If you asked any of Stanley’s friends, they would tell you that he was always composed. Richie often joked that he went to sleep and woke up looking perfectly composed. It was far from the truth but that’s what they teased him about often enough (despite their many sleepovers). It wasn’t often Stan was seen in anything other than some kind of nice clean and ironed shirt. It was even rarer to find him without any shirt at all. Even the rare times they went for a swim, Stan wore some type of cover up (often a simple white tee). His covered torso meant one thing. That none of the other losers knew of the secrets he hid beneath the shirts he wore.
Six simple tattoos. Each a reminder of the six other Losers that Stan cared more for than any other person in the world. Three resided on his back. Bev (just below his neck between his shoulders). Ben (on his right shoulder). And Mike (in the middle of his back). The other three were far more personal and wouldn’t be seen by anyone unless he was bare as the day he was born. Or unless his pants were falling far lower than necessary. Stanley wasn’t sure if he’d ever show any of the Losers their special marks. At least right now he didn’t know. Maybe one day he’d get the courage to actually show each of them their permanent memories that inked his skin. He wasn’t embarrassed so much as scared at how they might react to his personal reminders.
The thoughts of his tattoos hadn’t crossed his mind when he had opted to wear a basic t-shirt and slightly bagger jeans than he’d ever normally wear. He and Bill had found an apartment close to the colleges they’d both been accepted at and Stan couldn’t be happier to share the living space with Bill. While Stan would gladly share a space with any of the others, Bill was one of the Losers he was closest to. He was also the Loser that Stanley was absolutely gone for. Not that he’d admit it. As far as he knew Bill hadn’t any interest in Stan that particular way. Stan was perfectly okay with it as far as he was concerned. He didn’t let those particular thoughts roll long as he reached up to fix a dead light bulb.
A heavy sighed slipped from his lips as he twisted the bulb free. Why didn’t the damn landlord change the bulbs out? Wasn’t that something they were supposed to do when trying to rent out an apartment space? Stan set the bad bulb onto the floor and picked the new one up. As he twisted the bulb into the socket, his shirt rode up as his jeans dipped low on his hips. Unbeknownst to the 22 year old male, the black swirling designs of his three tattoos peeked just over the edge of his low riding jeans (and underwear). @scribedhorror
