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Bill's living room was a mess of mismatched blankets, empty chip bags, and the kind of laughter that always got too loud for it being the middle of the night. The old lamp in the corner flickered every few seconds like it was struggling to keep up with the noise.
Bev was sprawled across the couch upside down, feet hooked over the backrest. Eddie sat cross-legged on the rug, clutching a soda can like it was holy water. Mike was trying — and failing — to keep score of whatever game they were supposedly playing. Bill and Stan were just laughing at Ben, who was freaking out about trying to get the game done. and Richie… well, he was being Richie.
“You can’t just make up rules,” Eddie groaned, glaring at him.
“Of course I can,” Richie said, grinning as he leaned forward on his elbows. “It’s called improvising, Eds. It’s what separates us legends from the losers!"
“Bold of you to assume you’re a legend,” Stan muttered from his spot beside Richie, voice dry as ever. "Because you're definitely a loser, just like the rest of us."
Richie's head snapped toward him instantly, like he’d been waiting for that. “Oh, Stan the Man speaks! Everyone, alert the press — miracle of the century!”
Bev snorted, “God, you two sound like an old married couple.”
“We do not.” They said at the same time, heads snapping towards her.
The room exploded with laughter. Stan glared at the floor, cheeks pink; Richie only leaned back with a smug little smirk, satisfied he’d gotten a reaction.
“Oh— okay, okay,” Bill said loudly, trying to rein in the chaos, “How about we ah— actually f-finish one round of something buh—before we all kill each other?”
“Fine by me,” Bev said, twisting upright again. “But we’re switching games. Something we can’t argue over.”
“So… nothing involving Richie?” Eddie deadpanned.
“Hey!” Richie protested, clutching his chest. “You wound me, Kaspbrak.”
Stan muttered under his breath, “Not enough, apparently.”
“What was that? I swore I heard you say something! Are my ears deceiving me, sweetheart?” Richie teased, and the way he said it — light, teasing, but with that sharp glint in his eyes — made something stutter in the air for a second.
Bev caught it. Of course she did. Her smirk turned wicked. “You know what?” she said, leaning forward. “I've got a game!”
Mike groaned immediately. “Beverly, whatever you’re about to say—”
“Truth or dare!” she declared triumphantly, cutting him off.
The collective groan around the room was loud enough to shake the walls.
“Oh, come on,” Eddie threw his head back dramatically. “We’re not twelve.”
“Speak for yourself,” Richie said, grinning wide. “I’ve been emotionally twelve since birth. I'm in!"
“That explains so much,” Stan muttered, earning a small laugh from Ben.
Bev ignored them all, reaching for the empty soda bottle on the table and spinning it once between her palms. “This'll make it simple! We spin the bottle to decide who answers. Easy, fair, no arguments.”
“I give it five minutes before Richie tries to cheat or something,” Eddie said flatly.
Richie gasped. “Me? Cheat? Eds, I am classy. I am refined. I am the pinnacle of sophistication. I'd never cheat!"
“Yeah, right. You don't do your homework until the period before, and you copy off of somebody else.” Ben said without looking up.
“That's only because I like the rush!” Richie exclaimed, brushing imaginary lint off his shirt. “Something only an artist would do.”
Bev rolled her eyes. “Alright then, artiste. Let's get this show started,” she said, setting the bottle down in the middle of them and giving it a quick spin. The room fell quiet as it clinked across the table, wobbling to a stop — pointing right at Eddie.
“Oh boy,” Richie said immediately, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, eyes glinting. “Our favorite prepubescent is up first!”
Eddie gave him a dry look. “Beep beep, Richie.”
Bev smirked. “Okay, Eddie Kaspbrak. Truth or dare?”
Eddie sighed, crossing his arms tightly across his chest. “Truth.”
“Boring!” Richie groaned. “Where's the fun, the danger, the—”
“Shut up, Trashmouth,” Stan cut in smoothly.
Bev laughed, thinking for a second. “Fine, truth it is. Hmm… who in this room would you never trust with your life?”
Eddie blinked once, then turned slowly toward Richie.
Richie clutched his chest dramatically. “You wound me again! Two fatal blows in one night— doctor, I'm not gonna make it!”
“You'll live,” Eddie said dryly, though his lips twitched like he was fighting a smile.
By the time the bottle made its third spin, the basement was already echoing with laughter — the kind that felt too big for the room, bubbling and unrestrained.
Bill had been dared to chug an entire can of flat soda, Bev had admitted to stealing from the corner store once (Even though everyone knows she’s done it more than once), and Mike had confessed his middle-school crush on one of the older kids, which the others would never let him live down.
The air was thick with sugar, heat, and the easy chaos of a night that was going to get out of hand.
And Richie Tozier was thriving.
“Alright, Losers,” he announced, slinging an arm over the back of the couch. “Who spins next?”
“That would be me,” Bev said sweetly, spinning the bottle again before he could stop her.
The bottle clinked across the table, everyone leaning in, eyes tracking it like it was the most important thing in the world — until it finally slowed… and pointed squarely at Richie.
Bill groaned. “Of— of course.”
Richie grinned, eyes bright. “Fate, baby. She loves me.”
“Fate,” Stan said flatly, “needs better taste.”
Bev whistled low. “Ouch.”
Richie clutched his chest again, falling backward dramatically. “Three fatal wounds! I'm dying, Stanley, right here on your ugly rug!”
“It— it’s my Mom's rug,” Bill said, deadpan.
Bev slapped the table once, cutting the laughter short and making everyone turn their heads. “Okay, okay— truth or dare, Richie?”
Richie grinned and leaned back against the couch. “You already know, Red. Dare.”
Bev's grin widened like a shark’s. “I dare you—” she announced dramatically, clapping her hands once, “To kiss Stan.”
The room went dead silent.
Absolutely silent.
And then, chaos.
Eddie practically choked on his soda. Mike's fork clattered to the floor. Ben turned bright red and stared very intently at the carpet. Stan's shoulders stiffened up at the words, his eyes widening. Bev just leaned back smugly, clearly proud of herself.
Richie blinked. Once. Twice. His face already heating up. “You— I— what?”
“You heard me! It's truth or dare, not truth or chicken,” Bev shot back, smirking. “Kiss. Each other,” she pointed at them both for emphasis. “And before you ask, no, I don’t mean a tiny little tap of the lips. I wanna see a real one.”
Eddie wheezed. “Bev— what the hell—”
Stan dropped his face into his hands. “You've got to be kidding me.” he just sat there, face in his hands like he could ignore the dare out of existence through sheer willpower.
Bev shrugged innocently. “Rules are rules, Stanley. Sorry, not sorry. Richie picked dare.”
“Exactly, Richie did! Why am I involved?”
The rest of the Losers were buzzing with laughter — a mix of disbelief and amusement. Mike was whispering something to Ben, Eddie was red to his ears, and Bill was watching with wide eyes like he couldn’t decide whether to stop it or grab popcorn.
“Alright, alright,” Richie said, raising his hands in mock surrender. "If the lady insists.”
Stan glared at him, but Richie could see the faintest color rising in his cheeks. “This is ridiculous.”
“Totally,” Richie agreed easily, though his heart was pounding in a way that told him differently. “But, you know… can’t back down from a dare.”
“Yeah, c’mon,” Bev urged after a beat, her grin faltering as the air in the room seemed to get foggy with something she couldn’t name. “It's a dare. Don't wimp out now!"
“Yeah,” Eddie said, half-laughing, half-nervous for whatever reason. “It's just a joke, right?”
“Jesus Christ,” Stan muttered under his breath, but he didn’t move away when Richie scooted closer.
The laughter quieted. The air thickened.
Everyone expected it to be quick — a stupid, funny moment, something they could all tease them about later. But when Richie's hand brushed the side of Stan's neck hesitantly, the whole room seemed to tilt.
But then, Richie — Richie didn’t move. Not a single word, not a single laugh. Just stared at Stan, eyes darting between his face and his mouth and then back again. His usual smirk had vanished, replaced with something unreadable.
“Well?” Bev said, raising an eyebrow. “Are you two gonna sit there forever, or are you gonna do it?”
Stan swallowed harshly because, honestly? He didn’t know. Were they about to kiss or not?
Richie's other hand drummed once on his knee before going still. “Are you sure?” he asked Stan in a whisper, his voice softer than anyone had ever heard it.
Stan hesitated — just long enough for Richie to think he was going to say no. Then he sighed through his nose, muttering, “You're impossible,” and leaned in.
The first brush of contact was awkward, almost hesitant, but it wasn’t clumsy like everyone thought it would be. It was slow, uncertain — like Richie was daring Stan to stop — but neither pulled away. If anything it deepened, like something that had been waiting just beneath the surface finally cracked open.
Somewhere beside them, someone let out a low whistle — probably Bev — but it barely registered to either of them. The world around them blurred into static, and all Richie could focus on was Stan.
Richie could feel the way Stan breathed against him, sharp and uneven, could taste the faint tang of soda and something else he couldn’t name. Maybe that taste he couldn’t quite put his finger on was just Stan. His heart was hammering so loud he thought everyone could hear it.
Slowly, without even realizing it, Richie's hand slid up into Stan's hair and Stan's fingers made their way to grip the front of Richie's shirt, pulling him closer just barely. Richie's breath hitched from the action.
The room fell completely silent.
The kiss stretched on as their lips moved feverishly in sync, the smacking noises of their lips filling the room.
Ten seconds. Fifteen.
By twenty, Bev's smirk had faded into something like shock.
And by thirty, Eddie made a strangled noise that neither of them heard.
When they finally pulled apart, it wasn’t dramatic. Just slow. careful — Stan's lips parted, and Richie's glasses were slightly askew. Their foreheads almost touching, both of them blinking like they’d forgotten where they were.
Because for a moment, it was just the two of them — making out like no one else was in the room. Now that it was something that had happened, Richie couldn't help but think that they should've been doing it all along.
Then Bev exhaled, low and slow. “Oh-kay,” she said, eyes wide, letting out a shaky laugh to try and lighten the air. It didn’t. “That was… a kiss.”
“Um…” Mike cleared his throat, his voice cracking the silence. “So— whose turn is it now?”
Nobody answered. Richie swallowed, trying to find his voice — an answer, a joke, a comeback, something. But his brain was blank.
Stan blinked, hard, like he was trying to wake himself up from a dream, then pushed himself up to his feet so suddenly the floor creaked. “I, uh—” he started, but it broke off somewhere between his throat and his chest. “I need some air,” he muttered, voice unsteady.
No one stopped him as he slipped out onto the porch. And for a moment, all anyone could do was stare at the door he’d just walked through.
Richie just sat there, staring after him, pulse still racing and lips tingling, pretending he didn’t feel like the ground had just shifted underneath him.
Richie hesitated for maybe three seconds — long enough for everyone in the room to start whispering — before he shoved himself to his feet.
“Where are you going?” Eddie asked almost instantly, but Richie was already halfway to the door.
“Air,” he said, throwing Stan's exact excuse back over his shoulder, slipping out the door like nothing else in the world mattered.
Outside, the cool night hit him like a slap the second he stepped outside, biting at the edges of his flushed face. The noise from inside dulled to a low hum — muffled laughter, the faint scrape of a chair. His heart hadn’t slowed since the kiss; If anything, it was getting faster.
Stan was sitting on the porch steps, shoulders hunched, staring down at his palms like they might hold the answers he needed. His curls were messy, his face flushed, the collar of his shirt pulled slightly down.
Richie stopped in the doorway, suddenly unsure. For a second, he thought about turning back — pretending he hadn’t followed — but his legs didn’t seem to care what his brain wanted. He walked up behind him quietly, scuffing his sneaker against the wooden porch. “Hey,” he said softly.
Stan didn’t look up right away. When he finally did — damn, it was worse than the kiss. His eyes were a mess of things Richie couldn’t read — confusion, frustration, sharpness — he looked like he didn’t want Richie there, but Richie came down a step anyway.
“Richie,” he said, the name coming out like a sigh.
Richie tried to grin — he really did — but it faltered halfway. “So, uh… that was one hell of a dare, huh?”
Stan's jaw tightened. “Don’t.”
He blinked. “Don’t what?”
“Don’t make a joke out of it,” Stan said, turning his head to look up at him once more, really look. “You always do that. Like if you don’t make a joke for five seconds, something bad will happen.”
Richie's mouth opened, then closed. “I—” he started, but the words didn’t come.
The silence stretched, thick and heavy between them. Richie shoved his hands into his pockets, unsure of how to continue.
So instead, Stan continued for him. He stood, quick and frustrated. “That wasn’t— It wasn’t supposed to—” he stopped, running a hand through his hair like he could shake the words loose. “You just—”
“What?” Richie asked softly, eyes scanning all over Stan's face.
Stan's breath hitched. “You— you kissed me like—”
“Like what?”
“Like you meant it,” Stan snapped.
“Stan, I—” Richie muttered, his words catching in his throat. Then, he took a step closer before he could talk himself out of it. “You kissed me back, you know.”
“Yeah, because it was supposed to be a dare.”
“It was,” he said firmly.
“Yeah well it didn't feel like one.”
That shut Richie up. His mouth opened, then closed again, the grin he’d been reaching for dying somewhere between his chest and throat. He swallowed harshly.
Stan noticed. “Richie—”
Richie cut him off, his voice quick, nervous. “It’s... it's fine. Let's just— forget it, okay? It was just a stupid dare that we should’ve never done,” but his tone betrayed him, because nothing about the way he said it sounded fine.
Stan gripped the railing so hard his knuckles turned white. “You really think we can just forget that?”
Richie forced a smirk. “Yeah. Easy. I'll just repress it, shove it in a box, bury it under sarcasm and trauma. Works every time!"
Stan didn’t laugh.
And for a long, aching moment, neither of them said anything. The only sound was the faint voices of the losers from inside and the crickets chirping somewhere in the dark.
Stan's foot tapped restlessly against the wood, the rhythm uneven. He wasn’t looking at Richie, but Richie could tell he wasn’t really looking at anything either.
Then Stan sighed, almost to himself. “You're impossible, you know that?”
Richie smiled faintly. “Yeah,” he said, contentedly. “Kinda my whole charm.”
Stan turned his head toward him — and the look in his eyes made Richie's heart stop. It wasn’t anger anymore. It wasn’t even confusion. It was something closer to fear, because for the first time, Stan was realizing why this thing was a big deal. Because he didn’t hate that kiss as much as he should have.
He tore his gaze away fast, muttering, “We should— uh— go back inside,” he cleared his throat, voice shaky. “Before the rest of them jump to conclusions.”
Richie swallowed hard. “Yeah, yeah. We should.”
But neither of them made a move to actually go.
Stan's hand was still gripping the railing like it was the only thing keeping him grounded, and Richie — well, Richie couldn’t stop staring. The porch light flickered above them, soft and golden, cutting shadows across Stan's face, and Richie thought, God, he’s really beautiful when he’s trying not to look at me.
Finally, Stan pushed off the railing, brushing past him. The faintest touch — shoulder against shoulder — sent a jolt through both of them. Richie exhaled a little shakily and followed him back into the house.
Bill's house had gone still.
The excitement and buzz of their hangout had faded hours ago, replaced by the rhythmic chirp of crickets and the distant hum of the summer night.
Everyone had crashed hours ago. Bev was passed out on the couch, Eddie asleep in an arm-chair, and Stan sleeping beside Bev while the rest of them were on the floor. They had set up blankets and pillows for them to sleep comfortably.
but Richie still couldn’t sleep.
He’d been tossing and turning on the floor all night, a blanket half-tangled around his legs, staring up at the ceiling like it might have answers hidden in the plaster. He even counted backwards from a hundred, replayed jokes in his head — but nothing seemed to ease his mind.
All it did was remind him.
Of Stan.
Stan's mouth. The feel of it. The taste of it. The shock of it. Stan's hand gripping his shirt for those couple of suspended seconds before they broke apart. Stan's voice when he said, “We should go back inside.”
Eventually, he just gave up.
He sat up, running both hands through his hair until it stuck up worse than usual. He grabbed his glasses off the table, snatched a nearby sweater hanging on the couch, shoved his shoes on, and slipped out the door as quietly as possible.
The porch was cool, the wood creaking beneath his weight. The air was heavy with their words from earlier. It was like Richie could feel the tension, even though Stan was sleeping inside.
He sat on the porch steps and dug into the pocket of the sweater he had grabbed — Bev's sweater — and pulled out a half-crushed pack of cigarettes. He stuck one between his lips, flicked the lighter with shaky fingers, and cupped his hand around the flame.
The first drag burned, bitter and grounding.
He exhaled into the dark, watching the smoke drift and curl under the dim porch light.
The cigarette trembled slightly between his fingers. He stared out at the street, lit in soft orange by the nearest streetlamp. It had been just a dare — that’s what he kept telling himself — just a stupid, harmless dare.
But it didn’t feel harmless.
He could still feel it — the heat of it, the way Stan had kissed him back.
Richie swallowed hard, dragging in another lungful of smoke.
“What the hell’s wrong with you, man?” he whispered to himself, voice breaking the silence. He let his head drop low, like he was embarrassed. Because he was. He really was. “It's Stan. It's Stan.”
He laughed quietly, a dry, humorless sound. “You're losing it.”
A breeze swept across the porch, making the cigarette ash glow bright red before fading again. Richie leaned against the railing, elbows propped, staring into the dark yard. He wondered if Stan was asleep inside. He wondered if Stan was thinking about it too.
And he hated how much he wanted the answer to be yes.
“You know, those things’ll kill you.”
Richie nearly jumped out of his skin. The voice — calm, measured, unmistakable — came from the doorway behind him.
He turned fast, heart thudding, and there was Stan: barefoot, hoodie pulled over his pajamas, curls a little messy from sleep. He was leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, but his eyes were softer than Richie had expected.
Richie laughed — sharp and shaky. “Jesus Christ, Stanley. Are you trying to give me a heart attack?”
“You shouldn’t be smoking that crap,” Stan said, ignoring him. “and Bev'll kill you when she finds out you took one of hers.”
“You sound like Eddie,” Richie snorted, flicking at the ashes anyway. He looked back out to the yard, turning his back to Stan. The boy at the door didn’t move at first. just… watched him. The porch light caught in his eyes, gold and unreadable. Then, quietly, he made his way next to Richie, sitting beside him. “You couldn’t sleep?”
“Didn't even try,” Richie muttered. “Too much… noise.”
Stan scooted closer, careful, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to. “In your head?”
Richie blew out a puff of smoke, the corner of his mouth twitching up. He hated how well Stan knew him. “Where else?”
For a minute, neither of them said anything more. The only sound was the low hum of the cicadas and the faint buzz of the porch light.
Stan finally broke the silence. “How long have you been out here for?”
Richie shrugged. “Not long.” It was one of the first and only times Richie had only minimal things to say.
Stan tilted his head slightly, studying him. “Is this about earlier? About the..." Stan didn't even have to finish his sentence for Richie to understand what he was asking.
Richie froze. The cigarette ash burned down, landing on his fingers before he remembered to flick it away. He tried to laugh — but it came out quiet. “Yeah.”
Even though it was just one simple word, it still felt like the largest, heaviest thing Richie's ever said. Now, Stan was the one looking at the side of Richie's face as he stared off into the dark yard, unable to meet Stan's eyes.
“What?” Stan said, his voice shaky even though it sounded like he was trying to keep it stable. “Do you regret it?”
Richie just sighed and took a drag from his cigarette instead of answering.
Stan sighed at Richie's response — well, non-response. “Why'd you even—” he cut himself off with a shake of his head. “Forget it.”
“No,” Richie said quickly, even though he didn’t move to look at Stan. “Say it.”
Stan hesitated, his voice dropping to something almost vulnerable. “Why'd you even kiss me like that? Be honest, this time."
Richie's throat went dry. he couldn’t use the same excuse he gave Stan earlier — that it was just a dare — because the point didn’t make any damn sense anyway. Plus, it was obvious that Stan didn’t buy it, since he was bringing it up again.
He tried to meet Stan's eyes, but it was too much. So he looked down instead, taking another drag. “I don’t know.”
Stan frowned, “You don’t know?” he repeated quietly, like he didn’t believe him. “You don’t just kiss someone like that and not know why, Richie."
Richie finally turned, forcing a crooked grin even though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Sure you do! You just… do it. It happens. No thinking involved. brain off, impulse on.”
But the joke landed flat. Because they both knew it wasn’t true. Impulse, Richie had said. Impulse.
Richie let out a breath that sounded almost like a laugh. He ran a hand through his curls, trying to shake the nervous energy off his shoulders, but it clung to him anyway. “Look, Stan— It wasn’t supposed to be a thing, alright? You’re you, and I’m me, and it was—”
“That didn’t feel like nothing,” Stan cut in.
The familiar words hit harder than either of them expected. The air shifted — heavier, closer.
Richie opened his mouth just to shut it again. He could hear his own heartbeat in his ears. “Yeah, well,” he muttered, “That's kinda the problem.”
Stan blinked. “What?”
Richie looked up. Their eyes met — again, that same unbearable pull.
“You asked if I regret it,” Richie said slowly, biting down hard on the inside of his cheek, his voice lower now. “I don’t. That’s the problem. The fact that it didn’t feel like nothing was because I— I wanted to do it.”
Stan's breath caught, visible in the cool night air. Richie's confession was a surprise to both of them — Richie didn’t even mean to say that. He didn’t even know he was feeling that.
For a moment, the world felt like it had stopped — like the crickets, the porch light, the entire damn universe was holding its breath with him.
Richie dragged a hand down his face, forcing out a shaky laugh. “Yeah. Yeah, crazy, right? I don’t regret it. I should, I know I should. That’d be easier. But I don’t.”
Stan didn’t move, didn’t speak — he just looked at him. Really looked. Like he was seeing all the things Richie tried so hard to bury under jokes and noise and stupid dares.
“Richie…” he said quietly. Slowly. Like he wasn’t sure if speaking too loudly would break something fragile between them.
Richie shook his head, gaze dropping to the porch floor because he couldn’t handle that voice. “I'm sorry.”
“Just— tell me something,” Stan said quietly. anything, Richie thought, throat tight. “If you… don’t regret it, then why did you try to joke your way out of it? Why couldn’t—”
Richie cut him off, voice cracking. "I couldn’t, okay?” He dragged a hand through his hair, the movement frantic, defeated. “Because if I did, It stops being a joke and turns into something else. Something real. And I'm not— I can’t do that right now.”
Stan's chest rose and fell with something that sounded a lot like a sigh, but it cracked halfway through. “You think I can?”
Richie looked up sharply. Stan was sitting still, so still, with his hands tucked into the sleeves of his sweatshirt like he didn’t trust them. Like he was afraid of what they might do.
Then Stan looked at him again, really looked, and Richie wished he wouldn’t. The porch light flickered above them, casting soft shadows across Stan's face, and it made him look too vulnerable, too honest.
“You ran after me,” Stan swallowed. “Why? If you knew you were gonna deflect like you always do, why’d you come after me?”
Richie's face burned. “You left looking like you were about to— I don’t know— combust. I wanted to make sure you were alright.”
A beat of silence stretched between them — warm, charged, terrifying.
Stan shifted slightly on the step, pulling his sleeves down over his hands again, looking up at Richie with this look that punched every bit of air out of his chest. And then Richie realized just how close they were. He could feel Stan's shoulder against his, grounding in types of ways he couldn’t comprehend.
Stan must’ve realized it too, because he stiffened up, but didn’t move away. His breathing was a little uneven now, his lips parting like he wanted to say something but couldn’t find the words.
Richie's pulse was thunder in his ears.
Stan's eyes were fixed somewhere near Richie's mouth before he forced them upward again — slow, almost painful — like looking Richie in the eye was the hardest thing he’d done all night.
“Stan…” Richie whispered softly, though he wasn’t even sure if it was a question or a warning or something in between.
Stan swallowed, hard, like the motion scraped down his throat. “Don't.”
“Seriously?” Richie breathed.
“You're not supposed to make it this complicated,” Stan said so quietly that Richie almost didn’t catch it.
“Me?” Richie asked, voice barely there. “You kissed me back. It's kinda both of our faults.”
Stan's throat bobbed. “I know.”
And then it happened — that tiny, inevitable pull. Richie leaned in, slow enough for Stan to stop him, but he didn’t. Their breath mixed in the inch of air between them, and Richie could feel the heat radiating off him.
“… This is a bad idea,” Stan breathed out. Richie flushed at the way he could feel it on his lips.
Richie swallowed hard. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Probably,” Richie murmured. “If I said I didn’t care, would that make it worse?”
Stan's eyes flicked down to Richie's lips — once, twice — and that was all the answer he needed. The air between them snapped tight, charged, like static before a storm. It felt thin. Too thin. Like the space between them wasn’t just close, it was dangerous.
Stan's breath stuttered, barely audible. Richie watched the way his lashes trembled, how his fingers curled just a little tighter inside his sleeves. He wasn’t pulling away — but he wasn’t leaning in either. He wasn’t stopping it.
“Richie…” Stan whispered, and Richie had never heard his name sound like that — afraid, wanting, pleading for something that he now knew the name for.
Richie's pulse hammered against his ribs. “Tell me to stop,” he murmured without thinking. “Please. If you want me to.”
Stan didn’t budge. DIdn’t blink. Didn’t breathe.
Richie's throat worked, his voice barely a thread. He glanced down to Stan's lips and stood there. He knew that if Stan didn’t say something soon, he’d lose his composure. He'd grab Stan's face and kiss him harder than he did earlier and that's not what he wanted. Not right now. “Tell me to stop. Tell me to back up.”
Stan didn’t move back. Didn't say a word.
Instead, his eyes were fixed on Richie's eyes — the ones that were staring at his own lips — wide and startled and hungry in a way that made it seem like the world around them paused.
Richie swallowed, voice dropping softer, rougher. “Please, Stan. Tell me to stop before I—” but he couldn’t finish, because they were already close enough that their noses brushed. When did he even start leaning in? The touch was feather-light, but it still sent a shock straight down his spine.
“Don't,” Stan sighed out. “Don't stop.”
The word landed low in Richie's stomach, knocking the breath out of him.
Richie's eyes fluttered shut for half a second — a tiny surrender — before he opened them again, his forehead nearly resting against Stan's. “Jesus, Stan,” he whispered, voice shaking with something he couldn’t hide anymore.
Stan didn’t back up. Didn't even flinch. He leaned in that impossible fraction closer, like gravity was doing the work for him.
Richie's hand twitched at his side, wanting — aching — to touch him but terrified of breaking whatever fragile, electric thing was holding them together. He didn’t move it. He couldn’t. One wrong shift and he’d devour Stan whole.
“You're killing me,” Richie breathed out, the words ghosting against Stan's lips.
“Good."
Richie let out a broken laugh. one soft, shocked breath of disbelief. “You really want me to?” Stan's answer wasn’t verbal — it was the way his lashes fluttered shut, the way he tilted his chin up the smallest, smallest amount.
Richie felt it like a door unlocking in his chest. slowly — painfully — he leaned in, closing that last impossible inch until their lips brushed.
Richie kissed him like he was afraid Stan might break.
Barely-there pressure, more breath than contact, lips brushing in the softest, most tentative way — like Richie was terrified of crossing some invisible line he couldn’t uncross. This was the first time Stan's seen Richie so… hesitant. careful.
Stan inhaled sharply against his mouth, the sound fragile, shaky, undoing. His fingers curled tighter inside his sleeves, knuckles white, like he didn’t trust himself to touch Richie yet. Like if he did, he’d fall apart.
Richie didn’t move at first. He just stayed there, lips pressed to Stan's in the gentlest possible kiss, waiting — begging — for any sign that he wasn’t imagining this.
Then Stan exhaled. Not a normal breath. A shudder.
And that was it.
Richie leaned in a little more — still soft, still slow — kissing him again, firmer this time. The kiss was nothing like their one from hours earlier. It wasn’t reckless or forced by a dare; It was slow and deliberate in all the ways that mattered. Stan's lips parted on a small, helpless sound he clearly didn’t mean to let out.
Richie froze, pulse thundering.
“Sorry,” stan whispered, breath warm against his lips.
Richie shook his head just the slightest bit. “No. Don’t be.”
He kissed him again, his hand finally lifting to hover near Stan's jaw, not touching, just there, hesitating to actually touch him.
Before Richie knew it, Stan leaned into Richie's hand softly, the slightest pressure, so subtle Richie almost thought he imagined it — until Stan whispered, voice barely a breath. “Please don’t stop.”
Oh, Richie wasn’t planning on it any time soon. He cupped Stan’s jaw with the gentlest touch imaginable, thumb brushing against his warm cheekbone, and kissed him deeper. Warm. Slow. Learning the shape of him like every second mattered.
Stan kissed back — trembling, but undeniably there, matching Richie's softness with his own.
His fingers tangled into the front of Richie's shirt, barely gripping. Like he didn’t trust his own strength, like he was afraid pulling too hard would shatter whatever this was. But it was enough, enough to pull Richie impossibly closer, enough to make Richie's breath catch in his throat.
Richie kissed him again, faster this time, angling his head just slightly so their mouths fit better. Stan let out this tiny, broken noise in the back of his throat, the kind that shot straight through Richie and made his fingers tighten unconsciously along Stan's jaw.
Their foreheads brushed. Their noses bumped. Their teeth clacked together. Neither of them cared.
Stan tugged lightly at Richie's shirt again. It was a soft, desperate little pull that Richie couldn’t quite interpret — not when his head was spinning and his skin was buzzing.
“My God,” Richie's voice came out wrecked, the words getting lost between their lips.
Stan inhaled sharply, like Richie's words alone knocked the air out of him. His fingers loosened on Richie's shirt, then tightened again, braver this time. pulling him closer so they were chest-to-chest.
Richie's hand that was previously on his face, found the back of Stan's neck, thumb tracing the soft skin there like he couldn’t help himself. Richie settled his free hand at Stan's waist — warm, careful, grounding. His thumb brushed against the hem of Stan's sweatshirt, and Stan shivered. Richie figured that it wasn’t from the cool air outside.
The cigarette smoke still lingered in the air, sweet and sharp, but it didn’t matter — not when Stan's mouth was hot and desperate against his, matching all the thoughts currently buzzing through his head.
The world around them blurred — the creak of the porch, the hum of the night, the low buzz of the light above — all of it faded until there was only this.
They pulled apart for air, and for a second, neither of them moved — they just breathed each other in. Richie's eyes scanned all over Stan's face, like he was scared the moment was going to fade away, and he had to memorize it while he could.
Then Stan smiled, small and unguarded in a way Richie had never seen before. “You taste like cigarettes,” he murmured.
Stan saw the moment Richie's eyes met his and cleared of all the worries that were once clouding them. He grinned. “And you taste like trouble.”
“Then I guess,” Stan said quietly, tugging him closer again, “We’re even?"
Richie didn't even answer his question. He just leaned in and kissed him again — slower this time, but deeper, more sure — it didn’t feel performative, like a dare they had to do because all their friends were watching. It didn’t feel like a mistake at all.
That realization settled in Richie's chest like something warm and terrifying all at once. He didn't mind it, though. Not at all.
They broke apart slowly — not because either of them wanted to, but because breathing eventually became non-negotiable. Richie stayed close, forehead resting against Stan's, their noses still brushing every time one of them inhaled too deep.
For a second, neither spoke.
Stan's fingers were still fisted in Richie's shirt, knuckles pale, like if he let go now he might lose his nerve. Richie noticed it — the way Stan hadn’t pulled back yet, hadn’t retreated into himself the way he usually did when things got overwhelming.
Richie swallowed. “We should—” he stopped. shook his head. “Actually— no. I don’t want to say that.”
Stan huffed a quiet, breathy laugh against his mouth. “Good.”
Richie smiled before he could stop himself. It felt strange on his face — softer than his usual grin, unguarded in a way that made his stomach flip. He brushed his thumb along Stan's jaw, testing the motion like it might vanish if he pressed too hard.
Stan leaned into it immediately.
That did something irreversible to Richie's brain. “You okay?” he asked quietly, the question different this time — not sarcastic or jokey. Not deflecting. Real.
Stan nodded, then hesitated, like honesty was a second thought he had to choose on purpose. “Yeah,” he said. then, after a beat, “I mean— I’m nervous. But… yeah.”
Richie exhaled, something loosening in his chest. “Yeah. Me too.”
They sat there like that — knees touching, shoulders pressed together, the porch light buzzing softly overhead — pretending the rest of the world didn’t exist. Inside, their friends slept on, completely unaware that something had bloomed and evolved outside without them.
Eventually, Stan glanced toward the door. “We should probably go back in. It's late and… the sun’s already coming up.”
Richie looked away from Stan in confusion. Slowly, the rest of the world faded in and he could see how the sky was turning a shade of orange. It looked beautiful. He looked back at Stan and— fuck. Stan looked beautiful too.
Richie made a face. “Ugh. Reality.”
Stan smiled again, small but fond. “You don’t have to make it weird.”
Richie snorted quietly. “Stanley Uris, everything about me is weird.”
“Yeah,” Stan said, nudging his shoulder gently. Then, quieter — steadier than Richie expected — he added, “But you don’t have to hide.”
The words landed heavier than anything else he’d said all night.
Richie blinked, the joke already forming on his tongue before he swallowed it back down. He stared out at the yard instead, the orange light bleeding slowly into the sky like the world was waking up without asking them for permission.
“I'm not hiding,” Richie muttered automatically.
Stan hummed, unconvinced. “You sorta are.”
Richie let out a breath through his nose, something between a laugh and a sigh. “Wow. Okay. Rude.”
Stan didn’t smile this time. He just watched him — calm, patient, like he was giving Richie space to either bolt or be honest.
That was worse. Richie rubbed a hand over his face. “I just—” he stopped, frowned, tried again. “I don’t know how to do this without messing it up.”
Stan's voice softened. “You don’t have to know how. Not yet. We can figure this out slowly. Together."
Richie glanced at him, searching his face like he was waiting for the catch. “That's it?”
Stan shrugged one shoulder. “That's it.”
The porch light flickered overhead, buzzing louder for a second before settling again. Richie swallowed, heart doing something uncomfortable and hopeful at the same time.
“You're being… alarmingly reasonable,” Richie said quietly.
Stan's mouth twitched. “Are you complaining?”
That earned a real laugh — small, but real — and Richie felt something unclench in his chest. “No. No, I'm not.”
Stan stood first, brushing his hands on his sweatshirt like he was grounding himself. “Come on,” he said gently, holding his hand out without thinking about it. “Before someone wakes up and asks questions. Or before Bev realizes you stole one of her cigs."
Richie stared at it for half a second — then took it. Their fingers fit together easily, like they’d always known how.
Richie doesn’t think he’s ever felt better than in this moment.