Chapter Text
Stan wakes up in a hospital. He knows instantly that’s where he is despite having spent nearly no time in Derry town’s shitty hospital; the sight is unmistakable. The blinding white light flickering above his head is so headache inducing that it can only be a hospital.
There’s a dull ache behind his eyes like a nail being hammered into his skull, and when he tries to bring his hand up to massage his temples, he finds himself all caught up in wires. His heart pounds unsteadily in his chest and the beeping on the monitor next to his bed spikes suddenly. Stan swallows, wincing; his mouth is so dry that just the bobbing of his throat feels like he’s swallowing sand.
Stan figures that, despite the pain his whole body seems to be in, there are worse places to be. At least his hospital bed will be relatively clean– he hopes. What if they didn’t clean the sheets before they put him in this bed? What if he’s been lying here unconscious for weeks and weeks, unable to wash himself?
Stan lifts his head up as far as he can manage and looks down at his own body. Most of it is covered by a thin, scratchy hospital blanket, but his arms are resting limply above it, bandages wrapped tightly around both of his wrists. If he squints, Stan can see the dark stain of what he did to himself.
“Stanley?” Says a quiet, soft voice to his right. He recognises the sound of his mother instantaneously. She sounds so scared, so hurt, so betrayed, that Stan feels another psychical pain in his chest. It’s bad enough that he tried this in the first place, but it’s worse that he failed.
“Mom,” the first time he tries to say it his voice fails him, and he ends up falling back against the bed, body wracked by heaving coughs. When he tries again, his mom is already leaning over the bed with a glass of cool water pressed to his lips. It feels like salvation as it slides down his throat. Stan can breathe again.
“Mom…” he tries again, not sure what to say. He wants to apologise, to say that he didn’t mean it, but that would be a lie. He wants her to say that she can make it all better just like she always did when he messed up as a child. He wants her to stroke his hair back and sing him to sleep.
“Shh,” she comforts him, and it’s so familiar, so safe, that Stan could cry. “I’m here, baby. You’re okay now. You can sleep.”
Stan isn’t entirely sure what she means until he realises that his eyes are slipping shut and her voice is bouncing around in his head like an echo in a tunnel. He doesn’t know how long he’s been unconscious for but it seems surprising that he’s so eager to sleep as soon as he’s woken up.
It’s impossible to fight, though, so Stan lets the sound of his mother’s voice guide him down.
***
When he next wakes up his head feels a little clearer, and it’s a good thing too.
He’s alone now, and his room seems even smaller and emptier than before. It’s lifeless in a way that it wasn’t whilst his mother was still in here with him. Stan feels his bottom lip tremble and he wills himself to keep a straight face, to not cry as soon as he’s awake again. Who knows what they’re going to think of him now, what they’re going to make him do, where they’re going to send him…
There’s a commotion outside his door, and Stan lets his head loll on the pillow to get a better look. The machinery is blocking out most of his view so he can’t properly see what’s going on, but they’re speaking loudly enough that Stan easily recognises the voice. He thinks he’d recognise that voice anywhere.
“Just let me in, please!” Bill cries, his voice creeping closer to the frustrated tone Stan remembers, tinged with desperation, drenched with guilt. “Just for five minutes? I won’t wake him up if he’s sleeping. I just want to see him.”
The other voice is quieter, more subdued; Stan can’t work out who they are or what they’re saying, but he’s too busy panicking about Bill showing up out of nowhere to take him by surprise.
Although, is it really a surprise if Stan has no idea how long he’s been unconscious? Bill said he was coming back for Christmas break– is it that time already? Did Bill come back and show up at his house, expecting to find Stan there waiting for him, only to discover his boyfriend had been hospitalised for trying to fucking kill himself?
Ex boyfriend, he reminds himself. He broke up with Bill. God, what had he been thinking? He should have waited. He should have at least held off until the wound had scabbed over a little and Bill didn’t care so much about his stupidly high maintenance ex boyfriend. Then Stan could have done this without making too much of an impact. As it is, he’s now culpable for any pain he caused Bill, any guilt he’s feeling. God, Stan couldn’t even get this right.
“Don’t tell me to leave, I’m not fucking leaving until I see him!” Bill yells, once echoing through the corridor outside. Stan’s breathing hitches and the heart monitor to the side of his bed beeps, unexpectedly out of rhythm. The hallway falls deadly silent all of a sudden and Stan sinks back into his pillows, feeling, for some odd reason, like he wants to crawl under his covers and hide from the monster under his bed.
This time, the only monster is Stan himself.
There’s a flurry of movement then: the quieter voice murmurs something and there’s no response before footsteps start heading in his direction. Stan curls his fingers to clutch at the covers tightly before pain spikes through his arm and makes his head throb. Idiot, he tells himself.
A nurse appears in his doorway. She’s young, with kind eyes and a soft smile. Stan wonders if she smiles like that for all the patients, or just the ones that try to off themselves.
“Hey there,” she approaches confidently, like she knows what she’s doing, and for whatever reason it eases Stan’s nerves. He lets her fiddle with the machinery and check on his reflexes before his morbid curiosity gets the better of him and he has to blurt it out.
“Was that Bill?” He asks, even though it isn’t the question he wants to ask. He wants to ask what she said, how long he’s been there, what he’s told her, what he’s told Stan’s parents…
He can’t ask any of that. All he can do is stare up at her with wide, baleful eyes as he waits for her to answer.
“I told him he could only come in if you wanted to see him.” She tells Stan, glancing over her shoulder and out of the window to where Bill is still waiting, tapping his foot against the floor in anxious anticipation. He appreciates her looking out for Stan’s best interest, but now he’s left with a horrible decision to make.
He wants to see Bill. He really, really wants to see him. There’s nothing he would find more comforting right now than sinking into Bill’s arms, resting against his chest and listening to his heartbeat. Bill always knew how to calm him down after he had a panic attack or during a particularly bad episode.
But how can he ask for Bill to come here and comfort him after what he did? Shame curdles in his stomach and he can feel his cheeks heating up with a humiliated flush. This woman knows what he did. His parents know. Bill knows. They’ve all seen just how weak Stan is. He’d promised Bill he wouldn’t let the thoughts get too bad, but he hadn’t even lasted three months before they got so bad he tried to kill himself. He’s made himself a liar.
And God, how can he even think about facing Bill after that phone call? At the time, Stan had been convinced it was the right thing to do, and part of him still thinks that. He couldn’t have done what he did with Bill still acting as his doting boyfriend. He needed to give Bill some closure if nothing else.
But doing it over a phone call? Bill had begged and pleaded: he’d been close to crying, and Stan had hung up on him, had refused to listen or give him a chance to speak. He knows Bill’s fears and insecurities about losing loved ones, but he’d done it anyway.
Stan really is the monster here.
“Don’t let him in,” Stan pleads. “I can’t see him right now. Please make him go away.”
The woman nods and smiles again, sadly this time, like she won’t enjoy delivering the bad news. He feels guilty all over again - some other person’s life you’re fucking up, can you do nothing right? - but he swallows past the bile in his throat and closes his eyes.
“He said that?” Bill’s voice is considerably quieter when it comes next, like he’s had all the air punched out of him and now he’s in the process of deflating. There’s another murmur of affirmation and then retreating footsteps, slow and heavy. Stan closes his eyes against the tears that build. Two of them slip down his cheeks anyway, one on either side. It takes him a long time to fall asleep.
***
Richie slips in a few minutes after Stan’s mom leaves the room, on the third day of Stan being conscious. He isn’t expecting it, but he’s also pleasantly surprised to find he doesn’t want to shrivel up in shame and die like how the thought of seeing Bill had made him feel, so he doesn’t object when Richie sits down in the chair next to his bed.
“Dude, it’s been hell getting in here.” Richie complains straight away. It’s comforting for him to act as though nothing has changed, if a little obvious. “Your mom wouldn’t let me anywhere near you.”
“M’not surprised.” Stan mumbles, his voice a little croaky from being out of use for so long. “She’s hated you ever since my bar mitzvah.”
Richie grins, a slow, steady smile that spreads from left to right. He’s pleased Stan is playing along with the game.
“Maybe, Stanny, but it won your heart and that’s all that matters.” Richie tells him, voice high pitched as he leans over to squeeze Stan’s cheeks. Stan jerks backwards, grinning despite himself.
“Don’t touch me,” he grumbles, a parody of what he might have said genuinely a few years earlier. “I don’t know where you’ve been.”
“That’s for sure.” Richie waggles his eyebrows up and down. Stan cringes in mock disgust.
“Hey, listen man.” Richie says suddenly. His tone isn’t serious exactly, because Richie doesn’t really know how to be serious, but it’s different to how it was a second ago. There’s a certain level of forced casualness now has Stan on the edge of his metaphorical seat, waiting for the punchline.
“I know it must suck not being able to see my gorgeous bod all day every day,” Richie continues, hand trailing down his chest faux provocatively. “But it’s not a matter of life or death. I can sext you whenever you want, honey bear.”
Stan rolls his eyes, but his lips twitch up into a small smile. He gets what Richie is trying to say, and it’s a relief that he’s saying it in such a roundabout way. Stan doesn’t think he could handle Richie of all people telling him that he fucked up.
“You’re gross, Richie. See if you can grow some facial hair and then maybe I’ll consider it.” Stan replies, holding up a weak arm to poke Richie’s side. He squeals and curls up to protect himself.
“If you weren’t literally attached to a heart monitor right now, you’d so be going down.” Richie threatens, but he ruins the fear factor by giggling his way through the sentence. Stan is just beginning to relax and accept Richie being here, being the first Loser to see him after the incident, when he hears a muffled cough from nearby and his mother’s voice slowly getting closer.
“Shit,” Richie stands up suddenly. “I better go before your mom sees me. Mornings after are so awkward, y’know?”
“Get out of here, you pervert.” Stan finds himself properly laughing for the first time in so long, smiling so wide that his cheeks hurt. Richie blows him a kiss, salutes aggressively and ducks out of the door. Stan counts to five before his mother enters, tucking her phone into her pocket.
“Was that Richie Tozier I saw just now?” She asks, mouth thinning into a fake smile that Stan can only find hilarious now. “Such a nice boy. I wonder what he’s up to these days…”
***
Therapy sucks, Stan decides, but not as much as he thought it would suck before he started.
His therapist is a middle aged man with a bald spot and a pair of thin framed glasses perpetually hanging off the edge of his nose. He always seems very friendly and happy to see Stan, except when he’s forcing Stan to take his meds. Then he can be a terrifying, unopposable force.
It isn’t that Stan forgets. When asked to start a new routine, Stan rarely forgets anything about it. It’s just the way he’s wired. He just… doesn’t like the new meds he’s supposed to take. He doesn’t like the obnoxious blue colour, he doesn’t like the shape that makes them uncomfortable to swallow and he doesn’t like the fact that they’re supposed to cure his depression because he couldn’t do that himself.
To Stan, his new pills are a sign of his failures, a sign that he is not and may never be normal. Whenever he asks how long he’ll have to continue taking them for, his doctor avoids his question or says something like ‘however long you need to’. Stan knows she’s just trying to help, but it makes him feel like shit.
He has to take the pills two times a day, one at breakfast and one with his dinner. Stan has always kept a regular meal schedule and being in a hospital has helped him keep that up, but swallowing down the pill after he’s finished everything on his plate is his least favourite part of the day.
He has to go to one-on-one therapy every other day, which gives him an opportunity to bitch about everything that’s pissed him off so far. Karl says it’s normal to be angry in his situation, but that it’s important he turns his anger into something positive rather than something self destructive, lest they have a repeat incident.
Therapy also gives him an opportunity to talk about Bill. Stan supposes there are a lot of issues surrounding that one - his parents’ disapproval, Bill’s seeming disinterest in him, Stan’s unhealthy codependency - but the thing their sessions always circle back to is the phone call.
“Could Bill have said anything to change your mind?” Karl will ask, tilting his head understandingly.
“No,” Stan will reply. “At that point, my mind was made up.”
“So why did you call him first?” Karl will continue, a little like a cross examination but less unfriendly. “Why not give him that peace of mind for a little longer?”
“Because I’m selfish,” Stan won’t say. “And if I was going to die, I wanted his voice to be the last thing I heard.”
“To try and give him closure,” Stan will say, and Karl will smile because they both know that was a lie, like he knows exactly what is going through Stan’s head. It’s a step in the right direction, Stan thinks, that he’s even acknowledging these things at all.
So, yeah, overall therapy still sucks, but it has its highlights.
***
Ben and Beverly are the next Losers to appear. Stan can’t help but feel a little devastated that Bill hasn’t tried to come back yet, but he tells himself it’s for the best. He isn’t ready to see Bill yet, and maybe Bill just isn’t ready to see him either.
Stan is a little worried at first that things will be awkward, What with the latest development in their relationship, but being with Ben and Beverly now is just like it used to be. There’s nothing uncomfortable about the way they interact. They just hold hands a lot more now, and honestly it’s cute. Stan is glad they’re happy. It’s a lot easier to be genuinely happy for someone when they’re showing you they love you.
Maybe that makes Stan a bad person. Maybe he’ll bring that up with Karl in their next session.
“Hey, loser.” Bev says after a few beats of empty, awkward silence. Stan can read the discomfort in the tense lines of her body, her stiff posture in the chair next to his bed. Ben looks marginally better, but his smile doesn’t meet his eyes. Stan feels a sudden rush of guilt and he’s afraid for a moment that this morning’s breakfast will come back up again.
“What’s up, Marsh?” Stan replies in a similar tone, one that probably sounds just as uncomfortable. His smile softens into something a little more relaxed when he turns to Ben. “Ben, hey. Congratulations, by the way. Who made the first move?”
Ben opens his mouth to say something but Bev interrupts, voice brash and panicked. Stan blinks, startled, as Ben watches reproachfully. “No dice, Uris. You want to know the whole story, you’re gonna have to get out of here first.”
At first Stan doesn’t know what to think. He feels vaguely embarrassed, sure, and even more ashamed of himself than he did before, but also oddly touched by her utter conspicuousness.
All he can think of to say in that moment is, “Have you been spending too much time with Tozier?”
Bev snorts, a surprised, explosive sound that probably shocks her just as much as it does Stan or Ben, who shakes his head before reaching into the rucksack half open on his lap.
“Before you complain,” Ben starts carefully, holding up a bunch of sheets of paper for Stan to skim over. “Just know that we had to go see all of your teachers to go and collect all of your homework. I think we’ve suffered enough.”
Stan wants to throw his head back and groan, roll his eyes and complain like they’re probably expecting him to, like he would if he were putting on an act. But he’s tired of putting on an act all the time, and he’s too exhausted to fake a reaction anymore. The corner of his mouth tilts up in a small, sad smile.
“Thanks, guys.” He says. As he reaches out to take the papers, he notices Bev cross eyeing the bandages around his arms. Stan flushes, heat colouring his cheeks.
“Your mom thought it might be a good idea for you to…” Ben trails off, clearly not knowing how to complete that sentence. Ben knows what he means. Karl said the same thing.
“She didn’t like my smoking weed idea. Go figure, huh?” Bev rolls her eyes. It gets a laugh out of Stan, which makes her beam excitedly, eyes shining. There’s a few seconds where she pretends to cough and wipes the back of her hand across her eyes; Ben wraps an arm around her waist until she’s back to normal, looking suspiciously close to tears himself. Stan’ heart aches.
“So,” Bev starts, fingers tapping against her knees in an irregular rhythm. “We’ve got to give you all the gossip. Richie has done so much shit that you need to hear about.”
Stan lies back on his pillows and just listens.
***
Talking to his parents is considerably harder. Stan can’t seem to conjure up the words to explain how he was feeling, what he was thinking, when he did what he did. In the same way, his parents don’t seem to know how to act around him anymore. His mom cries a lot, clutches his hand and tells him that they both love him so much. It makes Stan tear up every time.
His father is much more complicated. For as long as Stan can remember, he and his dad have been at odds about one thing or another. His sexuality, Bill, his plans after graduation… all of them were under fire at one point or another. Now it’s as though his father thinks he can’t talk about anything lest he incite another incident. Stan hates it.
What happened wasn’t his father’s fault, and whilst he would appreciate having to deal with less scrutiny on a day to day basis, he doesn’t want it to happen because of this. God, is it bad if he says he doesn’t want anything to change? Stan knows that’s an impossible goal but he can’t help wondering, just briefly, if he couldn’t make it work somehow. He could tell everyone that this has just been one big prank– Stanley Uris commit suicide? Don’t be ridiculous! What a joke, he wouldn’t have the guts.
In the end it doesn’t matter. His father remains a distant, intimidating figure with whom Stan can’t hold a conversation to save his life. Things with his mother have been improving rapidly since they had a long, heartfelt conversation about Stan’s Feelings, but any such attempt with his father would lead to an awkward, stagnant lull.
A few hours after one of Stan’s therapy sessions, his father turns up. It’s usually his mother, or they come together, but this time she had a shift at work and she’s already had enough time off because of him, Stan had encouraged her to go to work. He’s kind of regretting it now though, because it leaves him and his father sitting in contemplative silence until visiting hours are over.
Or at least, that’s how Stan expects it to happen. That’s how it’s happened with his father until now. He’s not anticipating any change– but a change is exactly what he gets.
The first nudge of his father’s hand against his own has Stan startling, whipping his head round as though he’s scared of the contact. His father flushes and looks down almost angrily, but he doesn’t move his hand, which only serves to confuse Stan further.
“You know,” he says suddenly, voice gruff with feigned indifference. “When you were a little boy, probably seven or eight, you always used to run off. Wherever we took you, even if it was just to the local baseball field, you used to try your hardest to get away from us.” Stan pretends not to notice how he reaches up and brushes a tear from his cheek.
“Your mom and I figured you were too old for one of those child harness things. What would the neighbours have thought, right? But in the end it wasn’t necessary. All it took was me holding your hand.” At this, he reaches out and settles his palm over Stan’s limp hand. It’s not so much a decision as it is an offering: Stan can pull away or he can hold his father’s hand, wipe away his own tears or let them be seen for what they are.
Stan knows that the truth hurts, but sometimes it’s the only option. He flips his palm upwards so that he can clasp his father’s hand, hold it tight and swallow past the lump in his throat. Some change just takes time, Stan thinks.
“I wonder,” Stan’s father says, dreamily, as though speaking to himself. “When I stopped holding your hand. I wonder.”
***
To Stan’s surprise, Eddie and Mike show up together. He isn’t sure why exactly it surprises him, other than Stan’s own, probably flawed, belief that Eddie was more friendly with Richie and Mike was more friendly with Bill and himself.
Then he realises that Mike can’t visit with Bill because Stan won’t let Bill in, because he’s a terrible boyfriend, a terrible friend and a terrible person. That alone is enough to get their visit off to a bad start. Then they pull out his homework.
“Dude, this is why you should never take days off school.” Eddie speaks at an impossible speed, and it’s a relief to see someone else acting normally. “It’s just not worth it, y’know? Look at all this goddamn algebra! I can’t believe you enjoy this shit.”
“Enjoy probably isn’t the right word.” Stan speaks with a fond smile. Thankfully, before he and Eddie can get into it over the merits of math in general, Mike lays a hand on Eddie’s shoulder.
“The objective is to cheer him up, Eddie.” Mike grins, but underlying his words is a wave of anxiety, nerves that he’ll say the wrong thing. The unspoken end to his sentence has Stan’s lips twitching upwards despite himself, and it seems to set Mike at ease which is a good thing.
“So you brought my schoolwork? Dude, just pull the plug now.” Stan quips, propping himself up on his pillows again. It’s good to see these two again. Eddie is still short and angry, Mike is still tall and soothing; it’s a relief to see that not everything has changed in his absence.
“You’re not hooked up to a plug, dumbass. It would be much nicer to have a lethal injection into an IV or something. Go out in style, y’know?” Eddie’s motormouth seems a little rustier than usually, a little stilted, like he’s holding himself back. Stan can’t resent him for it. He wouldn’t know how to act in this situation either.
“So, like, how’s college?” Stan asks, scratching idly at the scars on his wrists, his bandages had come off the other day and ever since he’s been mesmerised by them, the way the skin puckers into a thin white line. It makes him feel sick to his stomach but, like a car crash waiting to happen, he can’t drag his eyes away.
“Like school, but there’s more work and you get drunk more often.” Mike grins at Stan.
“Speak for yourself,” Eddie interrupts, then jerks his thumb at Mike. “Party monster. Who would’ve guessed? Him, Bev and Richie are the worst designated sober friend, for real.”
“Let it go!” Mike laughs. Stan can’t help but giggle along with them. With his friends in front of him like this, happy and spending time with him, it’s hard to be angry or jealous of them. “It was one time! And Bill got you home safe anyway.”
Stan’s grin dies on his face. He’s been trying his best not to think about Bill or he’d be doing it obsessively; he desperately wants to see him but how can he? After everything he put Bill through, after what he did, how can he ever look him in the eye again?
Eddie and Mike shift uncomfortably, sensing the sudden change of atmosphere. Mike wraps a hand around his stomach and digs his nails into his other arm, a nervous gesture that he hasn’t been able to shake since childhood. At least some things stay the same, he thinks, even if they’re the bad things.
“Have you, like, spoken to Bill recently?” Eddie asks cautiously. Stan knows they know that he hasn’t, because he can picture Bill getting drunk and complaining about it, getting teary and frustrated. In some ways, that’s infinitely preferable to him bottling it all up, for whatever reason.
“Not… recently.” Stan tells them, eyes cast down. He feels, perhaps irrationally, perhaps not, that they can just look at him and know all the terrible things he has done. He wants to pull the blanket over his head and disappear forever.
“Is there– I mean, not to pry, obviously, but is there any particular… reason? He’d really like to see you, I think, whenever you’re ready.” Mike tells him. He doesn’t sound angry or judgemental or anything else that would make Stan cringe in shame and embarrassment, but that’s only because Mike is too nice. He always has been. If any one of his friends weren't as kind as they are, it would be a different story entirely.
“I just…” to Stan’s utter humiliation, his bottom lip trembles whenever he tries to speak. He catches it between his teeth and takes a slow, steady breath. “I’d like to see him, yeah.” Stan says, hoping his voice doesn’t waver. “It’s just– I was a real asshole to him. Y’know, before.”
Eddie and Mike exchange a very unstable glance before Eddie sighs and perches on the edge of Stan’s bed. He reaches out to take Stan’s hand, and Mike takes the other. A fat tear rolls down Stan’s cheek and he exhales shakily, chest heaving.
“Stan, dude.” Eddie says in a soft, tender voice that he only uses in the direst of situations. “There is no right and wrong in this situation, okay? If it was Bev or Richie or even me in that bed, you wouldn’t hate us for it, would you?”
“Of course not.” Stan breathes, words almost inaudible. He wonders if they can feel his pulse racing in the palm of his hand.
“See? Stan, Bill doesn’t think you’re an asshole. He thinks he’s the asshole. And he misses you.”
“Listen,” Mike takes over, shuffling closer. There’s no room for him on the bed but Stan feels his closeness as if they were hugging. “Whatever you want to do, we’ll support you. But ignoring Bill won’t make the problems disappear, okay? You’ll just be down a friend into the shitty bargain.”
Stan nods slowly, contemplatively. He squeezes their hands in turn, a silent thank you that he wouldn’t be able to say out loud without crying. They smile back at him, and he knows they get the message, knows that they feel the same no matter how far away they are.
“Guys,” He says, extricating a half to wipe across his wet eyes. “I think I’d like to talk to Bill.”
***
Bill takes Stan’s breath away as soon as he walks in the door. Stan has seen him over FaceTime and has heard his voice over the phone - one time too many, a vindictive voice in the back of his mind whispers - and of course he’s flicked through his old pictures of Bill three times a day since he left, but nothing compares to actually seeing Bill in person.
In the flesh, right in front of him, Bill is hopelessly safe, wonderfully familiar. Stan had been afraid that he would walk in the room a complete stranger, but he’s the same old Bill that Stan had fallen in love with. He’s a little taller, a little broader, his hair a little longer, but he’s still Bill. He still has the same pinched expression as always when he gets worried, he still has the same breathtaking smile.
“Stan,” Bill clenches his jaw so hard that Stan can see the muscle in his cheek ticking. He takes a few staggering steps towards the bed and then stops as though re-evaluating and deciding that he should probably hang back. Stan’s heart aches in his chest.
“Hey, Bill.” Stan smiles hopefully, eyes misting with tears already. God, he thought he’d be able to get over this but he’s fucked it up already. He really is pathetic.
The sight of Stan in the hospital bed appears to be too much for Bill; Stan isn’t an idiot, he knows how he looks with the bandages off and his hair plastered to his sweaty forehead. He just hadn’t realised it would affect Bill in such a strong way.
In some strange, sick way, Stan feels a little better. Bill still cares about him, still wants something to do with him. That’s better than him hating Stan and only showing up to berate him for breaking them up over the phone.
“How are you feeling?” Bill asks, taking a tentative seat at Stan’s side. He keeps his legs pressed together and clasps his hands in his lap. He’s the one thing Stan never wanted him to be: uncomfortable. Uncomfortable around Stan.
“Good, yeah. Better. Less tired now, y’know?” Stan laughs a little stiffly. Bill nods and stares at his shoes, throat bobbing up and down. His features twitch, barely noticeable but still an expression of panicked anxiety.
“That’s good,” Bill nods encouragingly. He sounds too enthusiastic to be genuine. Stan can’t stand the awkward tension between them; he hadn’t been planning to cave so soon, had been hoping if they just ignored the elephant in the room that they could get on like they always used to, but with Bill right in front of him…
He can’t not.
“Bill, I’m so sorry.” He says, in a rush to get the words out. “I’m so sorry, I never meant to hurt you. I should never have made that fucking call. I– I made a mistake. All of this was just a mistake, okay? I thought I wanted this but I really don’t–”
“Stan!” Bill cries, looking up for the first time since he sat down. It takes Stan off guard: Bill has tears in his eyes and he looks at Stan like he’s imploring him. Stan would do anything he wanted, if he just knew how Bill was feeling.
“Don’t do that,” he continues. “Don’t lie to me. I love you, Stan, and I’m never going to stop loving you. And if you still want to break up then I’ll respect that, I p-promise.”
“I don’t–” Stan tries to speak but Bill isn’t finished yet. He talks over Stan’s interruption with only the slightest shake in his voice.
“But please, please don’t lie to me Stan. This wasn’t a mistake. This was– you wanted to do this, didn’t you? I just– you promised you’d talk to me if it got bad again, Stanley. If you never want to talk to me again then I get it, but please talk to someone. I don’t know what I’d do if this– if it happened again.”
Bill sits back in his seat, exhausted, chest heaving like he’s just run a marathon. It probably feels like that, Stan reasons. It took Bill years to conquer his stutter and he still speaks slowly and in short, staccato sentences to avoid slipping up. That probably took an immense amount of effort and concentration on Bill’s part.
Stan swallows, his throat rough and stinging with tears. He doesn’t know how to reply to that in a way that won’t make him seem even more of an asshole, and he can only apologise so much before it starts to seem disingenuous.
“You’re right,” he says slowly, picking his words carefully like he’s always seen Bill do. “I’m sorry. I won’t lie to you, Bill. I don’t– I don’t ever want to lie to you. I should have told you, or at least someone. It just…”
Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t fucking cry–
“It just sucked, okay? I just wanted everything to slow down. I’m sorry.” Tears spill down his cheeks and he lets out a small sound of frustration, clenching his hands into fists around the duvet.
“Stop apologising,” Bill tells him, and now he’s crying too and Stan never wanted that. He never really wanted to make Bill upset, never wanted to make him cry. “I don’t want you to apologise. I just want you to promise.”
Stan peers up at him with wet eyes, wondering how Bill can ever trust Stan’s promises again after this. But he isn’t backing down or changing his mind, he isn’t telling Stan he hates him. Could it be that… Stan hasn’t fucked everything up quite yet?
“I promise,” Stan whispers, suddenly realising how close they are since Bill started to cry. He must have been gravitating towards, pulled by the same kind of invisible string that always draws Stan to Bill. “I promise, Bill.”
He really means it as well.
Then he leans forward and kisses Bill on the mouth.
Bill doesn’t jerk backwards in disgust or anything like that so Stan doesn’t see it as a failure, exactly. He does kiss back, which is wonderful, but he does so chastely. He doesn’t try to add tongue or taste Stan, which he usually does, even if they aren’t about to get each other off. Instead he keeps his lips closed and brings a hand up to stroke his knuckles down Stan’s cheek, a gesture so familiarly tender that it brings another wave of tears to Stan’s eyes.
“I love you,” Stan whispers against Bill’s lips once they’ve separated.
“I love you too,” Bill replies on a sigh, and Stan can hear the ‘but’ coming before he even opens his eyes. “But I think we should wait until things are back to normal.”
“What do you mean?” Stan asks in a small voice, in place of asking, ‘don’t you want me?’
Bill wets his lips and presses his forehead to Stan’s. “Just that it’s been crazy stressful for you lately. We definitely need to talk about things. A lot of things. And I don’t think a hospital is the best place to do that.”
Stan wants to complain because he wants to hear Bill say ‘I love you’ again, but he gets where he’s coming from. A hospital is neither the most romantic nor appropriate place to have a serious conversation about your relationship, what with nurses coming in every five minutes to check up on him. Besides, his parents will be coming back any minute now; his relationship with them has steadily been improving since the non-conversation he had with his father, and he doesn’t want to put that under strain by presenting Bill to them all over again.
“Okay,” Stan agrees in the end, sneaking one more quick kiss before he pulls away and settles against the pillows. “Okay, later. We’ll talk.”
“We’ll talk,” Bill agrees, taking Stan’s hand, and he starts to smile.
***
Going home feels disconcerting after the time Stan has spent in the hospital. After the bright lights and the constant beeping machines, the dull darkness of his bedroom seems like a drastic, depressing change. Stan doesn’t know how he’s supposed to feel. Should this be a welcome change? Or should he be more upset that he now has to use the same bathroom that he tried to kill himself in?
He probably should have thought of that first, but he hadn’t really been thinking very clearly.
His parents aren’t usually big celebrators, but when it comes to Hanukkah they tend to go all out. It falls early this year, and Stan had been planning to spend the twenty-fifth with the Losers. Richie has a big house and absentee parents; even if he doesn’t celebrate Christmas, cooking with his friends is always an unmissable experience.
This time, though, his parents clearly haven’t had time to decorate. There are no candles, no seasonal cards from distant relatives Stan has never met. He feels tight, sick guilt settle again in his chest at the reminder of all the distress he caused.
“Are we, um– are we celebrating this year?” Stan asks tentatively, setting his bag of dirty clothes down on the floor of the living room. His mother pauses, turns to him a little guilty and smiles.
“If you feel up to it, sweetie.” She says, glancing at Stan’s father who is still yet to react. Stan watches nervously, worrying already that he’s said the wrong thing. Does being back home mean that things are going to just revert back to the way they were? Is he going to feel the same way he used to feel? Just because he has a therapy session in two days time doesn’t mean anything will necessarily improve.
Stan takes a deep breath. He needs to get himself under control, get a reign on his emotions so his moods are more stable. That’s what Karl says, anyway, and Stan values his advice these days.
Deep breath in, Stan thinks. Seven seconds in, ten seconds out, repeat. Calm down.
The panic that threatened to boil over just moments ago ebbs slowly and surely, fizzles away to a small, consistent hum. His father turns to face him. He smiles, even though it looks awkward and a little pained on his face.
“If you want, Stanley.” He says. “Only if you want.”
Stan calls his friends over to decorate the next day. There isn’t much to put up but there’s a lot of food to make, and Stan doesn’t want to heap any more responsibility onto his parents.
Spending the night in his own bed had been a dream come true after the lumpy mattress at the hospital, but he had felt weird when he’d woken up. Not quite empty, but drained, with a sharp, stabbing pain in his chest that only went away when he got up and switched all the lights on and off twice. He hasn’t had to do that in a long time, and it reminds him to take his meds. He feels strangely proud of himself.
His friends start showing up one by one. Stan is worried that it’s going to feel awkward after having seen them all last time in a hospital room. He feels now like all the attention will be on him, and whilst it’s technically his house he’s invited them to and a Jewish celebration he’s invited them to prepare for, it still feels uncomfortable.
Most of all he’s worried about Bill. It shouldn’t be awkward after what happened - they’ve kissed literally thousands of times before, after all - but Bill had said they would sort their relationship out when things went back to normal. Stan is out of the hospital now– does that constitute normal?
He’s going to tell you he doesn’t want you. Why would he? You’re just–
The doorbell rings. Stan thinks about how happy he’s going to be to see all his friends together at the same time again, and it almost drowns out the sound of his negative thoughts. His friends piling noisily inside helps.
The next few hours feel like the most chaotic of Stan’s life. He’s torn between feeling so completely full of love and affection for his friends and full of frustration because how could he ever have doubted that these people love him? He’s known them his entire life and they leave for a few months and suddenly his insecurity skyrockets. Stan doesn’t want to live like that, his own safety dependent on other people. He wants to start living for himself, properly this time.
Turns out you actually have to put in the work for that. Who knew?
It’s only after everything has calmed down and they’re lounging around in the sitting room with hot chocolates that Stan lets himself relax. It’s been hectic but it’s been wonderful, the opportunity to just exist as a part of something again. He’s missed it, and he doesn’t have to feel guilty for enjoying it.
“So,” Richie sets his mug down and wipes his lenses with his sleeve. “If anyone else has a mental breakdown scheduled anytime soon, please announce it in the group chat. This has been fun and all but I don’t think my body can cope with another three hours of cooking.”
“That’s because your body is inferior.” Eddie crosses his legs and licks the cream off his lip. “And you should come to the disease prevention society with me.”
“Your head and my ass, Kaspbrak.” Richie grins. Stan can’t help but laugh along with the others.
Next to him on the sofa, Bill’s hand settles over Stan’s own. They haven’t spoken privately all night but things haven’t been awkward either; if anything, Stan has been invigorated by their kiss in the hospital. Seeing Bill’s fingers brush softly over the back of Stan’s hand, seeing the tentative smile he offers, Stan feels safe. It’s a promise of later, a promise to talk more, a promise to heal.
Stan flips his palm and intertwines his fingers with Bill’s, holds his hand tight.
Things are going to get better, Stan thinks. Things are going to be okay.