Richie went to bed early that night. Not like he could fall asleep properly, not with Stanley's broken face and confession swirling around in his head. He dreads going to school the next day. How could he look at Eddie knowing there's someone else out there wanting him, too?
Richie rolls around to lay on his side, a saddened breath of air leaving him. He didn't stay at Stanley's until eight like he thought he would, instead he left directly after their short, forced conversation. The air was too tense and awkward to stay a minute longer, and by Stanley's rushed actions, it seemed like he agreed.
Now, as Richie stands next to Beverly with weak knees and timid eyes staring up at the back door, the dread is much more sickening than when this situation was only a mere thought.
"What's up with you?" Beverly asks, knocking an elbow to his side.
Richie shifts his weight and moves his eyes down to the ground, shrugging. "It's- .. I'm just not ready to be back at school. I would much rather be at home-"
"Banging someone's mother," Beverly finishes for him, a smile on her face, thinking she knows his exact thoughts. Sometimes she does.
He pushes a smile onto his own face, saying, "You know me so well."
She shrugs and pushes herself off the chain-linked fence, metal rattling against itself. "I had to pick up a few things about you, haven't I? With being stuck with you for so long."
"Ah, you love it," Richie replies and receives a soft laugh.
"Maybe I do."
The bell pierces the outside air, signaling there are limited minutes before class begins. Richie takes Beverly's arm and rushes her inside, completely ignoring her questions as to why they're moving so fast. He desperately wants to avoid the three boys right under their feet as they walk across the mezzanine.
"Wait, lets wait for the others," Beverly says, her steps slowing as they pass the stairs.
"No, Bev, I got to get to class," Richie says, impatiently inching towards the hallway that leads to the main stairwells. Beverly looks to him, her eyes narrowed in confusion. It's obvious one specific question pushes at her lips, wanting to come out, but she knows Richie better than to push. She knows if she does, he'll never tell her.
"Then you go. I'll see you in second period, alright?"
Richie glances briefly at the steps, then nods his head and begins to walk away. He can feel her eyes move from his back to the three boys as their own steps thunder up the stairs.
Richie never looks over his shoulder, not then as he walked away or now, hours later, when he feels a presence come up behind him while he's at his locker. It's between classes, students filtering out classrooms and finding their way to their second to last class of the day. Richie just wants to get there in peace and not have to deal with whoever is waiting for him to take notice.
"Rich," they say. "Richie, I need to talk to you."
"What about, Stanley?" Richie asks. He doesn't mean to be so salty towards the boy, but sometimes he can't help it. They're both pinning after the same boy, two of them in the race, and to Richie it feels like Stanley is many points ahead.
"Don't be stupid," he says. "Could you come over to my house after school? We need to talk. There's- there's things I need to tell you."
This grabs Richie's attention. He pushes his locker door shut, the bottom refusing to fall into place, and he turns to look at Stanley. "Why can't you tell me here?" Richie asks, only to receive an eye roll.
"Can you come over or not?"
Richie thinks it over for a second, his eyes searching Stanley's face. "Sure," he says finally. "I'll come over."
Stan nods his head, his eyes darting down to the ground. He doesn't waste a second to linger at Richie's locker, because he's off walking away and disappearing into the swarm of students. Richie doesn't watch him go, as his mind it too crowded with the upcoming confrontation.
He breaths in deeply and closes his eyes.
Today is going to be a long day, he thinks.
And never once was he wrong. His last few classes felt like they would never end as he sat in hard chairs and rested his arms against hard desks. Hours seemed to stretch ahead of him even when the clock ticked close to three, because just because the school day was over, doesn't mean Richie's torment is over.
He drives Beverly home after school, just like always. She looks so happy and blissful sitting in the passenger seat, humming along to songs she doesn't know the lyrics to, utterly oblivious to what's going on in Richie's life. As he pulls up to her house, she turns to him and asks, "I'll see you tomorrow?"
Richie nods his head, his hands tapping away at the steering wheel. To her or anyone else, it looks like he's drumming along to the music, not knowing it's his anxiety trying to express itself in some way.
He remembers from yesterday the path to Stanley's house. It's not hard, but then again Richie has all his friends houses mapped in his head.
He gets there in under ten minutes and Stanley's car is sitting in the driveway. The fact that he is home, that he's waiting right behind those walls, burns in Richie's mind. He wants to turn around, to go right back home and forget this whole shitstorm of a situation ever happened, but what's the good in that? Instead, he sucks in a deep breath and opens his car door.
It takes a moment for Stanley to open the front door, but when he does, it is quite obvious how much he's been dreading this moment, too. His fingers pick at the wood of the door and his movements are just as stiff as the day before. They're both apprehensive to reenter into the situation they left unresolved, but all knots must be untangled at some point.
The News channel is on, playing mindlessly in the background while Stanley leads Richie into the living room. He doesn't know if Stanley is going to be the first to break the ice, as he was the one who called Richie over, but the way he keeps his eyes trained on the TV tells its own story.
"So.. um," Richie says, dragging his hands up and down his jeans. His hands are sweatier than he last remembered them to be. Out of the corner of his eye, he watches as Stanley inhaled deeply.
Richie's attempt at a conversation falls flat, his words dissolving into the noise of the TV. The two sit in silence for a little while longer, Richie darting his eyes around, trying to get lost in his daydreams to just forget where he is currently.
"I once asked Eddie out. Last year," Stanley says. His voice wobbles and he quickly clears his throat. "Bill had left to get us ice cream and he was gone for longer than we expected. I.. I don't know.. what came over me, but Eddie was watching a bird eat at a piece of bread and I just.." He breaths in once more, his eyes unmoving from the carpeted floor.
Richie isn't sure what to say, if saying anything would even be the correct move. He's never been good with emotions, his own or others. He looks away from the wall and to the space next to Stanley, not ready to fully look at the broken boy.
"Eddie has that way about him," Richie says.
A small smile slides onto Stanley's face, his eyes finally dropping to his lap. "Yes," he says. "Yes he does."
Richie shifts in his seat. A question pushes at his mouth, wanting to get out and to Stanley's ears. He wants to know- needs to know if Stanley is going to go for Eddie again. Because if he is, Richie will back down. He'll smother his feelings for the boy, pretend they aren't there. It was nice while it lasted, at least. Even if he never got to express them to the boy he wanted to.
"Are you.." Richie starts, then his heart squeezes. It hurts, physically and mentally to think about it. That's the power of emotions, he guesses. He breaths in, ignoring how the hurt swells in his chest, and tries again. "Are you gonna.. ask him again?"
From out of his peripheral, he watches as Stanley shudders. "I told you Richie, I can't. I already did once and he turned me down. I don't- I don't want to.. fuck up our friendship more than I already have," he says. He looks up at Richie and Richie lifts his eyes to meet his gaze.
"He pretends it never happened. And that hurts, Richie. I just want him to acknowledge that my feelings are there, but he doesn't. He pretends it never happened and I'm left to deal with it all." Stanley shakes his head and Richie thinks he saw a glimmer of tears in the light. "I can't deal with it anymore," he finishes.
Richie drops his gaze again. Sympathy strikes him hard, urging him to hold out a hand for his friend to take. To at least help Stanley know he's there, but that seems inappropriate for the situation. Everything Richie doesn't seems inappropriate for the situation.
"So.. what do you wanna do?" Richie asks, then quickly sits up to show he isn't done. "Cause, you're tired of hiding your feelings, right?" He asks and Stanley nods his head. Richie looks up at the ceiling, desperately searching his mind for the idea buried deep.
"What if- well, hear me out, Beverly once told me that writing your feelings on a piece of paper and burning it could help. She said that it was a beautiful way to let go of past trauma or some shit, I'm not sure. But.. it could work?"
Stanley stares at Richie with an unbelieving look. Richie silently offers again, raising an eyebrow and cocking his head to the side. Stanley's eyes fall to the floor, a crease of his eyebrow forming as he thinks it through.
"I guess," he says slowly. "I guess it could work."
Richie sits up, watching as Stanley pushes himself off the couch. He walks around a wall that leads into the kitchen and after some quieted rummaging around, he returns with a pad of paper and a pen. He looks at Richie timidly, then to the windows that peer into the backyard.
"Maybe I should be alone.. while doing this," Stanley says. Richie is quick to pick up the obvious hint, but before he could stand to leave, Stanley steps backwards saying, "I'm going to the backyard. More peaceful out there, with the birds."
"Yeah," Richie agrees, sinking back down into his seat. He agrees even if both boys know there aren't any birds, but Stanley needs his space. "I'll be here."
Stanley nods silently and walks back into the kitchen, the sound of heavy storm doors rolling its wheels to be pushed to the side. The door slams again and Richie is left to be alone.
He doesn't mind it though, because he knows on the other side of the wall Stanley is dealing with much more. The types of emotions that can't be captured and describes with words. So, Richie waits patently.
He tries not to watch, Stanley deserves his privacy, but the boy sits on a bench on the other side of the yard that the living room windows give a great view to. He looks quite peaceful, as if he was picked right out of a painting. Sitting on a wooden bench, hunched over pieces of paper writing all he's felt. It's a personal moment, left to be untouched.
Richie puts his attention into the TV, watching as the News ends and some trashy reality television show comes on. It's horrible the way the people act with each other, especially when the subject of money or fame comes up, but god is it captivating. Richie feels himself get lost in the plot, his full attention on the screen until he's lost count of time.
By the time Stanley comes shuffling back inside, the tips of his fingers and ears red and raw from the cold, Richie's body aches from the position he's stayed in.
"Back," Stanley says simply, his lips chapped and frozen.
"Welcome," Richie replies.
He doesn't move to sit down, instead gripping the sheets of paper in his hands, glosses eyes staring down at them. "So.. how is this done?" He asks.
Richie stands up and asks for a lighter, to which Stanley retrieves from his fathers office. Richie leads him back outside, the cold biting at his uncovered skin. He hands the lighter to Stanley, telling him, "Whenever you're ready."
He nods and takes the lighter into his hands, his thumb slowly gliding up and down the casing. Richie keeps his eyes trained in front of him, either on the dead and beaten down grass or the skies, blue drifting in and out of view from behind passing clouds.
He hears the flick of the lighter and the soft whoosh of a flame. Stanley holds the flame to the corner of the papers, both boys watching as it takes a second before the paper crumbles under the heat. Richie's eyes hold fascination, but all of that quickly falls when he looks up and sees how saddened Stanley's eyes looked. He doesn't think he's ever seen a friend other than Beverly this heartbroken.
Richie doesn't read the words, only watches as the fire climbs up the papers. Black and charred ashes break apart and fall to the cement to wait for the wind to scatter them.
The flames carry itself to the other sides of the paper, and before it could harm Stanley's already reddened fingers he bends down and drops it to the ground. His emotions are put to rest, hidden from other eyes in the specs of black ash.
It takes a long while for the paper to fully burn out, but when it did Richie's legs ache and the cold washes over his skin. Stanley sniffles and looks up to the sky.
"Thank you, Richie," he says.
He isn't sure what Stanley is thanking him for exactly, but the less words, the better. "Yeah," he says softly. "I'm sorry things didn't work out as you might've thought."
Stanley stifles a small chuckle, then shrugs. "I think a small part of me always knew things were never going to work out. Even before I asked him out," he confesses. Even with the invisible weight lifted off his shoulders, sadness still hangs in his voice. It hurts Richie to listen to the way Stanley's voice quivers and wavers when he talks about Eddie.
"I'm still sorry," Richie says again. It's a pathetic way to end this whole thing and his words doing nothing to sooth Stanley, but he cannot think of anything else to say. And not saying anything doesn't sound very favorable.
"Yeah," Stanley says. "Me too."
Richie looks to the back door and Stanley seems to get the hint. "You can go if you want, I think I might stay out here for a little while longer," he says. Richie looks at him, watching his friend as he helplessly toes at the ashes of was once his emotions explained to no one.
"I'll see you," Richie says.
"Yeah," Stanley responds. "I- I might need some time.. for what, I don't know. Just time to myself."
Richie pauses, a hand wrapped around the handle to the door. "For how long?"
A bitter laugh sputters from Stanley's mouth and he throws his hands up only for them to slap down against his thighs. "I don't know! A week, a month.. I just need some time to figure everything out, okay?" He asks.
Richie's eyes linger on him, then he swallows thickly and nods. "Alright. That's okay, take your time Stanley. We'll all be waiting for you."