Archive of Our Own

Stanley didn't exactly know when it started.

Maybe it was that April night in freshman year of college: Just after he was done with several excruciating assignments that kept him locked up in the library or their dorm for days on end. Richie had dug him up from the grave that were his textbooks and numerous highlighted notes, dragged him to a party – a party the friend of a friend hosted in a cramped up flat – to ‘wipe off his maggots a little’. Stanley had no real sensible recollection regarding how the night went after Richie lodged two shots in both of his palms and told him to drink. He remembered they had taken shots, had their nexts in hand even before the last sip was down their throat like hyenas waiting their turn on duty. It was obligatory, in a way, with Stanley falling victim to Richie’s already puppy-like eyes more puppified by huge magnifiers, pleading for him to ‘loosen up’ and ‘be a regular collegee’. There weren't that many people in the party, or that many thrown bottles or that many annoying party games with horrible drunks. It was actually… nice, for a party. It was abundantly clear only a few people were actually invited, with the invitations extending a plus one only like a warm shaking hand. Stanley was somehow glad it was his hand being shaken. 

He didn't remember much from that night, almost nothing until the after-midnight-bit where everyone that needed to go had gone home and everyone that was allowed to crash had passed out in a corner (presumably with drool or any liquid dripping from their chins, but each to their own). 

He and Richie had sat on the couch on the balcony, then, with their minds taking generous moments to make sense, with cans in their hands and their eyes on the empty, navy painted sky.

Stanley had remembered fragments, more than a completed picture. Pieces of a puzzle, with several swallowed up between the ceiling and the ground. He remembered the slurred words between sips of acidless Fanta on the squeaky couch they sat with multiple choices of liquor weighing heavy in their stomachs, the floral patterned cushions flat against their backs, their legs tangled and shoulders pressed together as if it hurt to stand afar. Wheezes and suppressed laughters dying into a profound silence between a few inches worth of distance. A hum of a question. Heads turning, the unknown answer sputtering within hazy gazes and lazy lips. 

‘I don't think so,’ Stanley remembered saying, small letters sticking to his teeth like an ironed piece of gum. There was something about Richie’s silence, his almost… fear when asking — the same way there was something about the way he slightly nodded as he turned his head away, mouth pressing together in a line with his eyes stuttering to turn to the endless, starless sky. A slight bob in the throat when he swallowed.

Stanley had followed the shape of his adam’s apple move up and down, his own eyes lidded with pupils blown. His mind was clear of the guilt, foggy about the weight of the logistics of it. ‘I think we can find out,’ He had remembered his words were, his voice even and small, like a slight decibel change could waver the illusion of the night, of the dark. The space inbetween.

It felt like walking to a trap knowing it was gonna swallow you whole— kissing Richie. But it wasn't a trap that hurt, then. It was a nice kiss. Even under a broken lamp, with alcohol burning his stomach, in a trashed studio apartment, between dead plants that belonged to someone he didn't even know by face, let alone name — it was nice. 

Kissing guys was no different than kissing girls, as it turned out, if you'd count out the little stubble itching his chin. But Stanley figured it was a Richie thing rather than a guy thing, just like his chapped lips and stuttering breaths and crooked glasses and Winston tasting mouth. 

They never talked about it again, including the day after. Both of them pretended they forgot about it, only referring to the events that took place before they plopped down on the deflated couch or after they dozed off and woke up to Richie stumbling between bland furniture and koncking over bottles with blind eyes to find somewhere to puke all his guts. And the only times they recalled those times were the times they wanted to tell friends elaborate stories, which was usually (very enthusiastically) demonstrated by Richie. 

They didn't talk about it, yes, but the following few weeks after that night, Richie had gotten second thoughts every time he went for casual physical contact. Stanley noticed. He had caught Richie drawing his hand away mid-way when going for a hair ruffle after Stanley humored his antics. He had noticed Richie’s arm stall in the air when he was attempting to slang his arm around Stanley’s shoulder or his hand doing weird gestures in the air after he caught himself going for a cheek-pinch numerous times. Stanley knew he was trying to hide it between ridiculous moves, faking body-shakes or running his hand through his hair to avoid how awkward it looked when it was in the air. And even though he always failed, Stanley never confronted him about it. He never mentioned it. 

Just like he never mentioned the way Richie would peel his eyes from him when Stanley caught him looking. 

Stanley had noticed Richie’s eyes always looked darker those times, unfocused. It lasted maybe a few seconds before Richie gained his composure and turned his head away, either with a weird joke or something completely irrelevant — his mimics tensing with hoaxed smirks, as if he was caught doing something he wasn't supposed to do. As if he was guilty. As if it was a lapse of conscious decision, looking at him.

It only lasted a few weeks before Richie regained his disregard of personal space again, but Stanley remembered.

Stanley knew he was supposed to feel distraught, or disgusted when he remembered that night. It wasn't right. It wasn't how it was supposed to be, supposed to look. Stanley knew that.

Yet, knowing didn't change anything. It didn't disavow that night, that question, that virgin unsureness before their lips met and their breaths blended together. 

It was never Adam and Steve, Stanley knew. It was never meant to be man and man. It was man and woman, vowed under God’s guidance and nurtured under his wisdom. Man and woman, fitting together like puzzle pieces — biologically, philologically, emotionally. Stanley had heard dozens of times that every woman needed a man, like every man needed a woman. To balance each other, one would say; to become one, one would add; to fill the gaps, the other would declare.

But, the more days passed, the more Stanley saw other points of view other than the dogmatic ways one would've been taught, the more he knew people: the less it seemed coherent. 

There were women and men who weren't able to reproduce, who didn't work biologically together. There were women and men who harmed each other more than did good. There were women and men who messed with each other’s balances to the point of insanity. And then there were statistics, there were rates, there were percentages. Genitals, continual of the next generation, natural composure or hormonally supported biological harmony did so little to keep relationships afloat, to keep the love alive — it was nothing than a futile glass of water to an already dead plant, laying in its own grave with the potential of being something more slipping away with every droplet. 

And then, they were examples of same-sex relations within nature itself. Animals were the living beings that were controlled and limited by their own survival instincts, and even to them, sometimes continuing the bloodline fell flat against the affection they held against another of their kind. Seeing two male pigeons kissing on the rooftops was a reoccurring sight in many ways, going as far as his childhood. 

Maybe that was how he comforted himself when the topic was the lack of disgust with everything that happened with Richie. When even mechanisms who live only to continue the ecosystem can love without involving such stuff, even those birds that can fly miles away if they wanted to choose to snuggle with a companion on rainy Saturdays under leaky roofs: Why, why would that have such an effect on the memories of a life?

Still, it was wrong. Wrong in the eyes of his mother, in the eyes of God, in the eyes of the future he promised his family— he promised himself.

But it didn't stop. No matter the beginning, it didn't end.

But maybe it was that day before Christmas Eve in sophomore year, the day they spent together alone in the house Richie grew up in, in Derry. Stanley’s parents were out of town visiting some relatives after years of no-show during this season, forced to spend more time there due to his grandparents’ insistence as far as his mother wrote to him. Maggie and Wentworth were also out of town, though they were meant to arrive on Christmas Eve to celebrate with them. Stanley was already ready for Went’s Hanukkah jokes, probably the same horrible two or three he said with a toothy grin much similar to Richie’s. He was ready to politely laugh and say some light-hearted jokes about Santa to make the old man laugh and pat his shoulder like he did a good job; as ready as he was to receive Maggie’s eye-scan of his entire figure with soft hands pinching his cheeks to ask him if he has grown an inch or more, like she did every time since he was in kindergarten, and passively interrogate him regarding Richie, if he was causing him any trouble more than usual. Stanley was ready to laugh and tell Maggie he could sweep all the trouble under the rug if she baked them those delicious pancakes while looking at Richie pointingly.

What he wasn't ready for, was he and Richie stripping each other from their ugly Christmas sweaters, champagne-tasting kisses planted desperately between parted lips in the kitchen; rolling around between walls until they ended up on the living room floor, bodies sweaty with their minds melting between sucked in gasps near the fire. 

It is the New Year's loneliness catching up to us, was his first thought, after they had rolled on their backs, uncomfortable carpet digging to their back as they had laid side by side, shoulders barely touching, trying to collect their breaths as well as trying to not smear their mess anywhere, hands purposefully resting on their stomachs with blood now rushing to correct places instead of South.

It was because both of them hadn't been touched by another human being for months, Stanley had thought. It was because they were two lonely young men with adolescent hormones still working soundly inside their units on this cold night of the winter with no one else to cling to. It was because human was human, and warmth was warmth, before it was man or woman.

Before that night, it had been a while since the last time he had been intimate with someone like this, which was reasonable since he didn't participate in the dating pool at all, his studies coming more important and more of a priority, and he didn't like what one night stands stood for. He didn't like touching someone he couldn't converse with, in a way so intimate. He couldn't kiss someone as good as he could if he wasn't at least enamored by their personality and choice of topics that got them talking. He wouldn't go as far to call the body a ‘temple’, or dibble on some absurd euphemisms regarding intercourse, but it was still an intimate act that needed passion and mutual interest. Richie had said 'It's just a warm hole you stick your pickle stick in, boy,’ the first time Stanley had mentioned this thought of his to him, ‘We ain't solving Einstein theorem here’, which was immediately followed up with a beeping. 

Richie, on the other hand, Stanley didn't know for sure. 

The days following after that incident were spent with meddling around Went and Maggie and avoiding any one on one situations as much as possible. Stanley could only see Richie laughing or joking (even though all of them were awfully imitated and far from genuine, Stanley chose to not point it out and cause any more cumbersome tension between them) or talk with him properly when they were around his parents, otherwise it was odd to even mutter out two to three words between. Even Richie’s attempts at ridiculous Christmas jokes were drenched in awkward pauses and strangely atypical fidgetings.

The month after, it was way worse than that. For weeks, Richie would take every chance, every opportunity to escape from their dorm (whether it be band practice, a party, someone-he-doesn't-know’s proposition to go wild, an empty couch that was promised by a peer, a club activity, anything) and would only come back when he knew Stanley wouldn't be there. Stanley would call the cops if it weren't for Carol or Steve keeping him up to date with where Richie was. Or if he was still alive. 

Stanley had waited for Richie to get over it like he did last time — with his feet tapping nervous rhythms on the floor, with his body turning one way and the other during sleepless nights, with his eyes lingering on Richie’s dumb comics that were displayed on the wall, with his stomach tightening every time he heard footsteps behind the door.

But Richie didn't. Until Stanley blew off a busy day’s course schedule and waited for Richie to show up with his fingers rubbing on his earlobe and practicing what he had to say to Richie the moment he walked in. And what he would do if he didn't.

But Richie did. With bags under his eyes and a posture even worse than a panda’s, swaying between steps.

The talk was hard. Because Richie was hard to talk to, which could be considered funny given the man’s exquisite talent for blabbering nonstop if he wanted to. And that? Richie didn't fucking wanted to.

Stanley had asked him what he had wanted. Richie had said he didn't know. Stanley had asked him if he wanted to forget it and go back to what they were before. Richie had said he didn't know if they could. Stanley had asked him. And again. And again. And again. 

Until his head had hit the metal of the upper bunk bed with Richie’s hands cupping his face and his lips smashing against his. 

After that, it started happening frequently. When Richie needed a hand, when Stanley was too stressed out, when Richie wanted to try something out he saw, when Stanley was feeling out of control, when they were bored, when they were drunk, when a hug lasted too long, when a kiss, when and when and when and when. Reasons blended together until they didn't need one, but they kept going. They kept going, until it was as something ordinary as their fights about Richie’s insistence of having a background music during nights because it was ‘soothing’.

Even as the sound of lock turning twice woke him up from his already-light sleep, even as his bleary memory pieced together such possibilities together in the short reverie that lasted far shorter than Stanley felt, even as the name of his roommate popped up on his head to the question whether who it was at the door fumbling the keys at this hour, he still didn't know for sure.

Knowing did so little to a barely conscious mind, when his eyelids were heavy with exhaustion and his position was now too uncomfortable to not move around and waking up was a nightmare in itself. 

He turned to lay on his side when the door creaked open, his back facing the wall and his legs slightly curling to his chest as the man stumbled in as far as Stanley heard. A frustrated sigh escaped him as an exhale before he could think.

“Shit,” Came Richie’s voice, groggy and way quieter than usual. “Did I wake you up?”

Stanley felt too tired to speak, and for a moment he thought not to reply because moving his muscles felt like too much work. 

The thought lasted only a few seconds. “You weren't exactly trying for the opposite.”

A moment of silence. A huff.

“You wake up to people walking down the hall,” Richie objected (Stanley didn't know if it was his brain playing sleep tricks, but somehow it sounded… fond?), metal clanking against the surface of their desk between his words. His keys.  A few thuds followed it, Stanley guessed it was probably his pocket-cleansing bit of the night. “I didn't exactly figure out pandomime yet.”

Stanley didn't bother to respond, instead sneaking his arm under the pillow and feeling the coldness of it. He had a pleasant wish that Richie wouldn't turn on that goddamn radio as a form of apology, for interrupting his sleep and throwing such a jab, showing some kind of human decency to let him take an earned period of partially eternal bliss of losing consciousness.

Stanley’s bed weighed down when Richie sat on it. 

“Bev also called me to tell you she'll whoop your ass if you don't answer her call one more time,” He said. “I think she is doing a bird-inspired collection for an assignment. You can go all nerd on her.”

“She told me about it,” Stanley murmured, voice husky from sleep. It always reminded of him the first time his voice started changing in highschool. “I'll give her a call in the morning.”

The bed weighed down again, another spot. Stanley peeked a glance to see it was Richie’s hand. He saw the way Richie’s head was hanging low between his raised shoulders, obligation of dipping down  because of the bunk bed. The image was quickly permitted in his mind even after a second of a look, lasting even after he closed his eyes again. “Don't you have an 8AM class? Audi-shit?”

“Cancelled.”

Richie let out a light laugh, almost hazy. It sounded suspiciously familiar, though Stanley didn't know why. “Old hag finally decided to take a sick day off, huh?”

Stanley hummed. “It's possible Bev put a spell on her.”

“I wouldn't blame her. It's, like, a 25 rank mission to get you between all your busybody schedules,” Richie said. “I'm playing your fucking secretary against my will. And this is not a psychosexual one. Get my paycheck in my bank account by tomorrow morning.”

Stanley scoffed, though it sounded like a lazy sigh more than anything, turning around to face the wall and lay on his other shoulder. “You are a terrible one,” he said over his shoulder, rearranging his pillow under his head. “It's a miracle you even had the chance to pick up the phone from between your having-tongues-down-your-throat thing.”

Stanley fully expected a comment about hearing Richie joke about his throat not being the only place getting tongued, or teasing him about being jealous while poking at his ribs.

But, it… didn't come.

Instead he felt Richie shift on the bed, silently, as light as he could manage, the weight of it bringing down the mattress in some areas and subtly swaying Stanley with it.

“I didn't make out with anyone.” Richie said, and Stanley thought for a moment that he almost sounded offended. 

Something in the tone of Richie’s voice… It was different, and the air surrounding Stanley’s lungs now felt a tad bit heavier. 

“Didn't or couldn't?” He asked, the sentence sounding more like a question than a quip like he intended.

Richie leaned over him slowly, his shadow painting over Stanley in consistent strokes as his hand dipped a spot in the mattress to do so. “Didn't.”

Stanley felt the wetness of his breath before he felt Richie bury his nose in the back of his hair, between his shorter curls on the nape. Richie’s closeness came with the smell of beer on his exhale and mixed branded cigarettes shrouding his washed up cologne and scent.

Stanley sometimes thought he could pick apart Richie from a whole crowd just from his scent alone, no matter how many shots he had taken or how many free sample colognes he had tested out. Richie’s scent was too familiar, too close — it felt as though it was always inside his lungs.

Stanley knew it better than anything.

“I thought you had gone to see if you could charm one of Carol’s friends there,” He said, more of a mumble against his pillow than anything, his voice low and unfiltered in his throat, “Didn't they show up? Cissy? Sandy?”

Instead of a response, Richie kissed underneath his hair. 

It was a long one, where Richie sighed in his locks and pressed his mouth just enough for his nose to dig into Stanley's skin.

A short one followed, before he let his lips graze down the back of Stanley's neck in a long stripe, his breath hot and heavy against the knot of Stanley’s spine, his nose skimming along the surface with practiced ease as if he'd done this a million times before. He ended it with a kiss just above Stanley’s collar, lingering, open mouthed, and – worse – too sincere. Stanley couldn't help the little sigh escaping his nose, eyes fluttering closed as he felt the chapped pieces of Richie’s lip, dry and warm; the air leaving his nostrils burning him.

Richie pressed another kiss. To a mole. A one that he had informed Stanley of during a night where they laid naked under thin covers. 

“They don't compare,” Richie murmured, lips brushing with every word, and finishing them with insubstantial kisses up Stanley’s nape. 

Stanley felt a slight tug inside his chest. Compare to what, Richie? What are you comparing them to? Who are you comparing them to?

“How much did you drink?”

“Not more than usual.” Bed creaked more when Richie put his weight to his hand more to lean in, kissing under Stanley’s earlobe. “A few beers and two shots.”

“Of?”

“Tequila,” Richie kissed again. “Paul was in good spirits.”

Stanley hummed, eyes closed and eyebrows slightly frowned, his throat vibrating with the sound as Richie kissed the side of his neck, not realizing he was baring his neck for Richie to do more. “Did he get lucky at the casino?”

Richie made a noise of approval, accepting the involuntary open invitation with eagerness, dragging his lips on the column of Stanley’s throat as he sneaked a hand over his waist. His fingers followed the path up the buttons of Stanley’s pajama, so light on the fingertips that the kisses on his neck drowned them out in Stanley’s senses. “Got lucky at the ladies department.”

“Hmm,” Stanley mumbled, words swimming in his ears. Sleep was catching up to him.

Richie unbuttoned the top two with light fingerwork, and for a moment Stanley thought he was imagining this whole ordeal for how slow and delicate Richie was being, without even putting up a pathetic fight with the buttons of his pajama, until Richie bit a mole under his jaw. 

Stanley sucked in a breath. 

Richie kissed where he bit, his lips lingering with his exhale running hot from his nose down Stanley’s skin. Gentle, Stanley thought. Not that Richie was rough when having this kind of affairs, no, but this was… more than that. More than the open-mouthed, sloppy kisses he left on Stanley’s neck with both of their cocks in his fist. More than the little pecks he planted as he pushed inside. More than the snarly bite to Stanley’s collarbone when he got close. It felt intimate, in a way that…

He snapped out of it when Richie planted a knee on the bed, his palm splayed on Stanley’s chest, presumably to climb on the bed and flip him over. Stanley’s eyes opened. He pushed Richie by the chest with a slight turn of body, his palm open on the clothed flesh. Richie stumbled slightly.

“No shoes on the bed.” 

The confusion on Richie’s face turned to a quick realization, (his eyes dropped to the exposed flesh of Stanley’s chest a moment too long for Stanley to not notice)(he could swear they twinkled when the collar slipped down from his shoulder with the movement) before an amused huff escaped his nose and a lopsided smirk curled on his lips. His hand dragged on the fabric of Stanley’s shirt as he backed off to sit on the edge of the bed. 

Stanley rolled on his back, air more accessible to his lungs now that he wasn't between the wall with Richie teeming his neck with such trashmouth.

He watched Richie basically fight his beat-up Converse to take it off. Stanley didn't know how many times he witnessed Richie do this, it was a hassle to both get them on and off and yet Richie never got new ones. The bright crimson of them was washed off to a pale red, even compared to the almost white skin of the man, with various color choices of marker doodles veneering the fabric along with the toe tip and outer sole. The laces looked like snakes fighting for their life between Richie’s fingers before he managed to get them off.

For a moment, Stanley saw the thought of throwing his shoes to some corner flash through Richie’s eyes.

But, maybe because he knew Stanley would scold him until he got them and put them aside like a normal human being, he put them on the floor beside the bed.

The ridiculous ferret shirt lifted off his lower back along with his shirt as he bent over, the dim light reflected among wild strands of hair basically overflowing from his brain and the slightly misplaced glasses sitting on his nose and Stanley watched him. It felt familiar, seeing Richie like this. On the edge of the bed with his eyes looking smaller now that they weren't behind a huge magnifier and lips looking moist with his own spit, Richie felt all too familiar.

“Take your clothes off,” Stanley heard himself say, assertive.

A single glance his way. A few seconds. Debating. Wondering. Why?

But Richie didn't ask. Instead, he stood up, murmured “Jesus, Uris, I'd start stripping at the front door if you told me you wanted to jump me this badly,” in insincere teaseing and peeled himself off his layers. He was comically slower than usual, like he always was once he was tipsy and his brain was calm for once in the influence of alcohol. His head and glasses got stuck when taking off the graphic tee he wore under the shirt, but Stanley didn't say anything except letting out a silent huff, imitating a laugh. 

“There are millions out there waiting to get a piece of these twinsies while you're out here making fun, you know?” Richie said, though Stanley could see the cute pink in his ears.

“I don't doubt it,” Stanley said, a small smile betraying him.

Richie looked at him from the corner of his eye while fixing his glasses. Stanley didn't look away. Richie did.

His ripped jeans and mismatched socks followed. One featuring a pacman and the other having ananas and slices of pizza on it. Richie threw them in the pile he put together beside the bed. 

Stanley didn't take his eyes off him as Richie got in the bed, settling over Stanley with only his underwear on. Calvin Klein. Stanley wondered if he purposely wore a plain grey one instead of his ridiculous cartoon-themed collection because he was intending to get Cissy or Sandy’s or some other girl’s pants. 

He pulled the blanket over Richie’s lower body as Richie leaned in to kiss at his jaw. The bed was small for the both of them since they had the fortune of growing long limbs in highschool, maturing (or not maturing, in Richie's case) into two over 6 foot tall men — yet they fit like perfect puzzle pieces in the small bunk-bed space, the fit of their bodies practiced.

“Don't you have noon classes tomorrow?” Stanley asked as Richie trailed kisses down his neck, one hand working slowly and focused to unbutton the rest of Stanley’s shirt. The other on the bed, stabilizing him on top of Stanley. Stanley swallowed the real question he wanted to ask the most. Why— Why are you doing this? “Why did you drink?”

Richie kissed near Stanley’s adam’s apple. “The topic is ass,” He murmured against the skin, groggy. “Talking about the probability of Bev’s ballsack for three hours would be much more sufficient.”

Stanley hummed, his throat vibrating as he threaded his fingers between Richie’s unruly hair. Richie sighed, his kisses on Stanley’s clavicles lasting more and more with each second like he sometimes forgot his lips there. One, two, three. He traced the column of Stanley’s throat with his lips, his warm breath. 

The last button of the pajama fell off along with the fabric when Richie ran his palm across Stanley’s torso, sliding off the soft material to make more room for himself. Dorothy’s golden bricks, Stanley thought, smiling a little. The shirt pooled around his biceps, leaving his torso vulnerable.

Richie followed the collarbone with his mouth until he reached Stanley’s shoulder, and then he slipped down to his chest. 

Stanley ran his nails on Richie’s scalp lightly, watching Richie’s lips connect to his skin with each kiss with his breath thick in his throat. Richie was always warm compared to him, but now that he got his mouth on him, it burned. 

Richie kissed his way down to Stanley’s stomach. Twenty, twenty one. Like sliding ice on hot skin on a boiling day in July. Sometimes the frames of Richie’s glasses fogged up, sometimes they dug into Stanley’s skin, but Richie never parted his lips from Stanley. His eyes were closed, relaxed; mouth opening and closing, parting and joining to the flesh, kisses soft. As if he was breathing in Stanley, one kiss at a time. Stanley had a thought that Richie was trying to memorize him by taste and touch, as if any of them were going away soon, but that quickly passed his mind when Richie bit just above his belly button.

Stanley drew a quick breath in and lightly smacked Richie’s head. Richie chuckled. 

Stanley was sure Richie would say something, but he didn't. 

Instead, he went lower, never once opening his eyes, with Stanley’s hand pushing his hair out of his forehead to the back. His hand came up to Stanley’s chest — usually when Richie’s hand came up to his chest like this, his hand was shaped like he was looking for a tit to hold on to, and Stanley had always taken it as Richie imagining a girl. A girl from a bar, from his classes, from Steve’s model friends. The cuppy-palmy. 

Contrary to those most times, this time his palm directly laid flat on the skin, his fingers spread out on the pectoralis. The skin between the fore and the middle brushed against Stanley’s nipple before Richie squeezed the muscle. Flatty-palmy. Why would h—

Stanley let out a breath when Richie kissed him through his briefs, his eyes fluttering shut. Another first.

Richie tugged at his pants with both hands and his sticky, hot breath hit just above the waistband of Stanley’s underwear. Stanley knew Richie was looking at him with those glassy eyes, thick eyebrows slightly upwards, fingers curled on the fabric, his chin touching him. Stanley didn't know if this was a ridiculous dream with all these details taunting him or a hallucination of God’s mockery. 

He glanced at Richie — seeing the man’s big, almost black eyes looking at him through his long eyelashes, looking for permission. Bev had always told them Richie was like a dog at times, and Stanley thought this was one of those times. A very wet looking, desperate dog. 

Stanley gave a simple nod, rolling his head back to escape Richie’s eyes. 

Richie didn't waste a second to pull Stanley’s pants down to his ankles. Stanley let out a soft gasp when his half-hard cock came to contact with cold air, fingers tightening in Richie’s hair. The blanket was pooling around Richie’s hips and had no way of protecting him from the jokester Jack Frost in the room. Don't get the frosting bite from the Tozier boy, Stanley, don't loosen up about your health now that your finals just finished up.

Richie kissed the skin that connected his left thigh to his pelvic, his hand cupping the back of the other thigh and lifting it so Stanley’s foot was on the mattress. He trailed kisses down to his knee, on his kneecap. 

“What are you doing?” Stanley remembered himself mumbling, but the words got lost in the silence of Richie’s unexplained affection so fast that even he questioned if he said that out loud. Richie didn't pay him any mind, not even a glance — instead he kissed Stanley’s legs, running his hand smoothly on the skin like it was made of velvet. 

Stanley couldn't help the little noise that escaped him when Richie moved onto his inner thighs, Richie’s hands on both of his legs to keep them apart. Richie sucked little red marks on the skin, ones that would disappear after a few hours and wouldn't last. His mouth was gentle, but Stanley was always ridiculously sensitive on his thighs that it didn't matter. Stanley had to bite down on his lips to keep his sighs in, and even then sometimes his mouth parted slightly open when Richie sucked a special spot.

Richie took his time. 

Nearing the end of his little show, Stanley was feeling Richie's lips stretch in a smile on his skin. Douche.

Stanley gasped when Richie wrapped his fingers around the base of his cock suddenly, his hips bucking.

“Rich—” Richie didn't let Stanley finish to take him into his mouth.

Stanley’s breath got stuck in his throat and he let out a choked out sound as he gripped a handful of Richie’s hair involuntarily. His muscles tensed, hips bucking into the mattress and Richie— oh, fucking Richie—

Richie’s lips wrapped around the tip, hesitancy so clear in his posture as well as his determination. He repositioned his fingers at the base and took Stanley little by little. Stanley felt as though he could melt in Richie’s mouth. 

This was the first time Richie was going down on him.

Richie bobbed his head on Stanley’s cock, eyes fluttering open to check Stanley’s face and shutting close after he got the answer. It was so clear to Stanley that it was Richie’s first time actually sucking cock, his awkward hand positioning as well as evident worry in his eyes, looking for approval that he was doing good in Stanley’s expressions and sounds and his body. Stanley hated that he found it attractive more than anything.

The warmth of Richie’s mouth was dizzying. 

Stanley tried to relax —until Richie’s teeth lightly grazed his shaft. 

A hiss found its way out his mouth as he harshly tugged Richie away by hair. Richie obeyed in a silent hurry, getting his mouth off of Stanley and looked at him, in a way Stanley didn't want to explore.

“It's okay,” Stanley said, finding his voice. Richie didn't say anything, except the words pouring from his eyes. Words that conveyed the ‘Did I fuck this up?’ message pretty clearly.

Stanley was new to the side effect 'silence’ of tequila in RT areas. It puzzled him — not hearing Richie’s voice, his noises, his tease; he didn't know what to do with the silence, or what it meant. He tried to push away the dooming thoughts and directed his focus to Richie. Richie who was looking at him intently, waiting.

“No teeth,” Stanley said, not unkind, panting softly. “Loosen your jaw.”

He tapped light fingertips on Richie’s jawline. Richie hesitated but let his jaw hang loose, just like he let Stanley brush his thumb against his lips and pull it down slightly. Richie’s breath stuttered, each particle of air hitting Stanley’s skin like a warm breeze. 

“Flatten your tongue,” Stanley instructed him. Watched diligently as Richie followed it with a drunk look on his face. Stanley wondered if Richie told him the truth about how much he drank. “Don't rush, you can go slow. Try getting used to the motion.”

Richie nodded slowly. Stanley let go of his chin, settled his hand in Richie’s hair as he tried to relax against his pillow. 

Richie took him slower this time, Stanley’s gasp quieter in comparison. With his eyes fluttering shut, Richie started moving his head up and down, letting himself get used to the feeling of Stanley in his mouth. He hummed around him, Stanley twitching inside his mouth at the feeling. Stanley sighed, his hold on Richie’s hair soft, his fingers threaded between locks as he tried to push away the desire to rock against Richie’s mouth and bury his cock in the heat of his mouth. He pushed the growing image of Richie gagging around him with tears welling up in his eyes, looking all wrecked around his cock with a silent plea in his eyes. Stanley buried the thought deep in his brain. Not now. Not as his first time.

Richie got the gist of it pretty fast. Stanley always knew he was a fast learner. 

Soon Richie felt confident enough to increase his speed, bit by bit, sinking more and more on Stanley’s cock with each suck. Stanley sometimes bit his bottom lip to hold in his noises, fingers curling in Richie’s hair tighter and tighter. He panted quietly, pushing his head against the pillow, licking his dried up lips.

Richie pulled back just to lick a stripe up Stanley’s cock, from base to the tip, before sucking him back to his mouth. Stanley let out a soft moan as Richie took him deeper and wrapped his fingers around the base to push him into his mouth. Stanley made a mental note about reminding Richie to give attention to the balls next time. If there would be a next time.

Stanley knew himself good enough to know he wasn't about to last long. He hadn't had the time to relieve himself for a while, too busy with studying and trips to the library, his finals along with his assignments. You could say it's been a few weeks, even a month or so. Every morning wood was washed away with a cold shower, and every before-bed warning his body sent up that he was tense beyond means was ignored until he drifted to sleep. He was more sensitive, more vulnerable — he wasn't proud at how fast he got close with such an inexperienced blowjob.

He whimpered, his own voice so far away from him, when Richie teased the slit with his tongue. 

After a minute or two of Richie sucking his cock, the muscles in Stanley’s thighs started tensing up, his head rolling back and his eyes fluttering shut, his breath coming out shorter, his grip on Richie’s hair tightening along with his fist on his pillow. Richie moaned around him, and the vibration in his mouth almost tipped Stanley over the edge.

“‘m close,” Stanley panted, barely keeping his eyes open. 

He tugged on Richie’s hair for him to get off, but Richie sank on him deeper, wrapping his arms around Stanley’s thighs and locking his head place. Stanley’s cock twitched at the motion, the intent.

“Richie,” His voice a whine, “You should— fuck— Get off—”

Stanley’s other hand came on Richie’s hair to force his head away, hushed whines leaving out of his mouth like a litany. “Richie—” 

His hips bucked helplessly and Richie chased him with his mouth, whimpering around him. He oscillated on Stanley’s cock, speeding up, jerking the bit he couldn't fit in his mouth with his hand. Forcing Stanley to come inside his mouth, the warmth wrapping around him and the slick of his tongue under his shaft sliding intoxicatingly challenging.

And Stanley came. His climax hit him like a bolt of electricity; his back arching and his hands fisting in Richie’s hair, his hips rocking up and meeting the roof of Richie’s mouth (which was followed by a hollow gag), toes curling on the sheets, a moan ripping out of his throat as he spilled on the back of the man’s tongue. His trembling thighs closed tight around Richie’s head, squeezing it, muscle spasming —Richie let him, his arms still wrapped around them and his mouth full of Stanley’s cock. 

Stanley could barely open his eyes, but he endeavored. He looked at Richie from above. Stanley didn't know if Richie met his eyes, it looked too blurry for him to tell.

A broken noise escaped Stanley when Richie sucked him through his orgasm, the muscles in his abdomen and thighs spasming. It appeared Richie didn't care, at all. 

Stanley’s hips bucked desperately, either to get away or push himself inside Richie’s mouth more, weak hands futilely trying to push him off. Richie paid little to no mind and held his place as Stanley shot every bit of his seed inside his mouth, each spill more weak than the last until Stanley’s cock was spent, twitching weakly and softening against his tongue.

Richie pulled back a little, his lips not leaving the tip as he swallowed Stanley’s load. His scalp must've hurt from how harsh Stanley was tugging on it, but he didn't show any signs of discomfort or pain. Stanley managed to relax his hands just before Richie licked Stanley’s cock, which earned a groan from him. 

Richie licked Stanley’s cock clean, swallowing every bit as he went while Stanley tensed and relaxed ceaselessly under his mouth. 

He pulled Stanley’s pants up when he was done, (Stanley barely had the strength to hold his hips up but thank God Richie acted quick) licking his lips. Richie’s hair was a mess, his lips shone with spit and his cheeks were colored with a deep ember, accompanying the hazy look of his dilated pupils. He looked wrecked and Stanley was sure he was the same, if not worse.

A desire to kiss Richie, taste himself in his mouth and lick the remaining bits of him from his tongue burned fastly in Stanley’s mind, so bright yet so painful, burning his every other thought. It had been so long since they've kissed, let their breaths blend together and inhale each other in between bruised lips like they were starving for each other. Stanley missed it, even though he didn't have any right to. He didn't have any right to want Richie like that. Like they were more than two best friends. 

Like they could be more than two best friends.

Richie crawled a short distance, snapping Stanley out of his thoughts, before he plopped down on Stanley’s bare chest, closing his eyes. His hand (not the jerk-off hand, that would be gross) came up to rest on Stanley as well.

Stanley felt Richie’s erection press on his thigh. He realized quickly.

“You didn't?” Stanley asked quietly, his shock peeking through enough for Richie to normally notice. Richie just shook his head slightly. 

Stanley made a move to get up. “Do you want me t—”

“No,” Richie cut him off, pushing him back until Stanley laid flat on his back again. “No need.”

Richie said nothing more, which was nothing like Richie. Stanley frowned, feeling perplexed, not knowing what to do with his hands so they just laid awkwardly on his sides. “You sure?”

Richie didn't say anything. Instead, he hummed, nuzzled his face into the crook of Stanley’s neck like a cat and wrapped his arm around him, putting his leg between Stanley’s. He covered most of Stanley’s body with his like a heavy, heated blanket. His light stubble tickled Stanley’s collarbone. He moved clumsily, like he was a robot out of its battery that could only be recharged via human contact.

Stanley didn't know what to make of this, but he didn't push. Instead, with the last ounce of strength he had in him before post-orgasm exhaustion and sleep caught up to him, he sat up slightly with Richie on him to pull the blanket over them — well, over Richie. He pulled the edges of it to Richie’s shoulders, covering the freckled skin under the fabric as Richie snuggled up to him more. Stanley regarded that as Richie trying to fit both of them into this small space that were considerably too small for two grown men.

“We should sleep in,” Richie murmured, his breath hot against Stanley’s skin. He sounded as if he was one step away from passing out for three days.

Stanley wrapped one arm around Richie’s shoulders, resting his cheek against Richie’s head. “You don't have any absences left in your name for you to be talking like this.”

Richie let out a low chuckle, heartily. Stanley hated that he couldn't help his smile.

“I have gals in ma name for me to be talking like this.” Richie brushed his nose against the column of Stanley’s throat, the voice he was going for weak and half assed. Stanley thought Richie would purr the words out if he could. “They will sign fo’ me.”

“If you say so,” Stanley replied, combing Richie’s hair back with his fingers. He felt Richie relax in his arms, melt into him like he could only rest if they would become one. We shouldn't do this. “Don't come crying to me when you get TNGd,” He said, hoping Richie wouldn't notice the strain in his voice, just like he hoped Richie wouldn't feel the tension in his posture. This isn't something we do. We never do this. We can't do this.

Come on, get up.

“Yeah, yeah,” Richie mocked, slipping to sleep in Stanley’s arms, with his hair being played, completely oblivious to the turmoil Stanley was feeding inside his brain. Get up, Tozier. get up and climb to your bed and pass out. Because that's what we do. We get each other off and then go as friends. We don't sleep wrapped around each other, we don't sleep with tangled legs, we don't persuade each other about sleeping in. We don't. Because we are friends. Because we aren't— “Whatever you say, boss.”

Together.

We are just two best friends that get each other off when needed, he thought, trying to snap himself back into their reality. Their normal, their should-be. We are two best friends that decided one-night stands weren't worth the hassle and established we could satisfy each other’s means with no feelings or complications. We are two best friends that relieved each other because it was convenient.

Convenience, Stanley thought, uneasily, before letting himself drift to sleep.

Just convenience, nothing more.