Stanley Uris was particularly fond of things that were unquestionably, undeniably, always-going-to-be true. They helped him. The order of their nature, the knowledge that these things were fixated in time, never to change, comforted him and his many fears about the unpredictable world he lived in.
Things like the sun rising in the east, and setting in the west. Like how an inch would always equal 2.54 centimeters. Like how birds flew south for the winter.
Or, like how his best friends Richie and Eddie were in love.
Stan had always been more of an observer, and this was how he preferred it. Even with his friends, he was perfectly content to watch them instead of inserting himself directly. Because of this, he noticed a lot. Some things were subtle, like how Bill scratched his ear when he got nervous, or how Bev would stop looking people in the eye when she was upset.
Others were obvious.
Like Richie and Eddie.
Stan supposed they had always been in love. He didn’t really remember a time where they weren’t constantly screeching at each other or touching each other or gazing at the other longingly when they thought no one was looking.
Stan noticed all of it.
He had to admit, sometimes it was annoying, especially when it was so glaringly obvious and no one else seemed to notice. Richie didn’t constantly grab the rest of the Losers, or have special nicknames for any of them. Eddie didn’t get angry at anyone but Richie, and never seemed to blush or get flustered until Richie entered a room.
But Stan kept quiet about it, and took comfort in watching it unfold. He supposed that he was witnessing something beautiful happen, a specific, slow-burning type of love that only happened when the stars aligned and everything fell into place precisely as it should. Stan didn’t know how Eddie and Richie had gotten so lucky.
All he knew for certain was that, just like the sun rising in the East and setting in the West, Richie Tozier and Eddie Kaspbrak were in love. They always had been, and they always would be.