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Bill Denbrough had a passion for art. He drew every single day without fail, even if it was just a five minute sketch on the back of a bus ticket, Bill drew. It was therapeutic, his way of expressing the things he felt, or sometimes just his way of curing boredom and escaping reality.
Anytime that anything slightly inconvenient happened, Bill turned to art. He liked to write too, but drawing was his go-to whenever he felt down or stressed or confused or angry. He loved creating beautiful things, it was an easy way to make himself feel better, even if at times he did get frustrated with the art too. It could be hard, especially when drawing particular subjects. Bill never gave up though - no drawing was ever left unfinished, no matter how many days he had to spend screaming over some things.
There were lots of things he loved to draw, landscapes, nature, buildings, patterns. He was best at portraits, and had spent hours crafting detailed editions of his fellow losers. He loved drawing his friends, but more than anything he loved drawing his best friend: Stanley Uris.
Stan was beautiful enough for him to never get bored drawing the same angular face every day. Bill really believed Stanley could model one day, he had a face that deserved to be shown to the world, hung in a gallery or on a clothing-line billboard. Stanley wasn't the type though, much too shy and humble. He wasn't aware that Bill drew him so frequently, Bill was afraid that it would weird him out, that he'd hate the drawings or the way Bill made him look. They were for his eyes only, Bill never imagined it would be any other way.
That night, out of boredom (and maybe a tiny bit of sexual frustration), Bill had drawn three pictures of Stanley. The first one was innocent and pretty; Bill had sketched Stanley out using soft pencils. Stanley was sat, legs crossed and arms out, grinning like his life depended on it, surrounded by birds. Bill had coloured it in using all the wrong colours, giving him brunette hair and blue lips, skin with a much too-orange glow. The birds were random and mismatched, he hadn't even drawn identifiable, real breeds. Bill liked it for the oddness, but he knew Stanley wouldn't.
The second drawing was a more close up portrait in charcoal. He liked using charcoal for Stanley, mostly because he was better at creating detail with it, and he loved putting all the small details into Stanley's face. This one was more serious, and took much longer. He spent almost four hours on it, much longer than he intended. By the time he was finished, his hands were black and aching, Bill thought a blister might come through, but he figured it was worth it. The piece was one of his best ever, which was saying something - there were a fucking lot. In this image, Stanley's eyes were screwed shut and his mouth was hanging open. The angle was different, with Stanley's head tilted back because Bill wanted to draw his neck and his jaw. Bill pushed past the urge to stick it to his pin-board, knowing that would be a little too weird, and shoved it into his folder with the rest.
But he wasn't done. His hand hurt like hell, he was thirsty, hungry, and tired as fuck (he dare not look at the clock). But Bill Denbrough wasn't done.
Bill got a fresh sheet of paper. He wanted to draw something else, something different. For almost an half an hour Bill sat and thought. Did he want to draw another Stanley? Most definitely - promising himself it was for the sake of ease. He had gotten used to drawing him, knew every dip and line on his face, knew exactly where to shade and all the different angles. But draw Stanley doing what? Bill wanted to get creative, do something different.
"I'd love to draw like you," Mike had once said, "I don't know what I'd draw though, how do you think of so many things?" It wasn't often that Bill showed the losers his art, but the feedback was always positive. He wondered if they'd like all of his Stan drawings, not that they'd ever see them. Maybe they'd find it too insulting that Bill chose to draw Stanley so often when he had six other beautiful friends to choose from. That was only a small factor that prevented Bill from showing off his portfolio.
"If I could draw," Richie had once said, "I'd draw Eddie's Moms nudes. Maybe even Eddie's nudes - in fact, I'd draw you all nude." Bill hoped it was a joke, and prayed to God Richie Tozier would never pick up a pencil. Nudes weren't Bill's thing though, he hadn't ever experimented like that, accidentally on purpose skipping the life drawing lesson in art class that time. Even at seventeen, he didn't feel mature enough. It was kind of pathetic for someone with such an avid interest in art, he thought.
Bill picked up his charcoal again, pondered for moment, and then started on an outline.
He hadn't intended to draw something explicit. That was what he told himself when he looked at the final product. It only took an hour, this time. This Stanley was less detailed, but in some ways, much more so. This Stan had a body, a half naked body, but a body all the same. Bill's mind was kind of foggy throughout the process, all of his focus on the way Stan's thighs looked, toning his stomach how Bill remembered it to be and getting his hip bones as sharp as possible. He didn't really stop to consider the moral issues surrounding the drawing. Stanley would drop dead if he ever laid eyes on it.
The drawing itself wasn't all that graphic, he'd hardly drawn a violently pornographic monstrosity, but it felt too much, too explicit. Bill looked at the drawing in front of him, half in inexplicable awe, half in horror. Stanley was stood, against something that resembled a door, eyes screwed shut and mouth hanging open, one arm up, hand tangled in his own curls, the other sliding down his own bare chest. Stan wasn't naked, and the crotch area lacked detail, because that was when Bill had kind of freaked out about his drawing. He drew boxers, half tempted to create a tent-shape in the front before rationality took over. He liked looking at it too much, he was putting too much thought into what Stan would look like and-
And he liked that thought too much.
Bill took a mental photograph of his creation, shoved it at the back of his folder, then slammed it shut. His hands were clammy, stomach tingling with a familiar warmth. It was two am, and he was tired beyond belief, but he needed to think. He needed to shake the feeling, the guilt. Sometimes, Bill did feel weird about his obsession with drawing Stan, but never to this extent. He felt perverted, like he had violated his friend. He supposed he had - and for what? The sake of art? Stan would hate it, and there was no easy way to justify his behaviour.
Bill had the urge to get the drawing back out - rip it to shreds. It wasn't wholesome, it wasn't a pure depiction of his friend's beauty, it wasn't done from a place of admiration or awe like the rest of his art was. This piece had come from a place of lust, of repressed sexual frustration and pathetic desire. Stanley had done nothing but love and support his art, but he would detest this. He'd detest it all.
Bill grabbed his sketchbook. He went through his room, gathering every small notepad, every hidden-away canvas and all of his folders full to the brim of work. He took out every single drawing of Stanley Uris and put them in a single box, placing his final creation right on top. In that box, Bill realised, was every reason he loved art, every drawing that he had ever fallen in love with.
He vowed to burn it all.
That, in his mind, was the only real way to make it up to Stanley for doing what he had done. It was out of line for him to draw him without permission anyway, he supposed. They were best friends after all, if he wasn't willing to show Stanley it was unfair to keep them for his own pleasure. He needed to fix it, to make up for it all.
Bill started drawing again. Charcoal. This time, instead of drawing who he loved, Bill drew a bird.
He was drawing his love this time.
-
Bill woke up far too late the following morning, still tired after his moderately eventful night and morning. He took a shower, ate breakfast, exchanged small talk with his mother, and then retreated to his room. The guilt returned as soon as he laid eyes on the box in the corner. Burning it, he recalled, that was the plan.
But that wasn't a nice idea. He wondered, in total, how many hours of work he'd poured into that box. Over a thousand, easily. There were well over one hundred if you included the smaller doodles of curly hair and button noses. It made Bill's chest ache when he really thought about it.
He was proud of those, even the ones from years ago when he couldn't shade properly and the colouring was all unintentionally fucked. It would be a shame to just destroy them with nobody even getting to see, he supposed. Weird or not, the art was still quite wonderful, and they weren't done out of crazy, malicious obsession, they all came from a place of love, of wholesome admiration. Stanley Uris was the prettiest human he had ever seen, why wouldn't he want to draw him?
He picked up the box, put it in a rucksack, grabbed hairspray and a lighter, then headed out. He intended to go to the woods - he knew there was a small fire pit there because the losers had started several of their own campfires down there, somehow though, his feet were taking him in the opposite direction.
Beverly's house, a different part of his mind told him. His feet followed, and he wound up outside the apartment door - praying to every available God that her Father wouldn't be home.
He knew, in the more repressed corners of his mind, why he had come to Beverly. She was the only loser who knew that Bill was gay. She also knew that Bill was a little bit in love with Stanley, and she had known long before the thought had ever crossed Bill's mind. It was obvious to her, obvious to anyone that was more than extremely observant, she had noticed the way that her ex-boyfriend looked at his best friend when they were together, long before Bill had told her why he couldn't be with her - that had only really confirmed her suspicions.
Bill Denbrough looked at Stanley Uris like he had been crafted by angels. His stutter worsened when Stanley spoke to him, and his body melted when Stanley touched him. His heart buzzed when Stanley laughed, and his heart broke when Stanley cried. He never left Bill's mind, not completely, and in that moment, stood outside Beverly's now-open door, Bill wondered how he had ignored that fact for so long.
Ignorance was sometimes bliss, that was the case this time round.
"Bill?" Beverly was staring at him with clear concern. "Everything okay? What's with the-"
"I have something to show you."
-
Two hours and three hundred and five drawings later, Bill Denbrough was crying in Beverly's cluttered childhood bedroom. It wasn't the first time, and both losers wondered if it was going to be the last. Beverly hoped with all of her heart that it would be, it broke her seeing him like that.
"Don't burn them, Bill," Beverly whispered, running a finger across one of the doodles. It was her favourite - a gender bent version of Stan wearing a small pleated skirt and knee high socks, paired with a class Stan blue polo. It made her laugh seeing Stan like that, but she also felt it was somehow an accurate and obvious representation of Bill's conflicted sexuality, something about that touched her. Plus, it was quite an exceptional drawing. "Please."
"I can't exactly show him," Bill scoffed, "And h-h-h-how cah-can I keep a-all of these? It's fuh-fucked up."
"It's cute," Beverly said, smiling softly. There was no judgement from her, only pity and a little bit of respect. "Very cute. He'd love some of these - you know how bad his confidence gets."
"I'd d-d-d-die i-if he saw these." Bill's eyes flashed the drawing he did the previous night. They were all scattered across the floor, Bev had requested they leave her favourites out because she wasn't finished admiring. Beverly saw the look of shame on his face. Maybe it was because of her laid back morals and shamelessness around sex, but she didn't think it was all that bad - a little pervy, sure, but not top tier creepy by any means.
"He'd be flattered," Beverly countered, "That boy thinks he bleeds boring. You've made Stan look...sexy. I didn't think Stan could ever look-"
"Sh-shut up!" Bill was blushing. His eyes were still watery, but he wasn't sobbing like he had been twenty minutes prior. "I...It's weird."
"It's not that bad." The look of despair on her friend's face told Beverly that he did not believe her, not even a little bit. "Bill, for fucks sake, we're teenagers. People jack off every day thinking about railing their friends, people have weird sex dreams about strangers they see in the hallway, people watch hour long pornos of complete strangers getting off on each other. It's weird, yeah, it's inappropriate, no doubt, but how is this any different?"
"Be-be-because," Bill couldn't find the words. He hadn't considered it like that before - how was it any different to looking at nudey magazines? Because it was Stan? Beverly was kind of right. Bill, in his weakest moments, had thought about Stan in much and many more compromising positions. It wasn't really any different, Bill had simply drawn out his fantasy on paper, which was probably why he freaked out so much - drawing it made it real. It was no longer just a passing dirty thought. Of course, that didn't make it completely right, but it made Bill feel a tiny bit more normal. "Because it would make him uncomfortable."
"It would," Beverly agreed, "Maybe get rid of that one. The others? Show him. Tell him how beautiful-"
"Are you fucking crazy?" Bill spat. Beverly was half shocked at how rudely he cut in, half shocked he didn't stutter. "He'd never fucking speak to me again-"
"You really think that?"
"I know that."
"You know nothing," Beverly sneered. Bill frowned at her, seemingly offended, but Beverly didn't explain herself any further. "Talk to him."
"No way." Bill could be stubborn at times, to an infuriating degree. This time, Beverly knew it wasn't really her place to push him. She couldn't argue about it, this wasn't her battle to fight, and it would only make Bill feel more alienated than he already did. She understood his disinterest in the idea, and ultimately had no choice but to respect it. Beverly had no idea what it was like to be in his position, who was she to dictate the right thing to do? She believed Stan felt the same, but she couldn't promise that. Bill needed promises right now. "Come with me, to-to-to buh-burn them."
"We're not burning them, Bill," Bev said, "They're too good! I can't let you, and I know what you can be like - you will definitely regret this." She was right, Bill knew she was right. It was most definitely why he had come to her. He wanted to be talked out of it.
"So what do I do with them?" Bill asked, as if she held the answer to everything.
"We can tear up your sexy-Stan, but the rest? Make a fucking shrine-"
"Fuh-fuck off," Bill spat, but there was a smirk on his face. The first smile since he'd arrived. "Keep them for a while. Keep them until I tell him." Bill didn't trust himself to not panic and destroy them all. Beverly smiled at him, proud and relieved. He'd had a sudden change of heart.
"Are you going to give him the bird?" Bill had brought that along too, for some reason. It had made sense to him to shove it in the box along with the portraits, though he didn't want to burn it. He had drawn the bird for Stanley to enjoy, knowing he would appreciate it. Bill never let people keep his drawings, it was a subtle expression of affection.
"I guess," Bill mumbled. He wiped his eyes, but that did nothing to rid them of the redness. "He-he'll like it."
"He'll love it," Beverly agreed. "He'd love them all, Bill."
-
Two weeks passed. Bill didn't feel so bad about all the drawings anymore. Beverly still had them all, minus the 'nude', which Bill ripped into shreds before he had left hers that evening. She'd slid his bird drawing into a large envelope for Bill, and gave it to him to gift to Stanley when the time was right.
That time was now.
It was a Friday night, and Bill had invited Stanley to go for a walk with him. It wasn't uncommon for them to go off alone together, and none of the other losers were bothered by it. Sometimes, being in a large group was a little overwhelming, they were grown up enough to understand one-on-one time can be needed.
They had been out almost two hours, and Bill still hadn't found the courage or the right moment to give Stan the drawing. He kept psyching himself up mentally, then losing it before the words could come out. Stan hadn't noticed that anything was off, Bill was always like that around him - staring for long periods of time, stuttering profusely, starting sentences and then deciding not to finish them. Flustered. Stan didn't question it.
"I can't believe I forgot my binoculars again," Stan sighed, sitting down. Bill had bought him binoculars for his bird watching a couple of years ago, he usually wore them around his neck when they went on their walks, but had forgotten to grab them on his way out, too afraid of being late and too eager to see his friend. It had happened before.
"There are n-n-n-no b-birds," Bill said, looking around.
"Maybe I just wanted to stare at you through them," Stan replied, grinning, "Get a good close up on that face." He was joking, of course, but Bill was blushing an obvious and deep shade of red. Stan tried not to overthink it, laughing his own comment off as Bill tried to stammer out a response.
"I-I-I-I-I..." He gave up, sighing and flopping down next to Stanley on the bench. Stan nudged him playfully.
"Guess I can live without bird watching this one time," He said. Bill wondered if now was a good time to bring up his drawing. This was the first time during the entire walk that birds had properly come up, so it was an easy way to slide the image in. Before Bill had thought of a smooth way to being, Stanley changed the topic. "So, I was talking to my Dad the other day about the whole accountant thing and..."
Bill didn't zone out, not completely. He was still kind of listening, he knew what Stanley was saying and he knew when to nod along and let out reaction noises at intervals. But he wasn't listening and Stanley could tell from the way vacant expression on Bill's face. He was looking at Stan, but not with the usual shine in his eyes, they were in his direction, but they weren't focusing on him in the way they usually did like Stanley wanted him to. Something was wrong.
"Do you think, Bill?" Stanley asked, a measure he took to check whether Bill had been paying proper attention to his story. He already knew the answer, but he needed proof to call him out on it, to question what was on his mind. "Because I'm not sure. I don't know what to do." And he didn't, but that wasn't really something he desperately needed to focus on. The story wasn't all that important, just another one of his awkward conversations about his future with his Father, who kept insisting that Stanley was to go to Harvard, despite Stanley's disinterest.
"Ye-yeah, sure," Bill replied, forcing a smile and a nod. It was all the confirmation Stanley needed.
"No," Stanley huffed, "You're meant to tell me no, that it's a fucking stupid idea-"
"Buh-but you said you'd like to go," Bill countered, proving that his head had been at least half there. Stan sighed.
"I would like to go," Stan explained, again, "I'd love it there, but you know I don't want to do accounting. If I go to college, I have to do- you know what, it doesn't matter."
"Right ye-yeah," Bill said, apologetically, "I'm soh-soh-sorry. I was zo-zoned out. I th-think you sh-"
"I know what you think I should do," Stanley cut in, smiling fondly. They'd had the conversation several times. Bill was going to Cornell, if all went well, he wanted Stanley to follow him there, study ornithology as he'd always dreamed. It was one of those plans they'd devised years ago, and it seemed like a childhood fantasy to Stan now - like when you say you're going to be an astronaut or a princess. It was still everything he wanted though, unrealistic or not.
"It's a g-good plan," Bill shrugged. Stanley nodded, the smile gently falling from his face. Bill gulped, unsure of what to continue with. Changing topic seemed like a good shout, but Stan had other ideas.
"It's a good plan without me in the equation," Stan said, "You're going to go Cornell, you're going to do amazing and become a rich, famous artist-"
"I-If only it wah-was that sih-simple," Bill sighed, "An-And I-I-I wah-want you there. Y-you sh-should b-be d-doing your zoology stuff-"
"Ornithology," Stan corrected him. Bill rolled his eyes, but he was smiling. "And it will be easy for you - you're so fucking talented, Bill." The blood rushed to Bill's cheeks. He knew, in that moment, there would be no better time than to show Stanley the bird drawing.
"I-I-I-I-" Bill stopped, gulped, then tried again, "I-I d-drew you soh-something, actually." Stan's face could not have softened any more, and Bill was taken aback by how absolutely touched Stanley looked, his eyes brimming with joy - genuine happiness, and it made Bill melt. Stanley had looked beautiful enough, this only made it better. He wished he had a camera, wished he could capture how stunning Stanley looked in that moment.
"Can I see?" Stan seemed almost nervous, as if he was afraid to ask. Bill simply nodded. He took off his backpack and reached into it, grabbing the envelope that Beverly had prepared for him. It felt heavy, considering there was only one drawing inside. Bill gulped. Had Beverly...
He peered inside. Beverly had. Bill wanted to fucking combust on the spot - how the fuck was he supposed to hand Stan the envelope? Beverly hadn't only put the bird drawing in, she had also included the charcoal piece from the other night, and a few other of his best drawings of Stanley - but from what he could tell none of the weird ones, much to his relief.
Stanley was looking at him expectantly, hand held out awkwardly. Bill was flicking through the sheets, trying to slide the bird drawing out without pulling any of the others with it. There were only about six, but they were on thick, expensive paper, each drawing in its own little plastic wallet to keep them from rubbing against the others, and it was quite a task trying to just grab one. It didn't help that he was fumbling, Stanley was just growing impatient.
"How many did you bring?" Stanley asked, holding his hand out further, "Can I flick through them?"
"I-I-I-" Bill, of course, couldn't even manage a 'no'. His mind was blocked up with panic and no excuse came to him, so when Stanley simply snatched the envelope from him with a smug grin, Bill simply let it happen. Defeated, he stared at his now empty hand, then back to Stanley, who was pulling them all out at once.
"Bill..." Stanley's voice cracked. Bill couldn't tell if it was shock, awe, or horror. His face suggested the former, eyes wide and mouth hanging open, his cheeks were filling with colour, almost matching Bill's - but his were maybe as red as red could get. He wanted to curl up in a ball and scream into the void.
"B-B-B-Beverly-" Bill wanted to explain himself, wanted to apologise, but there was no way to even begin without giving Stanley the whole truth, and he just didn't feel like he could do that yet. But maybe he wanted to, a big part of him wanted to. "Sh-sh-she d-d-di-did th-the env-en-e-envelope, I-I d-didn't know she'd puh-put-"
"What the fuck Bill?" Stanley's tone was still far too ambiguous for Bill's liking. He didn't say it with a nasty edge, or even negatively at all, but it still instilled more panic in him.
"I'm so sorry," Bill cried out, somehow managing to get it out in one. Stanley, for the first time since seeing the drawings, looked up at him. His face was soft and pink, his eyes brimming with tears that Bill wanted to wipe away. His mouth was hanging open, as if he didn't quite know what to say. Stanley felt like overwhelmed was an understatement, he hadn't expected to see what he had, but neither had Bill to be fair. "I'm sorry, I-"
"These are amazing," Stan said, this time with a more monotonous tone. Bill breathed a sigh of relief, the biggest he had ever done. "Bill...Bill what the fuck? How have you never shown me these?"
There were many reasons. Bill had never drawn them for anyone's eyes but his own. That wasn't what he explained to Stanley though, figuring it was too weird of a response. "I d-didn't th-think you'd like th-them. I-I-I juh-just did th-them for p-practice. Bev th-thought y-you sh-sh-should h-have seen."
"Bev is always right," Stan chuckled, softening. He looked back up at Bill, his eyes still watering. "You're wonderful." If Bill thought his blush couldn't get any worse, he was far wrong. This was not the reaction he had expected, but he wasn't complaining, not at all. This was probably best scenario. Bill made a mental note to thank Beverly later.
"I'm really not," Bill muttered, thinking back to all of the weird drawings discarded in Beverly's room. Stanley would be mortified with some of those. Bev had chosen a good selection, more wholesome and beautiful pieces.
"Can I keep them?" Stan asked, as if he hadn't heard Bill's self-depricating comment. "I won't show the others, if you don't want. I just..."
"Of c-course," Bill cut in, forcing a smile. He didn't mind, he had plenty more where they came from - but Stan didn't need to know that. "Don't sh-show the others though. I-I only sh-sh-showed B-Bev."
"Have you drawn the other losers?" The question hit Bill like a ton of bricks. His face told Stan the answer - he most definitely had not. Stan didn't even wait for Bill to stammer out a verbal response, he followed up, "Why me, Bill? Am I your only muse? What's so special about me? I mean, Bev is so beautiful - and Mike, he's one of the prettiest guys I've ever seen. Or Richie, he'd definitely be interesting to draw-"
"Because you're fuh-fuh-fucking beautiful," Bill spat, making the compulsive decision to reach out and put a hand on Stanley's face, cupping his cheek and running his thumb down to his neck. Stan, to his surprise, leaned into the touch, closing his eyes. Bill gulped and edged closer. "And I-I-I love d-d-drawing you."
"I can tell," Stan replied, smirking. Bill let himself laugh and it felt as if a weight was lifted from his shoulders. "I'm...I'm honoured. I think these are beyond amazing. I think you're beyond amazing." Bill believed him.
"I'm g-glad y-y-you like th-them," Bill said, smiling. His hand was still holding Stan's face. He had no intention of moving it. "Wh-What about the bird?" Stan looked down, remembering. He had kind of forgotten about that, lost in awe and shock over everything else he had seen.
"It's beautiful," Stan whispered, and it was. Maybe better than any of the drawings of him, but he would have thought that, Stan never saw beauty in himself. He was beyond touched that someone as talented as Bill was willing to spend time drawing out his plain little face. Somehow, in the process, making Stan look a little bit better than he felt he looked. It was definitely a confidence booster, which was something Stanley had needed for a long time.
Stanley always felt like the ugly one in the group. He was the only one who hadn't had his first kiss, which he felt was embarrassing - they were seventeen after all - and even Eddie had been kissed before (sure, it was by Richie, apparently as a 'joke', but it still counted). No girls ever showed interest in him, but he never showed any interest in girls either. Stanley truly believed nobody would ever look at him and see more than he did, falling victim to the idea that nobody could love you if you didn't love yourself. Bullshit, he was realising in that moment.
"I can't believe you've done this," Stan said, a smile growing larger on his face. "I...I don't even know what to say. Nobody has ever done anything this kind-" He began choking up again, but continued, "I...I don't know, it's just so thoughtful. My favourite bird too - you nailed it, Denbrough."
"I can't b-believe you're n-not weirded out," Bill confessed. He thought about removing his hand from Stan's face, but he didn't. He couldn't bring himself to get rid of the contact, instead budging closer.
"It's a little gay," Stan said, only half-joking. Bill blushed, but he wondered if Stanley had already guessed that much. Bill didn't do a great deal to hide it, he just never openly said it. "But it's sweet. You never let people look at your art. You've certainly never let anyone keep it."
"It's never usually good enough," Bill countered. Stan laughed.
"Are you saying this is your finest work?"
"Quite possibly," Bill chuckled. Stan took another look at the art in his lap, flicking through them all once more before sliding them back into the envelope. He turned back to Bill, their knees brushing together. "You m-m-ma-make a g-g-good m-m-muse."
"You're wonderful," Stan repeated, even softer this time. Bill smiled, running his thumb back across Stan's jaw. Stan turned his face, moving into Bill's hand and pressing a soft kiss into his palm. Bill could've melted on the spot, his jaw falling open and his breath hitching at the contact. Stanley was looking up at him, holding eye contact as he kissed again.
"I-I-I d-do t-t-try," Bill said. Part of him wondered if he was dreaming, because this all felt much too good to be true, and he didn't know how he hadn't fucking fainted yet. He wanted to run fucking laps of the park, screaming at the top of his lungs, but that would require moving, and Bill never wanted to move from his current position. It was making his heart swell, his stomach bubble, his legs weak. A small, optimistic part of his mind wondered if it was having the same effect on Stanley.
"Wonderful," Stan mumbled into his palm, closing his eyes tight. His brain was going off too, flashing lights and internal screaming. Bill wasn't optimistic to wonder, he was right. Stanley's stomach was almost vibrating with joy, and it was taking everything in him to resist leaning forward and kissing his friend properly. Despite the drawings, and every other reason Stanley had gathered up, he doubted that Bill genuinely felt the same. That was too good to be true.
"You are." His hand finally fell, but he held the eye-contact, barely even blinking. Stan was looking at him in a way that made him fill with an unfamiliar yet welcome feeling, an urge he'd never properly felt before, a want in his gut different to that which came from lust or hormones. It was warmer, more definite. Like love, but maybe not quite. That word seemed a little extreme, even for his best friend, whom he'd had an intense crush on for the best part of four years.
"Do a self portrait," Stan requested, subtly shifting closer. "Draw yourself for me." Bill smiled.
"Only if I ca-can keep d-d-drawing y-you-"
"Done deal," Stan said, "Never stop drawing me." Bill never planned on it.
"That's a little g-g-gay," He fired back. Stan simply shrugged, his own hand coming up to Bill's face, cupping it exactly how Bill had done to his own two minutes ago. Stan's eyes scanned around the park quickly, as if checking for people. It was dead, it always was. It was a blessing and a relief, considering the way the two boys were eye-fucking each other on the bench. Bill could barely breath.
"There's a bird," Stan gasped, his eyes freezing over the creature that was only a little to Bill's left, "It's a-"
Stan was cut off, but not by some witty comeback, not by Bill's voice at all. Better than that, it was Bill's mouth on his.
Stanley had never been kissed before. His lips stayed still on Bill's, like a long, drawn-out peck. His other hand flew to Bill's face, cupping it like it was made of fucking gold. Bill's hands went to his waist, then tied at the bottom of his back, as if holding Stan in place - not that he at all minded.
They broke apart, for air, but partially out of shock, and remained close enough for comfort - noses gently brushing.
"It's a Veery." Bill looked at Stan, confused until he caught where Stanley was looking again - back at the fucking bird, of course. He found himself laughing, and Stanley joined in - the sound was music to his ears.
Within a second, they were kissing again. Much like the first, it was soft and gentle, lacking movement until Stanley's hands moved up into Bill's hair, running through it with open fingers. Bill hummed in appreciation and Stanley slowly tilted his head, opening his mouth slightly for Bill's tongue.
In reality, it wasn't a very skilled kiss, even as it progressed and intensified. It was awkward and messy as they got used to the feeling and the timing. Neither of them were experienced and both of them were uncertain, hesitant despite their want for each other. It was all just very new. But Bill Denbrough was on Cloud Nine and he didn't quite care that Stan was kind of clueless or that their teeth were knocking together or that his breath was probably a little off.
Stan didn't care either, he was just brimming with adoration and excitement. The adrenaline of finally being kissed, and the buzz over the fact it was by Bill. It was far from perfect, but Stanley Uris wouldn't have changed it for the world.
They could've stayed like that for much longer, but the sound of a dog barking snatched them out of their bubble and reality came crashing back as the dog walker stormed past, a questionable look on her face. They didn't know her, there was no reason to worry, but it was embarrassing all the same. Bill kissed Stan again, a quick peck against his bottom lip, then stood. Stan followed his lead, grabbing the envelope with a small, satisfied smile.
"Wh-What now?" Bill asked, holding his hand out to Stan hesitantly. They'd just necked in a park, but naturally Bill was still doubting where he stood with Stanley. He needed more than actions, he needed words too, the simple confirmation that it wasn't all just in his head.
"That's a loaded question," Stan scoffed, grabbing Bills extended hand. They began walking, unsure of where their feet were taking them.
"Give m-me a-a loh-loaded answer," Bill countered.
Stanley delivered.
"Well," He began, "If you didn't already guess it, I kind of like you a lot, Bill. In more than a friend way. I don't know if we should like...be together...yet. I don't know if that's ever going to go down well, and if I think about that too much it makes my heart hurt a lot. So I'd rather not think about that. I want to try though, see where we go. Nothing has to change, I guess, if you don't want it to. Just friends, only we make out, sometimes, maybe, if you want. For now. And for now, I think it should stay between us. Our secret."
It was a lot to take in, but Bill realised that it was everything he had wanted to hear. It took a lot to hold back tears, but he managed, blinking them back as he grinned and tried to muster up some words to respond with. There was a lot he wanted to say, but Stanley had somehow managed to summarise all of that in one short, sweet, speech.
"Our seh-secret," Bill confirmed. "A-And juh-just f-for the record, I-I-I feel th-the same. But you knew that."
Bill had never felt so much joy and adoration. He wanted to scream, jump, run, dance. Draw. It was a little too good to be true, overwhelming beyond belief, but the more Bill thought about it, the more he realised Stanley's feelings were quite obvious all along. They were probably always just as present as his own, but Bill was far too pessimistic to let himself believe it was even a possibility. Stanley had a similar train of thought.
It wasn't perfect. It hadn't unfolded in the most romantic or desirable of ways - unplanned and somewhat awkward - but it happened, and that was better than it never happening at all. Neither boy could bare the thought of that. Perfect was never the aim anyway, perfect was for silly rom-coms and childish stories. It was far perfect, and it was going to be an uphill battle if they wanted to make something of it in a place like Derry, but it romantic and it was sweet and it was fucking happening. And that was enough for them.
Bill Denbrough went home and drew Stanley Uris until his hand was wrecked.