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Richie tap tap taps his fingers against his car hood, a 1980s Oldsmobile he inherited from his uncle—big boxy and barely functional—and waits for Stanley to come back from the woods. It’s cold enough so Richie’s smoking, the tobacco smoke filling his lungs and the heat of the cigarette warming him up.
The sun isn’t up yet but the moon is down. Full moon over, and all the little werewolves like Stan come home now, right? Early dawn was hitting the skies, turning the dark blue to a lighter, crisper color. Soon, it’ll be that hazy early morning feeling, and maybe he and Stanley could get some donuts after this.
Did werewolves like donuts? He knows Stanley does, but it’s not like there’s much to do in Derry this early that’s actually fun; people are out on the town, dock workers heading on the commute to Bangor and Portland, people going to their boring adult jobs.
Richie shudders. The autumn cold morning isn’t that bad, for Maine, but that’s not why he’s shaking. He’s going to take this car and drive straight out of Derry the moment he graduates; he refuses to become of the local townies who always work at their father’s grandfather’s store or whatever the fuck.
The others have already left. Bev left right after that summer and never returned a letter they sent, which Richie can’t blame her for, he wouldn’t want to remember that summer either. Bill left a year later, moved out with his parents, who couldn’t stand to live in the same town their beloved Georgie died. Ben’s mom moved again, as she always did, never letting Ben stay in one place too long. And Eddie, who Richie didn’t like to think about, left when his mom did, no choice but to move with her.
What was left of their little gang was Mike, out doing farm work at this hour, and Stanley, with his little full moon problem. Maybe that’s why Richie agreed to do this, show up after full moons with a fresh pair of clothes and something to munch on. They all don’t have much time together. School was going to end soon, and they’ll split up for good. Richie tries not to think about that.
Stan had not come out of the woods yet.
Richie’s hands shake, trembling. He exhales a plume of smoke. That’s fine, Richie thinks, that’s okay. Stanley is a big boy. A big wolf.
Well, actually he's pretty small, so to hear it from Stanley but Stan never lets him stick around to watch the transformation, urging him to go back to the car. Every full moon since this started, on Stanley's sixteenth birthday, Richie sleeps in the car, all fitful and restless, listening to Stan howling in the woods.
Stanley’s little werewolf problem started on his sixteenth birthday and for some reason, he picked Richie to draft as a secret keeper.
"Who ever heard of a Jewish werewolf?" Richie joked, once he got past the shock.
Stanley glared. "It runs in the family," he says, clipped. "It skipped my dad's generation, My parents hoped it skipped me, but I’m—"
"A late bloomer?" Richie said. "Puberty was always a struggle for you, Stanny, with cutting off the tip of your mandhood and all."
"Shut the fuck up, Richie. "
Stanley’s parents hate Richie. His mom always makes a face when he invites him over, crinkling her nose. Parents tend to not like him. Richie picked up Stanley at his house and there's something surreal about both his parents knowing exactly why he's dragging Stanley to the woods. It feels like it should be something private. Richie grins at Stanely’s mom, Hi Mrs. Uris, all pep, I promise to return your son in one piece. Can't promise about any woodland creatures.
Stanley elbowed him in the ribs. "Not funny, dude," he said.
Stanley has not returned from the woods yet and Richie is getting restless, antsy.
Richie heaves a sigh and perhaps violating Smokey Bear’s rules, he tosses his cigarette to the ground and snubs it out with his feet. Fuck this.
He heads out into the Derry woods and for a moment, his heart speeds up to heart attack levels, remembering that summer, and the Bowers gang, and all the terrifying things he could run into the woods. But the Paul Bunyan statue attacked him in broad daylight; nowhere was safe, it didn't matter where he went. That line of thought was little comfort but it gave Richie the strength to go into the forest.
He finds Stanley in a clearing, near a row of trees, getting to his feet as if he just woken up. And he's naked—Stanley is still skinny and reedy, long limbs and long legs and curly hair falling into his eyes. The curls went all the down, it seems—no chest hair to speak of, and barely any on his arms but he can see little whips of hair on his belly and god, that is so much more than he needed to see.
“Hey,” Richie says, awkwardly. Stan is naked. Stan is very naked and Richie has seen Stan naked before, and has said some rather unkind things about his circumcised dick. Been seeing him in naked in locker rooms at school too, in fleeting glimpses that Richie tried hard to pretend didn’t do anything for him.
But Stan has always been modest. He has a healthy sense of shame! He wants to cover up, and he doesn’t like anyone’s eyes on him. But since turning into a wolf man, Stanley has gotten over his nudity hang-ups it seems. It was a little weird.
Now he’s just standing there. His cock is not a showy thing while flaccid but Richie’s eyes keep darting down to it all the same. Stop looking, you pervert!
“Richie,” Stan says, irritation in his voice.
“Woke up on the wrong side of the tree, Stan the man?” Richie asks, and tries to keep the lightness in his voice.
“You’re staring,” Stan states the obvious.
“Yeah, because I can’t believe your skinny pale chicken legs belong to a werewolf,” he deflects. Richie’s hand awkwardly rubs the back of his head and he does look away this time. “You gotta be the scrawniest werewolf I’ve seen.”
“I’m the only werewolf you’ve seen,” Stan says. The eye roll in his voice is evident.
Stan steps closer and closer, while Richie steps back, like he just needed to get out of his way, until Richie finally realizes he has cornered him against a tree, and Stan is standing right in front of him. Naked. So very naked.
“Personal bubble, man?" Richie laughs nervously. "I'm gonna smell like wet dog if I stand too close to you,” he says and that’s a little mean, a little meaner than he wants but Stanley has to get his naked body away from him before Richie projects his perverted thoughts too loud and then—
“You like looking at me,” Stan says. It sounds like a statement, but surprised. There was a low drop in his voice, timber of it husky. It’s a sound that Stan makes sometimes, usually when he’s sassing Richie back, and it makes the pulse in Richie’s throat jump a bit, each time. When Richie dares to meet Stan's eyes, he realizes Stan is standing full height and he's almost Richie's height now, getting taller. He's standing tall and confident and wow, that is doing a lot for him.
“What the fuck, man?” Richie asks.
Stanley sighs softly. “Shut the fuck up,” he tells Richie, with warm fondness in his voice.
Richie, stunned silent, for once. Maybe it’s Stan’s tone. Something about the way he speaks. His heart rate spikes. His palms go sweaty and sticky, tongue dry. His dick twitches in his pants, which is really the most embarrassing thing. Richie doesn’t know why Stan doing this. He sucks in a sharp breath.
“It’s okay Richie,” Stan says, softening. He doesn’t back off though and Richie should step away but that would be admitting he’s scared of Stanley, right? He’s not, not ever, even if he does turn into a wolf. Richie used to be terrified of werewolves; hated werewolf movies, American Werewolf in London gave him nightmares.
“You don’t have to be scared of me,” he says.
“I’m not scared of you,” Richie protests. “You’re just a cute little puppy wolf,” he says. "You barely have any teeth."
He’s never seen Stan’s wolf form; caught glimpses of it—soft fur, warm snout—but Stan doesn’t want him in the woods when he transforms. Stan assures him he just turns into a regular looking wolf, undersized for his age, nothing like a man wolf from the movies.
“Yeah, you are,” Stanley says and leans in, sniffing his neck.
Shit. Richie loudly gulps like in a goddamn cartoon.
“I can smell it.”
“You know, that’s not helping your case for not scary—that's really weird, Stanley, that's really fucking weird.”
As if he's not listening, Stanley inhales deeply.
"I hope I smell good," Richie says, "my aftershave is dirty laundry and unwashed pits—"
“Do you wanna kiss me?” Stan asks, and that makes Richie's brain record scratch to a full stop, really makes the bottom drop out of his stomach. There’s a note of uncertainty in his voice that mirrors how Richie feels, and for a moment Richie can’t say anything, fallen silent.
Trashmouth, think of something! Be trashy! But nothing comes to mind.
“Because I can smell...your hormones,” Stan says carefully.
Richie feels like covering up, even though Stan is the naked one. “What’s that supposed to mean?” He asks. “Hormones have a smell?”
“Everyone has a different smell,” Stan says. His voice is low, throaty. Richie can’t help but stare down at his dick, framed by his pubic hair, which was the same shade as the hair on his head and wow, Richie didn’t know he wanted to know that. Did he?
“Why are you asking this?” Richie asks. His face is heated, flushed hot, even with the cold air. He’s maybe a little too into this, and he desperately doesn’t want Stan to know that but he's all exposed if he can smell him.
“Because I can smell it all the time, Richie,” Stan says. He raises his head up, meets Richie’s eyes. “It’s okay if you want to,” he says, like Stan is capable of giving absolution, of doing that for Richie, like he can make every ounce of fear and shame go away. “It’s okay if you want to.”
“It’s not,” Richie says miserably, and that’s the closest he can get to admitting it.
Stanley leans up and presses his lips against Richie then. Richie is too stunned to say anything, to do anything. Stanley's lips are soft. So much softer than he ever imagined or allowed himself to imagine. He tastes like forest and pine. There’s a little bit of blood there, copper warm, which, gross. But it's a sweet kiss. It's his first kiss. Richie gasps into it like he's drowning.
Stanley pulls away. They stare at each other for a bit, Richie's nerves on high alert. Richie reaches up to touch his lips, wondering if he can feel Stan there, if there was something different about him now.
God. That was his first kiss. Embarrassing. He can’t ever say that to Stan; he’s been bragging about losing his virginity for years, and he knows Stan knows he hasn’t, but Richie still can’t admit it.
“Sorry,” Stan says, at the same time Richie says, “that was nice.”
They don’t say anything for a long time. Richie’s pulse won’t stop jackhammering in his throat.
Stanley’s lip curl up in a little smirk. “You taste like smoke,” he says, lightly pushing on his shoulder. “You should brush your teeth, Richie, no one, man or woman, is gonna wanna kiss you like that.”
A gurgle of hysterical laughter bubbles in his throat. What is happening?
It suddenly occurred to him that Stan kissed him. Stanley.
“Is that a wolf thing?” He asks. “You kissing me? Is it okay for wolves?”
Are you gay, Stanley, he wants to scream at the top of his lungs, are you like me, but he can’t ever broach those words, can’t get them out of his mouth.
Stanley shrugs. “I think it’s okay all the time.”
Richie swallows, nods. “You’ve gone native, man,” he says. “I’m gonna wake up to you licking my face like a dog.”
Stanley crinkles his nose. “In your dreams,” he says and Richie swallows, because yeah, that would be a nice dream.
He shuffles awkwardly, lowering his head, staring at his feet, like a kicked puppy.
Stan takes his hand in his own. “C’mon, I’m hungry,” he says.
Together they walk back to the car, the sun starting to rise high in the sky.