Part 3

Stan learned many things from Victor over the years.

First, he learned that Victor didn't frown and glare because the blond was in a perpetual state of unhappiness – Victor frowned because it made the lines on his face harder, and more masculine looking. Stan showed Victor the art of the bitch face, and Victor showed Stan how to murder someone with well placed eyebrows. The two of them could shame a person with one look more effectively than most people could with an entire paragraph of words.

Second, he learned that slumping the shoulders slightly and placing his feet more apart when he walked gave him what many people would consider a masculine gait. For Vic, that was easiest to adopt by tucking a hand in his pocket, and using the other for cigarettes – lollipops later on, after Stan told him his kisses tasted awful.

Stan had to practice again and again to make sure it didn't crease his clothing too bad, though, and found that his pockets were too warm. So he tried different things. He found the right one eventually, drawing his shoulders back, and keeping his natural hip roll, but leaning ever so slightly with it.

Vic looked Too Cool For School, and Stan looked like he owned three companies and was just about throw down a briefcase to acquire another. When they walked side-by-side, and especially when they brandished their masterful looks of displeasure, it was murder.

Third, he learned how to roll a sock, just in case someone tried to land a knee or kick on his crotch. There wasn't anything else to it, really.

Finally, he learned that while Victor like-liked him too, it took a lot of patience to transform their mutual crush into a stable relationship. As Vic came up and put his head on Stan's shoulder, his arms wrapping around Stan's waist, they both knew it was worth it. The freedom they knew now was more than they'd ever thought was possible.

Vic watched as Stan stirred the sugar-laced tomato sauce into the noodles – Jewish spaghetti Stan called it, even though Vic couldn't tell the difference between it and non-Jewish spaghetti. He planted a kiss onto Stan's neck, and grinned as it made Stan shiver.

"Stop it! You're going to make me spill something," Stan scolded.

"That's the idea," Vic whispered.

He kissed that little sweet spot even harder, brushing it slightly with his teeth. Realizing he was trapped between two of the sauciest things in his home, and a mess was inevitable, Stan turned around, ducked his shoulder down, and brought the spoon up to playfully threaten his boyfriend.

"I said stop it, you jerk," Stan teased. He grabbed the loaf of bread from the counter behind Vic and handed it to him. "Make the garlic bread before you hurt yourself."

Vic was grinning like a dork when Stan went back to cooking. Two plates of spaghetti, four slices of garlic bread made in the toaster, and three full glasses of cherry wine later, Stan was plump, giggly, and lounging on the couch. He reached up and hooked his fingers around Vic's belt, and pulled him down so he could snuggle.

Stan ran his thumb along Victor's chin, and then held it as he took a kiss from Victor's lips, followed by a few more. They kissed until Victor passed out, too tired to keep his eyes open. Vic was even trying to get in a few more soft smacks as he fell into his sleep, his lips moving automatically.

Shifting out from under him gently, Stan went to take his nightly bath.

They were twenty-something, living in Georgia, and both riding scholarships the Rabbi hooked them up with. Overall, it was a good life. One that he'd never imagined having, especially not with Victor Criss, of all people. If either of them had been born in different circumstances, it would've never happened, and only God knew where they would've ended up.

But wasn't that just the point of it? Maybe there was a God, and maybe he moved in mysterious ways, drawing the right boys into the right bathroom. Or maybe there was a giant turtle in the sky, hand picking the people with the right stuff inside of them, beneath the layers of crap, and gluing them together with cosmic fate. Or maybe there were soul mates, forged from the experiences needed to complete their other half.

Or maybe there was both a promise, and a threat, dropped from the lips of a creature that had no right existing: You will all live to grow and thrive and lead happy lives until old age takes you back to the weeds.

Only it wouldn't be old age taking them, because they didn't accept that deal. It would be clowns, and teeth, and deadlights, at the tender age of 40.

Stan pondered this and realized it didn't matter. Unlike the others, Stan didn't forget his hometown of Derry, or the promise he made to come back. He knew the year of his death, and, oddly, that made him far more likely to enjoy the small things. He had 20 more years before he had to deal with that again. That was a million opportunities for spontaneous dancing in the living room, little kisses before class, listening to Vic quietly whisper while doing homework, running down the aisle in Walmart with the camcorders and the giant TV, pretending like they're journalists running away from Godzilla, or supermodels.

That was a lot of years to be happy, more than most people got – and he knew happy is exactly what he'd be. He knew it the same as he knew when it was hot outside. It was a feeling in his skin, tickling his senses, leading him.

He and Victor would go over to Belch's on the weekends and get shitfaced until Belch and his girl Patricia from Temple got married and had three tots. Stan would complete his CPA and finally be able to quit his job at Staples to open an accounting firm. Victor had something already picked out for him, too, but Stan didn't know what it was, yet. It was just an inkling, still.

Stanley Uris finished his bath. He went back to the couch, pulled his beloved back into his arms, and fell asleep before the sad parts of knowing that he was middle-aged in college could really sink in.