#Neibolt Stanley | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

veganmikehanlon · 8 months ago

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The Past Has Claws

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Stanley really doesn’t remember much from his childhood, it’s kind of like his life started when he went to college, everything before then is this foggy mess. There are the facts that he knows: He was born in Derry, Maine, he’s Jewish, he’s an only child, and he earned good grades. He doesn’t actually remember any of his classes, the kids in them, or the teachers, but he obviously learned enough to be successful in college, which was always good enough for him.

But he keeps dreaming about being a knock-kneed kid with dirty sneakers and he’s always running from something. His legs working hard against unsteady terrain to carry him as far away as fast as he can. He never sees what he’s running from but he knows with dream logic that it’s one thing shifting into new monstrous shapes. It chases him through seemingly unfamiliar places.

But the places, the landmarks, are the one thing he remembers clearly in the morning. And when he looks up the landmarks he realizes, with mounting unease, that they all exist in Derry. The Standpipe, The Kitchener Works, that ghastly Paul Bunyan statue. And there’s a familiarity there when he’s clicking through the pictures, something exhilarating about each location, but no actual memories.

As he tries to fall asleep, shifting uncomfortably as the air mattress squeaks and he finds himself justifying both his dreams and the anxiety he’s feeling about going to sleep.

Tonight is different. He’s laying down, his back is soaking wet and he’s in complete darkness. All he feels is terror, creeping and dark and all-consuming, and somehow, even though it's a dream, he can feel sharp pains all around his face. Like he’s being stung by bees- wait no, no. His surroundings solidify around him and he knows, he remembers Neibolt House. His breath catches and he chokes. His friends took him into the house and now It’s got him! The lady in the painting got him, it’s eating his face!

He thrashes, trying to get away, but he’s being held down and he can’t get away, he can’t get away! He tries to scream but it chokes in his chest and he can’t make a sound. He struggles harder against the monster but it’s like fighting gravity, it’s empirically impossible. He has to keep trying. He has to.

But as he slowly chokes inside the monster's mouth and Its teeth tear deeper into his flesh, his struggles dim, the pain overwhelming all of his senses, all of his thoughts. Except for one; that he’s going to die. As he takes what he thinks is going to be his last breath, a quiet relief that he can stop breathing the acrid and bloody air, out of the darkness a bright light appears in the far distance.

That doesn’t make sense, he’s inside Its mouth! He knows he’s crying, he has been the whole time, but as the light slowly approaches him sobs wrack his chest with the last dregs of air in his lungs. The light grows and grows then splits into three, each twirling slowly as they grow bigger and bigger until all he can see is blinding golden light. He closes his eyes but it doesn’t make a difference, the light pierces his eyelids. He squeezes his eyes closed tighter and prays to die.

The light starts to soften and the pain dulls and when he opens his eyes he’s standing outside the Neibolt house. He takes a deep breath of the sweet summer air and it rattles his chest. Dry grass crackles under his shifting feet and he’s that knock-kneed kid again. The old house groans as the wind passes through. There’s a girl, no more than 12, standing on the porch and she’s saying something. Stan can’t hear it, just the sound of birds and bugs and wind. He strains to hear her words but there’s nothing. She looks serious, more serious than any kid her age should be.

Her eye-line scans to either side of Stanley and he follows her gaze. He’s surrounded by other kids, he counts six of them, each listening raptly to the girl on the porch. He doesn’t recognize any of the kids, except maybe two of the girls to his left with similar brown skin and wild frizzy curls. They all look terrified. He wishes he could hear what is being said but the birds keep getting louder and he wants to turn and look but he’s rooted to the spot.

The girl on the porch must have finished speaking because everyone starts moving toward the house. Terror seizes Stan as he realizes they’re going into the house.

“No!” He screams, his voice cracking. “Don’t go in there! Don’t go!” But they must not be able to hear him either because they don’t stop. “Please, don’t go.” He pleads helplessly as they climb the porch steps. Tears prick at his eyes, he doesn’t want to go in there again, he can’t. But his feet move, carrying him towards the house and up the stairs, even though every instinct in his body is telling him to run the other way.

He follows the kids through the door that’s barely on its hinges making him fear the house collapsing around them. “Stop! Please!” He calls one more time desperate for the other kids to listen.

The smaller of the girls that seemed familiar to him hesitates and looks back, and hope blooms in Stan that they can finally hear him, but the taller girl nudges her and they share a look like words are passing silently between them. With a nod from the small one, they follow their friends down the stairs to the basement. A tear slips down Stan’s cheek, he knows there’s no going back now.

He follows the kids solemnly down the stairs, watching silently as they repel down the well into the sewers, one by one. A distant part of him is waiting for this to go wrong, for some misery to attack, but they make it into the sewers easily. Too easily if you ask Stan. He looks down into the mouth of the well. “Wouldn’t want to make a wish on that fucking thing.” He says and blinks.

He opens his eyes to a dark cave and he’s himself again, tall and secure. It’s almost pitch black, the only light coming from what must be flashlights, swinging wildly around the place, and a very distant, very small hole above their heads that barely lets in any light, but is the last proof that the world is still out there. It’s cold too, and a shiver runs through Stanley, he’s only in his pajamas and his feet are bare. He wonders if this is going to be like his other dreams, where he has to run from the monster until he wakes up.

The dawning knowledge that this is a dream seeps the terror out of his surroundings and as he looks around every bit of this seems ridiculous. It’s just his brain picking things from different horror movies he’s seen over the years, it’s definitely that.

The flashlights reveal a group of kids whimpering in fear as they stumble to the center of the cave, under the skylight. They look young, way too young to be in a place like this. G-d, where are their parents?

Circus music starts echoing around the chamber and Stanley almost rolls his eyes. It’s played on the clown thing before in other nightmares, but this is too on the nose. The kids cluster together, frantically looking around, their flashlights swinging wildly in every direction.

“You’re going to be too late.” A pleasant voice whispers in Stan’s ear, making him jump. Then a giant spiked claw juts out of the darkness and too quick to see it plunges into the chest of a child. There’s a clipped scream and then a moment of shocked silence while the other kids try to make sense of what just happened. One of the girls raises a shaking hand to her cheek running it across her cheekbone. When she withdraws her hand her fingers are covered in blood. She screams and chaos breaks.

The claw slashes again and again from the darkness as the kids flee, dodging this way and that around the cavern, trying to find somewhere safe. But there is nowhere safe. Stan watches stunned and terrified as each child is cut down.

“It’s all your fault Stanley, you couldn’t cut it, and now THEY PAY!” It screeches horribly and all these feelings come rushing back into Stan. He remembers facing It when he was a kid, and he remembers winning. They beat the shit out of the clown and they won! They never had to come back! How could It still be alive?

The clown laughs uproariously as Stan rushes from kid to kid, trying to stop the bleeding, praying he can save someone. “You’re too late!” The clown sings, his cackles ringing around the cave. Stan ignores It, working desperately to stop the blood flowing quickly out of the kid's tiny chest.

“Where’s Stanley?” It asks in a new voice. A voice Stanley has never heard but would recognize anywhere. It’s speaking in Bill Denbrough’s voice.

“Just hold on,” Stan tells the kid urgently, folding their hands over their wound and pressing down, hoping the kid will know what to do. Stanley remembers learning about stuff like this in boy scouts but he doesn’t know if anyone does boy scouts anymore.

“I can’t reach him.” It says in Mike Hanlon’s soft bass. Stanley stands, looking around the dark corners above him.

“Well try again.” Beverly’s voice urges from somewhere behind him. He turns but there’s nothing.

“I’m not getting anything either!” A fast voice says, again from behind Stanley who gasps and whirls, that’s Eddie. Little Eddie Kaspbrak grew up and came back.

“We can’t do this without him,” Richie says and Stanley’s heart squeezes. His oldest friend, the trashmouth, how could he have ever forgotten him?

“We might have to,” Ben says and Stan stumbles over his feet as he twists in the direction of each voice.

His fucking friends. The best friends he ever had and Pennywise wants to use them as puppets?! Red hot anger flows through Stanley replacing the fear until it bubbles out in a roar. He’s gonna kill that fucking clown for this. For everything It’s put the kids in this town through.

“Come out! Come out here and face me yourself you stupid piece of shit!” Stanley screams at the cavernous ceiling. “Don’t hide! Don’t use them! Come get me you motherfucker! I’m not afraid of you anymore!” His yell echoes through the silent chamber, his panting breaths the only thing filling the void. Until-

“Daddy?” A small weak voice calls from the floor of the cave and Stan forgets all about the clown.

“Isabelle!” He calls, frantically searching for his daughter. He follows the sound of her soft cries and it takes him behind a boulder near the wall of the cave. He cries out at the sight that greets him. Isabelle is covered in blood from head to toe and she’s cradling a motionless Michelle in her arms.

He falls heavily to his knees next to them, his heart racing a mile a minute. “Michelle?” He whispers and reaches a shaking hand out to brush the hair from her face. Her empty eyes stare back at him and a broken sob breaks from his chest. “No, Michelle, please no,” He sobs, his hands fluttering over her bloody torso trying to find the wound. Not his little girl, not like this, not here.

He searches blindly for Isabelle, needing to feel her to know that she’s alive. A small hand takes his.

“Daddy, it hurts.” She cries softly and Stanley peels his eyes open to look at her, yelling out in shock as blood starts streaming from a gash on her neck. Stanley chokes out a cry, some part of his mind screaming at him to move, dammit, move! But his body stays stuck in place and he watches in horror as the gash deepens and blood, more blood than he’s ever seen, gushes from the wound in a river, covering Michelle who still lays in her arms and creeping slowly towards Stan like lava.

Isabelles’ cries grow loud and wild as her head starts to tip back at the cut. Even through all the blood Stanley can clearly see every inch of space between her neck and her shoulders. “Daddy it hurts,” she cries, “Please Daddy help me please!” She begs, choking on the black blood streaming from her mouth.

His whole body shudders as he gags without any relief. “Isabelle,” Stan rasps in a whisper. It's all he can manage in his paralysis. Blood pools around Stanleys’ knees, soaking his blue pinstripe pajama pants. The gap grows, and her cries start to weaken. “No,” he rasps, wishing he could move or look away, and if this is a dream, he would like to WAKE UP.

A sliver of something white peaks from the hole, slowly emerging like a creature breaking from its shell. The uncut sides of Isabelles’ neck start to tear as the thing rises from inside her. Her neck swings back like it’s on a hinge and reveals fluffy orange hair, untouched by the flowing blood. As Stan watches in horror crooked yellow eyes emerge and the form reveals itself to be a head. A clown head. Stan gags as the clown smiles, revealing a row of sharp teeth. In a pleasant goofy voice, It speaks. “Hiya, Stanley!”

“Isabelle!” He gasps as he jolts awake, the sound of laughter echoing in his ears. His chest rises and falls rapidly and his heart beats wildly in his chest. He’s in his room, the air mattress sinking slowly beneath him. He’s safe.

Wait, safe from what? What had he been dreaming about? It must have been really bad, to have awoken in such a panic. He hopes it’s not a repeat of his and Patty’s Europe trip, where he’d spent those few days shivering in a dark hotel room awash with anxiety.

He gets up to check on the girls, his heart rate finally calming as he watches them sleep. They’re so small and also the biggest they’ve ever been. Little pieces of him and Patty in these two beautiful little girls. He loves them, more than he’s ever loved anything in his life, and he’s always going to keep them safe, no matter what.

#mowrites #stanley uris #stanpat #pennywise #eddie kaspbrak #richie tozier #bill denbrough #beverly marsh #mike hanlon #ben hanscom

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whatthefuckisasweep · 2 years ago

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Family, even in death.

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evergreenstringbean · 7 months ago

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Fanfiction Masterlist- evergreenstringbean

Please read AO3 tags prior to reading! Some of these are old. Some of these were written for tumblr challenges. Sue me if they're cringe now.

Blue text will detail crossover fanfictions, but are included in both fandom lists. Green will signify oneshots, purple will signify multi-chaptered works. All are completed.

Bandstand

Keeping The Ghosts Away (Nick Radel/Wayne Wright): It happens every night at the same exact time. Wayne doesn't know that Nick isn't asleep this time.

Water and Smoke (Jimmy Campbell/Johnny Simpson): They all want to go on a beach vacation. Jimmy knows he can't handle it, but agrees.

Pets Are The Best Medicine (Nick Radel/Wayne Wright): Nick wants a dog. Wayne, of course, doesn't. Nick, of course, doesn't listen.

Thoughts (Jimmy Campbell/Nick Radel): Jimmy doesn't know why his thoughts seem to never listen to him.

Parallels (Jimmy Campbell & Julia Trojan): Julia can't face the band after Donny tells her what happened to Michael. Jimmy comes to visit her.

Once Upon A Time (Jimmy Campbell/Aaron Miller): Jimmy's so grateful to have Aaron in his life.

Forward (Jimmy Campbell/Johnny Simpson): Jimmy can't move on. But he can more forward.

Palliative (Character Study- No Ship): Palliative Coping: Making the situation more tolerable or keeping it under control without directly taking care of the problem.

Something in Return (Jimmy Campbell/Angelo Maggio): The band is exhausted after a nationwide tour. Jimmy most of all. A night at the Blue Wisp sounds like a good idea to relax. Turns out Jo has hired someone new.

Another Language (Jimmy Campbell/Angelo Maggio): Impromptu duets lead to interesting thoughts as Jimmy learns more about the new employee of The Blue Wisp. Continuation of "Something in Return".

The Guy Who Didn't Like Musicals

Here It's Safe and Sound (Ted Spankoffski/Henry Hidgens): Henry doesn't mind the silence anymore, but he really needs a break from it.

Still The Dance Goes On (Ted Spankoffski/Henry Hidgens): Showtunes help Henry with whatever emotion he feels.

Everything's Perfect/Nothing's Real (Ted Spankoffski/Henry Hidgens): Henry theorized this exact scenario thirty years ago. But what if it wasn't simply a theory?

Marvel Cinematic Universe

Which Direction is the Right Direction? (Peter Parker & Tony Stark): It's been one month and Peter gets a call in the middle of class. "He'd tried putting it into his computer, that hadn't worked at all. He'd tried looking through old archives that Pepper had allowed him to scan, nothing. He even tried asking Karen, hoping perhaps the man had sent something about it to him without him knowing. Nope. So, it looked like he was stuck with a million questions and no right answers."

The Postcards Protocol (Peter Parker & Tony Stark): Peter finds out about the Postcards Protocol, and wonders why it's called that.

Prisoner of My Past (Peter Parker & Tony Stark): Peter's finally figured it out, with help from Tony. Sequel to "The Postcards Protocol"

IT (Movies)

some time can bring perspective that we need (Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier): "The moment he made it to the surface, he was booking it out of the house and made no effort to stop. When panic set in with Eddie Kaspbrak, it failed to stop until he was absolutely sure he was out of danger. He was blocks away from Neibolt before he was able to stop for breath, and he was almost regretting tossing his inhaler into the fire while his lungs burned from the exercise. His heart was pounding in his chest, and his mind was swirling with questions he didn’t know the answers to." In which Eddie Kaspbrak gets the ending he deserves.

To Start Over...Somehow (Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier/Stanley Uris): Most of the things he’ll think about are simple. What his plans are for the days ahead, new ideas for material that he’s now, finally, writing on his own…and how the world is one cruel, fucked up place. / or / Richie is learning to cope alone.

letting go of what might have been (Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier/Stanley Uris): Richie's got it all under control...but sometimes he doesn't / or / Richie's still coping.

words we leave unspoken (Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier): Richie "Trashmouth" Tozier has 1500 words left to live. He has more than 1500 words left to say.

From Here to Eternity (Musical)

Another Language (Jimmy Campbell/Angelo Maggio): Impromptu duets lead to interesting thoughts as Jimmy learns more about the new employee of The Blue Wisp. Continuation of "Something in Return".

Sanders Sides

If I Didn't Believe in You (Roman/Logan): Roman doesn't want to go to another party. Logan knows what's really happening.

There Was Janus (Roman/Logan): Roman and Logan get to know each other after working in the same touring production for the last month, when Logan asks how Roman got into acting.

Must Be a Dream (Character Study- No Ship): Logan's alone, but not completely. An imagining of post-WTIT after Logan sinks out of the living room.

Roundabout (Virgil/Roman, Logan/Patton): Virgil's got a new job as a school secretary, a vast change from his old life. He quickly befriends a few fellow faculty members, including one happy-go-lucky drama teacher. As the year goes on, and Virgil begins to form stronger bonds, his reluctance to revisit parts of his past may begin to put a strain on the relationships he holds dear.

When You Smile (Remy/Emile): Remy just wanted to grab a quick coffee. He didn't anticipate the cute stranger dancing in line. Part of the "Roundabout" canon.

Borderline (Established Roman/Virgil & Logan/Patton, Janus/Remus): Following the unexpected death of their mother, Roman and Remus are tasked with cleaning out their parents' attic. Old photos bring up old memories, old trinkets bring up old feelings, but a stack of letters may begin to distort the thoughts of their childhood, or bring their thoughts of it to new light. A world continuation of Roundabout.

The Old Guard

When The Sun Lights The Room (Joe/Nicky): “We should do something today. We could pick up some flowers at a shop this evening,” Joe offers to his love, squeezing his hand in an absent check-in to make sure the man is in fact mentally there as he’d claimed to be. A matching squeeze confirms so and he takes a deep breath. “He should be here.” Thirty years ago, Joe and Nicky lost their son. The "finality" of death still gives them whiplash at the tricks it plays.

Always Starting Over (Joe/Nicky): Nicolo di Genova has lived many different lives. He's fought many wars, saved many lives, and donned many names. But everything's over, and he's too cold. In which Joe loses his immortality and Nicky struggles to cope.

Stand By Me

Think of Me Fondly (Chris Chambers & Gordie LaChance): Gordie LaChance was twelve going on thirteen the first time he saw a dead human being. Gordon LaChance was thirty-eight going on thirty-nine when the newspaper headline knocked the wind out of him.

M*A*S*H

this is life, with the heartache it brings (B.J. Hunnicutt/Benjamin Franklin "Hawkeye" Pierce): It starts with an average day. It ends with nothing being the same. Or, if the American Songbook's "Tribute to the Troops" broadcast took place in 1952 and landed on the ears of the 4077th

Good Omens

I hope you blink before I do (Crowley/Aziraphale): Crowley, after a Hell of a time, sleeps.

Spies Are Forever

All's Fair in Love and Death (Agent Curt Mega/Owen Carvour): Following the final death of Owen Carvour, Agent Curt Mega is thrust into a mission that seems simple at first glance. Retrieve a fellow agent from a completed undercover mission. However, there are a few caveats. For one, the "fellow agent" is a Slozhno. For two, Curt is meant to retrieve the agent in 2016. With the mix of following his mission, learning all about Tatiana's son, and grappling an entirely new world, Curt must leave every stipulation of his real present life behind to protect a potential future at stake.

Detroit: Become Human

So Goes the Roll of the Dice (RK900/Gavin Reed): Gavin Reed and RK900- known as Nines- are ready to move in together, for "convenience" or whatever they claim. What looks to be the ending of a long investigation results in Gavin re-examining the ghosts of his pasts, and the android of his potential future.

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itnewsletter · 2 years ago

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Issue #5

Tuesday, April 4th - missed in Issue #4:

Fanart

[x] eddie kaspbrak by snaalfoss on Twitter

Wednesday, April 5th:

Edits

[x] the losers club Barbie posters by @causticguys

Fanart

[x] reddie by @scrunchi

[x] reddie phone backgrounds by @gloomy-prince

[x] reddie by @gloomy-prince

[x] audra, beverly, bill by @reluctant-fandom-participant

[x] stozier by @que3rduckling

[x] eddie kaspbrak by @xavierlynn1998

[x] reddie by @summergrand

[x] richie tozier by @tectoniccyborg

[x] richie tozier by @themidnightridersideblog

[x] richie tozier by @softreddie

[x] pennywise by @darkeclipticheart

[x] reddie by bonezbonez_ on Twitter

[x] richie tozier by snaalfoss on Twitter

[x] reddie by FnofuS on Twitter

Fanfiction

[x] reddie by @seecarrun

[Hold My Hand Tighter] reddie by BenDover123 on AO3

[Kick the bucket] reddie by @xavierlynn1998

[little duckling] wheelzier by slut_wheeler on AO3

[The Guilt of the Eight] pennywise & losers club parents by Liv45No on AO3

[They All Bloat] pennywise/mario by Kenlestations on AO3

Fanmix

[x] bowers gang by @cl0wnsoda

Polls

[x] whats your favorite finn role? by deedeeisdumb on Twitter

Thursday, April 6th:

Edits

[x] the losers club Barbie posters by @nitekrawlerz

[x] the losers club Barbie posters by @fresh-and-funky

[x] richie tozier Barbie poster by ratboyrich on Twitter

Fanart

[x] stanley uris by @boyduroy

[x] reddie by @availlustrates

[x] reddie by @daniwry

[x] reddie by @tea4v

[x] reddie by @tricodekus

[x] pennywise by @deweygrey18

[x] henry & pennywise by @toffiproto

[x] pennywise by @neg4tivecre3p

[x] eddie kaspbrak by @neibolt-werewolf

[x] reddie by SmshMouthTozier on Twitter

[x] eddie kaspbrak by snaalfoss on Twitter

[x] reddie by viagox on Twitter

Fanfiction

[Together] stenbrough by Catsaremylife_fromacat on AO3

[jesus christ, i wish that i was back in oyster bay] reddie by newtkelly on AO3

[(tell me you'll stay) never ever go away] the losers club by nunya_bznz_babes on AO3

[Hawkins, Where Is That Exactly?] reddie by Shuutingstar on AO3

[an apartment away from your heart] reddie by feistylibra on AO3

Polls

[x] Who is the most underrated Finn Wolfhard character? by @secretlymadmax

Recs

[x] stenbrough by @antisociallilbrat

Roleplay Ads

[x] bichie, reddie 18+

About Us

Submit a Missing Fanwork/Fanevent

#it 2017 #it 2019 #stephen king's it #it newsletter #it #newsletter #long post #issue 5 #april 04 #april 05 #april 06 #april 2023

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ally-holmes · 2 years ago

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It started with a kiss | Richie Tozier x Stanley Uris (Part One)

Series Masterlist

Summary: Eddie kissed Richie at the Clubhouse, but then ran away freaking out. Stan finds Richie and well... He asks him to kiss him too.

Content Warning: modern setting (2007), no Pennywise, aged-up characters, Derry as its own warning, mention of social stereotypes, mention of recreational drug use, past issues, mention of failed suicide attempt, kisses.

Word Count: 6244

Also available on AO3

Part One | It started with a kiss

Maine was considered the most southern state in the north of the United States, which was true; all the stereotypes referring to racism and religion and the obnoxious necessity of glorifying tradition that could be seen on TV shows when they made any southern state reference could also be found in Maine, most of all in Derry. Derry seemed like a town that wanted to be a city that just decided to jump from the timeline and stay forever in a place called "the good old days" by the elderly. Derry still had families that looked down on the catholic school in Neibolt Street and looked even worse to the synagogue; some of them even held tight to their purses when they crossed paths with any member of the only black family in Derry –they were the fourth generation owning the Hanlon farm, though– and oh, no one will ever talk about homosexuality and integration. Of course, there were some shy movements in favor of getting Derry an update making it more modern, unfortunately, even though being in full 2007, it was still a disgusting bunch of prejudices, misinformation, and crimes.

Because of that, when Richie Tozier discovered at the age of thirteen that he was in love with his best friend, Eddie Kaspbrak, the world came crashing down on him. He wasn't just terrified that Henry Bowers and his gang would find out, they were harassing him for way too long with homophobic nouns without any proof; the problem was his friends and the whole town. He never wanted to be in the limelight, not really. Richie liked people paying attention to him, sure, but not to actually pay attention to him, because if they did, they would be able to see the way he adjusted his glasses when he was uncomfortable, and they could identify the moment in which his jokes were trying to cover the pain of his soul, and even the nervous tic in his leg. If someone bothered to pay enough attention, they would've found out immediately that he was crazy in love with Eddie Kaspbrak, and if the Losers found out, Richie would've found himself friendless, but if Eddie did– If Eddie figured out the truth, all of Richie's soul will break into hundreds of pieces. Just thinking about it made his legs shake; a sour taste filled up his mouth, and his stomach twisted awfully. Ms. Kaspbrak, Eddie's mom, kept convincing him that he'd get AIDS by just sitting next to gay people sharing their air. If Eddie ever discovers Richie's secret, Richie will become a germ, bacteria, and incurable virus source in his eyes. Richie would be as dirty and disgusting as Ms. Kaspbrak assured.

At the moment, with their last school year on the horizon, Richie felt lost and anxious. On one hand, he wanted to finish high school, leave Derry, get lost in the big city streets, and enjoy his life. On the other hand, he was afraid of losing touch with his friends and terrified that Derry had messed up so nicely with his mind that he wouldn't be able to function in the outside world. Will he still be terrified of looking briefly at a cute boy? Will he suffer a panic attack just by thinking of another boy while masturbating? He endured the panic when he did it thinking of Eddie! Richie felt like a traitor when that happened, but it wasn't a recurring thought. Truth be told, Richie had given up on Eddie a long time ago. From thirteen to fifteen, he fantasized about the possibility so many times that the fine line between dream and reality blurred. It was then that reality hit him like a brick. Richie will never be with Eddie. Keeping wishful feelings waiting for the day something would happen was anything but torture. That's why, after a Saturday full of sobs, alcohol, and molly, Richie decided to let go. He locked his romantic feelings for Eddie so just the friendship would remain.

No one will ever know.

No one should ever know.

No one.

Richie was positive about that when on August thirteen, he crawled into the Clubhouse with a hunch of molly in the pocket and an m&m's family-size bag between his hands. The beginning of his senior year was just some weeks away and the Losers agreed to spend time together as much as possible that summer. The summer of when they were thirteen, the Losers faced a pedophile and serial killer named Robert Gray, a.k.a. Pennywise the Dancing Clown, and they were on the state news like a group of brave local avengers. It didn't last long because Henry Bowers killed his father that same summer, and did the same thing with some of his insane friends, which filled every news channel around the country. Derry kept its number one position in the "Most Violent Place in the United States" charts. It didn't matter how tragic the whole experience was, they became a group of friends who survived school: the Losers Club. Now, the old Stanley Uris' fear of how long they would remain friends seemed to take shape for everyone. University implied distance, and distance wasn't an ally of friendship.

That afternoon Richie had been the first one at the Clubhouse just after four, and in this little hole the weather was fresh, so he landed awkwardly in the old hammock with his long extremities trying to find a good posture. He rolled the joint with his long slim fingers when he heard someone stepping down the doubtful stairs.

"Spaghetti!" Greeted so excited that he fell from the hammock and burst into laughter.

"Asshole! How much have you smoked yet?"

"Oww… Eddie Spaghetti, don't give me that mad Chihuahua look. I haven't smoked yet. I didn't get the chance." Richie moved the joint between his fingers calling for Eddie's attention, who followed the movement with his eyes.

"I have no idea how you'll get through university approval."

"It's early to be thinking about that, Eddie-Bear. We still have this full year together. A fucking long and endless year full of compositions, tests, expectations, rejection letters…"

"Shut up dickhead!" Eddie shook his inhaler and took two strong shots before calming down, sitting on a trunk that the Losers had dragged into the Clubhouse so it could be used as a bench.

Eddie was quite nervous about the perspective of finding a university; there was the chance that his mom would burn all his letters or even sabotage his studies so she could have him with her forever. Richie pushed just enough to be a pain in the ass, but not quite enough to mess up his brain.

"Want a drag or what, Eds." He asked, looking for his lighter.

"I don't want shit, Richie. I don't even want you smoking here. When the Losers came, then do whatever you guys want, like always."

"Humm– You're saying that like you hated to get high, Eddie."

"You know how hard it is to talk my mom into letting me live my life. Molly reek doesn't help at all."

"Oh, my dearest Sonia." He said in his British posh voice. "A woman as sweet as big that when you showed up reeking of marihuana for the first time ever she thought it was a new perfume. Your mother is full of shit, my dear friend, but it's not alright to toss the crap you don't want into her."

"I hate you"

"I know. Easy boy, in about ten months you won't have to put up with this pile of human disgrace no more, baby. Never ever."

Regardless of the joyful tone used, the weight of those words was enough to set up a painful silence between the two of them. Richie didn't light up the joint at the end; he kept it in his pocket and tried to find a suitable topic.

"You're not a burden, Richie. You are annoying and sometimes is nearly impossible to follow you, but you are not a burden. Don't think like that."

"Yeah, yeah… Hey, there's no need to give me a TED talk, Eds."

"Don't call me that." He finally said.

"My point is that I already know that the moment we leave for uni no one will remember the lil' ol' Tozier."

"God shut up!"

Never.

Ever.

Not even once did Richie Tozier thought possible that in the fresh environment of a hole in the ground on a hot August afternoon none other than Eddie Kaspbrak would grab a bunch of hair from the back of his head to keep him still while he was kissing him. Everything seemed so fucking weird that Richie asked himself if he had smoked that joint and the molly was stronger than he had guessed. It took him a moment to understand that he wasn't hallucinating, and then he kissed back shyly, not closing his eyes all the way. Any moment now Eddie could disappear, explode or just break into a mean laugh. The chances scared him so much that Richie clenched his fists in this Hawaiian shirt to restrain himself; he didn't want to spook Eddie by touching him.

The moment Eddie's lips parted from his and opened his eyes, the hand that hung onto Richie's soft curls let go, caressing his neck lightly. Richie tried to close the distance once again, but he couldn't nonetheless; he wasn't brave enough to do it, so Eddie took note and dived in holding Richie's chin before kissing him again. It wasn't an experienced kiss, they didn't even use the tongue, the lips used shy, cautious movements drawing a patron like Eddie had studied the theory until his eyes went dry but didn't get any practice. Wasn't surprising coming from Eddie.

When Richie decided that the shared kisses were good proof that he should stop worrying, he let go of his shirt and placed his right hand on Eddie's thigh. Eddie jumped with the touch breaking the kiss. It was at this moment that he knew, he fucked up. Eddie was the perfect impersonation of a rabbit blinded by car lights. Richie froze, he even stopped breathing, getting ready for anything that could happen after the most frightened and wrecked expression of Eddie.

"No. God, no. Oh, no. I can't. No." He went up quickly to pace round and round in their tiny hole while his hands were ruffling his hair, not glancing at Richie at any moment. "I'm sorry. Fuck, I can't– forget it. Rich, I– I can't."

He climbed up the dangerous stairs of the Clubhouse at superhuman speed before Richie could react; and when he did, the only thing Richie was able to do was to break down crying covering his face with shaking hands, sobbing without consolation. Stan found him like that not even a minute later. Richie hadn't noticed the rushed way in which Stan went down the stairs like he knew what he was about to find, he hadn't noticed when Stan stopped his movements the exact moment he saw him either. Richie did notice when Stan removed the hands from his face with a stern voice and made him rinse the tears away and blow his nose.

"Did something happen?" Richie denied the question shaking his head. "I'll say it differently. I knew that you were longing for Eddie before you did; I've seen him running away and you're a mess. So, tell me what in the fucking hell happened here, Richie."

"I don't know. I really have no idea. We were talking about the future, our last year in town." He explained between pitiful sobs. "And then– then he kissed me and… I don't fucking know why he fucking kissed me! Fuck! It was Eddie! Why would Eddie kiss me? And– and sure, the kiss wasn't marvelous, but did I suck so bad? Was the kiss so awful that he had to run away? Maybe it was my hands' fault, I shouldn't have touched him. God, I'm certain my hands are disgustingly sweaty… It might be my breath, maybe it stinks. He might think I got him AIDS, Stan. What if he doesn't want to talk to me again? What if he tells the Losers that I'm gay? What if I spend my senior year friendless, alone, locked in my room until merged with the sheets?"

"Enough!!"

Again, with a stern, powerful voice Stan achieved Richie's full attention. He was looking at him as if it was the first time. A whole bunch of different emotions could be read on Stan's face, but when he took off Richie's glasses Stan became a shapeless blur that became clearer bit by bit. To do so Stan should've been way too close and when Richie felt his warm, sweet breath became aware of the closeness between them.

"Don't worry about the Losers. Even if they found out, they'll never treat you differently, I know there's a part of you that already knows it. Eddie won't tell to anybody ."

"Don't you find me disgusting?"

"You're always disgusting, Richie Tozier, but not because of this ."

Richie visibly relaxed and was aware for the first time that during his attack, he had fallen from the trunk; he was on the floor, and Stan –the always flawless and impeccable Stanley Uris– was kneeling before him.

"You're getting dirty."

"Don't care."

For the first time in his entire life, Richie heard Stan claim that he didn't care to get dirty . Moreover, it was the very first time that he'd seen him totally comfortable with the affirmation. Stan was way more worried about him than about his trousers, and that just could mean that Richie was utterly pathetic.

"Show me how you did it."

"Huh?"

"Show me how you kissed Eddie. If you think that Eddie run away like that because the kiss was awful, show me how you did it."

The Clubhouse light wasn't the same as the one that could be found outside; nevertheless, Richie was able to see the intense blush that covered Stan's face and crawled down his neck. Stan's eyes seemed like two black orbs filled with a bunch of hard-to-identify feelings, but the tension in his body was shouting uncertainty. When Richie didn't respond and looked at him open-mouthed, not even blinking, Stan moved away, sitting over his legs, and crossing his arms over his torso, tearing his eyes away from Richie to look anywhere but him.

"Leave it. I know you don't like me. Kissing would be stupid. I'm not Eddie."

The distance made Stan into a blur again so Richie couldn't identify the kind of facial expression he was making, but he felt the weight of the last affirmation so hard that it ended up breaking his heart.

"It– It wasn't so good. He just grabbed my hair suddenly and– well… He just pushed his lips over mine. I was too scared to move. And– and I don't want you running away either. Seriously, Stan… Why would you want to kiss me ?"

"That's a stupid question." He mumbled.

"I am stupid."

"Of course you are."

The loving voice placed pressure on Richie's chest like a huge void was waiting for Stan to fill it up, and he needed it immediately or he'd die.

"I know that Richie is a synonym of hehe-haha, but if the kiss is actually horrible don't laugh. Don't tell anyone either. I don't want everyone to…"

"You didn't tell anyone what happened that time, Rich. I won't be the one outing you."

"Are you not afraid of people thinking you're gay?"

"Wow… Richard, I knew that you were slow, but this is a new level. I don't hide, but I don't feel the need to wear my label written on my front either. If I have to pick one, I think bisexual would be ideal. Do we kiss now or do we wait until the Losers arrive?"

Thousands of questions arise in Richie's mind, but he wasn't able to answer any without risking their privacy at the Clubhouse because the Losers could arrive any minute now. He swallowed nervously and nodded, a good enough invitation for Stan to get close again and grab him by the hair the same way Eddie did, but using less strength and more firmness. Richie ate a moan, feeling the void growing bigger in his chest. Stan's eyes danced from Richie's lips to his eyes, he licked his own lips and broke the distance.

The kiss had nothing to do with the one shared with Eddie. The moment their lips got together the void in Richie's chest got filled with the need for Stan. Richie's hands didn't hesitate when they found a place on Stanley's hips squeezing with intention. Their mouths moved with need and urgency as if they wanted to become one. While Eddie's kiss was tongueless and awkward, Stan's was natural, organic. Stan was the first to try to use tongue licking Richie's bottom lip asking for permission to get in. God, Richie needed that so fucking much! He opened his mouth without complaint welcoming Stan's tongue like a dear old friend enjoying the sweet apple pie taste of it. This time he didn't fight back the moan that burst from his chest. Richie pulled the thin body closer and Stan held Richie's face between his hands to keep him in place while he adjusted better on his lap. Their bodies fit like puzzle pieces.

Oxygen made itself needed in their lungs, being the only reason why they separated. Panting in each other's mouths, swollen lips wetted with saliva, they looked at each other hungrily. This time Richie wasn't afraid of restarting the kiss. Something in his inside growled at the sight of Stan, that's why he sent his right hand to Stan's nape letting his whole arm press against Stan's column to keep him in place, then he made him move down to kiss him again. Richie was able to feel Stan's moan against his chest and he discovered that that was the most erotic fucking noise he'd ever listened to.

The kiss was hotter and needier than the first one. It wasn't enough. Seemed as if it would never be enough, as if they should spend the rest of their lives kissing each other because if they didn't do it the world would come to an end. They broke apart, nonetheless. This time, Stan let his head fall back trying to get this breath back, and his Adam's apple showed so deliciously in his throat that Richie couldn't control himself, so he bit it lightly, feathery touch of his teeth that was quite enough to make Stan shake in his arms, holding better against him. Richie responded to it by kissing the area, tasting it with his tongue not daring to suck, too afraid of marking him.

"Shit. Fuck… Rich, we need to stop." Despite his words, his hands caressed Richie's scalp making him tremble.

Richie let Stan's neck go just enough to look at him, trying to figure out his facial expression, regardless of the lack of glasses on his face and being in a cloud of desire. Stan smiled at him sweetly when he looked back at him, and Richie blushed.

"It's not that I don't want to keep going, but the Losers are on their way and I suppose you don't want them to find us with my tongue deep down your throat." He put Richie's glasses in their place carefully before leaving his spot in Richie's lap so he could sit on the trunk.

"Will you want that?"

"I don't care."

"Was it good? The kiss, I mean."

"You make some damn stupid questions, Richie."

"And you could very well answer them, please." His voice showed insecurity and he was hiding his face from Stan on purpose.

"Yes, it was better than good. It was better than I thought."

"Have you been thinking of kissing me?"

"I've been thinking of the things that trashmouth of yours could be used for besides 'your mom' jokes."

The silence between them stretched out; both of them were trying to figure out what just had happened and how to confront it. Finally, Richie sat in the trunk looking at Stan.

"How long have you known about me?"

"I'm a very observant man."

"You are, but only with the things you like."

"What are you implying, Richie?"

"You wouldn't have kissed Bill."

"No."

"Or Eddie."

"No."

"Why me?"

"You know why." Stan felt cornered and bare, but Richie's insecurity made him insist.

"No, I don't. Every time I ask, you say it's stupid and refuse to answer clearly. I can figure something out, but fuck it Stan if you don't tell me exactly, I don't know if what I think is real or if I'm just being plain pathetic."

"And why did you kiss me? I'm not Eddie."

"Aargh!!" He ruffled his hair desperately. "We can't have a conversation here. Let's go to my house. Don't give me that look, my parents aren't home. They just left after lunch, they're staying at my gran's for a few days, I was going to invite the Losers, but now I've changed my mind. Let's go."

The path from the Clubhouse to the Tozier's house was done in silence, with fast steps, not caring much about the suffocating afternoon summer sun. The house was quiet with some dish soap odor still floating in the air. Richie went straight to the house thermostat, turning on the air conditioner in the whole place, but then the nerves overcome him. He looked at Stan doubtfully fixing his glasses.

"I know that usually, we go to my room, but I don't know if, given the circumstances and with the house empty, you'll rather be in the living room or–"

"Shut up, Richie." He smiled aiming for the stairs following the well-known path to Richie's room.

Richie's bedroom was big with walls full of pop-culture movies and old music band posters. In one corner laid a worn-down guitar, there were piles of papers everywhere and half-empty snack bags on any surface. The bed had new crisp and clean sheets. Stan stayed there some afternoons every week during the school year, thanks to the agreement he had with Richie.

When he was just an eleven-year-old boy, Stan suffered an illness that made him lose almost a full school year, that's why he had to redo the lost grade when he recovered. Being a little boy he didn't actually care , but growing up he became aware that his friends would leave Derry a year before him, and that made him incredibly anxious. To solve it, his only chance was to improve his scores to get into the grade he should've been, and to do so Richie had a gift, he was extremely intelligent, though it was quite difficult to concentrate. The agreement consisted of Stan giving Richie some help managing his ADHD if he helped him with private lessons. With mutual effort, Stan was able to pass a grade, but they never revoked the agreement.

Stanley got into Richie's closet looking for something to change into. Usually, Stan kept clothing items in there so he could get changed when he visited in case he got dirty, wet, or had sweated. He wasn't the only one, the closet seemed a private storage for the Losers. Stan didn't choose between his tops this time, he picked the most well-worn and colorless of Richie's t-shirts, the ones Richie used frequently to sleep on. The light and worn-out cotton fabric felt way fresher against his skin. For the bottoms, Stan changed his trousers for some of his own sports shorts. Feeling refreshed, Stan climbed into Richie's bed with his back pressed against its headboard.

Meanwhile, Richie busied himself tidying up a bit, mumbling stuff, having absolutely no idea of what to do with himself. Being aware of Stan in his room, in his bed, with his t-shirt, was something completely new for him. Richie gave up on pretending when the holes Stan's eyes were craving in his skin were too much to ignore; he took off his shoes y threw himself to bed the most casual way. Thank fuck his parents bought him a big ass bed.

"So… We've kissed. Rad, huh?"

"Quite rad, yes."

"Why did you want to kiss me?" To his question, Stan took a big breath with weariness. "Tell me the truth because my head is running miles per hour."

"The same reason you'll want to kiss Eddie," Stan answered dark blushed, looking at his hands, clenched in his lap, craving his nails into the flesh.

"I didn't want to kiss Eddie."

"You've always wanted to kiss Eddie."

"That's not true. I wanted to do so for a while, but then I became aware that being obsessed with something that will never happen was useless torture."

"Then it looks like I enjoy suffering…"

"It could be." He confirmed grabbing Stan's left hand between his, tracing carefully the dim scar crossing the forearm from the wrist to the elbow with his fingers. Stan shivered. "When I found you, blade in hand, with all that blood– I knew I'd been too focused on my self-pity picturing an impossible relationship with Eddie. I moved on."

"Hmm…"

"I'm honest, Stan. Eddie's kiss shook me on too many levels, but I never thought it meant I could be with him. I don't think of Eddie that way."

Richie got Stan's arm closer to his mouth and kissed the scar close to the wrist, making him shiver again. They were fifteen when it happened. Stan had a terrible experience involving Robert Gray and Henry Bowers that unlucky summer, which added to his OCD and insecurity created the devastating depression cocktail that drove him to the darkest place. Stan never told anyone, but finding out how he felt for Richie was another piece of the puzzle. He was jealous of Richie and Eddie's dynamic and wanted Richie's attention just for him. It was awful to feel that fucking dependent and ignored, which is why he hid everything with his other insecurities. Stan compared himself with Eddie, and even though Eddie Kaspbrak was like a hyperactive raccoon with mysophobia, he was also brave, willing to fight any moment. Stan wasn't like Eddie so seeing him get the attention Stan desperately sought for himself fed the self-conscious demon that lived inside his mind.

He wasn't able to take it anymore one day. There was no trigger; that day didn't happen anything significant in class, or relevant with the Losers, not even with his parents. It might be possible that if there was actually a trigger people around him would be able to find comfort blaming something specific, but there wasn't such a thing. Stan just gave up. That day was tiresome, slower, and heavier with each passing hour. Richie said he'd go to the Uris' that afternoon to study, but on their last period Eddie stopped him, forcing Richie into lending him a comic, and when Richie didn't show up Stan knew that he was too busy with Eddie. Well… Yes, maybe that could be considered the trigger. Richie came fifteen minutes late, flushed and breathless thanks to the run, he threw his backpack on Stan's bed when Ms. Uris let him in. He couldn't find Stan at first, so he knocked on the bathroom door.

"Are you taking a dump, Uris? I'm already here, dude. Sorry I'm late, Eddie won't stop talking. Stan?"

The sound of something falling into the water was his only answer. Not the best moment for a fucking bath, really. Richie's alarms went off trying immediately to open the door, hitting it with ferocity.

"STANLEY!"

His claim worried Ms. Uris, who saw him breaking the doorknob when she showed up upstairs. Stan was shirtless inside the bathtub, his left forearm was wide open dyeing the water red, a blade shaking in his hands while trying to cut the flesh in his other arm when Richie entered the bathroom. Richie didn't hesitate; he snatched the blade and got Stan out of the water in one movement; he grabbed the closest thing to cover the bleeding wound, which turned out to be Stan's shirt. Ms. Uris snapped out of her stupor to collect as many towels as possible, covering the wound better.

If Derry found out that Stan had tried to kill himself, his mental health would get worse, that's why Richie moved quickly, spreading the rumor that he was misbehaving toying with some knives, thinking they weren't as sharp as they seemed, and ended up hurting Stan. The Toziers helped him with the rumor so the truth was only known by the Uris, the Toziers, and the Losers. Stan didn't want to tell the Losers at first, until one day he discovered Eddie and Bill were telling off Richie, calling him irresponsible, immature, and other hurtful things. Stan couldn't allow Richie to get all the blame, so he confessed.

For Richie, finding Stan in the bathtub that day was the most traumatic experience of his whole fucking life. He felt useless. He thought ill of himself. Richie believed he was the worst human being in the universe because he'd been so self-centered, he wondered if it was possible for him to stop it if he hadn't wasted so much time talking to Eddie that afternoon when he lent him the comic. Stan's hospital days had Richie always present, and when he was discharged, Richie named himself Stan's personal nurse-butler. Knowing it wasn't fair, Richie hated Eddie a little bit that day.

"So… Do you like me?"

"Richie–"

"I'm a needy person, Stanikins. I need you to tell me I'm doing a good job, that I'm a good boy, that you're head over heels in love with me. I need constant reassurance."

"I've liked you for a long time, but I wasn't as smart as you I'm afraid."

"What do you mean?"

"I gave in to my empty hopes even though I knew you liked someone else. I just clenched onto my feelings, willing to hide them forever. Our study afternoons were good enough for me. They still are, truly. The fact that we kissed doesn't mean that–"

"We could try, though."

"Huh?"

"We could try being together, don't you think? I know I'm not much… well, I actually am way too fucking much. Forget it. I'm full of shit and you already have enough, you don't have to bear with me. We can still kiss from time to time if you want… or not… whatever you want."

"Will you go out with me without liking me?"

"I never said I don't like you. I never thought of the chance and now I can't find any objection. We're practically dating already, we only missed–"

"Pushing our tongues into each other's throats."

"Exactly."

"Does that mean that you won't kiss Eddie again, although he tells you that he's sorry, inexperienced, and that he'll do it better next time?"

"Stanley, no more Eddie," Richie ordered, holding Stan's hand firmer.

"Fine."

This time the silence was more intimate. They were on the bed, looking intensely into the eyes holding hands. Their hearts were beating violently against their chests, a strong blush on their faces. Richie fixed his glasses with shaking hands; he decided it was better to just take them off, and on doing so Stan shuddered.

"Do you like me better with or without the glasses?" It seemed like a casual question but hid all of Richie's insecurities in it.

"Both."

He drew Richie to kiss him making it obviously difficult for him to put his glasses on the nightstand. They kissed with the same hunger and need that they did in the Clubhouse while going down on the bed, lying down. They held onto each other, hands never going under the clothes, not touching dangerous places; they weren't comfortable enough yet. Richie kissed Stan's neck again, allowing himself to suck lightly into an easy-to-hide spot. Stan's moans were the best reward. When by chance, the needy movement of their bodies made them feel their erections rubbing against each other over the clothes they drew apart as if an electric current had hit them.

"Do you– do you have experience?" Stan asked.

Richie had issues, sure, yet he was endearing enough to draw girls' attention and quite the determination to show Derry that he was as straight as a stick. He had some flings, nothing serious, so he never went too far. Therefore, Richie shook his head.

"I don't have either. We're not in a hurry, are we? We can–"

"Research at least. I don't believe that porn could be considered as a faithful portrait of reality."

"Trashmouth."

"Sorry. Want to play some video games to calm down? My parents supplied the kitchen, want something?"

Just like that, they moved to the living room with a too-visible bulge between their legs. They weren't ashamed; some part of them felt proud and confident thanks to that bulge because it meant that they were on the same page, although they tried not to look at each other's dicks. They played games and enjoyed some snacks as usual and the excitement went down on its own. The only difference between that afternoon and any other Richie's video game afternoon was the light brush of their bodies while playing, and that from time to time they kissed. In the middle of one of those kisses, Richie's phone rang with a grating sound.

"Uh… It's Bill. Play it cool."

"It's a phone call."

"Hey, Billy boy, how's the wild wide west?"

"Where the f-f-fuck are you, Richie?"

"Home."

"We ag-g-greed to meet at the Cl-cl-clubhouse!"

"Oh, and I was at the Clubhouse!! I'm positive one of you had already started to eat my m&m's bag and I bet anything on Bevy finding the joint I left. I know you. I've got there the first one, are you aware of how fucking hot it was in there? Dude! Did you really expect me to wait there for-fucking-ever? No way! I came back home and I'm playing games with Stan."

"But we agreed to meet!"

"Hold your horses, cowboy. Look, Mr. and Ms. Tozier are gone for a few days, so I thought we could do a sleepover tomorrow. How does it sound? We meet in the afternoon, eat tons of crap, and see a bunch of movies. Everything is in the comfort of Casa Tozier with my air conditioner. It's a better plan than staying at the Clubhouse."

"F-f-fine. Sounds good." Any trace of the initial anger in Bill's voice was gone now; he always got struck by Richie's quick rant at making plans. "I'll t-t-text the Losers. Do we bring s-s-something?"

"Your presence is good enough for me, my man. And maybe five bucks each to buy pizza, but that's just a suggestion, not a requirement."

"Yes, yes. I'll t-t-tell them."

"Soooooo… I wasn't so bad, huh? Do you think I was too obvious?" Richie asked Stan when he hung out.

"If Bill had been in front of you, yes. Is that way of shaking normal? 'Cause I don't think it is."

"I've freaked out!!"

"I can see that!!" Stan shouted back before laughing and speaking in a softer voice, "I have to go."

"So soon?"

"It's almost seven; my mom will go insane if I'm not home for dinner. If you want me here tomorrow I'll have to leave now."

"Fiiiiiiine. I don't have a choice but to let you go."

Stanley went upstairs to recover the clothing he was wearing that afternoon when he went out; meanwhile, the house cleaned up the place; but when Stan went down again, he found Richie ready to get out.

"Where are you going?"

"I'll drive my boyfriend home." The word made them blush. Stan crossed his arms before Richie, willing to look menacing.

"Do you believe I need an escort to walk a couple of streets?"

"Of course not. I don't want you to leave so I'd rather accompany you and say goodbye at your front door." He mumbled red-faced, without looking at Stan's eyes.

"God, you're adorable. I'll love to, honestly, but I'd rather not do a show for my mom. Come here." He gave Richie a peck and hugged him by the shoulders squeezing him against his body.

"Text me when you're home," Richie murmured to Stan's neck, not wanting to let go.

"As always, Rich."

"True. We're not going to change much in the end, we already behave like an old married couple. I spend my whole time texting the Losers, I text you the most when I'm home alone" He made the Macaulay Culkin face.

"Yeah, you even texted me about your shit routine."

"No! Oh my God! My life is running before my eyes… I made a fool of myself all this time. How can you like someone who texted you talking about the shape of his turds?"

"I do wonder it sometimes. I don't want you to change, though, I like you just the way you are."

"Oww, Stannie… If you liked it so much I'll text you a picture of my turd next time."

"Please don't."

It was hard to say goodbye, but Stan went finally through the door and Richie stayed there, watching him go until he disappeared.

To be continued...

#it stephen king #it andy muschietti #IT FANDOM #it fanfiction #richie tozier #stanley uris #Stozier #stanley uris x richie tozier #fanfiction #fanfic #AO3 Works #eddie kaspbrak

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moth--blood · 2 years ago

Text

//suicide mentions, general IT Chapter2 spoilers

What's the Kindest Way to Say (You Took Away my Friend)

[[ Richie centered reddie angst boys lets go]]

Leaving Derry, Maine as a child was the second hardest thing Richie Tozier never remembered doing. Second only to, of course, leaving the town again in his 40s, with only four of his six friends.

Four of his family left; and he was going home...to no one.

Leaving Eddie Kaspbrak in the well house on Neibolt street was the hardest thing he had ever done and the one thing he wished he could forget. Of course, when you want to forget something, you can only remember. So here he was, on a plane to New York, grieving and alone.

They should have left him.

"He's hurt," Richie had shouted, "we can still help him!"

But no.

No, Eddie Kaspbrak was dead. There was no saving anyone from a wound like that and somewhere inside him, Richie understood that. His friend was gone. Maybe, someday, he'd learn to accept that. Accept that Eddie and Stan were gone; start writing his own material, stop hiding. Maybe someday.

But now? Now, Richie was terrified. The weight of what he did and could've done weighed heavy on his shoulders every time he thought back to Eddie's dying confirmation, or Myra's wails when Beverly broke the news.

He was the one who looked into the deadlights. He was the one who should've died. Not Eddie.

Richie thought back to what he saw in those few moments before disaster. He saw them– everyone who came back to Derry. He saw himself and Eddie — Bill and Mike, Ben and Bev.

They defeated It.

They killed It. It was dead and he saw them alive and happy— and then Eddie threw the spear.

Richie looked into the deadlights. Richie told him the spear could kill monsters.

It was his fault Eddie threw the spear.

It was his fault Eddie died when he did.

It was his fault.

His fault.

His fault—

He thought to Stanley. Would any of this had been different had Stan showed up? If Stan hadn't… done what he did?

Maybe Stan was the turning point. They were always a trio, after all – him, Stan and Eddie.

Richie smiled. They were a trio. Stan, their beacon of common sense; Eddie, their bit of paranoia, and Richie…

His smile fell. He didn't know what he was. All he knew was they liked his company and he appreciated that. A lot more than he should've. And now they were both gone.

Richie sighed and tugged grey fabric farther down his forearms. This wasn't fair. Ben and Bev got their happy ending– Mike was finally getting out of that damn town, Bill finally got his closure for Georgie… And what did Richie get? A dying confirmation that his feelings were reciprocated? What was he going to do with that? Mourn? He can't exactly have a life with a corpse.

...

He should visit Stan. Eddie wouldn't get a proper burial but Stan did. .. It wasn't Richie's fault Stan died. It wasn't Richie's fault they were a duo for a few days.

That unfortunately familiar sting reached his eyes and Richie forced a sigh, shutting them. They really should have left him in that fucking house. At least then they'd be a trio again. At least then he wouldn't have to be alone.

When he first came back to Derry, after 27 years of being by himself, Richie Tozier thought the last thing he'd be doing would be coming home mourning. He'd spent so long by himself, forgetting promises and loves he swore to remember, and now they were all gone. They were gone and the only thing to prove they were ever there was a dead man's hoodie and a knife carving in a bridge.

"R+E"

Leaving Derry as a child was the second hardest thing Richie "Trashmouth" Tozier had ever done, with the first being leaving the first person he'd ever loved in a creepy, crumbling sewer house.

If you asked him at age fourteen what he thought would take that place he would have told you one of two things. In a serious light? "Killing that fucking clown." In a not so serious light? "Trying not to fuck Eddie's mom."

He'd laugh about his answer and Eddie's complaining but they both knew what he meant. At age fourteen his answer would be a vulgar joke that, in their little language, translated to "trying not to love Eddie Kaspbrak."

He wouldn't be lying. It was the hardest thing he'd ever done. The hardest thing he will continue to do.

He wasn't expecting much when he came back to his apartment. Same old depressing gray walls, shelves he never brings himself to dust, stained Craigslist couch, the works. He wouldn't have even thought to check his mail — hell, the only thing Richie wanted to do was to lay down and cry — but Bev's heart filled reminder forced him back outside.

He'd already lost two friends, he wasn't going to disappoint the rest.

Unlocking his sad little box and finding a small envelope left him confused at best. Had Bev sent him something? How'd she find his address? Actually, dumb question. From Mike… probably.

Stan's neat, small handwriting placed carefully on the front was the last thing Richie expected. He didn't bother reading whatever Stanley had put on the envelope, shutting his mailbox with more force than necessary and speed walking back to his apartment. He debated even opening the damn thing- the last thing he needed to read was Stan's suicide note. Or, even worse, a second dying confession.

After sitting and staring at the unopened note for what seemed like hours Richie sighed, tearing the top open. It might help him feel better, in a weird way of closure.

The sight of Stan's small script, just the same as when they were kids, was almost enough to make Richie lose what little composure he had.

Dear Losers,

The letter read. Fuck, two words and that stupid sting was already back in Richie's eyes.

I know what this may seem like, but this isn't a suicide note. You're probably wondering why I did what I did.

Yeah, no shit, Richie thought.

It's because I knew I was too scared to go back. And if we weren't together, if all of us alive weren't united, I knew we'd all die.

So, I made the only logical move. I took myself off the board.

… Oh. Richie didn't bother stopping the globs of tears starting to fall from his eyes. He didn't even feel them, just the burning of his sinuses and painful release and restart of pressure behind his eyes.

Did it work? The script almost taunted him.

Well, if you're reading this, you know the answer. I lived my whole life afraid. Afraid of what would come next. Afraid of what I might leave behind.

You left your wife behind, Richie distantly thought, you left me behind.

Don't. Be who you wanna be. Be proud.

More tears, that Richie felt, slid down his red cheeks.

And if you find someone worth holding onto, never ever let them go. Follow your own path, no matter where it takes you.

Think of this letter as a promise. A promise I'm asking you to make. To me. To each other. An oath.

See, the thing about being a loser is you don't have anything to lose. So, be true. Be brave. Stand.

Be Proud. Be true, be brave. Richie didn't think he was ever any of those things.

Believe, and don't ever forget we're Losers and we always will be.

~ Stan Uris.

Richie stared at that note for ten minutes, unmoving, before his phone rang. He knew from the ringtone it was his agent and he declined it. He couldn't deal with that shit right now.

He ignored seven more calls from his agent that day. He stayed cooped up in his depressing house with Eddie's hoodie and Stan's stupid note. He didn't know how many times he read it. He stopped counting after six, and it had been three days since then.

Bev had called the day before. Richie could hear Ben in a meeting in the background and all he could think about was how that should be Eddie or Stan. He loved Ben, and hearing Bev's sweet voice was a much needed interruption to his brooding, but he missed Stan and loved Eddie in a different way than he could ever love or miss a person again. Mindless lovesick confessions were sent to Eddie's phone number, and though he knew they'd never be read a tiny voice in Richie's mind told him this was wrong. Eddie didn't mean what Richie thought he meant. Why would he? Who would love the trashmouth who got them impaled? Not Eddie Kaspbrak, that's for sure. Eddie Kaspbrak had standards, standards that Richie couldn't fit if he tried. Eddie didn't love him. He didn't.

Richie didn't even love himself, why would Eddie?

… Actually, now that he thought about it for over two seconds, Eddie loving him even though it made zero sense.. made sense. That was how Eddie always worked, in ways that Richie couldn't understand. It was part of what Richie had loved about him since fourteen.

Okay, so Eddie loved him… what the hell was he meant to do now? He had been mourning. He had been pining for and longing after a relationship that couldn't happen since they were in middle school. Even if he wanted a distraction, his mind just raced back to Eddie. He could read the note again but hearing a "be who you wanna be! I'll love you regardless!" from Stan almost two weeks after he died would only make him spiral more. What could he even do with that now, tell him? Like, "thanks, Stan! I can tell your spirit I'm gay in confidence!"? He could vent to the others about how much he missed Eddie, but that would only depress them.

They got their happy endings. Richie wasn't gonna fuck that up for them. They were all mourning, they had all lost something when Eddie threw that spear. They missed him too, they didn't need another reminder he was gone.

Richie felt like he was that reminder.

He was a walking, breathing reminder that Eddie was dead. They didn't need a reminder from the reminder.

Ignoring yet another call from his agent Richie sighed. Maybe if he wished hard enough, Pennywise would come back and take him too. He knew it wouldn't happen, but that wouldn't stop him from trying.

"I'm sorry I called you a sloppy bitch, can you come and kill me now? I won't even complain if you milk that Betty Ripsom thing!" He hoarsely offered to his walls. The concept of his personal grim reaper however wasn't a fan, and didn't respond.

I know what this may seem like, but this isn't a suicide note.

Did Stan… leave a suicide note? It was nowhere near his business but a part of him wanted to know. A part of him wanted to read it.

He thought back to the first time they went in that house. When he found his missing posters. He wonders if it ever clicked for the others that he was never scared of just going missing.

That same little part of his brain wondered if Stan went fast. If it hurt. If Richie could manage the same wounds on himself. Richie's eyes flicker across the hall to his bathroom before they close. A bath did sound nice… Beverly always said baths made her feel better.

That night Richie, Stanley and Eddie sat under the old oak tree by the Derry river. All age fourteen, not a fear in the world.

Richie's head lay between the two boy's laps, staring up at the shaking leaves several feet above him. He glances at his friends and smiles.

"I fuckin' love you guys," he says.

Eddie smiles and Stan shakes his head lightly.

"We love you too, Rich," Eddie hums.

"Beep-beep, moron," Stan says, lightly flicking Richie's forehead.

Richie grins. He's never felt more safe in his life.

"Beep-beep yourself, asshole."

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beseriouslywilde · 1 year ago

Text

I Could Sleep When I Lived Alone

“Do you know if there’s some unfinished business or— when do you…” Richie gestured vaguely. “Stop being here?”

IT (Stephen King)

Richie & Stan, Richie Tozier and Stanley Uris

(Ghosts, grieving, paranormal, friends, hurt/comfort, angst, 2278 words)

***

Half of Richie’s brain was constantly screaming at him to leave.

Leave his room, leave his house, leave the neighbourhood, leave town.

But the dumber, more emotional part of him was always begging to stay.

He closed his eyes and rolled over, it was too late in the night to be dealing with existential dread, he could discuss it all with his therapist a few days later, he didn’t have to think about it at 3 am, which is when it always seemed to happen.

When the still air in his old house would stir, and Richie would lay in bed and pray to go to sleep, mumbling under his breath the lyrics to his favourite songs to calm his racing heart.

Because after 27 years of not remembering the horrible things he’d lived through as a child, having all of it flood back to him within a week meant he was a bit behind on the therapy.

Needless to say, his brain was his enemy. Really, it always had been, telling him he was wrong, gross, sinful.

But it was nights like these that were the worst.

When Richie could have sworn there was Something there, lurking in the shadows.

He wanted to call Bill. He wanted to call Bev, Ben, Mike, they were all out of town, living their lives like normal people, writing books, building houses, visiting fricking Florida, and Richie was stuck in Derry with his trauma and his loneliness, just because part of him didn’t want to leave.

Because that part of him wanted to call Eddie.

Eddie Kaspbrak, who Richie watched die in the basement of the Neibolt house.

Richie jumped at the noise of the ancient furnace turning on in the basement, he hugged the bedsheets closer to himself, taking a deep breath.

“Notrealnotrealnotreal.” He muttered like a chant, it was familiar in a gut wrenching way that made him want to throw up.

His eyes were squeezed tight, with his face pinched with invisible pain.

He wanted to cry, scream, die, anything. He just wanted the house to stop seeming too empty.

Because if it was too empty it felt like there was someone there, and he really, really couldn’t deal with that.

Despite being almost frozen with fear, he reached out from under the blanket as quickly as he could to flick on his bedside lamp.

It illuminated the small room with a flash, boxes both emptied and unopened alike littered the space, casting shadows that he scanned with panicked, unblinking eyes.

When it seemed like there was nothing, he let out another deep breath, restarting his chorus of ‘not real’s.

Around him, the bedsheet seemed too tight, and the walls seemed too close, and the lamp just wasn’t bright enough.

He kicked the sheet off of himself, and stepped off the bed cautiously, grabbing his empty water glass from the bedside table.

Richie felt awkward, his cold bare feet tensed on top of the laminated wood floor, sitting at the edge of his bed, contemplating ignoring the screaming in his chest and going back to sleep, or blocking out the way his hand was jittering at the thought of going downstairs for more water.

In an act of courage, he stood up on uneasy legs, stepping numbly through the mess on his bedroom floor, and down the stairs into the kitchen, turning on all of the lights on his way down.

He checked over his shoulder as he made his way to the tap, turning his attention from his surroundings, then to the sink, then back, in a loop until his cup was full.

The entire time, Richie didn’t stop mumbling ‘not real’, to the point where it sounded more like “Noreel”.

If he repeated it enough he could convince himself it was true, that’s how it worked with IT, and that was how it was going to work with his fears, he was sure.

If he was sure he wouldn’t be awake at such an early hour stressed out about an empty house.

Richie shook his head, he took another breath and continued whispering, raising his voice slightly, since there was no one there to hear him.

He closed his eyes and took a sip of water, it felt cool down his dry throat and helped to quell the feeling of bile rising.

His eyes shot open the moment he heard a sound from behind him.

He gripped the counter with his free hand, torn halfway between facing the noise or just letting it happen behind him.

“Damn.” He heard whispered behind him, raising the hair on the back of Richie’s neck.

Richie froze completely, with his eyes shut so tight it hurt, though his hand must have loosened, since the next thing he knew the full water glass was slipping from his fingers and crashing onto the kitchen floor.

“Seriously?” The Voice asked rhetorically, with a hint of annoyance and amusement.

In his peril Richie almost didn’t notice how familiar it sounded, because the last time that voice had spoken to him in the same way was when they were only 13 years old. Luckily, Richie’s mind was familiar enough with fear to register it.

Without thinking, Richie spun himself around, his foot getting soaked in the water from the smashed glass on the floor and his eyes open wide, staring with confusion in front of him.

“Careful, Rich.” Stan said, wincing at how close Richie’s foot was to the glass shards.

Richie blinked, fully confused, fully astonished, fully concerned.

The emotional half of him wanted to cry.

The other half wanted to run, to wake up from whatever nightmare he was having, wanted to know exactly what was going on.

Stanley effing Uris on the other hand, didn’t seem at all startled to be dead and in Richie’s house. He walked over to the fridge with a misplaced grace, and threw it open, scowling.

“You’re out of milk.”

Richie watched Stanley sift through the contents of his refrigerator.

“Why don’t you have milk? I told you to buy milk, you’ve been out of it for a week.”

“I didn’t think about it.” Richie shrugged casually.

Then blinked.

Then froze on the spot.

So did Stan.

“What?” He looked over at Richie, slamming the fridge door shut.

“I… I didn’t think about it.” Richie repeated, his voice faltering.

“What?” Stan said again.

“I didn’t think about-”

“You can hear me?”

Richie stared, stunned, and nodded slowly.

“Jesus Christ.” Stanley said, mortified.

“You’re jewish.” Richie pointed out.

“You’re talking to a ghost in your kitchen and that’s what you think to say?”

“You’re a ghost?” Richie asked stupidly.

“What else would I be? I’m dead.” Stan ran his fingers through his curls frantically, pacing in a tiny circle in front of the fridge.

Richie shifted his weight from foot to foot, not taking his eyes off of Stanley Uris, ghost.

“My god.” Richie said, staring at his old friend, taking in his scars, his face, his height, his hair, his clothes. “You’re older.”

“So are you.”

“You would have known that if you had shown up.” Richie’s voice held a lot more venom than he’d intended.

Stan’s face fell into a morose frown. “Look, Rich, I’m sorry-”

“No, no, I’m sorry Stan.” Richie said aggressively. “I just… I needed you there. You promised you would be there.”

“I know, Rich-”

“Do you have the scar?” Richie asked.

Stan brought up a hand to run a finger along the small scars spread out around his face.

“Not that one,” Richie didn’t mean to remind Stanley of that happening. Ghost or not, he was still apparently Stan. “The hand.”

Stanley dropped his eyes to his palm, where he traced the crease carefully.

“It never went away.”

Richie sighed. “I’m really sorry.”

“Why?”

“I didn’t mean to bring that all up, but… we could have really used you, man.”

Stanley smiled, “You did it though, beat It.”

“We did.”

“I’m sorry about Eddie…” Stan trailed off.

“It’s- yeah, it’s- thanks.”

Richie willed himself to wake up, he didn’t want this dream to go any further, he wasn’t sure if he could handle the false hope.

When it seemingly didn’t work he pinched the inside of his wrist, but not very discreetly, Stanley noticed but kept his thoughts to himself.

“Why are you here?” Richie asked after pinching himself proved painful.

Stan shrugged, “It’s my hometown… and I feel bad for not showing up, but I still wanted to be here, I just knew that I couldn’t. I would never be able to handle it and I would bring everyone down.” “I got your letter.”

“I know.”

“But really, why not haunt your wife?”

Stan smiled, “I don’t think I can. I didn’t try to come here, it just sort of happened. Lets me look out for you, though.”

“Look out for me?”

“Notes,” Stan gestured to the fridge, covered in Sticky Notes in Richie’s messy handwriting.

“Those are yours?” Richie asked. Most of them he didn’t remember writing, always assumed it had just been nights like this when he’d been far too tired to form coherent memories.

“Yep.” Stan plucked one off the fridge door, holding it in his hands.

“You possessed me?”

Stanley laughed. “I don’t think I can do that, no.” He twirled the sticky note in his fingers. “I’m pretty much entirely corporeal.”

“You can hear me? Talk to me? Touch things?... Are you even dead?” Richie asked with a hopeful lilt in his voice.

“I’m dead.” Stan said, his voice taking a darker tone. “I’m dead, Rich, okay?”

“But you seem basically alive-”

“I’m dead.” Stanley repeated. The bags beneath his eyes darkened against his suddenly pale, sunken cheeks. His curls clumped together with phantom water, dripping down his nose and chin.

Thin routes of red made their way across the fabric of his sleeves, meeting his elbow and dripping down against the kitchen floor, splattering with the dark, beading texture of blood.

Richie blinked at the sight before him, his friend, dead, talking to him in his kitchen.

Before he was finished processing the scene before him, Stanley’s face had regained some of its brightness and he was raking a hand through his wet hair.

“Sorry.” He said in much too small of a voice, a voice that knew the exact horror of what it had just exhibited. “I don’t like doing that.”

“You’re all wet.”

“It’s how I died.” Stan picked at the button on his shirt, which was still drenched.

“In the bath? With your clothes on?”

Stan shook his head. “I’m gonna need another pair of clothes. These ones are kind of… wrecked.” He gestured to the bloodstains blooming along the sleeves.

“So you can wear clothes?”

“It’s murky, I know. But yeah, I can wear clothes, I can touch stuff, I can talk, but I’m dead.”

Stanley pulled the sleeve of his shirt down timidly, a wince written on his face.

“Does it hurt?”

Stan nodded minutely, almost afraid to admit.

“It always hurts. But the blood… it… reminds me.” He looked down, averting his eyes from Richie’s and catching sight of the ground. “Shit, I’ll clean this all up.”

He walked past Richie, never coming too close to him and pulling as far away as possible almost immediately with paper towels in hand.

“Ghost blood.” Richie remarked.

Stan laughed gently as he bent down to wipe the tile gently.

“So, if they came and did a sample on the ghost blood, would it show up as yours? How’s that supposed to work?”

Stan paused for a moment, “No, it would probably not work, or they might not even be able to see the blood. Sometimes I can do that.”

“Sometimes?”

“Sometimes. Being occult isn’t very organised. I didn’t get a Handbook For The Recently Deceased or anything. I’m just stuck with my limited horror film knowledge and estout intellect.”

“Right.” Richie passed Stan some bleach. “Just in case you want to make sure it’s clean.”

Stan took it gratefully, still avoiding Richie’s touch.

He knelt down next to Stan, putting the smallest distance between them of the entire time.

“So, anyways, I’m not sure why I’m here, it sort of happened, I made my way here, half through some ghost-teleportation –Which was honestly cool as hell– and some fumbling around with a lot of phone books, none of which you were in, then asking around until I was brought here.”

“Casa Tozier.”

“Except I’ve been living here as long as you have.”

“Well… living is debatable.”

Richie half expected Stan to roll his eyes or curse his name, smite him, etc.

Could ghosts smite? It’s quite odd when the ghost doesn’t even know what the ghost can do.

Instead, Stanley smiled a small, friendly smile. The type Richie had grown out of being on the receiving end of.

“Fine, I moved in a few days after you, sort of, I’ve been staying here at night.”

“What about during the day?”

Stan’s smile dropped off instantly. “Cemetery, sometimes.”

“Cemetery?” Ghosts revert back to cemeteries? Even the ones they weren’t buried in?

“The cemetery. Derry cemetery.”

“I got that, but why?”

Stan shrugged. “I get to look around.”

“Oh.” Richie wasn’t quite sure what it meant. But clearly it was something. A big something that Stan seemed torn about talking through.

“If I’d stayed would I be here now? Would I be like this?” Stan cast a glance down at his bloodstained shirt.

“I don’t know.” Richie moved closer to him on the ground, still a few inches between them. “If you’d stayed would I even be alive? It would have changed everything.”

“Well, at least one of us is still here. Physically, I mean.”

“Do you know if there’s some unfinished business or— when do you…” Richie gestured vaguely. “Stop being here?”

“That’s a good question.” Stan shrugged. “I wish I knew the answer. Being dead sucks. I thought that maybe it would be easier, that I wouldn’t have to worry about any of this any more, that there wouldn’t be anything for me to worry about, but… it’s all I do. Still. What was it you used to call me? And the kids at school? Urine? Stanley Urine? Inventive and accurate.”

“Stan, I didn’t mean it.”

“I know you didn’t. But the others did, they always did. And they were right, because look at me. I’m fucking dead, and I’m a mess, and I’m stressed out—“

“Take a breather, man.” Richie said placatingly. “Or— don’t? Do you breathe? Nevermind. Not important. Chill out. There we go.”

Stan did his best, a deep breath in, exaggerated so that Richie could tell.

“I think I’m here to say sorry.” He said after a moment of quiet. “Like, really. Really apologise, complete truth, say it all. And say that I’m sorry.”

“I know you’re sorry, man.”

“No. You can know that, but it’s not the same. I’m sorry. Like, really, really sorry. I’m so fucking sorry for everything that’s happened, and I’m sorry I died, and that I even had to, I’m sorry that Eddie died, I’m sorry that you’re staying in this huge ass house all by yourself and that— that none of it’s my fault. Well, most. The other bits, that aren’t me dying. I’m sorry. And I’m sorry that me saying sorry won’t fix all of this shit.”

Richie sat, his eyes on Stan’s.

“Shit.” Richie said, half astonished.

“Shit.”

“That was a lot.”

“I had a lot to say.” Stan looked down at his hands, tracing once more over the raised scar on his palm.

“I forgive you, by the way. I think it’s not your fault, but I forgive you.”

“Thank you.”

“I don’t know if it’s enough to get you out of this limbo, but I hope it’s enough.”

“And… what about you?”

“Me?”

“What’ll you do?”

Richie scoffed. “Live, I guess.”

“And I hope that you live the best fucking life. You should… talk to someone, anyone, Bill, Bev, Mike, Ben, whatever. It doesn’t even have to be one of them, talk to someone else, just… don’t be alone. Not like you’ve been for so long. And I’m sorry I never said anything sooner, I didn’t think it would work, and I didn’t think you needed it. But you do, Rich. I want you to be okay, and I know what it’s like not to be.”

“Thank you.” Richie said softly. “Thank you.”

He wasn’t sure when he fell asleep, but when he woke up, laying in his bed as the sun peeked in through the windows, there was a lightness Richie hadn’t felt in ages.

#it #stephen king #it stephen king #it film #richie tozier #stanley uris #whump fic #fic #full fanfic #fanfiction #it fanfiction #hurt comfort #ghosts #paranormal

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