#stenbrough imagines

”You with me, pretty boy?”

Richie’s attention snapped over to Eddie, who had apparently been speaking. He looked down at his spoon, which was tapping steadily against the table, before dropping it  - he hadn’t even realized he was holding it. Eddie stared at him patiently with soft eyes and a gentle smile.

“I’m sorry, Eds. What were you saying?”

Richie used all of his strength to focus in on Eddie’s words, studying the boy’s lips as they moved. He nodded along with Eddie, struggling to block out all of the background noise. His nails embedded themselves into the soft skin of his palms, teeth sinking into his bottom lip as he listened to his boyfriend speak.

Somewhere in the cafeteria, someone let out a shrill laugh that caused Richie to jump in his seat. He spun around, wide eyes scanning the lunchroom. He hadn’t realized just how many people were in the room, and the sight of all of them sent panic through his body. His ears began to ring as the overwhelming amount of voices short-circuited his poor attention span. His fingers tapped against the tabletop, breathing coming out in quick puffs.

“Richie, baby, look at me.” spoke Eddie, stretching a hand out across the table.

Richie gripped Eddie’s hand, bringing it up and resting his face on it as he screwed his eyes shut tight. The voices seemed to jump at him, as if the people stood in a crowd around his shaking body. His toes curled in his shoes, feet falling numb.

He couldn’t find anything to focus on - everything was too much.

Eddie’s hand left Richie’s, the boy’s fingers immediately curling into fists. Richie choked on the thick air, his feet stomping rapidly against the floor. People began to stare, whispers and pointing spread across the lunchroom. Eddie paid them no mind as he slid into the seat next to Richie, fishing in the boy’s backpack and pulling out a pair of bulky headphones. He slid the headphones over Richie’s curls, settling them on his ears and playing whatever was on the cassette player attached.

As Richie’s head fell into the crook of Eddie’s neck, glassing stabbing his collarbone, the latter began to rub his back comfortingly.

“Focus on the music, pretty boy.” he said, fully aware that Richie could not hear him, “That’s it, just listen to the music.”

Eddie glared at anyone who dare to look their way, his small body fill to the brim with fury. Richie’s knees bounced, shaking his own body and Eddie’s - but the boy didn’t say a word.

Beverly, Ben, and Mike took a seat at the table. They stayed quiet and picked at their food, all offering Eddie sympathetic smiles. Stan and Bill joined the group right after, Bill gave Richie’s shoulder a squeeze but the other never even lifted his head. Beverly almost felt sick at the sight of her friend - who was nearly panicking.

“Maybe you should take him out of here,” Beverly suggested, “I could do it, if you’d like to eat.”

Eddie shook his head, giving Richie a tight hug as he felt the boy’s fingers tap against his thigh.

“I’ll do it, Bev.”

He pulled Richie out of his neck, cupping his face. As Richie’s wide eyes cracked open behind his smudged glasses, Eddie reached up and took them from his face. He folded the glasses over the collar of his own shirt, leaning up and pressing a soft kiss to the end of Richie’s nose. 

Eddie stood, pulling Richie up with him. Richie was led blindly by his boyfriend’s hand, music still blasting into his ears. He gripped Eddie’s hand tightly as avoided the blurry faces turned towards him.

As soon as they were safely out of the room, Eddie turned back towards Richie and gently pushed the headphones off of his ears. He placed the glasses back onto his nose and offered a smile.

He sunk down to the floor as Richie’s knees gave out, brushing his mop of curls back.

“Are you okay, Rich?”

Richie’s hands were still shaking.

“‘M sorry - just can’t handle that many people. Nowhere to focus.”

Eddie nodded, “I know, baby. Tomorrow I’ll pack a lunch for both of us and we can eat outside, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Richie agreed softly, “I just thought I could do it.”

“Hey, it’s no big deal.” Eddie pressed a chaste kiss to Richie’s lips, “The cafeteria is disgusting anyways - I don’t even like eating in there.”

Richie looked up at Eddie, struggling to find the right words to say. A lump formed in his throat, and he wanted so badly to speak, but remained silent. He chewed on the inside of his cheek, which was already sore and raw from the nervous habit.

Then, Richie suddenly looked away. He peered off behind Eddie with comically wide eyes, as if mesmerized. Eddie craned back, watching as a young girl rushed down the hall with a book clutched in her hands.

“Do you know her?”

Richie’s tongue wedged between his buck teeth, fingers tapping against the floor.

“I’ve never read that book.” He stated, “Do you think I should?”

“You don’t read, Rich.”

“Would you like me better if I did?” Richie glanced back at Eddie, his cheeks flushed red, “Sometimes I think you should be with someone who likes to read - or likes school, at least. You deserve the smartest genius in the whole world, like Stan or Mike - they’re both really smart. I love those guys; Stan, Mike, Ben, Bill - they’re my best friends. Oh, and Bev, too. She’s so cool. Maybe you could-”

“Richie, you’re doing it again.”

“Doing what, Eddie Spaghetti?” His scuffed sneaker beat against the tile floor, “I’m just talking, silly. You’re my favorite person to talk to, y’know - you’re so sweet and caring and cute - I can’t get over how cute you are!” One of his shaking hands gave Eddie’s cheek a pinch, “You’re, like, my whole world; sun, moon, stars, and all that shit. I couldn’t do it without my Spaghetti by my side.”

Eddie sat up on his knees, gently cupping Richie’s face and running his thumbs over the boy’s cheeks.

“Beep beep, Richie.” 

Richie immediately shut his mouth. Eddie pressed their foreheads together, keeping his hand on Richie’s face. Eddie brushed his lips against his boyfriend’s, so timidly Richie almost didn’t feel it.

 “Can we go home?” Richie whispered, nearly pleading.

“Whatever you want, my pretty boy.”

--

Stanley Uris sat alone in his bedroom, a weight looming over his shoulders. His lips were curled down into a seemingly permanent frown, limbs sitting heavily in their place. Eyes locked on the ceiling, no thoughts swirled in his mind. He didn’t want to cry, or speak, or move - he felt nothing.

Music flowed through the room, so quiet Stan almost couldn’t hear it. His chest raised and lowered with every breath, lashes hitting his cheeks with every blink. Things that were usually human habit became extremely noticeable and annoying, he wanted them to stop.

The familiar pattern of rain thumped against Stan’s bedroom window, splattering loudly on the glass. He tried to let the sound of rain soothe him - distract him from the aggravating things he couldn’t fix, but his body was too tense. His fingers began to tap against the sheets of the bed, which he laid in fully clothed - shoes and all.

Stan let his eyes shut, they burned like he hadn’t slept in days, mostly because he hadn’t. Exhaustion was a heavy burden, it itched along his skin and ached in his bones. He was so tired, and yet, sleep never bothered to claim him. A soft knock came at the bedroom door, it went unnoticed. Stan continued to stare at the ceiling, not moving an inch.

“I made some s-soup for you.” A voice spoke from the other side, “Can I come in?”

With no response, the door creaked open. Bill frowned at the sight of his boyfriend - who seemed to be stuck in a trance. Sitting the bowl down, Bill made quick work of untying Stan’s shoes and slipping them off of his feet. He pulled Stan’s belt loose and tugged it out of the loops of his jeans before leaning up and pressing a sweet kiss to Stan’s forehead, brushing his curls back with one hand.

“You’d be more comfortable without these on.” said Bill, pinching the waistband of Stan’s pants, “Do you want to s-stand up for a minute so I can get them off?”

Stan did not react, only letting out a long breath and continuing to stare with dull eyes. Bill studied his boyfriend’s expression, dragging a thumb down his soft cheek. Guilt settled in his gut - he never knew how to help Stan through his episodes. Each one seemed to be longer and more draining than the last.

“C’mon, baby, get up.” Bill gently grabbed Stan’s arms and pulled him up into a sitting position, “Can you stand for me?”

As if by reflex, Stan’s feet gathered under him on the floor. He stood stiff as Bill shimmied his jeans down his tanned legs, leaving in his favorite blue briefs and t-shirt.

With Bill’s guidance, he sunk back down onto the mattress, back against the headboard and legs crossed. Bill let out a quiet praise as he crawled next to his boyfriend in the bed, grabbing the warm bowl from the nightstand and swirling the contents with a metal spoon.

“I know you’re not hungry, you don’t have to eat all of it.”

Bill lifted a spoonful, bringing it up to Stan’s sealed lips.

“Open up, S-Stan.” The spoon nudged against Stan’s mouth, “Please?”

Stan stared down at the soup, watching it with lazy, hooded eyes. His gaze flickered up to Bill, who held a soft expression of pure concern and patience. Hesitantly, he pulled his lips apart, letting his mouth hang open.

Bill smiled at him, “Good boy.”

The second spoonful was easier, the third right after. Pretty soon, the entire bowl of soup was empty - and Bill couldn’t have been happier.

“Did so good,” Bill pressed a kiss to Stan’s curls, “I’m so proud of you, S-Stan.”

With another assuring smile, Bill pushed himself off of the bed, empty bowl in his hands. He started for the door, only stopping when a hand grasped at his hoodie.

“Don’t go,” Stan croaked, voice hoarse and small.

In a second, the bowl had been returned to the bedside table and Bill’s hands were on Stan. He cradled the boy, reclaiming his spot on the mattress. The bed creaked as Stan shifted, burrowing himself into the comfort of Bill Denbrough’s arms.

“You’re okay.” said Bill, gently rocking his boyfriend, “I’m here, I’ve got you.”

The rain seemed to lighten up on the windows. The pelts now thumped softly instead of sounding like rocks against the glass. Bill began to hum along to the music - a song by The Cure that Stan couldn’t quite place a name to.

Stan’s eyes closed for just a moment before peeling back open. He let out a small sound as Bill tugged the blanket up over their bodies, soaking into the warmth and smell of fabric softener.

“I love you, Bill.” Stan’s voice was laced with obvious exhaustion.

“I love you, too.” 

Bill tucked a curl behind Stan’s ear, running a hand along his spine to rub circle into the small of his back. Stealing a glance at his boyfriend, Bill grinned at the sight of Stan fighting to keep his eyes open - deciding it to be the absolute cutest thing he’d ever seen.

“Go to sleep, baby.”

And, for the first time in days, he did. 

--

“Where’s Eddie?”

“That’s a new record, trashmouth.” Beverly laughed, sitting a tray of food on the table next to the hospital table, “You’ve been awake for six seconds and you’re already asking about Eddie.”

Richie stared at her, eyes hard and serious. He was waiting expectantly for an answer, growing more and more anxious as the seconds passed. Beverly rolled her eyes.

“If you’re that concerned for your little boyfriend - who isn’t absolutely defenseless, by the way - he went home for a bit while you were asleep to shower and all that shit. Said he’d be back in an hour or so.”

“How long ago was that?” Richie pressed, hands balling around the sheets, ready to throw them off and run.

“Maybe three hours ago? I don’t know, he probably has a lot of explaining to do to his mom. He hasn’t been home since-” Beverly stopped short, but the unspoken words lingered awkwardly in the air. “But, you don’t need to worry because you’re not going anywhere. You are going to sit right here in this bed and let me feed you some Jell-O.”

Richie cringed, his nose wrinkling up at the cup of jiggly, red substance. If Eddie was there, he would’ve made sure that Beverly picked orange instead - as it was the only flavor Richie liked.

As she neared him with the cup, Richie’s arm flew up. Beverly gasped as the substance covered her pastel yellow blouse, staining the beautiful fabric.

“Richie, fuck!” She exclaimed, rushing into the bathroom.

As soon as the door shut behind her, Richie was up out of his bed. He jerked the needles and tubes from his arms, gritting his teeth at the pain but wasting no time in dropping his gown to the floor and tugging on the sweatpants Beverly had brought for him.

Rolling on his tee-shirt as he ran out of the door, his bare feet felt uncomfortable numb against the cold tile flooring - which was no doubt disgusting. His legs tingled with a sharp ache that he could only describe as fatigue, no matter that he’d been resting them for days.

Richie completely bypassed the open elevator doors, opting for the stairs instead. His mind raced as he sprinted down them two at a time - which he’d never be able to do again, but adrenaline had overpowered his limbs.

Awful thoughts overwhelmed him - a very vivid image of Henry Bowers digging his new knife into Eddie’s perfect flesh welcomed itself into Richie’s brain. He forced a bubble of nausea back down his throat as his hands hit the metal door handle of the emergency exit and flung it open, sounding the alarm.

Richie knew he couldn’t run all the way to Eddie, especially with the search party Beverly had probably already set out. His eyes landed on a bright purple bike leaning against the brick exterior of the building. It was Bev’s - and she would kill him - but that didn’t stop him from gripping the blue handlebars and straddling the seat.

He pedaled until his legs throbbed, the ache making it’s way up his spine, but he didn’t slow. He paid no mind to the traffic as he weaved between honking cars and raced past the middle fingers and angry shouts. Richie didn’t stop when Eddie’s house came into sight - because he knew the boy wasn’t there, that he had never went there.

Richie cut through numerous yards and driveways until he ended up in front of his own. He ditched the bike, stumbling on his weak feet as he rushed to the front door.

Richie wasn’t sure why he was there, why his feet brought him home - but his gut told him that that was where Eddie would be, and he’d decided to trust it.

“Eddie!” He called into the silent house, not bothering to wonder where his parents had disappeared to, “Eds, are you here?”

He raced up the stairs, flinging his bedroom door open and practically falling over himself into the room. He spotted a small finger sitting on the edge of his bed, back hunched over and shoulders lumped.

“Eddie, baby, are you okay?”

Richie approached the tiny framed boy, dropping to his knees in front of him and gently cupping his round face. Eddie wasn’t crying, like Richie had thought, he wasn’t even upset. Instead of a frown - a soft smile rested on Eddie’s pink lips.

“Hey, Rich.” He spoke quietly, “Please don’t be mad at me.”

Richie shook his head, brows furrowed, “Why would I be mad, baby?”

Eddie offered another small smile as he lifted his thin arm, which was wrapped in a white bandage. Richie’s eyes were wide and soft - almost sad, but mainly held a gaze of worry. His nimble fingers left Eddie’s face to brush over the gauze, finding the corner and immediately picking at it. He unwrapped Eddie’s arm slowly, holding his breath - as if he didn’t really want to see what laid underneath.

And, as the bandage fell to the floor, tears spilled over Richie’s cheeks.

“No, Eddie,” he muttered, thumb dancing around the irritated skin of his forearm, “No, what did you do to yourself?” He looked up at Eddie, lashes dripping and cheeks wet, “Eddie, why?”

Eddie’s free arm raised, then, and brushed one of Richie’s curls back behind his ear. His own thumb reached to wipe one of the boy’s tears, “I’m not letting you be alone, Rich. Never again.”

Richie stared at the marking on Eddie’s arm, the perfect lettering that would, now, permanently live on his skin. Confusion swirled his his mind as his lip quivered uncontrollably. His arms burned, small traces of blood leaking out of the holes where his tubes had been; but the burn was nothing compared to the pounding throb in his chest.

Queer.

The word was stretched to cover the majority of his forearm in thick, even letters. Just the sight of it could’ve made Richie pass out.

“I don’t understand, Eds.” Richie shook his head, not able to look away from the tattoo, “I don’t understand why you would ruin your body like this.”

Eddie’s small hand forced Richie’s head up, his dark orbs meeting his boyfriend’s. He pressed their lips together in a soft, chaste kiss. It was gentle, just like Eddie.

Everything about Eddie was gentle - everything but that word. 

“I would do anything for you, Richie Tozier.” Eddie spoke against Richie’s lips, “Absolutely anything; and anything must include this.”

And, then, Richie did understand.

–

His animatedly-wide eyes watched the bright cars as they sped down the street before finding the birds soaring high through the sky. If he listened close enough, Richie could’ve swore he could hear their chips and sweet singing through the thick glass of the window. The rolling clouds, flashing lights, and constant chatter of strangers held him in a trance. Everything was moving non-stop, without even slowing - and it was beautiful.

His fingers thumped steadily against the wooden table top, wrapping around anything they found: the wrinkled edge of a napkin, an extra straw left lying out, and the neatly stitched tablecloth. Richie’s dark orbs struggled to keep up with everything, bouncing from place to place as he soaked in all of his surroundings.

The loud clatter of a plate hitting the floor was what caught his attention next, dragging his mind back into the small diner he sat in. On the floor, other than the plate, Richie spotted a tiny puddle of whatever had been spilled. His hands itched to feel the substance - although his mind argued.

The bell of the glass diner door rung. Richie watched as three boys entered, all laughing and smiling - the sight made his heart warm. Two of the boys, the taller ones, had their hands clasped together, while a shorter one stood off to the side, but seemed to be enjoying their company all the same.

The small boy turned and caught Richie’s gaze, offering him a bright smile. Too stunned, Richie did not react, he only stared.

“Are you even fucking listening to me?”

Richie jumped in his seat, attention shooting back to the boy - his boyfriend of nearly a year - sitting in front of him. Two steaming cups of coffee sat on the wooden table, paired with a plate of food that Richie had neglected to eat.

“Can you pay attention for two minutes, Richie?” The boy tutted, rolling his eyes and holding an open palm out across the table. “Give me your hand.” When Richie was hesitant, he narrowed his eyes, “Are you deaf? Give me your fucking hand.”

Lifting one trembling hand, Richie laid it in the boy’s open palm. With an iron grip on Richie, he shoved Richie’s shirt sleeve up and gripped the rubber band around his thin wrist.

“Tell me what punishment you deserve.” He demanded through gritted teeth.

Richie’s head was bowed, eyes fixated on his lap, “Three for getting distracted,” his voice shook badly, “Two for not listening.”

As if Richie had been reciting lines, the boy nodded in agreement. Richie squeezed his eyes shut as the band was stretched, seething as it snapped back against his wrist. He bit down on his lip to hide the whine rising in his throat.By the last snap, tears were streaming down Richie’s face - which made the other boy even more angry.

“You’re causing a scene,” He said, fully red-faced, “Wipe your face and go get in the fucking car.”

“Dylan, I-” Richie started but was cut off as his boyfriend slammed his fist down on the table.

“Go!”

Richie scrambled, grasping his aching wrist as he rushed towards the door. He stared down at his feet, tears thick against his eyes. He could feel a million eyes on him, staring at the red flush across his cheeks and the tears hanging from his lashes. Staring at his wrist and the raw skin.

Outside of the diner, Richie forced himself to stare at his scuffed sneakers and ignore the beauty surrounding him. The chirping of the birds raised the hair on his neck and sent his brain on a rampage. He wanted so badly to look, but he couldn’t.

But, maybe one day, Richie could - and maybe, he wouldn’t get distracted when he did. That was Dylan’s plan; to fix the boy with the broken mind.

As he climbed into the passenger seat of Dylan’s car, Richie looked back to the diner window, where one of the three boys sat - blatantly staring in his direction. They held eye contact - and, for once, Richie’s attention stayed in one place. The boy’s mouth hung open slightly, gaping as if in concern. He mouthed something, his small hands coming up to rest on the glass - Richie couldn’t make out his words.

The old car jolted to life, Richie immediately looked to his lap as Dylan settled into the driver’s seat. With shaking fingers, he clicked his seat belt before clasping his hands together tightly across his lap. As they pulled out of the parking lot, Richie could still feel the boy’s eyes on him, but he never looked back up.

Dylan’s hand caught Richie’s arm, his thumb dragging over the raw skin, “You know why I do this, right, babe?”

“Yes.”

“I’m teaching you,” he carried on, “I love you, Richie; that’s why I’m trying so hard to fix you.”

“I know.”

Richie’s voice was quiet and monotone, he spoke as if the words were being projected to him on a screen. His thumbs fiddled together nervously, Dylan’s hand still on his wrist.

“I love you so much, Richie.” he said, full sincerity in his voice.

And, it would’ve made Richie swoon - like it did all those months ago - but the searing pain on his wrist seemed to overpower his previous emotions.

“I love you, too.” responded Richie half-heartedly.

Richie didn’t understand love, he never had. Growing up with a drunkard mother and a neglectful father - Richie found himself fawning over the idea of infatuation, and threw himself at the first boy who ever helped him feel it. Richie had been obsessed with the idea of love, but, he decided, if this is what love felt like; he didn’t want it.

--