Chapter Text
“Faggot!”
“Your kind isn’t welcome here, urine!”
“Get away from him before you get the fairy disease!”
BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!
Stan jolted awake, heart pounding, skin damp and sticky with sweat.
“Fuck… oh God, I hate nightmares.”
He rubbed his eyes and slammed the alarm clock silent.
Still half-asleep, he grabbed his phone—not to check the time (the clock already made that clear), but to see if Eddie had sent a message during one of his “dirty panic attacks,” or whatever.
Sure enough, there it was. Not a paranoid rant this time, but still very Eddie.
Eddie: “Hey, Stan! So, like, you know it’s our day off, right? Well, I thought maybe we should hang out! I asked Richie if he’s hosting his comedy show at the bar and he said yes, so I kinda asked him to reserve us a seat.”
Stan snorted. Sure, I’ll go and gag the entire time while you ‘friendly admire’ Trashmouth. Sure, Eddie. Sure.
He typed back quickly—before Eddie could barge into his apartment demanding to know why he hadn’t replied and whether he was hurt or dead.
Stan: “Sure, I’ll come, Eddie. What time does it start?”
Eddie: “At 7 p.m. Wear something nice!”
Stan rolled his eyes. I have style, he muttered before pushing himself out of bed and heading to the bathroom to get ready for the day.
It wasn’t a fancy get-ready-with-me kind of morning—just a quick brush-my-teeth-and-look-halfway-awake routine. Classes were mysteriously canceled today, and Stan wasn’t about to question the gift.
Once he was done, he wandered into the kitchen for breakfast, planning to waste some time with whatever was on TV. Living alone meant no roommate chatter—just him, a bowl of cereal, and the low murmur of the screen to fill the quiet.
Still, even boring morning shows were better than listening to some old professor ramble about a life that had nothing to do with the lesson while half the class slept through it.
Hours slipped by. When Stan finally checked his phone again, it was already three. Damn, time does run fast. He turned off the TV, cleaned up, and hopped into the shower so he’d still have some spare time before heading out.
By exactly four, he was dressed and ready, with two whole hours to kill before Eddie inevitably showed up. He paced, scrolled aimlessly on his phone, and tried not to think about how long the next two hours would feel.
Sure enough, at six sharp, the front door opened with the spare key Stan had given Eddie for life-or-death emergencies only.
“Ready?” Eddie chirped, all giddy and glowing like Richie’s biggest fan. Stan rolled his eyes but grabbed his jacket anyway, following Eddie to his car—Stan didn’t own one himself (couldn’t afford it, not that he’d ever admit that out loud).
The drive was a blur of Eddie’s excited chatter about the show, like they hadn’t already been to half a dozen of Richie’s sets. Not that Stan hated it—he’d never admit it, but he actually enjoyed them sometimes.
By the time they arrived, the show was already underway. The low buzz of conversation was drowned out by Richie’s voice booming through the mic, sharp enough to slice through the haze of laughter and clinking glasses.
Front row. Center stage.
Richie really had taken “reserve the best seats” painfully literally.
“That’s… a first,” Stan muttered as Eddie practically dragged him toward a table with their names scribbled across a little “RESERVED” card.
Eddie beamed. “I told you he’d hook us up!”
“Hook us up,” Stan repeated dryly, eyeing the spotlight that left them completely exposed. “More like paint a target on our backs.”
Eddie didn’t hear him—his eyes were locked on the stage, lit up like Richie had personally descended from comedy heaven.
The set was as chaotic as always, Richie firing off one-liners and roasts at rapid speed. He heckled Eddie’s mom for good measure, but when his eyes slid to Stan, he only smirked and said, “Sorry folks, there’s only room for one curly-haired heartthrob tonight.”
Stan sipped his drink, hiding a faint grin. Typical Richie—loud, reckless, and just smart enough to stay alive.
When the applause finally died down, Richie hopped off the stage, weaving through the crowd with all the swagger of someone who thought he owned the place. He stopped at their table, three drinks balanced precariously in his hands.
“Special delivery for my favorite hypochondriac,” Richie announced, setting a glass down in front of Eddie with an exaggerated flourish.
Stan blinked. It was exactly Eddie’s favorite order. Down to the lemon wedge.
Well, damn. Trashmouth actually listened.
Eddie looked stunned for half a second before his face went pink. “Uh… thanks, Richie.”
Richie grinned so wide it was almost a wink. “What can I say? I’ve got a photographic memory… when it comes to people who matter.”
Stan sipped his own drink, watching the exchange with barely concealed amusement. Wow. Richie really did remember. That’s a shocker.
They lingered at the table long after the crowd began thinning. Eddie leaned back in his chair, laughing as he recounted how their history professor had spent forty full minutes explaining why “the real test is life itself.”
“Honestly,” Stan said, swirling the ice in his glass, “if I wanted a TED Talk about suffering, I’d call my uncle.”
“At least you don’t have Professor Anderson,” Eddie countered. “He spent the whole lecture talking about his cats. His cats, Stan. Two hours of fur maintenance and litter-box philosophy.”
Richie wiggled his eyebrows. “Wow, riveting stuff. I can’t believe you guys didn’t record it for posterity.”
Eddie rolled his eyes. “You know what? I would have recorded it if I wanted to slowly die of boredom later.”
Richie grinned wickedly. “Don’t tempt me, Spaghetti. I might steal your notes and use them as a sleep aid for my next show.”
Stan bit back a laugh as Eddie flushed pink, swatting Richie’s arm.
“Hey, guys,” Richie said suddenly, words muffled as he stuffed a fistful of fries into his mouth. “You should come to a party we’re hosting this Sunday. Bill just got into a huge argument with his girlfriend, and we gotta cheer up our good ol’ pal, y’know? If you’re free, of course.”
Before Stan could even think of an excuse, Eddie leaned forward with a grin.
“Yeah, me and Stan are totally free this Sunday, right Stan?” he said, casually pinching Stan under the table.
Stan flinched and shot him a glare. “Yeah, we’re totally free,” he deadpanned, swatting Eddie’s hand away.
“Sweet,” Richie said, grinning like he’d already won. “I’ll text you the details. Wear something fun—therapy parties deserve style.”
“Well, I gotta go now. Still have to clean up the mess I made backstage. See you nerds at the party!” Richie said, grabbing the basket of fries as he stood.
“Hey—those were our fries!” Eddie called after him, but Richie was already weaving through the crowd, fries in tow.
Once the door to the greenroom swung shut, Stan slowly turned back to Eddie, eyes narrowed in mock outrage.
“What the fuck was that pinch for?” he demanded.
Eddie didn’t even flinch. “I can’t let you bail on me, Stan! I know you were already coming up with some lame excuse not to go.”
Stan arched an eyebrow. “Maybe I just value my quiet, Eddie. Ever think of that?”
“Nope,” Eddie smirked. “You love me too much to say no.”
Stan groaned, rubbing the spot where Eddie had pinched him. “You’re lucky I don’t press charges for harassment.”
“Please,” Eddie said with a grin. “You’d miss me if I were in jail.”
Stan fought a smile and lost. “Unfortunately… you might be right.”
Eddie’s grin widened. “See? That’s why you’re coming to the party. You’d miss all this.” He gestured dramatically to himself.
Stan rolled his eyes and stood, grabbing his jacket. “Let’s just go before you start narrating your own greatness.”
“Too late,” Eddie said, hopping up to follow him. “I’ve already got the opening monologue ready.”
They pushed through the bar’s warm, noisy haze and stepped into the cool night air.
As they walked toward the car, Eddie tilted his head. “You know, you could drive sometime. Ever think about getting a car?”
Stan shoved his hands into his pockets. “Yeah, and I could also win the lottery and buy a mansion. Same odds.”
Eddie laughed, the sound echoing across the parking lot. “Fine, fine. I’ll keep chauffeuring your antisocial butt around. But you’re buying snacks next time.”
Stan side-eyed him. “You mean like tonight? When Richie stole our fries?”
“Exactly,” Eddie said, unlocking the car with a triumphant beep. “Snack justice. Starting with you.”
Stan shook his head, but when Eddie shot him that small, mischievous smile before climbing in, he couldn’t help the faint curve of his own lips.