Stanley Uris: He's the man. (stan_by_me) wrote in crownplazaic, @ 2020-12-02 21:51:00 |
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Entry tags: | !log/thread, richie tozier, stanley uris |
Who: Richie and Stan
What: Coffee
Where: The Kitchen
When: after this
Status: Complete
Warnings: None
Ten minutes. Not eleven, not nine, but ten on the nose. Though it was possible Richie got the the kitchen even earlier, just because he wanted to get coffee brewing and start rummaging through the fridge to gather leftover ingredients to make the perfect sandwich - like one of those Dagwood sandwiches, the Leaning Tower of Pisa of all sandwiches, a sandwich as big as yo’ head. Clearly not too big though, because he wanted to be able to pick it up and not have shit slithering out, plus unhinging his jaw to get some damn sustenance was inconvenient. But like. It was impressive. He didn’t settle for anything less. He had some shredded turkey already (from his prior forays into leftovers), then added a whole combination of things - stuffing, cranberry sauce, green bean casserole, mashed potatoes. Truly a smorgasbord of leftover delight, all of that nonsense piled between two slices of sandwich bread. Now the kitchen smelled like Thanksgiving all over again, and also coffee. In addition to that, he had his tote bag of knitting supplies with him - nothing like that folded up caddy that reminded him of his grandmother’s house and balls of yarn, but something he’d made himself. Just in case he and Stan decided to retreat to the lobby for an impromptu Knitty by Nature sesh. Always helped to be prepared. --- Ten minutes, on the dot. Not eleven, not nine. Stan tended to be exactly on time when he said he was going to be, but he was pleasantly surprised to see that Richie had been early. And the coffee was on. He had a very good best friend. Even if he was making a monster sandwich that frankly sort of offended Stanley just by existing. He’d just do his best not to look at it. He was just here for the company and the coffee. “Hey, Rich,” he greeted, playfully tossing his very finished scarf over his shoulder as if highlighting it. He had come to show it off, after all. --- “Heeeeeey Stan,” Richie drawled, glancing up; his glasses had slid down his nose a little while he prepped Monster Leftover Sandwich, so he used his arm to kind of give them a nudge. The scarf was what he noticed right away, of course, what with Stan showing it off like he was a male model set to grace the covers of Vogue. He probably could have made it. Good bone structure and all. Finishing up the sandwich, he pressed down on the top a bit to really squish all the flavors together. “Is this the finished product? It looks magnanimous. You’re ready for a ski resort print ad.” --- “This is the scarf,” Stanley agreed, bemused at it being described as magnanimous, because what a bizarre and sort of still fitting wording. It was long, the scarf, because Stan had been pretty worried about finishing the thing and had kept it going for a possibly questionable amount of time. But it was even too, because this was Stan and if something wasn’t perfect, if the count was off, he’d go back and fix it. “I hope I’m the part of the ad where someone inexplicably stands in the snow with a mug of hot chocolate, as if that’s a thing any real people have ever done.” He glanced down at the sandwich and huffed out a little sigh, something like acceptance. “You’re like a cartoon character sometimes,” he decided before moving to get himself a mug. “Coffee?” --- Richie grinned, blue eyes crinkling at the corners - it was maybe a weird compliment, but he took at as one (being cartoonish, that is), because it made Stan laugh. Or close enough to laugh - the sigh was a laugh, sort of. You just had to know how to interpret the sounds he made, and Richie liked to think he was well adept at doing so by now. Once he had time to catch up, that is, and get to know his best friend in adulthood. There were some differences but a lot of similarities too - it was nice to know that certain aspects remained the same, even if IT tried to take away what was good, and control the Losers even when they were scattered throughout the country. “Yeah, gimme some coffee, Stan-a-lan,” he said, bringing his sandwich masterpiece to the closest table. “I won’t even be mad if you decide you want a bite of this.” It was pretty tempting, right? “What’s your next project gonna be, now that the scarf’s done?” Maybe he’d make a hook cover for his pirate boyfriend. So wild. --- Yeah, the sigh was basically a laugh as far as Stan was concerned. It wasn’t like he didn’t ever actually laugh, but it was pretty far between. Everything else was subtle, little sighs and twitches of the mouth. Richie had always been pretty good at reading him, and Stan liked to think the opposite was true, too. “You know what,” he said, as if he was being benevolent as opposed to avoidant in regards to that sandwich, “you’re a growing boy, you just keep that to yourself. I’ll find something else if I’m hungry.” Which was to say, he was going to drink this entire pot of coffee minus Richie’s cup and that practically counted as a meal. He pushed a newly poured and doctored with cream and sugar coffee in Richie’s direction. “Maybe another scarf? Is that bad? It’s probably bad. I should move on to something more challenging.” It was not going to be a hook cozy, however. “Maybe a hat.” His pirate boyfriend would look good in a winter beanie. --- Coffee and a crazy Dagwood sandwich went together pretty well - or he guessed technically they didn’t, but Richie was hungry and he never turned down coffee so it was a pretty decent union to him. He took the first bite and it was just - oh man. A goddamn explosion on the tastebuds, maybe like an atomic blast what with the leftovers having soaked up everything nicely in terms of ingredients and flavors. Good job, self. “It’s not bad,” he said, picking up the coffee cup to take a sip. “Like, do what you want. There are no rules.” Knitty by Nature was meant to be stress-free, a way to relax. He didn’t want to put any pressure on anyone - mostly it was just to keep busy when the hotel was between weird-ass destination locales, because too much time without an actual job or household chores or whatever could wear on a person. “I’m sure your hat will turn out better than Eddie’s,” he snorted. Poor Spaghetti. --- “There are always rules,” Stanley said, although he would acknowledge that the rules in this place were more self governing than most. But that was fine. He didn’t mind that so long as he set something for himself to follow. He shifted, leaning against the counter a little and holding his mug with both hands -- he liked the way the warmth of the cup seeped into his fingers. “Eddie wasn’t paying attention,” he tsked. “Otherwise it would have ended up just fine.” But that was Eddie, in general. He’d probably been on a rant about something and just forgotten to stop his hands moving while he did it. “Are you okay?” He asked, after a beat. “You know. With the -- premonitions and all.” --- Alright, he guessed there were rules if you really wanted there to be rules - Richie didn’t, so he’d just kiss that thought goodbye. He started working on his sandwich, carefully, so he ensured it didn’t fall apart. But it was precarious, his artistic endeavor precious - he had to be mindful. He considered the question though, fishing out an errant green bean and eating that separately. “Yeah, I’m good,” he promised, and he meant that. Not like he’d gotten this amazing grasp on the future - but he didn’t think anyone was meant to do that, not even the most powerful psychics. Sometimes you just weren’t supposed to know everything and he was surprisingly okay with that. Sucked that he’d foreseen some dude’s death and then he got yanked back home to die and then returned to the hotel shaken, but. Maybe it was helpful, a little? To have forewarning? “It’s a lot better since I started like, actually doing stuff with it instead of waiting for visions to hit me,” he added. “Maybe it helps to redistribute the energy, no idea.” --- There were always rules. Like, green beans didn’t belong on sandwiches. That was just a fact. If it wasn’t in the Torah, it was probably in the Bible. Stan would stand by that, if necessary. Not that Richie was pushing the sandwich off on him or anything. He seemed content to stuff the ridiculous thing into his mouth and leave Stanley to his coffee. So he sipped on that like it was something of a race and watched Richie eat. In some other lifetime, one where they’d been allowed to really grow up together, he wondered if he’d have been something more than just fond with him. It felt possible. “Good,” he said, considering. He’d thought about asking Richie to read his cards but he just wasn’t sure about it, in the end. What kind of future could a dead man really have, anyway? “I have this thing,” he said after a beat, “where sometimes I can just get a really solid feeling about things and know how to make decisions that should generally be -- uncertain?” It wasn’t the same, but Stan felt inclined to mention it anyway. --- “This thing,” Richie repeated, lifting an eyebrow, abandoning the sandwich just to wrap his hands around the coffee mug. Well, that was definitely interesting. Surprisingly, it wasn’t much of a shock to him though - for some reason. “Yeah, I think - maybe we all have that thing? Or something? I dunno. Mikey was talking about it too.” The world they came from had these pockets of evil or whatever - Derry, or Room 1408, or the Overlook Hotel if you were Dan. Like they were composed of psychic energy all unto their own, or tapped into what people may have without even realizing. A lot of dark corners that led to who knew where - but it wasn’t a world where extraordinary things didn’t happen. Because they did, all the time. He was dating a ghost, for fuck’s sake. It wasn’t your typical world, anyway. “Maybe if we remembered each other and were like, around each other - those things could have developed more.” But he was pretty sure he had come to the conclusion that he’d always had some kind of thing-ah-mah-bob. It was just that now he was actually doing something about it. --- “You think?” Stan asked, although he wasn’t really surprised either. It stood to reason, in a way. That there’d always been something different and special about the Losers, the seven of them. They’d needed to be together to win and it wasn’t just because they were all such good pals, probably. Lots of kids in Derry had friends, and they’d died easy as anything. Plus with his own thing and then Richie and Beverly -- well. It wasn’t a stretch to think that everyone else had something small, too. Stanley didn’t know what it was for the others but -- “Mike too?” He asked, eyebrows raising even as he lifted his mug for another drink. “Interesting. I -- Well. It’s not too late, is it? You practice now.” --- Another swallow of coffee, another bite of sandwich - Richie was working through it steadily. It was pretty damn good too, you’d think the flavors wouldn’t mesh together well. But they did - or at least, to him they did. Stan could stick with his caffeine fuel, though he’d probably be bouncing off the walls in a minute here. “Yeah, I think he’s got something,” Richie said, referring to Mikey. “I mean, besides being able to walk through walls and shit. Super jealous of that one.” Like how convenient would it be to not have to deal with doors like a common pleb? Jesus. But he guessed it wasn’t too late. Actually, he’d thought as much too, trying to look at the bright side of things. “Want me to read your cards sometime?” he asked, with a waggle of his brows. “I’ve memorized all the tarot stuff like a champ.” --- He wasn’t going to bounce off the walls. That was amateur hour. And Stanley proved it by pouring himself another cup. Later, he’d just be vibrating with it, like there was electricity under his skin. It was one of his favorite things about coffee. Well. One of them. Stanley didn’t have much in the way of bad habits, but he was definitely addicted to caffeine. “Yeah, that might be neat,” Stan said, but he wasn’t any kind of jealous, if only because it was a skill that came with a pretty dire side effect. He didn’t know how or why the hotel decided to do things, not really, but Stan knew it could have been a pretty close thing, him having that ability too. “What else though?” He asked, blinking down at his coffee to clear his thoughts. “I thought about offering. With the cards,” Stan admitted. “I was just -- worried, maybe.” --- “Uh - he can go invisible. But I think he just senses stuff, kind of in an extra way,” Richie said. “Or can hear what people are thinking. Not too loudly, but I guess if he concentrated.” Same way as him, he supposed - but Richie didn’t really want to concentrate, to hear the thoughts of others. Keeping away from people’s heads seemed ideal - he already had enough trouble with attempting to ‘redirect psychic energy’ or whatever. Though he was pretty impressed with Mikey’s abilities, even if they came at one hell of a cost - he loved everything about him, however, and would turn the hotel upside down and inside out if it ever took that dude from him. Hashtag fact. Now having scarfed that sandwich, he pushed the plate aside a little to lean in and focus on his coffee more. Maybe pour another cup, though he didn’t need four or five. “If you don’t want to, you don’t have to,” he shrugged. “I got plenty of other guinea pigs.” It was weird because Jinn asked him if he could see things happening outside the hotel - and he didn’t think he could, but lo and behold. It had happened. Maybe he was worried he’d see Stan not being here anymore, or returning to the afterlife or whatever was in store - but being afraid of that was no reason not to do it, so he’d give it a go if his friend wanted to. --- Stan understood that even without a very good description -- reading people had never been especially difficult for him either. It probably wasn’t for most of the Losers. It was just a matter of listening to what was really being said that was difficult. Sometimes they were all their own worst enemies. Stan had a feeling that Richie got that better than most. “I know I don’t have to,” Stan said, fingers tapping against his mug, the two rings on his finger loud against it. “But I think I might want to try anyway. Have you tried doing it on yourself? That’s a thing, right?” --- So many jokes to be made there. “Yeah, I’ve tried doing it on myself - it’s more fun doing it to someone else though,” Richie quipped, just waiting for the infamous Stanley resting bitch face in response. Or an eyeroll. He’d missed those eyerolls, and when he realized he’d never see Stan’s long-suffering expressions again, at Jade of the Orient when Bev phoned up Patty, it was like a part of his own damn self just withered up and died too. He’d lost too many years. It was good to get the chance to catch up now. But alright, jokes aside. “I had someone read my tarot, yeah. It went okay. Nothing too bad or too specific. If you wanna try it, I’ll be in the library next Thursday.” He doubted any of the other Losers would want to try it, so. It’d just be Stan. --- Richie didn’t have to wait very long for the look he was expected. Stan sighed deeply, eyes going right up to the ceiling before his gaze landed on Richie, unimpressed as he’d ever been. Richie had no doubt been waiting for that look, and the joke was bad enough Stan immediately obliged. “You’re the worst,” he said in a way that implied that Richie was also just his best friend, and he’d continue to allow it even if he wouldn’t always encourage it. “Alright. Thursday. I’ll be there.” He finished his cup of coffee like it was sentence punctuation. |