in the morning light! My mother says when you gonna live your life
right?”
 
He pointed at Stan to finish the verse, and Stan scoffed and rolled his eyes
but with the drink making his confidence and his inhibitions were slowly being
phased from his mind, Stan belted out the next verse, throwing his hands in the
air and accidentally splashing some cider onto the floor,  “The phone rings, in
the middle of the night, my Father yells what you gonna do with your life,”
 
Richie laughed and joined him for the remainder of the second verse, Stan was
an excellent singer and he usually was the one who sang in temple when required
but he didn’t like to show off. Richie however, sounded more akin to a car
driving over a series of cats - no one seemed to mind though as they waited for
Richie and Stan to finish the verse before everyone - even Eddie - sang along
for the rest of the song.
 
Richie and Stan still remained centrefold and Stan jumped in place to the beat
while Richie’s arms and legs seized in what Stan assumed was Richie’s dance
moves. Beverly was laughing and pulling Ben to dance, he mumbled something
about being the DJ but let himself be pulled in by Beverly, who held his hands
as she danced wildly. Stan momentarily scanned the room for any drinks which
could have been spilt, but thankfully Mike had been moving cups out of the way
as everyone got drunker and wanted to dance with more avidity.
 
The song finished and Stan finished his drink while Richie chanted some
drinking chant he’d picked up from God knows where and Stan ordered Richie to
get him another drink, who bowed and scurried off - popping several of the
balloons he had left on the floor. Stan briefly wondered if he was drunker than
he had initially thought, so he moved his fingers, recalled some bird names and
their origins and tried to clear his head. He admitted, he was slightly more
drunk than he intended to be at the start of the night, but he wasn’t making a
fool of himself or losing track of what was happening. He was just, buzzed, he
still had his wits and his sense, but he was just… more confident. More at ease
with the space his body and personality took up. Stan knew in the back of his
head, that he should probably call it quits on the drinking, before he gets
worse - but just as the thought entertained his head he watched Mike grab the
drink out of Eddie’s hand and switched it with Bill’s - who had been drinking
triple vodka and blackcurrants the past hour, Eddie probably would have puked
if he had accidentally taken a swig. Watching Mike take control and look after
all his friends made him feel at ease, and he knew he could trust Mike enough
to have another drink or four.
 
He went to ask Richie where his drink was, but he caught the tail end of Richie
walking out the back door with a cigarette in his lips, he was without his
shoes so Stan knew he wasn’t leaving. Not that he would have any reason to
think he was leaving. So Stan sighed and made an effort to step over the
balloons and pour himself another cider but he was stopped in his tracks by a
hand on his arm. He noticed the chipped nail polish and the freckles which rode
from her hands the whole way up to her neck but most importantly he noticed a
lazy but genuine smile on Beverly’s face, it made him feel even happier than he
already was.
 
“Stan, I need…. Um… I need to...talk! I need to talk to you. No, not here, um…
the hall? Yeah, the hallway! Let’s go!” Beverly didn’t really give him much of
an option as she pulled him through the balloons and past Bill trying to hoist
Eddie over his shoulders, for some reason. Bill was probably the most wasted
out of them all, Stan faintly wonders how he was going to manage work tomorrow.
 
Beverly dragged them into the hallway and closed the door behind them, giving
them a faint veil of privacy. She looked Stan up and down, as if calculating
what she was going to say next and Stan shifted slightly under her gaze. She
slowly grabbed his hand and held it there, not doing anything with it, just
holding it softly, like one would hold a toddler’s hand.

 “Stan, thank you  soooo  much for all this.”
 
Stan blinked, “Wait, Bev-”
 
“No, let me finish. Don’t be modest. I’ve never really had any of …  this . Not
just a birthday party and presents, but I’ve never had a proper group of
friends that I’ve felt at home with. I know we’re only ‘work friends’ but I
don’t care, I love all of you so much. I love having something to look forward
to in the morning, even if it’s going to fucking work. Imagine that? Being
excited to go to work.” She laughed, Stan couldn’t pinpoint if it was a happy
one or not, so he stayed silent, “The only friend I ever had abandoned me over
a stupid rumour, and I  know  she knew it wasn’t true - like she was looking
any excuse to drop me. I know you guys wouldn’t do that though, I feel …
wanted, you know? And that’s a pretty fuckin’ new feeling for me - oh wait that
came out more dramatic than I intended. Fuck, well, what I mean is that I know
you all care about me - even if you all have different ways of showing it. When
I’m in a bad mood Richie will offer me a cigarette and nothing more or nothing
less, Bill will give me a hug and let me rant to him, and Ben - oh our Ben - he
just … talks, he probably doesn’t even notice that he’s helping, but he’ll just
talk about whatever school project he’s doing or whatever movie he saw last and
it just is so soothing. Stan, but this?”, she gestured around, pointing at a
stray balloon, “this is more than I ever could’ve expected.”
 
“Beverly, it wasn’t anything to do with m-”

 “Shut up, Stan.”
 
Stan wasn’t really sure how the next position came to be, but by the time he
blinked, Beverly’s lips were on his and she was softly cupping his face. Her
soft fingers traced down his cheeks until they fell to his shoulders. Her lips
weren’t soft like he’d heard Ben fantasizing about one day - they were chapped,
dry and firm. He felt as though the thought was doing a dishonour to Beverly’s
femininity but he couldn’t help it. She was beautiful, yes. She had a strong
personality that was a stream leading into a waterfall, unintimidating and
gentle at first glance but suddenly you’re being thrown into the riptide and
riding the currents. She was a great friend, but that’s the thing. That’s all
she was. Her lips on his felt like putting a belt on baggy pyjama bottoms - it
makes logical sense - belts hold up pants, even pyjama ones. But it felt  wrong
, it may make logical sense but it didn’t nothing to calm his morals.  
 
With that thought, he moved away, holding Beverly’s shoulders. He glanced
around to make sure that Ben hadn’t seen, Stan was certain it would kill him.
“Beverly, I didn’t plan this, Richie did. I just hosted it - don’t give the
credit to me.”
 
She looked at him with eyes wide and her hands clasped over her mouth, before
letting out a surprised laugh, “ Richie?  No way! He’s such a puke, though!”
 
Stan nodded and gave her shoulder a curt pat before turning to leave, as he
turned to leave a flicker of light from the window caught his eyes. A cigarette
bud went shooting to the ground as the figure - which Stan could only name to
be Richie, swiftly got up and moved from the window, a storm of lights
following his footsteps. He was only out of Stan’s sight for a moment before he
came through the front door, face like a storm.
 
“Richie! We were just talking about you - hahaha - that sounded mean, not in a
bad way! Just about how you’re the best for throwing a party for me. A party!
How cool is that!” She laughed again and swayed into Stan slightly, who held
her up while touching her as little as possible.

 Richie gave Beverly a smile, a smile which Stan, even in his slightly
inebriated state could recognize instantly as fake, “No problem Bevvie,” and
without so much of a glance, he walked back into the party, the sudden volume
of music when Richie opened the door just made the hallway seem even more
desolate with its absence.

 “I - I have to pee,  real  bad.” Beverly groaned, Stan nodded and led her to
the bathroom, keeping the door slightly ajar in case anything happened.
 
After walking Beverly back into the party, Stan froze with the sight he met
while walking into the kitchen in search of a soda. On the island counter stood
a row of shots, six of them, with Richie’s hand circling the first one.
Richie’s eyes immediately shot up to meet Stan’s and with an almost delirious
smile, he lifted the shot glass to his face and tipped the clear liquid into
his mouth. His body shuddered slightly as the taste met his tongue, and Stan
felt himself shuddering too as Richie’s hand fell to the next shot and repeated
the action. Stan felt as if the acidic liquid was being poured down his own
throat as it began to ache. Stan looked around owlishly, to see if anyone else
noticed how out of character this was for Richie, but no. He was the only one -
even Mike was preoccupied with trying to get Bill to put Eddie down. Richie
smoked and Richie drank, but Richie never got  drunk . He never understood why
until the previous weekend, Stan knew Richie didn’t want to end up like his
Mother, and it sent an aching pain to his chest when Richie necked a third
shot.
 
Stan couldn’t help but speak out, since no one else was even casting an eye in
their direction, too preoccupied with their own antics, “Richie, cool it. It’s
only ten o’clock, you’re going to pass out before midnight at this rate.”
 
Richie looked him directly in the eyes and took the final two shots without
even blinking.

 He couldn’t explain why Richie taking a row of shots for the explicit reason
to get plastered made his chest tighten and his body feel cold, he should be
encouraging it. It’s a birthday party and Richie wouldn’t be out of place if he
was drunk, in fact, he would fit in a lot better after these shots. Something
about Richie taking the fourth and fifth in rapid succession - with one in each
hand made Stan want to leave, made him want to turn his back or close his eyes
- and the cheer Richie let out after completing his own marathon of schnapps
felt like a cry of defeat rather than victory, or maybe that was just the sound
of his throat burning.
 
For whatever reason, Richie skidded off to jump at Bill,who crumpled to the
ground instantly which resulted in a wrestling match. It looked a lot more like
two fish flopping on a fishing deck but Stan watched lamely anyway as Bill
limply tried to hit Richie in the face - catching his neck instead. The two
scrapped for a while until Stan got bored of having to tell Richie to stop
biting and he went off to grab the can of soda he intended to get minutes
earlier. Stan hadn’t turned his back twenty seconds when Richie’s hands steered
him away from the comforting plastic bottles of soda and towards the heavy
glass bottle of alcohol.
 
“Richie, what are you doing?”
 
“Showing you a good time Stan, drink up, buddy.” Richie tried to hand Stan a
full bottle of vodka and waved it under his nose,  the smell of disinfectant
was so strong it almost burnt his nostrils and Stan grabbed it out of Richie’s
hand and softly put it back where it belonged. “Boo, don’t be a party pooper.
Have another cider at least,  ma’am.”
 
“I’m not drinking anymore, I’ve had too many as it is.”
 
Richie rolled his eyes, “There’s no such thing.”
 
“Yes, there is.”

 “Well, not tonight there isn’t! C’mon, take the stick out of your ass for  one
night . Your soul won’t even leak out or anything - promise!”
 
Stan gave Richie a soft kick to the shin at the insult, he realised that he had
a small window of opportunity and the retaliation died in his throat in
exchange for a compromise, “Fine but only if you stick to soda for the next few
hours.”
 
Richie swayed from side to side, weighing his options, “Fine, it’s a deal -
I’ll make you a Bill Denbrough special, then.”
 
“What? Richie - no.”
 
“Too late! I’m pouring the vodka!”
 
“Richie - put it down.”
 
“Oh no! I accidentally put in too much, whoops!”
 
“Richie, I’m not afraid to choke you.”
 
Richie handed him the violent concoction and smiled out of the corner of his
mouth, “Promise?”
 
Stan yanked the drink out of Richie’s hand, glaring at him as he took a swig of
it. He tried his best not to let his disgust show on his face, it truly was a
drink for animals. Stan briefly wondered what was wrong with Bill for this to
be his drink of choice, but he didn’t get a chance to wonder for long before
Richie was pulling him out the back door with a pack of cigarettes in his other
hand.
 
The door shut behind them, the music muffled behind the door. It felt almost
like stepping into a different planet, where the moon was bright and the air
was like ice - cutting into Stan’s bare forearms and making him shiver. Stan
watched Richie slide onto the grass, not seeming to care that it was damp,  “I
don’t remember me saying I would join you in the freezing cold for a smoke.”
 
Richie blinked several times at his lighter - trying to remember how to use it.
The cold air had hit him hard - and the alcohol only pumped harder through his
veins. Stan watched Richie whine as he tried flicking his lighter for a minute
before Stan took the lighter out of Richie’s hands, “Hold still,” Stan crouched
down to kneel beside him, holding his spare hand to Richie’s cheek, blocking
the wind as he flicked his thumb down the striker wheel onto the fuel lever, a
bright yellow flame instantly brushing against the tip of Richie’s cigarette.
The reflection of the flame bounced off Richie’s glasses and made his face
light up in a warm light. Richie sucked and within seconds his cigarette was
successfully lit - he let out a cheer and a breath of smoke drifted into the
wind.
 
“I knew I didn’t need to ask - you’re still here aren’t you?” Richie grinned
around his cigarette, cheeks raising his glasses up his face by a few
centimetres.
 
Stan took a drink again - he wasn’t particularly thirsty, Stan didn’t take a
drink just so the cup would hide his smile, why would he? “Shut up, Richie.” He
mumbled.
 
Richie took a drag and let his wrist lazily sit on his upright knee, smiling
into the sky with a face of delirium. “Stan…”
 
“Yes, Richie?”
 
“I have something to tell you… but it’s a -” Richie quickly looked around, as
if someone had crept up on them to listen to their conversation, “it’s a
secret.”
 
Stan nodded and decided to indulge in whatever nonsense was going to flow out
of Richie’s mouth. They had only been outside a minute and the cold air had
really played an effect on Richie’s sobriety (or lack thereof). “Go on.”
 
Richie laughed, “I know that you’re a -” Richie broke out into a fit of
laughter - almost stubbing out his cigarette on his jeans, he began his
sentence again, but only falling into the same fit of laughter. Stan sat
patiently, his face like a statue, which only made Richie laugh even more.
“Womanizer!”
 
Stan’s face twisted in confusion, “A what? Did you just call me a womanizer?”
 
“Y-yeah!” Richie laughed and somehow managed to take a drag between his giggle
fits. “I always thought Mike would be the first one to bed a girl - besides me
of course.”
 
Stan looked away from Richie, “I don’t understand what you mean, also if you
mean sex -  please  just say ‘sex’.”
 
Richie barked out a short laugh before rolling his bottom lip between his
teeth. Richie delicately placed his cigarette on the grass, trying to avoid it
getting damp before clumsily clambering onto Stan’s very own lap. Stan, who was
a big fan of personal space began pushing Richie off but it was too late,
Richie went dead weight and refused to budge for all Stan’s strength.
 
“I saw you kissing Beverly.”

 Stan froze, even ceasing the actions of breathing for a few moments - he froze
the way one would when their parents walk in on them doing something they
definitely  shouldn’t be doing. Stan wasn’t sure why he felt an overwhelming
sense of guilt and he tripped over his own tongue trying to explain what had
happened to Richie before he gets the wrong idea.
 
“Shhh -” Richie placed a finger over Stan’s lips, which made him flinch long
enough for Richie to speak over his words, “It’s fiiiiiine. You don’t even
gotta worry about it. Listen..” Richie firmly grasped the back of Stan’s head
and brought their foreheads together, “You two are great for each other. I
don’t know how long it’s been a thing or whatever but I hope she is what you
need, Stan.”
 
Stan tried to move his head back but it only resulted in Richie dipping his
head onto Stan’s shoulder, who let out a huff. His glasses were jabbing into
his collarbone and he tried to jerk Richie’s head off his shoulder to no avail.

 “Richie-”
 
“Best friends don’t keep secrets from each other, Stan. I even told you when I
had my first wet dream, in great detail - even down to her cup size.”
 
“I really didn’t ask, though.”
 
“But I cared enough to tell you! And it was a small thing, but you wouldn’t
even tell me a big thing! You keep big secrets from your best friend. That's
preeeeetty shitty, Stan.”
 
“I didn’t ki-”
 
“No! Stan! You didn’t!” Richie whipped his head up to meet Stan’s eyes,
Richie’s glasses were fogged up and Stan couldn’t even meet his eyes properly,
he assumed Richie could barely see his face. “Beverly is your best friend now!
I can’t believe I’ve been dumped to the side. I’m going to go drown my sorrows
because my main man doesn’t even appreciate me and he just drops me… like a
plate.”
 
“I’m actually lost in what this conversation is about.”

Richie huffed and went to slap Stan’s head, but missed and stumbled heavily in
Stan’s lap - Stan quickly shot his hands out to Richie’s hips to stabilize him.


“I'm just telling you about how  you’ve replaced me!”
 
“Richie -” Richie opened his mouth to speak, but Stan slapped a hand over his
mouth and glared at him, “Let me speak, asshole. I didn’t kiss Beverly - she
kissed me. I’m not dating Beverly nor do I  want  to date Beverly - so no, I’m
not abandoning you, you’re still my best friend and you’re sitting outside
crying in my lap over nothing.”
 
“Bmm beev lomphs tu?”
 
Stan grimaced and whipped his hand off Richie’s mouth, wiping the spit off on
Richie’s t-shirt. Richie blinked at Stan, awaiting a response.

 “I think we both know that I didn’t quite catch that.”
 
Richie dramatically huffed and rolled his eyes, “I  said ; but Bev likes you.”
 
“You’ve lost me. Where did you draw that conclusion?”
 
“Well she kissed you! Duh!”
 
Stan wondered for a moment, Richie wasn’t wrong, she  did  kiss him. But she
also kissed Eddie on the hair, she’s kissed everyone’s cheeks and foreheads
many times sober, Beverly wasn’t one to hold back on the kisses and Stan really
didn’t think it was too far of a reach to say that with a lot of alcohol in her
system, she kisses people on the mouths too. Stan may not have been the best at
noticing people’s affections towards him - but he was fairly certain that
Beverly didn’t harbour any feelings of the sort towards him.

 “That was a platonic kiss, I’m sure.”
 
“What’s that?”

 “Platonic means intimate but not romantic or sexual.”

 “I get straight A’s I know what fuckin’...platonic means. How can you  kiss
platonically? That doesn’t make sense. That’s like… having platonic sex or
casually sucking Bill’s dick as a  friend,  though.”
 
Stan shrugged, “I guess if you can kiss someone on the forehead platonically,
you can kiss them on the mouth platonically too.”
 
Richie shifted in his lap, staring at him with wide eyes - his glasses were no
longer fogged up - Richie was twisting Stan’s shirt in his hands, twisting
tightly, then untwisting. A rapid pattern which was going to crease the fabric
but before Stan had the chance to tell Richie to stop, the boy had surged
forward and stole the words straight from his lips.
 
Richie moved his lips against Stan’s for a moment - while Stan, who’s eyes were
wide open - moved to tell Richie to stop. At this moment, however, Richie had
used it as an opportunity to slip his tongue in and explore Stan’s mouth. Stan
froze - not out of shock or surprise - he just forgot how to move for a minute,
in fact, the only thing that could move was his tongue as it traced Richie’s
movements with such need that it had taken Stan aback.
 
Richie scooted himself closer into Stan’s lap and sighed into his mouth, a sigh
of pleasure? Relief? Stan wasn’t sure - all he was sure about right now was
that Richie was moving on top of his crotch and it wasn’t doing much to ease
the images of the dirty dream that had plagued him all week, Stan found that in
his inebriated state, he didn’t mind all too much and his hands found
themselves in Richie’s hair - it had been combed, Stan noticed - holding
Richie’s head to keep him from moving away. It was when Stan’s tongue had found
its way into Richie’s mouth did Richie pull away - face flushed and pupils
blown.
 
Neither of them moved for what felt like an eternity, Stan’s hands were still
in Richie’s hair and Richie was still sitting directly on top of Stan’s growing
erection, Stan could only pray that Richie didn’t notice it. If it weren’t for
a loud bang that came from inside the house to startle them, they might have
stayed like that all night. But they didn’t and Richie moved off Stan’s lap and
picked his cigarette off the ground, relighting it on his own this time with
shaking hands.
 
“So platonic kissing is a thing?” Richie asked from behind his cigarette. He
glanced at Stan in trepidation.
 
Stan swallowed thickly and nodded, taking a drink of his almost forgotten vodka
blackcurrant, “Yes, I suppose it is.”





***** dont cry over spilt milk, fat boy *****
Chapter Notes
     this may seem like a filler but as slow as it seemed, it has a
     purpose!
     sorry for taking fckin... 40 years to update x
Stan wasn’t sure if anyone was alive today. His friends/co-workers may be
moving, but lifelessly - as if their bodies are being dragged along the stage
by a lazy puppeteer. Bill was definitely in the worst shape, not only having
the least sleep - since he kept insisting on walking three miles to get a
Chinese at three in the morning, but Bill had the most to drink. Stan knew for
sure that Bill wasn’t even close to being sober when he stumbled through the
door at 7:35 - late but thankfully Mike had drove him in and started his shift
early. Stan considered sending Bill home only an hour later when he almost
poured the pancake batter into the fryer’s boiling oil instead of the griddle.
 
Stan took a table’s order from Mike’s hands and rushed out the doors to deliver
them - it was an oddly busy day. It’s not often that the Diner is packed out -
but for whatever ungodly reason - it was full of families today, with
complicated orders and dietary restrictions that even Mike’s patience was
wearing thin. Normally, Stan would consider a rush of patronage a good thing -
more money means better equipment, ingredients and better Christmas bonuses.
Today wasn’t a normal day though. Everyone was barely holding their contents of
their stomachs, the last time Stan saw Eddie was an hour ago, he was leaning
over the bin shaking with Ben gently patting his pack, gesturing a glass of
water to him. Beverly hadn’t even turned up - but it was her birthday, so Stan
just marked it down as an authorized absence and kept quiet, hoping his boss
wouldn’t enquire too much.
 
Mike was rushing around making sure everyone had enough water and painkillers
to help them through what could possibly be the longest shift of their life.
Stan himself wasn’t overly unwell - sure, he was tired and a little nauseated
at the sight of food but besides that, he felt fine. That roughly translated to
Stan and Ben (who had only had a beer and a fruity cocktail by persuasion of
Richie) doing the majority of the work out front. It wasn’t easy, given that
they were short staffed and the staff that they did have were basically walking
zombies. Richie had offered to help but Stan insisted that he help Mike and
Bill - even if he did prove to be more of a hazard than a help, Mike would
appreciate someone looking after Bill while he cooked up the orders.
 
Stan - much like everyone else - wasn’t in a particularly good mood, they
weren’t expecting this rush and therefore they weren’t prepared for it. Stan
had spent a generous twenty minutes on the phone with the company that supplies
their coffee beans, requesting an order as soon as possible as they had went
through four times as much coffee as usual and were running down to the last
bag. The woman on the phone wasn’t giving him much wriggle room with it -
telling him that they would deliver on Wednesday, as usual. He tried arguing -
in the most polite and respectful way possible - to move the delivery closer
but it was a no-go and Stan knew that they would disappoint the few regulars
that they had by the lack of coffee. Richie had suggested to just use instant -
‘it all tastes like shit anyway’. Stan began to think that might be the only
solution.
 
It seemed like such a insignificant thing - running out of coffee beans, but it
really was a burden he now had on his shoulders -  having to ring his boss and
try to come up with a solution before having to turn away customers.
 
Stan was in the middle of making a pot of tea for the table who’s food he had
just delivered when Richie piped up behind him, “Hey, do you think I can make
Eddie barf by showing him my bacne?”
 
Stan pushed past him to grab a saucer for the milk, “If Eddie vomits he’ll have
to go home - self-inflicted or not and he won’t be back in for forty-eight
hours.”
 
Richie picked at a food stain on his very much dirty apron, “It’ll be funny
though, he hates puking. I think he’d rather lie in bed sick for a month than
vomit as much as an ounce.”
 
“Don’t even try it, not today Richie - look how busy we are.” Stan gestured to
the row of people sitting at the bar area, usually there would only be a
trucker or two making a pitstop, but today Stan had to get the extra stools
from the back store to reach the demand of patrons.
Richie shrugged, “Sure thing, boss,” and went back to helping Mike, who Stan
saw through the windows on the swinging doors was desperately trying to tray up
more bacon into the oven before they ran out - which would cause nothing less
than utter pandemonium.
 
Stan delivered the teapot to his table, a pretty nuclear family of four. He did
the usual spiel that he’s said out of work several times out of habit.

 “Is everything okay for you?” He asked with his lilted customer service voice
- his voice broke in the middle of the sentence and he felt his cheeks glow a
little in embarrassment. The Mother nodded, not meeting his eyes for more than
a second before going back to helping her child cut up their pancakes - which
were egg-free - Stan wasn’t sure how Mike pulled that off but they looked
amazing. He recognised the children - he’s pretty sure this is the family of
one of the evening workers, he remembers seeing the toddler running around,
followed by one of his staff members trying to get their little sister under
control.  He nodded and fixed his apron, turning to leave the family in peace
when he caught their other child, a pretty round boy probably around eight
ogling their gumball machine - to which Richie has a lifetime ban after eating
$7 worth of candy in one day which resulted in him puking technicolour into
Eddie’s sink - who also began puking.
 
Stan met his eyes and squatted so he was at eye-level, he noticed the boy was
eating a bowl of fruit and his mother was watching Stan with sharp eyes - like
a bear warning animals around their cub, “Would you like one?”

 The boy’s eyes lit up and he shot his head to his Mom and Dad, not even
waiting for a response before nodding, “Yes please, Mr. Stanley!”
 
“Well, maybe if you finish your breakfast, Mommy and Daddy will let you have
one - and I’ll get you one for free, okay?” Stan patted the boy on the shoulder
to seal the deal and he almost lost his balance at the sound of the metal-
legged chair being pushed against the linoleum floor. He quickly stood up to
the Mother lifting the toddler from her chair and grabbing the other boy’s hand
to jerk him from his chair. She knocked over a glass of milk which began to
spill all over the floor and began to crawl towards her handbag. Stan moved to
pick it up before it was ruined - and the woman let go of her son and slapped
his hand out of the way, yanking her bag off the floor.

 “Last time I was here an effeminate boy tried to lure my boy into eating
candy, making childish jokes with him and giving him a free brownie.” The boy
looked down at the ground, eyes brimming with tears and his face glowing red,
“I know what my older son says about him - that Tozier child. It’s sick that
anyone would let someone like that around children.”
 
The entire diner was watching them now, the commotion drawing a lot of
attention in such a small space. Some were trying to hide their interest,
choosing to watch them through the mirror rather than blatantly staring. The
majority were sat there, coffee halfway to their mouths watching this free show
of entertainment. Stan couldn’t help feeling as though he was under a
microscope - he wanted to rush to Richie’s defense but he was in work - he
couldn’t cuss out the customer like he wanted to. That not only would
potentially get him fired, but it would put his own sexuality up for discussion
- which it isn’t. He’s a Rabbi’s son - a rumour of him being gay - or even
being friends with someone people were convinced was of that persuasion - would
not just damage his own life - his entire family and his Father’s career would
be in jeopardy. Stan tried to ground himself as he had to tread this situation
delicately - it was pretty difficult considering he was sweating more than he
ever has in his entire life.

 “It’s customary for us to offer children a gumball from the machine - anyone
of us would had offered it but I apologise if it has made you or your family
uncomfortable or doubted that our motivation is anything other than to provide
you with a pleasant experience.” He saw Ben give a thumbs up from the corner of
his eye, and he let out a shaky breath as subtle as he possibly could.

 Her face didn’t shift for a single moment, she didn’t want to hear any of it -
she wasn’t looking for any sort of conflict resolution, “Consider this his
notice. He won’t be coming into work tonight or ever again. I don’t want that
boy turning my boy into a queer, and I bet once word gets out about his
persuasion - you’ll find yourself with no staff and no customers. No one wants
their child to be a target.” She spat the words out as if it was beneath her to
even do so, and she dragged her children out of the Diner, her husband - who
hadn’t seemed to even notice the commotion, finished his tea before following
her out, dropping a $5 bill on the table.
 
Stan watched them leave, unmoving before realising everyone’s gaze was focused
on him. He quickly gave the $5 to Ben - who was at the till - and began wiping
up the mess with a clean rag - the milk had made the egg-free pancakes soggy.
He realised he couldn’t clean with all the plates on the table, so he balanced
all four plates and the tea pot on his arms and expertly moved between tables
and out to the back. He hadn’t realised he was almost having a panic attack
until he was out of the public eye. He quickly set the food down beside Eddie,
who took a glance at the food before groaning and holding his head above the
bin. He hadn’t even noticed that Richie was loading the dishwasher until he
spoke, startling him slightly.
 
“You alright, captain?”
 
Stan nodded but he knew that for Richie it wasn’t even a little bit convincing.
His eyes weren’t focused on anything in particular and his hands were fidgeting
with his apron, creating small creases which Stan knew would annoy him later.
 
Richie frowned and looked over to Eddie, who had his face buried in his hands.
He moved over to Stan and walked him into the walk-in fridge, somehow unnoticed
by Mike and Bill. The cold air pricked at Stan’s face and brought him out of
his head a little as he began to wipe at his arms - which had been covered in
milk from carrying the plates. He hadn’t even noticed.
 
“What happened? Did someone sneeze on you or something?”
 
Stan rubbed his eyes and shook his head, trying to relieve some of the stress
he knew that his face was carrying, “Had an incident with a customer.”

 “Okay? Did she call you ugly? It’s okay Stan - you know we all think you’re
the prettiest girl on the whole playground!”
 
“Funny.”
 
Richie leaned up against the shelf, almost knocking over a carton of eggs,
“What’s the issue then?”
 
“Her kid works here - I think it’s Gary, you know the kid with the lip ring, he
works nights.” Stan didn’t really want to tell Richie the gory details, it took
a lot for Richie’s feelings to be hurt but hearing someone speak about you like
that couldn’t be easy, “She quit on his behalf.”
 
Richie pulled a face, “She couldn’t wait until tomorrow? He was gonna let me
borrow his Indiana Jones boxset. Fuck - now I’m going to have to rent it.”

 Stan gave a half hearted smile and moved to open the door, he had to go back
and clean the mess - Ben couldn’t run the place on his own no matter how
competent he was. Richie wasn’t having any of it, however, and quickly moved
himself between Stan and the door, blocking his way out, “Richie, it’s busy I
need to go back out -”

 “No, you’re going to stand here and either tell me what happened or get
pneumonia and die.”
 
“So it’s between leaving this mortal realm and talking to you? Geez, don’t make
it so tempting.”
 
“Fuck off, you’d miss me in hell.”
 
“Jews don’t have a concept of hell.”
 
Richie tilted his head, “So I’m going to heaven?”

 “You’re not Jewish.” Stan replied.
 
“Can I convert?” Richie looked seriously interested, which made Stan roll his
eyes.

 “You’ll have to get your dick cut off.”
 
Richie physically recoiled, “Okay no, let’s stop that conversation right there!
Tell me what happened ASAP so I can get out of here and away from that image as
quick as me and my massive dong can.”
 
Stan straightened out his hat and shook his head, trying to get past Richie,
“Richie, I don’t have time -”
 
Richie grabbed Stan’s arms suddenly, as if it was life or death, “Is it my
fault?” Richie’s face was serious, angry almost - Stan could sense that he was
starting to feel frustrated with him dodging all his questions. Stan couldn’t
really wrap his head around what Richie was asking him.

“What? What do you mean?”

 “Have I made you upset or stressed out? Has anything I’ve done in the past … I
don’t know - twenty-four hours fucked with your head.”
 
“Um… yes? Fucking with people is kind of your main personality trait. It’s not
as quirky as you think.” Stan knew what Richie was talking about, he was asking
him if he regretted what happened last night. Stan knew that other people might
have found it … weird. But it was platonic - lots of people do it, it’s not an
uncommon practice, according to Beverly at least.
 
“Stan, I swear to God, I will piss in your bedsheets.”
 
“No! Okay! The customer, that  woman  - started going on about how you’re queer
and dirty and trying to lure her fucking…  kid  into homosexuality. Gary
must’ve told her and God - what if he tells people in school? We get pushed
around enough. It’s shit, Richie. I wanted to defend you but I couldn’t! Not in
front of everyone, and people would think I’m that way inclined and that would
ruin our family, our temple, our congregation.”
 
“You’re upset over that?” Richie laughed, Stan punched him in the arm. “Sorry!
It’s just - Stan, I really couldn’t give the littlest shit what people say
about me. It’d be difficult to be ‘that way inclined’ if I didn’t have thick
skin. Besides, I did hit on Gary a bit so I guess this on me, huh?”
 
Stan rubbed his eyes, “I felt bad, though. I should’ve defended your honour.”

 “My what?!” Richie wrapped an arm around Stan’s shoulders, “My dearest Prince
is defending thine Bisexual honour! ‘Let the Tozier boy touch boobies  and
balls! Or thou shalt feel thine wrath!’”
 
“You’re a jerk, you know that?” Stan smiled, shrugging his hand off his
shoulders.

 “You’re favourite jerk, though!” Richie planted a kiss on Stan’s cheek before
darting out of the walk-in, almost colliding with Mike, who was carrying a box
of frozen burgers.

 Stan softly wiped the trace of saliva Richie had left on his cheek, and
stepped to the side to let Mike in. He washed his hands and got back to work,
the stress had been lifted off his shoulders and he worked until it was time to
clock out. There were no further issues that day. Richie and Stan decided to go
back to Stan’s to help clean his room, Stan had woke up late for work and had
to hide all the evidence of the party in his room, which was giving him a
headache just thinking about.


***** stan strangles a pizza delivery boy with his bare hands *****
“Can you recycle candy wrappers?” Richie held up a small piece of pink
bubblegum wrapper, no bigger than his finger.
 
“No, it’s usually coated with a thin layer of plastic.”
 
“Isn’t plastic recyclable?”

 “Yeah, but not that one - or at least when it’s been added onto paper. I
think.”
 
Richie nodded and tossed the paper into one of the bin bags, the other, which
was to be used for recycling - was sitting by Stan, who sifting through a
ridiculously huge pile of bottles, throwing the empty vodka and beer bottles
into the recycling bin. “Beverly really enjoyed the party, huh?” Richie smirked
as he pulled on the elastic strap of a small white bra, shooting it at Stan
like a rubber band.

 Stan peeled the bra off his shoulder with disgust and folded it, leaning over
the bin bag to set it neatly on his pillow, “Yeah, I think she left in a hurry,
she left her jacket and purse here too,” Stan glanced over at her waterproof
jacket, which was folded neatly on his bed. Not that it had been left like
that, Stan had picked it off of his floor and folded it after making his bed.
He treated other people’s items with respect.

 “Reckon your parents coming home spooked her?”
 
“Probably, she didn’t expect them to come home to get ready for work and rushed
out, or at least that what it looks like.”

 “Think she went out the window?”
 
“No, only you do that.”
 
Richie shrugged, “She would though.”
 
Stan thought about it for a moment before replying, yes - Beverly probably
would. Both her and Richie are as reckless as each other.
 
Stan dumped an avalanche of beer and cider cans into the bin bag, which
resulted in a wince from Richie, who wasn’t expecting the noise. They continued
cleaning in peace, Stan methodologically moving from one area to another,
picking up cans and bottles and food wrappers and putting them in one of the
two bin bags. Next he would check the area for any stickiness, if any soda had
spilt on his carpet he would have to steam it - which would prove difficult as
the steamer is very loud and there’s no way he would be finished steaming the
carpet when his parents got home - even if they were working late tonight.
Next, he would pick up any small debris, such as confetti or chips - he wasn't
just going to let the vacuum take the brute force - what was he, a monster who
wanted a broken filter? Then he would dust, then if applicable, varnish. He
wouldn’t go as far as to disinfect, there was no need - although he knew all
too well that Eddie would disagree. There’s a reason Stan didn’t even attempt
to ask Eddie for assistance.

 He glanced over at Richie who - quite frankly - was all over the place. He
picked up a crinkled paper bag and shoved it into the wrong bin bag. Then he
would move more cans and debris out of the way to dust, then going back to
somewhere else that had caught his attention. Richie seemed to find the concept
of focusing on one thing at a time foreign, like a toddler just running around
the room touching as many things as possible. Stan just shook it off, it was
better than nothing.

 Stan had let Richie clock out at the same time as him, despite Richie’s shift
not being near finished, which caused a mild uproar from Eddie, who looked like
he was in the second stage of decomposition. Richie just threw a weiner at him
and told him to ‘stick it where the sun don’t shine, buddy,’. A HR nightmare,
granted, but Eddie visibly paled and went back to his work, shaking his head at
a burnt pan and scrubbing it furiously. Stan presumed he was probably imagining
scrubbing Richie’s smug smile off of his face. He’s been there.
 
They cycled home together, Stan’s dirty apron (Richie insisted it hadn’t even
been worn, despite Stan pointing out the ink marks around the pocket) folded
neatly in his backpack, alongside his spare apron and the keys to the Diner.
Richie kept his apron on for the ride home, the string at the back almost
getting caught in the wheel several times. The heavy winter sun threatened to
blind them as they cycled down the winding avenues and backstreets Stan had led
them, but they had got there - noses bright red and a lot of shivering beneath
their coats, but they had got there.
 
They hadn’t talked much on the way over, Richie did his usual trying to swerve
into Stan, but besides that, there wasn’t all that much discussion happening.
Richie noticed, but Richie always noticed when there was silence, he always
felt an almost compulsive need to fill it.

 “So…” Richie’s voice cracked slightly, “Gary’s Mom really did piss in your
cornflakes, huh?”
 
Stan groaned and rubbed his eyes, “Ugh, Richie - I just wanna forget about it.”
 
Richie shrugged and moved a full bottle of some bright neon liquid out of his
way as he scavenged for more empty cans, “I get it though, rude customers can
be absolute badgers. Badgers R Us, badger central, breaker-breaker we have a
code 4-24 badger breakout - please respond.”
 
Stan looked up at him in confusion, “Badgers?”
 
“Yeah like… dickheads, annoying cunts - you get it.” Stan threw a rolled up
pair of socks at Richie’s face, it hit his face and fell to the ground
unceremoniously.

 “No using the C-word in the house, you ‘badger’.”
 
“Oh, sorry your majesty. Holy place of the Lord, is it?”
 
“He’s always watching, you know. You’re never safe.”
 
“Smite me.” Richie kicked the socks back over to Stan, who picked them up and
delicately placed them back into his drawer. They were red socks, so they had
to go between his black socks and his orange socks. He shifted a few pairs of
black socks over to make room so that it would be aligned right, “You should’ve
just kicked her out, save the arguing.”
 
“I couldn’t just kick her out, Richie.”

 “I would’ve.”

 “Which is why you haven’t got promoted.”
 
“Fuck off, the world isn’t ready for my unreal management skills. The world
would be cowering at my feet, CEOs would be slitting their wrists in fear of
losing their companies to me. I’ll be the world’s first ever trillionaire.”
 
“World’s first ever famous loudmouth.”

 “Shut up, that’s Gary’s Mom.”
 
“She’s not famous though.”
 
“She’s our most famous fussy customer.  Mike  loves  seeing her coming.”
 
“Our famed bit-terrible person more like.”
 
“Bitch? Were you going to say bitch?”
 
Stan flipped Richie the finger and went back to tying off the bin bag he’d
filled. Richie huffed and let go of his bag, it hitting the floor with a heavy
sound of glass. He found his way to Stan and dropped himself behind him, so
they were sitting back-to-back. The warmth from Richie’s back bled into him a
little, it was almost therapeutic. Stan could hear the faint noise of a
fingernail on tin. It echoed around the room, seeming to bounce on the walls.
 
“You get too hyped up about what people say, you know.”
 
Stan’s back straightened, “And how do you suppose that?”

 “You’ve been walking around like someone just gutted your cat all day. Just
because some square was being a bitch. You’re gonna meet a buncha rude-ass
fuckers in your life, Stan - no point being all mopey and woe-is-me when you
do.”
 
“You’re the only rude-ass fucker I know.”

 “Har-har-har,” Richie sarcastically retorted, “I’m being serious. Why you
gotta let someone like that put you in a mood?”


Stan sighed and relaxed into Richie, hiking his knees up and resting his elbows
on them, “It’s just - I don’t know - she was so unnecessarily hostile it was
unnerving -”

 “I know like who the fuck cares if your kid gets diabetes! Let him have the
candy!” Richie fisted the air.

 “What I was  going  to say,” Richie lowered his arm, “she was so hostile about
you. About the very  thought  of her son being near someone who’s gay. She spat
it out as if she was talking about a criminal or a pedofile - like with that
amount of putrid hatred, I just can’t understand it. I get that some people
find it unnatural - hell it  is  unnatural - but so are radios, and planes and
cars and no one has problems with those. No one actively hates them or thinks
they’re the work of sin.”
 
“She probably thought she  was  talking about a paedophile, to be fair.” Stan
heard the pop and fizz of Richie opening a can.
 
“Did you just open a beer?” Stan felt Richie nod his head, his messy hair
tickling the back of Stan’s neck, “What do you mean?”
 
Richie swallowed the mouthful of beer and tapped on his can nonchalantly, as if
this was a conversation he needed to put little thought into, “Gay people
usually are pedos, that’s what they think, at least. Probably thought we were
fattening up her kid because I simply just cannot resist some glorious love
handles.”
 
“People don’t really think that though, it’s not the thirties anymore.” Stan
held a little doubt in his voice.
 
Richie let out a laugh, not necessarily sour but not particularly sweet either,
“I’ve been called it dozens of times. Oh, little sheltered one, you have a lot
to learn about the cruel mistress we call society.” Stan glanced over at
Richie, who was taking another drink of his beer. His movement must’ve caught
Richie’s eyes as he lifted his attention from his drink to Stan. “Do you want
one? It’s five o’clock somewhere my man. Unless yer en Eireland! It’s alwaes
foive o’clack there so it is!”
 
“If I say yes will you promise to not do that God-awful accent again?” Richie
laughed and reached across to a can of beer which had been abandoned by his
dresser. Probably from Stan hurriedly clearing out the kitchen and dumping it
on his bedroom floor before he was late for work. Richie worked his finger
under the ring and popped it open, handing it to Stan.
 
The pair sat in silence for a moment, in the midst of a half-tidy, half-messy
room with the wind dancing through the room every so-often and sending a shiver
down the boys’ spines.

 “There’s no need to get your knickers in a twist about it, Stan. Really.” Stan
sighed and nodded, he knew he was being a little overly sensitive about the
entire situation but the way the woman was so overtly disgusted by the thought
of someone who was gay or that way inclined was making his stomach sink every
time he thought about it. He was a religious man for the most part, sure. And
he recognizes that in Leviticus it’s recognized as a sin, but only God and
servants of God can judge. Stan has no authority to judge anyone for their sins
and neither do the awful people of Derry. “I’m used to it by now. Hell, why do
you think this handsome and charismatic devil wound up with you sad sack of
losers?”
 
Stan took a small drink and shrugged, “Always assumed it was because you are
the personification of tackiness. Do people at school really know about it?”
 
Richie shrugged, “At school? Those assholes barely know how to wipe the shit
off their own asscheeks nevermind knowing anything about me. They hear rumours
and they think a lot of things. Just so happened that this rumour wasn’t
completely wrong - not that I’m telling them that.”
 
“I suppose they do always call us a bunch of queers…”
 
Richie laughed, “Yeah, I got my head flushed in the toilets outside Gym one day
because I said one of the guys off the basketball team had good form.”
 
“You know what good form is?”
 
“Not a fucking notion, his ass just looked great.” Stan and Richie had a
chuckle at that. Stan felt oddly at ease in his messy room, with Richie’s hair
tickling his neck.
 
“Hey, Richie?” Richie made a grunt in response, grabbing for another beer,
“Want to watch a movie?” Richie made another grunt, a happier grunt.

 So Stan stuck on a movie while he and Richie finished up the cleaning, it only
took about twenty minutes but by then they were both ready to relax. They were
lying on the bed, the TV tilted on the dresser so they could see it from their
viewpoint on Stan’s single bed. Richie wanted to lie on the floor, but Stan
pointed out to him, why would he have a bed if not to lie on? The floor was
spotless, all of Stan’s possessions were in their rightful spots and the house
had been vacuumed. Richie had taken care in ensuring that the bin bags were in
the wheelie bins and that there was definitely no stray cans laying around the
house.

 There was only one problem, which Richie had been so keen on pointing out,
there was still a fair bit of alcohol left. About a dozen cans of beer, a
couple stray ciders and a half bottle of what appeared to be an expensive brand
of tequila. Richie stares at the collection, longingly throughout a good
portion of the movie. Stan rolled his eyes, “You’re not having another. You’ve
already had two.”
 
Richie fell into the bed in a huff, “You’re not my real Dad!”
 
Stan gave in and reached down for a beer for Richie and a cider for himself -
he recognized that this wasn’t something that he would normally do, in fact,
Stan wasn’t really one for partaking in drinking at all, but he figured that
after a day like that he deserved it. Not to mention that the quicker that this
alcohol is gone - the better. Stan knew that Richie wouldn’t take it home as
his Mom would probably indulge herself. Stan kind of assumed it was best not to
ask - if Richie could’ve taken it home, he would’ve.
 
Stan watches Richie for a moment, gulping down his drink as if it was the last
one he would ever have, dribbles of beer running down his chin and dripping
onto his creased t-shirt. His hair was in disarray and his glasses were crooked
- as usual. Stan looked at Richie, his messy clothes, his mismatched socks and
was expecting himself to have a need to fix it. He was waiting for his mind to
try and force him to brush out Richie’s hair and fix his glasses and basically
just change his entire outfit, but no. Not today, at least. Today Richie’s
wonky glasses were merely as they were - wonky. His mismatched socks were
nothing more and nothing less as a bold fashion statement. And the beer running
down his chin? Just plain gross.
 
Stan looked around his room, his door wasn’t just closed right and he could
spot a dirty smudge of god-knows-what on his doorknob. The string on his
curtain was wrapped around itself and swung left and right with the breeze from
his open window. He looked down at Richie’s shoes which were placed delicately
beside his bed, the laces were tied wrong and they were facing the bed, not the
door. All these things Stan had noticed, but he had to look for them. He found
himself seeking out a reason to be irritated, but there was none - because even
though all these ticks would have normally sent his mind crazy. He just took
them as is. He knew they were there and the existed in the same way the moon
does - you can look at it, and see that it exists, but it does nothing more and
nothing less than that. Without the moon, we would be simply that, without the
moon. The dirt on the doorknob or Richie’s shoes are nothing more than that,
just what they are - existing the way that they were meant to.
 
Stan felt relaxed, for the first time in a while. Maybe it was the alcohol,
maybe it was toying with his head. Or maybe it was Richie, who was so content
in being unperfect that Stan could stare in awe at him for a week. Stan
realised it was beginning to get dark, which meant that it was coming time for
Richie to return home before it was impossible to see clearly. The thought of
being in his home - which had been previously full of his friends laughing and
dancing and having fun - alone made him feel almost scared. He had been left
home alone when his parents were working late many times before, but since he
had a taste of companionship on those nights, it felt almost too bitter to let
them go.

 “Richie, do you want to stay over tonight?” The words were out of his mouth
before he had really even thought about them. He didn’t really need to though,
Richie was always a welcome addition to the Uris household.

 “Sure, let’s get hammered.” Well, that wasn't exactly what Stan had in mind,
but if needs must.
“Sure, I’m not taking any tequila though.”
 
“Cool, double tequila shots for Stan, got it.” Richie nodded as he jumped off
the bed and waltzed to the kitchen, as if Stan’s home was as familiar as his
own. Stan thinks back to the times that his parents had invited Richie over for
dinner after the boys were out playing all day. He always wondered why they
only ever invited Richie over for dinner - maybe his parents had been more
observant of his friend’s homelife than he ever had. The small inkling of guilt
was soon washed away when Richie came back into the room with two shot glasses
in hand.

 He poured them both a shot of tequila and he had hit is back before Stan had
even had the chance to smell his own, he really wasn’t a fan of tequila at all
- or any spirits at that, but Richie had already downed his - and Stan wasn’t
going to break the tit-for-tat rule. So he knocked the shot back and swallowed
it as quickly as possible, trying to get the liquid out of his mouth as quickly
as possible. He coughed as his throat burned. “That was disgusting. How do
people actually like this stuff?”

 Richie laughed at Stan’s reaction and mocked him before grabbing himself
another beer, “I don’t think anyone actually  enjoys  drinking it. It’s like
coffee - all the adults have basically peer-pressured themselves into thinking
it’s good because it’s a thing adults drink.”
 
Stan scrunched his face up, “Coffee   is  pretty gross.”
 
Richie nodded, taking a swig of his beer and putting his attention back to the
movie. Stan wasn’t even sure what part of the movie they were at, his attention
had been all over the place for the past while. All he knew was, after a good
ten minutes or so, he began to feel the familiar lightheadedness that he had
felt last night. He only had two drinks though, surely he can’t be feeling the
effects of alcohol already?
 
“You up for another shot, my guy? I know you pretend to hate this alcohol stuff
but I know you secretly live for it.” Richie hadn’t even gave Stan time to
respond before he was pouring another shot and Stan didn’t even have time to
conceptualize what was happening before he swallowed the shot. He just took
whatever Richie gave him to drink without question. He swiped a bit of the
clear liquid off his lip and hissed as it burnt a papercut he never even knew
he had.
 
“Richie - I think I’m drunk?”
 
Richie stared at Stan as if he had grown an extra head before his face twisted
into somewhere between shock and horror, “Please, tell me you had breakfast
this morning because I know for a fact you were too busy for your lunch break
today.”
 
Stan thought for a moment before shaking his head, “No I woke up late.” The
world seemed to continue to move slightly after shaking his head.


Richie dragged his hand down his face, before handing Stan back his half-empty
can of cider, “That’s your last drink of the night, you lightweight. I’m going
to order pizza to help sober you up while I have a smoke before you puke all
over the beautiful carpet I spent thirty-five years cleaning. Capice?”
 
“G-got it.” Stan took the drink and relaxed into the pillow, trying to focus on
the blurry moving people on the TV as Richie, clearly a little tipsy himself,
clambered over him to get to the house phone in the kitchen. Stan could hear
soft  thud  followed by Richie cursing and calling the coffee table a lot of
names. Stan cradled his lukewarm cider as he heard Richie give the pizza order
down the phone, listing off Stan’s address with as much ease as Stan.
 
It wasn’t moments later when Richie bounced back onto Stan’s bed, a smoky air
following him. “You were quick,” Stan noted, words slurring slightly.
 
“I realised I still had enough tequila left for a couple more shots and what
sort of fool am I to pass that up, Stan?”
 
“I guess a pretty big - uhhhhhh- fool.”

 “Good attempt there, bravo.” Richie remarked as he lifted the tequila and took
a shot directly from the bottle, Stan watched in a mix of horror and amusement
- surely Richie was going to puke. Richie hissed as he took the final shot, and
Stan swore he saw him gag a bit before he grabbed the cider out of Stan’s loose
grip and took a swig of that, swirling it around in his mouth. Richie groaned
as Stan told him to put the bottle in the recycling bin - which had already
been taken outside. He did as he was instructed, and came back with a red face
and less stability in his step. What was it about going out in the cold that
made your alcohol hit you like a train?
 
They lay there for several minutes, Richie draped over Stan’s legs and Stan
sinking into the pillows, watching the movie. Stan could see Richie swaying
every so often, trying to keep his head balanced on his hand - or maybe it was
Stan that was swaying. Either way, someone in this room is most definitely not
sober.
 
The sky was pitch black and there was no sound bar the soft revving of cars
driving past and the so familiar static sound of Stan’s hand-me-down
television. The movie was coming to a close soon, if Stan remembers right. He
wonders briefly what they were going to watch next before giving up on the
train of thought - Richie would surely pick something half decent. Stan felt
Richie squirming over his legs for a moment before laying still. Stan assumed
that Richie was just trying to get comfy on top of Stan’s bony knees. That was
until Richie had repeated the action about five more times and Stan finally
barked out, “What are you squirming so much for?!”
 
To Stan’s surprise, Richie shot up like a rocket and looked him dead in the
eyes. Stan straightened up in the pillows, wondering what was up with Richie,
but he fell back into the pillows when Richie grabbed his face and drove their
lips together for the second time that weekend. Stan’s heart starting speeding
in his chest as Richie slowly worked their lips together - and after Richie was
sure Stan wasn’t going to pull away, he climbed on top of his best friend and
held his face, his pinky finger occasionally making contact with his eyebrow.
 
Stan, although in a state of shock, couldn’t help the fact that he was working
his lips alongside Richie’s and instinctively pushing his body up to get closer
to him. He felt the softness of Richie’s tongue pass into his mouth and he
couldn’t help but give in to Richie’s mouth. The feeling of Richie’s mouth on
his, and the closeness of their bodies made Stan’s arms break out in
goosebumps. The dizzyingly violent taste of tequila bounced between their
tongues and the taste of cheap cigarettes only ceased as a reminder to who Stan
was kissing. If the feeling of Richie’s hair tickling his face, or Richie’s
fucking knee an inch away from his crotch  wasn’t enough - the taste of Richie
was dancing along his tongue and into his stomach - not like a fire or a flame
- more akin to the soft amber glow of a cigarette.
 
As Richie moved into Stan - pushing him further into the mattress - Stan could
almost push dirty thoughts from his head. Almost. He found himself grabbing
onto Richie’s creased shirt for dear life - as if the shirt itself was stealing
the oxygen from his lungs. He traced his hands up to Richie’s collarbone and
with a touch as delicate as a feather - danced his pointer finger along it. It
felt oddly intimate - the knots that were winding in Stan’s stomach only
tightened - he was afraid he might choke.
 
Stan was ripped almost violently from his internal fixation on his best friend,
when he felt a soft, tentative nip at his lip. It wasn’t sharp or particularly
painful - but it was something. It was a gateway into something a lot darker, a
lot drunker and a lot of things that he and Richie were not. Best friends don’t
bite  each other like that. They don’t leave bruises or anything like that.
 
Stan jerked from Richie’s mouth and held the spot Richie had toyed with under
his finger, looking down at the space - or lack thereof - between him and
Richie.
 
“H-hey, Richie?” Stan’s voice cracked a little unexpectedly and he cringed
inwardly at how nervous he sounded.
 
“What?”
 
“This isn’t going to make things weird, right?” Richie sat up a bit so he could
focus a little better on Stan’s face. Stan could feel his face prickling with
heat - he could only imagine that his face was glowing red, which didn’t really
help his impression of trying to look cool and collected, “Like - we’re best
friends. This isn’t weird at all?”
 
Richie tilted his head to the side, “Making out with your bro? Nah, totally
cool. Best way to spend an afternoon if I’m honest.” Richie caught a glimpse of
the utterly unamused Stan and rolled his eyes dramatically, “Listen - simple
science. If you make out with me - just for kicks, funsies - whatever - then
when you go to make out with someone you  actually  care about, a girl or
girlfriend situation, then you’ll not completely suck. Do you hear the gospel
I’m preaching?”
 
Stan wasn’t completely convinced, “We’re drunk.” Stan murmured, meeting a face
of confusion on Richie’s face, “People do weird stuff all the time drunk. It
doesn’t mean anything, people shove fireworks up their ass when they’re drunk -
it doesn’t make a face on their character though.” Richie stared blankly at
Stan for a moment, almost as if he was looking to say something - he didn’t
though. He just fixed his glasses and moved back onto his heels, as if to move
off of Stan. Stan held him in place though, fingers catching the loop of his
baggy jeans.
 
“I - uh - I mean,” Stan coughed, having a little difficulty finding his words,
“We don’t have to stop.”
 
And like that, Richie moved swiftly back into Stan’s mouth - as if any longer
away from it would have physically hurt him. They moved together with a little
more confidence, their mouths clashing with a little more force, and small
breathy noises escaping into the room from their open mouthed-kisses in harmony
with the static of the VHS tape needing to be rewinded. Stan slipped his tongue
inside Richie’s mouth and felt Richie’s lips move slightly into the form of a
smile, before grabbing Stan’s face with a certain authoritative glee that Stan
didn’t dare object to.
 
He could feel what he could only deduce to be Richie’s boner pressing against
his own groin - not intentionally, or so he thinks. Richie isn’t grinding on
him or humping him or anything, he’s just moving through Stan’s mouth and brain
like a cunning snake, slipping through him and toying with his head. Stan could
feel the whispers of his first and only wet dream licking at his consciousness.
 
He could almost feel Richie sucking marks into his skin and toying with him,
playing with him in such lewd ways that he blushes to think that his mind even
conjured up the image. He felt an urge for it, to feel Richie against him. It
was natural - of course - he was in the midst of puberty with someone lying on
top of him - what else would his hormones do?
 
In his mind, Stan knew he wanted more than that - he wanted to feel intimate
with his best friend in a way that would only make sense to him and Richie. No
one else on earth had a friendship as inconsistent and riveting as them, and
Stan wanted everyone to know. He and Richie weren’t like everyone else - they
balanced each other in such a perfect way that Stan knew that it had been
nothing short of fate - a cruel fate, albeit when Richie was in a mischievous
way, but they seemed to dance around each other perfectly in harmony without
any need for choreography.
 
Stan groaned into Richie’s mouth as he moved his body closer to Stan, the two
were almost moulding together at this point - and both of them were nothing
more than hormonal messes, needing the touch of each other liked frenzied
starved dogs. They were grinding into each other - hoping that the other
wouldn't notice, doing anything to relieve the ball of tension in their
stomachs. Stan gripped at Richie’s hair and prayed to God to turn a blind eye
on his current sinning.
 
Stan couldn’t take it anymore - he needed more than kissing, his body was on
fire in a way that he had never experienced before. Without something more,
Stan felt as though he was going to faint.

 “R-Richie, I need-”
 
And as Stan’s luck would have it, the doorbell rang throughout the empty home -
cutting through the two boys’ moans and exertion. Richie blinked at the closed
door, almost as though he had forgotten where he was. He fixed his glasses and
attempted to tame his hair, as if Stan’s desperate grappling hadn’t made it
frizzy beyond redemption.
 
“Pizza, it’s the pizza.” Richie laughed, “Cockblocked by pizza - not sure how I
feel about that one, to be honest. It’s difficult to be disappointed by pizza.”
 
Stan nodded, not really relating. He kind of wanted to ring the pizza boy’s
neck. Hormones sure are a wild ride, huh.


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