made up things we'll never really say : stozier

10

stan

when he wakes up, the second time, he convinces himself he dreamt it. he knows the truth, but he'd rather feign ignorance. his first thought is one of self hatred, and it takes him a moment or two to notice the breeze on his face, the quiet whirring of a fan spinning next to him. he turns onto his side, a fan newly there alongside a cup of tea.

at first he thinks maybe eddie set up the fan. but the tea is still warm, and that fan was not there last night. after a second, he wants to cry. instead, he tries to shuffle upwards in his bed. his sinuses hurt, and he begrudgingly opens the cap of the cough syrup, struggling an embarrassing amount. when he gets the cap off, it flies and hits the ground, the plastic clattering on the wooden floor.

god hates him. it's confirmed! as if he didn't already know.

he puts the open bottle down carefully, taking a moment to thumb the magen david around his neck. he sighs and pushes the bedsheets off of him. he doesn't want to do this, but sleep did, unfortunately, help, and he does not want to feel like this anymore. depressed, he can do with. he can't do sick at the same time.

he tries not to linger on the fact that they're inherently intertwined.

without warning, the door opens a little, and richie is looking in. stanley, in nothing but boxers, would normally be beyond embarrassed, but it's been days since he's seen richie's face, and he didn't realize how much he'd missed him.

that is, he knows. he knows he missed richie. but somehow richie has levelled him with just his gaze, and stan begs god to let him have been hallucinating last night.

"are you okay?" richie says, his voice gentle like an angel meant just for stanley.

and stanley thinks, the clearest thought in days, i love you.

"uh..." stan doesn't know how to speak, it seems. he pulls the sheets back up on himself. richie cues in, glancing to the bottle and the cap on the floor.

"oh, let me get that," he moves into the room, a little unsure in his footing. richie takes the cap gently and pours stanley a serving of the cough syrup. "here," he holds it out to stanley.

bewildered, stanley downs the cup, "jesus that tastes like shit," he recoils, coughing a little. he tries to cough in the opposite direction of richie.

"yeah, i always wished that cough syrup in mary poppins was real." richie shrugs, "ooh, lime cordial! deelicious!" he does his best posh jane banks impression, making stanley smile. it's a pathetic smile, he's sure, but the way richie's smile washes over him feels holy, and he can't help it.

richie closes the bottle, pushing it back onto his nightstand. he then takes a moment, fumbling with his fingers.

"i'm sorry. i didn't know you were sick. i dunno, i thought you were pulling away, 'cause... well, i'm sure you know. anyway, i feel like an asshole. i care about you, staniel. how are you?" richie speaks with such caution in a way stanley's unsure he's ever seen richie do. he pauses long enough for stan to know where the commas in his sentences are, and he bites on his lip in between thoughts.

"s'okay. i'm sorry." is all stanley can think to say, other than of course, i love you.

"no, you don't have to apologize, um, i don't think you fucked this up, if that matters. i still think you're the coolest. oh, i made you tea," richie grabs the mug and holds it out, stan taking it gently in his hands. the warmth of the mug is similar to the clamminess of his hands, but it feels warm to drink, and the sweat on his forehead feels like a good sign.

"i saw. thank you." stan mumbles, sipping it.

"yeah. um, do you need anything else? a wet cloth, or something? i'm not eddie, but i can try," richie offers, fiddling with his fingers, standing in front of stan's bed.

"i don't know. i don't think so. s'nice to see you, though," stan finally says after a moment, maybe too much of a glimpse into his thoughts. richie smiles, and stan cannot understand him in the slightest.

he yearns to; he wants to know richie completely, and yet after all they've been through, sometimes he just doesn't get him. richie's here, being so gentle, and so doting, like he knows that stan loves him. but stan knows that he wasn't dreaming last night. maybe he's dreaming now.

"yeah, you too. can i just sit here a bit?" richie asks, then sitting on stan's bed. he scoots so his back is against the wall, then pulling his knees up to his chest. stan nods, even though richie's already sat.

there's a silence between them, one that makes stan want to crawl beside richie and lean into him. he won't, for a plethora of reasons, but it doesn't stop the want.

richie speaks as he straightens his legs, "you could've texted me you were sick, i could've gotten you... i dunno, something." his guilt is knitting his eyebrows together, and stan gulps.

"i called eddie. it's okay." stanley shrugs, his voice nasally. he shifts in the bed a bit, his ankle bumping richie's leg. the two make eye contact as they hit legs, and stan leans his head against the wall. he wants richie so desperately, but the numbing sickness is returning as quickly as it disappeared.

"yeah but... it's..." richie sighs.

"i know," stan says, though he doesn't. he understands, in a way, what richie means to say: it's different. what stanley does not know is why it's different to richie. of course it's different to stanley, he's wanted richie for what now feels like forever. stan's thoughts trail off into silence.

"i know you do. what about we watch movies today? sick day in, and all?" richie asks, and stan hardly moves. he only lets a tight gust of breath emit from his lips, then shuts his eyes.

"i don't really want to." stanley hardly has the energy to talk, let alone pay attention to a screen.

"oh. okay. we can just hang out." richie shuffles a little again, and stan feels an itch at the base of his neck, one that stems somewhere in his rotten heart and thorns its way to his skin. the itch feels like greed and sloth, and stan wants to give in.

"i'm really tired, honestly." stan almost groans, wanting anything but to be himself. the itch grows.

"do you want me to leave?" richie asks, and stan's heart breaks a little. stan forces himself to bring his head back up, to confront what an awful person he must be to be around, and to see how beautiful richie is.

and truly, the sight of richie does stanley in. he gives in, both to greed and to sloth.

"...no." i want you here, to do nothing, with me.

worst of all, richie has a sweet, sad little smile on his face when he nods, "okay."