your love // stenbrough

8

Stan, ever the overthinker, stared at that little scrap of paper for days on end. It was the only thing that he allowed himself to keep on the top of his desk.

Almost everything about it was painful for him. Misshapen, torn from a now incomplete page, crinkled around the edges, smudged by a charcoal pencil, and showcasing probably the messiest writing that Stan had ever laid eyes on. The note screamed for him to get rid of it, to throw it away, or better yet, burn it to ash, along with any connection to Bill, outside of school.

Instead of cleansing himself from the confusion and discomfort that the paper represented, he kept it sitting on his desk; a reminder of the messages that he wasn't receiving in reply.

On Saturday morning, he went straight home, packing up his things, not bothering with the birds. He was too caught up in mind to focus. Paralysis by overanalysis, his father always said to him, and boy was he overanalyzing.

By Sunday, he had entered the digits into his contact list and set the receipient's ID name to "Bill". Very simple, very impersonal. For the first time in his life, Stan wished that it weren't so impersonal. For whatever reason - he still hadn't figured - he really wanted to get to know the other boy better, despite the challenges that were continually presented.

Stan wanted to kmow why he had the sudden urge to smile when he heard Bill's soft stutter, or why his heart fluttered uncontrollably when their eyes would meet; golden honey and electric blue. He wanted this friendship. Quite frankly, he needed this friendship, or he'd go completely bat-shit insane.

By the end of the weekend, Stan had sent a single, exponentially overthought text message;
'Hey, it's Stan.'

He was nervous. He was anxious. He was eager.

He was disappointed when no reply came.

Monday rolled around, and it took all of Stan's strength to persevere through Chem and minimise the times that he would sneak a glance at the younger boy behind him. Each time he let himself slip, Bill was oddly attentive, head up, worried eyes staring right back. If Stan didn't know any better, it would seem like Bill wanted to talk, but Stan's nonexistent notifications begged to differ. He felt like his head was going to explode.

Why, in the fuck did this have to be so goddamn exhausting?

He turned back around with a frustrated huff, unable to shake the feeling of Bill's piercing eyes boring into the back of his skull.

By Friday, Stan had been spending every lunch hour with Beverly, Richie, Eddie and Ben. He was hesitant to admit that he rather enjoyed their company. They were kind and fun and easy for Stan to throw sarcastic comments at, which always got him in a good mood, especially because neither Eddie nor Ben seemed to be offended by his abraisive personality.

He also learned a lot about Ben and Eddie who, contrary to popular belief, actually seemed like relatively interesting people.

It turns out, Richie and Eddie had connected over their musical passions. They both liked the same vintage bands and it seemed that Eddie had a vast knowledge of the subject, more-so than even Richie himself.

The two met after Richie had stepped in to save the hypochondriac from Bowers and his gang. It became very obvious by that point that Richie was complete head over heels for the boy. Never had he even attempted to stop Henry Bowers before, but apparently, according to an ecstatic Eddie, Richie "clocked him right across the face", to which Richie replied by saying; "It wasn't that big of a deal," with a heavy blush before adding; "You shoulda seen the little spitfire anyway, he could've handled them fine". A suddenly shy Eddie ducked his head in embarrassment. "He already had Hockstetter pissin' himself in the corner, ain't that right, Eds?"