Work Text:
“Richie...Richie...”
Richie Tozier woke up to someone roughly shaking his shoulder--he opened his eyes, blurrily searching for the culprit, before his glasses were shoved into his hand.
“Your alarm has been going off for 45 minutes,” Stan says, slight irritation creeping into his voice. He’s still wearing his work clothes, but the top four buttons are undone, exposing his chest from the bent angle he was at. “It’s 9:15.”
“Fuck,” Richie moaned out, pulling the sheets over his head. He overslept too long, and only had 15 minutes to get changed and get to work at the club. He couldn’t even shower. “Thanks, Stan.”
“No problem, Trashmouth.” Stan’s voice had the slightest bit of fond in it, something that hadn’t been there in months. Richie peeks his eyes out from the covers, but Stan’s face is blank, like he just said it was cold outside.
“Well, I guess I should get ready,” Richie throws the covers off him, “they can’t go on without me, you see.”
Stan just smiles thinly at him, then leaves the room, closing the door quietly. Richie gets out of bed and grabs the first pair of jeans he can find, frustratingly shoving his legs in them.
Things had been weird between Richie and Stan since The Incident, almost nine months ago, and Richie clung to nice moments, normal ones, like a lifeline. They’d been friends for 20 years, the first of the Losers to meet, and one dumb thing was messing it up for good. Nine months was a long time to be in angry limbo with your best friend--they could have a baby in the time their issues had gone unresolved.
Richie checked his phone after pulling on a shirt--9:21. He would only be a few minutes late.
“Bye Stan,” he called down the empty hallway; Stan’s door was closed but the light was on. There wasn’t a response anyway.
-
The Incident happened in August.
Ben and Beverly decided to forgo their actual wedding and elope to Vegas. (Who picked the location was very clear.)
Stan and Richie drove from LA, through the desert, to meet the rest of their friends in Sin City. Privately, Richie was nervous for his best friends--24 and tied down forever. But when he saw Ben and Bev, and their clasped hands, he knew he was just projecting his own anxieties. Mom and Dad of the Losers Club, being happy forever--there’s nothing better than that.
Richie had promised Stan he would drive home the next day, but then he kept throwing back vodka Sprites in the Casino after the ceremony (because, really, it just tasted like Sprite until you had too many), and Stan had to half walk/half carry him back to their room.
The suite is dark and cool when Stan finally gets the door open. The walk and summer air had sobered Richie up a fraction, and he felt totally, buzzingly happy.
“Stan?” he asks to the empty room.
“Yeah,” Stan replies distractedly, trying to get the door closed and hold on to Richie at the same time.
Richie didn’t have anything to ask, he just wanted Stan’s attention. He shifted in Stan’s hold, so his hand rested on Richie’s lower back and their noses were brushing.
“What, Rich?” Stan’s cool breath on his face seemed to fill all his space and senses.
Richie leans in and kisses Stan, and at first, nothing happens--just their lips against each others. Then Stan finally reacts, his hand on Richie’s lower back digging deep, pulling him closer. His mouth opens the tiniest bit and Richie tongues his way inside, tasting the whiskey gingers Stan was drinking before. (Which shouldn’t turn him on but it totally does). They bump into the door, still open an inch, and Stan pulls away.
Stan touches his lips, covers them like he’s embarrassed. “What are you doing?”
“I’m kissing you,” Richie teases, leaning in again, but Stan moves his face so Richie’s lips land on his cheek instead.
“You are drunk,” Stan pushes him away a little, “I just had to carry you up here!”
“I’m only a little drunk now. I’ll remember everything in the morning.” He taps the side of his head, then walks in a straight line towards the bed. “I can even walk straight.”
He sits down on the bed, and Stan closes the door and joins him. There’s tension in the air now, thick and heavy like the Mind Eraser he bought for himself and Ben (but poured his out when no one was looking). Stan places a tentative hand on Richie’s upper thigh, so close to where he’s half hard from the kissing and alcohol and Stan.
“Rich,” Stan’s voice is quiet, and he’s looking at his hand on Richie’s thigh.
“Yeah,” his voice cracks but no one mentions it.
“If something happens,” his grip on Richie’s thigh tightens in what is probably supposed to be comforting but is everything but, “I need you to tell me you want it.”
Richie almost falls off the bed, Stan’s hand the only thing keeping him grounded. “I don’t want it, Stan, I want you.”
Stan’s eyes darken a fraction, then he leans in slowly and kisses Richie soft, like lovers, but Richie is eager and goes at his mouth like a man finally given water after years of dehydration. They lean back on the bed and Richie crowds Stan’s space, kissing his neck.
“I want you.” he says, while undoing the buttons on Stan’s dark button up. “I want you.” he emphasizes, through the haze.
Stan’s shaky fingers settle in Richie’s hair, “I,” he starts, then exhales. “...I,” he tries again, then gives up, going for Richie’s shirt instead.
They don’t talk after that, and when they finally come together, Richie feels whole. Wanting Stan had been a feeling that had been underlying in his chest for ten years, since he realized he didn’t like just girls and his best friend was always at the center of his wandering eyes. Realizing he wanted Stan, (loved him, even, but that would come later) hit him like a car coming at full force. Then backed up and ran over him again.
When they lay in the afterglow, pinkies wrapped each other, things in Richie’s life feel like they’re shifting positively.
In the morning, he wakes up to Stan sitting up quickly in bed. The little bit of sun coming through the blackout curtains dances off his hair, making him look more beautiful than ever. Richie settles his palm on Stan’s thigh, but the muscle tenses underneath his hand.
“I’m taking a shower,” he says, still sounding tired. He heads for the bathroom and the door slams loudly in a way Stan normally never lets it.
Richie lays back in bed and almost dozes again until Stan exits the bathroom, fully dressed.
“We have to go to brunch,” his voice sounds weird.
“I’m going, Stan,” he tries casual, and puts a friendly hand on Stan’s shoulder when he passes, but Stan tenses at the contact again.
At brunch, they don’t say a word to each other, or on the four hour drive home, Stan’s knuckles white around the steering wheel. When they get back to their apartment and the weirdness floods in with them like a tsunami wave, Richie decides to say something.
Clearly what happens in Vegas doesn’t stay in Vegas. Ok, not that. “If you want to forget about what happened, we can do that.”
A strange expression passes across Stan’s face. After a minute, he says, “Ok. Let’s forget.”
Even though Richie suggested it, it still hurt to hear Stan agree. Because he couldn’t stop thinking about Stan’s shaking thighs underneath him, or the way he moaned Richie’s name, or I need you to tell me you want it. At the wedding brunch, on the drive home when he almost threw up in the car, and for all those long months after even when he promised to forget.
Things didn’t go back to normal after that--all of Richie’s friendly touches were met with tenseness, and their conversations were stitled and awkward--even the Trashmouth couldn’t think of anything to fill up the silences. After a week of nothing, no conversations, no hugs, not even a look, Richie went on a five day bender, stumbling into their apartment on a Wednesday afternoon, still a little bit drunk.
He plugged in his dead phone and it lit up after a few minutes. There was one text from Stan (you ok?), and a series of missed calls and voicemails. Suddenly, his heart dropped--he was supposed to start a job, a real, adult job, at the radio station on Monday and he didn’t show up for three days. He wanted this job to show he was as smart and dependable and responsible as Mike, or Bill, or Stan, not just a big mouth, but now he ruined it (Mr. Tozier, due to your recent absence, we have to let you go...).
Richie dropped his phone back onto the counter and rubbed his eyes under his glasses.
No job. No best friend. Things fucking sucked.
-
That was then, and now, one month into being 25, working at a shitty club as a DJ (which was like a radio host), he fueled his slight alcohol problem with every shitty set he worked.
Richie left their complex and entered the chilly April air--he had to walk everywhere, or take the bus, after he drunkenly traded his car for a motorcycle and in the morning couldn’t find the guy he sold it to. (“We live in a city, Rich,” Stan had said, looking at the keys on the table, “you couldn’t have just gotten a regular bike?”
His playful tone hurt like knives in Richie’s heart, but it felt like a safety net too.)
At the club, his boss, Dana, was going to town on cheese fries. Richie sat down on the bar stool next to her and took one off her plate.
“Drop it, Dick.”
Him and Dana bonded over her breakup w her boyfriend of five years and Richie’s...well, it wasn’t a breakup but it felt like something big was ending in a hellfire. Dana was like the LA version of Bev if she only helped him make bad decisions and they drank their problems away. (So not like her at all, but he needed some comfort.)
Richie shoved the fry in his mouth, and Dana got up and went behind the bar. “I think we need,” she bent for a low bottle, pulling it out and showing him the label, “the Captain tonight.”
-
Richie woke up with a start the next morning. His blinds were closed tight and he didn’t have his glasses on, but there was definitely someone standing in the door.
“Stan?”
“Uh,” he seems nervous about being caught, “I just wanted to check on you before I went to work. Last night you came home screaming the lyrics to ‘Heat of the Moment’ and then locked yourself in the bathroom to throw up.”
Richie groaned to himself. Heat of the Moment reminded him of The Incident and when he got too drunk he would listen to it (or scream, apparently) and weep. “I’m ok,” he says, harshly, out of embarrassment.
“Ok,” Stan replies, voice flat.
“I’m sorry,” Richie doesn’t know what he’s apologizing for.
“It’s fine. I’ll see you later.”
Stan closes the door quietly and Richie curls up in bed once he’s gone. The interaction left a bad taste in his mouth, even worse than whatever he drank last night mixed with vomit.
-
Richie doesn’t have to be at the club until 9:30 or 9:45 on most days, so he spends his day time binge watching shows, eating, and “looking for a better job.” He wasn’t that happy where he was, but he got a paycheck, could pay rent, and did his Voices most nights. It wasn’t terrible--but it wasn’t great either.
He’s “looking for a better job” (bingeing season three of The Sopranos), when he checks the clock--15 minutes to 7. Obviously Stan can do whatever he wants with his own time, but he’s always home by now. Always . Richie opens his chat to Stan (all Stan’s texts to him were variations of are you ok--he needed to stop getting drunk so much), and starts a message:
stop smelling the flowers and come home !!! his finger hovers over the send button before he erases it.
are you ok? He hits send.
Stan doesn’t text back, but comes back to their apartment as Richie is getting ready for work.
“Hey Stanny,” he calls from his room, trying to sound as natural as possible, “I was starting to think you weren’t coming home.”
Stan is on the couch, struggling to take his shoes off. “I went out after work.”
When they make eye contact, Richie could laugh at Stan’s drunk eyes; he always had the easiest tells. “Jesus, Stan, what did you drink?”
“Not vodka Sprites,” he replies, finally getting his Oxford off. “I’ll be ok, I have tons of practice taking care of drunk people.”
Richie felt like Stan kicked him in the stomach, then punched him in the face--his words were clearly aimed at him, what did they mean?
“What the fuck?”
Stan’s unfocused eyes look up at him, and he rises from the couch, getting up in Richie’s space. “Rich,” he puts his hands on Richie’s shoulders, “I love you.” the words hang in the air then Stan lets out a giggle hiccup. “Have a good night at work.”
Then he leaves, walking to his room with one shoe on, while Richie feels like he has whiplash from their conversation. He always wished he could get into Stan’s head, but in this moment, when he doesn’t know if he’s loved or hated, he wishes he could shake Stan until he would open up.
He checks on him before leaving for the club--Stan is passed out in bed, still in his work clothes. Richie moves his garbage can next to the bed, then just looks. Stan looks so calm, even in his drunk sleep--his face wasn’t calculated, or an upset reaction to a misunderstanding between the two of them--just relaxed. His heart hurt. Why did him and his dumbass dick have to ruin the most important thing in his life?
At the club, Dana is pouring green tea shots; Richie grabs one and downs it, the burn already making him feel better. She gives him a look, then pushes the second shot glass in his direction.
-
The next day, Richie wakes up and feels like shit. He’s thankful for every hangover, his dad eventually stopped getting them, and every pound of his head makes him think things aren’t that bad--yet.
He heads to the bathroom just as Stan leaves it.
“How are you feeling today, Stan the Man?” the nickname just slips out, but Stan doesn’t seem to mind.
“I can’t remember anything,” he over emphasizes, clearly lying, like he truly forgot Richie knows everything about him and all his tells.
(I love you I love you I love you I need you to tell me you want it I love you)
“Well, you didn’t do anything too embarrassing,” Richie smiles slightly at him, playing along. “No singing Heat of the Moment.”
Stan doesn’t reply, just looks away from the eye contact, and gestures for him to enter the bathroom.
-
On Saturday’s, Richie always comes home late. He stumbles in at 4 AM, trying to be quiet (trying being the keyword). He dropped his keys, then hit his head hard on the cabinet door he opened.
“Fuck,” he groans, bending down and grabbing the back of his head.
Suddenly, light floods into the kitchen. Stan is standing in the entryway, blinking at him.
“Heeeeeey, Stan!” he shoots one finger gun at him, the other hand still holding where he hit his head.
“Jesus Christ, Richie.” Stan sounds disappointed, but Richie’s not even that bad tonight--not close to blacking out or on a bender, but just past drunk.
“I’m fine, Stan the Man--”
Stan enters the kitchen fully, looking serious. “You have to stop.”
That shut him up quick. Richie felt like his drinking was an open secret in their apartment--everyone knew, but no one said the word, or told him to stop, just took care of him and let it be. Or maybe they had this conversation before and he just didn’t remember.
“It’s not that bad,” he says defensively, but then has to steady himself on the counter.
“You’re drunk right now!” Stan angrily yells at him. (It reminds Richie of The Incident, You are drunk, the complete opposite situation of where they are now.) “You’re drunk almost every night. I’m scared--” he cuts himself off.
Richie feels overwhelmed--by the wishy-washyness of his and Stan’s friendship, Stan’s sudden outburst and care, and the alcohol stopping him from thinking straight. He slid down the counter he was leaning on until was on the floor; he rubbed his eyes under his glasses, the situation too much at once. He let a breath of air, then suddenly he was laughing. Nothing was funny, but he didn’t know what else to do.
“Richie,” Stan bent down, resting a hand on his shoulder, “Richie, I’m sorry.”
He wraps Richie up, and even the awkward angle is so comforting, and he hadn’t had contact like this in so long. Richie grabs onto Stan’s shoulder and can’t stop the sob that escapes him, or the tears that follow.
“I miss you,”
“I’m right here.” Stan rubs his hand along Richie’s shoulder, onto his back.
“I miss you all the time,” Richie clarified.
“I miss you too,”
They sit in comfortable silence, Richie’s sniffles the only sound in the room.
“Do you want to go to bed now?” Stan asks.
Richie shakes his head in agreement and Stan pulls him up. They walk to Richie’s room and Stan takes his shoes off and tucks him into bed. Richie is fading fast but the last thing he sees is Stan’s curly hair and his comforting hands on him.
-
In the morning, Richie doesn’t leave his bed. He calls out of work Monday through Wednesday, preparing for four days of solitude. Stan knocks on the door during his lunch break, but he ignores it. He doesn’t leave his room, let alone his bed, for the entire week--Dana texts him about his missed shifts, but he ignores her too. He doesn’t know if it’s a placebo effect or reality, but he feels like he’s in withdrawal by Wednesday, unable to stop shaking and sweating, only feeling nausea.
-
Richie’s not sure what time it is, but My Own Worst Enemy starts for the 22nd time.
“Can we forget about the things I said when I was drunk,” he sings along, turning it up on his portable speaker. “I’m SLEEPING WITH MY BEST FRIEND,”
His door opens and Stan is there, dressed in his flannel pajamas. “If you’re going to keep playing this song, please sing the right words. ‘I’m sleeping with my clothes on.’”
Richie just stares at him, the first human contact he’s had in over a week.
“‘I’m sleeping with my best friend’ just sounds better,” he jokes, voice scratchy from not using it.
Stan fully comes into Richie’s room. “Can we talk?”
Richie lays down on his bed, and lowers the music. “Shoot.”
Stan sits down on the edge of the bed but doesn’t say anything. Richie talks first. “I stopped drinking. Or, I’m trying to.”
“I noticed,” Stan puts his hand down on top of Richie’s and squeezes, “I’m proud of you.”
“Richie ‘Bare Minimum’ Tozier,”
Stan lets out a puff of air that could pass for a laugh. “I guess I just wanted to talk about things. I really want everything to be ok again, like before.”
The statement hangs in the air for a second. “I don’t want that.”
“What?” Stan looks hurt, confused expression etched onto his face.
“Stan, I,” Richie chokes on I love you, “I’ve had feelings for you since high school--I don’t want things to go back to before because they kinda fucking sucked. It literally took me dealing with my alcohol problem to get to where I could tell you this.”
Like The Front Bottoms song, he was delusional with love, but couldn’t cough it out (or drink it out, or throw it up).
Stan hadn’t said anything yet, pulling at his eyebrow hairs instead. Finally, he says, “That night, I almost told you.”
“Told me what?”
“How I felt,”
Richie’s eyes flick to Stan’s “Don’t play with me.”
“I’m not.”
But Richie knows he’s not, the two unfinished, shaking sentences from That Night rattling around his brain (I...I...) . He feels overwhelmed again, like the night in the kitchen; taking his glasses off, he presses his palms to his eyes to stop the onslaught of tears he felt coming, but they slip out anyway.
Stan rubs a hand down his back. “Normally it’s me who’s crying, right?”
Richie lets out a watery giggle. “I love you,” it sounded good to say out loud, so he said it again. “I fucking love you.”
Stan’s hand moved to the back of his neck, “I fucking love you too,”