made up things we'll never really say : stozier

9

richie

richie wakes up to a kiss on his neck and an arm wrapped around him. he yawns loudly enough to make her laugh, and then turns around to kiss her back. the kiss tastes terrible, like morning breath and hangovers, but he finds it sorta funny, so they don't stop.

"morning, jesus," he says, pulling away thirty seconds later in vague disgust at the taste of the kiss. she laughs again anyway.

in a way, this situation feels strange. wrong, even. to wake up in his bed, not alone, but with this brunette he'd met only yesterday. he's never been a one night stand kind of guy. what is he supposed to do now?

"morning richie," she smiles anyway, and she is very pretty, so richie lets the thought leave him for a moment. "i've gotta get going, okay? i got an 8 am, so i'll see you around?" she kisses him again, and slithers out of the bed to put her clothes on. richie only watches her in strange awe.

"yeah, jen. i'll see you around." he says, still half asleep.

after she leaves, richie dawdles around the apartment, not quite sure what to do with himself before classes. he can tell stan hasn't woken up yet—that or he just hasn't left his bed—but that isn't strange to him now. stan has been pulling away, hard, and richie just has to deal with that. he scratches the back of his neck awkwardly, standing in the kitchen with no real purpose.

he puts a kettle on to boil anyway.

while grabbing a mug out of the cabinet, his hand hovers over one that's normally reserved for stan's tea. he hasn't really been sticking to schedule, seeing as stan hasn't been out on the balcony. he decides, ah, fuck it, and takes it out, shuffling around to grab a tea bag.

they might not be normal, they might never be normal again, but he wants to make stanley tea. he wants things to at least be alright. while he's waiting for the water to boil, he scrubs at his eyes under his glasses, hoping his headache will go away. naturally, it only gets worse.

the click of the kettle brings him back, and he reaches to pour it right into the mugs.

seconds later—his own mug completely unstirred, instant coffee grinds floating at the top of the hot water—richie finds himself at stan's door, with the mug of tea in his hand. he knocks lightly, one knuckle against the door. he waits a second, but no response ever seems to come.

he grasps the door handle gently, pushing it open slightly. immediately, he feels warmer than before. the room is stuffy, his window closed and the blinds drawn. still, stanley is sleeping with the duvet up to his neck and an extra blanket on top. on his nightstand sit a pill container and a near full bottle of water, next to a cough syrup box, unopened.

richie furrows his eyebrows. is stan sick? richie would've expected to have heard him coughing, yet stan's been radio silent for the past days. richie sets the tea down on the desk in stan's room and moves, on his tiptoes, to the window, where he pushes it open a crack. to richie's upset, it's only slightly colder outside, and there's been too many stink bugs in their apartment recently. he shuts the window again.

he looks over to stan, properly, and notices how pale he's become, near sheet white with sweat slicking the roots of his hair to his pillow,    and scabs all over his face. richie realizes he's gritting his teeth. he's not really sure why stanley's room is warmer and more humid than the rest of the apartment, but he at least knows how to fix it.

after pulling the fan out of the closet, richie holds the wire precariously as he takes it into stan's room, trying not to make a sound. he places it on the desk as he clears stan's nightstand, bothering to open the cough syrup while he's at it. soon, he can fit the fan on the nightstand, and he fumbles a bit trying to plug it in the wall.

stan still has not moved in his sleep, though richie is now aware of the fact that he can hear him breathing, his nose squeaking as he inhales and choking as he exhales. richie has an overwhelming urge to rub his chest with vaporub, but he's not an idiot.

so he turns the fan on low, setting it just away from stan's face so as not to wake him up. somehow, by a miracle, it doesn't wake him, and he continues to sleep. richie considers getting a wet cloth for his forehead, but that feels like overstepping, so he settles for the mug of tea on the nightstand as well.

when he stands by the door, having appropriately set up stan to hopefully wake up better than he fell asleep, richie grits his teeth again. why can't he make this right? why can't he ever make anything right? stan is right there, and so beautiful, and so incredibly in need of something right, and yet richie fucked it up.

he sighs and pulls at his hair a little before pulling the door nearly closed, leaving a crack for ventilation. he returns to his coffee, which is now lukewarm, and the grinds continue to float at the top, the water not hot enough to dissolve them anymore. after stirring for about thirty seconds, he gives up and puts it in the microwave. it doesn't taste as good, that's for sure, but he decides that wasn't his main priority anyway.

he sits at the counter, unwilling to let go of the image of stanley, white like he's on his death bed, sweaty and stuck to the bed. he wants to hold him until he recovers, a hand combing gently through his hair. he wants to at least hold his hand. his heart aches.