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58 days.
It had been 58 days, and Stan could still only feel Richie Tozier.
There were hands tracing his skin, sending shivers down his spine, ghosts of the hands that belonged to Richie. Sometimes he swore he could feel Richie behind him.
Turning around and realizing he wasn’t there was enough to tighten his throat and set the backs of his eyes aflame.
At the moment Stan was clad in pajama pants, and one of Richie’s old t-shirts. How pathetic, Stanley Uris wearing his ex-boyfriend’s shirt?
The shirt hung off of his slim shoulders and exposed his collarbones to the cold. Richie had loved seeing Stan in it, almost as much as Stan had loved wearing it. Richie probably left it behind purposely, unwilling to keep any reminders of Stan with him.
It didn’t smell like Richie anymore. Stan had noticed that a few weeks ago. He had broken down, feeling his heart crumple inside his chest.
He really didn’t want to dwell on that. He tucked himself into bed, for once refusing to longingly gaze at the spot where Richie’s head of curls once rested.
Sleeping itself was difficult. Stan found himself falling asleep with Richie’s name on his tongue, only to find him in his hazy dreams, then waking up to a bed without him in it.
Stan missed him so much, it got to a point where he would press a pillow to his back and wrap blankets tightly around him as if he could recreate the feeling of Richie’s arms snug around his waist, his nose pressed to Stan’s neck.
It almost felt like Richie. But it wasn’t.
Stan tugged gently at one of his damp curls. He had just showered, and his hair was a dripping onto his pillow, leaving little marks similar to the tear stains that had been routinely left there.
Stan showered more often now. As if he could wash the traces of Richie off his body. Scrub away the affection that had once been peppered across his skin by Richie’s searing lips.
Trying to (but failing to) wipe the memories of Richie away, he pressed himself further into the sheets of his bed and shut his eyes tight.
He used to sob at night, crying his eyes out at the thought of spending one more night without his boyfriend by his side.
Soon crying led to anger, as he screamed into his pillow at the unfairness of it all.
That had been days ago, though.
Now Stan would squeeze his stinging eyes tightly shut and swallow dryly, hoping to rid himself of the lump in his throat.
There was a numbness in his heart, spreading to the corners of his chest, a numbness that would maybe, hopefully, eventually reach his brain, ending everything.
All night long he dreamt of hopeful children. Of two boys’ light-hearted laughter as flowers of naive adoration bloomed in their chest. If only they knew the petals would eventually fall and their cherished plants would wither.
It had been 58 days, and all Stan could feel was Richie Tozier.
It had been forever. Richie couldn’t narrow it down to a number, it had been too long. He had been hurting so long.
It had been forever, and Richie couldn’t feel Stanley Uris anymore.
He couldn’t completely recall the sound of his bright laughter, the kind Richie had rarely been able to draw from him.
Fuck, he couldn’t remember the exact shade of his dark eyes.
He was clutching a cigarette, his hand shaking too badly to light it and was trying really hard not to punch a wall.
Richie had already done that several times and it only resulted in bloodied knuckles and more frustration.
He could always muffle his sobs into a pillow, but he was too exhausted to shed any more tears.
There was a hollow space inside of his chest, something that he couldn’t put into words, a Stan-sized chunk of his heart missing.
There was something gnawing at Richie, a caged animal trying to tear its way out of his throat.
He pressed his forehead against the wall, the cold structure a relief for his warm forehead. Richie felt extremely cold but his body was burning hot.
Maybe he was sick.
Who gave a shit, though?
His boyfriend would have.
He would have wrapped Richie in layers upon layers and taken his temperature. He would’ve spoon fed Richie soup, curled up next to him, and have found a creative way to give him his medicine.
Richie smiled faintly, a fond smile, recalling the incident where he had refused to take his medicine and Stan had taken a spoonful of it behind his back, then kissed him.
He had sputtered and complained, but the syrup had been swallowed.
Fuck, Richie wished he could remember exactly what the warmth in his chest felt like. The warmth he had felt watching Stan’s cheeks flush.
He hadn’t felt that kind of warmth in such a long time.
Who was to blame for all this?
Richie could barely remember.
There had been shouting and pushing and tears. Oh god, there had been tears, Stan’s tears.
Richie couldn’t dwell on that, though. Not if he wanted to find the strength to get out of bed in the morning.
Then again, Richie could barely find the strength to wake up.
It had been forever, and Richie just couldn’t feel Stanley Uris anymore.
A ringing awoke Richie from uneasy slumber.
He answered the phone blearily, blinking sleep out of his eyes, “Hello.”
Maybe, before everything went downhill in his life he would’ve made a joke or been more clever with his word choice.
“Richie..? “
The voice on the line was shaky, sounding like it was coming from a tight throat.
It wasn’t very low, but it wasn’t shrill. A voice Richie knew well. Richie knew exactly who he was speaking to, but he hadn’t responded.
He had wanted to hear that voice, to remember that voice. He’d wanted it so fucking badly.
“Hello?” Stan asked, tone uncertain.
“Yeah, it’s me. What do you.. What do you want?” Richie asked, immediately regretting how aggressive he sounded.
“N-nothing. I needed- I had to give you something. Sorry, it’s late, I shouldn’t have called.” Stan’s voice kept cracking.
“It’s fine. Do you want me to come over?” Richie hadn’t asked that in months.
“Please.”
It was raining. Stan numbly noted the droplets making their way down the blurry window, his head propped up by a hand on his cheek.
He had been so stupid. So fucking stupid.
In a moment of desperation, he had called Richie over. And for what?
To give him back his shirt, the same one Stan had been sleeping in for weeks. It was folded up in his hands, not even washed since the last time Stan wore it.
Maybe a small part of Stan hoped Richie would appreciate the smell.
He doesn’t want you back, a voice whispered to him, but he pushed it down for now.
There was a buzzing, pulling Stan out of his thoughts. Richie had arrived.
He left to answer the door, forgetting to pull on a pair of slippers, his feet relying on woolen socks for warmth.
Once Stan’s hand was on the handle, he hesitated. He felt vaguely sick
Then he pulled open the door and was met by the tired face of Richie Tozier.
Richie hadn’t changed much. His dark curls were wild around his head as if he had only just dragged himself out of bed. Which was true, because Stan had called him over at two in the fucking morning!
The rain spilling around them was dampening Richie’s hair, the strands sticking to the side of his face.
Stan looked at Richie, closely, eyes trained on the smattering of freckles across his nose.
There was a purplish bruise on his cheekbone. It was fairly new looking. Stan wanted to gently graze his fingers over it, to press his lips to it.
He clenched his fists tight instead.
Could Richie’s red-tinged eyes and blue-bruised cheekbones be considered beautiful?
Stan didn’t think so, but he was breathtaking to him nonetheless.
Stan was still pretty.
Richie could only stare at him, taking in the sight of his halo of messy, golden curls, of the dark eyes he had so wanted to see one more time.
There were dark rings painted under both of his eyes, and his lips were bitten. He looked so tired.
Stan was wearing a large hoodie, one he was practically drowning in. That sent a pang through Richie’s heart, the sight too similar to Stan wearing on if Richie’s own oversized sweaters.
“Uh, here.” Stan was holding something out to Richie, something folded.
Richie noticed his quivering hands. They looked cold, so cold. Richie wanted more than anything to be able to wrap them in his own. But that wasn’t his job. Not anymore.
Richie took the object tentatively, unfolding it when it reached his hands.
It was one of his fucking shirts.
Richie bit down on his tongue, hard. If he hadn’t, he may have burst into tears right there.
“Is that.. Is that it?”
The question was simple, quite straightforward, but Stan knew it meant more.
It wasn’t it. Not even close.
‘I don’t want to give you your shirt back. I want to wear it. I want you to come back inside with me. I want you to tell me you love me. I want you to make a stupid joke so I can kiss you and never let you go again. I want you to hold me. To touch me. Love me. Don’t go, please.’
Stan nodded. “That’s it.”
He feigned a smile, but it looked pained, as if the force pulling relentlessly at his heartstrings had reached the corners of his mouth.
Stan could feel a sob bubbling up in his throat and swallowed it down, forcing himself to open his eyes and watch Richie’s hopeful face crumble.
He was a coward. He was so undeserving of Richie’s heart.
And so Richie’s back turned and he began to make his way home, leaving Stan staring at his retreating form, his head down, his body trembling.
The sky continued to cry around them, as Stan closed his eyes, tilting his head up to the rain. It ran down his face, wetting his cheeks, droplets blending with tears.
It had been 58 days.
It had been forever.
Richie Tozier and Stanley Uris had fallen apart.