The End Of Us || losers club ✔️

twenty four

twenty four - your ghost is always with me

Richie woke up an hour or two ago, give or take, but hasn't moved from the couch. He lazily watches the morning News and keeps himself updated on the weather (because that's all Derry News has to offer).

Wentworth is asleep upstairs and so is Stanley, the boy graciously taking Richie's old bed. At first Stanley was hesitant, especially when Richie said he wouldn't be going upstairs with him, but with some persuading that it was okay and it's either the bed or the floor, Stanley, he finally broke.

Richie, obviously, took the couch. It pains him to even glance up the stairs because the doorway laying right there is- was Maggie's bedroom. The bedroom that holds her clothes, and her jewelry, and the sheets she picked out that young Richie would have no trouble clinging onto as he climbed up the bed. A room filled with her. Richie wonders how his father does it. He wonders how his father does any of it.

The slight creak of the floorboards catch his attention. The footsteps are soft and light, almost hesitant as they descend the stairs. Stanley comes walking down, one hand on the banister and the other rubbing at his eye. For a moment, Richie thinks he could've mistaken him for a kid. Especially with the shirt Richie never wore at sixteen because it was too big hanging off Stanley's shoulders. It still doesn't fit, even with another boy.

"Good morning," Richie slurs out. His face is pressed into a pillow, his glasses crooked, but he doesn't mind. It's much better than waking up to gray walls and gray floors that feels like they're closing in on him.

"Morning, Richie."

Stanley joins him in the living room, nudging Richie's feet for him to move so he can take a seat. He does, but then places his feet on Stanley's lap. Neither boy complains nor moves.

They simply sit with each other.

A thing they've been doing for years.

It's different this time. Of course it is. The air around them is lighter, they breathe a little easier. Stanley isn't as stiff and Richie's eyes don't dart around as much. It's a nice change. Richie snuggles deeper into the couch, thinking he could get used to this again.

"Hey, Rich?"

Richie twists his head to look at Stanley. His wrists are draped over Richie's ankles, picking at the skin around his fingernails, and staring blankly at the wall ahead of him.

"Yeah, Stan?"

His lips part slightly, the words he wants to say on the brink of coming out, but he closes his mouth and looks down. Richie then twists his whole body so he's laying on his back, rather than his side.

There's something on Stanley's mind, that much is painfully obvious. He opens his mouth again, looking a bit more confident, but something surges over and he glances at Richie with timid eyes.

"Would you have anything to eat? For breakfast?"

Richie's stare lingers on him, something telling him that's not what Stanley wanted to ask, but he reluctantly gets up off the couch and crosses into the kitchen anyway. He keeps his eyes on the floor and away from the stairs. He hears the movement on the couch, then the patter of socked feet behind him.