I have mixed feelings about this story.

I love (like, I REALLY LOVE) some parts of it, but I think other parts could be better... But I had to write it to follow other ideas to the two remaining oneshots in this series. Writing under Richie's perspective is really chalenging.

If you haven't read "Mike Knows It Better" I encourage you to do so. As this is a small series of separated stories (and not a multi-chapter story) you can read this one without the need to read the first oneshot of Trashcan & Bird Boy. But It would be cool if you do, some details (small in here, but more pronounced on the last two stories to come) will make more sense if you read "Mike Knows It Better" first.

This story is also available on Wattpad and AO3 under the same username.

My beta-reader was (once again) borderlinehannibal (Tumblr). All the remaining mistakes are entirely mine.

The art cover is a fanart made by whenfairieshelp (Instagram)

The lyrics and the title are from a song called "Black Butterflies and Deja vu" by The Maine. This song inspired me to write (somehow);

Anyways, hope you like.

What would you say

If you could say

Everything you needed to

To the one you needed to?

You flash like a setting sun

You come around

I come undone

Can't find a sound under my tongue

When I look at you

("Black Butterflies and Dèja Vu", The Maine).

Richie would probably offer one of his own kidneys in a bet just to prove his point that 99,99% of all average Derry citizens would say that he was the polar opposite of Stanley Uris. He could also offer one of his eyes, but his shitty eyesight would be of no use to anyone. But it's not like he was going to lose any bet, he was fucking right. The vast majority of the clueless inhabitants of Derry would place Richie and Stan on the extremes of a pendulum displaying personality types. Stanley Uris, the polite rabin's son, with his tidy clothes and discrete manners, Richie Tozier, the loud dirty boy, with his trashcan of a mouth, scratched knees and mended pants.

All bullshit. He and Stan Uris were a product of the same fucking chaos. It took years for Richie to came up with such conclusion, and when it did it was like being hit with an anvil right in the face. How could he, who considered himself above the average regarding smartness, be so damn dumb for so long? It was plain and clear that if there was two similar people in Derry, said people were Richard Tozier and Stanley Uris.

It was hard for Richie to explain it, even though the whole concept was crystal clear inside his mind. He could not say the same about most of his thoughts, as his mind was working in such a speedy pace that most of his thinking was blurred, but that reflection, that perception about the nature of Stan, that was perfectly clear, perfectly unmistakable. Even so, he would not dare to share his discovery with someone else. They would never understand him, of course. Only a walking catastrophe would recognize another.

It was rather astonishing to Richie that, while looking at Stan's bookshelves with book covers organized in a gradient of colors, people would not notice how that display of belongings was similar to the assortment of comic books leniently displayed on Richie's bedroom carpet. How could they not notice that Stan's perfect ironed long sleeved shirt was the carbon copy of Richie's wrinkled, stained Hawaiian shirt?

He felt the need to roll his eyes every time the image of Bill's furrowed eyebrows and Bev hysterical laugh flooded his mind. Because it would be the exact reaction they would have if Richie dared to share his reflections on how he and Stan were almost twins. Eddie would ask if he needed psychotropics, while Mike and Ben would look at him like he was just hit by a rock right in the head. Clueless ordinary people.

To look at Stan's tidy room, with his pristine white bed sheets and crumbs-free carpet, was to look at a product of a furious, vicious chaotic force tangled around the jewish boy. The same untamed force that boosted Richie to throw everything – everything – around the four walls of his bedroom, creating a disarray of books, empty plates and dirty clothes. Richie, as strange as it may sound, could see himself at every portrait millimetrically placed on Stan's plain blue wallpaper, on his shoes meticulously organized in the right side of his wardrobe, and even on the carefully cleaned mirror. His own mirror was stained with the traces of greasy fingers.

Stan would think Richie was insane, because he himself was for sure incapable to see how the sticky tentacles of chaos were holding him. Just like the beast that was squeezing Richie's ribs and brains.

It was fucking fascinating. Stan was a walking tragedy just like Richie. He only had more palatable ways to perform his turmoil than Richie's. While Richie – unconsciously – chose the path of recklessness, being loud, obnoxious, rude and, for fuck's sake, so damn dirty , Stan picked the way of displaying his internal mess as of a well-mannered boy, methodic, over critic, and too fucking tidy . Stan, in narrow terms, was just like Richie.

And that statement wasn't the same to say that Stan would mix brown and white socks inside of the same drawer, neither to say that Richie would fold his own socks, not to mention use matching socks instead of grabbing the first socks he could spot inside the confusion of his closet.

For Richie it doesn't felt, however, that Stan's life was a lie, just like his own life wasn't a made up fairy (maybe ogre?) tale. Stan loved to spend hours cleaning and organizing his surroundings, and Richie was truthful to his nature while throwing his clothes around while undressing. No, they were both genuine products of the chaotic beast squeezing them.

Every pen arranged by Stan in a different can labeled with ink colors gave him the same satisfaction to each amount of breadcrumbs that Richie carelessly brushed away from his bed sheets. They had different ways to live up to the magnetic force vibrating inside of their brains. Stan expressed chaos creating a disturbing kind of order, while Richie tried to give the world a taste of the mess inside his mind in a more literal way. In the core, the force was the same.

Stan was that force prospering in his organized world, whereas Richie was only able to develop himself while sunken in disorder. But what if Stan's order was just a vicious display of chaos? Because his fondness to order was just too obsessive to be healthy. It was chaotic.

It was that thought, that perception of how similar they were in such different ways that mercilessly draw Richie to Stan. It was what made Richie's insides roll upside down, craving for having the chance to know more about Stan's chaos and his ways to manage that. Desperately wanting to mix their confusions together, blending it to know what sort of a devastating turmoil their addition could create.

He was having the fucking feelings for Stanley Uris.

It was scary, yet exciting. He would do anything to make Stan look at his kind of chaos in the same way. He needed Stan to have the feelings for him as well.

He would provoke Stan, channeling all his efforts to come up with the perfect stupid line to deliver to Stan. And Stan would bitterly answer it with as much perfection as Richie had put on his remark. He would look at Stan, focusing on giving the curly haired boy the nastiest look he could perform, and Stan would reply with the sharpest glare, not knowing how his eyes rolling would melt Richie's insides and knees.

Their dynamic was a treasure to Richie. Their exchange of insults, ironies and provocations was certainly boring and even annoying to the other Losers, but Richie was already addicted to how his nerves got numb in such thrilling ways every time Stan's eyes locked with his own with that challenging expression because, fuck, neither of them was willingly to admit defeat.

Stan was stubborn, just like Richie. Stan was a different shade of Richie .

And every minute spent around Stan felt like a fucking drug.

In fact, right now, they were drugged.

Richie glanced again at Stan, squinting his eyes in the dim light on the early hours of a boring Friday night. It was Eddie's birthday eve and, as they would probably not be able to see him because of how Sonia Kaspbrak hated all of them, they were at their usual spot, at the Barrens, listening to loud music on Richie's old radio, drinking beers smuggled by Ben and (except for Stan and Eddie) sharing a joint, tasting the flavors of the weed Mike was harvesting in a hidden spot near the Kenduskeag. Mike was so proud of his farmer skills.

Richie and Stan were walking aimlessly looking for wood, mainly dry sticks to lit a small fire. Bill was too high to even stand still, Ben was uncommonly garrulous, probably trying to get Bev's attention while she was stroking Eddie's hair (who was sat on her lap), muttering silly songs with him. Eddie had clearly overestimated the power of the smoke, once again. Mike was somewhere else, looking for sticks as well.

And Richie was protecting Stan, of course. Who was high as fuck with all the smoke Richie had blew right on his face.

It was adorable to look at Stan, sat on a rock, his knees pressed together, organizing in six different piles the sticks Richie had gathered. They should had been back to their glade something like fifteen minutes ago, but Stan was dizzy, and Richie was in love, and those sticks needed to be organized .

Richie scratched his chin, a stupid grin plastered on his flushed face. Stan had wrinkles on his temple, the tip of his tongue held between his white teeth, an expression of pure, almost painful, concentration. Richie could not think anything could be more adorable than Stan.

"Richard," Stan startled him from his daydreaming and Richie smiled, sheepishly. Stan's face was a painting of concern "Throw this away, please".

"Uh?" Richie furrowed his eyebrows, an amused look on his face "What?"

"This," Richie could see Stan's hand twitching in annoyance "This!"

Richie glanced at his feet and saw a stick, shorter than most, but thick. It was all alone, near six neat piles of sticks similar on length, width and color. Oh, an outcast.

"Oh, this is grievous," Richie faked a concerned and solemn expression, patting Stan on his shoulder. Stan glared at him "Is your heart okay?"

"Rich, throw it away!" Stan's voice was almost pained.

"Why don't you do it?" Richie teased, perfectly conscious that his cheeks were as red as a tomato. How could he not, being that close to Stan? And all alone...

Stan glared at him with the most offended expression that it felt like Richie had just offended Stan's entire bloodline.

"Oh, of course, how could Stan, The Man, our perfect jew do this," and before Stan could avert his gaze away, Richie threw the stick a few meters in front of them. Stan looked outraged. Richie just shrugged, grinning.

"I only did what you told me to do".

Richie endured his judgmental gaze, sporting his usual challenging look with his characteristic mocking smile. Stan was a hard couple though. Richie was almost exploding with excitement.

"C'mon, it's not like I just profaned the virtue of your alluring brown eyes, Staniel," he grinned, gesturing to the stick "I could did things much more offensive with my beautiful lanky fingers that would for sure traumatize your chaste mind for a good few weeks," he winked, a little embarrassed in the back of his mind. Stan kept looking at his face, without even blinking. Richie gulped a little, without ceasing to smile. He frowned, tilting his face, his heart pace increasing with the flood of curiosity drenching his brains "What?"

"Constellations", Stan blurted out point blank.

"What?"

"Constellations, Richard," he deadpanned, rolling his eyes "You have constellations".

"I what?" Richie blinked, a furrow on his temple. He was slightly aware of his stupid smile, showing a dimple on the left side of his thin lips "Staniel, it was just smoke, I wonder how crazy you would be if you actually smok-"

But Richie almost choked with the remaining words he was forced to swallow when Stan grabbed his chin with his clean fingers with manicured nails, squeezing it a little painfully. Richie blinked, startled and confused, watching Stan squinting his eyes, looking at a spot above Richie's lips, a cunning look on his slightly dilated light brown eyes. When Richie noticed Stan's face coming closer, he yanked his body behind, away from Stan's grip.

"W-what?"

"Constellations" Stan mumbled, projecting his body in Richie's direction, raising a hand to hold Richie's face again "On your face. You have constellations on your face".

Richie blinked again, the smile fading. He could hear the engines of his brain stopping momentarily. Stan touched his nose and Richie was sure he looked at bit cockeyed when both of his eyes looked to that pale finger resting on his nose. He watched as Stan's fingers slid down to his right high cheekbones, then to the left. The realization made Richie laugh.

"Freckles, Staniel" he bit his lower lip, licking it and biting again, trying to soothe his racing heartbeat. He was such a baby with the slightest skin touch... It was ridiculous "One of my many charming features".

"Looks like constellations" Stan muttered to himself, blinking dumbfounded. He glanced at Richie with slightly wide eyes and Richie had to bit his tongue to stop himself. That look was adorable.

"If you say so," Richie shrugged, kicking himself in thought. He could come with a better remark, but Stan was still with his eyes locked on his face, for fuck's sake. He watched as Stan's soft and inquisitive eyes were tinted with a sudden wave of annoyance and even outrage. He grabbed Richie's face again, a soft palm cupping the junction of Richie's jaw. He pulled Richie close and it hurt.

"Definitely constellations, Tozier".

Richie gasped.

And as suddenly as Stan touched him, he let it go, reaching for the pocket of his coat. Richie was dizzy, feeling the skin of his face tingling.

"C'mere".

When he looked back at Stan, he had a black pen on his hand and before Richie's brain could work on a question of from where the fuck had this pen came from, Stan palm was resting on his left cheek again, this time more smoothly, and the sharp nib was almost touching his skin. Stan's hand was shaking a bit and the harmless pen was not that harmless anymore.

"What!?" Richie squealed, blinking confused at the sudden change of events. He grabbed Stan's wrist when the pointed pen approached his cheeks. Stan just rose an eyebrow, looking unfazed "Are you serious?"

"Shut up, Richie, I'm feeling stupid enough already", he rolled his eyes, his hand dropping to Richie's jaw, squinting his eyes and biting his lower lip "It's not like the ink is toxic".

"You can pierce my eyes," Richie tried to grin casually, gulping. Stan's hands on his face felt to cold it gave him shivers.

"You're already blind as a bat, Richard, and you're wearing glasses" Stan mumbled, finally touching Richie's face with the pen. It was clumsy at first, and almost painful when the sharp nib traced a small line of black ink on Richie's milky skin.

"Starts are like tipped dots, not lines…" Richie mumbled, weakly.

"Shush it, I'm dizzy, give me a break".

And so did Richie.

He gulped once more, looking at that pen approaching his face once again. Stan was trying to make some small dots on his face, pressing the nib multiple times on the same spot of flesh. Richie was about to complain, pointing out that Stan might actually carve holes on his face, but Stan's annoyed groan made him stop.

Richie had to bit his tongue when Stan's soft palm slide upwards, cupping the whole left side of his face. Stan's hands were so big and his fingers so bony, but the touch was so gentle Richie was doing his best to not lay on it. Stan was close. Not to close for Richie to feel his breath, but close enough to Richie to notice his thick eyebrows and abnormally kissable lips.

Stan's face looked smooth, no pimples or sunburn marks. He looked well cared, soft and fucking beautiful. A strand of hair was almost falling in front of those concentrated light brown eyes, and Richie wondered if he could brush that curl away, then slid his hand to Stan's cheek and (Oh, shit) kiss him.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, FUCK.

Richie swallowed when Stan smiled.

"You know," he mumbled (SO FUCKING CLOSE) "It looks like Ursa Major".

"Uh?" Richie retorted, stupidly.

"The constellation," Stan rapidly looked right into Richie's eyes, the warmest smile curving his naturally slightly puffy pink lips "On your face."

"R-Right..." Richie noticed for maybe the first time on his life that he was unable to smile. Stan was closer now and this time he was close enough for Richie to breath in his mint breath.

He couldn't make a fucking noise. How Stan would react if he knew how simple it was for him to shut the fuck up the irritating Trashmouth?

Stan kept drawing on his face, making dots, and lines, and more dots and who on Earth knew what the fuck was the Ursa Major? He for sure didn't, but whatever it was, he was fucking glad (and terrified) to have that thing on his face.

The nib of that pen was sliding on his face, Stan's fingers were sliding on his face, and Richie's consciousness and self-control (which was never a big thing) was sliding out of him.

It wasn't right, but goddamn...

Gulping and feeling grasshoppers flying wildly on his stomach, up to his throat in a nauseating way, Richie backed away slightly, lips parted in a stupid way to steady his breath. Stan frowned, one hand still placed on Richie's face, his thumb on Richie's earlobe (JESUS FUCK), the other hand holding his pen, inches away from that (uncommonly blushed) ink stained face.

"Stan..." Richie cringed at how weak his voice was, but Stan was paying him no mind.

"I'm not done here, Richard" Stan snorted, yanking his face closer (CLOSER) in a thigh grasp, ready to trace more dots to Richie's Ursa Major.

So am I, Stanley.

Richie wasn't sure if that frustrated whine left his mouth or if it was just his imagination. The tentacles were holding them both now... The collision was so fucking near.

It was not right to do that to Stan. In fact, it wasn't right to do that to anyone else in the same state as Stan. Stan was his friend (was his crush) and Stan was dizzy because he was stupid enough to ignore the effects of the smoke on an inexperienced body (and Richie was for certain a jerk for blowing the smoke on his face).

But facts were facts and Stan was close .

And his lips were kissable, and Richie had ink on his face and adrenaline on his veins.

"Guys...?"

Mike's voice was like a hard slap on his face, like the ones a few girls gave him during one of the stupid Snow Balls when Richie was trying to spot some panties. It was enough to yank his body behind, like an electric shock. He fell from the rock where he was sat beside Stan, landing his butt on the hard rocky ground. He cursed with a whimper at the pain, feeling some tiny rocks under his shaking palms. It hurt too.

He looked briefly at Stan, who was in turn gazing innocently and calmly at Mike. He was even grinning.

"Hi, Mike".

Mike frowned at Stan, darting his gaze from Richie's inked face to the six piles of sticks that Stan had previously organized on the floor. Stan was unfazed and relaxed, Richie was evaporating under Mike's questioning eyes.

"Is everything okay?" Mike's voice sounded weirdly cautious and Richie noticed, despite Mike's dark skin, that he was probably red.

Richie's breathing was ragged and he was so embarrassed that it felt like his throat was full of sand. Four pair of eyes were fixed on him, Mike's surprised gaze, and Stan's inquisitive light brown chocolate eyes. Richie felt like Bill, fighting with his brain and tongue to blurt out his words.

"I... I, uh, I have U-Ursa Major..." he mumbled, fighting the soreness on his throat "On my face..." he finished, trying to smile, but failing miserably.

Richie felt an urge to bury his head on the ground, just like an ostrich. He wasn't sure, however, if the reason was because of Mike's wide shocked eyes or Stan's hysterical laugh .