Chapter Text
It’s June 6th, 1984, and Jimmy is staring at old pictures of Stanley. Today would have been their anniversary, the one day of the year that Jimmy could put his all into his love and Stan could do little to complain.
It was also the one day of the year when Jimmy could photograph Stan and not have the camera snatched away. Stan never allowed photographs to be taken of him, saying Jimmy should wait until he was ready, which must've implied sucking in his gut or flexing an arm.
Sorting through the pictures, Jimmy feels the breath drain from his lungs. He feels breathless at the sight of Stan’s smiley face in these pictures. There’s the Summer of ‘78, where Stan is knee deep in a cranberry bog. He’s wearing overalls and his skin is baked by the sun. Jimmy stares at it with a feeling of lonesomeness.
He remembered the sunburn peeling from Stan’s shoulders after that bog trip, Jimmy smearing aloe onto his back, fingers tracing muscle under tanned skin.
When he flips it aside, he’s met with that face he loves so much once again. Stan is red-eared and snot-nosed from the cold, but he’s handing Jimmy a warm bacon burger from their favorite diner. He remembers Stanley hated this photo; every time Jimmy had put it on the mantle, he’d find it tucked in their dresser the next morning.
He remembered how Stan had shoved that bacon burger into his hands, muttering about ‘skinny bastards’ while his thumb brushed grease across Jimmy’s lip.
Jimmy smiles involuntarily. As the years passed, Jimmy’s adoration for the late man never wavered. Out of all the men he had been with, Stan was the one he never wanted to let go. He was a ball of putty in Stan’s hands, willing to bend awkwardly for his happiness.
That day, reading about Stan’s death. It was unlike anything he’d ever felt before, almost indescribable.
He had been with his friends, settling into a table after a round of pool. They were discussing drinks, something about Jimmy’s lack of balls when it came to sharper bitter drinks. Jimmy huffed fondly.
Mark swatted him lightly on the shoulder, newspaper in hand. Jimmy rears his head to the other man, eyebrow arched curiously. Mark doesn't utter a word, but there's a look in his eyes that tells him this oughta be important.
His friend tosses the newspaper on the table. Jimmy still remembers the crumpled texture, squeezed too hard in Mark’s hand. It was dog-eared, clearly read through. Turning the paper to the front page, his eyes skim the header. STAN PINES DEAD IN MEDFORD, OREGON.
There's a surge of bile that bubbles behind Jimmy’s chest. He stands, abrupt and quick, newspaper twisted in his hands. Mark eyes him, hand snapping to hold Jimmy’s shoulder before he can head to the bathroom.
Jimmy is led outside, and he vomits in the nearby alleyway. His throat squeezes, leaving him gasping and choking on his own vomit. His neck is craned, forehead against the wall, and his wrangler jeans that were once clean and ironed for this night specifically are now drenched in bile.
He’s red-faced and teary-eyed. When he turns to Mark, the man just stares. Jimmy doesn't spend the night alone. He’s accompanied home by Mark, and he spends the night downing something alcoholic and stinging.
Jimmy is face down on the couch, some cheesy romance is looping on the TV, and his cigarette is at risk of singeing the table beside him. His nose is buried in a pillow, using one of Stan’s old shirts as the pillowcase. It's the shirt of Stan’s favorite band, the B-52’s, and it's the only shirt he did not take. The one that Jimmy refused to let go, let alone wash.
Sure, they were no longer together, but… there's a kind of peace that Jimmy feels celebrating their anniversary. By this time, Stan would be thirty-one, with his birthday just a week away. And Jimmy would tease him all month about it.
Stan is all he’s been thinking about all day. He’s buzzed from whatever he’s been drinking, and on the coffee table, there sits a picture album haphazardly open to pages full of Stan. There's a photo of Stan lifting a baby kitten to the camera, another of him in Jimmy’s wrangler jeans. He remembered Stan sprawled out in his Wranglers, cocky grin daring Jimmy to take them back. He never did. But, he did drag them lower.
There’s one of him resting in bed, and Jimmy had specifically taken that out of its place. Stan had this way of sleeping half-naked, heat radiating off him, always tugging Jimmy close even when the night was sweltering.
There’s a part of him, inside, that’s crying, weeping, for Stanley. But the other half of him is too drunk to let tears fall; all he can think of is Stan’s irresistible charm. How he felt no one wanted him was beyond Jimmy’s comprehension; he was perfect.
His stomach clenched, and the lingering smell of Stan’s shirt invades his senses more violently. Jimmy pushes against the couch, back bowing into an arch. His loins grow warmer, the friction of the fabric and his clothed bulge pulling a gasp from him.
In the midst of his growing desperation, Jimmy squeezes his eyes tight. His mind is focused on a particular memory where Stan is readying for a concert.
Jimmy is dressed to the nines, spikes in places they normally wouldn't be, and a gaudy belt Stan had gotten him earlier that year. When Stan turns to him, his smile reaches his eyes. There’s a moment where he looks Jimmy up and down, and his face dusts pink.
Stepping closer, Stan drags Jimmy in by the belt, promptly snickering when the taller man stumbles. He slips a hand up Jimmy’s torso, starting at his hips, and pausing at the lapels of his jacket. His breath is warm against Jimmy’s stubble, and his eyes are gorgeous in the evening lighting.
His hands slip, cupping Stan’s sides. He cranes his neck, kissing his lover slowly and meaningfully. Stanley grins into the kiss, hooking his arms around Jimmy’s neck. Their hips bump, and Jimmy’s hand automatically grabs a handful of Stan’s ass.
Jimmy’s stomach strains, and a broken noise leaves him. His hand drops the cigarette, propping him up to help himself off the pillow. He swallows dryly, brows furrowed.
His pants are tight. ”Fuck.” he exhales.
And even as he tries to resist the urge to whip his cock out, he is unsuccessful. He twists, leaning back on the couch, straining dick in his jeans and tummy clenching with want. He runs a shaky hand through his hair, the back of his neck growing hotter.
Stanley was always a gorgeous man, down to his face to his body. But, hell, Jimmy never assumed himself to be so attracted to him to the point of getting a hard-on after Stan’s death.
His hand taps on his thigh, relishing in the rhythm the motion gives. The vibrations went to his cock, and then to his head. He taps in a rhythm that mimics Stan’s manner of teasing him.
When they were in a bar or club, Stan was itching to take Jimmy back home. He would place a hand on Jimmy’s thigh and tap out a rhythm while he leaned his weight on the man. Jimmy shivered, the memory of Stan kissing his Adam's apple far too clear in his mind.
His hand involuntarily works at his buttons, his thighs quivering. Jimmy shuts his eyes, and Stan is on him, peppering his face with kisses and…
There’s a breeze that hits him. His eyes open into slits, bleary from unshed tears. He looks down, cock in his hands, his stomach squeezes again. All Jimmy can do is let out a shaky breath.
Shutting his eyes again, his hand, almost as if it has a mind of its own, begins to move. Its strokes are steady, thumb rubbing the ridge of his cock like it was mimicking Stan’s teeth. A groan emits from his throat, the steady pace of his hand already quickening.
He thrusts up into the feeling, sweat beading at his forehead. As far as he’s aware, Stan is doing this for him.
Stan had just gotten back from work, he’s covered in grease, and he’s got a look in his eye that Jimmy knows means trouble.
A noise escapes Jimmy, it’s one between a sob and a moan.
His thumb digs into the slit of his cock, gathering the precum. He gasps, shifting in his spot. There’s a ghost of a feeling, Stan’s wet breath over Jimmy’s cock before swallowing it again, taking it to where Jimmy’s blond pubes sit.
His back arches, hips bucking recklessly into his hand. ”God,” he breathes. There’s a sense of yearning that clings to his ribs, squeezing every time his heart thuds. ”F—fuck…” he grunts.
His unoccupied hand reaches for the pillow encased in Stan’s shirt. He flops down onto it again, face buried in the familiar scent for the second time. His balls clench, and he moans open-mouthed against the pillow.
Stan loved it when he moaned in bed. He recalls the time he first moaned, balls deep in Stan and grinding against his lover’s haunches. Stan stared at him like it was Christmas, grinding back on him to drag out more of those moans.
Jimmy feels a hot pool low in his stomach. His hips thrusting into his hand, precum dripping onto the couch. He bites the fabric, his mouth full of drool. He lets out a whine, his cock jumping and his heart thudding.
His hand pulls away, leaving him empty and wanting. He groans, this ain’t right.
His cock aches, red from the friction. ”Oh, please…” he hisses through his teeth, hips twitching. He drags his hand back to his dick, thumb swiping the blunt head and pulling a sob from himself.
Wrapping his hand around his cock one more time, Jimmy continues his thrusts, shutting his eyes.
His cock stripes lines along the couch, a foggy white. Jimmy shivers, panting into the pillow. Behind his closed eyes, his cock is engulfed in Stan’s warmth. Stan is murmuring praise in his ear as they both come down from their shared orgasm.
He pulls himself upright, swallowing loudly. He eyes the stripes of come on the couch cushions, he imagines the fabric as Stan’s skin, and his cock twitches. He clears his throat, eyeing the pillow he’d drooled on, specifically, the shirt he’d wet in the process.
It was fine, though, at least he hadn't come on it — That would have meant needing to wash it…and Jimmy isn’t ready to forget the way Stan smelled.
He wipes his forehead in the kitchen sink, holding a damp rag. He stares at it in his hands, sticky with come after he’d failed to clean the couch. Oh, what would Stanley think of him now? Surely, this is wrong. To masturbate at the thought of a dead man.
Oh, he feels disgusting. Stanley would hate this, hate the idea of Jimmy doing this.
Jimmy tosses the rag in the sink, head in his hands. He would go to bed by this hour, but what was the point? There’s no man to greet him in bed, to kiss him soft, and ask for another round.
How pathetic he’d grown over the years.