Dear Stanley (An It AU)

2/24/20-Monday

Dear Stanley,
    The birds miss you... I miss you. You'll never get to read this, but it needs to be written, if not for you, for me. Because god, Stan... you have no idea what's happening to us now.
    It's only been a week. One week that you've been gone... yet in a way it seems like I've lived a lifetime without you, lived a lifetime of mourning and of pain.
    It was just three days after Valentine's... then you just left us, Stan.
    Everyone is a wreck without you, it's like you took away the cement of a brick house. We're simply just a pile of bricks that collapsed in on itself, crushing everything that's been built up over all this time. It's crazy how it's not just those close to you, too. It's everyone at school, everyone's just broken, even though they didn't know you like we did.
    I guess something about death so close to home just puts things in perspective for people. But in truth, at the end of the day it's all bull.
    But in a way I don't blame them for it, I suppose it's simply because I don't have the energy for it anymore. I don't have the energy or reason to be mad at people for pretending to miss you, Stan, because I truly do miss you too much.
    Truth be told, somedays the worst part of all of this is the Losers, those closest to us. It seems everyone has someone else to lean on right now. Eddie and Richie have each other, Bev and Ben... I mean, Mike doesn't have anybody in that way, but it's different with him. I feel like he's remained the strongest, he doesn't seem to need anyone to lean on, and even if he did, I don't know if I'd be able to support him, or him me. It's not that nobody is offering me support, it's just that I'm getting more support than I ever have in my life, yet I've never felt more alone. That might sound crazy, but you were always who I went to when I needed someone else to lean on, and you were the one who came to me when you had a problem. We leaned on each other, and now... I feel like I'm being pushed to the ground alone. Whether you believe it or not, most days you were the one thing truly keeping me sane, keeping me from falling off the deep end.
    And now you'll never know it.
    I feel like this past week, everyone has grown so much closer... but I feel like I'm drifting more and more away. It's almost as if you were the lifeboat I was on, and suddenly you were whisked away from me, and I don't know how much longer I'll be able to hold myself up.
    I almost told you everything on Valentine's Day, Stan. I wrote down everything, pages and pages, over and over, but nothing was right, not for you. My waste bin is still full of letters that will never be sent, it's overflowing with the feelings I was trying so hard to express, and now you'll never get to know any of it.
    I won't lie to you, Stan, you know I could never do that, but truth be told... I truly do blame myself for all of this.
    It's another death of somebody I loved in a way that was different from everyone else. Why did it have to be you? Why now?
    If I had tried harder... would you be sitting here next to me now? On this hill we watched birds and did homework together on? Would you be rolling your eyes as you told me something stupid Richie did? Would you lean on your side with a slight smile and pick me a flower as the sun set in front of us?
    Would we still be the same?
    I-I need to know, Stan. Do you blame me? Is this all my fault? Was I the one that failed you?
    I can't lie anymore, in a way all I want is to join you, if only for a moment to see you smile one last time, to tell me it's going to be alright.
    It's almost spring, Stan, it's almost spring. You almost made it.
    The birds are calling your name, the chickadees basking in the warmth. They have woken up and they miss you, they have no idea why you're missing.
    It's been a week, and this is the first time I've been back here. I don't think it would be possible for me to go back before.
    My parents signed me up for therapy, but I can't talk, can't find the words, I guess. Or maybe it's all because I know if I start talking, if I get it all out, I might forget about you. What if I move on from you, Stan?
    So... the other day when my dad came home, he brought me this journal, told me to write, so you'll never die, not truly.
    Writing has always been my version of sketching for you, my music for Richie, my photography for Bev, and at this point I feel like it's all I have left.
    Your parents gave me your sketchbook, you know. After your funeral, they gave me it, they laminated every page, then told me you'd want me to have it, to see it.
    I still haven't opened it.
    I can't bear to, but I still bring it everywhere with me. How could I not? It's a mirror to your soul...
    I think that's part of why I don't want to look. I saw your demise firsthand, Stan, and it nearly killed both of us, it still might. But I know you, I've been the closest person to you for years now, and as much as we talked, I know you'd never tell me everything. It's terrifying to know I could see it all.
    Maybe some things are better off unknown.
    I know I should look through it, but it's nearly impossible for me. Every night as I can't sleep, before Richie and Bev sneak in here, I take it out, and just hold it, staring at it. But I can never make myself flip through it, because everytime I look at the cover alone, I see a million memories of you, and that alone is too much for me. I don't think I would be able to see anymore than that after everything that's happened.
    None of us took it well... none of us, but I feel like everyone has tried to gather their strength once more for my sake. All because I can't bear to be the strong one anymore, I can't bear to lead them through another hard time, not this time.
    They're all trying so hard, but now I get it, Stan. I finally understand everything you felt, like how you feel like you'll never get past this, and even if you do, it'll take half of you away, and what if it takes all the good parts? Who will want me if that happens?
    Richie's been making mixtapes nonstop, and when none of us can sleep, the two of us join Beverly in my room, open a pack of cigarettes and smoke them all.
    You know I don't smoke, Stan.
    But I guess things change when someone like you leaves this fragile life of mine.
    On nights when it's especially bad, we'll break into my dad's liquor cabinet and pass a bottle around, until we can't tell what's streaking our faces, alcohol or tears. I think my parents have started to catch on, but they don't try and stop us. We want the pain gone, even if just for a moment. My room no longer smells like you, it doesn't smell like the grass covering the hill we spent our afternoons, it doesn't smell like your paints, or the pages of your sketchbook.
    Instead it now smells like cigarettes and alcohol.
    Eddie can always tell when the three of us are hungover, when we blacked out the night before, sprawled on my floor. I'm not quite sure if the others can notice or not, but if so, they never bring it up. Either way, Eddie does his best to cover for us.
    On half the days we do it, I don't know if RIch and Bev need it as desperately, but I know I do, and I think they don't want me to go through this alone. Truly, nobody should have to.
    Did you feel alone, Stan? In your final moments, and all the moments before that, did you feel alone? You weren't, you know. You always had me, you had all of us, but no matter what, you always had me. It breaks my heart to think that maybe you never knew that.
    Everyone else has returned to school, for the most part, that is. Although, often enough, they skip, and the teachers let them, because what are you supposed to do when a member of this tight knit group of kids just killed himself?
    I still can't make myself go, can't make myself get through a full day. It sickens me how people can just... move on. How they just seem to have forgotten that you even existed, and how they seem to expect me to do the same. I can hardly walk some days, because my body is so tired of every moment, begging for an ending. When I have classes you were in, most days it takes almost all my strength to simply walk through the door and not break down, because your desk still remains empty, and how could people just ignore it?
    But maybe it's different for me, even different from how the losers feel. Maybe it's different when it's somebody you truly loved.
    My parents both caught on to it fairly quickly.... The fact that to me, you weren't just a friend, and honestly, I don't think there's a worse possible way to come out. I wish I could have just told them, like a normal kid. I wish that at least, that one part of our lives could be normal, but maybe we were never destined for normal.
    Oh god, I wish we were.
    Maybe if I hadn't dragged you down those sewers back in middle school, your downfall would have never happened. It's at times like these, that the what if's never seem to stop. Goddamn it, Stan, why did you have to leave me?
    I wish I could just hold you close and cry with you right now, brush away your tears and help you fight, but that'll never happen again. I wish I could just help you fight another day, go back to comforting you, and wanting to take away your demons.
    As I'm writing this, the birds' chirping is beginning to subside, the sun starting to set. You'd love it right now, Stan. This was always the time of day you'd fall silent, focusing on nothing but your painting until it was too dark to see. Of course, too dark always meant different things to us. I think if it weren't for me, you'd stay outside, painting only using the moonlight, until your body collapsed from exhaustion.
    I wish I could watch you fight me on how this, just one last time. I need to see you fight again, Stan.
    I need to be heading home, but something about this place makes me want to stay as late as I possibly can. Maybe it's just the fact that I finally feel free from everything in a way, that's the best way to explain it, I guess. I understand why you spent every second you could out here. It's peaceful, even in the middle of this raging storm.
    At some point, I finally bring myself to leave, packing this journal and a bundle of pens into a drawstring bag next to your sketchbook and a copy of The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe.
    I know what you're thinking, Stan. Again? Haven't you read that book a million times already? And maybe, but you know how much I always loved it, and now, more than ever, I need an escape from the real world. I need to find my Narnia.
    When it comes to eating, my parents have been fairly lenient. I mean, it's not like they're fine with me starving myself, or anything, but they told me from the start that I would be the one making the big calls on everything. I suppose they wanted me to feel like I still have control over the things that happen in my life.
    However, there's one flaw in that plan... our friends.
    I've found that Beverly is showing up earlier and earlier, and today, when I get to my room, she's there, with two brown paper bags sitting on my desk.
    "B-Bev-"
    "Bill, you need to eat."
    I shake my head. I don't get how you managed to eat while feeling like this, Stan. Sure, my stomach hurts most of the time, but eating never helps, because the problem isn't the lack of food, it's the lack of you, it's the lack of meaning, belonging, and life.
    But we all know there's no fighting Beverly, especially not when someone like Eddie is on her side with something like this. Whenever I'm with him, he's always fretting over me, going on ramble after ramble, just like he always does. I've found that the only way I can get him to stop talking long enough to breathe is to eat something, take care of myself.
    Did they ever do this to you? Or are they just scared to lose another friend at this point?
    Before I can even move, Beverly continues. "Look, I know you cared about him a lot, Bill, I really do, loved him even-"
    "Love," I murmur.
    "What?"
    "Y-you mean I- I love h-him, Bev. Please, st-stop t-talking about h-him in the past t-tense."
    Beverly's face softens with sympathy, and I immediately turn away, not wanting to be one of those people who is simply pitied by everyone. "Bill, he's gone."
    I can't live with those looks, those looks that adults have always given us, Stan, as if they just feel bad, and that's it. They don't understand, not really, they're just trying to figure out how to deal with us. They think we're these fragile flowers, and if they touch us we'll simply break at their touch, so they keep their distance. But in doing that, people tend to do nothing but more and more harm.
    I don't want to be pitied, to have more and more people never understand. I mean, what would happen to Bev if Ben were to be found dead, and not even in some freak accident, but in a situation like this? She would be broken, you know she would. Anybody would. This isn't something that just takes a week to move on from.
    "I know that, B-Bev, t-that doesn't ch-change it."
    "Bill-"
    Before I can stop myself, I recoil. "If B-Ben died, w-would you s-stop l-l-loving him a-after a g-goddamn we-week?"
    Beverly takes a step back, her face deathly pale. Immediately, I regret it all, and I want to take back everything I've said, start over. I begin to open my mouth, but Beverly simply puts a hand up, sitting down on the edge of my bed.
    After a moment, she whispers, "I miss him too."
    When I don't respond, she meets my gaze, her face flecked with new tears. "If Ben died tonight, I wouldn't be able to carry on."
    I bite the inside of my cheek. "I-I shouldn't have s-s-said that, Bevv, I-I, I'm so s-s-s-sorry."
    Bev shakes her head. "Open the bags, Bill."
    With a nervous gulp, I open the first bag, seeing that she packed me a school lunch styled meal. "I d-don't under-"
    "Second one, Bill."
    The second bag has several things in it, all of which make my breath stop. The first thing is an assortment of different packs of cigarettes, I pick one of the packages on the top up. "Is this-?"
     "Your new favorite? Yes."
     I feel a small smile grow on my face, and this time it's genuine. I gently place the cigarettes on my desk, trying to clear a few of the scattered papers off in the process. My entire room is a mess, Stan. Up until now, I couldn't write. As soon as I got home from the hospital, I tried, I sat down and tried to write, but everything felt wrong. Everything has felt wrong since you left, and I haven't been able to write at all, until now.
     I open up the bag yet again to find a few bottles. I pull the first one out, and upon reading  the label, learn it's white wine. "How-?"
     "I have my sources, Bill, don't question it, I don't want anyone getting in trouble."
I nod, and pull the last two bottles out of the bag, the first being rum, the second whiskey.
"Eat first, then we'll wait for Richie, he said he'll be a bit later than normal, studying with Eddie. In the meantime, music?" She asks, grabbing an old fashioned mixtape off my bookshelf, one of the ones Richie made for me since you died. Most of the songs on them are songs he thought I'd like or could relate to or needed to hear, but he also mixed in a few of your favorites.
     I wish you could listen to them.
     I smile, giving her a nod. She pops in the tape as I grab the sandwich out of the bag.
As the intro begins, I can't help but raise my head. "I-I didn't kn-know R-Richie put this o-on h-h-here..."
     Beverly frowns. "What is it?"
     I smile. "Unwell, Matchbox 20. S-Stan l-loves t-t-this s-s-song."

Yours Dearly,
Bill Denbrough