#he’s like. late twenties early thirties here i think so streaks of grey

[ashpkat]

that one relationship dynamic meme

[the-archangel]

Cyberpunk 2090

I couldn't shake the idea that I needed to know where all my boys were a few years down the line, so I went and found out!

The man leans over his balcony overlooking the neon and stench of Night City from a sanitary distance. The grey flecks in his beard put him maybe late thirties, early forties but his eyes, beautiful and gold ringed though they are, seem those of a much older man who’s endured many hard lives.  He blows a steady stream of cigarette smoke down towards the moving lights below, it’s a habit he picked up pretty late in life and knows he should kick, he will one day.

He feels like he’s been waiting forever, waiting to escape from home, waiting for the good shit to finally happen, waiting to be saved, waiting for ‘the one’. Right now he’s waiting for a cab to take him to the airport so that he can get back to ‘the one’ and have him in his arms again.

He’d been against the idea at first, a new procedure that regenerated every cell in your body thereby reversing the signs of aging, it sounded suspiciously like something he’d been through himself and not enjoyed one bit and it had taken six months of constant care for him to be anything like healthy again, but Kerry had insisted he wanted it done, ever the vain  (amazing, lovable, breathtaking) asshole, he booked himself into the clinic in Texas and that was that, conversation over.

Vince wanted to join him obviously, insisted in fact, but circumstances intervened as usual and after only two days in Dallas there was a call that dragged him back to the City, Mama Welles – Guadalupe – was gravely ill and asking for him. Living out your natural span with nothing added or taken away was rare in Night City, Mama had beaten the odds and died on her own terms with Vince holding tightly to her hand. Vince – he’d left V behind ten years ago when he and Kerry married – organised everything, the funeral, the ofrenda, even the sale of the bar. The Coyote had been left to him of course, but it wasn’t a responsibility he felt ready to take on, so it was in Valentino hands now, he’d still be welcome of course, but doubted he’d ever return as he left with Vik that last time.

Sitting beside his old friend as they return to Little China, Vince looks at the rain-streaked City on the other side of his window marvelling how it’s hardly changed at all in the twenty plus years he’s been here, yet he himself could not have changed more. “How long’s it been?” Vik’s rich voice stirs him from his thoughts.

“Hmm?”

“Since he’s been away?”

“Oh, nearly two weeks.”

“When’s he back?”

“Still a few more days, it all went OK but he’s not as young as he thinks he is and it’s taking a toll. Kim’s pretty worried, I’ll probably make my way back out there in the morning.”

Vik looks over at the other man, noting the dark stains under his eyes and the fine lines which seem to have appeared out of nowhere over the last week or so. “I’m not sure that’s such a good idea V,” Vik being the only one who got away with still calling him that, “take some time for yourself, you’re exhausted. I’ll call the clinic in the morning, get them to spill and let you know.”

“Ugh, you might be right, feel like I could sleep for a week. OK fine, but if there’s anything wrong I’m on the next flight to Texas.”

“Course you are kid,” agrees Vik patting his shoulder.

-

Vik had been as good as his word and had called earlier this morning telling Vince not to panic, everything was going to be fine, but the treatment had knocked Kerry for six and he was still pretty weak and out of it – the flight had been booked before the doc had finished speaking.

-

Some hours later, Kim rushes out to meet Vince at the front of the clinic, “Thank God you’re here…”

Alarmed, Vince grabs the woman’s elbow and turns her towards him, “Why, shit Kim what’s happened?”

“Sheesh Vince, calm down, he’s fine, just hasn’t stopped complaining and fussing since I told him you were coming back.”

“So…he’s feeling better?”

“I think that’s fair to say, he’s got all the nurses fawning over him, he’s even got the physiotherapist bringing him coffee!”

Vince wraps Kim into a much-needed hug, “I hated being away from him, longest two weeks of my life, thanks for staying with him.”

“No need to thank me, he’s still my dad no matter what gonk things he’s done. Don’t think he’d’ve wanted you to see him like that anyway, all the tubes and machines…”

They hug a little tighter for a moment then head inside arm in arm taking the elevator to the private room on the top floor. Sterile white rooms always send a shiver through Vince and this one’s no different, so he distracts himself by focusing on the sleeping figure in the bed at the end of the room, bending to stroke his cheek and whisper, “I’m back Ker baby,” into his mainline’s ear.

A bright-blue eye groggily opens and investigates his face, “Bout fucking time, been going stir-crazy in here.” Then that (literally) million Eddie smile lights up his face, “Shit Vince it’s good to see you,” he pulls his man in by the shirt for a soft kiss, “when can we delta from this hell-hole?”

“…You mean from this billion Eddie facility with state-of-the-art equipment that you chose to come to because you’re a vain, arrogant bastard?”

Kerry closes his eye and groans, Vince rests his head on Kerry’s chest whispering profanities under his breath, only Kim looks up from the magazine she was reading, “Uncle Johnny, what’re you doing here?”

-

The grounds of the clinic are more like a park than a garden and Vince pushes Kerry – using a wheelchair only for effect he insists – under the canopy of the trees and takes a seat on a bench, closely followed by Kim and Johnny who’ve been following along chatting animatedly.

Johnny, it turns out, had been in Texas anyway visiting his sister’s family (his sister herself having passed away twenty years since, as had many of the people he’d once been close to) when he got a message from Ted, who he got along famously with unsurprisingly, telling him that his dad was at a facility less than ninety miles from where he was staying. Whether Ted had done it to mess with them all they’d never know – this seemed quite likely to Vince who never quite clicked with Ted – but here he was.

The relationship between the two rockers was better than it had been when Johnny had first returned to his body, it had taken years but now it could be described as cool but cordial. He and Vince still worked together, though they got on each other’s nerves a lot more than they used to, Vince had left him in charge of the club on a few occasions, it never ended well.

“So Ker, finally ran out of the blood of virgins and had to try something else? How’s that been working out for ya?” Johnny snides.

Stopping Vince from getting in Johnny’s face with a gentle but determined hand on his thigh, Kerry slaps on his best smile, “Just fine Johnny, feelin’ ten, hell twenty years younger. Maybe you should give it a go yourself, beginning to look a bit rough around the edges.”

Johnny gives his old friend a look over the top of his still ever-present shades. He looks every inch the man in his mid-fifties that he is (kind of), as much grey as black in his hair and weather-worn lines on his face, but his hazel eyes still sparkle with mischief. “If I ever get vain enough for that shit, you have my permission to shoot me in the head and put me out of my misery.”

Vince makes a mental note, he’s wanted to shoot Johnny in the head countless times over the last few years so he silently calls dibs.

Other than getting sub-dermal armour after being shot in the good shoulder over ten years ago, Johnny has resisted the urge to enhance (compromise) his body in any way. The thought of having a limb removed on purpose and replaced with tech repulses him and the idea of having his eyes replaced with Kiroshis makes him feel physically sick. No amount of cajoling by Vince to get the latest implants and enhance his skills will ever convince him and, to be fair, he gets along pretty well with what he’s got, Johnny has every intention of going the same way as Mama Welles, in bed after a natural span, give or take fifty years that don’t really count since he wasn’t technically alive.

He must admit, Kerry is looking good, glowing skin, thick silver hair, experience rather than years lining his lean face, the eyes are still wrong, but he’s kinda getting used to them, if he wants to spend his Eddies on living a couple of extra decades then why not? He’s got a lot to live for, Kim and her kids live in the City and visit pretty often, he’s on a better footing with Ted than he’s been for years, the last two volumes of him memoirs were best sellers and he’s working on the third volume and of course there’s Vince.

Over the nearly thirteen years they’ve been together, the last ten of them as husbands, the longest they’ve been apart was 17 days. Back in the late 70’s when Kerry still toured, he went on a six month long world tour leaving Vince at home running the Afterlife. They’d both agreed that it was the best idea, they’d been in each other’s pockets for the last 18 months, some breathing space would do them good and anyway the public life of a Rock star’s output was not something that Vince aspired to particularly. The first week Kerry called every night just before and just after the show excitedly regaling Vince with back stage gossip and tour goings on, the second week they were pretty much on the holo to each other for ten or more hours on any given day, after fifteen days Vince booked a flight to Japan, set off on the sixteenth day, arrived on the seventeenth day and they hadn’t been apart for more than a couple of days since, well not until two weeks ago.

Their devotion to each other was absolute. When the world found out about their relationship and V’s face was suddenly all over the sreamsheets they turned it to their advantage, Vince even getting a brief but glorious modelling career out of it, it was only cut short by the next scandal, beloved Kerry Eurodyne was marrying a merc! A hired killer! But still their devotion could not be swayed, Kerry insisted that Vince be at every appearance and interview he did so that the world could see what a sweet, kind, wonderful man he was marrying, it kind of worked, the horrifying murderer angle was dropped in favour of him being a money-grabbing gold-digger. It was about then that they gave up, refusing to be interviewed, photos only for fans, Kerry gave up promotion and touring not long afterwards, hell he could do what he wanted, he owned the label and Vince was his manager, still is.

That’s not to say that the music dried up, an album still dropped every few years, some better received than others and none as well-reviewed as his self-titled album of ’78, but the overall view was positive. Fans still clamoured for tickets to the increasingly rare small, intimate, one-off shows he occasionally did when the urge to perform could no longer be contained, though it was unlikely he would be doing any more any time soon.

“When do you need to get back?” Vince asks Johnny conversationally.

“Don’t, seen who I need to see thought I’d hang with you guys for a couple of days and fly back with you.”

Kerry and Vince exchange a look, they are really never going to be able to get rid of fucking Johnny Silverhand.

[fereldenturnip]

But Don’t You Ever Let Me Go

Primo Nizzuto/Majid Zamari Sugar Daddy Fic

Part 1 / ?

(Part 2)

Dedicated to @ournextdoorneighbor

Signor Don Primo Nizzuto is a man of great talent and grave importance. 

The man singlehandedly brought the entirety of Southern Italy under his thumb before the age of thirty. Towns simultaneously hail Primo a hero, then quake at his passing shadow. He has only known Primo for all of three days and here he is, under the warm Mediterranean sun, offering Majid his own vineyard with a bat of his eyes. As if he has several already and gifting them away to strangers is just another Tuesday. 

They loop around the hilly fields, dallying through rows of burgeoning grape plants. Primo, his personal tour guide, comes to a halt in front of one particular bush. In the shade, his fingers trail along gnarled branches and pluck a ripe, dark fruit off the vine. He presents it to Majid with a smile, and he feels a lot like Persephone eating the pomegranate. 

Twenty-four year old Majid Zamari is no man’s fool, and he knows power and danger when he sees it.

Majid has done this same song and dance before. It nearly got him killed. After a three-month stint rebuilding his broken body, Majid left the hospital and fled from the cold-grey gloom of the Netherlands. He made a new home in Rome, learned the language, got a real job, and swore to himself he’d never fall for the same tricks again.

Somewhere in his early to mid-fifties, Primo exudes a predatory aura that’s tempered with genuine interest. He tugs another fruit and gleefully tosses it in the air to catch in his mouth. Easy on the eyes, his floppy hair is streaked with grey, as is the manicured goatee on his square face. The colour of his eyes oscillate between green, blue, and grey depending on his mood. Green like a care-free spring day. Grey like hardened steel set to strike. Majid sees green directed at him more often than not. 

Coming under Primo’s radar was a fluke. Shaking the man’s hand and spending time with him was, honest-to-God, not Majid’s original intention. But Primo is no Hakan. He doesn't hide behind a fatherly veneer and withhold his affection when disappointed. Charming though he may be, Primo’s brand of violence is centre stage for all to see and Majid to marvel at. 

While Majid can appreciate that honest, no-strings-attached personality, he's weary nonetheless. One burn is more than enough to keep his hands from the flames.

They amble back up to the villa, the tall cypress trees casting long shadows--it’s getting late and there’s still the long drive back to Rome to look forward to. Majid digs his hands into his jean pockets, suddenly regretting not snagging his jacket on the way out. Primo leads them up the patio staircase with the terrace overlooking his domain. 

“I was serious,” Primo chuffs, “It’ll be easy transferring the deed into your name.”

Majid shrugs, scratching his head. He’s been thinking about growing his hair out again, really embracing the change. It’s so easy to imagine himself standing here, hair long and casual, barefooted and sipping coffee. Every morning a true treat, a real dream come true… 

…If he deserved it.  

"Thank you, Signor Nizzuto, but I'm afraid vineyards are rather useless to a Muslim." Liar, he thinks, you're a good Muslim like Primo Nizzuto is a good Catholic. Just two wolves in sheeps' clothing. All they’re good for is blood and violence.

Primo leans back on his elbows over the railing, the gorgeous Italian countryside a stunning backdrop. His salt-and-pepper hair is haloed by gold fields, green trees, and blue skies. The man squints, surely thinking something devious, then brooms it all away to smirk at Majid. 

"Alright, I understand," Primo says magnanimously. Majid doesn’t sigh in relief. "My driver can deliver you back to your flat, unless I can't... tempt you further?" A piercing, heated look. Although Majid is taller than him, he nevertheless feels small under the Don’s keen gaze. He braces himself and, oh Primo could certainly try, but at what cost? 

Majid shakes his head. The man stands and brushes his bespoke suit clean, spotless and breathtaking as the day he met him underneath the arches of the Basilica of Santa Maria in Trastevere. Fortuitous fortune or catastrophic calamity? The jury is still out on that one. Majid’s hesitancy is just due-diligence. 

"Until next time," Primo tips his head and saunters away, only to return with a lascivious quip, “and please, call me Primo.” 

Heels click, fading away on Tuscan marble. Majid’s lips thin. Of course there'll be a next time. Sharks can't stay away once they've sniffed blood in the water.

****

What Primo wants, Primo gets. 

Through any means necessary, even fire and blood. Satisfaction is not a delayed gratification when you own half a country. 

Thirty years. That’s how long it’s taken to build his mighty empire, and he sits high and mighty on his throne. Some would say it's assembled from the skulls of his enemies, innocent and evil. Primo scoffs at such triteness. He's earned his place at the top of the food chain, fair and square. 

So when a sweet thing like Majid comes along, all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, Primo wants. He wants all of him, and not the ‘naïve foreigner’ façade Majid’s keen on exuding to the rest of the world.  

Those sombre eyes of his are exquisite, wrought with pain and suffering that peaks Primo’s insatiable curiosity. Just what exactly is the boy hiding behind those inky depths? Still waters run deep. The young man may have fooled everyone else (possibly even himself), but Primo’s been playing this game longer than Majid’s been alive. He can sense the violence, can feel the feral nature buzzing beneath that supple young skin of his (and what an attractive thing he is to behold). 

There lies an entirely different person and Primo chomps at the bit to meet him. Primo wants to electrify him, make the blood in his veins sing, wind him up and watch him go because he can already picture just how beautiful Majid would look bathed in sweat, come, and blood. 

So, when Majid denies him, Primo should feel frustrated. He should demand and take, break him over a hard surface until he's howling for release, as is his due as King Shit on the Mountain. 

He, in fact, does the opposite. He walks away. See? An old dog can learn new tricks. 

Majid is a welcome challenge. One Primo never knew he missed until he left him standing by his lonesome on an open terrace. For the first time in his long life, Primo thrills for The Hunt. He'll have Majid. One day. 

Patience is a virtue, Nizzuto. Majid will come begging, and then he'll beg to come.

[thelazyeye]

'Ghosts don't exist' Stanlon (no one dies, leave my boys alone)

I’m so sorry this took me literally a month to write. But here you go. Some Stanlon Ghosts

Read on A03 the formatting is better there

Tag List:

@richardtoz @aizeninlefox @chocolatemangoose @godtozier@jem-carstairs-is-perfection  @studpuffin @oldguybones @its-stranger-than-you-think @reddiepop

“Stan, come on! Please! You know I’ve been dying to do this!”

“Then do it by yourself.”

“No way! You know it’s always so much better if there’s more people.”

“Lay off, Richie. I’m not going with you.”

“Don’t make me get on my knees and beg, Stan. We all know you’d rather have Mike down there than me.”

“You are on thin fucking ice.”

“Come on! We all know how this is gonna end. We’re gonna bicker for twenty minutes and you’re going to give in. Let’s just cut the shit early. What do you say?”

“No. Fuck you.”

“Come on! Mikey, help a boy out!”

Mike looks over from his place on the couch to where the two boys are standing. Stan is leaning against the wall while Richie is practically tearing his hair out in desperation. Mike offers no more than a shrug at them both, keeping his vow to stay out of it. If Stan agreed to go Mike would go. But if Stan said no they were going to stick to the plan on watching B-list horror movies with the others until everyone passes out.

“Fuck you, too, Hanlon.” Richie shoots before turning his attention back to Stan. His light tone betrays his harsh words. Richie is nothing but jokes and unabashed love for his friends. And stubbornness. Which is how they’ve ended up in this situation: Richie begging Stan to explore an old, supposedly haunted house with him while Stan adamantly refuses.

“Richie, give up. This is a stupid idea and we all know it. We could get hurt!”

“I’m going no matter what, Stan. It’s just your choice of whether or not you want to be there to help me when I inevitably fall through the floor.”

It was a low blow and they both knew it. Stan, despite his standoffish nature, is extremely protective of his friends. He would rather do something he knows he’d hate than watch one of his friends get hurt.

And just like that, Richie wins the battle.

At a quarter to midnight the three boys find themselves walking along Neibolt street to the old, abandoned house near the trainyard.

“Rumor has it this is the house where Bob Grey killed all of his victims back in 1989,” Richie says from his spot between Mike and Stan. “They caught him on Halloween night, exactly 29 years ago. It’s kind of funny that we’re going there tonight. I mean, its 29 Neibolt street and it’s the 29th anniversary of his death.”

“Shut the fuck up, Richie. Nothing about this is funny,” Stan cuts. He can feel his nerves creeping in the closer he gets to that damn house. Everything about it is freaky, even during the day. The windows are all boarded up and the outside is practically falling apart. He doesn’t want to know what the inside looks like but he’s going to find out anyway.

“One of the kids was Denbrough’s older brother, George.” Richie continues, unphased by Stan. “Grey killed him when he was only six and Bill was nothing more than a twinkle in his father’s eye.”

Mike groans from the left before delivering a quick elbow to Richie’s ribs. Richie just staggers and grunts in response before pressing on. “They say that when they caught Grey they found all kinds of fucked up shit in his house. There were bones in the basement and body parts in the fridge and –”

“Alright, Richie. That’s enough,” Mike sighs. Nothing seems to deter Richie, though. He’s like a little boy on Christmas day as they turn onto the property and begin to climb the steps of the porch. He takes the lead, leaving Mike and Stan together on the steps as he runs up to the door and tries the handle. Because Richie possesses some kind of terrible, dumb luck the door opens without a problem other than the loud, screeching creak it makes as it swings in.

That sound makes a shiver run right through Stan’s spine. He honestly didn’t think they would get this far. He can feel the weight of the situation settling in the pit of his stomach, making it flip and turn in the worst kind of ways. There’s no reason for them to be out here right now. It’s late at night, the trick or treaters are long gone, and everyone who is sane and normal is inside watching movies or sleeping. Which is where they should be right now.

“You okay?” Mike asks, moving into Stan’s space and resting a large hand on his shoulder. Stan jolts slightly at the sudden touch, too caught up in his own thoughts to hear Mike approaching. He recovers quick, sending Mike a curt nod in a vain attempt to fool them both into thinking he’s okay.

“Let’s just get this over with. There can’t be that much to see in this place. The quicker we get in, the quicker we get out.”

“Oh, fuck yes,” Richie exclaims, stumbling into the main room. His face lights up like a firecracker and he practically skips around the center to look at the old, decrepit furniture. Everything is either falling apart, covered in a once-white bedsheet, or both. The dust is thick and coating everything in sight. Stan can see the way it dances in the streetlight that leaks through the boards as they disturb it from its thirty-year sleep.

Altogether, the house is unremarkable. Stan thinks it could have been a beautiful home once. The stairs lead up to a second floor with a banister that wraps around the landing. He can see two, maybe three doors at the top that might be bedrooms, closets, or maybe even a bathroom. The downstairs living room leads into what might be a kitchen and there’s a door at the far end of the room that probably leads down into a basement. Maybe this place was beautiful once. Maybe in another life he could have lived here.

Stan feels another shiver roll through his body. This is not the house of a well-loved family. This is the house of the damned.

Ahead of him he can see Richie sifting through an old bookshelf lining the wall. Stan watches as he continues to disturb the dust. It dances up, up, up in the streaks of moonlight until he can’t see it anymore. A vague part of his mind wonders where it’s going, where it’s going to settle next.

A loud crash sounds to his left that sends him practically out of his skin. Reflexively, he yelps and jumps to his right, knocking into Mike who wraps his arms around Stan and effectively steadies him from toppling over to the ground.

“Hey now, it’s okay. It was probably just some old furniture that gave out. It’s probably been so long since this stuff has been touched that our footsteps alone are knocking them down,” Mike says, voice low and soothing in Stan’s ear. Stan relaxes gradually, muscles loosening at the feeling of Mikes hands rubbing gently against his side and shoulder.

“Yeah,” Stan agrees, voice shakier than he wants it to be, “you’re probably right.”

“Let’s go check it out. Maybe it’ll help calm you down,” Mike suggests and before he has any time to process Stan’s being led through the doorway and into the kitchen. “See, nothing to worry about. It was probably just that chair in the corner giving out.”

Stan looks to where Mike gestures and sure enough he sees an old, rotten chair collapsed in the corner. Instead of responding, Stan just wraps his arms around his body and nods. It makes enough sense but it does nothing to ease his anxiety. Mike pulls him closer, tucking him away under his arms and making himself a temporary shield against the darkness in the house. The hug is tight and comforting and it instantly relaxes Stan.

Mike releases him too soon for Stan’s liking but the warm smile he sends is comforting on its own. Together they make their way back to the living room. When they get there the find the room surprisingly empty. Stan glances around a few times before looking at Mike.

“Where’d Richie go?” He asks, voice quiet in the still room. Richie was just here a moment ago and now he’s gone.

“I’m not sure. Maybe upstairs?” Mike says, voice equally quiet but firm. Something about the way Mike is standing puts Stan immediately back on edge. He’s tense and his shoulders are squared off. He’s looking over the room as if he’s searching for something other than their friend.

“Mike, I don’t –” Stan starts but he doesn’t get the chance to finish. Another loud crash comes from the second story of the house. Stan jumps back again, backing up and frantically pressing his back against the wall. The house is eerily silent following the noise. Neither boy moves for a moment, the air hangs like static between them and the rest of the room.

“I’ll go check it out,” Mike whispers, carefully walking forward. Stan goes to try to stop him, ready to beg the other boy to please, please not leave him alone when Mike continues. “That was probably Richie. Who knows what he’s up to up there. I’ll bring him right down and we can get out of here.”

Stan goes silent at this. Any protest he has on his lips dies. Mike is right, it’s probably Richie. Their combined weight would probably be too much for the old structure of the house. He just nods solemnly in Mike’s direction before Mike starts up the stairs, disappearing from view.

And with that Stan is left entirely alone in the ground floor of the house.

He tries to keep himself calm. He swears he can feel the house breathing. The floorboards seem to shift and the doors move from left to right. Its disorientating and alarming. Stan can’t tell which way is up or which way is left. The door to the kitchen that he swears was on his left is suddenly behind him and it doesn’t even look like a kitchen anymore. Who knows where it leads but Stan feels himself being drawn there. As he turns to move something from the corner of the room catches his eye. The door to the basement, the one Richie was standing by when they last saw him, has a faint glowing light coming from beneath it.

Suddenly, the house rests beneath his feet.

“Richie,” Stan grumbles beneath his breath. He changes his course and walks to the basement door, stopping directly in front of it. As he reaches his hand up to the knob he feels a chill run up his spine.

There’s no way he’s stay in this house longer than he has to.

He grips the handle and slowly pushed the door open, peering down the stairs into the dim light. He could have sworn it looked brighter from under the door but now, staring down at it, there is nothing but a faint glow. He can see the floor and some of the surrounding area but nothing else.

“Richie?” Silence answers his soft call. He listens for a moment but he can’t hear anything, not even a footstep. “Come on, Rich. Games over. Mike and I wanna leave.”

Nothing. The feeling that follows the silence is nothing short of unsettling but Stan shucks it off in favor of his annoyance. Richie really is going to make him go down there, isn’t he?

Stan weighs his options. He can wait for Richie to come up from where he’s hiding or Mike to come down from his fruitless search. Or he can take matters into his own hands and go get Richie himself and end this early.

He takes the steps slowly, one at a time. His weight on the old wood makes an unforgiving sound as he descends the steps into the glow.

When he reaches the bottom, he looks around. There is an open door in the far corner leading to a dark room, several decaying boxes and crates, and a large slope of coal leading up to a window. The room itself is rather unimpressive but Stan finds something captivating about being down here. As he moves toward the center of the basement he can feel the weight of the situation lifting off of his shoulders. Each step he takes is another pound that he doesn’t feel. Soon, he thinks idly, he’ll be weightless.

A soft squishing sounds from beside him that draws him out of his thoughts. Its faint, nothing more than a squish, squish, squish from the darkness of the other room. It catches his attention, bringing him back to the moment. The moment proves to be exactly where he wants to be. He finds himself acutely aware of the smell that lingers in the room. It can’t be but it is. It’s impossible, yes, he distantly knows that, but it’s also so very real. The smell of popcorn, the kind you would get at a carnival, wafts from the darkness.

Squish, squish, squish.

It’s just enough to lure Stan’s natural curiosity out. He finds himself drifting toward it. He isn’t aware of the way his feet hardly move. He all but glides across the floor and when he reaches the doorway the smell is so intense its clogging up every other sense Stan has. He can taste the thick butter on his tongue, feel the grease of it on his fingers.

Squish, squish, squish.

His arm raises, hand floating through the space that separates him from whatever is on the other side. When it passes through the darkness, shadows slowly consuming his fingers, hand, and wrist, he feels the faint touch of ice.

Squish, squish, squish.

Startled, Stan pulls his hand out and stumbles backward. The smell in the room instantly changes. The sweet, buttery scent he had smelled just a second ago is suddenly rotten. He coughs twice but it overwhelms his system. Its putrid, burning up his nose and down his throat and choking him from the inside out. It smells like garbage mixed with rotting meat, decaying flesh, rotting fish.

It smells like death.

Stan could feel his breath getting shorter. It comes in and out in quick, shallow huffs and no matter how fast he tries to gulp the air down it still feels like he’s suffocating.

The noise sounds once more before the room settles into silence yet again. Out of the darkness steps a little girl no older than eight. Stan can’t take his eyes off her. He can’t look away from how the flesh of her neck hangs open and the dried blood soaks her chest and stomach. She stumbles on one leg, the other mangled from the shin down and dragging behind her. Her mouth hangs open in a constant gape and her eyes – fuck.

Stan found himself staring at with a grim, sick sort of fascination.

Her eyes were the worst part. Stan could come to terms with the gore of it all. He could understand the way her body was broken in some senseless, horrific murder. But he could never unsee the way the whites of her eyes were actually pitch black. They framed bright blue irises that were glinting in the soft glow of the room the same way Richie’s would if he were down here.

Suddenly, Stan remember why the fuck he came down here in the first place. She starts to amble toward him, leg dragged against the hard ground behind her and Stan knows he needs to get the fuck out of here right now but he can’t. His legs are rooted to the ground. It was like the air around them was frozen cold. The flesh of his arms and legs rose in the sudden change of the room and time ticked slowly to his inevitable death in this dark, musty basement.

His mind was screaming at him to move! Run! Do something you honey roasted shithead! but he can’t. All he can do is watch her move. He can feel her getting closer, invading his space. When she’s close enough to reach him, she does. One bloodied, gashed open arm lifting from her side and reaching out toward him. Her fingers feel like ice on his skin, slowly dragging up the side of his face and tangling almost tendering in his curls. The horror of this situation contrasts with the stupidity of her gentleness. She brings herself impossibly close to him, dark, dead eyes devoid of all emotion baring into his soul as she moves her face toward his.

“Where’s my shoe?” She asks, lips all but pressed against the shell of his ear. Her voice is rough, grating against this skin like an old knife might be and it’s just enough for him to break out of his trance, stumbling backward and causing her to yank strands of hair off of his head.

Once he’s far enough, he turns on his heel and full on sprints to and up the staircase. The door is in sight and he feels relief flood his system. He’s so close, only a few more steps and he’ll be free. He’ll be safe.

When he reaches the top he practically throws himself against the door and turns the handle. He’s lucky he has enough awareness to hold on, though, because the door does not budge and Stan feels the reverberation echo through his body. He almost falls down the stairs but his grip on the doorknob saves him.

He frantically wiggles the doorknob, the rattling sound mixing with the squish, squish, squish he now knows in the dead girl approaching him from beneath. It won’t budge. It’s like someone locked it from the outside but he doesn’t even remember closing it behind him. He can’t even really remember how he got down here, though, and it doesn’t help him now so he shucks the thought from his mind. He has to get out of this basement, now.

“Mike!” He screams, voice desperate and shrill, “Help! Please, for the love of God!”

He gets nothing in return. No one is on the other side of that door. No one is coming to save him.

Squish, squish, squish sounds from below him again and he knows, he knows, he’s going to have to decide or die in here.

He tries the door one more time, throwing his whole body against the wood, before he turns and flies down the stairs. He doesn’t look for the girl but he knows she’s here, waiting for him. He looks around twice before seeing another door on the far end of the room, opposite the door the girl came out of. He takes his chances and runs. He can feel the ice on his skin, something grazing his arm and warmth splitting his arm, but he doesn’t pay attention to it. He can’t. He makes it to the door and this one opens for him. He doesn’t think before he throws himself through it and slams it behind him. Distantly, he hears a screeching noise and then the room settles into an uncomfortable silence.

Stan looks around, taking in the room he’s now in. There’s something oddly familiar about it but he can’t place it. He doesn’t spend too long trying to and instead he moves to the center to get oriented. There are no other doors but there are no dead little girls, either.

Stan closes his eyes for a moment, taking a steadying breath as he weighs his options. He could stay in here and wait for the sun to come up or he could turn around and fight the good fight. He remembers the window at the top of the coal pile and he knows he has an out if he gets there fast enough. Ultimately, it’s the idea that his friends are still somewhere in this horror house that has Stan opening his eyes with a new determination. He has to find them and get out.

Stan looks around the room again before his eyes settle on the door. It’s almost as if the room had changed while he was thinking. Nothing seems to be how it was. There are new boxes and an old table that he knows wasn’t in here before. There’s still only one door but he swears it was behind him. Now, it is immediately in front of him.

He doesn’t have much else of a choice and he doesn’t waste time weighing the one option he has.

Stan is ready to run as soon as the door opens. Or fight. Or scream. Really, he’s ready to do anything it takes to survive. His eyes are wide, alert, as he watches each inch of the other room come into full view. Unlike before, there is no glow. There is no nothing. Instead, there is only a long, strip of hall laid out in front of him lit only by several dim overhead lights and a quiet, unidentifiable sound coming from the other end.

Stan hesitantly steps through the doorway. There is nothing in the other room for him to go back to, no other exits, no way out of this hell he’s found himself in.

Stan can hear the noise getting louder and louder as he makes his way down the hall. A quarter of the way down he realizes he’s listening to someone crying. And not just crying, its full out wailing. That feeling from before creeps up his spine again. It makes its way into the base of his neck and creeps all the way down his shoulders and into his hands. His sweaty palms are numb with fear, a dull tingling sensation crawling all the way to the tips of his fingernails.

The walk down the hall seems never ending. Stan steps carefully, slowly moving from foot to foot to keep his steps as silent as possible. This could be a trap. This could be the monster he saw in the basement luring him into his death. The cries only get louder and louder until he’s standing right outside of the doorway to the room at the end of the hall.

He peers in, careful not to expose himself to whatever is on the other side. He’s surprised when he doesn’t see the bloodied, beaten corpse of the young girl. Instead he sees a figure practically crumpled in the middle of the room. Their dark skin glints off the soft moonlight coming in through the window and. Wait. Holy shit.

Holy shit. It’s Mike. He’s folded over himself, face practically buried in the hardwood floor. His hands pull desperately at the hair on his head as he rocks back and forth on his knees.

Stan doesn’t move at first. He doesn’t know what to do. He’s never seen Mike like this before. Mike is strong, fearless. He’s faced down Bowers with more courage than any of the Losers ever have but he’s also soft and kind. Gentleness flows through his veins and courage roots his feet to the Earth under them. What the fuck happened to him?

Mike’s head suddenly snaps up and suddenly Stan’s they’re face to face and Stan gets a good look at his face. The skin below his eyes and nose are shiny with tears and shot. His eyes have a hazy glaze over them and arm framed by red, swollen rims and his lips are red and almost bitted through.

“Oh my god,” Mike gasps, sucking down air between his broken sobs. “I’m so sorry, Stan. I couldn’t save you.”

“Mike, I don’t – what the fuck are you talking about?”

“I couldn’t save you. I’m so sorry,” Mike repeats, shaking his head and grasping blindly at the floor under him.

“Mike, I’m fine. I’m right here,” Stan says, grabbing Mike’s face and forcing him to look Stan in the eye. After a moment his eyes seem to clear.

“Stan, oh my god.” Mike says, throwing his body full force against Stan’s and wrapping his arms around Stan’s shoulders.

“I’m right here, Mike.”

“I swear to god I saw you, Stan.” Mike says, voice too loud and too desperate. His hands are clutching at Stan’s shoulders and his body is shaking so hard Stan’s scared he might fall apart. “It was you. I thought it was your ghost. You were so mangled. There was blood all over your hands and face and your entire stomach was wide open. You screamed at me. ‘How could you let this happen to me Mike! I thought you cared! Why would you leave me down there!’” Mikes voice crumbles again, breaking off into heaving sobs between his words. “You walked through a wall and disappeared.”

“Ghosts don’t exist, Mike!” Stan screams, voice shaking despite how desperate he is to remain calm. He wants to believe it, he wants to be so sure of himself, but the dead little girl he saw standing in the basement has him questioning his own beliefs.

Mike quiets against him. His body still trembles but his sobs fade until there is nothing but the gentle sounds of their breathing. Slowly, Mike pulls back. His brown eyes dance in the soft light of the room. He looks at Stan as if he wants to say something, mouth hanging open slightly and eyes darting between Stan’s own in a searching way.

“I thought I lost you,” he says as he brings a hand up to Stan’s face. Stan closes his eyes automatically, leaning into the warmth. Mike’s palm is huge on his face and cover most of his cheek, his fingers reaching up and touching the tips of Stan’s curls.

“You didn’t,” Stan whispers back. A beat passes between them before Stan hears a gentle inhale and then the soft press of lips against his. It’s over as fast as it begins. Mike pulls away almost immediately and Stan opens his eyes but the weight of it lingers between them. It’s a mixture of please don’t let me go and escape escape escape.

“There is a staircase over there,” Mike says, clearing his voice with a quick cough and gesturing toward the corner of the room. He stands up and takes Stan’s hand in his, pulling Stan to his feet gently. Together, they take the stairs one by one. Stan doesn’t even realize he’s back on the ground floor until they’re in the kitchen, practically back where they started.  

“Mike. How – I never went upstairs,” Stan says quietly, hand still in Mike’s. “I went into the basement to look for Richie and I – fuck. Mike. Where’s Richie?”

“I don’t know. He wasn’t upstairs.”

“We need to find him!” Stan cries, spinning around to scan the kitchen. Panic begins to cloud his head again. He hasn’t seen Richie since they got here. Neither of them have. Both of them have gone looking for him but neither of them managed to find him and, logically speaking, they’ve searched the whole house. But logic went out the window a long time ago and he knows if they don’t find Richie soon they never will. He can feel it in his bones.

He slips his hand from Mikes and before he knows it he’s sprinting out of the kitchen and into the last room they were all together in. The living room.

“Richie!” Stan calls, frantic and desperate and scared. He can feel his heartbeat all the way in the roof of his mouth as he calls for his friend.

Mike is on him again, arms holding him from behind and grounding him. He hears Mike suck in a breath to start talking, probably to chastise him for trying to go alone, but it never comes. The sudden absence of air by his ear hangs heavy between them. Stan cranes his neck back to look at Mike but Mike isn’t looking at him. His eyes are trained on the far corner of the room, wide and shocked and confused.

Stan goes to follow Mike’s eyes when he sees it. A thick, viscous red trail leading to the corner. There isn’t a doubt in Stan’s mind that it’s blood. The trail starts in the middle of the room and moves in the direction of a larger puddle in the corner. And in the center of that corner is none other than Richie himself.

Stan doesn’t move at first. He doesn’t even breathe. All he does is stare at the crumpled shape of his best friend. Richie has his back propped against the wall, head lolled to the side and arms dangling from either side of him. His shirt is torn open and stained a deep red. The rips frame two deep gashes across his chest running from his right shoulder to his left hip. From what he can see, blood is drenching practically every inch of Richie. His hands are slick with it, his arms are dripping, and the legs of his pants are splattered, likely from him crawling to his current position.

He looks like a shell of the boy Stan saw only an hour earlier.

He looks dead.

Mike moves first, releasing Stan and rushing to Richie’s side. Stan watches as gentle hands take hold of Richie body, one on the side of his neck and the other on his chest.

“He’s still alive, Stan!” he calls, moving his hands to take his shirt off and press it against the wounds.

“Mike, we have to get the fuck out of here,” Stan says, voice wavering with the effort it takes him to stay composed. He comes up behind Mike and presses his hands to Richie’s face, choking down a sob as he feels it roll to the side lifelessly. “Richie, come on man. Please. We gotta go.”

Mike grabs Richie’s shoulder and pulls the body to his chest. He then hooks his right arm under Richie’s legs and lifts him up, cradling him close to his body and motioning toward the door. Stan gets the hint immediately and runs to the exit, grabbing the handle. Just like in the basement, Stan finds himself unable to get the door open. No matter how hard he twists and slams his shoulders against the door nothing budges.

Just as he feels like he’s making progress, he feels the ground of the house begin to vibrate under his feet. He can hear metal rattling in the kitchen and furniture collapsing around them from the force of the vibration as it turns from soft to violent. Stan braces himself against the door and watches, wide eyed, as Mike kneels to stop himself from dropping the unconscious boy in his arms.

“Come with me, Stan. Float with me. With me, you can stay children forever,” a haunting, broken voice sounds from above them. Stan whips his head around, desperate to figure out where the voice is coming from but it echoes throughout the house from every direction. It comes from the basement, the kitchen, the stairs. It’s everywhere and nowhere at once.

“Stan!” Mike screams, voice dulled from the sounds shaking house. His eyes are wide and terrified as he holds their friend. “Stan we have to go!”  

A bright light flashes and suddenly they’re not three anymore, but four. Across the room, no more than ten feet from the boys, is a tall, hellish figure of a man. His red hair stands at every angle and his smile is painted on in a bright, bloody red. Brightly colored pom poms dance up the center of his silvery, tattered clown suit. He resembles the kind of clown in they might see in a horror movie.

“You’re not real,” Stan says. His voice is laced with terror and nothing but a soft squeak.

“Yes, I am, Stan. I am real and I am going to kill you,” the clown says, stepping slowly toward where Mike and Richie are. His eyes train on the boys and Stan knows that this is it. This is how they’re going to die if he doesn’t do something.

“No!” Stan says, more defiant this time. He steps between the clown and his friends, squaring his shoulder and puffing his chest out in an act of pseudo-bravery. “You’re not real! I don’t believe any of this!”

Stan steps forward and, to his surprise, the clown steps back. “Ghosts aren’t real!” He says, voice rising with each word until he’s screaming. “Houses are just houses and they don’t move around! Dead little girls stay dead and they don’t live in basements! This is real! This isn’t happening!” When he finishes, Stan lets out a scream he’s been holding in the entire night. It comes from deep inside his chest and it rattles the house in a new, frightening way and when he’s done they’re left alone in the quiet, empty, decrepit house.

Two weeks later

Stan watches from his place on the couch as Richie attempts to do a cartwheel for the second time.

“You’re going to fuck up your stitches, Richie,” he drawls, only mildly concerned.

“No, I’m not. Doc said I’m almost fully healed!” Richie shoots back, chipper as ever. For someone who was on medical bed rest less than a week ago, Richie was as energetic and spry as ever. Despite his argument, Richie relents and towers over Stan. The bandages he’s still required to wear poke out from under the collar of his blue Henley.

“Yeah. Almost. If you keep dicking around you’ll never get there.”

“Hey, it’s not my fault I saved both your asses from that fucking bear.”

“Yeah,” Stan says, eyeing Richie has he grabs a bag of chips off the counter. “We’d be goners if it wasn’t for you.”

“Tell me the story again, Staniel. I still can’t believe I can’t remember anything.”

Stan rolls his eyes and launches into his rehearsed script, grabbing the handful of doritos that Richie offers him. It’s a tall tale of out they came out of the house in the backyard and decided to fuck around in the woods due to sheer boredom. They’d encountered a bear and Richie had jumped in front of Mike and Stan, taking a near fatal paw to the chest. His scream alone managed to scare the beast away and save them all. Stan and Mike carried Richie to the closest occupied house and called an ambulance.

The doctors said it was a miracle Richie survived the hit and they all weren’t killed then and there.

The last part is the only true part but Richie doesn’t need to know that. No one does. No one needs to know how they tumbled through the front door, faces soaked in tears and snot, and ran as fast for their lives from 29 Neibolt street.

As Richie listens intently, Mike saunters through the front door of the Tozier household, settling on the arm of the couch next to Stan and gently combing his fingers through the gold curls on his boyfriend’s head.

“And I can’t believe I missed this! I was out for two days, two days, and all of a sudden you two are macking all up on each other. I can’t believe all it took was a near death experience for you two to finally get your shit together.”

Stan feels his face flush as Mike chuckles and pulls him close. He feels the warm press of lips to the crown of his head and hums in appreciation.

“We just figured we should stop wasting our time. Life’s too short,” Mike says, fondness in his voice. Stan looks up and catches Mike’s smile.

“Yeah,” Stan says, echoing the sentiment. “You never know what could happen.”

Mike catches his lips in a chaste kiss but it says all the things they almost don’t get to say.

I almost missed you.

I almost lost you.

I love you.