a/n: sorry not sorry oh and homophobic slurs
"Nice going, fuckface!"
"How is this my fault?"
"You know Stan is funny about . . . that kind of shit! At least, his parents are."
"Just because his parents are doesn't mean he is!"
"What if he was? You may have just ruined their friendship!"
"Please, we all saw him kiss back-"
"-CAN YOU ALL SHUT THE F-FUCK UP?!"
Bill had stayed silent through most of Bev's and Richie's petty argument, the only movement from his body being that of the tears streaming down his red cheeks. But when Richie brought up the kiss, he snapped, only stuttering on one word as he full-on screamed at them.
After a good thirty seconds of the Losers staring at him like he might rip their heads off, Eddie gently abandoned Richie's lap to console him. He cautiously reached out, praying Bill wouldn't bite him or something crazy, and pulled the stuttering boy's head into his shoulder.
Bill broke into uneven, heavy sobs, weakly wrapping his arms around Eddie's middle like it was the very last thing to hold onto. He hated himself for crying over something so stupid. He should've seen this coming. The thought of his kiss with Stan made him scream into Eddie's shoulder in pure anger.
Eddie shushed him and hugged him tightly, rubbing his shoulders. Eddie knew. Deep down, Eddie always knew. He'd barely changed facial expressions when Bill came out to him in eighth grade. And no matter how much he constantly teased Bill about Stanley, no matter how many times Bill denied the accusation, Eddie always knew. He wanted to bury Stan for causing Bill this much anguish.
The Losers watched heartbrokenly as their once great leader crumbled, wounded and desperate for care. And in that moment, they wanted to bury Stan too. Every one of them, except for Richie, who was mulling over every life choice he'd ever made and regretting most of them.
But this one, this dare, he would never regret. Even though Bill was a mess and Stanley was being an utter dick, he wouldn't regret it. Because Richie knew too. Richie didn't notice the same things that Eddie did, because Eddie was a lot closer to Bill.
No, Richie noticed all the things with Stan. He noticed the way Stan's eyes lit up when Bill walked into the room. He noticed Stan's small but prominent smile and rosy cheeks everytime Bill talked to him. He noticed how upset and pissy Stan got when Bill wasn't around. And Stan didn't have to flat out say he loved Bill for Richie to know. Deep down, he knew.
It's a wonder Richie and Eddie didn't trade information at some point, considering they're practically attached at the hip. How could they not have put two and two together by now? How could they have been so blind?
It didn't matter now, what's done is done.
Richie placed a gentle hand on Bill's shuddering back, trying to ease and quiet his sobs, "Hey, Big Bill, I know. I know it stings, but at least you got some action, amirite?"
Bill slowly lifted his head from Eddie's shoulder, and the glare that graced his features was so mean, Richie was temporarily convinced he was about to be obliterated. Beverly kicked Richie's shin from the side.
"Okay, okay! That was uncalled for!" He apologizes profusely as Bill puts his head back down. "Look, Billy, I know how much you like him, and I can't imagine how much all of . . . that must have hurt, but I need you to hear me out on this. I really think Stan likes you-"
"Richie, stop filling his head with false hope," Mike interrupted. "He's been through enough."
"I'm not! I fucking swear to you! He's just hiding it or blocking it out, 'cause of his parents. They're hella homophobic- he's come to my house in the middle of the night before, crying his eyes out because he heard his parents muttering about 'the dirty fags in this town'. Riddle me this, why would he do that if he wasn't gay?"
"Maybe it just made him sad, y'know?" Ben offered, but in reality, he saw Richie had a pretty good point.
"Made him sad because he knows his parents would never accept him." Richie took a deep breath, "I've got proof."
Bill's head shot up. Richie had proof? Proof of what? Of Stan's parents not accepting him? Of Stan being gay? Had they done things together? Is that why Richie was so certain?
"I'm not supposed to tell you this," Richie began, and Bill prepared for the worst. "But there's a reason Stan's parents don't like me."
"You mean, other than the fact that you're you?" Bev snorts.
"Haha, yes, thank you Beverly." Richie rolls his eyes and turns back to Bill, whom he wished would just believe him so he didn't have to tell this goddamn story. "So, I think it was the summer before freshman year . . ."
Thirteen-year-old Richie Tozier walked his bike up Stan Uris' driveway in the late afternoon one day in July. He'd graciously been invited over for dinner—Christ knows why, there was way too much breakable shit in that house—and for once put on a clean shirt in hopes of impressing Stan's tyrant parents.
Stan had the front door open before Richie could even think of knocking, and the two boys wandered to Stan's room to read comics before dinner. The two ended up sprawled out on Stan's bed, trading comics back and forth everytime one of them found something interesting in the colorful pages.
Around 6:30, Andrea Uris—not yet the violent, raging hag that she was destined to become during Stanley's highschool years—poked her head in the door. She frowned slightly, seeing the two boys oh so close together, but tried to push back her disgust. She'd just have to have a talk with Stanley later, and the problem would fix itself.
She ushered the two boys from Stanley's room and down stairs to the spotless dining room. Richie sat next to Stan, wearily looking at the priceless china in front of him. Welp, that's about to be broken, he thought absentmindedly.
As Andrea was serving the boys mixed vegetables, Stanley's father arrived home. Even a blind person could see how pissed off the man was. For him, it had been a rough day. Both Richie and Stan watched as he sat at the head of the table and laid his hands on either side of his dinner plate, sighing heavily through his nose.
"How was your day, honey?" Andrea asked, laying a gentle hand on his shoulder.
Both boys stared intently, but for different reasons: Richie was trying to decide if he should crack a wise-ass joke in front of the man, and Stan was preparing for his father to completely explode and scream about the mockery that was his day while demanding that Andrea do everything for him, just like every other day.
"Kids can't seem to take five seconds out of their day to keep up on their Torah reading," He said bitterly, referring to the younger kids that had classes at the Temple today. He took a long, thoughtful drink of his red wine, and then continued. "And as I was driving home, past the Aladdin, these two fags—"
Stan released and almost inaudible wince, and Richie tuned out their conversation. The word 'fag', caused his heart to twinge painfully every time he heard it. He couldn't understand why the word struck him so personally, but it did. (Richie would begin experimenting with his sexuality in a mere few minutes, and finally come to terms with it in a matter of months, but at the time, he didn't even consider the possibility of that being the reason why the word so easily wounded him.)
"Can you believe this is what our town has come to?" Mr. Uris droned on.
Andrea shook her head pitifully, "It really is a shame. Don't they know how sinful it is?"
"Evidently not." He eyed Stan suspiciously. "At least we know our boy would never commit to such sin. Isn't that right, Stanley?" He said this with such a chilling tone that Richie began to shiver, and he glanced sideways, worried about what the other boy would respond with.
Stan kept his fearful gaze on the tablecloth, unable to even think of meeting his father's stone-cold eyes. Richie noticed that his shoulders began to shake and shudder with each breath, his bottom lip quivering.
"I . . . I need to be excused. P-Please." Stan pushed back his chair and stood, still staring at the tablecloth.
"Sweetie, you haven't finished your—"
"I feel like I'm going to be sick," He mumbled, then darted out of the dining room and up the stairs. Other than the sharp sound of a door upstairs slamming shut, the house had fallen into utter silence.
Richie slowly rose to his feet, gently backing away from the glass-adorned table, "I'll go check on him." He mumbled, then politely excused himself and made his way to the stairs. He tried tuning out the angry words of Stanley's parents as he made his way to Stan's room, the door of which had caused the slamming sound when the other boy had shut it.
"Stan?" Richie knocked on the door politely. "Stan, it's Richie."
"Go away." Stan's voice was sharp, but there was an fearful tremor in it.
Richie allowed his head to thump against the door, "Come on, Stan the Man. You've got me worried sick, ah say ah say, just worried sick-"
The door creaked open, cutting off Richie and his terrible cowboy impression. Stan stood in the doorway, glaring angrily at his friend, and furiously wiping his eyes with his sleeves. Richie stepped into the room, gently closing the door behind him and leaning up against it.
"What's eatin' ya, Stan?" He asked, carefully choosing his words in hopes of not upsetting the boy further.
Stan sniffled, another few tears running down his rosy cheeks, "I-I-I'm disgusting Richie. I'm wr-wr-wrong." He suddenly collapsed onto his friend, sobbing into his shirt. Richie did his best to console him and quiet his cries, but it was difficult. Richie didn't even know how to properly handle his own feelings, how was he supposed to help Stan handle his?
"Why do you think that, Stan?"
"M-M-My parents . . . What they s-said . . ."
"About homo-"
"Yes!"
Richie cocked his head to the side, pushing Stan back gently by the shoulders to look him in the eyes, "Can I ask why that's upsetting you?"
Stan blinked his tear-filled hazel eyes up at him, searching for the right words to say, "I . . . Richie I'm- no, I think I'm . . . I don't know, shit . . ." And he couldn't find them. They were there in his mind, so simple, but he couldn't bring himself to say them out loud.
He looked at Richie desperately, pleading that he would put it together on his own. But the dark-haired boy only stared back at him in confusion, his coke-bottle glasses magnifying his wide eyes and making him look even more lost.
Stan swallowed the lump in his throat, and did the only thing he could think of; the only thing that would make Richie understand. He grabbed his chin and pulled him closer until their noses bumped, then tilted his head and slotted their lips together.
For a minute, Richie didn't move at all. And then he relaxed, realizing that he was completely fine with everything that was happening. He liked it even; it felt normal, comfortable, right. He kissed him back, hands still on his shoulders.
The two kissed time and time again, experimenting with different angles. Finally, they both found contentment when Richie's arms encircled Stan's waist, and Stan's wound around the taller boy's neck.
Stan pulled away, shyly looking up at Richie, tears still leaking from his eyes. Richie sighed, hugging Stan tightly and allowing him to bury his head in his shoulder.
"Are . . . Are you gay?" He asked gently.
Stan shrugged, "I don't know but . . . I think so." He held onto Richie's shirt with a death grip, "Are you?"
It was Richie's turn to shrug, "Maybe."
"Did . . . Did you like it?" He asked, his voice muffled by Richie's shirt.
The Hawaiian shirt-clad boy nodded, "Did you?"
Stan nodded.
The door swung open, and in came Andrea Uris, eyes slitted like a snake's. She had one hell of a time pulling them apart; both boys were reluctant, calling out desperately for the other one. She finally separated them and grabbed Richie by the shirt collar, threatening to kill him if he ever came near her son again. Then she promptly shoved him out, Stan screaming at her the entire time.
And that night, after Andrea was sure Richie had gone and taken his diseases with him, Stanley Uris was hit for the first time in his life.
As Richie recapped the events of that fateful night in the Uris household, the Losers sat around him in shock. None of them knew, not a single one had any idea. Not a single one could have even imagined such an event, and not a single one spoke.
It was silent, save for the rustling trees in the wind and the owls calling mournfully in the darkness, until one broken, pissed-off voice cut in.
"I-I-I-I'm going to f-f-fu-fucking k-k-kill you!"
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( published O9, December 2O18 ! )
( edited ! )