he recognizes this, these frantic messy movements that richie’s going through. he wants to help, wants to unclip richie’s seatbelt and get him moving properly but every blink is slow and he feels like he might be wading through molasses with every motion. the only thing left for him to do is watched with a kind of detached curiosity as richie swears at him and flails around in his seat with a sort of reckless abandon.
richie pulls at him, tilts him this way and that and stan keeps moving to try and accommodate, his backpack hitting the ground with a dull thud, but by the time he gets there richie’s gone again. it’s all very overwhelming.
by the time richie frees himself he hasn’t even opened the door, and stan watches his husband spill out onto the sidewalk before reforming to smother him. he raises his arms to finally wrap around richie and tears spring to his eyes ; he makes an incredibly pitiful sound and tries to swallow it down just as quickly, face pressed to richie’s shoulder. ❛ sorry, i’m sorry, i’m so sorry - ❜ he repeats it over and over again, as though that’ll change what he’s done. it won’t, stan isn’t stupid enough to think it will. but it’s nice to try, isn’t it? nice to pretend for a moment that there are words to patch this up again.
❛ rich - ❜ stan pulls back, arms dropping because they’re shaking with the effort, and grabs at richie’s jacket, the hem where he doesn’t have to raise his arms up too high to make contact. he needs to be anchored in, just for a second, just to get his head on straight. ❛ i didn’t…i didn’t bring any money or anything, i barely have any clothes, i just - ❜ it’s the messiest explanation stan’s ever given, and it seems so inconsequential but he has to start somewhere, doesn’t he? here seems as good a place as any.
❛ i’m so sorry, richie. ❜
Like a jukebox picking its next song, files click and pass in his head:
i can’t believe you’re here.
These all work in context but Richie decides on nonverbal for a start. He imagines himself squeezing Stan around the middle until all the blood goes to his head and, pressurized, pops off. Even metaphorically covered in blood - Richie doesn’t and wouldn’t stop. Nice. Nice to know, man. His face is wet when he comes back from wherever his head takes him to, and his glasses are askew. Even through his shitty eyes, he can still tell Stanley is the most beautiful dude he’s ever seen.
“I love you,” he has to say it, he has to. Something in his blood and his bones and his guts are screaming for it to be out there. A hand comes up and he roughly palms at Stanley’s face, using his other hand to fumble his glasses straight so his vision is good again. Lines mark Stanley’s face that speak of exhaustion and agony. He looks unwell. He looks sad. Richie desperately wants to kiss it away. Shoo, face, shoo.
A quick press that hurts his teeth and it probably couldn’t even be classified as a kiss but that’s what he labels it. When he pulls away, his glasses-hand moves to cover Stan’s and that’s when he feels the fine lines of curled bandage. Rich freezes and feels the ice climb up his legs, locking his knees and making him cold, so cold, with gut roil and a breath in the bottom of his throat like a disgusting hiccup. The fanaticism is back; but he’s so gentle when he extracts Stanley’s grip from his jacket, fingers slipping up the hem of his sleeve, and gazes upon what has given him nightmares consistently.
“Oh, Stanley.” The whisper punches past his mouth. Sits between them like a child uncertain of the fate of its parents. He doesn’t press further - he doesn’t know the layout of Stan’s arm and it’s -- it hurts his heart to look at. Makes him feel too hot when he remembers that night. He nods to himself. “We’ll - we’ll get you set up.” A short smile cuts his face. “We’ll hit up Derry Wal-mart. They have one of those now.”
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