your love // stenbrough

4

Stan sat there with his eyebrows furrowed and mouth agape for at least a minute, trying - and failing - to get his thoughts and words to co-operate. What he wanted to say was; So the other day when we were lab partners, I noticed your extreme intellectual level and I wanted to commend you on your intelligence, but what came out of his mouth was; "So you're actually smart?" His tone was questioning and skeptical.

Bill just looked at Stan, pulling his lips in, not knowing how to respond to such an obnoxious statement. "Um, yeah. I g-guess."

Stan was screaming at himself internally. What kind of a question was that? He had waited all week for this opportunity and he had completely screwed it up. As Bill picked up his pencil and looked back down at his paper, Stan scrambled to recover from his obvious mistake. "I mean, can you help me with, uh," he looked at his own worksheet, thinking up a random number, "question five?"

Bill glanced over again, clearly annoyed. "Stan, I can s-see that you're done the sh-sheet." He put his pencil down and spun in his chair to face the older boy, propping his elbow up on his thigh and resting his chin in his hand. "What do you w-want."

Stan couldn't help but be distracted by the blue paint covering the back of the other boy's hand. It was mesmerizing and for the first time in his entire life, Stanley Uris was completely speechless. He simply shrugged his shoulders, his eyes never leaving the bizarre artwork.

Bill sighed and went back to work, finishing quicky. Once he had completed the final problem he reassumed his usual position; head down in his arms, eyes closed. Stan stared for an embarrassingly long amount of time.

"Why?" Stan said finally, an almost inaudible whisper. Bill's eyes fluttered open at the sudden conversation.

"W-why what?"

Stan sat up straighter in his chair, narrowing his eyes at Bill, ready to ask the question that had been bothering him all week. "Why do you let people push you around."

The younger boy's bright blue eyes opened wide, clearly surprised by the change in topic. He looked up and furrowed his brows, gathering a response. "B-b-because I don't want t-trouble."

Stan huffed. "But they call you names, insult your intelligence, throw you into lockers..." he trailed off, staring at Bill incredulously. "Doesn't that bother you? Especially because they're wrong?"

"'Course it d-does." He said with a shrug before closing his eyes and turning his head the other way so that all Stan could see was his auburn hair. "But it's n-not like they don't have
r-reasons," he muttered.

Stan raised his eyebrows at that comment. Sure Bill had a stutter, but it's not like he was a nazi or something. Stan had heard many things over the past two years, spread by Henry Bowers and his gang of course. They would call Bill retarded, handicapped, fag, dumbass, idiot, fuckface...

The most insulting part of those words is the fact that they were coming from the biggest dunce in the entire city. And they weren't even true. Stan was beginning to get offended on behalf of the other boy.

"Bill." Stan said forcefully, earning no reaction. "Bill," he said again, louder this time. His teacher whipped her head around and looked at him pointedly. She raised a finger to her lips, scolding. Stan raised a hand in apology and waited for her to return to her work before using that same hand to grab Bill's shoulder. "Bill," he whispered yelled.

The other boy turned around quickly, shrugging Stan's hand off. He had tears in his eyes, that he quickly wiped away with his shirt sleeve. "W-what?" he hissed.

"They have no reason." Stan said. Bill looked at him with a confused look on his face. "They're wrong and you don't deserve that treatment."

The younger boy wiped at his eyes again before standing up and walking over to their teacher. The two of them held a brief and quiet conversation, and then Bill was back, packing up his things and leaving the room quickly.

"Bill!" Stan called but the other boy didn't turn around. Bill closed the door behind him and Stan watched through the small window as he scurried off down the hallway.

Stan was more confused than ever. What in the world did he say that upset Bill so much? After the initial awkwardness, Stan was under the impression that he was being kind to the other boy, but apparently he was mistaken. He let out a sigh as he brought his head down, letting his forehead rest on the desk. Despite the current setback, Stan was even more intrigued than before.

As he waited for the end of the period, Stan tried to formulate some sort of recovery plan, but couldn't come up with anything. He hoped that Bill was alright. Even though the stuttering boy was a year younger and a complete loser, Stan had never been a bully and he hated the fact that he had potentially hurt Bill.

As soon as the bell rang, signalling the end of class, Stan gathered his things and dashed out of the room. For some reason he thought that maybe he'd run into the boy that he was so obsessed with. Stan looked up and down the student-filled hallways with no luck. He shook his head and made his way through the sea of kids to his locker.

Making sure to turn the dial to precisely the correct numbers, he unlocked the door and swung it open. A small white paper fluttered to the ground at his feet. Stan quickly picked it up, turning it over to reveal familiar scribbles.

Stanley,

I'm crossing my fingers that this is your locker. I had to ask around and I got a lot of funny looks, so I hope it wasn't for nothing.

If you do end up getting this, meet me by the shed where they store the football equipment, out in the field, after last period.

- Bill

Stan read the note over twice before whipping his head back and forth, not surprised when he didn't see the younger boy anywhere. He folded the note neatly and tucked it into his pocket before exchanging his textbooks and making his way to his next class, a newfound spring in his step.