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Stanley Uris was a rather practical man, or so he liked to believe. He liked order and clarity. He liked knowing everything that was going on for the rest of the day and what he’d have for dinner. He liked his pencils laying side by side, sharpened to perfection and ready for use. He liked the cutlery in his kitchen drawer in the order; forks, knives, spoons. He liked his television slightly to the left on its bench, with the orchid on the other side filling up the empty space. He liked to believe that was the only part of his life slightly out of its balance.
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“Why did you move the television?”, Stan rapped his knuckles harshly against the table in a quick succession to gain Richie’s attention, staring at the television where it stood perfectly on the middle of the bench. The orchid had been moved to the window and watered slightly too much.
“Huh? Oh, I just thought it looked better that way.”, Richie stared at him incredulously.
“Well, I don’t. Move it back.”
“Stan-”
“Move it back!”, he shouted, tugging at the collar of his shirt like it was choking him.
“Okay, okay, calm the fuck down.”
“Don’t tell me to calm down! You moved the television!”, Stan’s voice broke at the end, a harsh sniffle escaping his lips.
“Jesus christ, don’t start crying because of the damn television. I said I’ll move it back.”
“The orchid too.”, Stan whispered. Richie nodded, hustling over to the television and pushing it back where it belonged, the orchid following suit.
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Richard Tozier was a rather carefree man, or so he liked to believe. He wasn’t bothered by much. Running late for work? Whatever. Dinner wasn’t cooked when he got home? Who cares. He forgot to wash his only pair of jeans? They could be used another day. Truth be told, very little in this world could rile him up. Most of the time he didn’t give two cents for what people thought of him or his actions. Most of the time.
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“I’m buying that.”, Richie announced, pointing at the weird red jacket with a fur lined hood and a fox stitched on its arm. “What do you think?”
“Uh…”, Stan was speechless, one hand nervously shuffling a pile of shirts into a neater one. Richie’s inner ugly had reached a whole new level.
“You don’t like it?”
Stan’s mouth opened but no words came. He hated making Richie sad with his strict opinions but this was just too much. “No, sorry.”
“What?!”
“Sorry?”
“How can you not like it?”, Richie’s threw his hands up and gestured wildly for a moment. “It’s fashion!”
“That’s not my kind of fashion. You go ahead and get it if you want to.”, Stan said, muttering softly under his breath. “Waste of money.”
“You’re unbelievable.”, Richie turned on his heel and stormed out of the boutique, leaving Stan and another shopper staring after him.
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Sometimes, when Richie forget the natural order of cutlery or left dull pencils on the desk Stan thought he hated him. The other man upset every part of his being and shifted his world onto a new axis. He didn’t like it, he never had. Yet something was continuously pulling him back. Richie’s unbrushed hair, his glasses askew on his face and his fingers tapping restlessly on the table drove him mad. There was nothing to like. Stan wanted to pull his hair out, or maybe sit down and pray for the other’s well being. Something was clearly wrong with him.
“I want you to move in with me.”, Richie said once, somewhere in some fancy restaurant with his crumpled napkin by his plate and bread crumbs on the sleeve of his dress shirt. Stan reached over and brushed them away.
“I’d love that.”, he said, smiling so wide his cheeks ached.
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Richie thought he’d explode when he watched Stan bustle around, folding his shirts again and again until they laid in even neater stacks on their shelves in the wardrobe. He picked at the dirty socks Richie had left in the corner, mumbling to himself about one thing or another. From his place on the bed, trying to relax for once, Stan was stressing him to the breaking point.
“Are you upset?”, Richie asked finally, tired of Stan’s constant moving.
“Why would I be upset?”, Stan returned the question, moving the plant on the windowsill for probably the hundredth time.
“C’mere.”, Richie patted the mattress beside him.
“Why?”, Stan squinted at him suspiciously.
“Just come here, dammit.”
Stan crawled up beside him, huffing out a laugh when Richie tugged him down onto his chest.
“You’re moving too much, it’s stressing me out.”, he explained, holding Stan down harder when he tried to sit up. “Stay here.”
“I-”
“Shh, just stay. Close your eyes.”
“Richie, I can’t-”
“Shhhhh.”, he breathed, putting one hand over Stan’s mouth when he started speaking again. “Ah, the bliss of silence.”
Stan giggled, finally relaxing into Richie’s hold with a sigh.
“I applied for the work you suggested to me.”, he said after a minute. “It’s making me anxious.”
“I know, Stan. But you’ll be fine.”
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“You know what?! Moving in with you is the biggest mistake of my life!”, Stan growled, chucking some ugly wooden trinket at Richie. He ducked, narrowly escaping it hitting him right in the forehead.
“Well, my biggest mistake was even looking at you twice! I can’t deal with your shit anymore!”, Richie yelled back, stomping out of the room and into the kitchen. “Look at this! Wow, I just moved a spoon into the fork section! You gonna cry now, Stanley?!”
“You fucking idiot! I will stab you with that fork!”
“I’d like to see you try!”
Suddenly Richie was tugged into Stan, a pair of lips meeting his violently.
“I love the way you look when you’re angry.”, Stan snarled, one hand sneaking into the other’s hair and gripping it harshly. “We need to fight more.”
Richie said nothing, just grabbed his man around the waist and hauled him into the bedroom where they had unpacked nothing, just dumped the mattress of their new bed on the floor.
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“I love you.”, Richie whispered one night when they were about to fall asleep. It wasn’t unusual, the words exchanging between them rather frequently after they moved in together.
“I love you too.”
“No, you don’t get it. I love you. I love your pettiness and your fusspot ways and your stupid order in the cutlery drawer and your shirts being sorted by colour. I love you and everything about you. Your whole concept. It’s driving me mad and I love it.”
“Wow, that’s a lot of words from someone as scatterbrained as you.”, Stan mumbled, smiling in the darkness of the room. “You make me sick.”
“Huh?”
“You make me sick when you leave your dirty socks everywhere and how you never put your coffee cups in the washing machine and when I always trip on your shoes because you leave them right in the doorway. You move too fast and it’s fucking with my brain. But I love it too. I love you.”
“That’s nice to hear. Now I can tell you I broke the vase my grandma gifted us on our three year anniversary. I swear it was an accident.”
“Richie!”