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There were ten reasons why Richie Tozier was not having a good day.
First, he woke up too late, and had to pack his suitcase for a two week long trip in the span of five minutes. Sure, this could have been prevented by making sure his alarms were set for AM and not PM, and yeah, he could have packed his suitcase sometime during the week and not the day he was supposed to leave, but hindsights 20/20.
Second, it was snowing, and the pavement outside his housing complex was slippery, and in his hurry to get to the curb and hail a taxi, he fell flat on his arse in front of approximately seventy onlookers. Again, preventable, he shouldn't have been wearing keds in winter. But again, hindsight.
Third, his phone in his back pocket broke his fall, but also broke the screen. Preventable, maybe. Mental note to not put his phone in his back pocket anymore.
Fourth, even after witnessing his bad luck, some forty-something in a business suit shoved him and got in the taxi he had hailed down, blatantly ignoring his pleas, and then the string of curse words he directed at him. Less preventable, assholes are assholes.
Fifth, Los Angeles holiday season traffic is ruthless. Absolutely unpreventable.
Sixth, when he finally did get to the airport, thinking he had just enough time to make his flight if he was willing to sprint for it, the perky blonde at the baggage check informed him his flight had been cancelled due to weather. Not his fault in the slightest.
Seventh, when he got back to his complex, he slipped. Again. He'd blame it on the wind.
Eighth, when he finally, finally got back up to his flat, he found the door locked, and his keys nowhere on his person. Okay, that was on him.
Ninth, when he called the locksmith, they were closed. Surely way too important a service to close during the holidays, right?
Tenth, but going by his current streak, probably not the last, was that his neighbour saw him crying.
His uptight, clean cut, turn-your-music-off-it's-nine-pm neighbour, after parking his car and taking his eco-friendly recyclable bags of groceries out of the boot, saw him sat on his doorstep with a suitcase, the day before Christmas, absolutely bawling his eyes out. And he did nothing but raise a perfectly manicured eyebrow, and went inside, leaving him to freeze and starve and die.
Not that it was surprising.
Richie knew wholeheartedly that he was a less than ideal neighbour. He was loud, he had guests over often (loud guests, guests with alcohol and an affinity for karaoke), he let his mail pile up in the letterbox until you couldn't fit anything else in there, he only took out his trash when it was actually overflowing (and attracting raccoons), he left his outside lights on, and he liked confrontation. And his neighbour provided just that.
Stanley Uris – or Stanthony, as nobody but Richie referred to him as – was a good neighbour. He kept to himself, when he had get-togethers with guests they were dignified and respectful and everyone left before midnight, and he made sure the outside of his house and anywhere people could see into his house was kept clean and presentable. He was the kind of neighbour to wave at you across the complex as he left for work, or offer to feed your cats when you went away. His mail never piled up, and his trash definitely didn't.
Richie did not like Stanley Uris.
Stanley Uris did not like Richie.
It was a good arrangement, he thought, mutual hatred. Better than unrequited hatred, he figured.
He sat, sobbing, his face and feet and stupidly ungloved hands feeling near frozen, until his sobbing was replaced by sniffling, and then silence. Sweet, miserable, lonely fucking silence.
His eyes drifted upwards, to the fairy lights he had hung off the roof in a last minute attempt to feel festive – it didn't work, Christmas still sucked – and wondered, briefly, if they would hold up his body weight. He was unsure whether that was because he planned on climbing them to get onto his roof (which would serve no purpose whatsoever, he lived in a one story house and there were no upstairs windows), or if his subconscious was telling him to hang himself with christmas decorations.
Honestly? The latter seemed more likely.
He mulled it over in his head, weighing out the pros and cons. The list looked something like:
Pros: will probably get on the news, won't have to deal with this bullshit anymore.
Cons: death sounds unappealing, don't know how to tie a noose.
He could hear his neighbour's front door opening, then closing, then footsteps crunching in the snow that sounded like they were coming towards him. Then they stopped. Then silence, as he continued to stare thoughtfully at the string of lights above his head. He ignored the fact that Stanthony was standing in his peripheral, apparently waiting for him to respond in some way.
“Why are you sitting out here?” Stan's voice was deadpan, because he didn't actually care about the answer, obviously.
“What's it to you?” Richie's reply came, snappy and borderline childish. He didn't drop his upward gaze. His neck was starting to hurt.
“You locked yourself out.” He sounded more annoyed than anything, as if Richie sitting on his own doorstep minding his own damn business inconvenienced him in some way.
“No.” Richie lied. His neck was really starting to hurt.
“Then why?”
“Maybe I just want to be out here, ever think of that?”
“You're an asshole.”
“I know you are but what am I?”
Stan huffed. Richie finally gave in to the pain and dropped his head, finally looking at Stan. He was wearing a light grey coat with a darker grey scarf, and black jeans. He looked boring. As always.
“Love the colours, really brings out your personality,” Richie snickered at his own joke. Stan's expression didn't change.
“Better than what you're wearing, at least I don't look like a toddler that dressed itself.”
Richie looked down at himself, bright blue snow jacket unzipped over a green and red christmas sweater. He didn't think he looked that bad, actually.
“What do you even want?” he asked in place of a comeback.
Stan bit the inside of his cheek, squinting slightly. Richie could practically see the gears turning in his head.
He didn't answer, instead, he grabbed the handle of the suitcase and turned on his heel, back in the direction of his own flat. Richie shot up from his seat, tailbone aching.
“OI,” he yelled, hobbling after him, “You're stealing my shit now? Is that what we're doing?”
Stan stopped, turning around with an unamused expression. It looked the same as his regular expression.
“Dipshit,” he spat, “do you want the couch or not?”
“What?” Richie asked, dumbfounded. Stan rolled his eyes.
“I mean, you can sleep on your fucking doorstep if you want. I don't give a shit. Or you can have the couch.”
“Oh.”
Stan continued walking, trailing the suitcase behind him. Richie followed.
The inside of Stan's house was not very surprising. Richie had hoped that if he ever did get to see it, there would be something at least a little interesting about it. But no. It was clean, and tidy, and all the furniture matched. Disgusting.
“Shoes off,” Stan instructed, having left his own boots just outside the front door. He toed off his thoroughly soaked keds and left them in the doorway. “Jacket, off,” he continued, pointing a finger towards him with a scowl on his face, as if he were a diseased animal. Richie rolled his eyes, shrugging the item off and holding it out in front of him.
“Now what?”
“Coat rack,” Stan nodded his head towards the opposite wall, to the line of hooks next to the front door.
“Yes sir.” Richie shuffled over and hung his coat up.
“Don't walk like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like that. Pick your feet up when you walk.”
“You're really bossy, you know that?”
Stan scoffed.
“You're a dick.”
“You're a dick.”
“You're insufferable.”
“Why invite me over, then?”
“I was being nice,” Stan folded his arms across his chest, “I'm starting to regret it.”
“Then I'll leave.”
“Fine.”
“Fine.”
Richie exhaled sharply, not making any motion to actually leave. An awkward staring contest of sorts ensued, until he ended it with a sigh. He shoved his hands in his pockets, taking a look around the room.
“No decorations, huh?”
“I don't celebrate.”
“Oh?” Richie started wandering around, inspecting little details. Stan's eyes tracked him into the kitchen. “Religious reasons? Or do you just think it's all a waste of time?”
“Both.”
Richie hummed, opening an overhead cabinet. Grey bowls, next to grey mugs. Coordinated kitchenware. Figures.
“Don't touch anything.” Stan came up behind him and didn't-quite-slam the cabinet shut. Richie held his hands up in surrender, then moved to open the next cabinet along the line.
“Do you actually live here? Because this place looks like it's out of a brochure. You're too tidy.”
Stan closed the newly opened cabinet as Richie moved onto the silverware drawers.
“I like tidy.”
Richie hummed again. The silverware drawer was in much the same shape as the cabinets, that was to say, meticulous.
“So whaddya do for a living Stanthony?”
“Don't,” he pushed the drawer closed.
“Don't what?”
“Call me that.”
“Why?” Richie asked, taking a step closer to him, and pushing his glasses up his nose, “that's your name, isn't it?”
“Out,” Stan held firm, poking Richie's chest with one finger, “of my kitchen.”
Richie smirked, backing away, instead setting his sights on the small living area.
“I work in an accounting firm,” Stan said after a moment.
“Pssh,” Richie pssh'd, “boring.”
“What do you do then? If that's so boring.”
“Television.”
“Television?”
“Mm.”
“Elaborate.”
“I work at a station.”
“Doing what?”
Richie shrugged, picking a gardening magazine up off the coffee table and dropping it back down again. Stan hurried over to re-straighten it.
“Stuff.”
“You're doing my head in.”
“Yep.”
Richie gave up on the game he had been playing, choosing to retire to the couch. It was decievingly uncomfortable.
“Damn, your sofa's like a fucking rock,” he groaned, arching his back. His tailbone really fucking hurt.
Stan sat down on the opposite end, sitting up properly, a stark contrast to how Richie had starfished himself. Richie was, for the umpteenth time that evening, not even the least bit surprised.
“It's good for your posture.”
“Who needs posture?”
“You, obviously.”
Richie rolled his eyes. Stan picked up the remote from the table, switching the flatscreen in front of them on. He started flicking through channels.
“So, what are we watching?”
“Depends what's on.”
Every channel was playing damn christmas movies. Stan huffed, seeming to settle on a random channel, replacing the remote carefully.
“What's this?” Richie asked.
“Don't know.”
“It's a christmas film.”
“Obviously.”
They watched in silence for god knows how long. Said christmas film turned out to be The Santa Clause, with Tim Allen, and Stan looked unimpressed the entire time.
“It doesn't make sense,” he finally spoke up about three quarters into the movie, nose wrinkled slightly, “one guy travelling to every single house on earth overnight and, what, just breaking in? Leaving shit under a tree? Who would ever believe that? Why put trees indoors?”
Richie quirked an eyebrow and shrugged.
“I dunno, kids like it, I guess.”
“I would be concerned if I knew there was a random old man breaking into my house. And why use the chimney?”
“Because he lands on the roof.”
“Why not just leave the stuff at the front door? Would save a hell of a lot of time.”
“Oh yeah, hey kids, let's go see what Santa left at the front door!” Richie's voice went high pitched and mocking. He laughed at himself. Stan's brow creased.
“It's stupid. And why don't the adults believe in him? Where do they think the presents come from?”
“That, my friend, is the million dollar question.”
They continued watching, and the film ended, and the next one started. Richie stretched and let out a long, drawn out yawn, then stood up.
“So, what're you cooking for dinner, Stanthony?”
“Nothing, if you don't stop with that fucking nickname.”
“Okay, Staniel.”
“Nope.”
“Stan the man.”
“No way.”
Richie sighed, drawing it out into a groan.
“Stanley.”
Stan looked up, smug look on his face.
“Yes, Richard?”
“Where's the bathroom? I gotta take a piss.”
Stan threw a pillow at him, pelting him square in the face.
Ten things happened that night that made Richie feel a little less like hanging himself with Christmas decorations.
First, Stan made pizza. He didn't let Richie in the kitchen, of course, but he did let him point out which toppings to go on his half.
“No bacon?”
“I'm Jewish, asshat, no bacon.”
Second, Stan had wine in his fridge. He made Richie use a coaster, but that was hardly a hassle.
Third, tipsy Stan was a lot less uptight, and a lot more giggly. He loosened up on the insults and orders and actually laughed at Richie's jokes. Well, some of them, anyway. Still an accomplishment in Richie's book.
Fourth, they watched about five awful christmas movies, and complained through all of them.
“That's not even fucking mistletoe. They're kissing under a bunch of leaves.”
“Stan, you know your plants?”
“I was a boy scout.”
“NO WAY.”
Five, wine-drunk Stan liked to talk about birds. A lot. A lot, a lot. More than any one person should ever know.
Six, Stan let Richie into the kitchen to make them both hot chocolate.
“With the marshmallows!”
“YOU HAVE MARSHMALLOWS?”
“What am I, Amish? 'Course I got marshmallows.”
Seven, Stan's pyjama pants were bright green and printed with little white birds. Richie just about died and went to heaven.
Eight, when Richie asked why Stan hated him, he replied:
“I never hated you. I thought you were kinda cute.”
“Whoa, really?”
“Yeah, until you egged my fucking house.”
“Hey, I was drunk. I thought it was Mr. Stevenson's house.”
“Oh, fair. He's a dick.”
“Right?”
Nine, very wine-drunk Stan liked to sing.
“I really can't stay~”
“Y'know, for a Jewish guy, you're really into Christmas music.”
“I've got to – singwithme – go away~”
“No.”
“This evening has been~”
“You're plastered, aren't you?”
“So very ni- IT'S A DUET RICHARD, SING WITH MEEEEEE-”
Ten, Stan fell asleep on the couch at three am. Richie carried him to bed, and had to physically pry his fingers from their death grip on his shirt. He whined – fucking whined – when Richie finally freed himself and he dropped back against the pillows. It took about five seconds before he was softly snoring away. Richie let himself smile at the sight before retreating to the living room.
He felt happy. On Christmas. Gross.