ethereal : it oneshots

too young

pairing: stozier

a/n: so obsessed with the stream of consciousness writing style where things align but not perfectly. this one-shot is set during the AIDS epidemic. also, not sure why i can't stop talking about romance and religion. there is an unexplainable link between praising a god and worshipping a person

stanley's pov

dear mom,

you didn't know him. you didn't know him but i'm coming home, and it's not for you. it's not your wake. i loved him.

do you remember when i told you i didn't like girls? 

you kept me nonetheless. i was all you had. i had always wished you weren't so old. all your friends had died out around you. i know, it sounds mean, but it's true.

so why am i 19 turning 99? why am i attending more funerals than i have friends? 

mom, i'm coming home and i plan on crashing at yours. is that okay? can i stay? 

i'm still on the train, in the meantime though. i'm on the train home. i haven't told anyone i'm coming home; there's no one to tell. i could have responded to greta's texts about richie, i suppose, but what was i supposed to say.

outside the windows there's a purple sunset. i can hear him. 

"don't watch too many sunsets, stan." he had his feet up on the dashboard of his own truck, his unlaced converse curving around his steering wheel. stanley didn't look at him, instead only staring out the window. he could see richie's reflection. 

the gloss of richie's eyes seemed purple in the light, and stanley sighed. "why?"

"they'll stop becoming special." i always thought that was bullshit. i looked at him every chance i could, and he was still special. the way his hair curled meant that in direct light each curl had a line of highlight. so the stupid fucking sunset made him purple. 

"okay." i didn't tend to argue with him. he had a tendency to feel belittled when people disagreed with him. it wasn't his fault, mom. i know you think that everyone is just their flaws, but he was different, mom. you didn't know him, mom.

and now you never will. 

you didn't meet any of my friends. why didn't you ask to meet them?

i'm sorry i don't call more often.

"like when you repeat words and the meaning disappears," richie continued, "watch too many sunsets and it's just a time." 

once again: bullshit. 

fine, i bit, "what about prayer? you repeat the same words, and they carry meaning every time. sometimes the meaning even varies depending on what's happening in your life." i wasn't thinking about religious prayer. which, granted, doesn't sound great, as a jewish boy. i'm sorry, mom. i do pray sometimes. that's worth something. 

anyway, i was thinking about richie. yes, because he was in front of me, but also because mumbling his name felt like a prayer to me. i finally turned my head to him. i felt compelled to lean over and place my lips on his neck, but i held back. 

you're never going to read this, mom, so i don't feel ashamed about admitting this. i spent a lot of time with my hands on his hips and my mouth on his neck. 

"you make a good point." he brought his feet down from the dashboard and leaned over, pulling a lever on my chair. i yelped as it leaned back, and i laughed as he moved over the gearshift to lean over me. my hands found his hips. 

you didn't know him, so you wouldn't get it, but he had an addictive laugh. if he laughed, anyone near him would laugh too. there's a reason people don't laugh at funerals. 

he moved a bit and i got a glimpse of the purple sunset once more.

i'm looking out a train window. i'm coming home. i'm coming home to a town that held richie in its hands his entire life. now, left in its hands are everything related to richie except him.

the ones who didn't end up in the hospital every two weeks had overdosed. richie had put his faith in the wrong corner store, and it led to me getting on a train to come home. i guess you can thank him. you wouldn't have liked him, but i loved him. 

i don't like girls. i like richie. liked, richie. 

please let me come home. 

greta will tell me that he overdosed on heroin laced with fentanyl. i will never go to that corner store again. i know where he bought from; i was his best fucking friend. 

sorry for swearing, mom.

the first time he did heroin he was 14. he was 14, mom. 

"thanks for taking me out here, rich," i'm back in his truck, he's back in his drivers seat, and we're in front of a restaurant, "but i don't think i can do this."  

richie tutted, "of course you can, c'mon," but i kept shaking my head.

mom, trust me when i say there's no point in you knowing what i was doing. we had time to kill back then. 

richie kissed me spontaneously. just a kiss. then he looked out the window, waiting for me to get out of the car. 

oh, i get it. it was a good luck kiss. 

i didn't kiss him back. maybe he didn't have enough good luck. maybe he gave it all to me. 

i want him to come back.

i'm coming home, mom. i'll see you tonight.