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"I can't believe you said that," a fifteen year old Richie Tozier says to his longtime crush and best friend, Stanley Uris . He runs his hands up and down his face, then shakes them out. He keeps his eyes closed and falls back onto Stan's bed, head hanging over the side.
"Why?" Stan replies, feeling his heart beating out of his chest. His own hands were clammy, but he didn't dare move for fear that he might scare Richie off.
"Because! It was statistically impossible that you liked me back!" Richie opens his eyes and looks straight at Stan.
Stan's cheeks warm. He scoots a little closer. "So that means you like me?" Richie's red face makes another appearance from where it was hanging over the side of the bed. Stan had a sneaking suspicion that it was a bit more than the blood rushing to his head.
"Of course it does!" Richie turn and reaches for his glasses that had fallen off of his face. Then he's closing his eyes and giving Stan a small peck on the lips. Stan's own eyes close, too, a hand reaching for Richie's.
A forty year old Richie Tozier sits in a fancy restaurant with Stan on the other side. He remembers their confessions, he remembers their dates, the shared kisses under the blankets . And here they were, thirty years later. Stan finally healed and Richie far enough in his physical therapy that they could do this kind of thing. He doesn't think he could be any happier than he is that they've made it through.
"So," Stan begins, tucking some invisible hair back. "Do you know what you want?"
Richie smiles, a bit soft and a bit something else. "Always you, Baby." He winks and Stan feels his cheeks warm.
"I meant on the menu, Rich," Stan says back, but he can't repress the smile that was threatening to form.
"I know," Richie smiles knowingly.