DING DONG!

Richie springs up from his place on the floor and trudges towards Ben's front door. They all knew who was on the other side: the pizza man. Their savior.

Richie grabs the crumpled up money from the counter and tries to flatten it out in his hands as he walks to the door.

He swings the door open and stops dead cold.

Victor Criss stands in a red shirt and cap, his arms stacked with three large pizzas and an order of breadsticks.

He's looking down and reads from a ticket, "One large cheese, one large sausage and pepperoni, one large pepper, sausage, olive, and mushroom, and an order of br-"

The two hatefully gaze at one another, unsure of what to do.

Richie doesn't bite, which is unusual for the loud mouth.

That look on his face...

"Breadsticks."

Richie still doesn't open his mouth.

"You've got some major legs on you Tozier, maybe you should have gone out for track instead of your fatass friend."

Richie grabbed the stack of boxes very quickly and slapped the money into the blond boy's frail hand. He shut the door with his foot and froze. The sound of Criss' boots padded away in the rain, but Richie still couldn't budge.

He couldn't have seen me, Richie thinks to himself.

"Rich, where's the pizza?" Stanley's voice bellows out from the kitchen, "I'm starving."

Richie snaps out of his troubled daze and foots it towards the kitchen, where all the losers are. Cans of soda were being passed around as well as paper plates.

Richie sets the stack down on the table, and Stan immediately pops the seal on the bag of breadsticks and takes two.

"Woah there Mister Team Captain," Eddie says, as breadsticks are his favorite part. He also takes two.

"Victor Criss was the pizza boy," Richie comments, not much luster in his voice. Usually he would spit a joke out about it by now.

Eddie's eyebrows narrow as his cheeks stuff with a slice of pepperoni and sausage pizza, "And?"

"Just weird."

✨

Stanley couldn't sleep. He glanced at the clock on the wall. Around 3.

The pain from his wings was getting to him again. These pains are far worse than the ones he felt years ago during the first round of growth. These growing pains make him think his wings will double, maybe triple in size.

All the losers had decided to crash for the night on various couches and chairs in the living room, except for Mike and himself, who took sleeping bags on the floor.

I've gotta let my wings out for a few minutes, the thought beat around Stan's head like a dull thump.

He placed his hand on the wood table beside him to help get his feet under him, and hauled himself up. It was starting to get cold in Derry, as the air set deeper into autumn, but Stanley really didn't mind at all. It felt good on his back.

As his eyes wandered around the room to adjust to the blue darkness of the night, he rested them on Bill, asleep on his side in an arm-chair. Stan's gut twirls up into his chest and his breathing becomes a little shallow. Stanley likes Bill, he likes him a whole lot. He hadn't realized it until maybe a year ago, and the feeling has been hard for him to swallow.

But god, he couldn't help himself.

Stanley steals another look at Bill's sleeping form, then goes upstairs to Ben's bedroom, where he knew he could let his wings go for a while without risking waking up any of his friends. His bare feet lightly tread up the stairs, and he is careful to be quiet. He gently grasps the hem of his crew neck sweatshirt and pulls it over his head, and sets it on the stair rail before entering Ben's bedroom, where he draws the curtains and sits at the foot of Ben's well-made bed.

Stan looks around Ben's room, and a smile creeps onto his face. His room hasn't really changed much since middle school. Newspaper clippings litter the walls and his desk, a stack of his favorite books sits on his bedside table, small drawings and crafts he has received from the losers over the years are tacked up on the walls or displayed on his book shelf. Much like Ben, Stan loves his friends. He sees the lousy looking sock puppet Beverly had made each of them for Valentines Day one year, where she made a sock puppet resembling each of her friends. Stan thinks about where his is, the mop of curls he has made out of ribbons, and remembers seeing it in his closet last.

Stan takes a deep and satisfied breath, and his wings expand from his back. Due to him sitting down, the bottoms curl outwards a bit, but it doesn't bother him, the stretch is nice. Stan stretches his bare arms all the way upwards to feel the tops of them. They'll need a good wash soon, which is only possible when no one is home or he can manage to at a friend's house. He supposed he could now if he'd like, but it doesn't seem like a good time.

Stan begins to poke around Ben's room, and turns his small green desk lamp on to the lowest setting. The small orange toned light is good enough.

Ben has always been big on documenting things. On his bookshelf, he has a scrapbook from each year, starting in 7th grade, when they all first became good friends. To Ben, nothing really existed before them.

Stan pries the book from freshman year of high-school from the line up, and begins to thumb through it.

✨

Bill sits up in the plush arm-chair he had fallen asleep in.

One, two, three, four, five.

Where's Stanley?

Bill sees his sleeping bag empty, and his socks peeled off next to it. He looks around, and quietly moves to get up from the armchair in the corner of the room. Bill peeks his head into the kitchen, nothing. He looks out the windows to the front and back yard, not there either. Maybe he went upstairs?

Bill peeks up the carpeted staircase, and sees two things: a small light escaping from underneath Ben's bedroom door, and Stanley's crewneck hung over the stair rail. He recognized the crew neck, as the one that says Stanley's last name across the back, something from baseball. A blush strikes Bill's face, and he gently walks up the stairs. His hand rests on the sweatshirt, and he grabs it. Wherever Stan is without it, he is probably cold.

Bill puts ear close to Ben's bedroom door, and hears nothing.

Had Stan come up here to sleep maybe?

Bill grasps the out-dated doorknob, and turns it slowly and quietly, so as to not wake Stan up.

He is struck with awe to meet eyes with Stanley, who's wings cast a grand shadow on the wall behind him.

"Hey, Bill," Stan whispers, a book of some sort on his hand, and his tall and lean body leaned against Ben's bookcase.

Stan looks god-like.

Bill takes the sight in, from his brassy curls pushed back all the way down to his cross ankles clad in sweatpants.

"Hi, Stanley," Bill croaks, white-knuckling the doorknob.

"You can close it," Stan says, nodding towards the door. His hair falls back into his face.

Bill notices he already seems more at ease with the release of his wings.

Bill gently shuts the door, swallowing and hoping he doesn't have sleep-mouth.

"What are y-you doing up he-here?"

"I didn't want to bother anyone."

"I d-dont' think you wo-would have."

Stan just shrugs, his lean sounders rippling, "I think I might have wanted some time alone too."

"I-I can leave."

Stan's eyebrows raise as he realizes what he said, and he closes to book hurriedly, "No, thats not what I mean, Bill," and sits back down on the bed, leaving room for Bill to sit by him.

Bill takes the invite, and sits by Stanley's, his body and wings radiating heat.

"I g-g-guess you don't want th-this," Bill says holding up the sweatshirt in his hands.

Stan grins, "You hold onto it for a bit." His wings flap.

To keep himself from coming out of his skin at the comment, Bill turns to look at Stan's wings.

"Th-they're getting b-b-b-bigger," Bill stammers.

Stan flaps them again, "Real pain."

"I'm sorry," Bill says, finally meeting eyes with Stan again.

The room falls silent for a little bit, and Stan sets the book behind him on the bed and rests back on his hands to stretch his back. Bill goes beet red again, seeing the way his bones and shy muscles move under his skin at the stretch.

Stan's back cracks and Bill's face shrinks up at the sound.

"So g-gross."

Stan laughs and sits back up.

"Bill, can you help me with something?"

Good god, Bill thinks, is he trying to kill me?

"What is it?" Bill asks, setting the sweatshirt in his lap.

Stan looks forward, obviously flustered and maybe a little embarrassed.

Bill repeats the question, leaning forward a bit to match Stan's pose.

"It just, my wings have been so," Stan sighs, "sore."

Bill nods, pretty sure he knows what is going to be asked of him, "I don't m-mind," he says softly.

Stan nods a small thank you, and gets up to round the bed so he can lay face down, like at the salon, or something.

Bill exhales deeply as Stan's tense body rests before him, his arms kept under his chin and his ankles crossed again.

He hardly remembers the last time he did this for Stan, leading him to believe he got one of the other losers to do it. Mike maybe.

Bill rolls the sleeves of his shirt up to his elbows, as Stan's wings have become full and fluffy and it would take some digging to get to their bases.

"Um," Stanley stammers, "You can," he clears his throat, "you can get up on the bed if it makes it easier."

Bill is thankful Stan can't see his face, because he can't help his eyes rolling back and sighing. Bill brings his knees up on Ben's bed, and settles down. His hands are shaking.

Bill looks down at Stan's smooth skin. It's slightly tanned from the summer time, and his shoulders are the most defined, as baseball has toned them well. Bill rests his hands on Stanley's shoulders, and feels them go rigid under his skin at his touch.

What is this feeling?

Stan buries his nose down into the bed. Bill's hands feel like god. Better even. They push and pull into his back, and he has to bite back the small sighs and groans so as to not make Bill feel awkward. The last time anyone spent time grooming his wings and back like this was months ago, when Beverly was kind enough to see his pain and massage them for him.

His hands move into the deep feathering of his wings, and Stan can't help it, he groans, quickly apologizing afterwards, massively embarrassed. Bill doesn't reply, but keeps going. Pushing, deeper, deeper, deeper still. Stan has a hard time keeping his eyes open. It feels so good, so right.

Stan feels a warm and familiar sensation in his stomach he knows very well as arousal.

A second feeling surfaces as a result: shame.

He pushed his face deeper and deeper into the blankets on the bed, not wanting it to end. But internally knowing it is all so wrong.

The feeling in his stomach expands higher, lower, and wider, stretching around his skin like shrink wrap and suffocating his thoughts, all he feels, all he knows, is god's hands on his back. On his body. Every inch of him is feeling the pushes and pulls of the hands on him. It's like the crashing and falling of waves, except deeper, harder, and more intoxicating.

Bill pushes deeper, harder, and Stan lets out a long sigh. It shakes.

You've got to stop, a part of Stan's head tells him, as the kneading continues.

God, no let him keep going, the other part says, intensity is building inside him and he wants more.

Bill looks up towards Stan's head. His hands are gripping the blankets so hard his knuckles are red. He seems to be breathing heavily, and his body is writhing slightly, and very slowly.

"S-Stan?"

Stan flips over immediately, like he's been caught, and Bill's mouth opens a little. Stan's face and neck are bright red, his brow is furrowed, and his body taught. He's been seen. Stanley sits up on his knees like Bill, matching him. He's close to Bill.

"Thank you, Bill, I'm so sorry, I'm so embarrassed-"

Bill sits up, and touches Stanley's warm chest, his wings shadowing against the wall again.

His heart is pounding.

"Bill," Stan whispers.

Bill meets his eyes, and is drawn a little closer to him. They are inches from one another. Both of their faces, bright red and heavy breathing.

The hand Bill has on Stan's chest rises and curves, until it rests on his neck. Stan is frozen, having dreamed of this, Bill's eyes have a shine to them.

Bill's lips rise to Stan's, and hands become hungry. 

AUTHORS NOTE

Hello again, second night in a row! Trying to push my story back out so people know that I am publishing again. Grateful for those of you who have come back already! For any of you that read HEIST, my Owen Teague story from a few years back, I am thinking of writing a NSFW chapter, since there is one I left on a cliffhanger at the time. I think it will re-engage a lot of my readers and I hope they come across this story too! If any of you read Heist, what do you think of that? I'm quite sold on it already, but who knows. I will be updating this story as much as I can, as I really enjoy this writing kick I am feeling. How is everyone?