ethereal : it oneshots

dust in your shape

pairing: stozier. kinda?

richie started hallucinating a month after stanley died. 

it hadn't been that bad at first. he'd been feeling the sadness, horribly, every single day. he knew that. but it was fine. it was doable. it might get better. and people kept checking in on him, making sure he was okay. 

he could get out of bed. he could go to class, and if people asked, maybe richie could talk. bill kept asking if he was okay, and one day richie finally ended up being honest: he wasn't. 

but it was fine. he was alive. or whatever. and yes, stanley was dead, but it was fucking fine.

and people stopped asking. bill decided that maybe richie was in fact fine now, and people were moving on.

but then he started seeing him. 

at a party one night, richie was drunk, and he was talking to greta, and suddenly stanley was next to him. richie was sat on a couch made of vinyl leather, and while it was way too warm to be sitting comfortably, he was squished into the end of it. there was no one else on the couch, he just felt he should take up the least amount of space.

the cans of beer he had already drank were sitting at the side of the couch. greta faced him from a chair next to the couch, leaning her head over the back of it. her arms were crossed over the top to make a comfortable resting place for her head. her blonde hair feel down her back in tight ringlets that she had clearly done up simply for the party.

they were talking about their plans for the week, not particularly because either party was interested, but moreso just for something to talk about. richie could feel the warmth in his face, and he couldn't see quite right, so he sorta figured he should stop drinking. nevertheless, he continued drinking from his can, which he gripped tightly in his left hand. his left hand was half draped over the end of the couch.

other than being drunk, though, he felt quite normal. well, as normal as he could be anymore. then, as if someone had sat down on the couch next to him, someone laid down on his side, overtop of his right hand and arm. out of shock, richie turned his head ot see what it was, and nearly lost his mind right there. 

there, up against the side of him on the couch, was stanley uris, as young as he had been when he'd died, his arm reaching up to richie's chest. stanley yawned as his hand grasped richie's shirt to hold onto him. richie gulped. what the actual fuck?

"whatcha lookin' at?" greta asked, and richie's head snapped up to meet hers. suddenly, the weight was gone, and taking a look back, so was stanley. he'd disappeared as fast as he'd shown up.

"uh..." richie had just trailed off, wiping a moistness from his eyes. 

maybe it had been because he was drunk. but so help him god, it was the most peace and panic richie had felt at once in the longest time since stanley had died. 

to see him, his brown hair frizzy and pulled out in certain places, his shirt slightly untucked and wrinkled, in a way richie knew he would hate. he still had the one crooked tooth, richie had noticed as he'd yawned. and of course, he'd ought to. nothing had changed.

but everything had changed. yet it felt so nice, so fucking nice, just to see stanley one more time. the feeling was something he could get addicted to.

and he tried to feel it again. he got drunk, over and over and over again the next few weeks. it got to the point that beverly, a functional alcoholic, began to get concerned. 

not enough to check in on him though. 

then, finally, one night, it happened again. he'd been at bill's with mike and eddie, and eating through a burger bill had served them. he bit a good chunk, breathing through his nose, and looking up at bill.