Chapter Text
It starts with the fall.
Summer had been blissful; nothing but long, hot days and cool nights sat around campfires or huddled on bedroom floors. The lack of school had been freeing, and the absence of any responsibility even more so. It had felt limitless, stretching out ceaselessly in front of them, day after day tumbling by without the looming prospect of study anywhere in the near future.
It was easy to believe it would last forever. When they rode their bikes to the quarry and threw them against the grass, tripping over themselves to explore, to see the world. Climbing that one tree that surpassed the rest in the clearing had been the defining moment for Stan; up there, you could see anything. The whole of Derry was spread out at their fingertips, itching at their palms.
“I hope this never ends,” he had told Bill one night, sprawled out across the field, air rapidly cooling.
Bill had confided back, whispered like a secret, dying seconds away into the night. “Yeah. Me neither.”
But evidently, summer had ended, and it had been replaced with fall, and school, and new shoes a size too big still.
Stan studies himself in the mirror, playing with the top button of his shirt. It’s odd, he thinks, how different a person can look between seasons. The slight downturn of his mouth, the tiredness of his eyes, mark the start of the new term.
He reaches down to grab his bag, straining at the weight of the straps already digging into his shoulder. Thank god for lockers and friends. They might just make the year bearable.
It starts with a shadow, spreading across the faded cream carpet.
His dad easily fills the doorway. He’s not a big man, not by any means, but he has this presence. This command that Stan has always assumed just came with his job. People listen to him. Stan listens to him. He respects his father, despite the fact that it doesn’t seem like a mutual thing.
Still, the intimidation seems bigger today. It has since summer ended. He hadn’t meant to hear the hushed, angry conversations about bills and affairs and his own prospects, but he had. Now he can’t get them out of his head as his father blocks his escape route.
“You got everything you need?” His voice is rough, like he’s just woken up, but the smartly pressed suit suggests different.
Stan just nods, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. He tries, but he can’t quite meet his eye.
“Good,” his father affirms, though his tone suggests it’s far from good. “I want you to come home straight after school, alright? It’s going to start getting dark out sooner, and you will have lots of work to do.”
Stan wants to protest. Wants to insist that his curfew stays late, so he can still cycle to the quarry and watch Beverly and Richie put on little shows and swing his hands by his side so they brush against Bill’s.
But he doesn’t. Because his dad has enough to worry about, and because he will have lots of work to do, and he doesn’t want to be another problem.
So instead he just nods, swallowing the resistance in his throat.
His dad’s stance softens a little and he puts a hand on his shoulder. It’s firm, pushing him down and holding him in place. Stan finally meets his eyes and sees they’re not as tired as he expected. They’re dark, clouded and unreadable.
His voice is quiet at first, so quiet that Stan isn’t even sure he’s heard him right. Just a murmur, cold in his ear. “Don’t let me down like you always do, Stanley.”
It’s the beginning of the end.
Except, it’s not.
At first, things are pretty much the same. He still sees his friends – still sees Bill – and they still eat lunch together. He only feels a little sting at the end of the day as they cycle off on some adventure and he heads away, in the direction of Home.
But home is fine. His dad is always out, though whether it’s with his girlfriend or with his work, Stan doesn’t know. It leaves him alone with his mom, which is fine by him.
She’s quiet. She’s always be still, but now she’s practically silent. She does the housework as though a ghost, and she barely notices Stan. It feels as though he’s invisible, and sometimes it isn’t till the next morning that he’ll talk to someone again. The first form period with Ben in the seat next to him saves him from the nights of silence.
His school work is getting better. He’s always been good, but now it feels like all he does is study. He aces every test, excels on every homework. When he gets his grades back he always pins them on the fridge, hoping they’ll make his dad smile, or say “well done, Stanley,” or just anything.
He always ignores them.
Weekends are the same as they’ve always been. Saturdays are dominated by temple, but Sundays are free. They’re his. He’s allowed out if he’s home by five, so he’s up at eight in the morning and cycling round to Bill’s, or Richie’s, or whatever location is this week’s haunt of choice. They spend most of the day catching him up on what he’s missed, or showing him around their new den.
A few times one of them will stop short and look him over, as though to say ‘are you okay?’. He always ignores those looks.
They notice of course. His friends. When he first tells them about his new and improved curfew, Richie had flipped his shit. It was all “they can’t do this to you,” and “this is bullshit.” Ben and Eddie had agreed with him, and even Bill had muttered a disgruntled “Can’t you t-talk to them?” under his breathe. Mike had stayed silent on the matter, but as he left that night he had squeezed Stan’s arm extra tight.
Only Beverly said nothing. The look she gave him said it all. It was intense, knowing, and then it was gone.
It had scared Stan then, how much he had understood that look.
He’s still got Sundays and school lunches so he’s okay. He’s really okay.
He’s okay, even when his dad words won’t stop rattling inside his brain.
“Don’t let me down.”
“Like you always do.”
“Always.”
“Let me down.”
He spends so much time between four walls with just those words. After a month or so he starts to wonder if they’re true.
By October he is convinced they are the truest things anyone has ever said to him.
Truer than Bev’s words, when he pulls him in for a hug every day as they part ways at the fork in the road. “You’ll be missed, Stan.”
Truer than the way Eddie slides him his mars bar when he looks particularly glum at lunch.
Truer than Bill, and his eyes, and the way he tells Stan they all care about him.
How could they?
He always lets them down.
He misses Halloween for the first time since he was three. Maybe he deserves it.
He spends the night studying instead. Despite all the time doing nothing else, his grades have started to slip through his fingers like sand. First B’s and then C’s. He clings to the pass, tries to convince himself that Algebra is hard and his brain just isn’t wired like that. At least he’s passing Phis Ed, despite being unable to catch a ball or run without getting a stitch.
Anyone looks good next to Eddie and his constant sick notes, he reasons with himself.
Still, the dwindling grades scare him – his dad’s words scare him – so he stops sleeping. At first it’s to study, and then it’s because he just can’t sleep anymore. Not for more than two hours, anyway.
He falls asleep in European History, the one class he shares with both Richie and Mike. He’s woken up by a hand on his shoulder, the distance sound of chairs scraping in the background.
“Shit, Stan, and I thought I was the only one of us who went out partying during a school week,” Richie is saying, but he sounds far away.
Instead he focuses on Mike, and his soft eyes and the way he doesn’t prod when he asks, “are you okay?”
Stan nods. They forget about it.
They’re there when he gets his first F.
It’s algebra, because of course it is. He stares at the page, at the red marker for a long time, but it doesn’t truly sink in. It’s failure, plain and on the page. He’s proven his dad right. He is a let-down.
He’s waiting by the water fountain, because Bill has chemistry last thing and while Stan has to go home he has to see Bill first. He just has to. Sometimes he feels that the last glimpse of Bill is the only thing that gets him through the weekend.
His dad would call him a wuss. A coward. He’s starting to call himself that too.
He’s still staring at the glaring F when Bill finds him. He balls up the paper in his fist, but it’s too late – Bill’s mouth is set, and he’s definitely seen the look on Stan’s face. He feels his jaw clench and mouth tighten.
Bill looks like he wants to say something, but he doesn’t. Stan should be grateful he’s not probing his failure, but instead he feels some hopeless disappointment. Does he want Bill to know he’s a failure? Just to get some sympathy?
He’s really starting to see why his dad can’t stand him.
Outside Richie and Eddie are comparing test scores. It’s not algebra, but instead some forgotten subject they both elected to take. They’re so animated, not filled with this weight of expectant dread, and Stan would just leave if it wasn’t for Bill’s eyes, holding him in place.
“She’s gonna kill me,” Eddie is whining, gesturing erratically with the sheet. The curve of a C grade stings Stan’s eyes. “She’s actually going to kill me.”
Eddie’s mom won’t kill him. She’s not perfect, but she loves her son. A C isn’t going to change that.
Will an F change things with Stan’s dad? Would he kill him? His brain hesitates on that, so he pushes it from his mind.
“At least you didn’t flunk the course,” Richie has joined in. He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose, disposing of his test in the bin. “What kind of losers are we? The only clever one here is Stan.”
Richie gestures towards him, and he feels all eyes shift to him. He’s used to his friends looking at him, but not like this. He feels the failed test in his backpack pushing down, down, down.
There’s nothing but this white noise, ringing in his ears. For a second, he wonders if he’s actually underwater, sinking further down every second that bends around him.
That can’t be right, though, because he can see the outline of Richie’s glances, and he can hear each haggard and ragged breath that Eddie takes.
He clears his throat determinedly, but finds any words stick to the roof of his mouth. They’re all still watching him.
Bill hasn’t said anything. Not since lunch. He just keeps looking like that. Looking for the cracks. Waiting for Stan to fall apart.
Eddie swats Richie. Stan can hear the sound of palm meeting bare skin. It centres him, a little.
“Speak for yourself,” he’s saying, and Stan would find that comforting if the shorter boy didn’t talk so goddamn fast. “I’ve got a 3.5 GPA, dumbass, and it would be a lot higher if you hadn’t made me taking fucking classics-”
He swats at Richie again. This time he dodges it, colliding with Bill, who won’t stop looking at Stan, no matter how much he shuffles under the watchful gaze.
“Okay, so you’re clever and yeah, I guess Ben is clever too, but Stan-” he jumps at Richie’s arm snaking around his neck. It’s hot, and heavy, and his voice is so loud this close. “- Is our resident nerd.”
“We’re all nerds,” Stan mutters shakily, but no one hears him. He can barely hear himself over the blood rushing in his ears. All he can think about is his dad’s words and the crumpled test in his back pack and how fucking disappointed Bill looks right now, staring at him.
“Beep beep Richie,” it’s the first thing Bill has said since lunch. His words are soft, but they cut firmly through. Richie frowns, arm slipping defensively off Stan’s shoulder.
Eddie shoves him, a reprimand for his crimes; not that he knows what’s happened either. None of them know. None of them can know.
Except Bill does know, because his eyes are filled with something. Stan doesn’t know what it is. Concern? Disgust? Abject horror?
“I have to go,” He says quickly, as Richie opens his mouth to say something. His hands tighten around the straps of his bag as he takes a few clumsy steps backwards. He jerks his thumb in the direction of his bike, of his home, of the escape from this situation to one that will be far worse. “You know, curfew and all that.”
Richie and Eddie nod him off, but they look a little thrown. Richie makes some comment that Stan can’t hear, doesn’t want to hear, and then they’re bickering again, just as obnoxiously as before.
It’s just Bill, who keeps his eyes focused on him, unwavering. He can feel the pressure in the pit of his stomach, making him feel dizzier and dizzier.
“I’ll r-ride you home,” Bill is saying.
Before Stan can protest they’re hauling their bikes from the shed, pointing them in the direction of the Uris house.
They walk. It’s Bill’s suggestion, and whilst Stan can’t stop thinking about his curfew, he agrees. Anything to avoid the clean-cut silence of home, and the way his mom always keeps one eye on the door and no eyes on him.
But it’s okay, because the eyes on him now are Bill’s, and that look is gone. Instead it is replaced by a careful friendliness that reminds Stan of summer. Bill talks about school, and the clubhouse and their friends, and for a minute Stan can pretend the anecdotes include him too.
It’s nice, until it isn’t.
“It’s only one F, St-Stan,” Bill eyes are skirting, but his breath is even and his steps don’t falter. Stan mirrors him, left foot, then right foot, again and again until he feels like a normal human.
He just shrugs in response. Bill can’t know what this F will mean. Even Stan doesn’t know, not really. It could mean home by three, even on Sundays. It could mean nothing but more silence.
“You’re st-still really clever,” Bill pushes on, because that’s what he does. He reassures. He helps.
Such a shame he can’t help now.
Stan laughs. It sounds bitter and cold. It sounds like his dad.
Bill is more tentative this time and he keeps his eyes fixed straight ahead. “Will he be mad?”
He nearly shrugs, but he stops himself. “Probably,” he says instead, taking careful measures to not let his voice waver. “Yeah.”
“Th-That’s bullshit,” Bill actually sounds angry and that’s not what Stan wanted, he wanted no one to notice this, to notice how much things have changed since summer. “It’s one grade. It w-won’t even affect your GPA.”
They stop outside the Uris house. The light in the living room is on but the rest of the house sits in darkness. There is no car on the drive.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Bill says.
The house says nothing.
Stan says nothing.
His dad screams at him till one in the morning.
The neighbours tell his mother the next day that they nearly phoned for the police.
He lets the following months lull him.
Really, it’s easy to tell himself nothing’s changed. He’s not getting bad grades anymore, but he’s not sleeping either. It’s a sort of equilibrium that he can learn to live with.
He still gets yelled at. Glasses upside down in the cupboard. School bag left on the table. One time he forgot to tidy his room; he could feel his father’s spit as it hit his face.
There are good moments, too. His dad takes him to the garden centre one day after school, just pulls up outside the building with an outdated pair of sunglasses and a wry smile. They haul an apple tree home and plant it that night, shovels and hands, mud and smiles. Stan cherishes that memory, and every glance he gets at the apple tree in his backyard.
He still has his Sundays, and school, and Bill has stopped asking questions since his dad showed up at school, so he’s fine.
He forgets, sometimes, how much of a disappointment he is. He’ll realise quickly, though, when his grades slip below an A. It jolts him awake, makes him work twice as hard and makes him grateful for Mr Peters incessantly hard marking.
Before he knows it, Christmas has rounded in on him without him noticing. They don’t acknowledge the season in their still, silent house, but Stan had always been aware before when the holidays were coming.
This year he’s been so focused on grades that he doesn’t even notice it until the school is littered with decorations, hanging between ceilings and walls. It’s all sickly red and green, and it makes Stan feels a little stirring of warmth in the pit of his stomach.
“You’re coming, right?” Is the first thing Bev says to him the second to last day of school. He’s heading to the lunch hall when she ambushes him, looping her arm through his with a steely determination.
“Coming?” He repeats. She’s caught him off card, flashcards in hand, studying biology as he was walking.
She rolls her eyes at him, but it’s not mean the way it is sometimes with Richie, or even Bill when he’s feeling particularly obnoxious. “Get your mind out of the gutter, Stanley.”
For the first time, she looks at his face, and the flashcards in his grip, and her tone shifts from the light quality it possessed before. “I’m just kidding. Hey, are you okay?”
He shrugs her off the best he can with their arms still interlinked. “Yeah, just tired.”
“Okay,” she doesn’t push as they round into the hall and head towards the table where Eddie, Ben and Bill are already sat.
She drops his arm, somehow having unwedged the flashcards from his grip. She tucks them into her back pocket, and Stan feels lost without them. He sits down next to Bill instead, taking his sandwich from his bag and playing with the packaging.
“Which one of you shitheads forget to tell Stan about tomorrow night?” Bev asks, with a certain velocity that makes Stan flinch slightly. No one notices.
All eyes shift to Ben, who raises his hand a little sheepishly. Thank god its Ben, Stan thinks. Bev could never be mad at him for long.
“Sorry,” Ben is saying, eyes locking with Stan’s. “I just sort of assumed you’d know.”
Stan gets that. He should know, really. But he misses more than he could ever imagine on those weekday afternoons. Stories just can’t make up for the way they all seem to splutter whenever anyone mention artichokes.
“We’re having a party,” Bev cuts through, leaning forward to depart the news. “Clubhouse, straight after school until-”
“Very late,” Eddie is smiling, small and secretively, as if this is the coolest thing they’ve ever done. It might be, but Stan isn’t sure anymore.
They’re all looking at him, expectantly, waiting for him to say yes. He can’t though.
“I’m not sure guys,” he hears himself saying instead, pushing his sandwich away dejectedly. “You know, curfew and all that-”
“Couldn’t you just ask?” Eddie is saying, like it’s that simple. He, of anyone, should know. His mom was a freak this summer, and Stan can remember her panicking phones calls more than he wants to admit.
Stan swallows, blinks, then shakes his head. “I’m really sorry. They’d never go for it. Not at this short notice.”
“We’ll do it at my pl-place,” Bill’s voice always commands them, not matter how much it wavers. Stan shifts his eyes to him, noting the way his mouth is drawn and his eyes are set.
“You can just t-tell them it’s a winter project thing,” he says it like it’s simple, and Stan really wants to believe it is, so he nods, just a fraction.
“Yeah,” he feels like he’s letting out a breath, like his lungs are collection oxygen again. Bev is grinning at him and Eddie thumps his hands on the table until they’re all laughing, loud and obnoxious.
By the time Richie and Mike sit down, Stan’s face is stretched with a smile, and Bills hand has snaked to squeeze his under the table.
He doesn’t let himself think too much into it.
The next day, for the first time since summer, he rides to Bill’s house after school.
It’s just how he remembers it. Ordinary. Still, like Stan’s but so much more alive than his has felt in a while.
“How’s your mom?” he asks Bill. They’re riding ahead of the Richie and Beverly, who are walking behind, swapping gossip and a cigarette in a way that has never appealed to Stan. Eddie is indignantly riding in front, with Ben and Mike, refusing to acknowledge the small cloud of smoke following the two taking up the rear.
“She’s okay,” Bill says, but his voice is small and a little hollow. “Still quiet. But she’s not p-pacing around as much at n-ni-night.”
Stan wants to ask ‘and how are you?’, but he can’t. He knows the answer will be ‘I’m fine’ and he knows how far that is from the truth. No one is fine after losing someone like that. No one.
Instead he nods at Bill in a way he hopes comes across as reassuring.
And then, for some reason he can’t explain, he says, “Yeah, my mom’s like that too.”
Bill’s grip on the handlebar falters as he turns to look at Stan, a frown shadowing his face.
Shit, is all he can think. Shit.
He’s said something he shouldn’t. Put his foot in it. And now Bill is looking at him, wondering how Stan’s mom can be like his, when her son is still very much alive.
Richie barrels through the two of them, and Stan nearly loses his footing on the pedals. But it’s okay, because Bill is swept along into a conversation with Mike and Stan can slip into the background, where no one will ask any questions.
He lets himself relax. They raid Bill’s kitchen the minute the door swings open on its hinges, gathering armful of chips and carrying glass of Coke that clink together in their grip. Bill’s parents are out – working, or visiting family, or something – so the house is quiet when they arrive. Too quiet, Stan thinks, judging by the way Bill’s lip tighten. There should be a pair of shoes on the welcome mat. There should be someone waiting at the base of the stairs until he is invited to join by Bev, or Mike, or sometimes even Stan himself.
Then Richie has shoved past Ben and is be-lining for the three-seater in the den, and Mike is rolling his eyes at Bev as he pulls his shoes off. Just like that, the house is full of life again, and Stan almost doesn’t notice the way Bill’s eyes fix on the stairwell until it’s out of view.
They devour their makeshift feast, sprawled across the messy backroom. Stan finds himself on the three seater, wedged between Richie and Eddie, thinking how wonderful the sweet relief of death would be right at this moment. His eyes keep flickering to Bill, talking quietly to Ben, knees pressed to his chest. Occasionally the other boy will catch his eye and smile. Stan finds himself looking away.
Everything feels normal again. Bev makes a circuit around all of them with excruciatingly graphic Would You Rather’s, whilst Richie tears of his sock and keeps wafting it in Stan’s general direction. He finds himself actually laughing at his friend’s stupidity, because he’s missed it. It’s not the same on a Sunday, when Monday is fast approaching. Friday’s feel free, and effortless, and he has missed them.
He barely registers the phone is ringing, too busy debating Greek Mythology (more specifically, why Dionysus is the worst God, Richie, you’re clearly ignoring Athena). He notices the blur of Bill, creeping out of the room in his peripheral, but thinks nothing of it, really.
Not until Bill is stood in the doorway, cordless clutched to his chest, eyes shifting around and finally landing on Stan.
He can’t move. Instead, he just stays stuck to the sofa, hand draped over his friend’s lap, eyes fixed on Bill.
“It’s your dad,” he says after a while, eyes still anxiously flitting across the floor. His knuckles are white, Stan realises. He’s gripping the phone to his chest.
Everyone is watching him with a careful consideration. He feels his skin burning, all the eyes melting his flesh as he peels himself off the couch and follows Bill into the hallway.
Bill doesn’t leave for the entire conversation. Instead he hovers a few paces from Stan, rocking back and forth on his heels, watching. Always watching.
The conversation is short, but he’s shaking when he hangs up, finger fumbling over the receiver.
(“Where are you?”
“At Bill’s. I told mom yesterday, we’re just studying for this winter project-”
“Did you ask me?”
“Well, no, but you were out till late-”
“So did I give you permission?”
“No…”
“No what?”
“No, sir.”
“I thought you were meant to be a clever boy, Stanley. But look at you. Always getting yourself into trouble. Always being a let-down.”
“I’m so sorry-”
“Bill Denbrough’s house? I’ll be there in five.”)
They just watch each other for a minute. Bill doesn’t look worried, not anymore. Instead he looks sad, uncomfortable. Mostly he looks a sea away. Stan wants to reach out and pull him closer, like shipwreck survivors, but he can’t. The water is too deep and his arms won’t let him.
He thrusts the receiver back towards him. Waits for him to take it. Then, in a voice even he doesn’t recognise, he hears himself mumbling, “I gotta go.”
Neither of them move. Then; “I can wait outside with you.”
Stan swallows. Shakes his head. “No, thank you, Bill. Tell the others there was a…” he grapples around for an excuse but comes up empty.
Bill just nods, fingers tracing the phone gently. He opens his mouth to say something. Stan cuts him off.
“I’ll see you next Sunday, Bill.”
As it turns out, he doesn’t.
It’s his punishment, apparently, for deliberately breaking his curfew. No more Sundays with his friends. Complete isolation, Stan quickly realises, is the worst thing there is. His dad leaves the house daily for meetings, though Stan doesn’t know if they’re with his congregation or his mistress. That just leaves him, and his quiet mother, and the still house.
He picks up hobbies. Learns how to cook. Digs out his old tuba and rattles through sheet music. Crawls up to the attic and curls up in the window, watching birds dance around the tree in his garden. Sometimes, he feels like he’s going crazy, spending every day alone.
The nights ground him. His father has taken to coming home at seven, eating his tea with his family in utter silence. Anything sets him off nowadays. A meal that’s too cold. The scrape of a fork against a plate. The phone ringing.
Stan thought he had gotten used to the yelling. He quickly realises that it can still make him cry.
His friends call, during the day. Richie calls a lot, talking about sneaking through Stan’s window at night, bringing chocolate and Mountain Dew. He never does, and Stan doesn’t know whether to be upset or relieved.
Mike calls frequently, which surprises him at first. They never really talk, but Stan quickly learns that Mike is the best storyteller. He has a way with words, one that draws you in and makes you listen. It’s mesmerising.
Bill calls once, the first Monday of the holidays. Tells Stan they’re going to visit his uncle in Utah for the break. Stan pretends it doesn’t hurt him.
He spends the whole holiday pretending.
He’s already run off his feet by the time school starts again. He’s not sleeping most nights. At first he reasons it’s to fit in extra studying, to keep on top for when classes start again.
Then the last day before term restarts, he falls asleep at his desk. In his dreams his father stands over him. His face is misshapen, teeth sharpened, and he tears out a chunk from Stan’s arm. He can’t sleep, he realises. Not when there’s always a monster in his house.
“Are you okay?” Is the first thing Eddie says to him, leaning across to his desk in homeroom. Stan finds himself nodding, but when he does so he feels a little dizzy, so he stops.
Mike seems to share the concern. “You really don’t look well, Stan.”
He doesn’t want their concern, he realises as he scrubs at his eyes in the bathroom, trying to wake up. He wants their friendship, craves their love, but their concern? Their pity? The thought of it makes his skin writhe.
But he does look pale. He examines his reflection in the bathroom mirror and all he can notice is how greasy his hair looks under the light, or how sunken back his eyes are. He looks tired, haggard and done-for.
He looks like his father, he realises.
He promptly throws up into the sink.
Richie is waiting for him outside the bathroom, leaning against the wall, eyes surveying the corridor. He winces when he sees Stan, who is dragging his sleeve across his mouth.
“Wow,” he says, looking Stan up and down, “Eds was right. You do look like shit.”
Stan pulls a face, starting down the corridor, away from Richie and this conversation. Richie follows.
“Not saying it’s necessarily a bad thing. You could totally pull of the sexy vampire thing if you wanted to. For the record, I would fully support that,” Richie steps in front of him, cutting him off mid stride. He falters a little, grasping at the straps of his backpack with two hands.
“But the thing is,” Richie is saying and oh god, is he actually trying to look serious? That is not a good sign. “You don’t look sexy. You just look like you haven’t slept in a millennium.”
Stan doesn’t say anything. The embarrassment eating him up inside is already too much, he doesn’t need Richie to know he’s a coward, afraid of his own father. Or that he’s such a disappointment that his mom won’t even look at him.
Richie is waiting for an answer. He doesn’t get one. Instead he pushes his glasses up his nose. “Look, if you want to talk about it, I’m here. Or Bill, god knows he’s worried about you-”
“What?” Stan breaks his vow of silence. He knew Bill was worried, knew what he overheard in his own hallway, what he saw on that test paper. He didn’t know Bill told Richie, or anyone.
Richie must see the panic in Stan’s eyes, because he’s talking again, and much too fast. “I don’t know what’s going on there, but it doesn’t take a genius to realise Bill is worried about something, and I know it’s definitely not me for once, so it must be you, because I’ve seen the way he looks at you and even I don’t know what the fuck is going on.”
Stan’s mind is reeling with the weight of Richie’s words, and Bill’s eyes and Mike’s phone calls. He feels his shirt collar tightening around his neck, struggling for breath in the heat of the corridor.
“Beep beep Richie,” is all he can manage, shoving past his confused friend and out of the double doors that lead to the parking lot.
The conversation with Richie is nothing on that night.
The house is silent again. His mom is reading in her room, his dad is god knows where and Stan still feels like he’s suffocating. All he wants is some water, which is how he finds himself in the kitchen, downing glass after glass straight from the tap.
He needs it, so every time he empties a glass he fills another, knocking it back, glass after glass until he can’t feel his throat. All he can feel is water, cool and clear. It splashes against his skin and he flinches a little.
Then water isn’t enough. He finds himself crouched in front of his dad’s liquor cupboard, hand grasping the cheapest and strongest whiskey. He mixes it with the water straight from the tap and knocks it back. It scorches the back of his throat and he feels it. Tears sting at his eyes but he keeps drinking, sips turning into gulps until the glass is empty and he is reaching for another.
He never understood therapy. This he could get behind.
He should’ve heard the door open, but the water from the faucet was gushing too powerfully and he could hear nothing else. He downs the last bit on the drink. Feels the light from the hallway cut off, a shadow seeping through the room. He shivers involuntarily.
“Stanley?” He screws his eyes shut, faucet still running. He refuses to turn and look, already knowing what he’ll see. Instead he says nothing.
The shadow moves closer. The footfalls are heavily and Stan feels himself whimper. The sound results in a short laugh.
“That better not be what I think it is.” The voice is getting nearer. Stan can feel his legs buckle beneath himself as his nightmarish dream plays out behind his back.
“Oh, Stanley,” the shadow almost sounds soft as it grasps his shoulder and turns him around. He keeps his eyes firmly shut. “Don’t be such a girl. Look at me.”
His voice is soft, but insistent. Stan doesn’t obey.
“Look at me.”
He does. He has no choice. His eyes are barely open a second before all he can see is black.
A flash of pain as the palm collides with his cheek. Another as he slips and lands awkwardly on his arm.
It’s all so surreal. He’s laughing as he rolls over, cradling the arm crushed beneath him. His eyes are closed again. He doesn’t need to see this, he already knows what it looks like; anger, personified.
He deserves every second of this.
“Such a disappointment,” his father is saying. He can hear the creak of the liquor cupboard doors. The scraping as the Whiskey is returned to its rightful place. “I always knew you’d be a waste. Your mother used to call you sensitive, but that’s just code for pathetic, isn’t it?”
His father is laughing now. Stan isn’t anymore.
“I tried. I really did, Stanley. Your teachers said you were gifted, but apparently all children are gifted these days.”
Stan cracks an eye open. Finds his vision is blurred with tears. Closes it again.
“Knew I’d find you in my liquor cupboard someday. You always were like that. Attention seeking. Depressing.”
There’s a shuffle. His father, moving away from him. Leaving him to rot on the kitchen floor.
‘Did you really think after all this he’d actually care about you?’ a voice is saying. It belongs to Bill.
He whines again, tentatively touching his cheek. Wishes Bill was crouched in front of him right now, like he was that time he fell of his bike and cut his knee open.
No. He’s glad Bill isn’t here. He’s glad he can’t see how much of a fucking disappointment he is.
Instead, he pulls himself under the kitchen table and curls up. He stays there till morning.