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Richie comes home on a Saturday and there's a pizza box on the kitchen table.
To Richie, it's like Jesus himself has strolled into the house and spread his arms. 'This is all for you Richie, I've blessed ya, eat up, champ. Go on, now, dig in!'
Richie imagines Jesus to sound like the minister at the black church Mike used to go to, when his parents were still 'around'. (What are they, a square now? Ha ha, Richie). Bold and sure and ready to instil all those good churchy values into him. Pizza; Jesus incarnate.
It takes him two and a half strides (thank you, growth spurt, for these gangly as fuck beanpole legs) to reach the table. Some asshole part of his minds tells him its empty, the cupboards, the fridge (they're always empty, Richie) but he ignores it.
He lifts the lid of the extra-large and grins at the last slice of Hawaiian (which, he likes to imagine, is grinning back at him). His mother has picked off the olives and prawns and tossed them to the corner of the oil-stained box, but Richie doesn't care. She's left it, so it's free game.
He eats the whole thing in five bites, and an hour later his stomach rumbles. (Always making noise, Tozier, always making noise).
The tap isn't working again, so he steals a beer from the bottom shelf of the fridge and takes it to bed with him. The alcohol is cold and bitter at first, but then it spreads, warms him, and he feels almost comfortable. He sleeps - good, proper sleep - for the first time in a while. He dreams of stage shows and Chuck Berry's duck walk and Stan.
-
The olives in the pizza box don't fare so well for Richie's breakfast. He heads to Eddie's and raids Mrs. K's cupboards. Eddie doesn't say anything when Richie pours himself a second bowl of cereal, but sees his arm lift for a third and snaps, "Fuck, Richie, that's enough! You know my mom will kill me if you finish that box. I'm not even meant to know where that sugary shit is."
Richie freezes for a second, then his brain supplies a quip in favour of emotion and he says, "Well, Eds, I am gonna be your new dad soon, so I'm sure Sonia won't mind sharing a little extra," he wiggles his eyebrows. They peek over the frames of his glasses. "If you know what I mean."
Eddie shoves him, calls him disgusting, and Richie finds he has nothing to say back. His fingers leave the printed cardboard, and he silently apologises for eating so much.
His hip knocks the table getting up, and the spoon rattles in the empty bowl. (Just like yer brain, Rich, empty, empty. Dry as a bone. Sneakin' through the fridge on a Saturday night, Rich? How's that beer belly goin', Rich? Lookin' more and more like yer ol' man each day, aw gosh oh jeez Rich what are we gonna do with you?) He puts the bowl in the sink and is gone as soon as he has his laces tied.
-
His parents take him to the new all-American diner on his 15th birthday. The menu's are printed on novelty-sized A3, and he's suddenly the hungriest he's ever been. There are four different types of pancakes and he can pick his own topping and there's two fucken' types of fudge, holy shit.
Then his mother makes eye contact with him over the border - bright red, 'CAPTAIN AMERICA'S ALL NEW, ALL OUT DINER!' - and when the waitress looks at him with the same eyes a few minutes later he orders a small fries off the kids' menu. Maggie smiles at him, and he sees the glint reach her eyes (somethin' like pride, pride's the word, Rich. We're damn proud of ya).
He feels good. He's done good. His mother is happy, pleased. He did that.
He lets that feeling overtake the pangs of his fixed-tap-water breakfast, and keeps the smile present as his father slides the rest of his beer onto Richie's side of the table.
"You seeing those friends of yours later?" Wentworth asks, and Richie wonders if it's even a question.
"Yes, Sir." He says, though he thinks only Stan. He stopped reminding the other Losers of his birthday after it got embarrassing how many times they decorated his locker on the wrong day, or ask him what he got 'this year' and he'd have to reach for something outlandish but believable enough that they wouldn't ask to see. The previous year he'd said 'your sister's virginity' to Mike after he'd pushed and pushed for an answer and Mike had just stared. And then Richie realised, he remembered, and he hated himself. It had taken Mike a while to start talking to him again. It had taken Richie even longer to stop feeling guilty for talking back.
"You close with that short one? The gay one?" Went says through his burger.
Richie's mouth is bitter as he stares at the food he didn't order. He wonders if he could've gotten those syrup pancakes if he had've just asked for them.
"He's just my friend, Sir."
"He ever tries to touch you in some kinda way, you tell him to back off, alright?"
"Yes, Sir."
"He shouldn't be so close to a queer, Maggie." Went turns to her, and his mother nods in agreement and keeps her mouth closed. He doesn't think she's ever done anything different. Richie eats the last of his fries.
The last few warm sips of beer unsettle his stomach.
He hides it from Stan just fine.
-
It's in the afternoon, Richie thinks, that Stan looks the prettiest. The light is soft and his hair has relaxed out of its tight curls and he's rambling "There are 13 types of finches, right, and-" and he's just pretty.
Richie thinks this feeling is what causes his father to drink.
Richie feels the discomfort from before turn to all-out sickness, and the urge to vomit comes so suddenly he only just turns away from Stan before a mix of fries and beer and water (and maybe a few crackers he had at Bill's house) come up and out and onto the forest floor. Food for the bugs, he thinks, and doesn't know whether he should laugh or cry.
"Richie?" Stan says quietly, carefully. "You okay?"
(Gawtsta stahp worryan ya friends, Richie boy)
Richie stands up, ready to speak, but he suddenly feels light, almost giddy, and he's alright again.
"Stan My Man, my beautiful man, don't fret. Think I had a little too much to eat at lunch, I'm alright." He says, and the lies come like breathing (they're harder when he's around Stan) (breathless, ha ha, what are you, queer?)
Stan pretends his face itches and covers it with his palm to hide the blush, but Richie catches it.
He's never wanted to kiss a boy before, but right now he wants to kiss Stan.
He almost does, almost lets himself step forward and just kiss the boy. But he remembers the puke on the ground beside their feet and on his lips and he steps away, instead.
(You sick, Rich? Ha ha) He wipes the back of his hand across his face and cringes at the feeling of spit on his skin. "I can't come over tonight Stanny-Boy, my folks are having some kinda shin-dig and I'm on cleanup duty." He says. It's bullshit. Stan knows it's bullshit.
"My mom's making spaghetti for you, Rich." He says simply, and Richie knows the rest of the sentence is (she never makes spaghetti, rich, we're jewish, rich, she's making it just for you, rich)
Richie plasters a wide, toothy smile on his face. "You'll have to save me some then, Stan My Man, bring it to my window at night, when the lights are all out. Throw meatballs at my window like a Jewish Romeo-"
"Alright, alright, whatever Trashmouth." Stan relents, and Richie is relieved - so relieved! - too see he's smiling. Pretty boy.
When Richie gets home, he takes three more beers and drinks them by himself in the corner of the lounge. His parents do have people over, (wan' that big of a lie, eh, pal) but they don't give a fuck if he's home or not. He catches his father's eye from across the room, and he's so sure he sees him nod when he spots the bottle in his hand that the warming starts up a little faster. That sick feeling doesn't come back until the morning, and he vomits for the second time in the past twelve hours.
Sick. He thinks, I'm sick sick sick.
There's nothing in the cupboards when he checks them in the morning (think something's gonna pop up overnight, Rich? You fucken dumber than a doorknocker or what, Rich? How's that beer belly comin' along?).
His stomach tightens and he's pleased at the vacant stare the back of the tan-wood cupboard gives him. If he doesn't eat this morning, he won't have anything to throw up when he sees the Losers later on today. When he sees Stan.
He won't feel sick and maybe that'll make him brave, and his Voices can do the talking for him and the others won't ask him how his birthday was. The leather cuff Stan gave him feels too tight on his wrist. It's black, and rough, and Stan's hands were warm when he clipped it on. Stan is always so warm, and so soft and kind and sweet, and an utter nerd, and Richie thinks that someone that meek can't possibly be bad for him. (You gonna be good for him, huh, Rich?)
(Rich? Richie Richie Rich, you're gonna destroy him, you're turnin' queer just like your father hoped you wouldn't)
-
The hunger slowly drowns out the sickness, and Richie grabs Stanley's hand as he walks him home.
-
He kisses him for the first time after he doesn't eat for two days. A celebration. (This is workin', it's workin', Rich, wowza boy, ya've done it!).
They kiss again in the forest near the barrens, and this time Stan is the one to initiate it. Richie's teeth get in the way as he smiles through Stan's attempt at a peck on the mouth, and they both laugh.
They make out in the back of a movie theatre - Stan payed for both of their tickets, saying it was polite, knowing Richie couldn't pay if he wanted to (who wants to hire someone like you, Rich?) - and Stan's timid hands graze along Richie's shirt, feeling at his chest, nails digging in a little, like he wants to be closer. The hand moves up from the dip of his stomach, and he stops kissing him.
"I can feel your ribs, Rich." He whispers, so quiet Richie barely hears him.
Richie shakes his head. "You always could, Stanley."
He doesn't miss the frown on his boyfriend's face, even in the dark. Images on the screen cause shadows to dance across his face, making him look almost intimidating. He shouldn't lie. (There's nuthin' to lie about, Rich, c'mon, what truth ya gonna tell 'im this time? Ha).
"No, Rich. I can practically dip my fingers between them. What have you been eating? Birdseed?" He whispers, a little louder. His long fingers are still tangled at the neck of Richie's shirt. Richie wonders if he can feel his pulse through the fabric; through his skin.
Richie wants to laugh. Birdseed. Ha ha ha. Stan The Man the Bird Fan, joking about birdseed. Classic, what a joker. What a laugh.
"That's funny, Stan, but c'mon, you wanna talk or you wanna kiss me?" He teases, leans in, and feels a firm hand on his shoulder.
"I want to talk. After. I'm not kissing you again 'till then." Stan says in his 'I Mean It' voice, and Richie presses his palm to the zipper of his pants and shuts his mouth.
-
They talk outside the Aladdin, near the car park, during a late viewing of Gremlins - 'Classic Horror Night, First of Each Month! It's cold, and Richie wants to be closer, closer to the warmth that is his Stan (his Stan), but he won't let him.
"I disgust you?" His hand isn't on Richie's shoulder anymore. They're crossed, folded across his chest, and the curls are wound tight like coils. Stan never lets him touch it when they kiss.
The words are like a physical punch and Richie wishes his Voices would just pick up his tongue and talk him out of whatever the fuck he had started.
"No, Stan-"
"You just, you just said that you don't eat because being with me makes you throw up, Richie!"
That's not it, Richie thinks, but that's exactly it. He can't do it. He can't.
"You won't share popcorn with me, you haven't been round for dinner for weeks, and I can feel your fucking ribs, Richie! What is going on?!" Stan's voice breaks at his name, and he wants to cry.
He's done it. (Ya done it, ya done gone dun it Rich, ya broken the sweet boy, lookit 'im, ready to burst like that fucken dam, Rich, ready to cry cause'a you, cause'a YOU Rich!)
"I'm sorry!" He shouts. "I just have to! I can't eat and be around you, Stan! I can't be sick, I don't wanna be sick, I wanna be with you, I wanna be with you so bad and I'm sorry my fucking ribs are a problem I just-" He breathes, and breathes harder. And harder.
Stan reaches out again and Richie collapses onto him, and he realises he's crying. Sobbing, like a child, holding onto another boy like some sorta queer. Ha. He is a queer. But he likes Stan, and the warmth is spreading through him, and he can't bring himself to swallow the word. Let it fester and mix with tap water inside him.
He likes Stan, who said he'd kiss him after they talked, who gave him a bracelet for his 15th birthday, who teaches him about finches and rocks and knows all the states in America. Richie laughs at the feeling of tears on his lips and leans down.
Stan accepts Richie's mouth on his own, and holds him, like he could run away - like he wants to, like he would ever ever want to - and pulls back enough to whisper,
"We're gonna figure this out. Whatever it is. Come over tonight. Please, come over. I'll cook for you, and we can watch some dumb movie and we can kiss for as long as you want"
Richie breathes, and nods.
-
That night Stan makes pasta with such precision Richie thinks he might bust a fucking vein in his head if he concentrates any harder.
He takes a bowl (small, nice and small), and chews, and the pasta's hard but not as hard as the grip Stan has on his left hand.
Stan smiles. Richie swallows.