a/n: warning! contains triggering content towards the end!
At the end of the day, Stan waited by Bill's locker, anxiously twirling his car keys. When Bill saw his curly-haired friend patiently waiting for him, his heart leapt into his throat, and he all but ran down the hallway.
He threw his arms around Stan and hugged him tightly, like he hadn't seen him in years. Stan laughed quietly and returned the hug. To anyone else, the hug would look weird since the boys had seen each other earlier that day. But to them, it was just part of the bond they had. They needed each other throughout the day, and when they were apart, life was miserable.
"How was your day, Denbrough?" Stan asked, releasing the smaller boy from the hug.
Bill smiled, turning to open his locker, "Guh-Guh-Good. How w-was yuh-yours, St-Stan?"
"It was okay." Stan leaned against the locker, crossing his arms over his chest and glancing at Bill, his mess of curls bouncing slightly. "Better now that you're here."
Bill's cheeks turned crimson as he stuffed all his homework into his backpack. He shut his locker, turned and gave Stan a warm smile, "G-Glad to b-b-be here."
Stan casually threw his arm around Bill's shoulders as they headed for the school's exit, "Glad to have you."
They walked in comfortable silence to Stan's truck; Stan was supposed to drive Bill home after school, but he wanted so desperately to keep the stuttering boy by his side. They climbed into the old truck, Stan sliding the key into the ignition.
"Do you want to come over and study?" He blurted suddenly, hoping he didn't sound too desperate.
Bill smiled, "Sh-Sh-Sure. You're n-not in AP-P-P C-Calc, right?"
Stan shook his head, "Nope, regular Calculus with Miss Dyer. Any idea what she was talking about today?"
"Ant-t-tiderivat-t-tive and Ind-d-definite Integrals or suh-home sh-shit." Bill glanced out the car window just in time to see Richie chase Eddie to the bike racks. He didn't understand why the two didn't just date already. He didn't understand why he and Stan didn't just-
"Yeah, some shit," Stan nodded, breaking Bill's train of thought. "I have no clue what the lesson was."
"I-I guess we'll st-start with that."
Stan nodded in agreement, and the two fell silent. The radio softly cranked out the lyrics to Africa by Toto, and Bill sang along quietly. His stutter made it quite difficult, but Stan found it absolutely adorable and had to bite his lip to keep from smiling too wide.
They arrived at Stan's house and went inside, neither Stan's mom or dad anywhere in sight. Bill followed Stan up the stairs, his eyes falling over the simple pictures of pressed flowers on the walls. Bill was very familiar with this house—this hallway specifically—but every time he came over, he never got used to the cold, almost empty vibe he felt.
Stan's parents were very strict, as far as Bill could tell, whether they were at home or not. The house was always spotless, every picture frame straight, every bookshelf free of dust. You weren't really allowed to touch anything, and being in such a delicate place made Bill feel as though he was suffocating.
But then they walked into Stan's room, and he could breathe again. Stan's room was tidy, like the rest of the house, but the walls were a baby blue color and covered in posters of Stan's most common interests. They depicted his favorite music, cars, and birds. You could learn a lot about Stanley just by looking at his room.
A record player sat on the floor next to a crate of vinyls. A bookshelf held numerous volumes of bird encyclopedias, novels, and Stan's copy of the Torah. The desk was organized, as was the closet and everything else in the room.
Something about this was calming to Bill. Probably because it was neat and simple, like Stanley. It was familiar.
Stan flopped down on his bed, unzipping his backpack to search for his Calculus notes. Bill sat next to him, his heart racing like it does every time he's alone with Stan in this room. Of course, nothing ever happened; nothing that their parents wouldn't approve of anyway.
Bill would be lying if he said he didn't long for certain things to happen . . . But he would never tell Stan about those things, because Stan wasn't gay and that was that. Bill was suddenly aware of the fact that he needed to get over his crush on Stan, because they would only ever be friends.
Friends.
The word itself was like a double-edged sword to Bill. On one edge, Stan was Bill's best friend, and had been for years. Their bond was something to be admired, as they never disagreed or argued. On the other edge, they were just friends. They would never be anything more, anything less. Unfortunately, both edges could protect, or fatally wound the wielder.
☼
Stanley awoke to the sound of shattering glass and an ear-splitting scream. He jolted, causing Bill—who had fallen asleep leaning on his shoulder—to wake as well and look around blindly until his eyes adjusted to the light.
Mrs. Uris stood in the doorway, steam pouring out of her ears. The china dish adorned with snacks she had carried up the stairs, now laid shattered at her feet.
"What's going on up here?" She asked, venom dripping from her voice. Her beady black eyes focussed on Bill, wanting him to get away from her son before she killed him.
"Nothing!" Stanley swallows back the fear climbing in his throat; he knew exactly what his mother was on about.
"He was all over you, Stanley!" She howled.
Bill was already stuffing his belongings carelessly into his backpack. He wasn't stupid, he knew when it was time to leave, no questions asked. However, he still felt the need to explain and defend Stan, "W-We were just st-st-studying, M-Mrs. Uris. We fuh-hell as-s-s-sleep-"
"Enough!" Andrea Uris screamed, pointing a talon-looking nail at Bill. "You, out. Stay away from my son."
Bill nodded, hanging his head in shame as he hastily departed from Stan's room without so much as a goodbye. Silence fell between mother and son, as Stan listened to Bill's feet thunder down the stairs. He heard the front door open and shut, and swallowed the rising fear in his throat.
Andrea Uris pressed her fingers against the bridge of her nose and sighed angrily, "I have tried time and time again to make it clear to you, Stanley. Homosexuality is a sin-"
"We didn't even do anything! We were studying, and we fell asleep-"
The snake struck. Andrea's hand shot out faster than lightning and whipped across Stanley's face with such a force that his head jerked to the left. The poor boy barely had time to blink before another slap hit the same spot. His right cheek bloomed with color, tears rushing to his eyes.
He didn't dare look up, didn't dare breathe.
His mother grabbed a hold of his chin and forced him to meet her terrifying gaze, "I don't ever want to see that boy over here again. He's just like that Tozier boy, Stanley, unholy and forcing sin upon my son. Do you understand me? "
Stan nodded frantically, and his mother released him harshly. She turned and walked to the door, stepping over the shattered china.
"Clean this up before your father gets home!" She barked, walking out and slamming the door behind her.
A shaky breath fell passed Stan's lips as he sank to the floor, back pressed against the edge of his bed. His hands fisted and yanked at his curls, tears streaming down his red cheeks as he attempted to quiet his cries.
Why didn't his mother believe him? Why didn't the people at school believe him? The bullies, his peers, everyone. Why didn't they believe he wasn't gay?
Because, the fact of the matter was, Stanley Uris didn't even believe it himself.
He thought about what he actually believed for a span of three seconds, and then remembered how hard his mother had slapped him. He couldn't be that way. He wasn't allowed to be that way. It was wrong, dirty, a sin.
With darkness swallowing his heart, and his true colors along with it, Stan forced himself onto his hands and knees and crawled over to the glass that littered his bedroom floor. His palms sliced open on the unforgivingly jagged shards as he picked them up one by one and threw them away, counting them.
He choked on another sob as he picked up the final piece. Thirty-three pieces. An uneven number. Thirty-three, and not thirty-four.
Stanley's OCD went haywire, and he smashed the last shard under his palm, almost screaming as it cut his delicate skin. The shard broke in two, and even though his palms were bleeding—crimson liquid running down his wrists in little streams—and his face still stung horribly, Stanley felt himself ease.
Well, part of him eased. His OCD eased, but the rest of him was screaming. All he felt was blinding pain everywhere. Pain, and regret, and self-loathing.
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( published 13, November 2O18 ! )
( edited ! )