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In theory, Richie knew what being in love was like. He’d been in love with Bev for all of two days, her bold courage and bright spirit capturing his heart, before he realized that her affection was mostly aimed at Bill - and he couldn’t blame her for that because hey, he was a little in love with Bill too. He was sure they all were, their tender, impulsive leader who brought them all together.
He loved all of the Losers, they were his home and his heart, filled up places in him that were empty before. He loved them all in different ways for different things. Mike for his kindness and the way he never beeped Richie, listening to Richie ramble with patient and engaged eyes. Ben for his patience, who would laugh in exasperation at Richie’s antics but still took the time to point out the flaws in Richie’s newest prank. Eddie, for his honesty, who always told Richie what he needed to hear, even if he didn’t want to hear it, who saw past his bullshit with knowing eyes.
And of course, he loved Stan. Stan, with his sharp tongue but kind heart. Stan, who scolded him more than anyone but also patched him up more than anyone. Stan, who kept his window unlocked every night just in case Richie wanted to sneak in on nights when his head got too much to be by himself. Stan, who knew to play The Smiths when Richie needed to calm down, who let Richie put his head on his lap when he needed attention, Stan, who dealt with all of Richie’s bullshit despite his complaints.
How could he not? Stanley, his first friend, tiny, curly haired Jewish boy with a strange cap on his head, in his corner with his lunchbox instead of eating from the cafeteria from the rest of them. Six year old Richie had looked at Stan, seen how he was alone just like him, and decided that they were going to be friends. That was the magic of being six, when he wanted something he could just reach out and take it. No questions, no doubt. Just follow the impulse that thundered in his tiny brain and beat in his tiny heart.
Richie wished he could go back to being six sometimes.
“Achoo!” Richie sneezed for maybe the third time in five minutes and Stan stopped in his tracks, looking over at him with an exasperated expression.
“Richie.”
“Hmm?” It was hard not to laugh at Stan, who was decked out in an oversized puffy green jacket, a bright yellow scarf and a beanie that didn’t contain his corkscrew curls at all. He looked ridiculous. He looked adorable. Richie had actually laughed until he cried when Stan walked into homeroom that morning, waddling in like “a penguin! You’re a penguin Stan!” Richie guffawed, pointing at him with delight.
It was apparently the coldest week of December, with fresh snow every morning, and Stan refused to get sick before finals, coming to school everyday in his winter gear with two thermoses - one of soup and another of hot tea.
Richie, on the other hand, had been doing just fine with his fleece flannel and denim jacket for the past two weeks but today rudely decided to be much colder than any other day. His hands were freezing and he wished he had thought to bring a pair of gloves but he wasn’t sure if he actually owned any.
Stan sighed. “I told you this morning you had to bundle up. You’re cold, aren’t you?”
Richie grinned, walking over to wrap an arm around Stan’s slight shoulders. “How can I be cold when I have Derry’s hottest little Jew on my arm?”
“Ha ha. Very funny,” Stan rolled his eyes. He slipped off a glove and gingerly touched Richie’s hand with a wince. “Your hands are freezing.”
If he was six, he could easily grab Stan’s hand and say they had to hold them, otherwise he was going to freeze. If he was six, he’d do it because he was really cold and Stan’s hands were warmed up from his careful preparation of layers. Stan wouldn’t question it. Sensible, sweet, six year old Stanley would think he was saving his best friend from hypothermia. They could hold hands, swinging them wildly as they walked to Stan’s house, just like they did nearly every day after school when they were kids.
But he’s not six, he’s seventeen, and he wanted to hold Stan’s hand for more reasons than just thawing his frozen skin.
He sighed dramatically, pulling away. “Guess I’ll just die Stanley.”
“You’re not going to die. Even though that’d make my life a whole lot easier.” Stan squinted at him for a second before tugging off his scarf and winding it around Richie’s neck, neatly and quickly until the fabric nearly covered Richie’s mouth. Richie was sure he did that on purpose. Stan took off his beanie next and got on his tiptoes to shove it over Richie’s head, pulling it securely over his cold ears. “There,” he said, stepping back to look at his handiwork with critical eyes.
Without his beanie and scarf to cover him up, Stan’s face was freely exposed to the cold, his cheeks already turning pink. His hair was a mess, tousled by the wind and his beanie, which made Richie want to mess it up even more. Looking at Stan like that, his lips curved up into a satisfied smile, Richie felt an indescribable warmth spread throughout his entire body, from his chest to the tips of his frozen fingers.
This warmth was most certainly love. He felt warmth with the rest of the Losers but Stan was different. Stan was special. The warmth Richie felt from his friends was a soft and tender glow, like a candle in the dark. Stan was a kind of warmth that did the unspeakable, choking Richie with its intensity and swallowing down all of his words. It wasn’t just warm, it was hot, it was burning, it lit up in every single one of his cells. A fire that Richie couldn’t control.
In theory, Richie knew what being in love was like.
But practicing it? That was a whole different ball game. A game that terrified Richie because he didn’t know any of the rules. A game that required two players and he wasn’t even sure if Stan wanted to play with him. A fire that Richie was too scared to get close to - he’d get burned and lose Stan all in one go.
Then Stan grabbed his hand and all of his thoughts came to a stop like they often did around him. “Come on, Trashmouth,” Stan tugged him forward. “Let’s get out of the cold and I’ll make you hot chocolate.”
Speechless, Richie followed, lacing his fingers with Stan’s and squeezing tight. His heart stuttered uncontrollably when Stan squeezed back.
His hands didn’t feel cold at all anymore.
When spring came, the snow melted, the flowers began to bloom and each morning started with a birdsong. When spring came, Stan’s bird boner was back in full force which meant he was wide awake on Saturday mornings before the sun rose, in his Boy Scout gear, binoculars around his neck like a little nerd.
Richie came over last night so he groaned when he felt Stan squirming in his hold, trying to get out of bed. “Stanny, no,” he mumbled. He opened his eyes to see it was still dark in the room. Way too early to get up. Richie was pretty sure he came into Stan’s around one, so he’d only been asleep for maybe three hours max.
“Richie, no,” Stan mocked back, tugging his arms away. “You can stay in bed, I need to find that magpie. I heard its call yesterday.”
Richie whined and pleaded but Stan still left him. Richie curled up in the blankets and considered the merits of staying in bed alone versus tagging along with Stan. His throat went dry when Stan walked back into the room wrapped in only a towel, his body already making his decision for him: “I’ll come with you.”
“You have to be quiet,” Stan warned him as he started to dress. Richie tried not to stare at his legs or his back or - anywhere really. So much skin. So much Richie wanted to touch. He hobbled over to the bathroom to wash his face and dampen his nerves.
He cooed at Stan in his uniform, pinching his cheek. Stan slapped his hand away and they walked out of the nice neighborhood Stan lived in, past Bev’s place, into the woods by the quarry. Richie used to take his Walkman out with him whenever he joined Stan on his birdwatches to have something that would keep him awake. But now, as Stan watched birds, Richie watched Stan. Watched how his brow would furrow and his eyes would light up, his tongue peeking out to wet his lips whenever he thought he saw the bird of the day. It made Richie’s chest ache something awful.
Today Richie had the pleasure of seeing the pure, unadulterated glee that spread over Stan’s face before he put his binoculars up, catching sight of the magpie he’d been blabbing about for over two weeks. Richie leaned against a tree and tapped a quiet rhythm on the bark while Stan scribbled down a note in his journal and made a flag in his bird book.
“Good for you Stanny,” Richie yawned, ruffling his curls. Stan beamed at him, too happy to even complain about Richie messing up his hair. Richie was still tired as shit but Stan looked so content, it made it all worth it. He wrapped his arms around Stan’s shoulder as they walked out of the woods, Stan chatting happily about magpies.
“Did you know the black-billed magpie mates for life? Like, a lot of birds mate for life, that’s really common. But I read there was a study where some of them divorced, can you imagine birds divorcing?”
Richie whistled. “Yowza! So does the lady bird poke the dude’s eyeball and call it good?”
“Very funny Richie. No, I think that behavior is really fascinating and I - “ Stan stopped all of a sudden, whipping his head backwards. “Rich, do you hear that?”
“Just you and me baby,” Richie sniggered and Stan smacked his chest.
“No just - shut up and listen for a second, will you?”
So Richie did, unable to refuse any of Stan’s requests no matter how random. He listened for a few seconds, craning his ears until he heard it: a pitiful plaintive series of chirps. “Aw is that a baby bird?”
Stan frowned. “It sounds distressed.” He walked forward, tilting his face upwards trying to track the source of the sound. “Maybe it’s hurt or - “
“Maybe it’s just hungry, Staniel, and waiting for its mama to come feed it,” Richie consoled him. Stan didn’t listen, continuing to look through the trees with a frown. Richie followed along, whistling low under his breath, before stopping in his tracks. “Uh, Stanny… you better come look at this.”
Stan hurried to his side and let out a whimper at the sight of the baby bird on the ground, flapping its tiny wings uselessly. “Oh no,” Stan whispered, gently picking it up. Richie watched as Stan inspected it with careful eyes, letting out a sigh. “I don’t think anything is broken but it doesn’t have its fledging feathers yet. It must have fallen out of the nest.”
Richie wasn’t sure what Stan said but he just nodded. Stan passed him the binoculars. “Can you check to see which tree has his nest? It has to be nearby.”
It didn’t take Richie long to find it… only it happened to be in the tallest tree in the vicinity. Richie watched as Stan’s face paled, looking down at the bird worriedly. Stan could climb a tree, all of them could, but he wasn’t exactly good at it, too anxious about falling to really get very far.
Naturally, Richie knew what had to happen next. “Give him here. Tozier Airlines will take good care of him.”
Stan looked up at Richie with wide eyes. They were glassy, making the green in them stick out, and Richie’s heart went all sorts of soft at the idea of Stan crying over this little bird. He held his hands out with a smile. “Don’t worry, I climb up into your bedroom fine don’t I?”
Stan’s mouth twitched in a ghost of a smile. “Like a deranged Romeo,” he admitted, passing the bird over.
“Oh Stanliet, where art thou Stanliet? It is the sun and your ass is the - “
“You got the quotes wrong you complete buffoon!” Stan squeaked, raising his hand to smack Richie, but lowering it once he realized he couldn’t. Huh. Richie should carry a baby bird on him at all times. “Be careful, okay?”
“Aye aye, Captain.”
And Richie was careful. He couldn’t say that he was careful about a lot of things but he could be careful about this. He kept the bird tucked securely in his flannel pocket, while he climbed slowly up to the top branch where the nest was. He could see Stan’s form getting smaller and smaller the higher he climbed up. Finally he got to the top, carefully extracting the bird from his pocket and putting him back in the nest. “There ya go, little guy. Lucky for you Stanley Uris, father of all birds, was here to check up on you right?” The bird chirped back at him as if he understood. Richie grinned at him. “Don’t fall again, okay?”
He began to descend, waving at Stan as he went down. “Mission accomplished, Stan the Man!”
“Be careful!” Stan called back worriedly. Richie rolled his eyes. It was fine, the hardest part about climbing a tree was going up. Going down was going to be a piece of cake -
Just as he thought that, Richie misplaced his foot on a branch and slipped. He swore loudly, scrambling for another branch to hold on to while Stan let out a shrill scream of his name.
“I’m fine babe, I’m fine,” is what he meant to say but the creak of the branch breaking was too loud, overpowering his voice. A second later, there was nothing but the whoosh of air in his ears as he tumbled down the tree, landing on the ground hard.
“Fuck,” Richie hissed out loud. His ears were ringing loudly, the impact of his fall vibrating throughout his entire body. Distantly, he could feel that his leg was twisted in some way, but the pain hadn’t kicked in yet. There were hurried footsteps and soon Stan was by his side, his hands frantically holding Richie’s face.
“Richie?! Richie! Richie, talk to me are you okay?!”
Richie tried to respond but he just let out a groan instead. Stan’s face was blurry, it looked like he was seeing double to be honest, but Richie’s head hurt really bad so that probably explained it. Stan had let go of his face, looking over the rest of his body, his breathing loud and harsh.
“Are you an idiot?!” Stan’s words were harsh but his voice was panicked, scared, and Richie immediately felt like shit for making him sound like that. “Oh god, Richie your leg - why would you do that?!”
Richie was still completely disoriented and couldn’t exactly speak at the moment but he knew he answer as soon as Stan said it. Because I love you , he thought dazedly, staring up at Stan’s tearstained face. You wanted that little bird safe so I did it for you. I love you, I love you. I’d climb one hundred trees for you and break all the bones in my body for you. Anything for you.
Stan made a loud, choked noise, wrapping his arms around Richie’s head and crying loudly into his hair. “You idiot!” he sobbed. “Richie, you absolute idiot!”
The last thing Richie remembered before he passed out was how bad he felt for making Stan cry and that he needed to make sure he properly apologized for it. Stan liked it when he apologized.
The summer of their eighteenth year was particularly hot. Richie learned how to skateboard properly, discovered a love for pistachio flavored ice cream, and privately finished a song that was meant for a boy that loved birds. The Losers spent nearly every day they were free at the quarry, when they weren’t busy with preparing for college or at their summer jobs. Richie and Bill grew even more, the two of them often joking about who was going to be the first to hit six feet. Eddie got his license and Mike proudly let him drive his pickup truck whenever the opportunity arose.
It was hard for all seven of them to get together sometimes, their schedules conflicting, but Richie managed to see Stan as much as he liked which was good for him. Graduating high school had already put him on edge, and in a few months, he and Stan would be on different sides of the country. He had to get as much Uris in his system as possible.
Stan was rubbing sunscreen on his legs, scowling when Richie refused to get up and do it himself. There was still a scar on his right calf from when he fell out of the tree in April and Stan brushed his fingers against it with a strange expression on his face. “Alright come on, you’re all ready. Get up you lazy lug.”
Richie hummed for a second before getting up, scooping an outraged Stan into his arms, and running into the water. “Stan the Man gets dunked again!” Richie hooted as he dunked Stan into the water. Stan’s leg kicked him right in the face and he went down with a cry.
“Asshole!” Stan stood up, his wet curls dripping in his face, glaring at him. Richie wanted to brush them away from his eyes. Richie wanted to kiss him. From where he was lying down in the water, the sun hit Stan at just the right angle, lighting up his face, making Richie’s lungs feel tight in his chest.
There were about a dozen dirty ways he could return Stan’s insult, all waiting on the tip of his tongue. They were all there but what came out of Richie’s mouth, quiet and awestruck was: “You’re beautiful.”
Stan’s mouth dropped open, looking absolutely stunned. Richie froze, waiting for Stan to scoff at him, snort at him, beep him, do anything. But Stan just looked down at him with wide eyes and Richie figured the ball was still in his court.
Soon Stan, the boy he had grown up with, the boy who’d only been a ten minutes walk away, would be going in school in New York while Richie was in California. Not ten minutes away, but two thousand seven hundred and ninety seven miles away. Richie had checked, on one of those late nights where his head got to be too much, and the reality that Stan wouldn’t be there to anchor him any longer hitting him like a suckerpunch to the gut.
The boy he loved wouldn’t be within arm’s distance anymore.
But he was now. He was now.
Richie stood up slowly, keeping his eyes on Stan. Stan had gone so still, Richie was afraid that he’d stopped breathing. But his shoulders were shaking, ever so slightly, and Richie reached out for them. Like this, he could see how he towered over Stan, the smaller boy stuck at five foot six, but right now, Richie was the one that felt infinitely small.
“Hey Stan,” he said softly, ignoring how vulnerable he sounded. He brushed his thumbs against Stan’s shoulder blades in what he hoped was a soothing gesture. “Usually when somebody pays you a compliment, you say thank you. Yeah?”
Stan took a deep shuddering breath. “That day when you fell,” Stan sounded dangerously close to tears and Richie desperately thought of a way to stop that. “That day, you were bleeding so much, you hit your head and your leg was fucked up and I couldn’t stop crying and you - “ Stan gasped out loud looking up at Richie with bright eyes. “You, you said you’d do anything for me. You said that you loved me.”
Richie felt his heart drop to the bottom of his stomach. Holy shit. Holy shit, he did not remember this. He did not remember this at all. Stan kept talking though, waving his hands in front of him wildly, not able to fiddle with anything to calm him down. “And I, I thought you had lost your damn mind or something because when you woke up in the hospital you didn’t say anything about it. So I didn’t say anything.” Stan was crying now and Richie attempted to pull him into his arms, to shush them away and say that he was sorry, anything to make Stan stop crying. Stan pushed him away, shaking his head, looking at Richie’s with wide eyes, lips trembling. “Richie, do you love me?”
Stan’s voice cracked and Richie’s heart cracked along with it. “Of course I love you,” he whispered. He shrank back a little, already taking the way Stan pushed him away as a rejection. “Stan - it doesn’t matter okay? I’m still your Trashmouth, I’ll be whatever you want me to be. If…” and Richie’s heart cracked even more at the thought of never seeing Stan again but he forced the words out anyway. “If you never want to see me again, I get it. But Stanley please, I can’t be without you. So don’t - “
Richie didn’t get to finish because Stan leapt forwards at him, throwing his arms around his neck, Richie’s hands automatically coming to wrap around his waist. Stan was crying into his neck, mumbling words that he couldn’t hear, and that he was almost too afraid to know. “Stan - babe - I can’t hear,” he gently tugged Stan’s head back by his neck and Stan looked up at him with red-rimmed eyes.
“I love you too, idiot,” he whimpered. “I got up my hopes in April but thought I made a mistake. I-I thought you could never love me.”
“ You’re the idiot,” Richie breathed back in disbelief. Stan’s face was so close. Richie wanted to lick the tears off his face. Richie wanted to kiss him. He wanted to kiss him. He leaned in, bumping their foreheads together. Stan sighed, his pink mouth falling open. Richie gulped loudly.
It was summer, nearly eighty degrees, and their wet bodies were pressed close together. It was summer, they were eighteen, and Stan was close enough to Richie that he could count every individual delicate eyelash, tears still caught in between them. It was summer, Stan was wrapped tight in his arms, and Stan loved him back. He loved Stan, and Stan loved him back .
“Stan,” he murmured very softly before closing the distance in between them. Stan gasped against his mouth, tensing in his hold. Richie rubbed his hips gently until Stan relaxed again, kissing back timidly, softly. Richie pulled away first, committing the way Stan’s eyes fluttered open and the soft pink of his cheeks to memory. He would remember this for the rest of his life.
“Was that okay?” he asked but Stan came close to him again, hand reaching cautiously for Richie’s jaw.
“Again?” he asked breathily and any thought Richie had for taking this slow left him in a hot instant. He dove in to kiss Stan again, hungry, desperate, needy. Stan’s legs wrapped around his waist as Richie hoisted him up against him more securely. Stan placed one hand against Richie’s chest and his heart sung back loudly, a bird song, a rock jam, something that was just them.
The summer of his eighteenth year, Richie scraped his knees from falling off his skateboard more times that he could count, ate so much pistachio ice cream he got sick one day, played a love song in the quiet orange light of the evening to a boy who loved birds and loved him.
Autumn doesn’t exist in California. Richie stepped out of the car on the first day of September to the blaring hot sun and not a single orange leaf in sight. His mom fanned herself with her sunhat hat while his dad made a comment about how his Hawaiian print shirts would finally fit in. “You could go to the beach, honey,” his mom said with a smile.
Richie wasn’t thinking about the beach. Richie’s heart was still in Derry. Stan didn’t cry on his last day, Richie’s program starting before the rest of them. They all hung out one last time in Mike’s barn, no weed, no alcohol, just the seven of them sharing stories and laughing. Bill started crying first, when he talked about his and Richie’s first fight. Eddie next, Bev and Ben hiding their tears with their smiles. Mike kept wiping his eyes with back of his sleeve.
Stan’s eyes stayed dry even when Richie buried his face into the back of his head and let out one solitary sob. They all left with promises to write, promises to call, promises Richie kept close in his heart because he’d go crazy without them.
Stan cried when it was just the two of them in Stan’s bed, Richie touching him like it was the last time. “It’s not goodbye, it’s not,” Stan whimpered into Richie’s skin. “It’s see you later. I’ll see you later. Soon .”
For the first time Richie didn’t have anything to say. His heart felt too heavy for his chest. So he gave it to Stan, with his lips, with his hands. He gave it to Stan with soft whispers of “I love you” the two of them staying up into the early morning until Richie had to sneak back to his house.
Richie wished they had more time. Richie wished he wasn’t such a coward before. Richie wished and wished and wished but life didn’t work like that and soon he was crammed in the back of his dad’s Chevy next to boxes of his stuff next to him.
“I wish I could pack you up with me,” Richie murmured into Stan’s hair when they were close to falling asleep. Stan had flipped him around, straddling Richie’s hips. He prodded at Richie’s chest, a stubborn petulant look on his face. Richie loved this look.
“I’m always with you.” He poked Richie’s chest again for emphasis. “Always.”
Richie tried to keep this in mind as he went through the motions of orientation, meeting his roommates, listen to his RA babble about student life. It was all bullshit, how every sign and brochure made loud declarations of “New Beginnings” like Richie’s life hadn’t already ended when he left Stan behind.
But he couldn’t think like that. If Stan was here, he’d tell him to make sure he wrote everything important in his planner. If Stan was here, he’d tell him to apply for the broadcasting club. If Stan was here, if Stan was here, if Stan was here.
Stan’s not here, a traitorous voice whispered in his mind. His chest trembled at the reality of his solitude. No Stan to turn on The Smiths because he knew it calmed Richie down. No Stan to offer his lap for Richie to rest his head on when his thoughts got too much for him to handle. No Stan to hold him and pet his hair when he needed to feel loved. Richie cried the first night, muffled into his pillow. His roommates, bless their hearts, didn’t say a single thing in the morning.
College was fun though. Even though Richie walked around with a chunk of him missing, he had fun. People were more open-minded and interesting here compared to the idiots in Derry. People laughed when he opened his mouth, people liked what he had to say. His professors rolled his eyes at him but some of them kept him back after class, not to lecture him, but to ask him to elaborate on some of his ideas. These were the things he told Stan on their monthly phone calls, Stan’s calm voice tinny through the speaker. Richie lived for those phone calls, wishing he had the privacy to tell Stan how much he loved him. But he knew Stan knew because he could hear how much Stan loved him in the wistful sighs over the phone and the tender way he ended each call with “Talk to you soon, Rich.”
There were things Richie didn’t tell Stan, how empty he felt at parties, politely refusing advances from pretty boys and girls alike. He smoked a lot, drank a little, but nothing filled the hollow space in his chest were Stan belonged. He went to the beach a lot more than he thought, taking note of the seagulls, the loons, the pelicans. He’d stare at them flying around the water, salt air brushing his hair and stinging his eyes, and wished he could show Stan everything.
Neither of them go home for Thanksgiving, too far and too expensive, Richie banking on winter break to see him again. Stan refused to talk to him during finals week, saying that it would be too distracting, but sent a handwritten note towards the end of it, a formal congratulations to Richie on finishing his first semester. It was so Stan, Richie laughed hysterically when he got it, still sleep deprived and veins filled more with coffee than blood.
Still, he read that letter over and over, pressing his fingers over Stan’s familiar neat handwriting, picturing what kind of face Stan must have made when he wrote it. He read it on the plane, folding it and unfolding it so much it almost ripped, the pen marks smudging from where Richie’s oily fingers touched it. He read it so much he memorized the words, dreaming of Stan whispering them to him in person.
Stan was there to greet him when he came home and Richie clung to him so tightly the two of them almost fell in his doorway. “Missed you,” Richie mumbled into the crown of his head. “Missed you so damn much.”
Stan squeezed him back. “Come upstairs and show me how much you missed me.”
Richie kissed every inch of his skin, cursing time and distance for making his memory fade. He wanted to remember the knobs of Stan’s delicate spine, the spot behind Stan’s ear that made him tremble, the way his mouth got swollen after a good round of kissing. Richie took his time with Stan, finally feeling whole again.
After they finished reacquainting each other with their bodies and mouth, Richie rolled away from Stan, sighing deeply. “I need a smoke.”
Stan hummed, crawling out of bed to fumble through his pant’s pocket. He let out a triumphant little noise when he pulled out a pack of Spirits. “This is your favorite, isn’t it?”
Richie blinked at him, attention interrupted from the naked curve of Stan’s back. “Stanny, you smoke now?” he asked with shock.
Stan turned red. “Not exactly. I uh,” he coughed, looking anywhere but at Richie. “On days when it’s really hard, when I miss you the most, I light one. They remind me of you, the smell. I know it’s a waste of money but it’s not like I spend a lot of it anyways - “
Richie cut off Stan’s babbling by seizing his wrist and kissing the words away from his mouth. “I love you,” he moaned, tugging Stan into his lap. “Stan, I love you.”
“Richie,” Stan sighed, so loving but so sad and Richie pressed him even closer. If there was a way, he would claw his chest open, to make enough room for Stan to crawl inside of him, with his heart in his hands where he belonged.
The second semester was harder, like seeing Stan over break made him hungry for more. His love was a tangible, growing thing, Richie could feel it pulsing all through him, desperate to reach out and curl against Stan’s. Burning brighter and hotter every day, unable to be contained. He was more honest in his phone calls this time around, telling Stan how much he missed him, how he wished he could be with him. Stan cried once at his admission and Richie had been gutted by the sound, sitting next to the phone booth numbly for hours after Stan hung up.
“I worry distance is going to ruin us,” he scribbled to Bev once, sending her a letter to New York along with one with he sent to Stan, full of apologies and promises to make it work.
“You’re both too stubborn for that,” is what she wrote back and Richie tried to take comfort in it but he was scared. He was scared of the future. Scared that one day time and distance would beat his stupid, aching heart, and that Stan would be taken away from him. He was scared that this was just inevitable and everyone was too kind to let him down gently.
The fear kicked in again when Stan told him he wasn’t coming down to Derry for summer, too busy with school things. Stung, Richie decided to stay in California. “I’m gonna learn how to surf. Pick up a bunch of beach babes,” he joked around on the phone. Stan laughed at him but didn’t say anything else. The fear continued to grow, dark and cold in his chest.
Richie spent the entire summer in the water, wondering if he was there long enough, the seasalt would cleanse the gaping wound in his chest, where Stan dug his fingers in and took his heart for himself. He waited for Stan to call, but Stan never did, not as often as he used to. You could call too , a voice inside argued with him but he was too stubborn for that. If Stan didn’t love him anymore - and he tried not think about how just thinking that made him want to shatter into a million little pieces - he didn’t want to embarrass himself by going after him, like the pathetic love-starved piece of shit that he was.
Deep inside, he always knew that Stan deserved better than him. As summer went by, Richie figured that Stan finally got wise on it too.
When Stan knocked on his door at the end of August, Richie was surprised. He was so surprised, he didn’t know what to say, body going into autopilot when Stan burst into tears at the sight of him. He wrapped his arms around Stan’s shaking frame even though he wanted to cry too.
“Baby,” he murmured. “Baby, it’s okay.”
“Am I still your baby though?” Stan’s nose was red and Richie tried hard to resist kissing him. “Bill told me I was being stupid but I didn’t want to say anything because I knew you would stop me. But you have to be here your career is going to be here I just know it and - “
“Stan the Man, slow down,” Richie cupped his cheek and forced Stan to look upwards. “Slow down and tell me what’s going on.”
Stan’s bottom lip trembled. “There’s only one Hollywood, California. I can be an accountant anywhere.”
Richie felt something in his chest explode. It was like Stan was shoving the heart he’d given to him right back into the hollow spot in between his lungs, where he’d carved it out because it didn’t belong anywhere else but with Stan. “What?” he asked dumbly.
Stan laughed at him wetly. “Please tell me you still love me, otherwise I’ve transferred to California for nothing.”
It seemed like Stanley Uris was the only one who could ever strike Richard Tozier speechless. He couldn’t say anything just picked Stan up and spun him around, laughing and crying, laughing and crying, until they collapsed into a heap in the doorway. They clung to each other tightly, like the other would fade away if they didn’t hold on tight enough.
Autumn came again, no leaves, no chill in the air, but with Stan’s hand curled in his, it really did feel like a new beginning.