made up things we'll never really say : stozier

12

stan

"have you decided yet? are you coming home for chanukah?" andrea changes the topic, and stanley's throat clogs. he doesn't answer for a moment, mostly because he knows what's coming. but he holds in a sigh. then he responds.

"um, yeah. i mean, no, i'm not coming home. i'm sorry. i've been struggling with even getting out of bed, so i don't think i can make it. i'm really sorry, mom." he rubs his temples, sitting on the edge of his bed. his voice is quiet, more so than normal, though he can generally admit his voice isn't loud. still, every time he talks to his parents he feels himself shrink into himself. his shoulders are tense, nearly reaching his ears.

there's a sigh through the phone. fuck.

"you don't think i had bad days while raising you? didn't i get out of bed anyway?" her voice is accusing, as always. and she has a point, stanley knows, but he just wishes she could understand. is that so much to wish for?

he folds, but not completely, "i—you're right. but i'm sorry. i'm not coming." his voice breaks. there goes any sign of composure.

"does family mean nothing to you, stanley?" she's right, again; chanukah is a familial holiday, it depends on the reuniting of family together. but he can't go, even if he wanted to.

"of course it does. i just, every time i come home you guys just berate me and condescend me and i don't want to go home depressed, okay?" he's now pinching the bridge if his nose, in a way that reminds him of his parents, and he wants to slap himself. still, he doesn't.

"what, do you want us to give you a hug and tell you it's okay? what are you, five? seriously," she says, and god, stanley wants to scream yes, that is what i want. is it so much?

"seriously, mom."

she scoffs, "you're not a child anymore, stanley."

"but i was! and you weren't any better then! do you even love me?" stan wants to groan, but instead he whines, like a child. like he always has. he wants to scratch open his body until he bleeds, something, anything for her to understand that he just isn't well.

that he's never really even been well, not consistently. that he just wants her to say it will be okay, even but especially if she's lying to make him feel better.

"you make it very hard with these outbursts. you know that." her voice is stone, and stanley puts his phone down. he doesn't hang up, only puts his phone face down on the bed next to him and lets his head hang in his hands.

it's thirty minutes later when stanley forces himself to get up, standing shakily to go get water. he's lightheaded, and he can't tell if it's from being in bed all day or if it's from crying. it's almost dark out now, another fact that makes stanley want to give up. filling a glass, he looks over to richie's door, which sits open slightly, richie's backpack between the door frame and the door.

on a whim, mostly because richie makes stanley feel more human, stan peeks his head in the door, "can i bother you?"

richie looks up from his bed, where he's watching a video on his laptop, and he moves his laptop aside. he looks nearly overjoyed to see stanley up.

"always! what's up?" he says, and stan realizes he has no plan. he steps over the bag carefully and makes his way over to richie's bed.

"i dunno. it's just, um, been a day. you know?" he sighs, sitting on the edge of the bed. it's not unusual, for the two of them to simply coexist, so richie picks his laptop back up.

"yeah." richie says, and stanley lies down on the bed, rolling so his face is turned into it. he crosses his arms under his head, his own makeshift pillow. he stays there for a minute or two, listening to richie type.