#the formatting is lost in transfer so readin it on ao3 is reccomended

[gaypasta]

do you want fries with that?

Chapter 3/ ? Read on Ao3 Previous Chapter First Chapter

Richie’s house was neater than he expected. He was aware that Richie’s parents weren’t home a lot, so with Richie being the only head of house for the majority of the time, he had expected the place to be a mess. Instead of tripping over piles of shoes and discarded coats at the front entrance, he stepped cautiously onto a clean rug and past a pair of converse neatly lined beside each other.  They were white and black respectively. The carpet was slightly damp in some places and smelt of a sterile hospital softly masked by a mix of citrus fruits and … Stan sniffed again, he had definitely smelt this smell before. He stood there for a moment, wracking his brain before moving off again picturing how strange it would look if Richie had walked in to see him sniffing his hallway. He was carrying a large mixing bowl his arms, the bike ride over had been tedious as the bowl was too big to fit into his backpack alone, nevermind with everything else he had to bring with him. The clinking of the glass tupperware Stan had in his back clinked as Stan walked. The sound must’ve alerted Richie of his presence, as his goggle-eyed head peered through what Stan assumed was the entrance to the kitchen. Stan had knocked, but perhaps knocking by belting his elbow into the door because he couldn’t free a hand while carrying all this stuff was either too quiet for Richie to hear, or was mistaken for the house settling. To be fair, Stan had called Richie to let him know he was on his way and Richie told him to let himself in while Richie took a nap and would wake up to a gorgeous three tiered cake. Stan told him to get fucked.

“Roll up ladies and gentleman, next up into the kitchen is a Mister Stanley Uris!” Richie mock-presented. He cupped his hands around his mouth and made a whisper-shout to imitate a booming crowd. “Standing at five foot ten, weighing a whopping ninety-nine pounds, eyes as steely blue and dreamy as Harrison Ford our hero is up against the one, the only…” Richie paused for suspense. Stan was not suspenseful. “Richie Tozier’s kitchen!”

“Meh, that one needs work. Hold the door open for me so I can set this down. It’s heavier than it looks.” Stan took steps towards the double glass doors, Richie opened the door from inside and held it open, giving an exaggerated bow and curtsy.

“Anything for you, oh master Chef.” His tone then fell back to normal. “Put the bag wherever. I would say sorry about the mess, but I’m not really.”

Stan stepped past Richie, keeping an eye on his hands as he passed through the threshold. The last time Richie held a door open for him he had smacked Stan’s ass. Hard. Stan dropped the mop bucket he was carrying in surprise and he made Richie clean it up. He winced thinking about it, he had eggs in this bag.

Thankfully Richie’s hands didn’t wander any farther than to close the door behind them and Stan was left without sexual assault. For now. For now? Stan was worried what kind of torture Richie would later impose upon him, he was in Richie’s domain after all. Stan was doing him a favour, though. If Richie got too overbearing or he got to eat too much cake batter that it went to his head, Stan could just stop making the cake which he was so gracious enough to bake for Richie. And by that he means help Richie bake. Yes, it will be a joint effort.

Richie’s kitchen was fairly messy. There were cups and plates piled up into the sink - some looked as though they had been sitting there for a while. Is that porridge or mashed potatoes? A few cupboard doors lay open, threatening to clip the side of Stan’s head, he closed them as he walked past them. A few tell-tale jars of Richie’s breakfasts and late night lunches sat beside a chopping board covered in crumbs. Stan noted that  unlike the front entrance, a dirty pair of black slip-ons lay haphazardly beside the table along with a crinkled pair of shorts. Did Richie really just come home and strip while making a sandwich? I guess when you basically live alone there’s no one to witness your indecency. Stan set the large mixing bowl on a clutter-free section of the small kitchen and began unloading the Tupperware filled with preciously measured ingredients from his backpack. He had considered not pre-measuring the ingredient, but figured it would be more straightforward if he did. Imagining Richie with a bag of icing sugar could have gave Stan nightmares, so that may have been a contributing factor.

Richie stalked over and stood, as usual, slightly too close to Stan. Maybe Stan had a bigger area of personal space than what Richie was used to, or maybe Richie did it to annoy him. Either way, Stan shifted slightly to be a more socially acceptable distance from his friend. His nose had caught a quick whiff of that smell from the hallway again. It smelt too strong to be  body-spray, but not as perfumed as cologne.

“So, what are you making my wonderful Mommy for her birthday?” Richie peered into the boxes, as if a tub of flour would be a clue.

“ We are making Victoria sponge cake, since when I rang to ask you what she liked, you didn’t answer.”

“I did answer!”

“Roast beef Sunday dinner isn’t a flavour combination I could work into a cake.”

“That’s quittin’ talk, Uris. Slap some gravy into a muffin and there you have it. Happy Birthday, Maggie!”

Stan rolled his eyes. “Here, put this in the freezer, it’s too soft.” Stan handed Richie over a stick of butter, cut into the weight that they would need.

“I can think of better ways to get it up than that, Frosty. But whatever floats your goats I guess.” Richie grabbed the butter and threw it into the freezer, mimicking playing basketball.

“Boats, you mean. Why would goats float?”

“Well, look what happened to the Titanic. Boats aren’t too great either.”

Stan rolled his eyes and pre-heated the oven. He shifted his bag off his shoulders and moved it to Richie’s kitchen table. He began adding ingredients into the bowl, while Richie’s eyes lazily followed his hands. Somehow, Richie already had flour on his gaudy Hawaiian shirt. The sight of the floury patch pressured Stan into get his apron from his bag, Richie’s eyes stalked him, like he was calculating Stan’s every move.

“I’m putting on my apron.” Stan felt the need to justify his actions.

“And where’s mine?”

Stan raised an eyebrow. “I know for a fact you have plenty of aprons. I’ve given you three new ones this month alone. I doubt you’ve lost them.”

Richie looked at him as if he had just said the most ridiculous thing. “If I didn’t lose them, how come I can’t find them?”

“Have you cleaned your room at all in the past month?”

“I call it organized chaos. Sorry we can’t all be OCD, Mr.Perfect.”

Stan rolled his eyes as he raised the neck of the apron over his head, using his left hand to keep his yarmulke in place.

“Crack four eggs into an empty bowl and don’t get any shells in.” Stan commanded.

Richie did just that, after searching around in a dusty cupboard for a bowl. “Now what Captain?”

Stan tied the back of his apron in a perfected bow. “Beat the eggs, I doubt you have a whisk, just use a fork.”

“I don’t normally use a fork to beat eggs, if you know what I mean.”

Stan stared blankly.

“You know, like eggs .”

“You’re thinking of the hymen. You need to whisk harder, you’re not getting enough air in.”

Richie looked at him through the side of his glasses, a strange look that made Stan feel slightly intrusive.

“How would you know?”

“I’ve been making this cake since I was nine. The eggs should be a pale yellow and fro-”

“About the hymen. Didn’t take you as a womanizer, Stanny boy. But who can resist those curly locks, am I right ladies?” Richie made a high five motion to the empty space to his right.

“We sit together in Biology. You copied my homework on female anatomy last week because you were too busy cramming for Chem to spend five minutes labelling a diagram.”

Richie stopped staring and stared at the wall opposite in deep thought, hopefully not thinking that deeply about female anatomy. Richie barked a laugh. “Oh yeah. Who can forget the vulva?!”

Stan grimaced. “Please stop talking.”

Stan added the now perfectly beat eggs into the large bowl, instructing Richie to mix it gently until it’s just mixed. Not too much or the cake will go tough because the gluten will have been worked to much. He started to explain to Richie the importance of properly mixing the cake in great detail as he got the now less-melted butter from the freezer.

Richie pretended to listen, nodding his head while watching Stan lean into the freezer. Stan smiled, he was happy that Richie was listening one of his ‘boring science’ speeches. He didn’t think it was very boring, Stan actually thought it was really interesting the difference that simply adding in an ingredient slightly too quick or too warm could make.

As soon as Stan instructed Richie to mix, it became apparent that Richie was overestimating how much force was required, as almost instantly he was greeted with a huge blob of batter on his flowery shirt. He promptly dropped the fork and stepped back, afraid that the bowl might decide to spit at him again.

“Stan… this is my favourite shirt…” Richie frowned, almost comically.

“Is it ruined?”

“Not if i wash it before it dries.” He pulled at the shirt, assessing it for any further damage.

“Damn.”

Richie shot him the finger before swiftly jogging out the door, pulling the shirt off before he even exited the kitchen. Stan’s eyes lingered where Richie’s bare shoulders were. It reminded him of when they used to go swimming in the quarry. He remembers holding those freckled shoulders, water droplets cascading from Richie’s hair into the crevices between Stan’s fingers, while attempting to drown Richie for pulling his underwear down while he was swimming. Richie had soft shoulders.

Stan began cleaning up globs of batter with a roll of kitchen roll which was sitting beside the sink. He wished he could disinfect the area, it involved raw eggs. Not that Richie would really care. He wound up the dirty sheet into a ball and placed it inside the egg carton, which Richie had put the egg shells back into. Stan didn’t want raw egg sitting out for long, too much risk of cross-contamination. He reached under the sink to where he assumed the bin would be, and opened the cupboard door.

The kitchen rang out with the sound of maybe a dozen or two glass bottles clanging against the harsh linoleum floor. Stan initially panicked, thinking that a bottle had smashed, but he mistook the sound of  a bottle breaking into pieces and the shards cascading to the floor with the small landslide of bottles. Stan dropped to his knees to begin picking them up, before stopping as his eyes skimmed the labels. They were mostly beer. All the same brand. Two bottles of what was once whiskey had fell too. Stan lowered himself to peer into the cupboard and sure enough, there sat at least 5 large empty bottles of whiskey, which had been pushed to the back. Underneath several bottles which hadn’t spilled out, Stan could make out some dishcloths and washing up liquid. Stan frowned. Why the hell was there so much alcohol in this cupboard? He picked up a stray whiskey bottle and began to read it. Fifty-five percentage. From what Stan remembers from Bill’s last birthday party (they were all wasted after four beers) that’s hell of a lot. Were these Richie’s? Surely if Richie drank this much, Stan would know by know. Right? He’d have hangovers in school or when they were in work. Besides, Richie could barely hold back a beer, nevermind all this.

“Hey good lookin’ what you got c-” Richie, who had barged through the door, had fell silent for a split second upon his eyes meeting the mess. Stan met his eyes and barely had time to blink before Richie shot over and began stuffing the bottles back in. He looked angry, as he threw the beer bottles back into the cupboard with too much force. Stan thought he heard one break, actually break this time. Stan gently placed the bottle he had been examining back in, before Richie had a chance to grab it from him. Richie glared angrily at the bottle Stan had placed back, as though they had an unwritten term of agreement and the bottle had just broke it. Stan’s heart didn’t know if it should beat too fast, or slow down, so it settled for both and Stan felt like his heart was gonna fall out of his chest.

Richie closed the cupboard and just stared at it for a moment, Stan noticed Richie was sitting barely an inch away from the cracked eggs and batter-covered towel. If Richie chose to sit down from sitting on his knees, he’d surely sit on it. Stan gingerly leaned over, pushing the carton away from Richie’s possible line of movement. This had meant leaning over Richie, and he could feel his messy black hair tickling his neck. He retreated slightly, but not completely, he could feel his own curls fall against Richie’s hair as he moved. His eyes darted to Richie’s as soon as he knew he could’ve seen the boys face. Stan knew what had happened. He wasn’t one to make assumptions, but he read the situation enough to know he shouldn’t ask. As he moved further back, perhaps only a foot away from the other boy’s face he could feel a force make him pause. He wouldn’t have paused of his own accord, he’s too close. This is his personal space and Richie is sitting in it, looking almost frightened in anger. Like when you finally stand up for yourself against your parent, knowing you’ll get in trouble, but you’re too angry to stop yourself. Stan had never seen these emotions painted on his face, he admits, regrettably, that he never really thought of Richie as someone who could feel such a complex tide of emotions. There was an unspoken silence between them for several moments. Neither of them moving, Stan continued to watch Richie like a hawk, looking for any sign that he could move away, or speak.

Richie had made several noises over the course of a minute or two, which sounded like the start of a sentence which he hadn’t thought to finish. Richie rubbed his eyes in frustration, displacing his glasses. Stan moved back, and let out a breath that he had been holding, in fear that even something small like breathing too loudly would interrupt what Richie was trying to say.

“Do I really need to go into it?” Richie asked to the ceiling, he moved to sit against the cupboard that had betrayed him.

Stan looked at the cupboard, then to Richie. “I mean, kinda. A brewery's worth of alcohol just came out from underneath your kitchen sink.”

Richie sighed, to the ceiling again. “Can’t you just put two and two together then we can leave this conversation.”

“If your sink has a drinking problem you should probably address it.”

Richie let out a breath of air, the ghosts of laughter. Stan smirked as Richie shot him a look, followed by a thumbs up. “Good one, Stan the man.”

The kitchen fell back into silence. Stan moved to lean his back against the cupboard beside Richie. Their two postures were so different, they almost looked comical. Stan’s head rested on his knees, his brown loafers pointing straight forward while Richie sagged beside him, his legs apart and dirty socks pointing to the Gods. He looked like a wax figure who’d been left in the sun slightly too long.

“My mom’s not home much.” Stan nodded, he knew this, but he could tell this was the start of a conversation . “Neither is Dad either, not that I give a shit.” Richie seethed his words, Stan didn’t know much about his family life, but he had always read between the lines of Richie avoiding any mention of family that it wasn’t great. “Mom just...drinks a lot. All the time, Stan. She’s not always drunk or anything, well she’s gotten worse lately but… fuck, she always had a drink in her hand, but she could put herself to bed and remember how to lock the doors and she’d be up in time to get me up for school and go to work. It worked, I mean she wasn’t a great mother, when she was far gone she’d …” Richie picked at the skin at the side of his nails, watching his own fingers with intent. “She’d not be great. When I was in second grade I drew our family portrait with her holding a bottle of beer instead of my hand, for fuck’s sake.”

Stan was watching Richie’s face carefully. Taking in this moment as if it would be a moment which would grant him life or death. He stored every word Richie said into his head. Richie started to jiggle his leg, Stan knew he was craving a cigarette. Stan didn’t like it when Richie smoked around him, so Richie usually didn’t.

“I’m sorry, this is stupid. I sound like such a faggot crying about my Mommy issues.” Richie wiped at his eyes again, Stan didn’t notice any wetness, and suspected Richie was trying to wipe away moisture as it came.

“So you wanting to fuck Eddie’s Mom is all just a big roundabout Oedipus complex?” Stan was so used to Richie providing comedic commentary, Richie being down isn’t something he’s ever considered happening. He figured the situation needed lightening up though, before one of them takes the smashed bottle from the cupboards and slits their wrists with it.

Richie let out a shallow but honest laugh. “Probably, but me and your Mom? Pure fiery unhinged passion.”

Stan knocked shoulders with him, and Richie retorted as well. He reached into his jeans and pulled out a pack of cigarettes, taking one into his mouth directly from the packet. He gave Stan a look to ask if it was alright, and Stan nodded. Richie needed this right now. He can figure out how to get the smell of smoke out of his shirt later. Richie hopped up and lit his cigarette on the gas-fired hob.

“I know I don’t need to say it, but this is between us, ok?”

Stan nodded. “You didn’t need to say it, Richie.”

Richie sucked on the cigarette, letting the smoke flow out of his words as he spoke. “It wouldn’t be fair not telling you after telling Bill. I’d feel guilty for feeling like I had to ask Bill not to speak if I didn’t have to ask you.”

Stan blinked, partly because Richie accidentally blew smoke into his eye. “You… you told Bill?” A part of him feels upset that he wasn’t the only one Richie had told, he felt cheated that Richie would disclose such a personal secret to their other friend. Stan felt bad, he shouldn’t feel special, he shouldn’t feel as though he and only he should be privy to Richie’s personal tragic backstory. Yet, he did.

Richie took a long drag, letting the smoke sit in his lungs a few moments longer than normal before he blew out, watching the smoke disappear into the air. “Yeah, It’s Big Bill y’know. You feel bad keeping anything for him.” Stan nodded, he understood, Bill had a way about him, that by keeping a secret from him, no matter how little involvement is on Bill’s behalf, you’re still riddled with guilt for not telling him. “I didn’t get much of a choice. In case you couldn’t tell - I don’t exactly boast about this shit. He was staying over for the first time since we were probably…” Richie trailed off and tapped his finger against his thigh. “About nine? Eight or nine. It was two years ago, after your thirteenth birthday party, I told Bill he could stay at mine because I live closer and it was getting dark. And right as we were about to fall asleep, Mom falls into my room, thinking it was hers.” He let out a sad laugh. “Bill was scared shitless because Mom was yelling at us to get out of her room, it took a while, but I got her to bed. It killed me because afterwards Bill would barely look at me. I don’t know if he was embarrassed, or guilty or pitied me or whatever. But it fucking hurt.” Richie tapped off the ash onto the floor. “I liked Bill, a lot, I was head over heels infatuated with him, and the first night we’d have a sleepover in ages without having Georgie creep in at midnight, I had all these moments planned out in my head. We’d kiss, maybe we’d confess our feelings, maybe I’d give him a blowjob. Then turn of a coin, he wouldn't look at me for a week.”

Stan sat in shock at what he was hearing. Richie liked Bill? Stan was replaying every interaction he watched Bill and Richie have over the past few years. He felt like he’d been hit with a concussion. What the hell was going on? Did Bill know? Were they secretly dating? Are they secretly dating?

Richie stubbed out the butt of his cigarette on the floor, leaving a faint black mark. “It’s okay though, he knows. He’s cool with it. It was a while ago.”

Stan shot him a look, Stan had no idea what kind of look it was, but apparently Richie did, he laughed and patted his shoulder. “Don’t worry Stanny boy. I like my dick uncut, so you don’t have to worry.”

Stan elbowed him in the stomach, making Richie cough. “Don’t be such a dick.” Richie laughed as he rubbed where Stan’s elbow had been. “Wait, you’re gay? The man who talks about fucking all the chicks and their mothers, is a homosexual?” Stan wasn’t shocked, it was Richie Tozier they were talking about - who knows what curveball that boy is gonna throw next.

“Don’t worry, there’s enough of the Tozier Train to go around. Now stopping at both male and female stations, buy your ticket early though - the waiting list is almost as long as my dick!”

Stan rolled his eyes so hard he felt his optic nerve burn. “I’m not bringing up the urinal again.”

Stan got off the dirty floor and held a hand out to Richie. “Let’s finish this cake before any more secrets get exposed.”

Richie smirked and jumped up, looking brighter in the eyes. “Hold onto your yahtzee, it’s gonna be intense.”

Stan hit Richie with a wooden spoon. “It’s a yarmulke, you dick.”

It took thirty-five more minutes, and by the time they were done curfew had long been in place, but they had finished it. It was a work of art. Perfectly golden and spongy, with silky cream and some of Mike’s mother’s homemade jam she had given out to all of the group. It was sweet, the jam gave it just the right amount of bitter to compliment the sweet. Not that the boys knew, they couldn’t have any. Richie was overjoyed, jumping up and down like a child in victory, “I’m a better cook than Bill!” Stan decided not to point out that it was his recipe and the only thing Richie did was mix the ingredients - and lick the spoon, to Stan’s horror.

Stan placed the cake delicately in a decorative box, so it wouldn’t take in any weird tastes and smells that are more than likely making home in Richie’s fridge. Richie smiled at Stan when all is done, and all is left to do is give it to his Mom when she gets home from work the next day.

Richie wrapped his arm around Stan’s shoulder, and Stan lets him. “We did good. But I am fucking starving.”

“I’m not making you food, Richie.”

Richie threw his hands up in the air. “Then what kind of wife are you?!”

Stan rolled his eyes and began to pack his things into his bag, ready to head home. He had work in the morning and it was already - Stan checked his watch - 21:04.  Fuck. Stan picked up the pace, not even bothering to put the lids on his Tupperware before placing it in his bag. His Mom’s gonna freak if he’s not home soon, he was meant to be home two hours ago. Richie sashayed over to the table, where Stan was having a small freak-out. He rest his head on his hands and bent over.

“Where you goin’ in such a rush, sweet-pea?” Richie drawled in his Southern Belle voice - Richie had began to recognize it as Stan’s favourite, a more accurate wording would probably be least-hated.

“I have to get home, it’s late. My parents are gonna freak.” Stan suddenly smelt the smoke from Richie’s earlier cigarette on his collar. “Richie, I smell like smoke! What gets out smoke?” He began to lift his shirt, smelling it all over.

“You can borrow some of my clothes, it’s no big deal.” Richie was staring absentmindedly at his exposed stomach, zoning out again more than likely. Stan almost died at the vision of him walking around in one of Richie’s ugly Hawaiian shirts. He pulled his longest curl down to his nose and gave it a sniff, he recalls Beverly complaining that smoke sticks to your hair, especially if it’s thick - and she was right. “Fuck - it’s in my hair too.”

Richie shrugged. “Just stay over, we’ve shared a bed before.”

Stan recalled back to one of their many sleepovers. Stan had got the short straw and Richie had got kicked onto the floor not even an hour after lights out. The smell of smoke attacked his senses again. Stan looked over to see Richie lighting another cigarette.

“Dude what the fuck?!”

Richie gave him an almost cheshire cat-like smile. “Well you just have to stay now, no chance of getting smoke out of your hair.” He blew smoke into Stan’s face and Stan swatted the cigarette out of Richie’s hand.

“You’re a premium-level dick, do you know that?”

Richie grinned as he pulled Stan out of the kitchen, cigarette bouncing softly between his lips. “Yeah I know. But a slumber party, Stan!"

And with that, Stan had laughed a genuine laugh. Not that Richie had said anything particularly funny or got seriously injured in anyway. But he was having fun, genuine boyish fun, clambering up the stairs, fighting each other on who gets to shower first and Richie attempting to give Stan the ugliest pajamas he could find. Stan was having so much fun, he forgot to call his Mother until 22:35. He laughed at his own forgetfulness and hung up the phone after calming his mother, going back to trying to wrestle his yarmulke out of Richie’s hands.

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