Summer of '93 - Stozier

27

Richie couldn't sleep. Again. He hadn't seen his dad in four days, and no matter how many times his mom insisted it wasn't his fault, he knew it was.

He'd heart his mom arguing with him on the phone at night, so at least he knew he was alive.

Richie was sat in his kitchen, staring blankly at the marble countertop, a glass of (melted) ice water in one hand as he bit the nails of the other. He was swinging his a little, his ankles hitting painful off of the metal legs of the bar stool, listening to the rain.

He hadn't bothered to turn on the light, not that it would matter because he was just about as blind as a bat without his glasses, which were sitting atop his bedside table, upstairs.

He ignored the first two knocks at his front door, hearing them but not processing that he was. He shook his head, thinking he was hearing things when his brain had caught up to him, but he heard it again.

"Its four AM, what the fuck." Richie croaked, sliding off of the bar stool and squinting at the darkness.

He'd accidentally kicked the kitchen door frame on his way to the front door, biting down on his lip to stop himself from screaming out in pain, whispering curses under his breath, trying to not wake his mom up.

After a few more seconds of stumbling through the darkness, limping in pain, Richie got to the door and opened it. No one was there. Richie squinted again, trying to see through the darkness and rain. He spotted someone, curls plastered to the back of their neck from rain, clothes soaked and dripping, seemingly walking away from Richies house.

"Stan..?" Richie said, a bit louder than he would've liked. 

The person froze, their shoulders visibly tensing. They turned, it was Stan, much to Richies surprise, even though he already guessed.

Richies surprised expression quickly changed to a look of annoyance as Stan, his head bowed, walked back up the stone path towards Richies house.

"Come to call me a fairy again?" Richie asked, Stanley was now standing in front of him. "Cause if you have, you can just fuck off. I'm not in the mood to deal with you." He went to close the door, but Stan stopped it with his foot.

"Please, Richie.. let me talk to you." Stan spoke barely above a whisper.

Richie could hear sadness in his voice, his expression softened for a second before returning to his cold glare. "Why should I? I don't have to let you do anything, jackass."

"Yeah," Stan sniffled, looking at Richies face. "You don't.. but please, Rich. I need to talk to you."

Stan sounded on the verge of tears. Richie sighed, opening the door a little more and stepping back to let him in. Stan just stood there, looking down.

"Are you gonna come in or what? Its cold as fuck out there." Richie shivered a little.

Stan smiled, it was a small smile, but it there. He stepped inside, Richie closing the door behind him.

Hesitantly, Richie grabbed hold of Stans soaked hoodie sleeve and lead him upstairs. Richie pointed towards the bathroom. "Towels in there." He mumbled. "I'll find something for you to wear."

"No, I just came to talk-"

"You're gonna catch a fucking cold, go dry yourself, dumbass." Richie rolled his eyes, arms crossed, imitating how Eddie would boss around the losers.

Stan huffed, rolling his eyes."Fine."

Richie smiled, quickly fixing his expression back to a straight face and clearing his throat. "Hurry up."

•*•*•*•*•*•*•

"What did you wanna say?" Richie asked, his arms crossed as he stood in front of Stan in the middle of his bedroom.

Stan was quiet for a moment, playing with a loose string on the oversized hoodie Richie had given him to wear. "Im sorry." He muttered.

"Didn't catch that.."

"I said-" Stan sighed, looking up from his hands at Richie. "I said i'm sorry.."

Richie scoffed and opened his mouth to speak.

"Listen, before you tell me to get the fuck out, You don't have to forgive me, but I am so fucking sorry, Richie. I never wanted to hurt you- I never wanted to hurt any of you- the losers, I mean. I just need you to know how sorry I am." His voice cracked at the last few words, feeling as if he hadn't said enough.

Richie was quiet now, toying with the sleeves of the green sweater he was wearing (Stan knew it was his sweater but he wouldn't say anything about it.).

"Why?" Richie croaked after a minute, clearing his throat and looking up at Stan. "Why did you do it?"

Stan opened his mouth to speak, but his voice seemed to be trapped in his throat. He took a deep breath and stepped past Richie, sitting down on the edge of the bed and patting the spot next to him.

Richie, although hesitant, sat beside him.

"Henry has something." Was all he said.

"Has what?" Richie asked.

Stan took another deep breath, looking down. "A photo."

"He has a photo? A photo of what? Is he blackmailing you?!"

The other boy glanced at Richie before returning his gaze to the floor. "Henry has this photo- photos, actually, theres four, all the same photo just kept by different people-, anyway.. he says that if I don't- basically follow his orders, the whole town of Derry sees that photo-"

"Stan! What photo?" Richie asked again.

Stan paused, biting his lip in thought. He looked over at Richie, exhaling through his nose. "Have you remembered anything else from the night of the party? Anything other than what you told me when I first asked?"

"No, I haven't. But I don't see why that's relevant right now! what was the photo-"

"You kissed me." Stan blurted.

Richie froze, his eyes wide and the colour visibly draining from his face. "I- Wh- I di- You- When- I-" He spluttered.

"No, shut up! You were drunk and you didn't mean to, I get it. It doesn't matter. What does matter is that Henry now has four pictures of that kiss and if I don't keep hurting you guys everyone in the whole of Derry is gonna see that photo! The most homophobic town in Maine! Do you see my predicament?"

Richie was quiet for a while, his cheeks a dark shade of red that Stan pretended not to notice.

Now they were both quiet, Richie staring blankly at the floor while Stan gazed at him, waiting for him to speak.

"Well fuck."

•*•*•*•*•*•*•

i keep forgetting my vocabulary and literally forgot said was a word..

writing is all fun and games until u start losing the ability to construct sentences.