made up things we'll never really say : stozier

8

stan

stan's under his bedsheets for the fifth time this week. it's not particularly that he likes it in here, where it's stuffy and hot, and he's picking at the skin on his nose. he's pretty sure his face is bleeding to some degree, but it's not particularly important to him.

richie hasn't said more than a few words to him in a couple days now. stan's door has been untouched, not pushed open like richie normally does.

stan doesn't care. okay, well he does care, majorly, but every other gravitational and emotional feeling in the world is gnawing at his shoulders and back and legs. this is all his fault anyway. the sweat from the bedsheet numbs the gnawing, and stan feels a little less like a freak. not by much, but it's something, he guesses.

it's fine. he deserves this anyway, doesn't he? richie was never going to be like this forever. not after stanley acted the way that he did. stanley has to face it sometime.

stan feels uncomfortable here, but it's weirdly soothing in a way. under the covers, it's at least proven that something is wrong with him. it might not be in his head, but it's in his throat, and the cough richie had for so long has started to reach him.

the sweat is killing him. it always does. he kicks off the blankets, finally, and lets the air, only slightly colder, hit his skin. he's only wearing boxers, and while he would normally feel exposed, he's not sure he's able to feel much anyway.

there's a headache, and there's a heartache, and there's a stuffy nose and a blocked throat, and between all of it stan has too much to really care about anything.

unlike richie, who when sick would make anywhere his home, now that stan is sick, he wants to go home. it spawns a dilemma, because this apartment is closer to home for him than his family house. still, he aches to go somewhere called home, some ideal place where people will take care of him until he's better.

he wants to be helped. but there is nowhere to help him, so he stays on his bed, depressed and alone. in some ways, it really isn't any different from his family home.

stanley gulps, though it's practically impossible to gulp through the blockage.

he brings a hand up to his magen david necklace, his thumb rubbing over the points of the star, like an act of comfort. he tries to ignore the feeling of the chain against the back of his neck.

in a fleeting moment of wanting help, stan grabs his phone. he needs to do something before he can't do anything. sickened at the fact that richie was the last person he called, stan calls eddie instead.

the phone only rings three times before eddie picks up, "what?"

"eddie," stan is disgusted at how he sounds. his voice is nasally, plugged up, and when he swallows, his ears pop.

"oh god, now you're sick, aren't you?" eddie groans, and stan would laugh if he could. "do you have the cold medication? can richie get you cough syrup?"

"uh, richie's not home. and we aren't really, um, talking," the sentence makes stanley want to cry. it's not even completely true, stan sort of hopes richie will hear it through the grapevine and come talk to him. come home, at least.

"oh." eddie pauses, and stan actually wants to throw up and cry some more. "trouble in paradise. okay, well, i guess i can get you some cough syrup, and i'll come over." stan's not sure he's ever heard this amount of empathy in eddie's voice. he wishes he hadn't heard eddie say trouble in paradise.

"thanks," stan has no more energy left in his voice.

"okay, i'll call you." and eddie hangs up. stan rolls over, shoving his face into the bedsheets.

eddie must have moved at top speed, because it's only an hour later that stanley's phone rings. it takes all of his energy to let eddie in, pulling pajama bottoms on and shuffling to his door, pulling it open.

"oh jesus, you look like shit." eddie's voice is a little muffled, wearing a medical mask that stan's only ever seen him wear around sick people and on transit.

and eddie's not wrong, he does look like shit. stan knows he's pale as can be, and he can see his chest rise and fall whenever he breathes, shaking as it does.

"okay, here," eddie moves into the apartment, and stanley feels too lightheaded to stand. eddie hands him a bottle of pills and a bottle of water, "take two."

eddie waits expectantly, while stan tries to summon the energy to grab them. finally, when stanley grasps them, he stumbles to sit down nearby. eddie cocks his head, looking at him strangely.

"thanks, ed," stan hesitantly tries to open both bottles, and struggles on the child proof cap of the medication. "fuck," he murmurs, somehow completely exhausted. eddie leans forward, helping him, before pulling hand sanitizer out of his fanny pack.

"so what happened?" eddie asks, stan taking the pills. stan shrugs in answer to eddie's question. "like, with you and richie."

stan's voice hurts too much to speak, not that he would have said anything anyway. he shrugs. he wishes eddie wasn't here. he shouldn't have asked. this is useless, it won't make him feel better. the coughing might cease, but it won't help him get out of bed.

"okay, well... did you sleep well?" eddie asks, and stan is incredibly grateful for the change in conversation.

stan shakes his head. he's actually been awake for about thirty six hours by now, and he feels physically incapable of sleeping. it's the reason he knows richie hasn't been home for two days, not even at night.

"hm. i thought that might've been the case. okay, listen, i have a couple melatonin, it's already seven, why don't you just sleep now, yeah?" eddie digs through his fanny pack, and stan actually doesn't mind the idea of going to sleep now. if he could, he'd sleep for about the next seven years, but as that seems unlikely, he'll settle for now.

"okay." stanley gives in.

he wonders where richie is right now.

he falls asleep the moment eddie pulls the blanket up, a couple melatonins later. he sleeps like a rock for five hours, but he does not dream, and instead blinks and comes to, hearing the sound of the front door through his room.

blinking, incredibly groggy and full of snot, stan listens harder through the wall, and hears laughing, like a loud giggle and then a shush. he can't actually tell which one is richie's.

then he hears a noise like they're kissing, and he repels from the wall, slinking back down to the bed. he shuts his eyes, and he pulls a pillow over his ears. maybe he's having a bad dream.