made up things we'll never really say : stozier

6

richie

richie hacks a cough so loud he thinks it might wake all of china (if they're sleeping). he knows it wakes up stan. he can hear through the wall that stanley has thrown all of his blankets on the floor. he listens intently as stan shuffles through the apartment, and to richie's bedroom door.

the door opens, stan rubbing at his eyes, "what the fuck was that?"

stan's gorgeous, of course, having just woken up. he's in a t-shirt and boxers, his face flushed red, and sleep stuck in his eyelashes.

"i'm sick." richie says, sniffling for the full effect. richie pushes himself up in the bed, and stan leans against the doorway. stan rolls his eyes.

"i got that far, genius. what do you need?"

"i... i need... papa..." richie reaches an arm out to stanley, groaning.

"i'm just going to let you die." stan shuts the door, and richie laughs at his own joke, before wheezing, and then coughing again, followed by a sudden awareness of the snot in his throat.

richie feels useless, sat in his bed sick and unmoving. he's suddenly aware of a headache, and how unbelievably warm he is.

the door swings open again, "take these." stanley throws a box of tissues at his head. richie narrowly avoids them, and watches stan approach him.

"thank you," richie says, more breathless than he'd thought, as stan puts the back of his hand against richie's forehead. stanley's hand is ice cold, and richie gapes at how nice it feels.

stan hands richie a box of cold medicine, "i found these in our medicine cabinet, they might be expired, but they also... might not be. i've got cough drops as well, but i know you eat those fuckers like candy, so i'm going to make you ask me for them. okay? do you need anything else? an ice pack?"

the way stan is caring for him makes richie want to kiss him madly, but he won't. he 's already been too lucky in that department, and besides, he doesn't want stan to get sick.

"aw, papa, you're providing for me," richie makes the same mistake, laughing into a coughing fit.

"do not make me fish those pills out of your stomach with my bare hand. i will." stan returns to the doorway, pointing an accusing finger at richie.

richie laughs dryly, and he coughs again, his head pulsing. "okay. an ice pack would be nice."

by the time richie feels well enough to get up, it's probably past noon, and richie's never been more thankful for stanley in his life. his head hurts like crazy, but richie's trailing a blanket around him like a cape, and he finds a spot to sit at the counter. stan is now wearing plaid pajama pants, and richie misses the sight of his calves.

"what are you doing?" he gets out, his voice raspier than he remembers, and it hurts a little to speak. still, he wants stan to keep looking at him like this, so he'll take the pain.

"making soup." stan replies, and richie blinks a couple times.

"for me?" he uses a stupid voice. it annoys stan, he knows, and when he gets annoyed his eyebrows furrow and his nose scrunches up like an terribly-bred angry french bulldog. richie loves it.

"no, for the president. yes, for you. french onion, is that okay? we only really had onion, and—" stan goes on, and richie wants to laugh.

"thank you." richie says and wow, his throat hurts.

"i know. you're welcome."

richie hacks out another cough, and it feels like his lungs are actively bruising, but stanley hands him a paper towel mindlessly, and it makes richie's chest even warmer. stan looks so domestic right now, glancing at richie out of the corner of his eye with a hand on the wooden spoon. richie wants to kick his feet and tuck his hair behind his ear like a schoolgirl. it's embarrassing.

the urge to spit out affection is overwhelming. richie's not used to getting sick, and it feels like he's dying. he knows he's overreacting, but he just wants to tell stan, 'i love you' over and over again in case richie dies tonight. instead, though, he just sighs. it's not that serious.

still, why shouldn't he? that is, he knows why he shouldn't, but still, doesn't stanley deserve to know? i love you and i am scared of it but i know that i love you.

"how do you feel?" stan says, looking back over at richie. richie coughs up something into the paper towel, scrunching the paper towel into a ball. he leans his head on the counter, the cold marble soothing his burning face.

"sickened. plagued. like ass." richie's voice is even raspier after coughing, and he wonders if stan's into it. the thought makes him want to smash his face into the marble.

"that about tracks." stan keeps stirring, richie gazing at him for as long as he can get away with. "do you want to lie on the couch? i'll get you a pillow." richie smiles, even if it hurts his tonsils a little. he tries to get up from the bar stool, the blanket wrapped around his shoulders dragging on the ground. he can feel stan's eyes on him as he shuffles over to the couch.

"can i have a cough drop, too?" richie says, watching stan swiftly steal a pillow from richie's room to drop on the couch. richie takes the pillow, nearly falling onto the couch cushion, and stan stays by richie's side as he does so, watching in concern.

"here," stanley pulls a cough drop in a little wrapper out of his pocket, handing it to richie. richie coughs for a second before laughing.

"did you just have those in your pockets?" richie gets out, stan rolling his eyes. stan says nothing, only walking back to the stove. richie likes the idea, that stan was so prepared for him. it makes richie's stomach hurt. he has to stop loving stanley like this.

there's only so much he can take, really. if they keep living like this, faux in love, richie might actually work up the confidence to tell stanley he loves him.

with the sound of the fan buzzing over the stove, it takes richie two minutes to notice that stan's talking. it makes richie nervous that maybe he's been missing out on conversation that stan was trying to have with him. it takes another thirty seconds to richie to figure out he's not talking to him.

"no, i don't think he's vomiting. it's just a foul cough, and a fever."

richie pushes himself up from the couch pillow to look over the back, and sees stanley with his phone tucked between his shoulder and his ear. he's still stirring, and he's got a bottle of white wine in one hand.

it's making richie sickeningly jealous, and he doesn't even know of what. is it the wine bottle? the spoon? he's sick. in too many ways, honestly.

"i know, i know. yes, i got him cold medicine. no, i didn't. eddie, i'm not fucking stupid. i'm making french onion." stan continues, laughing and pouring in wine, finally putting the bottle down.

richie feels lightheaded watching stanley stand there, looking so completely beautiful, but he keeps watching, hoping just to catch a little bit of his voice.

"stop saying that. oh jesus, shut up about common law. making soup does not make us married." stan keeps laughing and richie blushes, finally lying back down. maybe he was already bright red in the face from the searing fever. he thinks briefly that he'd be okay getting common law married with stan for the benefits, and then that he'd be okay with getting married with stan.

then he rolls into the pillow and sniffles.