richie opened his front door and found stanley standing at it, slightly pissed, with his bag on the ground. the bag slouched on the concrete.
"what did you do?!" stanley asked, and his voice sounded hoarse. richie realized his eyes were a little glossy. richie furrowed his eyebrows. for a moment, there was just the sound of the wind howling against the house in between them.
"what?" richie was confused, clearly, and stanley was breathing heavily. richie pushed his glasses further up on his face.
"why did you go to patrick? what's your problem?" stanley blurted, nearly shaking in the cold. richie's jaw dropped open slightly.
it was clear richie had had a fight with someone, considering his entire right eye was bruised and he had many scarring cuts on face. not that stanley could know this, but he'd been coughing up blood clots for a couple days. he didn't know how stanley knew it was patrick.
"stan, i-" richie interjected, watching stanley scratch violently at his knuckles.
"i knew you'd get fucking beat up, you fucking asshole." stanley's voice cracked, and richie knew it was all concern. richie squinted his eyes at stanley. he looked freezing. the cold wind was still blowing through the air, and stanley was shivering. richie didn't think it was that cold, but stanley looked like he was about to turn blue.
"i don't want you to smoke, i'm sorry, i'm doing--" richie got interrupted, and he pushed his glasses up his face again. he pulled his sleeves down.
"you could have just talked to me!" stanley felt hot tears meet his freezing skin. it almost burned. his nails dug into the skin of his palms.
"stan, you wouldn't have listened to me," richie argued. he wanted to warm stanley up. he wanted to hug him, or invite him inside, or something. it looked like the poor boy was dying of hypothermia. but he couldn't get the words out.
"you could have tried!" stanley let out a breathy exhale. he bit his lip, "i value fucking everything you say to me, i would have at least tried." he just wanted richie to hold him. he was so pissed off, but he just wanted richie to hold him.
"i'm so sorry. i shouldn't have gone to him but i didn't believe you'd listen to me. if it was me, i wouldn't have. i needed this when i started smoking," richie said, trying his hardest to ignore the pack of smokes sitting on his kitchen counter right now.
"well i'm sorry you didn't fucking get it, but i didn't want this. i don't want to be fucking smoking. i hate it when you and beverly smoke. i hate the fucking taste of cigarettes." stanley said, looking down at the ground instead of at richie. he wiped a tear quickly with the edge of his sleeve.
"then stop it!" richie replied, stupidly.
"i can't," stanley said simply. and richie was aware of that.
"...i know. i'm sorry. it's just..."
"you don't fucking get it, richie! i know you feel guilty because you think you put me on cigarettes. i'm sorry. i love you. i don't want to be smoking either. i don't want you to be smoking. but i can't quit. not yet, anyway. i have to move out first. i just... i didn't want you to get beat up for it. " stanley's lip quivered. he sighed.
richie reached out to stanley, finally, and stanley, still shaking, went immediately into richie's arms. richie noted that stanley was ice cold.
"i'm sorry, stan. i'm sorry. i love you. i should've come to you. i was stupid, and concerned, but it's your business. not mine. i'll let you deal with it." richie's hand rested on stanley's head. stanley cried quietly into richie's chest.
the wind blew through their hair as they stood, alone on the front porch. richie's front door hung open. richie was glad his parents weren't home. the cold made the hair on stanley's hands stand upwards, and he grabbed tighter onto richie. richie felt sorta sick himself feeling how miserable stanley seemed.
richie then guided stanley inside, grabbing his bag with a spare hand. stanley kicked slowly at his shoes, and richie closed the door behind him cautiously. stanley finally looked up at richie, and his hand gently touched the edge of richie's face.
"what did he do to you?" stanley's fingers tenderly surrounded the bruises and swollen places on his face. an unfortunate smile grew on richie's face.
"s'okay. i'd take a thousand of these for you." richie replied, stanley breathing shallowly onto richie's lips. he put his hands on stanley's lower back, "how are you getting home? aren't you supposed to be home right now?" stanley took richie's glasses off to look closer at the bruises while richie held him close.
"it's fine. i'll probably walk. it's okay." stanley said. richie kissed stanley briefly, taking advantage of how close the two of them were to each other.
"you won't walk. i'll warm you up, and then i'll drive you." richie said, turning away from stanley to walk to the kitchen. he started making what looked like hot chocolate, and stanley followed behind him. richie was grateful that stanley happened to not notice the pack of cigarettes on his counter, and invited him to sit at the table.
"no, rich, it's okay," stanley said, richie waggling his finger at him.
"absolutely not, i'm driving you you have no say," richie left the mug of hot chocolate in the microwave while he went to grab a blanket off of the couch. he draped it over stanley's shoulders.
"your gas, though, rich, it's fine!" stanley argued. richie grabbed the mug of hot chocolate and placed it down in front of stanley with a clink.
"i want to drive you." richie cut off whatever else stanley was going to say by kissing him, the two making out for a moment. stanley let out an appreciative hum.
"mm-okay," stanley said, his lips just slightly ajar from richie's. richie tucked a piece of stanley's hair behind his ear and kissed his forehead. "sorry i got so upset. i just... i never wanted you to suffer for my bullshit. and first bill beat you up, and now patrick, i just... i'm sorry." stanley held the mug of hot chocolate in his hands and stared into it. he was warmer now.
"it's okay. i won't do anything rash and stupid without talking to you about it. um... in other news, let me make you something to eat." richie said, turning his head from his place at the microwave. he turned to stanley, almost as if he was asking to make something to eat rather than telling.
stanley nodded vaguely.
