Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

“Faggot!”
“Your kind isn’t welcome here, urine!”
“Get away from him before you get the fairy disease!”

BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!

Stan jolted awake, heart pounding, skin damp and sticky with sweat.
“Fuck… oh God, I hate nightmares.”

He rubbed his eyes and slammed the alarm clock silent.
Still half-asleep, he grabbed his phone—not to check the time (the clock already made that clear), but to see if Eddie had sent a message during one of his “dirty panic attacks,” or whatever.

Sure enough, there it was. Not a paranoid rant this time, but still very Eddie.

Eddie: “Hey, Stan! So, like, you know it’s our day off, right? Well, I thought maybe we should hang out! I asked Richie if he’s hosting his comedy show at the bar and he said yes, so I kinda asked him to reserve us a seat.”

Stan snorted. Sure, I’ll go and gag the entire time while you ‘friendly admire’ Trashmouth. Sure, Eddie. Sure.

He typed back quickly—before Eddie could barge into his apartment demanding to know why he hadn’t replied and whether he was hurt or dead.

Stan: “Sure, I’ll come, Eddie. What time does it start?”

Eddie: “At 7 p.m. Wear something nice!”

Stan rolled his eyes. I have style, he muttered before pushing himself out of bed and heading to the bathroom to get ready for the day.

It wasn’t a fancy get-ready-with-me kind of morning—just a quick brush-my-teeth-and-look-halfway-awake routine. Classes were mysteriously canceled today, and Stan wasn’t about to question the gift.

Once he was done, he wandered into the kitchen for breakfast, planning to waste some time with whatever was on TV. Living alone meant no roommate chatter—just him, a bowl of cereal, and the low murmur of the screen to fill the quiet.

Still, even boring morning shows were better than listening to some old professor ramble about a life that had nothing to do with the lesson while half the class slept through it.

Hours slipped by. When Stan finally checked his phone again, it was already three. Damn, time does run fast. He turned off the TV, cleaned up, and hopped into the shower so he’d still have some spare time before heading out.

By exactly four, he was dressed and ready, with two whole hours to kill before Eddie inevitably showed up. He paced, scrolled aimlessly on his phone, and tried not to think about how long the next two hours would feel.

Sure enough, at six sharp, the front door opened with the spare key Stan had given Eddie for life-or-death emergencies only.

“Ready?” Eddie chirped, all giddy and glowing like Richie’s biggest fan. Stan rolled his eyes but grabbed his jacket anyway, following Eddie to his car—Stan didn’t own one himself (couldn’t afford it, not that he’d ever admit that out loud).

The drive was a blur of Eddie’s excited chatter about the show, like they hadn’t already been to half a dozen of Richie’s sets. Not that Stan hated it—he’d never admit it, but he actually enjoyed them sometimes.

By the time they arrived, the show was already underway. The low buzz of conversation was drowned out by Richie’s voice booming through the mic, sharp enough to slice through the haze of laughter and clinking glasses.

Front row. Center stage.
Richie really had taken “reserve the best seats” painfully literally.

“That’s… a first,” Stan muttered as Eddie practically dragged him toward a table with their names scribbled across a little “RESERVED” card.

Eddie beamed. “I told you he’d hook us up!”

“Hook us up,” Stan repeated dryly, eyeing the spotlight that left them completely exposed. “More like paint a target on our backs.”

Eddie didn’t hear him—his eyes were locked on the stage, lit up like Richie had personally descended from comedy heaven.

The set was as chaotic as always, Richie firing off one-liners and roasts at rapid speed. He heckled Eddie’s mom for good measure, but when his eyes slid to Stan, he only smirked and said, “Sorry folks, there’s only room for one curly-haired heartthrob tonight.”

Stan sipped his drink, hiding a faint grin. Typical Richie—loud, reckless, and just smart enough to stay alive.

When the applause finally died down, Richie hopped off the stage, weaving through the crowd with all the swagger of someone who thought he owned the place. He stopped at their table, three drinks balanced precariously in his hands.

“Special delivery for my favorite hypochondriac,” Richie announced, setting a glass down in front of Eddie with an exaggerated flourish.

Stan blinked. It was exactly Eddie’s favorite order. Down to the lemon wedge.
Well, damn. Trashmouth actually listened.

Eddie looked stunned for half a second before his face went pink. “Uh… thanks, Richie.”

Richie grinned so wide it was almost a wink. “What can I say? I’ve got a photographic memory… when it comes to people who matter.”

Stan sipped his own drink, watching the exchange with barely concealed amusement. Wow. Richie really did remember. That’s a shocker.

They lingered at the table long after the crowd began thinning. Eddie leaned back in his chair, laughing as he recounted how their history professor had spent forty full minutes explaining why “the real test is life itself.”

“Honestly,” Stan said, swirling the ice in his glass, “if I wanted a TED Talk about suffering, I’d call my uncle.”

“At least you don’t have Professor Anderson,” Eddie countered. “He spent the whole lecture talking about his cats. His cats, Stan. Two hours of fur maintenance and litter-box philosophy.”

Richie wiggled his eyebrows. “Wow, riveting stuff. I can’t believe you guys didn’t record it for posterity.”

Eddie rolled his eyes. “You know what? I would have recorded it if I wanted to slowly die of boredom later.”

Richie grinned wickedly. “Don’t tempt me, Spaghetti. I might steal your notes and use them as a sleep aid for my next show.”

Stan bit back a laugh as Eddie flushed pink, swatting Richie’s arm.

“Hey, guys,” Richie said suddenly, words muffled as he stuffed a fistful of fries into his mouth. “You should come to a party we’re hosting this Sunday. Bill just got into a huge argument with his girlfriend, and we gotta cheer up our good ol’ pal, y’know? If you’re free, of course.”

Before Stan could even think of an excuse, Eddie leaned forward with a grin.
“Yeah, me and Stan are totally free this Sunday, right Stan?” he said, casually pinching Stan under the table.

Stan flinched and shot him a glare. “Yeah, we’re totally free,” he deadpanned, swatting Eddie’s hand away.

“Sweet,” Richie said, grinning like he’d already won. “I’ll text you the details. Wear something fun—therapy parties deserve style.”

“Well, I gotta go now. Still have to clean up the mess I made backstage. See you nerds at the party!” Richie said, grabbing the basket of fries as he stood.

“Hey—those were our fries!” Eddie called after him, but Richie was already weaving through the crowd, fries in tow.

Once the door to the greenroom swung shut, Stan slowly turned back to Eddie, eyes narrowed in mock outrage.
“What the fuck was that pinch for?” he demanded.

Eddie didn’t even flinch. “I can’t let you bail on me, Stan! I know you were already coming up with some lame excuse not to go.”

Stan arched an eyebrow. “Maybe I just value my quiet, Eddie. Ever think of that?”

“Nope,” Eddie smirked. “You love me too much to say no.”

Stan groaned, rubbing the spot where Eddie had pinched him. “You’re lucky I don’t press charges for harassment.”

“Please,” Eddie said with a grin. “You’d miss me if I were in jail.”

Stan fought a smile and lost. “Unfortunately… you might be right.”

Eddie’s grin widened. “See? That’s why you’re coming to the party. You’d miss all this.” He gestured dramatically to himself.

Stan rolled his eyes and stood, grabbing his jacket. “Let’s just go before you start narrating your own greatness.”

“Too late,” Eddie said, hopping up to follow him. “I’ve already got the opening monologue ready.”

They pushed through the bar’s warm, noisy haze and stepped into the cool night air.

As they walked toward the car, Eddie tilted his head. “You know, you could drive sometime. Ever think about getting a car?”

Stan shoved his hands into his pockets. “Yeah, and I could also win the lottery and buy a mansion. Same odds.”

Eddie laughed, the sound echoing across the parking lot. “Fine, fine. I’ll keep chauffeuring your antisocial butt around. But you’re buying snacks next time.”

Stan side-eyed him. “You mean like tonight? When Richie stole our fries?”

“Exactly,” Eddie said, unlocking the car with a triumphant beep. “Snack justice. Starting with you.”

Stan shook his head, but when Eddie shot him that small, mischievous smile before climbing in, he couldn’t help the faint curve of his own lips.

Chapter Text

Stan woke up to the heavy quiet of his apartment—the kind that follows a night of too much laughter and not enough sleep.
His ears still buzzed faintly, like Richie’s jokes had left an echo in the walls.
The sunlight cutting through the curtains felt almost rude, and his body ached with the kind of exhaustion that wasn’t physical—just the leftover weight of noise, drinks, and Eddie’s endless chatter.

He stretched, groaned, and reached blindly for his phone, already half-expecting a flood of messages from Eddie about the party Richie mentioned.
But surprisingly, there were none.
Very rare. Very, very rare.

Stan didn’t feel like getting up, so he stayed in bed for a while, aimlessly scrolling through social media—until something on the screen snagged his attention.

He stopped mid-scroll.
It was a post from the bar where Richie hosted his show.
Of course they’d uploaded photos: a few unlucky audience members mid-roast, Richie caught mid-joke, the whole scene looking chaotic and loud even through a screen.

And the caption? Yeah, definitely Richie:

> “Thanks for ruining your evening, losers! Had a great time.”

 

Stan rolled his eyes and muttered, “Classic Trashmouth,” before tossing his phone onto the nightstand and pushing himself out of bed.
Bathroom first—because, honestly, he really needed to piss.

After finishing his business, Stan stepped back into the room and checked the clock.
Still early. Great. More hours to kill.

I’m already sick of staring at the TV, he thought, rubbing the back of his neck.
His eyes drifted to the small bookshelf in the corner, where his old bird-watching guide sat collecting dust.
Huh. Haven’t touched that thing in forever.
Maybe today wouldn’t be a total waste if he finally cracked it open again.

Stan carefully slid the book off the shelf and brushed away the thin layer of dust clinging to the cover.
How long has it been since I actually went bird-watching? It had been so long that even the book felt like a stranger in his hands.

“I should go to the park to bird-watch again,” he muttered, setting the book down on the nightstand beside his phone.
He crouched to peer under the bed, then crossed to the closet, rummaging through the quiet mess of his room in search of his binoculars.
Where the hell did I even put them?

At last, he finally found the binoculars shoved all the way to the back of his desk drawer.
Good. One less excuse to stay inside.

He pulled on a soft taupe ribbed sweater and a pair of faded brown jeans—warm enough for the park and still easy to move in.
Black Adidas sneakers finished it off: comfortable and not trying too hard.

Before heading out, Stan paused in front of the mirror for a quick check.
This might end up being the same outfit he wore to Richie’s party later, and changing twice sounded like a pain.
The sweater looked fine, the jeans weren’t wrinkled, and the shoes were clean enough.

“Good enough,” he muttered, slipping the binoculars into his cross-body bag.
If the birds didn’t care, neither would anyone at the party.

The park wasn’t far from his apartment, so walking there wouldn’t be a hassle—especially for a chance to bird-watch again.
Maybe he’d even stop for coffee if he passed a café that looked like it actually knew how to brew a decent cup.
The idea of warm coffee and quiet trees sounded way better than another hour of scrolling in bed.

Stan got out of his apartment, locking the door and sliding the keys into his pocket before heading out.
The weather felt perfect today, so he figured he’d definitely spot more birds than just pigeons.
As he walked, he stumbled across a decent-looking café and decided to step inside to buy himself a coffee.

The café smelled like roasted beans and warm bread the moment Stan stepped inside, a cozy mix that made him realize how badly he actually wanted the coffee.
The chalkboard menu hung above the counter, crowded with fancy names and seasonal drinks he didn’t care enough to decode.
Simple was fine. Always simple.

“Hi there! What can I get started for you?” the barista asked, smiling behind the register.

“Uh… just a medium black coffee, please,” Stan said after a short glance at the board.
He shifted the strap of his bag on his shoulder, already fishing for his wallet. “No sugar.”

“Sure thing. Name for the order?”

“Stan.”
He cleared his throat, feeling strangely self-conscious about saying his own name out loud.

The barista scribbled it on a cup. “Alright, Stan. That’ll be 4.99.”

He handed over the cash, took his change, and stepped aside to wait, the quiet hum of espresso machines filling the air.
It felt nice—warm, normal—like the morning was unfolding exactly the way it should.

When Stan finally got his coffee, the cup was warm against his palms, the bitter smell promising a quiet walk to the park.
But the calm lasted all of two seconds.

Someone slammed into his side—hard enough to jolt the cup.
Hot coffee splashed across the front of his sweater in a sharp, scalding streak.

“Shit—!” Stan hissed, jerking back, his sneakers squeaking on the tile.

“Suh-shit! I’m s-so suh-sorry! I didn’t m-mean th-that! I w-wasn’t l-looking wh-where I was g-g-going!”
The tall guy in front of him stammered, eyes wide, hands fluttering uselessly like he could somehow rewind the spill.

Stan blinked at the stranger—flushed cheeks, messy hair, and a voice tripping over every syllable—and for a second the sting of hot coffee wasn’t the only thing catching his breath.

“I–I’m suh-sorry. Um.”
The tall guy fumbled with the sleeves of his flannel shirt—the one layered over a plain white tee—his hands trembling as he tugged it off.
“Here’s m-muh-my f-fuh-flannel to… to hide the c-cuh-coffee stain.”

He held it out, cheeks pink, eyes darting anywhere but at Stan.

Stan started to shake his head, ready to insist it wasn’t a big deal—but then he caught the look on the guy’s face.
So earnest. So painfully apologetic.
Yeah. There was no way he could say no to that.

“…Thanks,” Stan said finally, voice low.
He nodded, taking the flannel carefully, the fabric still warm from the stranger’s body and smelling faintly of clean detergent and coffee.

“I d-d-don’t have m-much cash on me,” the guy added, shifting awkwardly.
“I h-h-hope th-that hu-helps a bit.”

Stan glanced at the shirt in his hands, the soft plaid against his palm, and for some reason—despite the mess, despite the stain—he didn’t feel like the morning had gone wrong at all.

Stan left the café with the flannel clutched in one hand.
Well, so much for birdwatching.
He slipped the shirt on quickly, the soft fabric falling over his sweater and hiding the coffee stain before anyone else could notice.

When Stan got back to his apartment, he unlocked the door and stepped inside, the quiet swallowing him up again.
He headed straight to his room, slipping the borrowed flannel off his shoulders as he went.
The brown sweater beneath was still damp with coffee, the stain a dark, ugly smear across the fabric.

He peeled it off with a sigh and tossed it into the laundry basket, glad to be rid of it.
Good thing he still had his blue sweater—it wasn’t as warm as the brown one, but at least it was clean and dry.

By the time Stan tugged the blue sweater over his head and checked the clock, it was already creeping past 3 p.m.
Too late to bother with the park now.
He sank onto the edge of his bed, the room quiet except for the distant hum of traffic outside.

All that was left to do was wait for Eddie to show up so they could head to Richie’s party together.
Stan leaned back against the wall, folding his arms across the soft knit of the sweater.
Waiting wasn’t exactly exciting, but after the morning he’d had, a little stillness didn’t sound so bad.

Stan was stretched out on his bed, eyes heavy, the quiet of the apartment pulling him closer to sleep.
He was right on the edge of drifting off when the sharp click of the front door lock snapped him awake.

The door swung open a second later.

“Hey, Stan!” Eddie’s voice carried down the hall before his footsteps did.

Stan shot upright, heart jumping. “Jesus, Eddie—”

Eddie appeared in the doorway, grinning like he hadn’t just scared ten years off Stan’s life.
“You really gotta stop looking like you’re about to nap during prime party-prep hours,” he teased, twirling the spare key between his fingers.
“And maybe lock the door tighter next time. Life or death key doesn’t mean I won’t barge in.”

Stan sighed, dragging a hand through his curls. “It’s barely evening. And you could’ve knocked.”

“Knocking is for strangers,” Eddie said, already stepping into the room.
“Now get up, Sleeping Beauty. Richie’s emotional support party isn’t going to attend itself.”

Stan muttered something about “boundaries” but swung his legs off the bed anyway, the blue sweater soft against his skin.

“Why are you so hyped up about this party anyway?” Stan asked, watching Eddie practically bounce in place.
“I thought you hated parties because they’re full of germs and other people’s sweat.”

Eddie crossed his arms, nose wrinkling in mock offense.
“Excuse you, I still hate all of that. But Richie said it’s just a small get-together.
You know, a chill hangout. Drinks, music, maybe some pizza if we’re lucky. Not a full-on germ fest.”

Stan raised an eyebrow. “Since when do you trust Richie’s definition of chill?”

“Since… never,” Eddie admitted, fidgeting with the strap of his bag.
“But it’s Sunday, and I promised him we’d show up. And it’s not like you had other plans, Mr. I’d-Rather-Watch-Birds.”

Stan smirked. “Touché.”

Eddie shot him a pointed look. “So come on. Shoes. Jacket. Let’s go before Richie starts texting me death threats.”

Stan grabbed his jacket from the desk chair and followed Eddie out of the apartment—making sure to lock the door behind him, of course.
Outside, the sun was already dying down, leaving the street lamps to flicker like something out of a horror movie.
Stan lingered by the car while Eddie fumbled with the keys, not exactly in a rush to get to the party.

Once Eddie finally unlocked his car—after endless fumbling with the keys—they both slid inside.
Stan was immediately hit with Eddie’s overly strong car freshener, the kind that could make you sneeze during allergy season.

As soon as they buckled in, Eddie eased the car out of the parking lot and headed off.
For a few blissful minutes, Stan enjoyed the comfortable silence, letting the hum of the engine fill the space.

But, of course, Eddie couldn’t hold it in for long.
“So, Richie said—”

“Do you ever stop talking?” Stan cut in, deadpanning without even looking away from the window.

Eddie froze mid-sentence, realizing what he’d just blurted out, and color immediately flooded his face.
Now he looked as red as a tomato, gripping the wheel like it might save him from his own embarrassment.

 

Stan sighs, “Look, Eddie,” Stan said, rolling his eyes. “As much as I want you to get laid by Richie, just… please be silent. You’re giving me a nosebleed.”

Eddie’s eyes flicked off the road, suddenly alert.
“Well, I’ve got some tissues in the med kit in the back—want me to pull over?” he asked, completely serious.

Stan turned to stare at him.
“Eddie, I was being sarcastic.”

 

Eddie laughed awkwardly, still unsure if Stan was actually being sarcastic.
When they finally reached the address Richie had texted, Stan’s brows shot up.
The street was lined with cars, music thumping faintly even from the curb.
A warm glow spilled from the windows, and the sound of chatter and bursts of laughter carried into the night.

Eddie pulled into an open spot a block away, the music from the house already thumping faintly through the night air.
He killed the engine and unbuckled his seatbelt, exhaling like he was about to run a marathon.
Stan sat back for a second, watching the blur of people moving in and out of the front yard, before finally popping his own door open.

“Wow, Eddie,” Stan said, deadpan as he took in the crowd.
“Looks like Richie lied to you about this being a ‘small get-together.’”

Eddie groaned, slumping against the seat.
“Yeah… this is definitely not a get-together.”

“You still wanna go in there?” Stan asked, giving Eddie a side-eye.
“In that huge crowd of sweaty people—just to hunt down your prince charming Richie?”

“He’s not—that’s not!… just shut up, Stan,” Eddie said, flustered as hell.
Stan raised an eyebrow. “Wow, true love really does conquer germs.”
“Fuck off,” Eddie shot back, glaring at Stan.

“Relax,” Stan said, his voice dry but teasing.
“I’m just saying… Richie must be really worth the hand sanitizer.”

Eddie groaned and stomped toward the door, muttering,
“I hate you so much,” even though Stan could see the nervous excitement buzzing in his steps.

When they opened the door, they were greeted by Richie—already looking at least halfway drunk.
“Heyyy, you made it! I was starting to think you two weren’t gonna show up,” he said, grinning wide.

“C’mon, I’ll introduce you to the Losers,” Richie said, grabbing Eddie’s hand and tugging him inside. Eddie, in turn, latched onto Stan’s sleeve and dragged him along.

Richie finally stopped at the kitchen, where three people were gathered around the counter.
“Guys, meet Ben, Beverly, Mike, and—wait. Where’s Bill?”

The red-haired girl—Beverly, Stan guessed—looked up from her cup.
“Getting us drinks,” she said with a shrug. “He’ll be back soon.”

When Beverly noticed the newcomers, her face lit up.
“Ohhh, this must be Eddie and Stan!” she said with a grin.

“Yeah, we’ve heard so much about you guys,” said Ben—at least, Stan was pretty sure that’s who it was.

“Yeah, welcome to the Losers Club,” Mike added with a friendly smile.

“Hh-hu-hey, I’m back w-wi-with the drinks,” a voice called from behind them.

That voice sounded oddly familiar—of course it did.
Stan turned and nearly froze.
It was the guy from the café earlier.

Great.
This was going to be awkward.

Chapter Text

Okay so after I saw what happened in social media about ai I've decided to stop using it for grammar and smooth wording to prevent it from getting worse in my perspective

Which also means that I'm probably abandoning this fic

I was also guilty that I was using a tool to help with grammar and smooth wording

But if you liked this I'm sorry that I'm abandoning it
I promise I'll make a better fic without any bot helping this time