made up things we'll never really say : stozier

2

richie

richie spends the bus ride home contemplative, ignoring stan's glances over to him every few seconds. most of the ride is spent with beverly anyhow, and she does not stop talking. richie—not to brag—has gotten pretty good with zoning out and still convincing people he's listening to them, so while his eyes are narrowed, in beverly's direction, and he's nodding, the fact that she got a free drink by flirting is really not what he's thinking about. it was okay while bill was with them, but now that he's gotten off the bus, richie is subject to beverly's chatter.

richie keeps having to adjust his glasses, and his nose hurts from the frame pushing into his face, and part of him wonders if stan's nose hurts too. he doesn't feel brave enough to look at stan long enough to see if there are marks on his face. he can't quite figure out what he wants to do.

to pretend that it didn't happen is a fool's errand; richie knows this much. but what to say?

i'm sorry. i didn't mean to do that. except, well, i didn't do it, you did, but i fear i somehow caused it anyway, and i fear more that i'm causing our downfall. no, that sounded too much like blaming.

the moment beverly gets off the bus is the first time richie lets himself look at stan. stanley is chewing on his lip, uncharacteristically nervous. richie has always known stanley as an anxious type, but it's something he internalized. 

sure, stan's knee might bounce from time to time, but it took a while for richie to read the way that stan would grit his teeth or go quiet for a little while, like he was thinking about anything else. it's not particularly a visible thing.

yet the way stan's fingers are aching to rip each other apart is something richie can currently see, and it's making him feel woozy.

richie can still feel how drunk he is, and he can see how drunk stan still is. they probably shouldn't have done the last couple of shots, to be totally fair, but neither of them could really say no.

"i'm sorry?" stan offers, not daring to move into the seat next to richie. richie shakes his head.

"no." that's not it. he doesn't know what exactly he wants to do, but he knows he doesn't want stan to be apologizing. he does too much of that anyway, and it makes richie just utterly sad.

stan mouths "oh" and leaves richie room to speak. richie doesn't know what he wants to say, but more importantly, he knows he doesn't want to say it on this bus. the bus is loud, but no one is speaking, and he certainly can't be the only one talking. not about this.

"can we talk about this when we get back?" richie looks up at stanley, and stan is nodding. it's the kind of nod that's desperate, like he's afraid that if he doesn't say yes, richie will never talk about it. richie can't decide if he's right or not.

silence follows them from the bus to the walk home, where richie drags his feet a little too much, like he used to in high school. the noise comforts him—high school feels like chump change now, but the idea of just fucking around with his best buds is preferred to facing the facts.

the facts, of course, being that his best friend—that he lives with—just kissed him, and richie not only kissed back, but didn't want to stop.

he's still contemplating in the elevator ride up to the third floor, stanley picking at his face next to him. it's another thing that makes richie utterly sad, the way stan's skin falls apart when he's stressed or upset. he's never witnessed stan actively attack it like this before. not until now.

"does this count as being 'back' yet, or...?" stanley speaks up as the door opens, and the two start their walk down the hallway.

richie isn't sure what keeps him silent, but something has his mouth zipped, and he says nothing as he unlocks the door. a part of him, someplace that feels guttural, knows what he's going to do.

stanley is seriously picking at his face now, about to reopen a fresh scab, as he takes off his shoes. richie worries he might be holding back tears.

richie waits until stan looks up from his laces, and he kisses stanley again.

stanley leans into it immediately, like this is the best possible outcome. richie's impressed when stanley only lets out a small whine as his back is pushed up against the counter top, richie holding his face as close to him as possible. the kiss is as hungry as it had been when they paused, and richie's hands are thoughtlessly searching stanley's body. or maybe it's a thoughtful search, richie isn't sure which is worse.

"oh, christ," stanley gasps into richie's mouth, clutching richie's hair in his fingers and pulling ever so slightly. he leans in, his tongue wiping the surface of richie's neck to leave a shiny layer of spit, then clenching his teeth onto the hot skin. and jesus, holy mary, mother of god, if it doesn't feel good.

"fuck," richie can't help gasping himself, groaning as his hands find their way under stan's shirt, now pulled untucked from his pants.

"this—fuck—this is wrong, rich," stanley says, his mouth buzzing against richie's neck. still, richie's hand presses into stan's jeans, and stan moans. this is the most richie has ever actively wanted something, right and wrong be damned. since when did stan care anyhow? he started this.

it's when stanley starts fumbling with richie's belt, undoing it sloppily, that richie speaks. tugging at stan's hair, he pulls him off, panting, "so wrong." his hands begin to focus on stan's shirt buttons, undoing them. stan eagerly begins to help him, and soon stan's shirt is on the kitchen floor. richie gulps. it's not like he didn't previously know this, but god, stan is beautiful. "get in my room."

stan obeys, and richie shuts the door behind him.

**

in the morning, richie finds stanley still sleeping past the rise of the sun (or, at least, if you can call winter daytime the sun), and a part of him is uncomfortable. he's always made fun of stanley for sticking to his habits, but for some reason, the change is hurting richie. or maybe it's the hangover; he hasn't quite decided yet.

still, he makes coffee and tea. he lets the seconds in which it takes to boil water slip by him in record time, grabbing at mugs with shaky hands. he doesn't put milk in his coffee today. he's not still drunk, but maybe bitter, black coffee will sober him up anyway

stan has still yet to wake up, so richie leaves the tea on his nightstand, taking himself and his coffee mug out to the balcony (in stan's slippers). maybe he'll figure out what it is that stanley loves so much about morning meditation.

richie decides he hates it quickly, brain overrun with thoughts about all the things him and stanley did last night, and how... jesus christ, how much he liked it. he sips his coffee, but his leg only begins to bounce faster.

richie's liked boys before. it was never anything for him to feel this kind of pit in his stomach about. it's nothing completely unnatural, and yet richie wants to run, maybe screaming, from all of this. stanley is too perfect to be subject to richie, richie feels guilt every time he sees that stan has done his dishes, let alone do something like love him. and, besides, he's stanley. he's richie's best friend, and richie's going to ruin it over one drunk night? sure, richie remembers thinking that stanley looked absolutely fucking gorgeous last night, but richie cannot love stan. not like that. he shouldn't even want him. 

honestly, he didn't even know stan was into guys. to richie, stan has always been a bachelor with no interest in anyone, and the fact that it had been stan to kiss him first has richie's mind whizzing around in circles. granted, mostly useless circles of thought, about every time he's ever gotten drunk with stan alone, in their apartment. why hadn't they kissed then?

he rubs his eyes, letting his head slide and sit in his hands. all he can hear is stanley's moans, repeated over and over again in his head. richie groans, smacking the side of his head like it's a broken jukebox. he gets up, the steam from his coffee hurting his eyes in the cold air, and reenters the apartment.

stan is still nowhere in sight, as far as richie can tell, anyway. he kicks off stanley's slippers and drops onto the couch, hands wrapped around the mug for warmth. he sips it and recoils. it's bitter.