Chapter Text

Holding It In

A Teen Stenbrough Fic

Warnings: Neglect, Abuse, Homophobic, Alcohol, Blood, Pre-established Death of a Family Member
Word Count: 4,293
Summary: How Stan and Bill confessed to each other at the sweet age of 17.

Over the past few months, especially in the prior weeks, Bill had been in a slump that he was determined not to express to the other losers. He thought of himself as a leader to them, even nearly four or five years after the incident. He wouldn't allow them to see that he was on the verge of a mental breakdown. No- he'd much rather have his inevitable episode in the comfort of his own bed at some obscene hour of the day where no one but him and maybe God (though he had his doubts that such a thing existed) could see.

He parked his car and reached to the passenger side to grab his backpack before hitting the garage remote for the door to open. He climbed out and threw the bag over his shoulders before entering through the garage. He walked past Silver without a second thought and began to make his way into the house, but he paused. He looked back over his shoulder and back at the bike. He hadn't rode it much since he got a car. After all it was easier to pack the others into his station wagon than everyone bike over to Mike's farm. He sighed and pushed the hair off of his face. It would've been easier if they were all 14 again.

He half considered mounting silver and riding down the block just for fun, but instead he continued into the house. He breezed through the fairly empty kitchen and past the piano. He paused again. Years ago his mother was a private music tutor and the chords would echo around the admittedly large house and Bill would have to tell Georgie, who only wanted to play tag or wrestle, to quiet down.

He swallowed hard. In recent years it had become significantly harder to recall what Georgie's laugh even sounded like. He sharply inhaled through his nose. He rocked on his heels for a moment, Converse quietly squeaking against the hardwood floor. After a moment, he dropped his backpack next to the piano and sat down on the bench. Even through his jeans the bench felt ice cold. He looked at the keys. He was used to playing Stan's piano, but his own was dusty from the lack of use. Carefully, he ran his finger tips across the keys before hastily wiping them on the side of his jeans.

He then placed his hands and closed his eyes, thinking of a piece his mother always taught students but he never could remember the name of. Muscle memory overtook him as notes began to echo through the downstairs area and he smiled to himself, remembering when he first learnt the song and how Georgie was only three years old, wobbly running around while their mother fretted over whether or not he'd bump his head.

As Bill was in his deepest daydream, a hand dug into his shoulder. His eyes shot open and he jumped, but the harsh grip kept him glued to the seat.

"Just what in the hell are you doing?"

Bill looked over to see his father's face. In just a matter of a few years, wrinkles and eye bags had taken over Zack Denbrough. His hair was more gray than blonde and his eyes had grown to match. For a while in the timeline of their lives, Bill and Zack didn't speak at all. In the past two years or so, that had changed but the conversations were typically aggressive and left a bad taste in Bill's mouth. He had a feeling their conversation would end no differently.

"I'm p-puh-laying p-"

"I can see that." He deadpanned, grip not lightening. "Why? You know your mother is resting."

Bill grabbed his father's wrist and forcefully removed his hand. "She's b-been 'resting' for three years!" He wanted to shut up, to just march to his room and quietly despair into the night, but his words were in motion and there was no stopping it. "When will she b-b-be done? I want my mom back!"

Bill looked up at his father, fists clenched, face flushed, chest heaving from his outburst. Zack looked taken back and pointed his finger in Bill's face. "You don't think she misses her son?"

Bill stood, wanting nothing more than to kick or scream or cry like a small child's tantrum. "She still has me!"

In an instant the piano bench was knocked over and Bill had his backpack over his shoulder, not noticing that his pocket sized leather journal had flung out of it in the process, and ran up the stairs. He made it into his room and slammed the door behind him, locking it, before he threw his backpack at the vanity in the corner, hearing the glass break. He felt tense in every fucking definition and collapsed into bed. His outburst barely held a fraction of relief for him. In fact, it nearly worried him more because he knew what his dad was like when angry. Bill's dad once took away his dinner just for bringing up Georgie's name.

He stretched out on his bed, feet hanging over the edge since he never got a new bed and he was a good 6 inches taller than three or four years ago. His bed spread smelled faintly of laundry detergent and his own cologne, but nothing that brought him comfort.

He lazily turned his head to the side and noticed a clutter of picture frames on his nightstand. He carefully reached over and pulled out one from right before Georgie died. It was of the original 4 sitting on a park bench. It was slightly blurry since Georgie himself had an unsteady tiny hand that took the picture. Richie was making a dumb face per usual, Eddie pouting, and in the center was Bill sitting on Stan's lap, Stan's arms wrapped around him. He remembered how nervous he was to take that picture.

As he got lost in his thoughts, a pounding began on the door. Bill, startled, dropped the picture and it hit the nightstand corner on the way down. He cursed as he heard the glass break and his father's voice protrude through the door.

Hesitantly, he stood and drew in a deep breath. He calmly walked over and opened the door but as soon as he did, he was shoved to the ground. It knocked the wind out of him with a wheeze as he looked up to see his father. His eyes widened in trepipity as his eyes landed on what his father was holding: his journal. Even worse, it was opened up to a very recent entry about Bill's feelings for Stan. It was plain as day, and the drawing of Stan on the left page, as Bill was predominantly left handed, made it even more so obvious.

Bill wanted to open his mouth and try to smooth out the explanation but there was no lie that could cover his tracks. There it was in paper and ink that Bill had a dirty little secret.

Zack ripped the pages from Bill's journal and let them flutter to the ground in a picturesque affliction. He screamed at Bill while all of Bill's thoughts and feelings and memories on nearly two years were destroyed before his very eyes.

Bill didn't realize he was moving but he was back on his feet and tore the journal away from his father before mustering all of his might and shoved Zack out of the room. Before he could draw in a breath, Bill pulled the door shut and locked both locks.

With the adrenaline and cortisol fading, Bill fell to his knees and shoved his the base of palms into his eyes. He couldn't break down now. He needed to pack his bag and get out for the night. Meticulously but quickly, he tried to arrange the journal pages in the right order but it was by no means perfect.

He turned on his radio to try and make his dad believe he was just lying in bed rather than packing his bags to escape to a place he wasn't sure of yet. He grabbed his backpack, careful not to touch the mirror shards, before grabbing some clothes and shoving them inside. He already had his wallet and a small amount of cash saved up in case he needed to get a motel for the night. He also had a fake ID, he had used it for liquor a few times, just in case he wasn't old enough to rent out a motel room. He wasn't sure how old you had to be for that.

He paused and took a breath. He decided to grab another notebook, a sketchbook, and some spare pencils. They weren't necessities by any means but maybe they'd help him relax. He walked to his closet to grab a hoodie, which he exchanged for his baseball tee, and threw his backpack over his shoulder.

He started walking to the window, but had two final thoughts. He crept back to the door and unlocked it. If his dad came back, he wanted his dad to see that he was gone. And then the pictures on his nighstand. He shoved all of them into his backpack before looking down at the one that broke earlier.

He knelt down and attempted to move the broken glass aside but cursed as he slit his thumb on a shard. With his other hand he successfully pulled out the photo. He slid it into his back pocket before flipping the hood over his head and he silently opened the window just enough to slide through.

He carefully shimmed his way through and sat on the shingles. He carefully scooted towards the tree near his window, careful not to snag his jeans on any nails. Once there he carefully reached his leg out and placed one of his feet in a spot where different branches well... branched out. He made sure he had a tight grip before moving his second foot onto a lower intersection of the tree. It was much harder considering it was getting dark outside and he had to feel around with his foot for a place to step.

Once he was only eight feet or so from the ground, he hang dropped. He landed with a small thud and shook his hand out, sore from gripping the bark for dear life. Carefully, he ducked into the garage and felt around in the dark until he found Silver.

He wrapped his hands around the handlebars and slowly dragged her from the garage. Her back tire was a little flat but it would have to do. He glanced upstairs to see all the lights turned off. He looked at the downstairs and through the curtains he could see the faint glow of the lamp next to his father's recliner.

Thank goodness Bill decided not to take the car. Not only was it recognizable by the odd shade of blue, but the wood paneling on the side gave it away as well. Bill drew in a breath, the fall air sending chills along his neck, and mounted his bike.

It wobbled slightly at first from the back tire being in a less than favorable state, but halfway down the street he gained hold of it. The bounce that came every time the wheel spun wasn't exactly ideal but Bill didn't sit on the banana seat anyhow. He stood while he pedaled, putting all his strength into it so that he could go faster than some cars.

Bill decided that he would bike a few towns over for a motel. It would maybe take half an hour and he was okay with that. So, he rode without thought, confident that he would end where he wanted. Instead, he focused on the stars and how the cool air hugged him better than his own father.

For the first time in a while, he felt good. He said what he wanted to, he shoved his father back, and he left his house, uncertain of whether or not he would hear back. For once, he welcomed the uncertainty.

Yet those thoughts faded as he found himself in a familiar area that was the opposite direction than where he originally intended. He stopped his bike in front of the towering Uris household- a spot where many memories had been made with the losers club over the years. While Donald was by no means the biggest fan of having the whole group over, Andrea Uris was very hospitable and welcoming of the group. She had even taught them a few curses in Italian, which Stan had complained about before because he preferred making fun of Richie without Richie knowing what he meant. Thankfully, Richie didn't pick up on any of it.

Bill wondered for a moment. Why did he ride there? Should he be there or should he turn around and go straight to Castle Rock for the night? He looked down at his wrist and moved his sleeve up to see his watch. It was already ten fifteen. By the time he would get to the motel and check in, it would be nearly eleven.

He sighed to himself and looked back up at the house. He carefully pulled into the driveway and parked his bike next to their garage before he snuck around back. It was too late to go to the door and he had snuck into Stan's window once or twice. Why not make it a second or a third?

Bill hopped the back fence with fairly little trouble and made his way over to the lattice leading up to Stan's shared balcony with his parents. He had to be careful not to wake up the parents.

Bill carefully climbed up, his foot slipping from the lattice a few times because the gaps were too small for him to get proper footing.

Once he made it to the railing of the balcony, he sat on it and grabbed some berries from a tree next to him. He carefully threw one at the glass door. He waited for a moment and there was nothing- the door's curtain remained stagnant and so did the door itself.

He silently started to question whether or not coming there was a good idea. Yet against his better judgment, he threw another berry at the door.

Nothing happened and just as he raised his arm to throw a third, it opened, light leaking out onto the balcony.

Bill felt all words and explanations clog up in his throat like a bad pipe. Stan, who was dressed in one of Bill's t-shirts that had disappeared a while back and a pair of sweats, opened the door. His hair was slightly ruffled from his pillow, but it still shone like gold.

He jumped slightly at seeing a lanky figure sitting on his balcony but breathed a sigh of relief as he realized it was Bill. The back of his mind bubbled with confusion but he simply crossed his arms below his chest and looked at the redhead. "Bill," he matter-of-factly hummed.

"H-hey," Bill sheepishly waved.

Stan's lips quirked up slightly upon seeing Bill's lightly blushing face and he turned around and walked back in silently.

Bill knew well that Stan's silence was an invitation inside. Bill carefully slid off of the railing and onto the wood of the balcony before taking a couple long strides inside.

Stan shut the balcony door behind him, locking it, and sat on the bed without a moment to spare. "You know the deal, shoes by the door then come sit."

Bill nodded and kicked off his Converse by the door, revealing mix match socks which Stan only rolled his eyes at.

He then came and sat on the bed, the opposite end as Stan, and hummed quietly. "So..."

Yet Stan beat him to it. He slid over to Bill's side and took Bill's hand into his own. "What'd you do to your hand?"

Bill looked down at Stan, smiling small, solemnly. "I cut it. I d-dropped a p-puh-icture f-frame and tried to clean it up." He stammered over his words slightly. Lately, his stutter was better, but the main exceptions were with his dad and being alone with Stan. The nerves made his speech patterns more unstable.

Stan scoffed slightly, but in a harmless manner. He reached into his nightstand, where Bill spotted lotion but immediately looked away so his face wouldn't go red. He instead busied himself by taking in the details of Stan's room most likely for the twelfth time. The walls were painted a serene light blue, so light they were almost white but still held a welcoming air. He had bookshelves organized by scripture, school, educational, texts and fiction. His dresser was a deep, warm brown and Bill could imagine everything inside folded to perfection.

Above Stan's headboard was a cork board with various photos and notes that his friends had written him over the years. Bill noticed that there's more notes from him than anyone else. He didn't know whether to be embarrassed or proud by the fact.

His thoughts were interrupted by a sudden sting on his thumb. He winced slightly and looked down to see Stan with a lap filled with first-aid supplies. Stan was also cleaning his cut with an alcohol soaked q-tip.

Stan looked up at Bill with slightly dilated green eyes. "Sorry, should've warned you."

"No it's f-fine," Bill mumbled, taking in Stan's details from the light in the room. The way the light cast on his eyes and made them glow to how his cupids bow was naturally highlighted or the light blush on the tips of his cheekbones all took Bill's breath away.

He looked away once again. He was in no state to think about that stuff.

Stan noticed Bill's inability to sustain eye contact and found it suspicious but he figured he would wait until after Bill was bandaged to begin any such conversation.

Stan pulled a bandaid from his tin, he was running low so all he had were rainbow colored ones, which was ironic on some level. He gently wrapped it around Bill's thumb and began to put the first-aid devices away.

Once done, he sat up straight and looked at Bill curiously.

"You know I never mind a visit with a friend, but when you sneak through my window after ten o'clock on a school night, it gives me the suspicion that something isn't okay."

Bill smiled for a moment, but the grin faded and he took his hood off. "I'm... not okay."

Stan moved to the side slightly so Bill had room next to him against the headboard. Bill did so and leaned his head against it. Stan looked up at him for a moment, admiring the sad beauty of William Denbrough. Bill had always been handsome. Even when he was young, mothers would always comment on what a handsome young man he was. At sixteen people at school stopped making fun of his ginger hair but instead oogled at him for his sharp jaw, full lips, and brilliant blue eyes. Yet for years Stan had witnessed the sadness that lingered in his face. Bill smiled a lot, but they were small smiles that only lasted for moments. He laughed, but not nearly as much as the others. And Stan could always see in Bill's eyes that his mind was in multiple places at one time. Stan noted the glazed, far-off look in Bill's eyes even more than usual.

He carefully slid his hand over Bill's and squeezed lightly. "You can tell me anything, Billy."

That's all it took for that façade that Bill built up to crumble. Bill covered his eyes with his hands as they flowed, thick, hot tears sliding down his face. He struggled to catch his breath and sniffle so he wouldn't start draining snot all over his face.

Stan wore a face of genuine concern as he reached behind Bill to gently rub his back. He leaned his head against Bill's shoulder. "It's okay," he whispered, "let it out. I'm here for you like you've always been for me. You wanna try breathing with me?"

Bill nodded, unable to speak through the sobs wracking his body.

"Okay. I want you to breathe in for one, two, three, four. Now hold for one, two, three, four. Exhale, one, two, three, and four. Hold, one, two, three, four."

Stan calmly walked him through the process a few times over until Bill was stable enough to speak.

"Now, tell me what's wrong and if it's because of someone I'll kick their ass." Stan chuckled quietly and looked at Bill.

Bill sniffled and smiled small to himself. "It's a lot."

"Well I'm ready to listen as long as you need me to."

Bill hesitated for a moment. Would it be too much if he asked to rest his head on Stan's lap? He had done it before but not while in such a fragile state. But, he considered, any time Stan played with his hair it helped calm him down.

Bill glanced at him. "Would you mind playing with my hair? I think that'll keep me slightly more stable."

Stan was slightly taken aback by it but simply crossed his legs and put a pillow in his lap. Bill slowly laid back and giggled sheepishly when he looked up to see Stan's eyes peering down at him.

Stan smiled as his hand slid through Bill's locks.

Bill finally properly began to explain what was up.

"I m-miss how things used to be. I miss having G-Georg-gie at home. Every day it's harder to remember the sound of his voice... of his laugh..." he sniffled slightly. "And I miss having a m-m-mom. She hardly speaks or eats. She's like a shell of herself. I miss the mom who would encourage me and tell me she loves m-m-me every d-day."

Stan knew what Bill had meant. He had went to Bill less times than he could count on one hand and Mrs. Denbrough always had a lost, hopeless look in her eyes. Stan couldn't imagine how difficult it would be to have Andrea be remotely like that.

Bill's breath started to hitch again as tears left his eyes. "To make it even worse, I f-f-f-f..." he drew in the best breath he could manage, "feel so f-fucking insecure. My entire life my d-dad has made the most repulsive claims about gay p-people!"

Panic very briefly flashed amongst Stan's features but it was gone just as soon as it came. He cupped Bill's face supportingly. He wondered if Bill was going to say it.

"How is that s-suh-puh-posed to make m-me feel?"

Stan's mind was racing. Was that Bill's version of coming out to him? Was Bill coming out or upset that his dad didn't support the gay losers? Stan hadn't come out but he hadn't exactly seemed interested in dating a girl. Eddie wasn't out either but his pinky ring was a maybe not-so-hidden sign.

"I b-broke up," he struggled to take a breath, "with B-Bev ',cause I liked a guy."

"Oh Bill." Stan gently pushed the hair back from Bill's forehead. "It's okay. I know things suck, but you're not the only one, okay? It's okay to like other boys."

Bill opened his mouth to say something but Stan decided he may as well come clean. He thought that it would maybe help Bill feel better. "I'm gay."

Bill froze completely for a moment. His throat dried and he carefully sat up, once again above Stan. "You are?"

Stan nodded and folded his hands atop the pillow in his lap. "Yeah, I am."

Bill looked at Stan, his mind numb. He was so overstimulated by his thoughts that he almost felt nothing. He placed a hand on Stan's cheek, palm open and feeling the smooth skin. Stan looked curious and slightly flustered at the gesture despite doing it to Bill dozens of times. Then before Bill really absorbed how risky his next move was, he leaned in and pressed his lips against Stan's.

Stan's eyes widened and he closed his eyes, lips seeming to melt against Bill's, but Bill pulled away so fast it made the bed rock and the floor squeak.

Bill looked away and started to get up to go towards the door and get his shoes. "I'm s-s-sorry I shouldn't-"

Stan's arms snaked around Bill's waist and he pressed his cheek to Bill's back. "Don't go," Stan mumbled.

Bill froze for a moment before sitting back down. His eyes were watering again, but this time with relief. For just a moment, he was petrified that Stan wouldn't reciprocate those feelings or even hate Bill for it. Yet the grip around his torso said otherwise. Bill turned around in his grip and tilted Stan's chin up to see a rather smug looking Stan.

Bill opened his mouth to speak but Stan quickly shut him up by pressing their lips together. Bill melted into it much like Stan during their first kiss, and pushed Stan back onto the mattress.

Stan smiled coyly at him. "Feeling better?"

Bill returned the smile but turned sincere. "Thank you... you're always there for me."

Stan looped his arms around Bill's neck. "And I will continue to be as long as you allow me." He gently pulled Bill down further. "Now," he began, "kiss me."