The Losers Club Smorgasbords

You and the boys kept your relationship on the down-low for a while

Secret sleepovers and stuff

Y’all loved to watch movies and cuddle together

You sitting on Bill’s lap holding Richie’s hand, Bill’s head on Richie’s shoulder :’’)

So many diner dates

You and Bill would order milkshakes and fries, Richie insisted he wasn’t hungry

...he always ate your fries

The other Losers were so accepting of the relationship

Y’all were chilling on the couch, cuddles, kisses, being all sweet n stuff

Bev and Ben bust in

“Oh?” -Bev

*everyone scrambles*

But she just laughs it off

Richie loves neck kisses

Giving, receiving, the whole shebang

Bill’s lips are always so soft and warm

Stan had not agreed to this. Although he loved Bill, he always had thought road trips were just plain miserable. But Bill gave him those eyes, the smile, the almost strained “please, Stan?”, and he gave in.

So here they were, in the middle of god-knows-where, Stan driving and Bill holding his hand. Bill had also insisted they stop for ice cream when they stopped to get gas.

Bill hummed along to the song that was playing, and looked contently out the window as he licked his ice cream cone.

Stan shifted uncomfortably in his seat, all he could think about was Bill’s mouth licking him like that-

He focused on the road again, not wanting to risk getting pulled over. The song ended, and Bill looked over at Stan.

“A-are you o-ok-okay?” You l-look carsick.” Stan continues looking ahead. His face stays emotionless as he begins to speak.

“All I can think about right now is you licking my cock like it’s that ice cream cone.” 

Bill blushes.

“Oh r-really?” 

Stan looks over at Bill. Bill looks Stan in the eye, licking the vanilla cone slowly, and his pants grow tighter. He lets go of Bill’s hand, and grabs the wrist holding the ice cream. Bill gasps.

“If I have to pull over, you won’t be able to walk for the next week.”

“Is tha-that a b-b-bad thing?” Bill replies. Stan smiled a little, as his hand slipped into Bill’s pants. Bill leaned his head back, smiling, speechless. They continue down the road like this, Bill softly moaning, Stan smirking. The sun began to set, casting long orange shadows on Bill’s face as he finished his ice cream cone.

Stan pulled onto some back road. Bill climbs into his lap, kissing his neck. Stan’s hands slide up Bill’s sides, fingers hooking onto the collar of his shirt. Bill pulls it off, throwing the baseball tee in the back seat. Stan followed suit, hooking his lips back onto Bill’s.

“You taste like fucking candy.” Stan says, breaking away. Bill smiles, and shimmies off his jeans.

Stan can tell Dr. Keene has had a long day. "Everything all right with your wife, Doctor?" Stan asks politely. "Peachy," Dr. Keene huffs, flopping down onto his chair. "Chocolate or lollipop?" "Lollipop," Stan answers. He likes to suck them as obscenely as possible once in a while, just to check Dr. Keene's priorities. The lollipop is red, tasting green-red-yellow, like cherries. Stan's careful to rub it across his lips, making them as red as possible. "Last session we discussed books," Dr. Keene says, not paying attention to Stan's treatment of his lollipop. "And headaches." "Those two may as well be synonymous," Stan says. "Yes, you mentioned that many times," Dr. Keene says, sounding tired. "And the Torah-" "-has such small print you may as well be looking at a rainbow," the doctor finishes. "Although the first part-" "-of is almost entirely green, so you can read it," Dr. Keene says. "I take very good notes, remember?" "I remember," Stan says in the same tone he uses with his mother. Dr. Keene, who is entirely familiar with Stan's vocal tones, sighs. "Stan, I'm sorry I'm not at the top of my game today," he says. He leans forward, and Stan jerks back so quickly that the lollipop almost goes down his throat. "Sorry, sorry," Dr. Keene apologizes. He takes off his glasses so he can scrub his face with his hand. "I'm so sorry, Stan." Stan doesn't say anything. He thinks that if he opens his mouth, nothing but the 'gibberish' only Bill seems to understand would fall out. His heart's pounding in his chest, and he places his hand over it. Dr. Keene follows his movements and winces. "I'm so sorry, Stan," he repeats. "I didn't mean to scare you." "I'm okay," Stan says, pleased when he hears them come out as 'normal' words. "You're not, Stan," Dr. Keene says with a sigh. "You're not okay." He shakes his head slowly, as if to clear it. "What do you want to talk about today?" Stan shrugs. "I don't know." "Have you been writing?" Dr. Keene asks. "A little," Stan mutters, picking a loose thread on his jeans. "Have you written about anything particularly interesting?" "The treehouse," Stan says, before wishing he didn't say anything because Dr. Keene's eyes go blue-orange-green, all interested and almost hungry-looking. "What treehouse?" Dr. Keene asks, jotting something down in his notebook. "We- I found a treehouse in the Barrens," Stan murmurs, scowling down at the carpet. He feels oddly exposed now. "What was the treehouse like?" the doctor asks, not looking up from his notebook. "I dunno. Woody." Yellow-purple. The way wet chalk feels. The lowest B on his piano. "Do your parents know about the treehouse?" Dr. Keene asks. "Does it matter?" Stan says, a little more defensively than he intended. Dr. Keene blinks. "I suppose it doesn't," he says slowly. "I just wanted to know if you've been talking to them." "You could've just asked them that," Stan points out. "You could've just asked me that." "You're right, Stan. I'm sorry," Dr. Keene says, sounding genuinely apologetic. "Have you been talking to your parents?" Stan snorts. "I thought so." The doctor leans forward slowly, so Stan has time to prepare for his presence. "I think you should talk to them, Stan. They really care about you." "They don't." Stan knows he sounds like a child, like the smell of orange peels, but he doesn't care. "They do, Stan. And they were so, so upset when they found out what had happened to you." "They never believed me." "Stan, you weren't very easy to understand then," Dr. Keene says gently. "You still aren't, honestly." "You seem to manage." "I've known you for a long time now, Stan." "So have my parents." "Have they really?" Stan is silent for a moment. "No." He pauses. "They don't know me at all." "Stan, have you ever thought about making peace with your parents?" Dr. Keene asks. Stan scowls. "They should be the ones making peace with me." "They're trying, Stan, really," the doctor says. "I guess you haven't noticed, but they're trying to make amends." "Well, they're doing a heck of a job," Stan mutters. Dr. Keene ignores that comment. "They said they've been trying to take you out more and participate in family activities." "I hate crowds," Stan tells his doctor. "I hate board games. I hate TV." "They don't know what you like, Stan," Dr. Keene says. "But I'm sure they'll be happy to do whatever you do like with you." "I..." Stan pauses. "There's nothing that I like to do." Dr. Keene goes quiet for a moment. "You like Bill." Stan blinks. "What?" Dr. Keene has never willingly brought up the topic of Bill before. "I'm not saying that Bill is real, Stan," the doctor says quickly. "But maybe you could try telling someone in your family about him." "And what purpose would that serve, other then to cater my delusions?" "It'll help you open up," Dr. Keene says, ignoring his sarcasm. "You're much easier to understand when you're talking about something you're passionate about." Stan thinks about this. "You'll have to tell my parents that it okay for me to talk about Bill." Dr. Keene sighs. "I didn't mean for that to happen when I told them about Bill, Stan. I'm sorry." Stan shrugs. "Whatever." Dr. Keene nods slowly to himself, jotting something down in his notebook. "I'll talk to them."

"W-what are you going to say about m-me?" Bill asks as he picks at a piece of splintering wood in their treehouse. Stan shrugs. "I dunno. There's a lot to say." "You could tell them h-how pink-red-orange I am," Bill says, flashing Stan one of those smiles that make Stan melt. "How s-sexy I am, how I sound like m-melted marshmallows, how my l-lips are the k-key C major, how I can-" "Oh, shut up," Stan says, pushing him playfully. Bill laughs, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he grins. Stan looks away before Bill can see him staring. "My parents think I'm crazy," Stan says suddenly. Bill sobers immediately, frowning. "You're n-not crazy." "I know," Stan says. "But telling them about you isn't going to convince them of that." Bill is silent for a moment. "What are y-you going t-to do?" "Talk to them about you anyways," Stan says. "Fuck what they think." Bill grins. "You're r-really pink-red-orange w-when you swear." Stan blushes. "No, I'm not." Bill looks at him thoughtfully. "You're p-pretty pretty, Stan." "Pretty pretty?" Stan says. Bill laughs. "Not m-my best word choice." "Why do we talk like this, anyways?" Stan asks. "If we just used our words, nothing like that would happen." "You a’asked me to talk 'normally,'" Bill says. "F-for practice." Stan frowns. "Why did I do that?" Bill shrugs. "Someth-thing about b-better communication." Stan nods slowly. "Sounds like something I'd do. Back, y'know." "Well, y-yeah," Bill says. "You w-were all-" he makes a few indiscernible hand motions, "blue-purple. Ju-jumbled." "Mixed up," Stan says, nodding. "Not e-exactly," Bill says. "Sort of... I can't r-remember the w-word for it. Orange-green-purple." "Confused," Stan translates. Bill nods. "That's it. I k-keep forgetting t-that one," he says. "Confused. You w-were confused. And l-like the letter M. The w-way August smells." "Confused, maybe," Stan allows. "I don't know about lost, though." "You w-were lost," Bill says, sounding certain. "Maybe," Stan says again. He watches Bill flick the lighter he always has on and off. "Why do you even have that? You don't smoke." Bill shrugs. "You n-never know when you'll h-have to set every-t-thing on f-ire." Stan furrows his eyebrows. "What? What are you talking about?" Bill just shrugs agains. "Y-you'll get it s-me day." "He dyed his hair the other day," Stan tells his mom. They're sitting on the steps outside, watching the wind blow through the trees in their backyard. It sounds like a cool pillow on Stan's skin, and he smiles.

"What color?" his mom asks. "Auburn" Stan says, grinning a little to himself. "It was blonde when he was little though." "That's neat, Stan," his mom says, still looking rather uncomfortable. "He has these really dark brown eyes," Stan says, choosing to ignore his mother's discomfort. "Coffee eyes. That kind with coffee and hot chocolate. What's that called again?" "Mocha," his mom supplies. "Mocha eyes," Stan says, nodding. "Stan," his mom says, biting her lip, "who is Bill to you?" "What do you mean?" "Is he your friend?" his mom asks. "Boyfriend?" Stan splutters a little. "What? No!" "It's... y'know, okay if you want a boyfriend," Stan's mom says. "Just so you know." "Great," Stan says, still wide-eyed. "What brought that on?" "You always have this goofy look on when you talk about him, Stan," his mom tells him. "Yeah, but that automatically made you think I'm gay?" "Well," his mom shrugs, "you've never seemed very straight, Stan." Stan blinks. "Thanks, Mom." "It wasn't an insult!" his mom begins to protest, but pauses when she sees Stan laughing. "I'm gay," Stan assures her once he's done giggling. "I just never expected you to notice." "I do occasionally notice something about you, Stan," his mom tells him. Stan immediately sobers. He frowns, and his mom sighs, carefully taking his hand. "I'm sorry, Stan," she tells him. "I know that an apology won't fix anything, that it won't change anything, but I am still so sorry." "Why-" Stan swallows hard, "why didn't you believe me?" "I-" His mom sighs. "Dr. Craig seemed very professional, Stan. He was supposed to be top of the line. And he was very smooth, very reassuring that there was absolutely no misconduct." She sighs again, squeezing Stan's hand gently. "I regret not listening to you more than anything, Stan." "Don't we all," Stan mutters. "Don't we all."

"How d-do you f-feel?" Bill asks one day. "Who are you, Dr. Keene?" Bill rolls his eyes. "C-come on, Stan," he says, passing him his pocket knife. "Show m-me. In 'n-normal' words." Stan stares at the knife, warm and heavy in his palm, like silk on dewy grass. "Show me," Bill repeats. Stan flips out the blade, pressing it to the wooden floor of their treehouse. "'Normal' words," he whispers to himself, trying to recall one for how he feels. T-E-R-R-I-F-I-E-D "T-terrified," Bill reads. "Why?" Stan shrugs, wiping the wood shavings off the knife before flicking it closed and handing it back to Bill. "I don't know. Always am," he says. "W-why?" Bill repeats. "Of wh-what?" Stan shrugs again. "Of what's next, I guess," he says. Bill frowns. "T-that's nothing to b-be scared of," he says. "Why am I scared, then?" Bill smiles in that small, gentle way of his. "O-orange-green-p-purple," he says. Stan sighs, tracing his thumb over the carving in the wooden board. "I'm not," he murmurs. "Not really." "You a-are," Bill says. "Like s-stretched orange cotton. Not k-knowing what's a-around the corner is o-one of the b-best things e-ever." "Terrifying," Stan says, shaking his head. "Maybe a l-little," Bill allows. "But m-maybe what's around the c-corner is the best th-thing you could possibly imagine." "What if it's not, though?" "Wh-what if it is?" "What if it isn't?" Bill leans forward, taking Stan's fingers away from the carving in the wood. "But w-what if i-it is?" he whispers.

"How are things with you and your mother?" Dr. Keene asks as Stan slides a peanut butter cup into his pocket. "Fine," Stan says. "Fine?" Dr. Keene repeats, eyebrow raised. "Better," Stan amends. Dr. Keene nods slowly. "You talked to her about Bill, then?" Stan nods. "She didn't look too happy." "As expected, Stan," Dr. Keene says, still looking down at her notes. "It can't be comfortable for a woman to hear her seventeen-year-old son talk about his imaginary friend." "Who she thinks is imaginary," Stan corrects before he can stop himself. Dr. Keene pauses, finally looking up from his notes. "Stan," he says softly, "Bill is-" "Yes, okay, whatever," Stan says quickly. The doctor sighs, running his hand through thinning hair absentmindedly. "He's not real, Stan," he says softly. "I'm sorry, but he just doesn't exist." "Yes, fine, whatever you say." Dr. Keene rubs his face with his hands. "Stan..." "Look," Stan says, suddenly feeling ready to fight, "I know you think I'm crazy because of this, but Bill is real, okay? You're not going to convince me otherwise." Dr. Keene chuckles dryly. "I'm seeing that, yes."

"It's a-all b-b-blue-black," Bill says. "M-my home, I m-mean. That's wh-why I like it here b-better." "You've told me that," Stan says. "Lots." "Th-that doesn't m-make it a-any less tr-true," Bill points out. "I know," Stan says. "I'm just saying that I hear you whenever you tell me." "B-b-but I don't w-want you to h-hear me," Bill says insistently. "I w-want you t-to listen." Stan frowns. "What's the difference?" Bill makes a frustrated noise. "S-some people- philosophers, m-mainly- say other pe-people never h-hear each other," he says. "B-but I don't th-think that's t-true. I think everyone h-hears, but I don't th-think most p-p eople listen." Stan's frown deepens. "I still don't get it." "It's l-like..." Bill shifts, taking Stan's hand. "O-okay, wh-when I say 't-t-take my hand,' you think of holding h-hands, r-right? Not o-of taking my hand s-s-omeplace with you. Un-unless we g-go somewhere hand-in-hand, but that's a different story." He shakes his head to clear it. "What I mean is, you h-hear 't-take my hand' b-but l-listen to 'h-hold my hand.'" "Oh." Stan pauses, thinking. "I get it." He frowns again. "I think." Bill cracks a smile. "W-well, at l-least y-y-you're honest."

"Stan, your psychiatrist and I want to start you on a new kind of drug," Dr. Keene says as Stan sits down. "What?" Stan asks as he picks out a purple lollipop. "Don't you remember how it went last time?" "Not antipsychotics," Dr. Keene says. "That was a mistake, I know." He sighs, running a hand through his hair. "That was a mistake." "What kind of drug, then?" Stan asks, unwrapping the lollipop and popping it in his mouth. "Lorazepam," Dr. Keene says. He pauses. "Ativan." Stan frowns. "Doesn't that treat anxiety?" Am I anxious? he wonders to himself. "It also treats insomnia," Dr. Keene says. "Frankly, Stan, you're starting to look like a skeleton. One in need of a good night's sleep." Stan shrugs. "I think I'm okay." Dr. Keene sighs. "Your mother told me she can hear you talking to yourself at three in the morning. Every single night." Stan opens his mouth to say that it's not himself he's talking to, but decides against it. "I'm okay," he says instead. "Stan, I really don't think you're getting enough sleep," Dr. Keene says softly. "You look exhausted all the time." "I'm fine." "Stan, this is honestly what I think is best for you," Dr. Keene says gently. Stan glares at him. "And why do you care about what's best for me?" He leans forward, undaunted. "I don't think you do," he says, placing his hand over his cheek deliberately. Dr. Keene's expression drops. "Stan," he begins, stopping. "Stan, I'm so, so sorry about that." Stan rolls his eyes, leaning back. "Whatever." The doctor sighs, rubbing his eyes. "There's no excuse for that," he says. "But Stan, this really is for your own good.” He pulls out another piece of paper and jots something down on it. “I'm going to talk to your parents, and once I have their approval, we’re going to start you on Ativan. Okay, Stan?” “Whatever,” Stan says again. Dr. Keene sighs again, rubbing the ring on his left finger. “Okay. Now, Stan, I thought-” "Stop that," Stan says, irritated. Dr. Keene pauses. "Stop what?" "Stop putting my name in every other sentence you direct to me," Stan says. "I know my name now, okay?" "Force of habit, St- force of habit," Doctor Keene says. Stan chuckles dryly. "I hate my name," he tells his doctor. "And why's that?" Dr. Keene asks, scratching something down on his notepad. "It's just a reminder." Dr. Keene pauses. "A reminder of what?" "It's just another reminder that no one's actually unique," Stan says. "No one's actually special." Dr. Keene sets his notepad onto the desk, looking intrigued. "Elaborate?" he requests. "Certainly," Stan says. "You know, there's someone out there named Stanley Uris. Maybe not now, but there will be. Maybe even both, depending on how long I live." He pauses, tapping his chin. "And if there really are infinite universes, there are an infinite number of Stanley Urises, saying the exact same thing that I'm saying, thinking the exact same thing that I'm saying. Yes, there are an infinite number of worlds where Stan Uris is a plumber who crossdresses in his free time and has never once considered other universes, but that would mean there are also an infinite number of worlds that are an exact replica of this one. And if that's true, there's no reason for anyone to feel special." Stan hums thoughtfully. "You could always argue, of course, that there may be no such thing as parallel universes, but even so, there's still going to be someone with your name in your past, present, or future. And I read that everyone has a doppelgänger on this earth, although the two doppelgängers may not live at the same time." Stan sighs. "What's the point in being unique?" Dr. Keene stares at him. "...and that's why you don't like your name?" Stan laughs a little. "A rather wordy version of why, yes." "It's definitely interesting," Dr. Keene tells him. "I'm definitely going to think long and hard about it later." "Good," Stan tells him honestly. "I think everyone should think about it at least once in a while. Food for thought, you know."

"Mom?" Stan asks, walking into the kitchen. "Stan?" his mom responds, turning to him with an expression of mild surprise. "I have something to tell you," he says, cautiously taking her hand and leading her to sit at the kitchen table. "What is it?" she asks. "I..." am in love with the boy you think is imaginary what do I do, "...uh." Stan scratches the back of his neck. "Um." "Yes?" his mom says. "What's for dinner?" comes tumbling out. His mother blinks in surprise. "Spaghetti and meatballs," she says. "Why? Do you want to eat with us?" And for some unknown reason, Stan nods.

"S-so, let me g-get this straight:" Bill begins, "you tr-tried to eat the s-spaghetti with a spoon, c-called your b-b-brother a p-periwinkle dust m-m-mop when h-he tried to g-give you a f-fork, listened to your s-sister talk about her b-basketball t-tournament, fell o-off your chair wh-when y-your o-other b-brother k-k-kicked you u-under the table, w-watched your d-dad drink a nonalcoholic b-beer, listened to y-your m-mom t-talk about your sister's basketball tournament, and b-burst into tears w-w-when the b-brother who k-kicked you asked wh-why you d-don't go to s-school." "That just about sums it up," Stan says, nodding. Bill raises an eyebrow at him. "And wh-y d-did you e-even go to d-dinner?" Stan blushes. "It was sort of an accident." Bill raises the other eyebrow. "H-how do you accidentally w-wind up eating d-d-dinner with y-your family?" "I- ah..." Stan runs a hand through his hair. "Well, I was going to ask my mom something, but, uh, I ended up asking her what was for dinner." Bill's raised eyebrows lift even higher. "Wh-what were you g-going to ask h-her?" Stan feels his face flush even darker. "Nothing," he says a little too quickly. Bill's eyebrows rise so high that they almost disappear into his mop of bright auburn hair. Before Stan can stop himself, he's reaching out and pushing Bill's eyebrows down himself. They stare at each other for a moment before they both burst out laughing. They end up with their foreheads pressed together and fingers intertwined, and they're both still giggling as Stan looks down at Bill's soft, C major lips. It would be so easy just to... "S-stan?" Stan snaps out of it, looking back up into Bill's mocha eyes. Their foreheads are still pressed together. "Can I, um..." Before Stan can think about it, he's shifting himself oh-so-slightly for their lips to touch. It's brief, but Stan can still feel those perfect, C major lips unresponsive on his when he pulls back. "Oh," Bill says, looking startled. "Oh," Stan echoes, standing up. "Oh, oh man, I'm so sorry, I- I'll..." He practically slides down the ladder. "No, w-wait, Stan-" Bill calls, but Stan doesn't look back.

"You seem gloomy today,” Stan’s mom comments as Stan pours milk into a bowl of cereal. Stan shrugs. “I’m all right.” She frowns. “You haven’t gone outside at all today.” Stan shrugs again. “Not in the mood.” “Do you mind if I join you?” his mom asks, gesturing to the seat across from Stan. He shakes his head. “Thank you.” They sit in silence for a moment. “I didn’t know you like that kind of cereal,” Stan’s mom comments. “Hmm?” Stan says, looking up. “Oh, yeah, it’s Bill’s...” he cuts himself off when he looks down at the floating brown and tan corn puffs, “...favorite.” Before he knows it, Stan’s suddenly bawling into his bowl of Reese’s Puffs. “Stan,” his mom says, sounding alarmed. “Hey, what’s wrong?” “Sorry, sorry,” Stan says through a small sob. "I- I don't know, I-" Another sob cuts him off. "Shh," his mom says, suddenly kneeling next to his chair, hand on his shoulder. "Hey, it's okay." Stan wraps his arms around her, burying his head in her shoulder. He's suddenly bombarded by memories of when he used to cling to her after his unending nightmares when he was little. He stopped asking for his mom when Bill came into the picture, though. He'd cling to Bill instead. Stan chuckles through a sob, wondering if he'll have to go back to hugging his mother after nightmares. "It's okay," Stan's mom says softly, patting his back. "Sweetheart, it's all okay." "Mom?" he whispers into her neck. "Yes, Stan?" she replies. "I'm in love with Bill," he says, voice cracking on "love." "Oh." Stan's mom holds him even tighter. "Oh, Stan." "And I know-" Stan pauses to take a deep breath, "I know that you think he's not real, and everyone's so vehement about it that sometimes I think he might not be too. And where would that leave me?" He's starting to shake now. "Stuck in love with a ghost, that's what." "Oh, baby," his mom says softly. "I'm so sorry." The position they're in isn't very comfortable, and Stan's mom slowly helps them both stand before guiding their way to the sofa. Stan immediately curls up, burying his head back into his mother's shoulder. "I messed up," Stan says, shuddering. "I kissed him and he didn't kiss back and I want to die, Momma, he means so much and I messed it all up." "Oh, honey," Stan's mom says softly, running her hand through his hair. "I messed up," Stan says again. "I messed up bad." "Stan," his mom says carefully, "have you considered that this might be a good thing?" "What?" Stan says, confused. "It's not healthy to rely on- on someone like you do," his mom says gently. "Maybe take a break from Bill?" "A break?" Stan says, so appalled that he's stopped crying. "A break, Stan," she echoes. "Just for a little while. Take up a new hobby or something." "Bill isn't a hobby, Mom," Stan says, indignant by her implications. "He's a person. A person that I need to make amends with," he says, springing up. "Stan, wait-" But Stan's already dashing out the back door and running into the Barrens to find Bill.

Stan can hear Bill humming mindlessly when he approaches the treehouse. He cautiously climbs up the ladder, poking his head in. Bill is sitting there, flicking the lighter on and off as if in a trance. "Hey," Stan says, and Bill nearly drops the lighter in surprise. "Hi," he says, pocketing the lighter. "C-come in." Stan hesitantly clambers in. "So, I wanted to apol-" He's cut off when Bill surges forward and presses C major lips to his. The kiss last longer than the last one, and this time both of them are contributing. Bill's mouth is warm and sweet, and Stan can feel his own heart thumping madly. Bill's soft, blue-sky hands reach up. One cradles the back of his neck, and the other cups his jaw. Stan's hands hesitantly reach up as well, grasping Bill's shoulders. They finally pull back, and Stan slowly opens his eyes to see Bill's still closed, looking utterly contented. They just sit there for a moment, catching their breaths. "W-why'd you r-run?" Bill asks, breaking the silence. "Why didn't you kiss back?" Stan answers. There's another moment of silence. "I l-like you," Bill says suddenly. His voice sounds a little different. Like rain falling up. "I like y-you a lot." "I like you a lot too," Stan says, and Bill beams at him, tiger-growl teeth peaking through C major lips. "G-good," he whispers, odic, and kisses him again.

"Oh," Stan gasps into Bill's mouth, "Bill." "Good?" Bill mumbles as he twists his fingers. Stan yelps. "Like- like-" Stan throws his head back, hitting the wooden floor of the treehouse. "I can taste- ahh..." Bill swallows his groan, pressing perfect C major lips to his. Stan whimpers again, bucking his hips up. "Bill," he gasps. "S-stan," Bill says, warm and low in his throat, honey and birdsong and dark, sweet orange. Stan's a mess of gasps and moans as Bill gently moves his fingers inside him. He can taste something, like metal but not quite, and he's so so desperate for something, but he doesn't know what. "Please," Stan whispers, not even sure of what he's pleading for. Bill's fingers press up, and the not-metal taste becomes so overwhelming that a sob is startled out of him. "Hey," Bill says, pausing. He cups Stan's cheek with soft, blue-sky hands. "Y-you okay?" "Yeah," Stan says shakily. "Yeah, I'm okay." Bill presses a gentle kiss to his forehead. "T-tell me if it b-becomes t-too much, okay?" "Okay," Stan murmurs. He presses himself against Bill's fingers, and Bill smiles, all C major-sweet. "Come on," Stan says, throat suddenly dry, "you can- ah." Bill goes back to slowly moving his fingers. Stan isn't exactly sure of what he's doing, but it's good. He can feel something else in his veins, hot and desperate and red-black velvet. He groans, squeezing on Bill's fingers. "So good," Stan grunts. "So, so... like- ah, not metal but almost, and velvet, and- ahh..." "Shh," Bill says softly. "I know." Bill slowly pulls his fingers out. Stan frowns at the loss. "What?" he starts to ask, but Bill is suddenly shifting Stan's hips and pressing something warm and hard against him. "Oh." "Okay?" Bill murmurs, looking down at him with wide, mocha eyes. "Yes," Stan says, absolutely certain. "Yes." Bill gently pushes in, lower C major lip tucked under tiger-growl top teeth. Stan's eyes roll back as he's slowly filled up. It burns, but it's like creamer for coffee, like red robin feathers, and it's okay. "Okay?" Bill whispers. "Yeah," Stan confirms, closing his eyes. The not-metal in his mouth is building up again, and he gasps as Bill shifts his hips oh-so slightly. "Oh! Oh, ahh..." Bill kisses him again, and Stan kisses back as hard as he can. "S-so, so, ahh," Bill moans into Stan's mouth. "Y-you're so, oh, oh..." Stan kisses him, swallowing his groans. Bill is starting to move his hips in slow, steady motions, and Stan finds himself moving his own hips to meet his motions. Bill is hitting something inside Stan every single time, and Stan can't help but whimper in a low, constant sound. "T-tell me," Bill grunts, "tell me if it's too m-m-much." "It is," Stan murmurs back. "Keep going." Bill laughs softly, startled, but obliges. Stan runs his hands through Bill's soft, red hair, tugging gently. Bill groans, fingers digging into Stan's shoulders, and Stan wraps his legs around Bill's waist. His hips shift up slightly, and whimpers when Bill starts to hit that place inside him even harder. "C-come on," Bill grunts into Stan's ear. "Can I-I...?" Stan doesn't even know what Bill is asking for, but he presses his hips even closer to Bill's, squeezing, and with a yelp, Bill's movements stutter and still. "...are you all right?" Stan asks. Bill is panting hard as he reaches down and wraps his hand around Stan's- whoa. "I'm gr-great," he says as he starts to move his hand. "Ack," is Stan's reply. He reaches up, wrapping his arms around Bill's back, clinging desperately. The not-metal taste is more intense than ever, and he sinks his teeth into Bill's collarbone with a groan. "Oh gosh," he gasps out. "Oh gosh." Stan feels the velvet in his veins, tastes the not-metal in his mouth, and he can start to hear a low humming, a perfect G sharp. He groans, high in his throat, and Bill mouths along his jawbone down to his neck. "C-come on," Bill murmurs. "Almost th-there." Stan doesn't what Bill is even talking about, where he's close to being, but he's too jumbled up and overwhelmed to ask. Bill twists his hand, rubbing his thumb over the top, and the not-metal in Stan's mouth suddenly becomes so much, too much, and he sobs hard into Bill's skin. "It's okay," Bill whispers. "J-just let go. Let g-go." Stan lets go. He's falling, sinking, and he can feel himself shaking. The not-metal in his mouth finally comes spilling out as a moan higher than he ever thought he could make. He splays his arms out, one hitting the wooden wall, and he feels all of his muscles clench and unclench. The G sharp grows louder and louder until he finally screams, groaning and whimpering. Bill is murmuring soft, cloud-sweet words as Stan finally quiets down. "Oh," Stan says once he can finally speak. "H-hi," Bill says against Stan's neck. "Hi," Stan echoes, ears buzzing. "That was- that was..." For the first time ever, there's something that Stan can't describe. "Y-yeah," Bill says, kissing him chastely. "I kn-know."

"I know," Stan says, and immediately wishes he could shove those words back in his mouth because Bill's mocha eyes go dark. "Wh-what," Bill says softly, C major lips pulling back to bare tiger-growl teeth, "d-did you s-say?" "I'm sorry, Bill," Stan says immediately. Bill exhales in a way that Stan can only describe as red-green-orange, like a stream over a bed of jagged crystal. Perfectly dangerous. "I'm sorry," Stan repeats. "You d-don't-" Bill takes a deep breath, "you c-can't understand, okay?" "I-" "You have no idea what it's like," Bill growls, "to be terrified of going home. No idea what it's like to be frightened of your own parents." He stands up, pacing the best he can in the cramped space of the treehouse. "You have no idea what it's like to have to hide whenever your dad gets too drunk and destroys whatever he comes across, and your mother is too high to care. You have no idea what it's like to lose your little brother. You don't know the fear that runs through you when your father pulls out his belt because he's feeling pissed off and needs something to take it all out on. You have no idea what it's like to be whipped as hard as a grown man drunk on cheap liquor and anger can manage. And let me tell you something, Stan." He stops pacing and turns to look Stan in the eye. "It. Hurts." Stan swallows hard. "I- I'm sorry-" "Sorry, sorry," Bill sneers. "Everybody's fucking sorry." He resumes pacing. "Everything is blue-black," he repeats. He pauses, frowning. "For me," he adds.

"What's wrong, Stan?" Stan's mom asks. "Huh?" Stan says, looking up. "You've just been sitting there all day," she says, sitting down next to him on the sofa. "Is there something wrong?" "Well," Stan says. He tries to stop himself, but the words suddenly come pouring out. "Bill and I had sex, okay? And ever since then he's been extra moody and I don’t know what to do. And yesterday we had a fight because I agreed with him when he said that everything is blue-black and he got mad because I don't know what it's like. And he's right, I don't know what it's like for everything to be blue-black. But he kept on yelling and yelling and Mom, he's hurt so bad at home and I want to help him but I can't and that hurts." "You- you had sex with Bill?" Stan looks up to see his mother's face completely white. "Yes," he says slowly. "That's what I said, right?" "Stan," his mom says urgently, squeezing his hand so hard it's to the point of painful, "did it hurt?" Stan feels his face contort into a vaguely shocked and disgusted expression. "What?" "When you had sex with Bill, did it hurt?" his mom says. "Did he hurt you?" Stan frowns. "Well, a little. But I didn't really notice then." He considers this thoughtfully. "It hurt to sit down the next day," he says truthfully. His mom looks absolutely horrified. "Oh, Stan," she whispers, wrapping him into a hug. "I'm so sorry." "What?" Stan says, confused. Why is she sorry? Wasn't the sex a good thing? It felt good. "It's okay," Stan's mom says, rocking him gently. "It's okay. You're safe here." Stan sits there, utterly bewildered. Was he not supposed to have enjoyed it? His mom runs a hand through his hair. "You're all right. No one's going to hurt you. Not anymore." Stan's mom hasn't let him out of her sight since he told her he had sex with Bill. He hopes Bill will understand why he hasn't been out to make amends yet. His mom has only left his side to call a few people and to talk to his dad. "I'm just going to go say hi to your siblings, okay?" his mom says, when they hear the garage door open. "I'll be right back." Stan nods slowly. He can hear his mom greeting his brother and sister when there's a tap on the living room window. He looks out to see Bill standing there, waving cautiously. Stan runs to the window, opening it. "Hi," he says cautiously. "C-come on," Bill says, gesturing out to the woods behind them. Stan bites his lip. "My mom'll freak out if she comes back and I'm not here," he says. Bill sighs. "P-please?" he says. "I'm s-sorry, Stan. I didn't m-me-meean to yell. Please. I'm s-sorry." Stan sighs, looking out. "Fine," he murmurs, climbing out of the window.

"Hi," Bill says softly, cautiously taking his hand. "C-can we talk?" "Okay," Stan says, and they walk, hand-in-hand, into the Barrens. "I'm sorry th-that I blew up at y-you like th-that," Bill apologizes once they're safely hidden in the trees. "I'm sorry I said I understood," Stan says. "I don't understand. I don't know what I was thinking." Bill smiles, C major lips a little sad. "E-everybody's fucking sorry," he whispers, and Stan leans in and kisses him. Bill's eyes are closed when he pulls back, and he looks peaceful. "S-sing," he says, eyes still closed. "What?" Stan asks, taken aback. "Sing," Bill repeats. "What do you want me to sing?" Stan says, bewildered. Bill shrugs. "S-something ev-everyone would know." "Um." Stan pauses. For some reason, all he can think of is "Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star." Bill finally opens his eyes when Stan finishes. "Th-thank you," he says. "Sure," Stan says. They walk deeper into the Barrens, hands still clasped together. "H-have y-you ever n-noticed," Bill begins, squinting up at the darkening sky, "that w-when you s-s-squeeze your e-eyes together, everything ch-anges?" "Yeah," Stan says. "Not dramatically, though. Just enough to be unnerving." "Y-yeah." Bill snaps his fingers. "L-like that- that g-guy. With th-the covered faces. R-red-August-L name." "Um," Stan says, thinking. "Uh, René Magritte?" "Yel- yes, h-him," Bill says. "Everything's n-not quite what it sh-should be." Stan nods slowly, squinting around the Barrens. Everything has a slightly eerie gloom to it, slightly off. He shivers, looking back at Bill, who- who isn't who he's supposed to look like. "You're not quite what you should be," Stan says without thinking. Bill stiffens, and Stan thinks he's going to yell again, but Bill just squeezes Stan's hand. "Th-that's okay," he whispers, "as l-long as you re-remember m-me." Stan squeezes back. They walk in thick silence, all green-orange. Stan can sort of taste it. "What if this isn't real?" Stan says suddenly. Bill frowns. "In wh-what way?" "In the way it's all in my mind," Stan clarifies. Bill cocks his head. "Well, of c-course it's all in your m-mind," he says, and Stan blinks. "What?" "Th-this is all in your m-mind," Bill says, gesturing. "B-but t-th-hat doesn't m-mean it's not real." Stan sighs. "Yes, but what if all this-" he gestures around, "is only in my mind?" Bill shrugs. "Th-then it would still be r-real, wouldn't it? If you can s-see it, if you can f-feel it, why w-wouldn't it be real?" "I- I don't know," Stan says, frowning. "Maybe because it isn't real for anyone else." "S-so?" "So, maybe you're not real." Bill freezes, looking at Stan. "Wh-what?" "Maybe you're not real," Stan repeats. Bill is shaking his head. "No, d-don't say that." "Everyone tells me you aren't," Stan says. "My therapists, my psychologist, my parents-" "D-don't listen to th-them," Bill says firmly, staring into Stan's eyes. "Don't l-listen. Y-you can see me, right? He-hear me?" He squeezes Stan's hand. "F-feel me?" "Hallucination?" Stan offers. "One th-that kisses you?" Bill retorts. Stan shakes Bill's hand off in favor of burying his head in his hands. "Stanley, I'm r-real," Bill snaps. "D-do you hear me?" "Let me think!" Stan yells back. "I t-told you to r-remember me!" Bill growls. "Did you think that up yourself? Am I really just your imagination?" "Shut up!" Stan screams, hands over his ears. "Shut up shut up shut up!" "L-listen to me!" "You're not real!" "Y-yes I am!" "You're not real!" "I am! Stanley, listen-" "Not real, not real, not real-" And then Bill backhands him across the face. They both freeze. "Did- did you just-" "S-stan," Bill gasps out. "Stan, I'm so s-sorry, I didn't-" "Get away from me." "Oh, Stan, I'm so-" "Leave me alone!" Stan screams. "Get away from me!" "Stan, p-please, I'm sorry!" "Stay away!" he shrieks, running towards his home. "S-stan!" Stan screams, tears running down his cheeks. He runs into the light of his house, bangs on the door, and his brother opens it. "Stan! Mom's been so-" Stan runs past him, sobbing as he dashes into his room. He collapses on his bed, not even bothering to lock the door. He burrows under the blankets, curls up, and falls asleep.

Stan wakes up to his mother lying on his bed next to him, rubbing his back. "Hey," she says softly as he sits up, rubbing his eyes. "Hi," he says, feeling hollow. "Want to talk about it?" his mom asks gently. Stan starts to shake his head, but says, "Bill hit me." His mom's eyes widen. "He what?" "It was my fault," Stan says, running his fingers through his hair. "I kept screaming that he's not real, he's not real, and he was crying but I didn't stop and finally he just hit me." His mom stares at him, looking horrified. "He hit you," she says slowly. Stan rubs his eyes, nodding. He's suddenly wrapped into a fierce hug. "Mom?" he says uncertainly as he feels her shake as though she's crying. "Stan," she says softly. "Oh, Stan. I'm so sorry." "Why... why are you...?" Stan begins but doesn't finish, hesitantly patting his mother's back. "My baby boy," she whispers, hugging him to the point that it's hard for him to breathe. "Mom?" Stan looks up to see his youngest brother peeking into the room. "Um, I don't mean to bother you, but Dad's on the phone," the brother says, holding out the phone. Reluctantly, Stan's mom releases Stan and grabs the phone. Looking much relieved, his brother leaves immediately. "Chris?" his mom says, holding the phone to her ear. She listens for a moment. "No, he just woke up." She pauses again. "Yes, I did- no, I'll tell you later." Another pause. "Yeah, he is. See you soon." She hangs up, setting the phone on Stan's dresser. Stan's mom sits back down next to him on the bed. "Are you hungry?" she asks. Stan shakes his head. "What time is it?" His mom checks her watch. "3:50," she says. "In the afternoon, or-" "In the morning," she says. Stan frowns. "What's Dad doing out? What's my brother doing up?" "Your dad went out to go pick up a few things," his mom says. "And all of your siblings haven't been able to sleep." "That's my fault, I'm sure," Stan says, sounding perfectly apathetic. His mom squeezes his hand. "It's my fault, if anything," she admits. "I've been a bit of a mess." "Oh," Stan says, unsure of what else to say. "We're going to see Dr. Keene later, okay?" she says. "Why?" "We all need to talk together," she tells him. "About what?' She shrugs. "Everything that's been happening." Stan sighs. "The sex," he says, and his mom flinches. "Yes, Stan," she says. "That's part of it." Stan nods slowly, lying back down. He buries his head in his pillow and pretends Bill never hit him.

"I don't get why we're making such a big deal out of this," Stan says. "Why do you think we shouldn't be?" Dr. Keene says. Stan shrugs. "It's just sex," he says. "Plenty of kids do it." "Most kids do it because they like it," Stan's mom says gently. "But I liked it, Mom," Stan says, frowning. "I like it." His mom stares. "You- you liked it?" "Yes," he says. "Why? Should I not have?" "Well, no, I- I mean..." "What?" Stan demands. "We didn't think you would ever be able to enjoy sex," Dr. Keene interjects. "Not after what happened with Dr. Craig." Stan freezes. "But Dr. Craig," he pauses, swallowing, "he just- he just hit me. Right?" "Oh, god," his mom says, burying her head in her hands. "Oh, Stan." "Momma?" Stan says softly, suddenly so so scared. His mom just shakes her head, burying her face in Stan's father's shoulder. "Dad?" Stan asks softly, and his father swallows hard, intertwining his fingers with his wife's. "Stan, Dr. Craig-" he pauses, taking a deep breath, "Dr. Craig..." He shakes his head, looking to Dr. Keene. "Stan," Dr. Keene says, his normally calm expression looking troubled, "Dr. Craig would hit you, yes. But, ah..." He runs a hand through his thinning hair. "He would, well, hurt you. Sexually." Stan sits back. "He'd- he'd rape me," he says dully. "Molest you, yes," Dr. Keene says softly, eyes full of rooster-crow sadness. "And I didn't remember?" Stan asks. "That was a severe amount of trauma for a child that young, Stan," Dr. Keene says. "It's not surprising that you repressed those memories." "But no one ever told me?" Stan questions. "We saw no need to upset you," Dr. Keene explains. "It would've only hurt you." "We're so sorry, Stan," his mom interject tearfully. "So sorry." "Sorry, sorry," Stan mumbles to himself. "Everybody's fucking sorry." "And this is where Bill comes in," Dr. Keene says. "You started talking about him not too long after Dr. Craig became your therapist." "So?" Stan asks. "Stan," Dr. Keene says softly, "Bill is a coping mechanism. He's not real." "No," Stan tries to say, but things are starting to click into place. "Oh. Oh, no." "I'm sorry," Dr. Keene says, looking genuinely apologetic. "But... but we..." Kissed. Touched. Made love. It was real. Was it? Stan buries his head in his hands. No one else has ever seen Bill. No one else can prove he exists. Hell, Stan doesn't even know Bill's last name. Oh, god. "Stan," his mom says, "do you want anything? Do you need anything?" Stan's shaking his head slowly, digging ragged nails into his knees. "No, no," he says, squeezing his eyes shut. "No." "Stan," somebody says. He doesn't know who, because everything is starting to blur in his ears. "The food is poisoned," he whispers before everything goes dark.

Stan wakes up in his bedroom, his mom asleep on the chair next to his bed and holding his hand in an nearly painful grasp. He looks out the window, at the sinking sun, and squints his eyes. "Remember me," he whispers. His mom stirs next to him, her eyes fluttering open. "Hey, baby," she murmurs. "Hi," he says, still looking out the window. "How do you feel?" his mom asks. "Tired," he says. "Could I, ah, maybe get some water?" "Of course," she says. "I'll be right back. Don't move, okay?" "Okay," he says, still looking out at the sun. "Hey. Look at me." Stan reluctantly looks away, looks at his mom. "Don't go anywhere," she orders. "Okay," he repeats, and she gives him a hug before leaving. As soon as she closes the door, Stan's throwing open his window and clambering out the way Bill used to all the time. He races out into the woods, skin suddenly too tight for his body. Dirty. Dirty dirty dirty. The kind of dirty that Stan can feel in his soul, the one place where he can't scrub viciously with soap. His feet are wet with blue-black water, and he looks up to see everything turning blue-black now. He wants to shout for Bill, to tell him that he gets it now, he understands, but Bill is gone and he's never coming back and Stan thinks his lungs are going to burst. "I'm sorry!" he screams. "I get it now! I promise!" But everything's becoming bluer and everything's becoming blacker and Stan can feel the cold in his bones. It's seeping in through his eyes, and he closes them as tightly as he can but it still leaks through. He's shivering, he's shaking, and he's so, so dirty. Stan slowly becomes aware that he's pleading for Bill to come back, come back to him, but Bill is never coming back because he isn't real, and Stan is a crazy fucking idiot left with only his crazy fucking mind and he's so so so dirty, he's filthy, and he's never going to be loved. "Please!" he shrieks, harsh and guttural, like the word's being torn away from his throat. "Oh, please!" The word echoes around the Barrens, bouncing from tree to tree, and Stan can feel the word sink through him, coating his bones, making them vibrate "pleasepleaseplease." "Where are you?!" he screams. "I need you! I fucking need you, oh please!" His hands are on his head, pulling his hair, clawing his skin. His nails are tearing though the soft skin of his cheeks, ripping, and he thinks that the pain is the most real thing he's ever felt. He claws desperately at his face, his neck, his arms. It hurts, it fucking hurts, and he's sobbing but he's laughing because isn't this just the best thing ever? "I'm real!" Stan screams. He points towards the sky accusingly. "I'm fucking real! Why aren't you?!" He collapses onto the cold, cold ground. "Why aren't you real?!" he shrieks. "Why- aren't- you- real?!" he demands, slamming his head against the ground with every word. Stan goes quiet suddenly when he realizes that he's sprawled out in front of the treehouse. Their treehouse. He closes his eyes and lets the memories play before them. Kissing, touching, whispering lullabies that were never real. It was never real. With a strangled cry of agony, Stan pushes himself up off the ground. He clambers up the tree into the treehouse. It's dark, quiet. The air is heavy, and Stan doesn't speak. He sits and watches tears drip onto the T-E-R-R-I-F-I-E-D that's carved into the wooden floor. Bill's lighter is lying by Stan's shoe, and he slowly picks it up, flicks it on. The flame glows in the darkness, and Stan watches himself press the flame to the wall. He holds it there, watching the wood grow darker as it chars. For a while nothing else happens, but Stan suddenly sees the wood catch fire. He flicks the lighter off and watches, transfixed, as the flame grows larger and larger, climbing up to the ceiling. Stan lies on his back and watches as fire slowly engulfs the roof. The treehouse is starting to fill with smoke. Something inside him is pulling, insisting that he has to get out, get out before he suffocates or burns. He ignores it. He doesn't care anymore. Stan falls asleep as everything around him burns. He doesn't care. "How do you feel?" T-E-R-R-I-F-I-E-D