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The apartment was quiet in the way Stan hated most.
Not a loud-quiet. Not a peaceful quiet.
The kind that pressed against his ears until every thought sounded louder than it should’ve.
Rain tapped softly against the windows of their small Chicago apartment, gray light spilling across the kitchen tiles. The coffee Bill had made before leaving for brunch sat untouched and cold beside the sink. Stan stood there staring at it anyway, fingers curled tight against the counter.
He’d told Bill to go.
That was the problem.
Bill had hovered by the door for almost a few minutes before leaving, coat half-on, concern written all over his face in that painfully obvious way he’d never learned to hide.
“You sure?” Bill had asked for probably the fifth time. “We can cancel.”
Stan had forced a smile then. “Bill, it’s brunch, not a hostage negotiation.”
“You didn’t sleep.”
“Neither did you, and yet somehow civilization continues.”
Bill hadn’t laughed much at that. He’d stepped closer instead, hands finding Stan’s waist automatically, grounding both of them.
“You call me if it gets bad.”
Stan had kissed his cheek. “I know.”
“And if—”
“I know, Bill.”
That had been hours ago.
Now Stan was sitting on the kitchen floor with his back against the cabinets, breathing too fast.
It had started small.
A bad thought.
Then another.
Then the old familiar terror creeping up his spine like icy fingers.
You’re alone.
You could do it this time.
The thoughts didn’t even feel like his sometimes. That was what scared him most. It slipped in quietly, sounding reasonable, sounding calm. Almost like how IT had terrorized them all those years ago.
Bill had hidden everything sharp months ago after his last breakdown. Razors locked away. Kitchen knives moved. Medication counted carefully. Stan had agreed to all of it even through the humiliation because part of him had been terrified of himself too.
Most days were manageable now.
Some days weren’t.
Today definitely wasn’t.
His chest tightened painfully. Stan dragged in a breath that didn’t feel complete, nor like it helped.
He needed Bill.
The realization hit him hard enough to make his hands shake.
Humiliating, but necessary.
He grabbed his phone from the floor with unsteady fingers and hit Bill’s contact before he could change his mind.
The ringing lasted barely a second.
“Stan?”
The noise of a restaurant buzzed faintly behind Bill’s voice. Plates clinking. Richie laughing somewhere in the background while Eddie yelled at his husband to be quiet, Bev and Ben laughing along with the conversation they had been having with Mike.
Stan opened his mouth.
Nothing came out.
Bill’s tone changed instantly. “Stan?”
“I—” His breath hitched hard. “I think something’s wrong.”
“Hey. Hey, talk to me.”
Stan pressed the heel of his hand against his sternum like it might stop his heart from beating itself apart.
“I can’t—I can’t calm down.”
The restaurant noise disappeared suddenly. A chair scraping. Bill muttering something muffled to someone else.
“What happened?”
“I don’t know.” His voice cracked embarrassingly. “I just— I got stuck in my head and now I can’t stop thinking about—”
He couldn’t say it.
Didn’t have to.
Bill knew anyway.
“Oh, Stanley.”
The gentleness in his husband’s voice nearly broke him.
“I’m scared,” Stan whispered.
Another pause.
Then firmly, immediately,
“I’m coming home.”
“You don’t have to—”
“I’m already leaving.”
Stan heard a car horn in the distance through Bill’s phone along with fast footsteps.
“Where are you right now?” Bill asked.
“Kitchen floor.”
“Okay. Good. Stay there for me.”
Stan gave a shaky laugh. “You say that like I’m a hostage.”
“You’re not funny enough right now for sarcasm.”
Despite everything, Stan snorted weakly.
Bill seized onto the sound immediately. “There he is.”
Stan squeezed his eyes shut.
“I hate this,” he admitted quietly. “I hate needing this much help.”
“Too bad,” Bill said instantly. “You’re stuck with me.”
The emotion that hit Stan then was almost worse than the panic. Sharp and aching and unbearably fond.
Because Bill always sounded so certain.
Even when Stan wasn’t.
—
By the time Bill got home, Stan had worked himself into trembling exhaustion.
The front door slammed open hard enough to rattle the frame.
“Stan?”
“In here.”
Bill appeared seconds later, hair damp from rain, breathing hard like he’d run half the way home. His eyes landed on Stan curled against the cabinets and immediately softened into something wrecked.
“Oh, honey.”
Stan barely had time to stand before Bill was there.
Warm hands.
Warm coat.
Warmth everywhere.
Bill pulled him in so fast Stan nearly stumbled against his chest.
And then he was held.
Really held.
One hand cradling the back of his head while the other rubbed firmly up and down his spine.
Stan buried his face against Bill’s shoulder and finally let himself fall apart.
“I’m sorry,” he mumbled shakily.
“Nope.”
“I ruined your brunch.”
“Richie was there. It was already ruined.”
A weak laugh escaped Stan despite himself.
Bill kissed the side of his head immediately, relief obvious.
“There y’go.”
Stan’s fingers twisted hard in Bill’s sweater.
“I thought…” His voice wavered again. “I thought if I stayed alone too long maybe I’d do something stupid.”
Bill pulled back just enough to look at him.
His blue eyes were exhausted and terrified and painfully loving all at once.
“But you called me.”
Stan swallowed hard.
“Yeah.”
“You called me,” Bill repeated softly, like it mattered more than anything else in the world.
Because maybe it did.
Bill cupped his face carefully, thumbs brushing beneath Stan’s eyes.
“You know what that means?”
“What?”
“That you wanted to stay.”
Stan stared at him.
The tears came again before he could stop them.
Bill kissed him then.
Not rushed.
Not desperate.
Just gentle and grounding and impossibly familiar.
Stan melted into it instantly.
Bill always kissed like he was trying to convince Stan he was safe.
Slow mouths.
Warm hands.
Tiny breaths shared between them.
Stan clutched at the front of Bill’s sweater as Bill deepened the kiss carefully, nudging him closer until there wasn’t space left between them.
“You with me?” Bill murmured against his mouth.
“Yeah.”
“You sure?”
Stan answered by kissing him harder.
That earned him a soft hum from Bill, one hand sliding from Stan’s jaw down to his waist. The touch stayed careful, always checking, always asking without words.
They stumbled together toward the living room slowly, kissing between uneven breaths until the backs of Stan’s knees hit the couch.
Bill guided him down gently.
Stan pulled him with him immediately.
Bill laughed quietly against his lips. “Clingy.”
“Shut up.”
“Nah.”
The panic still lingered under Stan’s skin, but dulled now, muffled beneath Bill’s weight and warmth and steady heartbeat.
Bill kissed him deeper this time, slow enough to savor, one hand threading into Stan’s curls while the other rested against his ribs like he was physically keeping him together.
Stan sighed shakily into his mouth.
“There you are,” Bill whispered again.
Stan pressed their foreheads together afterward, eyes closed.
“Stay with me?”
Bill looked almost offended.
“Stanley,” he said softly, “you’d have to physically fight me to get rid of me.”
That finally made Stan smile for real.
Bill’s expression melted immediately at the sight of it.
“There’s my husband.”
Stan kissed him again before he could say something embarrassingly sincere enough to make them both emotional.
Eventually, Bill rested his forehead against Stan’s and murmured quietly.
“You scared me today.”
Guilt flashed through Stan instantly. “I know.”
“But you called.”
Stan nodded once.
Bill kissed him softly again.
“I’m really proud of you for that.”
And somehow, hearing that hurt worse than any panic attack ever had.
Because after everything Derry had done to them, after years of pretending he was fine when he absolutely wasn’t, Bill still looked at him like surviving was something worth celebrating.
Stan wrapped his arms around him tightly and hid his face in Bill’s neck.
Bill held him there for the rest of the afternoon while rain tapped gently against the windows and the world outside stayed far away.