Chapter Text
heighhosilveraway: well first of all, fuck off
lendmeyourbones: Only if you ask nicely.
heighhosilveraway: YOU tell ME my cross stitch isn’t good and YOU tell ME to be nice?????
heighhosilveraway: homophobia
heighhosilveraway: homophobia and bigotry
lendmeyourbones: Must we go back to the homophobia argument? Back down dictionary lane?
heighhosilveraway: say my cross stitch was good
heighhosilveraway: Now
lendmeyourbones: I won’t dignify that. Plus, I have to go. Duty calls.
heighhosilveraway: boooooo
heighhosilveraway: i’ve been left without praiseeeeee
lendmeyourbones: Well if your cross stitching wasn’t so shitty…
lendmeyourbones: Kidding. Bye James.
heighhosilveraway: i’ll miss you!!!!!!!!!!!
A light tinkling of a bell alerted him of a customer’s entrance as Bill slid his phone into his back pocket. He was sitting behind the counter on a tall stool, carefully threading together a flower field on some linen found in the back. Admittedly it wasn’t his finest work, but the daisies weren’t as crooked as the roses and the roses weren’t even close to the mess of carnations he had begun with. The gigantic shipment of embroidery kits were sitting open at his feet, waiting to be stocked onto the shelves. Since it was a particularly slow day, Bill had decided to crack one open and give it a shot, with no apparent luck.
A boy who looked about his age walked up to the counter and swept the curls out of his face. He had a small, pointed smile and a starched collar, all of which Bill could appreciate, and a piece of paper clutched tightly in his fist. “Hello. I was wondering if I could speak to the store manager?” His voice was firm yet soft, but the question put Bill on edge. When someone asked for the manager, it was usually to complain about something that was far beyond his control but still his problem to fix. (“My paint is too clumpy!” “These markers dried out too fast. Yes, I let my son leave them without the caps on.” “I took your Saturday class and no one will buy my art still!”) Needless to say, he didn’t love people who had the irritating need to speak to the manager.
The stitched flower field lay abandoned by the tip jar as he stuck his hand out in a greeting. “Bill. I own the shop, actually. What can I do you for?” Immediately the boy straightened his back and took his hand, widing his smile just a bit.
“My name is Stanley Uris and I was wondering if you’re hiring right now? I saw the sign in the window about a week ago and noticed it was taken down, but curiosity killed the cat.” Bill laughed as he ran a hand through his hair.
“I’m Bill. Let’s just say I didn’t have to fend off any crazed applicants, if you know what I mean. If you don’t, the position is still available.” Both boys laughed awkwardly and in the silence that followed, Stanley placed his resume on the counter. It was neatly typed and Bill could already see an impressive list of experience.
He turned it around to get a closer look when he gave a gasp of delight. “You studied with Aaron Rose?” Bill had always admired the man’s cutting edge work that combined light, movement, and wordplay. It managed to leave him breathless every single time.
Stan smiled sheepishly. “We went to school together. He’s an old buddy.”
“You went to NYU?” Bill’s mouth practically watered at the mention of art school.
Again, the boy nodded and hung his head low, letting his mop of curls drape themselves in front of his face. He didn’t understand the tentative nature the boy took on when he clearly was talented, but Bill didn’t question further and finished reading the resume. Lots of studio art. Digital work every once and awhile, but he wasn’t concerned with that. The computer in the store was taken from his parents' house, where it had lived for about ten years before that, and it barely had email accessibility. He had references listed and his special skills were strong, and Bill set the paper down, satisfied. Stanley was watching him with baited breath through the curtain of hair, brown eyes barely peeking through, and felt the unspoken critique of his shoddy resume. Barely any experience outside of school, an overpriced and overrated university, his hot shot friend mentioned for prestige, and one of his references was completely made up. (His friend Richie could do one hell of a disgruntled old artist impersonation.)
It took a minute, but Bill finally looked up. Surprisingly, he looked pleased. “Okay. Stanley. Tell me one fact about yourself that isn’t on this list.”
Taken aback by the odd question, Stanley took a second to ponder. Even for an artist, he was considered to be quite the formal guy. Everything had to be done by the book in Stanley’s world, and anything worth knowing about him would have been listed on the paper sitting in front of what he hoped to be his future employer. He couldn’t think of anything appropriate to tell Bill (because saying “My favorite movie is Hot Tub Time Machine.” seemed a little too far fetched) until a song came to mind.
“I love Edward Byrnes.” He blurted out. Just like Andy , Bill fondly thought. “Fifties music in general. It makes me feel nostalgic for a time I never had.” The wistfulness in his voice made Bill narrow his eyes.
“Nostalgic for racism? Homophobia?” The stinging in his tone made Stanley stutter for a second.
“No! No no. No, I’m jewish. So obviously I don’t miss that whole thing it’s just the idea of the fifties is nice. And also I’m gay. I don’t want any of that.” Bill laughed at the boy’s panicked attempts at backtracking and the rising flush underneath his collar.
“Sorry. I just had to make sure.” He gave the boy a second to recover, eyeing the cross stitch and pushing it further under the register. “One more question, Stan. Why do you want to work here?” Bill’s tone softened for a second as he thought about the implications of his question. The resume before him had so many accomplishments, and this was a tiny art shop in a long stretch of stores that were all crammed together.
The blush was still creeping up the sides of his neck when Stan answered. “I’ve been here before for your Saturday class, actually. Bagels with Bill? I sat in the back and it was a pretty crowded session, so I’m sure you don’t remember, but we painted a railroad crossing.” Stan took a moment as Bill’s eyes lit up with familiarity. “You were amazing to watch. The room was totally enraptured by the way you explained all the different techniques, and you were so nice to the little boy who kept knocking his paint water over. After I left that day I guess I subconsciously kept passing by here until I saw the help wanted sign, and I took it as fate.” He rubbed his cheeks, embarrassed with how red they were. “It’s an artist’s dream to work somewhere they feel at home and I could see myself loving this place.”
A pang ran through Bill as he sent his gaze to the floor. This store meant the world to him, and all he had ever wanted was for other people to find solace here the way he had. “Well, Stan, if you can start on Monday, I can draw up the paperwork.” Stanley’s eyes flew up to meet his, filled with glee.
They enthusiastically shook hands and Stan bit back a grin that threatened to take up his entire face. “Thanks, Bill. Should I still call you Bill? Do you prefer a Mr…?”
“Denbrough, but no thanks. I think you’re actually older than me, if graduation dates mean anything.” Bill peered at the resume, which read NYU Class of ‘16 . “I was the class below you. It’d be too weird if anyone called me Mr. Denbrough.”
“Got it. Bill.” Stanley flashed another smile, this time showing a hint of dimple, and began leaving the store. Bill turned around to the back office where he would have to call his dad and ask what kind of paperwork he would need to draw up for a new employee. “Oh!” Both boys turned around. “Thank you. Thank you so much.” The filtered sunlight from the storefront lit Stanley up from behind, and Bill knew in that instant he had made the right decision.
“Of course. It was fate, right?”
heighhosilveraway: ready to admit my cross stitch was good or are you still being a little bitch
lendmeyourbones: I’ll die before I admit anything of the sort.
heighhosilveraway: screw off
heighhosilveraway: also do you think a sunlight-y glow should be more deep yelloe or pale
lendmeyourbones: *Yellow.
lendmeyourbones: Why? Butchering some sunflowers?
heighhosilveraway: more like a halo actually
heighhosilveraway: inspiration just struck