Work Text:
Just go out, have fun! They said. We all coincidentally have to do work, but there’s this frat party you should go to, and we don’t have any ulterior motive whatsoever.
The losers weren’t exactly subtle - they all thought Stan was too uptight from exam stress, and that if they went along to a party with him, he’d only hide behind them the entire night. They gave him lots of cash for a taxi at the end of the night, a portable charger so they could always check up on him, and a slap on the back accompanied by a get some, Stanny!
That was looking to be very unlikely.
Sipping from his cup, his eyes scanned the room - couples grinding together on the dancefloor, desperately clutching at each other and panting into each others mouths. The sight of their hands wandering up each other’s skirts and snaking down each other’s pants made Stan swallow and adjust himself nervously. Fuck, he really needed to get some.
Unfortunately, this entire party was filled with douchey (and very heterosexual) frat guys. They were the ones who’d laugh at him for his khakis and button-up shirts, roll their eyes when he panicked about a speck of dirt on his white sneakers, and wrinkle their noses when they noticed the rainbow pin on his backpack. He was becoming that recluse in the corner of the room, but not the manic pixie dream girl all the boys lust after. No, he was drinking lukewarm beer and getting horny from strangers touching each other to Gold digger.
A commotion came from the other side of the room, and Stan’s eyes drifted towards it. Some jock he vaguely remembered blowing in freshman year was stumbling over to him, his arms around a giggling sorority girl.
“Oh, there’s Stan Uris. What the fuck are you doing here if you’re not gonna dance? Where’s your fag friends, surely they’ll slow dance with you and blow you after.” His already repulsive face was twisted into an ungodly sneer, and Stan pitied the poor girl that was inevitably going to be stuck with him the entire night.
Usually he had a snippy reply or a cutting insult, but it just made his eyes sting. Coming out in Maine wasn’t exactly the easiest thing for Stan or his friends, so to have that reaffirmed by a drunken comment left him speechless.
Homophobic slurs were the best way to get someone to leave a party, so he carefully placed his cup on a sideboard and braced himself for the sweaty crowd he would have to push through to get to the door.
“Don’t g-go!” Someone cried, grabbing onto his wrist. “Dance wuh-wuh-with me!”
The guy’s eyes were shining, half from drunkenness and half from them being a stunning shade of blue already. He was tall, black jeans clinging to his legs, just low enough for his calvin klein underwear band to peek out of the top. A snapback was placed precariously on top of his head, ready to fall off at any given moment, and he wore a basketball vest that gave Stan the opportunity to scan his eyes over the pale expanse of his skin. Stan bit his lip nervously and allowed his gaze to travel back up to mystery fuckboy’s face. The mischievous look in his eyes made him blindly grab for the cup he left behind him and take a long gulp.
“Actually, I was just about to leave-”
“C-C’mon, it’ll buh-buh-be fun. I promise n-not to let y-you fall.” His wink was endearing rather than sleazy.
The grip on his previously abandoned cup was becoming tighter and tighter, enough for flecks to splash onto Stan’s face and make him flinch.
“Oh, I don’t know. People calling my friends fags doesn’t really make me wanna do the tango.” He croaked.
“Don’t luh-l-listen to him, his d-d-dick is small. Trust me, I know.” Another wink.
When Stan was silent, the guy carried on - “I-I’ve been wuh-wanting to talk to y-y-you all night, but you’re kind of i-intimidating, y’know?”
“Intimidating?” Stan frowned.
“You s-seem too good to buh-be at a party like this. Someone s-so beautiful shouldn’t huh-ha-have to put up with that asshole’s bullshit.” Stan waited for the punchline, for someone to come out of the shadows with a camera, laughing at him for actually believing he would have a chance with a guy like this. Stan paused for a few seconds. He was swaying on his feet, but there was no evidence of insincerity on his face. The hold on his wrist had loosened, so it's not like he was going to be pressured into anything.
“I think I might have that dance now.”
The smile in response was blinding. He held out his other hand and Stan took it hesitantly, grimacing at the sweat obviously coating his palms from being near someone so intimidatingly hot.
“So I’m l-l-leading, obviously,” Fuckboy said, eyes glinting as he pulled Stan closer, so their noses were practically touching.
“Who says?”
“Your e-e-existence. You’re suh-such a twink.”
“Fuck off,” Stan grumbled.
“See, this is your problem. You j-just have to relax.” He’d obviously done this before, this was something he was comfortable with, as his stutter became less noticeable and his voice was lower, more seductive somehow. Stan had no idea why that bothered him so much.
“And you can put your hands here-” he said, placing Stan’s hands on his waist, “-or here.” He grabbed his hands once more and made them move downwards, enough for Stan to get the picture. It was one night, so why not? He went with it and placed his hands on the guy’s ass, making him grin in response. “Wise c-choice.”
Stan rolled his eyes. “You didn’t give me much of one, anyways.”
“Sure. Hey, loosen y-your hips a little bit more…” They began to move together, and obviously, his dancing partner’s default setting was sexual, as he was grinding against him to the pounding music that made Stan wish he had left earlier. Not that it wasn’t nice, because it was, but - it was hard to get into it with everyone watching. Maybe this guy was comfortable with his sexuality, maybe he was fine with dancing with someone as awkward as him, but all Stan could feel was eyes burning into the back of his neck, working their way down to his trembling legs and tightly laced sneakers.
After a while of Stan shuffling half-heartedly, trying his best to hide his blush due to such intimate contact, the guy paused and frowned. “This isn’t w-working.”
Stan sighed and pulled away, mumbling an apology, before he felt the tight grip on his wrist, the same one from a few minutes before. Before he could object, he was tugged forward abruptly. “Let’s try suh-something else.”
“This was a bad idea, I-”
“No, I o-o-obviously didn’t fulfil your ruh-request earlier. We’re gonna d-do the tango.”
Stan stared.
The guy stared back, one eyebrow raised.
“You can’t be serious.”
“I am. Well, I d-d-don’t know how t-to do it, but it involves a luh-lot of spinning, right?”
“I think? But- Woah!”
Both of his hands were seized, and he was being directed dramatically around the room. Shouts of “hey, man!” and “what the fuck?” floated around Stan’s head as this stranger spun him around, leaving him dizzy and giggly. His hands were warm and firm, so he had no doubt that he wouldn’t fall. Stan decided to revel in the situation and ignore the frustrated yelling - this guy seemed to be having fun, he was having fun, and that was rare for him at parties like this.
The music wasn’t remotely designed for being held and dipped so far down Stan’s hair brushed against the floor, but it hardly mattered. Laughter escaped his lips with ease, and he felt like he was hundreds of feet off the ground.
After around ten minutes of crazed spinning and Stan letting himself be manhandled on a sticky, grim carpet, his dancing partner let him go, making sure he was close enough to the couch so he wouldn’t hurt himself. He let his limbs relax - but not before making sure the guy was sat right next to him.
He wasn’t.
Instead, he was stood over him, smile soft and adoring. Stan mourned the loss of touch, but was also enraptured by the way he was being looked at - it was something akin to affection rather than sexual attraction. It left his mouth dry, so he let himself run his tongue over his (usually soft, but now rough because of the nervous biting) lips. He felt his face flood with embarrassment as a pair of eyes followed the movement. The gaze was more heated, now, something that was once innocent had turned into want - apparently on both sides.
“Do you wanna sit?” Stan asked.
“No.”
He swallowed as he noticed that, once again, he was hard. And that it was very obvious. And that he was being rejected. Huh.
“Oh.”
“I t-th-think you should c-come upstairs with me.”
Stan didn’t bother thinking it over. He pushed himself up off of the couch, and maybe he pretended he was more drunk than he actually was (two cups of weak beer tend not to have much of an effect on a person) to feel strong arms wrapped around his waist.
“Easy,” the guy murmured. “You good?”
There was no point in pretending he didn’t feel the hard outline of his dick pressed against his ass, so Stan pushed back against him and whispered a hoarse “yeah” in time with a breathy moan that he had elicited from the other boy’s lips.
“Are we going, or what?” Stan said challengingly.
“Y-Yeah, fuck, juh-just let me-” Tonight was the night for him being dragged around with no explanation - his hand was snatched away from him for the third time in the last two hours, and he followed eagerly.
They were making their way towards the stairs, stopping every now and then when they were forced to make conversation with one of this guy’s friends. He had a lot of friends. Stan suspected he was doing it on purpose, extending the mindless, drunken talk, as every time they paused it gave him the opportunity to trail his hands over Stan’s stomach, lift up the hem of his shirt, grip his hips just a little too hard.
After twenty torturous minutes (Stan was counting), they reached a hopefully empty bedroom. When the door knob was twisted open to check, they both exhaled in relief. A plush bed was in front of them, no one had passed out on the carpet - and there was even a lock on the door.
Stan cautiously made his way towards the bed, sitting down and feeling a lot more comfortable after feeling a warm body next to him.
He became suddenly shy - the pounding music and already sexual atmosphere made him more daring - but the need was still there.
“Thanks for that earlier. The dancing. I really needed it.” Stan whispered.
“No problem.”
The chatter was just a precursor to what was about to happen, something that Stan wanted to do before, when this guy was spinning him around and making him feel dizzy in more ways than one. He felt a hand on the small of his back encouraging him to move forward, then a whisper of “is this okay?” before soft lips were pressed against his.
Was it possible to fall in love from a small kiss? Was it possible to fall in love from a light touch on your hip, a huff of breath on your neck as your partner laughed at you whining in their ear? The kiss deepened as Stan pushed closer, trying his best to grab onto soft red-brown hair, but instead feeling a stupid snapback.
“Take this off,” Stan grumbled, and he heard a snort before he felt a sweet peck on the nose and a thud from it being tossed aside. Another soft push on his back was all he needed for their lips to meet again, Stan opening his mouth enough to feel another tongue sliding against his, exploring every area possible as he moaned and felt a familiar sensation in his crotch. A hand slid up his thigh and made him shiver, both of them letting in a sharp intake of breath.
“Okay?” The guy asked. Stan couldn’t nod fast enough as his hand moved further upwards to palm him through his trousers, forcing him to tilt his head backwards and groan. “I’ve got you,” he whispered, “baby, let me take care of you.”
It was everything Stan hated - sweat, saliva, desperate pleading in someone else’s bedroom, someone else’s house, but the heat spreading across his body said otherwise. He didn’t have a name to whisper, and that saddened him, yet he felt like he’s known this guy all his life.
There was a need to reciprocate, for Stan to get on his knees and blow him so well he’d be a sweaty, writhing mess, but it seemed as if he was having enough fun already. As if making Stan feel good was all he needed. So, he let himself be directed, pushed up against the hand that was going to unbutton his trousers and work its way down his underwear.
Why was it so easy to be with him, to let him take the lead when so many others tried to do the same and left Stan feeling like a child? He was never going to see the guy again, and this heavenly feeling straight from a fairy tale would be short lived, but it was nice to revel in the wonderous sensation for just a few minutes more.
“Your name,” Stan said between kisses, “what is it?”
“It’s...It’s-”
The spell was broken and the question was unanswered when the door was pushed open and banged against the wall violently: they had obviously forgotten to take advantage of the lock. “My man! C’mon!”
The pair split apart at an inhuman speed: something Stan had grown accustomed to in college after hooking up with may too many closeted guys. Instead of shoving Stan away, however, he remained at his side and looked irritatedly at whoever had interrupted them.
“What, Dylan?”
The look on his face made Stan’s skin crawl. “Party’s moving over to Jessica’s.”
“By party, d-d you mean you walking huh-h-her home and making sure she’s safe in bed?” He said in a low, semi-threatening voice.
The mood in the room changed swiftly from supposed friendly banter to actual fear, shown solely through Dylan’s eyes.
“Uh. Sure.”
“Awesome!” His tone was far too bright and sunny to be legitimate. “I’ll m-make sure to cuh-cuh-call her roommate later and c-check.”
Dylan was walking backwards, stumbling over the plush carpet. “Okay. Bye.”
The door shut with less force than it opened, and once they were alone again, the body language of both boys in the room became more open and relaxed.
“W-Well that ruined the muh-huh-oment.” Stan nodded and sighed in response. In all honesty, he felt a little ill after the encounter, so he was fine with leaning against someone solid, someone he trusted a strange amount.
“I wasn’t going to come tonight. My friends forced me.” He said suddenly.
“Neither w-was I. My ruh-r-roommate is sick, and he chugs c-c-cold medicine like a motherfucker, so I didn’t want h-him to die. Someone e-else is looking after him.”
“Weird.”
“Maybe ih-it’s fate,” the guy sighed, tangling his hands in Stan’s hair and pressing gentle kisses onto his neck. He did it so naturally it seemed as easy as breathing.
“Who knew frat boys could be so romantic,” Stan mused.
“We’re n-n-not all bad, princess.” The name should make him roll his eyes and shove him away, but it just led to him pressing closer and clinging onto the guy’s vest. Also, wow. The fabric was thin enough for Stan to feel the abs underneath. He replied with a snort to compensate for the amazement, though.
“Do you b-believe in that s-s-sort of stuff?” He continued. Stan was waiting for his body to produce his usual reaction, an incredulous, dry laugh, but he thought of the kiss, the safety he felt, and wasn’t surprised when a “maybe” escaped his mouth.
Embarrassment was threatening to spread inside him, so he changed the subject. “What’s your name? You didn’t answer earlier.”
“N-Not telling you. I’ve decided.”
“You know mine!” Wow. He sounded like a petulant child.
“Well, i-i-if its fuh-fuh-fate, you’ll know it a-already.”
Stan pretended to think for a second. “Gerald?”
The guy snorted and rested his forehead against Stan’s. “You g-got it.” Their lips met again, but in a chaste way, close-mouthed and sweet.
“Stuff like this doesn’t happen to me.” Stan whispered as he pulled away, running his thumb over his open mouth, getting a smug satisfaction from watching his partner’s eyes trail after the action.
“What stuff?”
“You know,” He mumbled, prodding his chest, “this. Making out with a hot guy at a party.”
“Why, are y-you too buh-busy going out on ah-ah-actual dates?”
“That’s not funny.”
“I’m not j-joking.”
Stan went quiet.
“I could take you out.”
It was something he’d been thinking about, but didn’t dare to say out loud. “Yeah?”
“If you w-w-wanted. Do you like milkshakes?”
“Who doesn’t?”
“I know a really n-nice diner not too fuh-far from here. Maybe we c-c-could go tomorrow.”
The idea made Stan’s stomach flutter, but, like always, he had to ruin it. “What is this, romantic dirty talk?”
He waited for the frown, the awkward silence. Instead, there was a soft laugh. “Why, do y-y-you like it?”
“Maybe.”
If Stan was looking at himself from an outsider’s perspective, he’d scream what are you doing, you idiot?! He’s humouring you, he doesn’t want you, he’s just waiting long enough to make you feel like you’re not an easy fuck.
Another pause made a wave of nervousness wash over him.
“I’ll buy you f-flowers. I’m guh-huh-onna be totally hungover, but still.”
“What flowers?” He asked hesitantly.
“Sunflowers, definitely.”
Stan’s favourite. Why does this guy know him so well?
The desperate need to get off was now replaced by a pounding heart and a different kind of desire. Stan had moved into his lap, letting him wrap a strong arm around his waist as he whispered more scenarios into his ear. It felt right - he didn’t fight the domestic situation they’d found themselves in.
“And I’m a complete g-g-gentleman. I’ll walk y-you back to your dorm and everything.”
“No kiss?” Stan laughed.
“Nope. Gotta give you something to l-look forward to.” There was that persona he met at the start of the night. It was endearing now he knew who was behind it.
“You’ve already kissed me, genius.”
“Who said t-t-that was my best work?”
“Well, now that you’ve mentioned it, I need to know exactly what that is,” Stan teased.
The guy smirked as he traced circles on his back. “What a-about me being a gentleman?”
“Really not what I’m looking for right now.”
“Then m-maybe you s-sh-should come back to mine.” With anyone else, another jock, Stan knew that meant a quick handjob and him having to creep out, shoes in hand at 5am. But with him, it probably meant cuddles and breakfast in bed.
“Okay, yeah.” Stan couldn’t stop smiling when he leaned in for another kiss, it’d been too long already-
ping!
Stan had put his phone on silent.
“Fuck, g-g-gimme two seconds,” the guy said sheepishly, pulling his phone out of his pocket. The screen gave his face a yellow tint - snapchat was open. Typical. The taptaptap of the keyboard made him irritated. It was frantic.
Stan couldn’t help but think he was talking to someone else, someone that came before him, someone better looking, taller, well liked.
That was confirmed when he saw flashes of the messages:
Please come over!
I need you!
He’s left, I’m alone!
There was a pang in his chest that was far too painful, considering it was over someone he’s only known for a few hours.
When the tapping stopped, the expression directed at him was so close to looking genuinely upset. He was a good actor.
“I have to l-l-leave, I’m s-so sorry,” he said, holding Stan’s face in his hands and kissing him deeply. He melted into it, but stopped after he realised why he was mad.
“Give me a reason.”
Regret was replaced with confusion. “What?” The comforting pressure of his hands against Stan’s cheek was gone.
“Tell me why you’re leaving.”
The guy’s gaze flickered to the door. “Look, I have to g-g-go, I r-really cuh-can’t explain right now-”
“At least tell me your name!” Stan exploded.
Ping!
Ping!
Ping!
Ping!
Ping!
“Baby, really, I’m sorry-” He was halfway out of the room, ignoring Stan’s embarrassingly desperate pleas to stay.
“Fuck you!” He yelled.
It was too late. Footsteps were already echoing through the house, signalling him being further and further away.
There was no point in staying, but he needed to lay down for a while to work off the small amount of alcohol still left in his system, as well as to chill out before he chased that asshole to wherever he was.
As he flopped down on to the bed, he noticed that an item had been left behind.
A red snapback.
Beverly snatched the hat from Stan’s hands and balanced it on her curls. “So what you’re saying is, he rocked your world, then left?”
“Basically,” Stan grunted, taking the item back and tossing it onto his bed.
It was Ben’s turn to grab it, putting it on and prompting a compliment from Mike as well as an affectionate smile from Beverly. He didn’t know why it made his stomach to turn to see someone other than the guy who broke his heart wear it.
Richie landed on Stan’s bed without taking his shoes off, which made him grimace, but he tried his best to ignore it. “He obviously goes here, why else would he be at that party? And why didn’t you get his name?”
“We were busy,” Stan mumbled.
“Yowza! Stan the Man, you stud!” He howled, kicking his legs up in the air childishly.
“Beep beep, Richie,” Mike said. Stan nodded appreciatively.
The losers looked around at each other nervously, because, to be honest, they’d never seen Stan so worked up over a complete stranger. They were desperately trying to think of a solution.
“Wait. This is kinda like a Cinderella thing!” Ben said joyously (his love for Disney wasn’t a secret).
“What?”
“This hat- it’s like the glass slipper, right? And maybe he’s, I don’t know, a secret fuckboy. Only at night.”
“Ben, I’m not knocking on every door on campus just to find him.”
“It was just an idea,” he muttered in response.
Richie cleared his throat and barged into the conversation. “ Anyways. Eddie’s sick, we’ve gotta go visit him.”
Stan had realised Eddie was absent from their group meeting, but he assumed he had class. Eddie never gets sick. When he said the same to Richie, he responded with “College doesn’t exactly leave you with enough time to get your annual flu jab. Also, American healthcare is a bitch.”
Although he knew their friend could handle himself, a little bit of attention couldn’t hurt. So they packed up their stuff (Mike put tubs of cold soup in his backpack), and walked across campus to Eddie’s dorm. For some weird reason, Stan picked up the snapback from his bed and put it on. It was completely stupid, but it’s not like he was ever going to get to give it back to the guy. Also, it looked cute. Maybe not with his black trousers, suspenders and bowtie, but still.
To cut a long story short, Eddie was a mess. His nose was bright red, his lips were cracked and sore, his eyes watery and puffy. Tissues were strewn on the floor, and that was the key to realising just how sick he was. They would’ve been picked up in two seconds flat if he was well enough. The losers worked their way around his room; Mike going to heat up the soup, and the rest fluffing pillows and picking up rubbish.
“Don’t you have a roommate that can help you out?” Stan frowned.
“Well, yeah,” Eddie whispered hoarsely, “but he’s out a lot. His brother and his parents moved pretty close to campus when he got accepted, so he visits them. He’s a really good brother.”
Richie made a noise of frustration from the other side of the room. “Yeah, so good of a brother that he went to a party last night and left me to look after your sorry ass.”
“You’re just bitter because I beat you at mario kart, asshole.” He snapped in response. “Anyways, he came back once this fucker over here decided he’d had enough after round ten - nine to one, by the way.”
This was all sounding awfully familiar to Stan.
My roommate is sick, and he chugs cold medicine like a motherfucker, so I didn’t want him to die. Someone else is looking after him.
He’s left, I’m alone!
“When, uh. When do you see him, usually?”
“His creative writing class finished fifteen minutes ago, so- now.”
“I gotta go,” Stan blurted out, knocking Eddie’s medicines off of his bedside cabinet and stumbling towards the door. He carried on despite everyone’s confused shouting of his name, and only stopped walking (running, kind of) when he’d reached the end of the hall, just far enough so that he most certainly wouldn’t run into Eddie’s roommate. Surely he’d have passed him during those five minutes he’d spent leaning against the wall and wheezing?
Sighing, Stan sunk to the floor and banged his head against the barrier of the staircase he’d just run down.
“I was wuh-w-wondering where m-my snapback went.”
Fuck.
It was like deja-vu as Stan looked up to see the same grinning figure from the night before. His eyes were still as bright, his smile still as alluring, and his fashion sense still as ridiculous. Apparently words didn’t feel like coming out of his mouth today, so instead he just watched him lean forward and take the hat off of his head with a wink.
“Y’know, y-you could’ve just looked o-o-on the inside of this if you w-wanted to find me this bad, rather than stalking me.” He pointed to the black marker staining his snapback reading out big bill denbrough .
Stan ignored the stalking part. “Who puts their full name on their hat?”
Bill (apparently) shrugged. “My brother d-did it for me.”
Right. His brother. Because he’s Eddie’s roommate. And he only left because Eddie was sick and was probably close to death (death from being dramatic, to be specific).
“Weird question, but. Could I maybe see your conversation with Eddie Kaspbrak last night?”
Bill pulled his phone out of his back pocket without hesitation, scrolled for a while, and presented the thread.
Eddie: Please come over!
Eddie: I need you!
Eddie: He’s left, I’m alone!
Bill: Who’s left?
Eddie: Richie! He’s an asshole!
Bill: Who’s Richie?
Eddie: Whatever
Eddie: So
Eddie: Is it possible to overdose on cold medicine if you’ve gone 1ml over the suggested amount?
Eddie: Because I feel queasy
Eddie: BILL
Eddie: BILL!!!!
Bill: EDDIE!!! Look its not possible can I go I’m with a really hot guy right now
Eddie: NO COME HOME THE ROOM IS SPINNING
Bill: FINE
Stan couldn’t help it. He clapped a hand over his mouth and smothered a giggle. The entire conversation was so quintessentially Eddie he had no doubt in his mind that he was being shown the truth.
“Why did you need to see that?” Bill frowned.
Stan winced. “Because all of my friends may or may not be upstairs with Eddie right now, and we may have never met before because you’re never in your dorm, and I may have been calling you an asshole ever since I woke up this morning?”
“Sure. T-That makes cuh-huh-omplete sense.”
“Yeah. I guess it was just a coincidence we ran into each other.”
He wasn’t to sure as to where he stood with Bill now. One of the last things he said to him was “fuck you!”, so it was looking pretty likely that he wasn’t interested.
There was the first awkward silence they’ve ever had between them. Before Stan could apologise, he was being yanked upwards, causing him to fall into Bill’s arms. He still smelled really good. Wait, that wasn’t important right now.
“Not a c-coincidence.”
Stan knew exactly where he was going with this, and groaned. “Don’t say it.”
“It was fate .” He grinned.
“Shut up, Cinderella, and just kiss me.”
There was a muffled, confused utterance of “Cinderella!?” before Stan looped his arms around Bill’s neck, pulling him close and kissing him so hard he was pretty sure they’d meld into one person. Once Bill had adapted to the situation, everything else fell into place. His hands settled on Stan’s hips, tugging at the shirt tucked into his pants while he detached himself from the other’s lips to mouth at his neck. Stan responded with a small gasp as he felt the scrape of teeth against flesh, and it was just loud enough to make Bill laugh huskily into his ear.
“Seems your place is pretty full right now. I have an empty room?” Stan suggested. He could barely think straight with the overwhelming amount of teasing kisses and this guy’s ( Bill’s ) wandering hands, but he knew that’s what he needed. Them. Alone. Finally.
“Nope. Gotta t-t-take you o-on that date first. The diner’s only a fuh-fuh-five minute w-walk away, let’s go.”
“Seriously?” Stan whimpered.
“You’re r-right. Sorry.” He sighed with relief. “We h-have to go to the florist first. Sunflowers, right?” Bill winked, and stepped away from him with one last squeeze of his ass.
As Stan took in his stupid hat (back in it’s rightful place), his dorky grin, and realised that he actually liked him after his ridiculous behaviour, he only had one thought.
This is gonna be fun.