Chapter 2: part 1

Richie had always avoided the kissing bridge. Manly because that was where so many other teenagers would hang out, those who most likely would enjoy attacking him with crude remarks.

That was his excuse at least.

But with the Bower's gang dispersed, there wasn't much of a threat anymore.

He could come up with something else but it wasn't worth his energy.

Really the only thing stopping Richie was his own fear. And he had to admit that to himself, no matter how much he didn't want to. He was a coward.

Eddie.

Fuck, can't he just rest? Every fucking day it is the same shit. Eddie always on his mind, finding a way to leak into his brain, to mold itself into the curves of his membrane. Fitting perfectly into his thoughts like a puzzle piece slotting itself into his subconscious and consuming his sanity entirely.

So maybe he didn't like going to the kissing bridge, because it was crowded, and loud. Too many people doing what you'd do on such a location. Kiss.

But he couldn't lie to himself, as he passed by on his bike. It was empty. Secluded, quiet. He was alone.

Maybe a part of him didn't like being alone. Because it meant he was alone with his thoughts. Meant he could think, and thinking was bad.

Maybe. He liked being confused.

Because if he was confused then he could never be sure. He could pretend he didn't know the answer. He could just live life, in blissful ignorance.

Eddie.

His heart settled between his ribs like jelly, and he quickly got off his bike.

Just earlier today, he was internally making fun of everyone for being afraid of spiders, when they had undoubtedly fought off something far scarier.

Yet here he was, trembling, terrified at the thought of facing something as simple as his feelings. He pushed his glasses back up his nose, feeling his breath waver.

If he could kick Pennywise's ass, then he could deal with basic emotions.

It's just— he doesn't want to admit it. Doesn't want to dwell or confirm that those feelings, are love.

Love.

Gross, horrifying, violent, cruel love.

Or that's at least Richie's idea of love. With the way his father and mother treat each other. With the way they treat him. It's even how Beverly talks about it when it comes to her dad.

Love is demanding, it's selfish. Love is bad.

And it's especially bad when it's towards a boy. The idea of anyone else knowing, of anyone finding out, it was possibly scarier then that stupid clown.

Because at least if something caused Richie's suffering, it would be Pennywise's fault. But now? Richie was in control. Anything bad happening would be his own fault. He would be to blame. For this thoughts. For his feelings. Why couldn't he just bury it down? Hide it.

He felt the outline of his pocket knife on the right side of his jean pockets, and pulled it out slowly, tentatively, he was all too aware of the cold metal brushing his hand.

He looked around, the road was clear, no cars, and most likely no one would walk by, as he looked overhead at the sky and saw the sun would be setting soon.

Just to humor himself he parked his bike, hitting the kick stand with his sneaker, before walking over to the wooden fencing of the bridge.

It was covered, absolutely littered with all different types of carvings, some just blantantly names. Other dates, or crude drawings. There were the random peices of gum stuck to the sides of it, but even with everything there, Richie noticed, a basically empty spot, untouched, by any other people.

He thought about all the different things that could end up there. A dick carving perchance, maybe a silly message like 'I was here!!' Or even a proclaiming of someone's love.

Slowly he raised his knife to the wood, before quickly pulling away, standing up and cursing at himself.

Was he stupid? He couldn't do this. This would be just as bad as admitting defeat.

Defeat? To what?

'Sissy boy. Flamer. Fairy. Faggot'

Love

loathsome, monstrous, abhorrent.

He carded a hand through his dark curls, feeling the sweat from that day building up at his roots, mixing in with the oiliness of his already very dirty hair.

He slid his glasses off his face, holding it in his right hand balancing it between his thumb and forefinger, with his pocket knife in his palm. He used the free hand to wipe his face, swiping away any stupid ideas that came to him.

This was dumb, he should just go.

So he did. Quickly, putting his knife in his pocket, and his glasses back on, he got on his bike.

And as he rode off, his eyes peered back at that empty, untouched spot on the bridge. Waiting to be carved. Then he was gone.

________________________

"This is the last fucking time I tell you this Maggie!" Richie flinched at the sound of his father screaming as he, tried to as quietly and discreetly enter his house. The night sky already blanketing Derry with it's ominous warmth.

"I didn't fucking do anything!" She yelled back, her voices choked up, in a way that Richie recognizes all too well. She only sounds like that when she had either been crying or drunk. But it could always be a mix of both.

Slowly he creeped through the hallway, moving his head down, as he walked by the opening walkway of the living room. Where his parents were currently screaming at each other.

He kept his goal simple, just to his room, and lock the door. Hide in there for the rest of the night and try to sleep to the wondrous sounds of his broken family.

'Smack'

His body jumped at the sound as he was already walking halfway up the stairs to his room.

He was horrified as his eyes slowly moved up to see what had happened. Usually he would just ignore when his mother would be hit, knowing he was powerless to protect her. Knowing if he interfered it would just make the situation worse for both of them. He knew it too well from experience.

But this time it wasn't his father who hit his mother.

His eyes widen at the look on his father's now very noticeable drunken face, as he touched his cheek, bright red and stinging.

Then his eyes flickered to his mother's. She seemed just as surprised of what she did as both of them were. And then, almost instantaneously, his heart sank, fell into the pits of his body, until it lead him into the center of the world, pulling him down with it, and crushing him under the weight.

His mother had only ever hit his father back, once.

And Richie remembered, he remembered so vividly he could almost taste the bile that had risen up his throat when he was 9. Watching with tearful eyes as his father pulled off his belt and beat his mother bloody.

Richie's mom. His favorite memory of her, was when he was 6. All he had wanted for his birthday was a new G. I. Joe.

And to his surprise she had actually gotten him one. Stole it from one of the boys down the street when she was babysitting.

She had came home from work around 4. Putting her bags down, and walking to Richie on the living room floor as he watched the TV.

He looked up at her, and could see a curious look on her face, wondering when would be the right time. He guess she had decided now or never, and handed her son the toy from her purse.

But it wasn't the fact that she got the toy for him that made him so happy. It wasn't even that she had remembered that was what he wanted. Or just even remembered his birthday. Because she sure as hell doesn't now. But it was that she thought about him. That she took a moment out of her day to think about Richie, and what would make him happy.

And that day he had hugged her harder then he ever had before, demanding to sit in her lap and play with his new toy with her. And she had smiled. She didn't even drink until Richie had gone to bed. He loved his mother.

Love

hateful, execrable, sickening.

His fists clenched. And he was trembling, his heart was beating out of his chest, and his lungs compressed like plastic bags.

He was fucking scared.

But god fucking forbid he let something happen to her. He was going to be 14 soon. He was going to be a teenager. He was gonna be a high schooler soon.

He beat up a fucking evil clown for Christ's sakes.

He could stand up for his mother. He was strong, tall, and brave.

But that was what he just told himself. It was all a lie, and he realized pretty quickly how wrong he was.

As he acted against his better judgement and stepped between his mother and his dads fist, the punch landed right into his gut. knocking him back into his mother, as she stumbled out the way.

He was lanky and weak. His long limbs didn't help his awkward body at all, and as the pain surged through his body, adrenaline rushed through him. But it died down when he heard his mother speak.

"Get the fuck out of here Richard I swear to god" she seemed pissed. He didn't know if she was pissed at him or his father. It seemed like both.

"What the fuck do you think your doing? Who do you think you are? Huh?" And then his eyes snapped to his father. Large, looming. His presence was threatening, and it shot dread up Richie's spine. "You think you are being the good guy here? You think your saving her?" His fathers eyes were dark and dangerous, as his words slurred.

"I bet you think I'm the bad guy huh? Is that what you think of me? When I work all fucking day long so you can eat" he shoved Richie back, into the side of the dining room, cornering him as Richie frantically looked for his mother. But she was gone, took the opportunity to escape. She wasn't going to help him.

"You are one ungrateful mother fucker aren't you? I work my ass off all day. I do everything for you and this is how you repay me?" He leans in, and Richie tries to not physically cringe at the smell of alchohol wafting off his father's breath.

"That bitch deserves what she gets." His voice was low and primal, almost like a animal being set off, and then he grabbed Richie by his hair.

Richie was screaming out, at the pain. And as his father all but dragged his body to the kitchen by his hair, he realized that screaming wasn't going to change anything. He could yell until his voice went hoarse. No one would save him.

He could feel strands of hair being pulled from his scalp, as he tired to wriggle out of his father's grasps.

He knew his dad was pissed, he really did, and he knew what he was capable of. But what happened was straight out of a nightmare.

He reached for one of the kitchen knifes, pulling it out of the holster as the metal clanged against the counter.

"M-m-MOM!" Richie screeched, it was panicked, dripping with need. Need for his mother. Need for his safety. For his life. And for the first time in his entire life, he was legitimately scared of his father. For the first time in his life, he was begging for his mothers help.

And as his father pressed the knife into his gut, not breaking the skin, but pressing hard enough that Richie could feel the uncomfortable sharpness of the blade through his shirt, his mother appeared.

She was standing at the entry way of the kitchen. Eyes filled with shock. And fear.

Fear for Richie.

But then she turned away, not wanting to look, not wanting to get to get hurt.

Not wanting to save him.

The way he wanted to save her.

And that was truly painful. Knowing that information about his mother, something he didn't want to be confirmed. She was too much of a coward, that she'd rather let Richie die, then get involved.

"She isn't going to do shit. She knows better. at least she isn't as fucking stupid as you" his father was fuming, anger dripping like venom from each word out of his lips.

His father.

Richie remembered his favorite memory of his dad. It was the one time Richie had to stay home from school cause he was sick. When he was around 11, having just started 6th grade. Richie had caught a fever over 100, and his father actually took a day off work to be with him.

He sat at the side of Richie's twin size bed, making the mattress warp under his weight. His dad told jokes with him, and wasn't afraid to curse in front of Richie. He even allowed Richie to curse with him as well. It made him feel like he was the coolest person in the world. And when his dad had made horrible horrible soup for Richie.

Richie had thought to himself. How in the world, could you make that soup horrible? It would have been so hard to mess up canned soup. But his dad found a way. But it was still nice because at least he was trying.

And when Richie was feeling a little better his dad taught him how to play poker. And was pleasantly surprised at how fast Richie was able to pick it up.

And then for the rest of the day, they played poker. Betting pop tarts like money. Laughing when they would get crumbs everywhere and started flicking them at each other.

Richie really did love his dad.

Love

Disappointing, confusing, deceiving.

His father pulled the knife back, as if ready to plunge it into his body. Eyes burning with fury. And right then bad there, fight or flight kicked in. And Richie pushed his father off, kicking at his knees as he tore himself away from his grip.

He stumbled back as Richie began to run to the other side of the room, grabbing his backpack but then just deciding to abandon it, knowing nothing but school work was rotting away in there.

For a moment he swore he could see the regret in his fathers eyes, like the sudden realization of what he had planned on doing to Richie. The realization sobering him up.

"Richie—I. I didn't mean-" he started, voice breaking slightly.

"I'm leaving" Richie announced, unable to look his father in theeyes. Afraid of what he might see there. Pity.

The only thing he should feel pitiful about was that Richie had a father like him.

"Rich" a softer more feminine voice spoke behind him. "It's dark out you can't—"

"What do you care?!" Richie finally snapped, tears prickling down from his eyes, watering up, and daring to cascade down his cheeks.

He was outraged, and frankly, pissed off. Done with all of this bullshit.

It was like a sudden break, a break in the dam of his mind. All that build up. That self hate. That questioning about himself, and his thoughts. His fear for himself, for his mother. The thoughts of his friends. His thoughts of

Eddie.

He broke, and couldn't get the tears to stop from raining down, pouring onto the roof of his house and breaking the structures. Shaking the foundation, and ripping out the floor from under him. He was truly alone.

The waterfall came crashing, and he ran. Ran as far as he could.

The sound of his mother's panicked voice being more and more faint the farther he got.

It was dark out, and as he grabbed onto his bike, he could see the front door of the house swing open, the angry eyes of his father peering from beyond it. "Richard get your ass back here now!"

He didn't listen, just quickly got on, and began peddling. Rushing away from that house with a feverish sinking feeling in his gut.

All he could feel was the tears on his cheeks become cold with the breeze hitting his face as he rode out of the street, taking a sharp turn to drive towards Eddie's house. Not knowing why he felt the need to.

And then that sinking feeling was back again. But this time it consumed him. Ate him up and grinded him between it's teeth before spitting him out, and leaving him with the realization.

His father had tried to kill him. His mother had sat back and watched.

As he pushed harder and harder, moving fast on the bike he felt the familiar feeling of bile rise up. But this time it was too much to hold.

He was able to stop at the Kissing bridge, bending over the fencing to vomit out what little was in his stomach. He retched out and felt his stomach contract painfully.

He clutched his side, trying his best to catch his breath, feeling already light headed at it all.

He moved back slowly, to sit down for a moment, to collect himself, and to calm his breathing.

Then his eyes met the empty little spot were he had wanted to carve into earlier.

He felt sweat drip down his neck as his breathing began to slow down, his body stressed and tired.

He grabbed his pocket knife, this time actually pressing it into the wood, carving a (R) into the empty space, before adding a (+) right next to it.

Finally he was able to breath, his lungs able to bring his nerves to a better place.

His eyes looked down, over at the carving. And quickly got up. It was stupid. What was he thinking? He was just under a lot of stress and needed to let it out.

He got onto his bike again, eyes lingering over the (R + ) before peddling, and riding his way down the streets of Derry.

He was finally able to think a little bit more clearly. And he knew as much as he wanted to, he couldn't go to Eddie's. His mother would throw a fucking fit and Richie wasn't in the mood with dealing with more adults.

He thought of Beverly, but knew her father would be anything other then okay with having a random boy show up at his house in the middle of the night to sleep over in his daughter's room. That is just a recipe for disaster.

Bill would always let Richie stay, and his parents wouldn't mind either. But Richie needed someone who understood his situation, someone who had known his parents, and known what they are capable of. He needed that moral support.

And as he finally made his way to Stan's house, he felt the warmth of his tears begin to slowly roll down his face again, his grief making its ever demanding presence known.

Taking in one deep labored breath, He got off his bike, throwing it down and abandoning it on the side of the road. He made his way to the front of the house, taking in one last deep breath.

Richie knocked on the door. To which there was no response.

He tried again, and again a third time. And after 5 minutes he knew he needed to just go to Bill's.

He turned around, and started walking down the steps from the house, when the front door suddenly creaked open.

"Hello?" A familiar, yet very soft and tired voice spoke out, and Richie turned to see Stan, eyes droopy with a daze. He was wearing blue striped pajamas, and the porch light lit up the tip of his messy hairs.

"Richie?" He asked, confused when Richie finally made his way back up the steps.

"Dude, What the fuck? You could have woken my parents u—" and then he stopped, pausing as his gaze landed on the red puffiness of Richie's eyes, the tears leaving stains on his red cheeks.

There was a moment of silence, and Richie noticed Stan was processing everything, taking a moment to allow his body to catch up with his brain.

Stan didn't say anything, just quickly moved out of the way, opening the door wider, to allow Richie in.

The sudden burst of heat from the house hit Richie like a wall.

Hesitantly he stepped through the threshold of the Uris household. It had been so long since the last time Richie was in here.

All the lights were off, the house was silent and dark, undisturbed by the new person entering it. Behind Richie, Stan moved to gently push the front door shut, turning the top nob to lock it once again.

Then Stanly wordlessly moved his hand down, to intertwine his fingers with Richie's, pulling him up the stairs to his room. And Richie followed, not fighting it.

His house smelt faintly of potpourri and disinfectant, and the hardwood floor creaked just slightly with each step he took.

Walking down the hallway quietly, as they passed Stan's parents room, they tip toe all the way to the bathroom, were Stan sits Richie down on the edge of the tub.

After shutting the door, he begins wiping away his tears from his face with tissue paper.

Richie sits. Quiet for once his life, not speaking a single word. and Stanly doesn't push him, he doesn't say anything back, and instead, moves to grab a comb, and brush his hair, seeing the obvious knots managed in Richie's hair, because he was either too depressed, or stressed to take care of himself.

Or really it was that he didn't care.

And once he was finished, he pulled Richie up and into his room, sitting him down on his bed as he shuffled around his room, looking around in his closet before pulling out some shirts. Looking at them, he chose the band t-shirt to give to Richie.

A moment passed, and Richie just kind of looked at it in his lap, tears dripping onto the fabric. He could feel Stan's eyes on him, waiting for him patiently.

But he didn't move, he didn't have the energy to. And as Stan moved closer he expected a annoyed voice to yell at him, tell him to get over it.

But instead, what came out was so calm, and so caring, it made him feel safe almost instantly. "Hey, it's okay Rich. I'll do it"

And just like that, Stan was removing his shirt off his body. Like a mother taking care of her child, and then slipped on the new shirt, discarding the dirty, sweaty shirt into his laundry hamper, folding it first before placing it down.

Then he moved down the help Richie with his shoes, unlacing them and taking them off, neatly placing them on the side of the bed, tucking the laces back into the shoes.

Then he removed Richie's jeans. And Richie just sat, like a rag doll, not saying a word. He felt less constricted however when Stan was done, just leaving Richie in his boxers and Stan's t-shirt. It smelled clean, and had not a single wrinkle on it, obviously everything Stan owned had been flat ironed.

Then he is being pulled into the bed, blankets being draped over his body, and tucked into his sides. He could already feel himself slipping away, drifting into sleep, if it had not been for the disquietude pumping through him.

Stan gets into the bed next, squishing up beside him, reaching to take Richie's glasses off, and placing them on the nightstand closest to him.

And then they lay there, listening to each other breathe. Richie looked over and could see the rise and fall of Stan's chest.

They stayed like that for a while. In comfortable silence, as Richie counted each of Stan's breaths. Relaxing into the smell of his best friend all around him.

And after 30 more minutes of silence, Richie was sure Stan was asleep, slightly shocked when he spoke.

"What happened Richie?" Stan's voice was dry and rough due to how tired he was.

"Mom. And dad" Richie said. It was simple. But Stan understood instantly.

"I didn't see any bruises on your body" Stan admitted, running his hand through Richie's hair.

"Oh, so that's why you wanted to stripe me like a Barbie?"

"No asshole" Stan laughed softly, and it made Richie feel better.

"I just wanted to make sure you didn't get into my bed in those dirty ass clothes."

Richie rolled his eyes, groaning softly, as to not wake his parents. "Of course you didn't"

"But I did also wanted to check to see if nothing was broken. Or bruised." Stan admitted, voice soft.

And Richie sighed, he knew, that everyone basically knew he would get hit by his dad every once in a while. And he knew they would try and check out his body, make sure nothing was severely damaged.

"Well it could have been worse" Richie whispered, sadness in his words, instant regret filling him for even bringing it up.

Stan turned to his side, to look at Richie. The room was dark, but the soft light from the moon pushing through the windows helped with some visibility.

"What do you mean?" Stan asked, worry in his tone.

"Dad he—" his voice caught in his throat, as he fought the tears wanting to spill over his eye lids again, "he tried to, cut me open. Like stab me" Richie said, blunt and without warning, not wanting to beat around the bush.

There was a audible gasp that came from Stan, as he moved closer, and draped his arm around Richie's chest.

Richie almost didn't hear it, because it was so faint, but under Stan's breath, slipped out a "oh my god."

Richie understood. He knew. Stan was horrified, and even more upset that he couldn't do anything. That he couldn't protect Richie.

No one could do anything. Richie was stuck, no adult would believe them if they reported it. No one would care.

And as Richie moved to wrap his arms around Stan, his head fell into his chest, and he began crying.

Usually Stan would be disgusted by that, not wanting his shirt to be ruined, to get covered in snot and possibly saliva. But he just laid there, Richie in his arms, while he rubbed his back, letting Richie get out what he needed to get out.

"I hate all of this. I hate them. But I also don't hate them. I love them, and I hate myself for that. God I hate myself"

"Hey, it's okay. It is. I understand, believe me I do. But you don't deserve any hate. Let alone any from yourself"

"I thought you said I was the most annoying mother fucker you have ever known?"

"Well yeah. You are"

Richie laughed softly, it was broken, and small, but it was enough, to make him smile faintly against Stan's chest.

"And I loved you despite of it" Stan started, "even if you terrorized me everyday with your peak classic Richie annoyingness. I couldn't stop loving you dude. Much less hate you"

Love.

It was kind, warm, friendship.

"God I just. It's so much"

"What is?"

But Richie didn't answer. Not wanting to, not daring to allow it to slip. He had just found someone to run to, a safe place to be, he wasn't about to throw it away.

And after a few minutes of silence, Stan spoke. "You know you can tell me anything right?"

"Yeah" Richie spoke too quick, voice shaking and not convinced.

Stan sighed, squeezing Richie tightly before pulling away.

"Rich.." he began, but Richie caught him off.

"I can't. I can't tell you. Because you will hate me. You will. And you won't want to be my friend anymore. You'll hate me. And you'll never speak to me again. And I won't blame you. It will be no one's fault. But mine."

Stan seemed shocked, eyes round like dinner plates. And then his face softened, as he patted Richie's shoulder.

"Nothing you say will make me hate you"

"Wanna bet?" Richie said, bitter, venom in his words.

Stan moves back down, to pull Richie into his embarce. Richie didn't fight it.

"Well how long has this issue been bothering you?"

Stan was avoiding the subject, for Richie's sake, knowing he wasn't comfortable with sharing it yet, and Richie could feel himself relaxing.

"I think I've been dealing with it all my life. Just never wanted to admit it. Never wanted to think about it. But recently it has been eating at me. It's fucking annoying how I can think or focus because of it"

Stan made a appreciative hum, as he thought for a moment. "Is it about your parents? Or is this another issue that is now just stacked onto the issue of your parents"

"The second one" Richie spoke defeatedly after a few moments passed.

"Well it's okay if you cry about that problem as well. You have to face it one way or another"

"But that's the issue. I don't want to face it. I don't even want to cry about it, because if I do then I'll be admitting it's effecting me, that it's actually there"

"What is it? Do you have like have a disorder or something? Like you wanna murder people or some shit?"

"What?? No"

"Is it that you secretly hate me or someone in the group?"

"No"

"Is it that you are secretly a Russian spy?"

Richie laughed, loud and unabashed, and Stanly just shushed him, but he was laughing too.

"Well if it isn't any of those, then how bad can it really be?" Stanly asked, pressing his hand into Richie's.

Richie sighed, commiting the smell and warmth of Stan Uris to his memory one last time before he would never see him again.

"It's. Just. I—"

Richie couldn't find his words. He'd never even admitted it to himself before, let alone speak it out loud.

He tried. He really did. He tired to say it, but as he began to form to words on his lips, no voice came out. His body was actively fighting him. Pleading with him to not let it out.

After a few more minutes he tried again, lip quivering.

"I'm gay"

It burned the inside of his mouth, leaving open wounds in his throat as the words escaped him. He admitted it. Spoke it into existence, laid down the kindling, and allowed the fire to burst.

And then the air was still, and so was their bodies, their breathing slowed, but Richie could feel the beat of Stan's heart.

The words coming from Richie's lips tasted sweet yet at the same time left him feeling like he was hacked into with a axe. Directly into his chest, pressing down and taking away his ability to breathe.

Richie prepares himself. Ready for the anger. The disgust, the yelling. He was prepared for the pain. Knowing that loosing his best freind, would be more agonizing then anything else.

And as the quiet stretched, Richie was left confused, wondering why Stan hadn't pulled away from Richie yet. Accusing him of trying to do nasty things to him like some pervert.

Instead there was a soft, humored chuckle that shook through Stan's body. It was delicate, like everything from Stan was.

"Well I guess all those mom jokes have no real merit behind them."

Richie was left shocked and bewildered, he was almost positive he had to be sleeping.

"What?"

"What?" Stan replied, only pulling away to look at Richie. "Do you not get my joke? That's a first"

Richie's mouth gapped, not knowing what to say or what to do.

And as his eyes ajusted to the dark. He could see Stan, his eyes on Richie's face, and a gentle smile on his lips. He wasn't disgusted, he wasn't disappointed. He didn't throw Richie off, he didn't yell.

He just smiled.

And that was it, just the soft sound of their lungs mixing in the air, and the lull of his friend's hand rubbing his back, in small circular motions, coaxing him to relax.

Richie didn't even realize how stiff he became. How his body became rigid with fear.

And as his stare watched the twitch of his friend's lips he knew what that was.

He's seen Stan smile like that before.

When they had first met, during a communal food bank at the only Synagogue in town. The Rabbi introduced everyone to his son, pride in what a good little Jewish boy he had raised.

And when Richie made his way down the isle between the other communal goers, to be introduced, his suit messy and far too large for his body, hanging off his shoulder, with pudding stains on the left sleeve. Richie couldn't bring himself to look at the other boy.

Already 7 years old, and was the Synagogue's favorite new member. While Richie was stuck being the potty mouthed trouble child, who everyone made dirty looks at.

And as Stan shook his hand, he squeezed it hard, causing Richie to flinch. He quickly looked up at the other boy, especting him to be making a rude expression, grossed out and mad.

But instead he just smiled. It was so sweet, and sincere that it sent Richie into a spiral of confusion. He had never received anything even half that kind before.

It was a silent gesture, telling Richie it was okay. To just relax. That even in a sea of those who judge you. I will not.

And from then on Richie had been excited to see the boy at the Synagogue every week. Showing off his collection of hotwheels. And sneaking him some magazines with naked ladies in them.

Richie had learned to chill out and behave a little better with Stan's influences. And in turn Stan learned how to have fun, and live a little because of Richie. They balanced each other out.

And as that same, welcoming smile played its tune on Stan's face now. Years later, while Richie was at his most vulnerable. Richie understood. Even in a sea of people who judge you, who hate you. Even if amongst the crowd, you share that hate for yourself. I will not.

Richie let out, what he believed to be one of the most pathetic cries his body could muster, a wale of pure agony in which he had to suffer alone for so long. And now he had someone. Someone who didn't care. Someone he couldn't push away.

He no longer had to wallow in his own crushing mind. But now, crushed agasinst the chest of Stan's, he cried, and cried until he couldn't cry any more. And stan just held him.

And that was all he really needed.

Love

Its understanding, tender, patient.

The night drag on like a sedated drug. Filled with shaky sobs and hushed words passed back and forth. It was cold, but also so warm, that it filled Richie was a sense of security.

Richie slowly peered over Stan's shoulder to see it was 2am. In a few days, everyone of the losers would meet up at the arcade.

Richie didn't feel like playing video games anymore. Not right now at least.

"So" Stan's voice cut through the hum of the heater in the room. "Why were you so scared of telling me?"

Richie just laid there, still as taken a back as before at how casually Stan was making it all seem.

"I-I just. Ya know?" Richie tried, but Stan just shook his head.

"It's just. Being—that way. It isn't. Like. Normal? I thought. I don't know. You'd be grossed out. You'd make fun of me like Bowers did. That everyone would. I don't know. Just." His voice became quieter and quieter the more he spoke, not being able to find the words, not knowing how to articulate something he had been trying to repress for so long.

"You. You believe in god and stuff."

"You don't?" Stan asked, questioning, but not with any menace.

"I don't— I don't think I do. I don't think I ever did. But I know you do. And I know it's important to you. And it's just. I know what the church thinks about things like tha-"

"It doesn't matter" Stan cuts him off, heaving a sigh. "It doesn't matter what the church thinks or not." He confirmed, squeezing Richie's shoulder tightly.

"God Rich. The only thing that matters is what I think of you."

"Then. What is it?" Richie asked, a slight tinge of fear underlining his words.

"That you are, crude. And rude, and immature. You smoke too much, and have no fashion sense. You are disgusting, and annoying, and fucking downright dumb sometimes"

Stan, this time sat up, pulling Richie with him, so he could properly look him in the eyes.

"And so genuine. Up front and unafraid to be bluntly honest too others. You are companionate, and smart. You are brave, and such a fighter. And probably the funniest person I have ever met. You also happen to be gay. And what I know most certainly. Is that you are still my best friend. And someone I will love. No matter what."

This time there was no tears. No overly dramatic and weighted cry. Just laughter.

Richie laughed, it was so bright, and feathery. He felt like millions of pounds were lifted off his shoulders, and he could finally just breathe. His smile was so natural, and uplifting.

"Who knew you were such a sap Stan the man?"

He could hear the annoyed groan come from the other boy, as he flopped back down into the mattress, giving up. It just made him laugh harder.

And as Richie finally settled down, he thought of how it was a miracle he hadn't woken Stan's parents. Which he could tell Stan was thinking too.

And as if it was a puzzle, Richie slotted back into Stan's arms.

"Have you told anyone else?"

"No. I haven't"

"How did you know?"

"What that I like boy peepee?" Richie joked, not even fully knowing himself if that was true. He hadn't allowed himself to really take the time to think about it before.

"Gross"

"I thought you weren't judging?" Richie snickered.

"I'm not, but I don't wanna think about it, in detail. You know I'm not comfortable talking about sexual stuff yet"

"Yet here you are, snuggled up right against me"

"Yeah because you are my friend."

"Does it really not bother you?"

"No. It doesn't"

"Why?"

Stan laughed this time around. "Because Richie. I trust you with my life. I'm safer with you then I am without."

"Wow. Is that a confession of love?"

"You wish"

"As if, I got someone else on my radar."

"Oh? Who is it" genuine curiosity played on Stan's words.

Richie paused, not ready to admit so much, he didn't want to know the repercussions of admitting something like that.

"I d— I don't"

"Hey it's okay" Stan spoke over him, knowing exactly when to help Richie out. "One step at a time right?"

Richie nodded, and Stan smiled against his head. "At least gimme a hint" he teased.

"Alright. What kinda hint?"

"Is it someone I know?"

Richie thought it over. If he answered honestly, then it would very much narrow down the answer, to one of the losers. But something about Stan, gave him to confidence to then say "yes."

Stanly just hummed, leaving it at that.

"So. How did you know?" Stan repeated, still interested in the answer.

Richie huffed, laying his head back into the soft pillow. "Honestly? I don't know. I'm still not sure"

"Sure? What do you mean sure?"

"Well, like. I'm not one hundred percent positive. I just don't know for sure."

"Huh." Obviously Stan didn't know how to add to that, so he just moved on.

"Will you be telling anyone else anytime soon?"

Richie hadn't thought about that. Would he?

"Maybe Bev?" Stan just nodded his head, making a appreciative sound. "Yeah that makes sense."

There was a brief pause before Stan added. "How about I invite her over in the morning? Just the three of us, we can talk about everything. Maybe help you figure some things out. I know Bev will also be very helpful with the situation with your parents" he added at the end, knowing that they can't just ignored what had happened.

Richie would be more then happy to ignore it however. But he knew he needed a place to stay for a while, while everything at home blew over. The losers would make sure he was safe before allowing him to go back home.

At first, Richie wanted to say no, he didn't want to talk about it anymore. He didn't want to have to speak, or tell anyone else.

But even with these thoughts, the words. "Yeah, you should do that" tumbled out of his mouth.

He would have to face it, sooner or later. Just like Stan had said. And this time. He was tired of running.

The feeling of Stan's chest, rising and falling was lulling, like a rhythmic rocking. "Oh and Stan?" Richie whispered.

"Yeah?" He asked back, voice just as low.

"Thank you"

And that was the last words spoken for the night. They laid there, pressed up together. Protecting each other from the outside world, as they drifted into slumber.

_________________

When Richie woke up, Stan wasn't in bed anymore. His eyes lingered to the clock on the bedside table. It was 9am. The sun filling Stan's room with its glow through the window curtains.

He shuffled slightly, looking around the room, and as he did so, Stan pushed open the door with his foot, holding a plate with freshly toasted eggo waffles, covered in maple syrup.

He walked over to Richie as he sat up in the bed. He placed the plate in his lap, and handed him a fork.

He could see the pained expression on Stan's face, having handed such a sugary, disaster to Richie of all people. On his bed.

But he pushed through it, caring more about the well being of his freind, then his need to keep everything clean.

Richie made a mental note to be carful as to not dirty Stan's blankets with crumbs or the syrup. Of course though, he would never tell Stan that.

As he bit into the food, realizing how hungry he truly was after dispelling all substance from his body off the side of the road last night.

He could hear the distinct chatter of Beverly's voice, it was muffled and static.

He looked up to see Stan with his clunky home phone between his head and his shoulder, he he began folding up the now washed clothes that belonged to Richie.

Wow he moved fast.

"Okay. Okay. Yeah. See you soon" 'clink'

After hanging up, Stan moved his attention to Richie, placing his clean clothes onto the corner of the bed.

"Take your time, no need to rush" he assured.

"Was that Bev?" Richie spoke, mouth still full of food.

Stan cringed as he answered. "Yeah, she is coming over right now"

"Did you tell her?" Richie asked, slightly panicked.

"No, no I didn't" Stan assured quickly. "No I just told her that there was more issues with your parents. Said it was serious. Because it is. Everything else I left for you to explain"

Richie felt a wave of relief, not ready to be outed without knowing first.

"Okay, thank you"

A smirk spread across Stan's face, as he began, "should I start getting used to you saying that?"

Richie rolled his eyes, flipping him off. "No, but you should get used to me fucking your mom—"

"I'm sorry, but I can't believe in those empty threats anymore" Stan said amused.

Richie, faking a scandalized gasp, clutch his hand over his chest, "Stanly. I am wounded" he fanned his face with his hand, slow and feminine, as if he was a house wife finding out the news of her husband's murder. When she herself, had been the one who had done it all along.

Stan laughed, moving over to run his hands though Richie's hair. "Well, it seems like you no longer have any ammo"

"On the contrary my dear Stanly. I now have the upper hand"

"Oh and how is that?"

"Well, now I can truly assert my dominance by fucking your da—"

Stanly smacked his arm, groaning loudly at his words, but Richie knew he was still laughing, it was silent, but the shake of his chest gave it away.

After finishing his food, Stanly forced Richie up and into the bathroom, to brush his teeth with a brand new tooth brush out of the many others he kept under the sink. Because of course he did.

Richie could hear the sound of Stan downstairs, washing the dishes and putting them away, as he spit out the minty suds from his mouth.

And as they settled back up into Stan's room, he could see the furrow of his friend's eyebrows in consideration.

"Whatcha thinking about over there Stanny boy?" Richie quipped, attempting a terrible NewYorker accent.

Stan seemed caught off guard at the question, having been lost in thought.

"Oh well, I was just thinking about, you know. How will we be able to make sure you are gay or something?" Stan spoke, the word gay leaving his lips easily, nothing in the way it had been when Richie said it.

The word still seemed so foreign when it was said not as a insult, but just as a word. One that described Richie.

"I don't know why it matters"

"It matters because it seems to be a reason for so much of your issues. You cried your eyes out last night out of confusion. I can't in good faith allow you to continue with this question plaguing you." He seemed serious.

"Are you offering yourself as my text subject?" Richie quirked a brow, a smirk spreading over his lips.

"Rich, I love you. I really do. But not enough to do that" Stan spoke, making a vague face of disgust.

And it made Richie happy, not that Stan was grossed out by the thought of doing something like that with Richie, but that it was only disgusting BECAUSE it was with Richie, and not that it was between to males.

"Idk. Maybe I could compare how I feel about girls to how I feel about guys." Richie offered. He knew Stan was trying his best to be supportive, so he just played along. But in all honestly, he didn't really want to make sure.

"Maybe you should try kissing a girl" Stan said, thinking the words over in his mind as he said it.

"Yeah and what girl would kiss me?" Richie laughed.

"I don't know, maybe we could ask Beverly if she knew any girls who would—"

"Would be desperate enough to kiss a possible Fag? Yeah right."

"Hey don't say that like that" Stan seemed stern, and offended for Richie's sake. Richie found that amusing.

"It's just to see if you feel anything. Like a experiment."

"Well, as much as I'd love to fight you on that. It does seem like a good idea."

At least it did to their 13 year old logic. But then again, putting a ball of tinfoil into a microwave also seemed like a good idea a year ago. Spoiler, it wasn't.

((Sorry for writing the wrong jewish terms before, I have gone back in and re-edited the mistakes in this chapter. Please note that if the mistakes appear again in the story I mean no harm, I just don't have the time to sweep through this whole story to find each mistake. Sorry again in advance))