Part 2

"Stan's actually pretty cool," Victor said, leaning against the side of the Aladdin, a cigarette already between his fingers. Belch raised an eyebrow more skeptical than the American Atheists, but said nothing. He knew if he gave it a moment, Victor would start up again. "I mean, he likes Led Zeppelin, and –"

"– he has all these old Elvis albums," Stan said, sitting on the picnic table, his shoes on the seat, his knees perfectly side-by-side. Richie handed him one of the two hotdogs he'd bought from the vendor. Stan liked his covered in mustard, but Richie was making a stinkface for a whole different reason.

There was a dreamy look in Stan's eyes as he talked about Victor Criss that left a bad taste in Richie's mouth. It was almost like he admired him or something…

"Didn't he also hold you down while Belch burped in your face?" Richie asked, not at all jealous. Nope. Not him. "Then they burped on your sandwich, and you cried for like an hour because you couldn't eat it anymore. I had to punch a kid for laughing at you, remember? But then he broke my glasses… that was a terrible day."

Stan had to stop himself from taking a big bite of dog, on account of gagging at the memory. Belch's breath had smelled like tuna casserole, and from that day on, Stan traded off his lunches whenever his mom, blissfully ignorant, made her 'world famous' version of it for him.

"Yes. But. He's apologized for that. And all the other things, too," Stan gave Richie a patient look, like he was speaking to a child much younger. "He takes medicine that makes him irritable and aggressive. I'm helping him find healthier ways of handling that than picking on us. Besides, he's the only person who can me out with my… thing…"

"That doesn't change anything, he's still a big fat –"

"– little shit, and a Jew," Belch said. He dropped his cigarette and then stomped it out with the tip of his sneaker. "If Henry finds out that's who you've been spending all your time with, he's gonna be pissed, and then you can't hang out with us no more."

Victor blew smoke at Belch. "I have lots of other friends that Henry don't like. Catholics, Jews, girls, and fags, and I'm gonna keep havin' them, too."

Belch started pouting. Plump bottom lip jutted out, eyebrows furrowed together, and cheeks looking as round and rosy as a five year old, Belch looked like he needed a pacifier, not a cigarette. Victor almost said as much, but he knew there was something there beneath the surface.

It came up real quick when Vic laughed, along with an embarrassed blush.

"What about me?" He asked, kicking a pebble away. "You're always hanging out with him now. Am I still your friend?"

Vic softened up a little. "You're still my best friend –"

"– but you can't help me with what I'm going through," Stan said, his voice taking on that very serious discussion tone.

"You can tell me what it is, Stan. Maybe I can help you, and you just don't know it because I'm also keeping it secret," Richie helpfully suggested. He straightened his glasses, and Stan watched, fascinated, as his eyes seemed to grow smaller and smaller as the thick lenses got closer to them.

"I'm allowed to keep things to myself," Stan pointed out.

"But if you tell Victor, it's not keeping it to yourself. It's just keeping it from me," Richie countered.

Stan sighed.

"It's just not that simple, Richie. I need someone to talk to about what's happening to me, and he's already been through it," Stan explained. He got as close the truth as he dared.

Richie dropped his head as he thought for a moment.

"Is it because you're –"

"– gay?"

Victor didn't answer, and Belch wasn't offended by the blatant dismissal of the one question he'd been dying to ask since he accidentally found out about the weekly trips to the gay bar on the outskirts of town. Derry was not a safe place for people of a certain thread. If Belch was already too aware of that, he couldn't imagine what Vic knew of it.

The truth was, thankfully, more normal and less violent: Victor simply hadn't considered that he might be anything. Gay? Straight? Was he even in love?

Did he sometimes have the urge to kiss Henry or Belch? Yeah. But he also sometimes had that urge with Beverly, Gretta, or even Mrs Douglas. People were beautiful, magical creatures with soft parts and hard parts, both equally fun to explore in the right circumstances. Vic's brain couldn't fathom sorting people out by insignificant factors, like gender or clothes.

But Belch's question crept along Victor's brain, lingering in the background as Michael Meyers murdered adults pretending to be teenagers, and Victor picked out pieces of popcorn with his tongue, like a little frog catching flies. By the time the two were parting ways, Victor was deep in thought.

Stan was waiting on the kissing bridge for only twenty minutes before he saw Victor riding up on his bike. In the moonlight, Victor's head seemed to glow. His blond paleness rejected the darkness while the blue of his shirt absorbed it until it appeared almost black. It was such a sight that Stan wondered how he had ever been afraid of, or intimidated, by Victor Criss.

"Stan, do you like me?" Victor asked, as he handed Stan some clean syringes. How he got them was a mystery, but Stan never questioned it. He tucked them into his backpack, and then pulled out the bottle of testosterone he'd grabbed for Victor, saving them an extra trip.

"Yeah?" Stan answered. "I mean, I'm not going to invite you to my bar mitzvah or anything like that, but you're cool."

"No, I mean… like like."

Stan wasn't prepared to answer that. He felt the flush running from head to toe, turning his skin red. Suddenly, he remembered what it was about Vic that was intimidating – it was the way he could make Stan weak in the knees with a single glance.

"Oh… maybe?"

Victor sat, his arms crossed and leaning against his handlebar. He watched Stan for a minute, trying to gauge the situation. They stayed like that for an uncomfortable amount of time, neither one wanting to be the first to push things, but both wanting the other to try.

Being the elder of the two, even if was by less than a year, Vic decided to take the plunge.

"So… you wanna hang out and play video games on Friday?"

The way Victor asked, Stan felt a small bit of excitement launching itself from his stomach to his heart. The heart responded by vomiting nervousness right back, and Stan was left confused, jittery, and too full of energy to wait a whole day to find out if they were going where he thought they were going – which was on a date.

But, seeing as how he couldn't just ask if it was a date, because how embarrassing if it wasn't, Stan nodded, and kept it casual.

"Yeah, that'd be swell," he said, his voice cracking as he realized that of all the words, his brain provided him with swell.

"Swell," Victor repeated, grinning at the quaint phrasing. Thankfully, he said no more on it. He gave a little laugh, and started pedaling away, using only one hand to steer.