#I have my first nursing school test tomorrow everyone PLEASE pray for me :'c

[thegooddoctorheadcanonsarchive]

What social media platform do you feel like each of the TGD characters would be most attached to?

Claire is addicted to Pinterest. She can get on there, blink, and lose three consecutive hours of her life. Lea is obsessed with Snapchat– one of her favorite things to do is to take selfies with Shaun and test out all the filters. Shaun, of course, puts up with this because he is a saint. Jared loves Twitter, mostly because he likes to tweet friends obscure memes. Claire had to turn her notifications off because he kept bothering her so much. He’s on thin ice, close to being straight up blocked. 

Shaun isn’t really on anything too much; he has accounts, but he’d rather spend his time studying or being with friends than spend it staring at a screen. Melendez isn’t on social media too much either. He has a Facebook, and that’s what he spends the most time on. Most of his photos are of him and Jessica. Currently, he’s trying to decide whether or not to keep them. 

[francoiserenaldt]

week three

last week | next week

warnings: several mentions of death, potentially triggering references to c****a, angst central, desirée is Bad At Feelings

word count: 1951

Sunday, August 17th, 2023 - Day 15 of quarantine

“Westchester County residents should be expected to shelter in place for at least 5 more weeks. Healthcare professionals are resigning by the hundreds as the disease spreads to nurses and doctors throughout the country. Over half of all patients that have tested positive for the Westchester Plague have either committed suicide or attempted to commit suicide. More at noon.” 

“It only gets worse and worse every day,” Desirée frowns.

“Maybe we should take a break from the news for a while.” Andy turns the TV off and heads into the kitchen. “What do you want to eat?”

“Um…” Desirée could probably read him a numbered and alphabetized list of foods that she would ruin right about now, but she refrains. “What do we have?” 

“Well, there’s some ramen in here…”

Not ideal, but it’ll have to do. They are in the middle of an epidemic, after all. “Awesome.” 

So they eat chicken flavored ramen like a pair of broke college students while watching some old anime, which Andy adamantly rejects the second the words leave her lips (“Avatar: The Last Airbender is a cartoon, Desirée”), and she lets her mind wander. 

Eventually, it arrives to Andy, as it seems to do more and more often these days. His name warms her skin like the sun on a late summer afternoon. His presence feels like the down comforter on her bed after a long day of work. 

A small smile plays at her lips as she leans into the promise of an exciting summer and sweet dreams. It welcomes her with open arms and promises fond memories for years to come. But as soon as she goes to take it, she finds herself drenched in a raging storm. 

While they polish off the last of their cups, a devastating truth hits her. 

As lovely as their moment feels, its end is as inevitable as the bone-chilling winter or the start of a new day. 

Monday, August 18th, 2023 - Day 16 of quarantine

“Did you want to give video games another try?” Andy asks tentatively. Then, like the infuriating bastard he is, he smirks. “I promise I’ll let you win.”

“That won’t be necessary.” Desirée retorts, donning a small smile. 

“Don’t get too cocky or I’ll have to show you up.” Andy 

After a tense round of Mortal Kombat, the TV screen flashes a victory. Andy slumps back, defeated. 

“I...how…?”

“Lily and I used to play. I’m excellent at playing dumb, Andy,” Desirée smirks. “You know this about me.” 

He shakes his head. “You’re something else, you know that?”

“If you say so.” Desiree rolls her neck and stretches her arms. “Ready for round 2?”

Tuesday, August 19th, 2023 - Day 17 of quarantine

“Scientists have found that cutis dissolutitis, better known as the Westchester Plague, mutated from Bacillus subtilis, a bacteria species found in dirt that acts as a decomposer of organic materials. It was first found in a large forest area. The best way to protect against this epidemic is to cover all exposed skin when you’re outside and sanitize once you’re inside.” A disgruntled news anchor reports from the outside of a nondescript building. The only patch of visible skin is around his eyes, which are covered by transparent goggles. 

Desirée gasps suddenly. “Oh my god, the woods. Andy, you don’t think that…”

He catches the implication. “There’s no way. Devon would never do this.” 

“We never suspected that Jane...or Noah…” She shakes her head. “I just hope not.”

Wednesday, August 20th, 2023 - Day 18 of quarantine

The official body count is projected to be 100. Over 200 citizens in the county have reported testing positive for the virus and 400 more are showing symptoms. Ignoring the news at this point is just short of irresponsible, but fear keeps her from lingering on the headlines.

As the day winds to a close, a feeling of dread slowly infiltrates her mind. The thought of tomorrow makes her skin crawl. Her stomach inverts and reverts on a constant loop as she reads yet another headline about yet another person committing suicide to avoid the disease. 

The sun sets and she’s overcome with a terrible truth. A subtle prick of worry that blossoms into a deep ache in her chest that she can’t quite place. 

“Something terrible is going to happen tomorrow.” Desirée whispers aloud. She locks herself in the bathroom as she feels the omen leave her lips. Andy doesn’t need to hear this. “Something that will change everything we thought was true.” 

Thursday, August 21st, 2023 - Day 19 of quarantine

They don’t bother changing out of their pajamas anymore. 

An alert on her phone tells her that the death toll in Westchester County has climbed from 100 to 1,000 overnight. Westchester alone has lost a third of its population. Then, she gets the call.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Dizzy,” Lily sniffles.

She knows that something is very wrong for two reasons. One, no one has called her Dizzy since her junior year in high school. Two, Lily is a notorious night owl and wouldn’t be caught out of bed before 9 in the morning if she had her way, let alone willingly engaging in human interaction. If she was calling at 8 AM, it had to be serious.

“Lily, is everything okay?” Desirée whispered as she tiptoed out of bed to avoid waking Andy.

“It’s my mom.” She sobs, and suddenly she can no longer hear the hum of the vents above her head or the whirring of her computer on the coffee table. “She has the plague.”

“Lily, how long has she had it?”

“I don’t know.” She sobs harder. “They’re queueing everyone on the block for testing.”

“Lily, it’s going to be okay. Everything is going to be okay,” Desirée whispers. The burning in her eyes and the constricting feeling in her throat tell her that she’s crying, too. “You’re going to be okay.”

She’s lying through her teeth and she knows it, but the words seem to offer Lily some comfort as she recites them back to her.

“I will be okay,” she chokes out. “Everything will be okay.”

“If you need anything at all…”

“I know who to call,” Lily replies. The line goes dead.

Desirée holds the phone to her chest and sends a silent prayer. It’s bad enough that you’ve taken a third of our town. Please don’t take Lily, too.

Silent tears stream down her cheeks as she prays over and over again. 

Don’t take Lily. 

Don’t take Lily. 

Don’t take Lily.

It’s that exact moment that Andy wraps his arms around Desirée’s middle and buries his head in the crook of her neck. She’s suddenly overcome with guilt and shame as she turns to him with shining eyes. 

“Andy, I-”

“Shhh.” He shakes his head and pulls her into his chest, blinking back tears of his own. “Whenever you’re ready.”

Soon, everyone knows. The news is bleaker than ever, with cameras being shoved into the grieving families of the victims and the death toll climbing by the hour. As the day crawls to an end and she lays in Andy’s arms, one thing becomes astoundingly apparent. 

Life will never be the same again.

Friday, August 22nd, 2023 - Day 20 of quarantine

It becomes physically unbearable to look at the news. Desirée briefly considers letting Andy unplug the TV again.

No one takes the news of Lily’s mother well, but Ava seems to struggle with it the most.  She refuses to answer phone calls from anyone and only replies in short, but extremely worrying sentences. 

“I wish this wasn’t going on so that I could check on her.” Desirée sighs after a fifth “missed” call. She’s curled up on the living room sofa with her head hanging on the arm. Her eyes are shut tight. “But here we are.” 

“She’s never really been the emotional type, Rée.” 

“That’s why I’m so worried about her. If she’s shutting down this early, what’s she gonna do if Mrs. Ortiz doesn’t make it?” 

“I don’t know, but I think what Ava needs right now is space.” 

“Andy, I can’t just let her spiral.” She sits up at this, frowning.

“I know it’s hard to see her like this, but you can’t protect everyone.” 

“I know I can’t. I don’t think I’ll ever forget that.” Desirée whispers. “But I can help.”

“What happened with Devon wasn’t your fault, Desirée. The only person you should blame is-”

“Don’t.” 

“The point I’m making is that you don’t always have to be everyone’s person.” Andy stares deeply into her eyes. For a second, it feels as if he’s seeing her every flaw, every imperfection she’s buried deep into her heart and mind, every secret she’s ever kept and maybe even the ones she didn’t. For the longest second, it feels as if he’s peering into her soul and reading it with the ease of a picture book and she’s helpless to turn away and shut him out despite the fact that she desperately wants to. “You’re always so focused on being there for everyone else, but who’s going to be there for you?”

You. She almost whispers. It’s always been you.

“A therapist.” She replies instead, forcing a small smile. “And a bottle of wine.”

“Take care of yourself.” Andy squeezes her shoulders once and turns for the bedroom. “Let someone else be there for you once in a while.”

“Someone else like who?”

“I don’t think either one of us is ready for that conversation.”

“You sure?” Desirée retorts, suddenly emboldened. She’s not the only mind reader between them and she’ll be damned if Andy Kang gets to leave her wondering like every night before. “Because I feel plenty ready to talk. If you’re scared of going there, just say that.”

“Who’s scared?” Andy turns back around, staring her down. She holds her own, meeting his gaze head on. “I’ll go there if that’s what you want.”

“Hey, don’t hold back on my account. If you want to say something, I’m all ears.”

“Could you handle that?” He walks slowly toward her as he speaks, sizing her up. “Could you handle it if I told you that I wish you’d stop trying to play tough all the time and open up to me like you used to? That I wish we’d just quit this dance where we pretend we’re still not in love with each other?” Her breath catches and his face is inches away from hers, so much so that she can feel his breath on her cheeks. “Could you even function knowing that?”

“I could. You know why?” She finally responds, placing her hand directly onto his chest. “Nothing is the way it used to be, Andy. We’re not the way we used to be when this started and we’ll never be those people again. So I suggest…” She tilts her head upwards and brushes her lips against his chin. “...you make peace with that.”

She lets him meditate on her words as she heads toward the bedroom and into the conjoined bathroom, where she finally lets her face rest in her hands as she cries.

Saturday, August 23, 2023 - Day 21 of quarantine

They don’t speak for most of the day. 

“I probably should’ve told you this earlier,” Desirée tells Andy during the evening. They’ve just eaten dinner. “But everything that happened on Thursday...I felt it.” 

“You...what?”

“I’d just been feeling horrible all day and I thought my anxiety was just acting up, but then I just felt this ache in my chest and I knew something awful was going to happen.” 

“What did it feel like?” 

“Death.” She inhales a shaky breath before nodding resolutely. “It felt like death.”

[blue-collects-things]

ok IT book spoilers ahead so beware but stan kills himself as an adult and I'd like to imagine what it would be like if he struggled with suicide as a kid too. I also like to imagine what it would be like if bill walked in on him in the middle of an attempt. :)c

The Scent of Purple Hyacinth

Stan Uris x Bill Denbrough

Word Count: 6.2k

Warnings: suicide attempt, graphic descriptions of suicide, depression, anxiety

Author’s Note: This is something I’ve been kind of putting off for a while because it’s some pretty heavy stuff and I wanted to execute it well. The losers are about high school junior age (about 16/17) in this to give some perspective. It gets pretty graphic and I tagged that, but just be cautious please. My messages are always open if you need someone to talk to, to vent to, anything. Don’t stay silent. Also, I must have listened to Heal by Tom Odell and Oblivion by Bastille 400 million times each while writing this to get some perspective. Please enjoy.

Read it on ao3

The day that everything went to hell started out pretty normal, all things considered.

Bill had had a decent day, got to spend time with his friends and boyfriend, and only had a little homework to do after football practice. He was halfway home when he realized he left his history notes in his locker and needed them to study for the test tomorrow. He turned back around, hoping to catch someone who could let him back in. As he ran up to the front steps, Bill caught sight of the janitor tying a black bag full of trash and knocked on the main doors of the school building.

The older man fumbled with the keys on his ring momentarily before unlocking the door. “What are you doing here so late, Bill?” he asks.

“Hey, Gary. Forgot my notes,” Bill explains, “I’ll b-be back in a minute.” He rushes up the steps, taking them two at a time, to get to the third floor. He walks briskly down the hall to get to his locker and put in the combination. When he flings the door open, a piece of paper flutters to the ground. He crosses his eyebrows in confusion before bending to pick it up. He instantly recognizes the handwriting on the outside that his initials are written in as Stan’s elegant script. Bill unfolds it and reads the six-word note.

William, my love,I’m sorry.-Stanley

Something about this doesn’t sit right with Bill. He grabs his history notebook, slams the locker shut, not bothering with the lock, and sprints back to his car. He drives several miles above the speed limit to get to Stan’s house on the other side of town. He feels the panic ebbing and flowing with his bloodstream as he pauses at stop lights and gasses on green ones. He makes the near twenty minute drive in nine. He doesn’t bother with shutting the car door as he runs up the front steps of the Uris household. He thumps his fist against the front door and shouts, “Stan! Stan, a-are you in there? He-ello?” When there is no answer after ten seconds of waiting, Bill dashes to the side of the porch where a spare key sits under a pot of hydrangeas. He fumbles to fit the key in the slot but finally gets it.

After he shuts the door, everything inside is eerily quiet, save for the pounding blood in Bill’s ears. “Stan?” he calls out. Faintly he can hear the water running upstairs. So someone is home, he thinks, only worrying himself further. He climbs the stairs and figures out that the noise is coming from Stan’s room. “Stan?” he asks once more, pushing the door open gently. He notices immediately the adjacent bathroom’s door is shut. Bill passes the foot of the bed and trips over something, landing squarely on the floor. It is in this position he notices water leaking out from under the door.

“Hey, Stanny, are you in there?” Bill asks once he’s stood up. He tries to open the door, but it won’t budge. Not like it’s locked, but like something is pressed up against it. Worry renews itself in Bill’s body as he drives his shoulder into the door. He keeps pushing and pushing and pushing and finally whatever was lodged under the doorknob comes loose and Bill can get inside. In the process, he knocks over the chair he assumes was keeping the door shut.

And then he almost falls over again. Water pools around his feet, completely drenching his sneakers and the edge of his jeans. He notices with increasing horror that the water is tinted pink. His eyes slowly, too slowly, follow the water back to its source. The bath is overflowing and in it lays Stan, incrementally sliding under the water. His eyes are closed and the veins around them stand out so prominently, they look tattooed there.

Bill goes into overdrive. He rushes to the side of the tub, falling to his knees and turning off the water. “Stanley!” He smacks his hand against his boyfriend’s cheek and pulls him into more of a sitting position. “C’mon, h-honey, open your eyes.” Bill gets no response as he looks over Stan’s body. He’s still wearing his clothes, a long sleeved sweater and jeans. Bill delicately rolls up a sleeve and backs away upon seeing what was underneath, covering his mouth with his bloody fingers. “Chr-christ!” Stan’s arm is shredded, littered with old, white scars and new open wounds. A long slash runs from his wrist to his elbow. Bill feels like he might vomit as he looks around again, seeing the glinting of the blade Stan used in the other end of the tub. He also spots an open pill bottle labeled Eszopiclone, a sleeping pill prescribed to Stan’s dad.

Bill lets out a string of curse words and feels his eyes water as he fumbles his cellphone out of his pocket. He slides to the emergency screen and dials 9-1-1, hating how long it seems to take for them to answer. “911, what’s your emergency?” a woman answers after two rings.

“I th-think my boyfriend tried to commit s-s-suicide,” Bill says, choking out the last word, the tears in his eyes falling freely.

“Okay, I’ll dispatch an ambulance to your location. What is your address?” Bill rattles off the Uris’s address and waits for the next question. “Alright, the ambulance is on its way. Is he breathing?”

Bill dashes back to Stan and watches to see if his chest goes up and down. In his panic, he had not thought to check for breathing. He notices a rise and fall, however a faint one. “Y-yes, b-but very, v-very sh-h-hallowly.”

“What about his heart beat?” Bill lays two fingers against the hollow of Stan’s throat and waits for something. The pulse is slow. So slow, Bill can count five seconds between the beats. He reports this to the 911 operator who tells him to stay on the line. He hears sirens in the distance and soon he hears footsteps coming inside the house.

“Where are you?” a man’s voice calls out.

“U-up here!” Bill calls back. Everything starts to move in slow motion after that. The paramedics enter Stan’s bedroom and Bill moves out of the way. He watches as they lift Stan’s limp body from the bathtub and carry him out to the hallway where a gurney is set up. Bill follows behind as they push the gurney outside and lift him into the ambulance. “Pl-please, let me-ee c-come wi-hith you.” The paramedic closest to him nods once and helps Bill hoist himself into the ambulance. He watches on silently as the two men in the back tuck cannulas into Stan’s nostrils and bandage his arms several times over.

Bill doesn’t know how long it takes to get to the hospital. All he does know is that he prays the whole way there. He prays when he hasn’t in years, asking for Stan’s life. He bargains and pleads and begs that Stan will be okay. He is still praying as he is ushered out of the ambulance and follows after the gurney until a nurse stops him. “I n-need to kno-how h-he’s ok-k-kay!”

“Sir, I’m going to need you to calm down,” the nurse says. He gestures towards a room full of chairs. “Take a seat and we’ll update you when we have information.”

Bill knows the nurse is right and deflates a little. “Pl-please,” he asks, “just make su-hure he’s okay.” The nurse nods and Bill goes to take a seat. He pulls out his phone again and calls Mrs. Uris. He sobs as he reports the news to her and tells her where they are. After he hangs up, he sends a blunt text to the losers club group message: stan is hurt, please come to hospital.

He clicks his phone off and feels the exhaustion of the day sink in. He dozes off before he knows what’s happening.

~ ~ ~

When Bill wakes up an hour later, he is surrounded, the near-empty waiting room now filled with his friends and some others. Bev is seated directly next to him and notices he’s awake first. “There’s no news,” she reports without Bill having to ask. He nods and buries his head in his hands.

“A-hare the U-urises h-h-here?” His voice comes out muffled.

“Yeah,” Richie says from across the room. “They’re talking to the doctors.” Bill notices with muted shock that Richie is crying silently, a steady stream of tears flowing down his face. In the next chair over, Eddie places his hand over his boyfriend’s and closes his eyes. “I’ve gotta get out of here. I’m going insane.” He pushes out of the chair and angrily walks towards the exit.

From the other side of Bev, Mike begins to follow after, but Eddie waves him down. “Just let him go. He needs to cool off.” His voice is incredibly tight and Bill rises from his own chair to sit next to the small boy.

“Ho-ow are y-y-you holding u-up? I kno-how Stan is your be-e-est friend,” Bill asks. He hesitantly looks up to see the incredulous face Eddie is making. “What?”

Eddie just chuckles humorlessly and shakes his head. “Even when I should be the one asking you, you’re worried about everyone else. Jesus, Big Bill, how are you holding up? Stan is your boyfriend, for Christ’s sake. I don’t know what I’d do if that were Richie.” And suddenly, he breaks down, ugly sobs racking his tiny frame. Bill carefully places an arm around Eddie’s shoulder and pulls him closer. The other losers slowly surround them, Ben taking the chair on the other side of Eddie and rubbing slow circles on his shoulder, Mike coming up from behind and wrapping him in a bear hug, and Bev kneeling in front of them all, her hand delicately threaded through Eddie’s.

“I just wish he’d have said something to us,” Mike says, also crying. Bill has only seen him cry once and that was years ago, so it sends him over the edge. Soon all of them are crying and huddled together, dependent on each other for support. Eventually, Richie comes back, face a red mess from his own crying. Bev reaches out a hand for him to join them, which he takes and sits on the floor near Bill’s feet. They all have a grasp on one another, making sure that they’re all still there.

Distantly, Bill hears the squeak of shoes coming towards their group, but he doesn’t look up until he hears a small, “Ahem.” Donald and Andrea Uris stand in the hallway flanked by doctors. Mike is the first to go to them and hug Mrs. Uris, followed closely thereafter by the rest of the losers.

A doctor explains to them what they did: “Hello, I’m Doctor Rose Mendoza and this is Doctor Jarred Alexander. We’re two of the surgeons who worked on Stanley. I’m sorry we’ve had to meet in such circumstances.” She gives a sympathetic look before continuing. “We pumped Stan’s stomach and had to repair the damage to his arms. It also seems he gave himself a concussion, presumably from falling in the tub. We gave him a blood infusion and he’s doing well at the moment. It’s a good thing you caught it as soon as you did.” This last part is directed at Bill. “Had you not found him so early on, we’re not so confident he’d be alive right now.” Bill bites back a sob and feels Richie grab his hand on one side, Bev on the other.

Another doctor adds on to his colleague’s report, “He’s still under the anesthesia from the surgery, but it might take him a little longer because of the head trauma and excessive blood loss. I suggest that you go in there and talk to him, tell him about your past week at school, any plans you might have had for the weekend. Let him know you’re still there. He can hear you and he’ll wake up in his own time.”

“I’ll go first,” Richie offers. He turns to Bill. “Are you okay with that?” Bill only nods and Richie gives his hand a quick squeeze before letting go and following the doctors down the hall and to the left, disappearing into the sterile whiteness.

~ ~ ~

Stan can’t move or see, but he can hear everything.

He can hear the doctors telling his parents what happened and knowing that he failed to do what he set out to, hears them crying and feels their tender touches, hears the heart monitor beeping slowly, hears trays and and carts and voices passing by, though sounding far, far away.

Right now, he’s hearing a familiar voice say, “Hey, Stan the Man. How are you doing?” Richie, his mind supplies, feeling a little appalled it took as long as it did to recognize his friend. “Wow, what a dumb question, you’re obviously not doing too hot or else we wouldn’t be in here.” There is a silence and Stan hears Richie suck in a sharp breath and a gentle warmth encloses his left hand. “The doctors told me to talk and apparently I’m really good at that, so here goes nothing.” And Richie does talk, about school, about the photography club he’s in, everything. He tells Stan secret wishes and hopes and dreams, things he’s only shared with Eddie, he discloses.

I wish I could ask you questions and talk back, Stan thinks helplessly.

“You know, I wish you would have said something. We-” Richie stops and Stan can tell he’s trying to swallow the emotion rising in the back of his throat. “We’re so worried. I mostly feel like a shit friend for not noticing you were suffering.” And suddenly there is a choked sobbed coming out of Richie and he rises from the chair, taking his warmth away from Stan’s hand. “Bill is a mess. He won’t say anything, but I can tell. If you can hear me in there, Stanny, I want you to know we’re all here for you, but that boy would go through hell and high water to make you happy. Talk to him when you wake up because he loves you.” A short pause. “We all do.” And then the door opens and closes again, signaling his departure.

Stan notes Richie’s use of the word when and not if and a small shred of determination to wake up takes root in Stan’s heart.

~ ~ ~

Bev and Ben come in next. Together they tell Stan about how want to go on a road trip all over the country to visit all fifty states after they graduate. Ben wants to see the world’s largest rubber band ball and the Golden Gate Bridge. Bev wants to visit New York City to see whatever show is playing on Broadway and the fashion district. They talk about wanting to move in together and the kind of house they’re going to get.

Ben says he’s going to design it. A wide open kitchen with all the newest appliances where they can practice cooking and make pancakes every Sunday morning. There would be a big living room with plenty of couch space for losers club movie night. An office for Ben and a sewing room for Bev. A big garden where they grow their own veggies and fruits and seasonal flowers. There will be one big bedroom for them to share and plenty spare rooms for their friends.

They speak about wanting to adopt a dog, but can’t decide which breed they want. Bev really wants a black French bulldog and a Dalmatian, but Ben says only one dog. He argues that a golden retriever would be the best option. Either way, they can’t decide on a name. They want Stan’s advice because he always has insightful things to say.

I think Maisie would be good for a girl dog and Jackson for a boy dog. Or maybe you should name the dog based on what it looks like, he thinks in response, but of course they can’t hear him.

They speak energetically and Stan appreciates that; it’s a welcome distraction from his immobility. But he can tell that their laughter is forced because of the strain in Ben’s voice when he speaks and the nervous tapping of Bev’s foot against the tile floor. “Wake up soon, Stanley,” Ben says quietly, a sullenness like Stan has never heard filling his words. “We miss you.” Then someone leaves, the door opening and falling shut again letting him know.

The sudden fragrance of pomegranates and mangos filling his nose tells him that Bev is still in the room. She leans close, her body heat easing some of the chill Stan is feeling. “Please wake up,” she whispers, gently brushing some of his hair out of his face. She places a soft kiss that lasts for about three seconds on his forehead. He feels a drop of wetness fall there when she pulls away. “Please.” And then she is gone as well, taking with her the comfort of another’s presence.

~ ~ ~

Eddie and Mike come in together a little after the previous couple leave. Mike does most of the talking with an interjection from Eddie once in a while.

“On Saturday, the farm is getting some baby chicks. I was going to ask you guys over to help my dad and me sort them. There’s always too many for us to do in one day and we could always use a set of helping hands or six.” Mike chuckles at his own joke before talking about his farm more. The animals and what’s being planted and harvested right now. All the while, Stan can hear Eddie moving about in his tiny room. There is the sound of spritz bottles and the smell of cleaner fills the air.

“Eddie, what the hell are you doing?” Mike asks at one point, interrupting his own story.

Stan hears Eddie let out an exasperated sigh and wants to laugh at the sound. “I want this room to be germ-free when Stan wakes up so he can heal as quick as physically possible. Being sick won’t help anything.” Stan feels grateful for Eddie’s fussing and wants more than anything to hug his tiny friend.

Stan hears Eddie disappear into another room, cleaner bottle still going, and assumes there is an adjacent bathroom to his room. Mike leans closer to him, the comforting smell of his laundry detergent and aftershave calming Stan’s spinning mind. “I have a secret for you,” he says incredibly quietly. “When you come to, we’re going to be here to help you. We love you and want you to get better. Just remember, every step of the way, we’ll be there right beside you to catch you when you slip and to simply be in your company when you’re feeling good. Don’t forget that you have six personal shrinks at your disposal.” He chuckles melancholily, and Stan hears him swallow thickly. He wants to throw his arms around Mike. He wants to embrace all of his friends, but since he can’t, he adds it to his list of reasons to wake up. He is starting to understand that he doesn’t have to ache on his own, but it is okay to be hurting. “Get better, Stan.” He ruffles Stan’s curls and then the door opens, shuts, and there is silence.

Then, he hears Eddie flush the toilet and the sink water running. It is a while before the sink water turns off, but Stan is not surprised Eddie washes his hands that thoroughly, especially considering that he was just handling cleaning supplies. After the water stops running, Eddie comes back into the main room. Stan hears him come closer before laying his head on Stan’s chest and hugging him gently around the waist. “I- I love you, Stanny, we all do. Please wake up, but do it for your own sake, okay? Want to get better.” Eddie is tender as he mirrors Bev’s actions of pushing his hair out of his face. Stan hears a sniffle before the door opens and shuts again, leaving him alone once more.

~ ~ ~

It’s hours before someone visits Stan again.

He realizes offhandedly that visiting hours would’ve ended soon after he got admitted to his own room, but he still panics. What if they stopped caring about me? he can’t help but think. That’s stupid. They all literally came in here to tell you how much they love you, dumbass, another part of his brain counters. Yeah, all of them, he thinks.

Except for Bill.

Visiting hours, remember? He’ll be here. The rational part of his brain does a pretty good job of calming him down.

The nurses check on him periodically, taking his vitals and replacing the IV drip medication. A nurse, who introduces herself as Daisy, tells him that this is the first time she’s had to take care of a suicide survivor and that he should want to get better, that she’s seen all his friends’ faces, his mother’s tears, his father’s set jaw and clenching fists. Daisy says that he definitely has great things and people to live for, but the greatest one is himself. It makes him want to cry. How had he not realized that his friends would always be there for him, that this burden was not his alone to bear? Daisy squeezes his hand every time she checks on him, “To let you know I’m here when you wake up,” she explains once. She seems kind even though Stan can’t see her and for that kindness, he cannot wait to thank her.

It has been a few minutes since the new nurse, Dahlia, had taken his vitals for the morning shift of nurses when his door opens again. The room is suddenly filled with an overly sweet scent. At first, it feels like the smell is suffocating Stan, a feeling that he relates to being force-fed syrupy cough medication. After a bit, however, it is comforting, like the scent has been there all along. Whoever is in the room with him sets something down on the table next to him, the sticky sweet smell getting stronger, and drags out the chair on his right side. The person picks up his hand and places a gentle kiss on his knuckles before planting one on his cheek and another on his knuckles. Stan would recognize the smell of the shampoo with a permanent underlying tang of chlorine without the sharp, clean fragrance of familiar cologne.

Bill, my Bill.

“Hi, Stanny,” he says, a thumb brushing over Stan’s fingers. “I miss you.” And right out of the gate, Stan wants to burst into sobs. I miss you, too, he wants so badly to reply. I miss you so goddamn much. “It f-feels a little strange having a one-w-w-way conversation, but I’ll try my ha-arrdest just to talk.” There is a brief pause where Bill sucks in a sharp breath. “I w-went back to your hou-ou-ouse last night. I cl-cl-cleaned up the bathroo-hoom so your m-mom didn’t have to.” Stan feels a hot spiral of guilt drill through his stomach. I caused that. Bill had to see me like that. He wanted to say something, but Bill keeps talking. “I m-m-made dinner for m-me and your pa-harents but no-nobody could eat. We w-w-were all so w-worried for you Stan. We cou-houldn’t sleep either. I tried to sl-sl-ee-eep in your bed, but I j-just couldn’t sh-sh-shut my thou-houghts down. I e-ended up on th-he roof and sat i-i-in the same sp-sp-spot where I told you I l-loved you the first time. D-d-do you reme-hember that, Stanny? I stuttered e-e-even more than u-usual. I was so ne-hervous.” He chuckles and Stan feels himself wanting to smile. Of course he remembers; it was one of the best days of his life.

It was a blustery fall day in Derry, but that didn’t stop Stan from showing Bill his favorite spot to think when his brain got to be a little too much to handle. He had dragged him up through the attic, the two boys’ hands desperately clenched together. They claimed it was so neither of them fell but there was definitely an anterior motive. The wind had caused them to pull the hoods of their hoodies up to protect themselves from its harshness.

“Isn’t it beautiful?” Stan had asked, looking out at the incredible view he got of Derry from this high up. He sat down, legs dangling off the edge, Bill following suit. He could see the spires of the Methodist church across town and the American flag that rose from the pole on top of the high school. The sun was just setting and the sky was shades of pink and purple and red. Stan could just tell Bill’s hands were itching to get out his watercolor pencils and draw it.

“N-not as b-b-beautifu-hul as yo-oo-oo-ou,” Bill said. His stutter seemed to have gotten the best of him. Stan whipped around to look at his boyfriend. Bill’s eyes were unwavering and staring lovingly at him. Stan smiled at how cute Bill was and extended his fingers towards his boyfriend so they could hold hands. They are silent for a moment, the warmth between them reflecting back and forth. Stan leaned his head on Bill’s shoulder when he said it, “I-I lo-hove y-y-you.” For the second time that night, Stan whipped his head around to look at his boyfriend. Bill wasn’t looking at him this time and his high cheekbones were alight with a bright blush.

Stan squeezed his hand and smiled as he said, “I love you, too” and meant it. They had only been dating for four months, but they both loved each other to the moon and back.

That was before It. Before the Deadlights.

Stan is brought back to the present by Bill sniffing. His voice is tight when he speaks again: “I l-love you sti-hill. You kn-know that, ri-right? I w-w-will always love yo-hou, Stanny. A-always.” Then Bill is crying horrible, body-wracking sobs. “I’m s-s-sorry. I’m s-so, s-so sorry. I’m sorry I di-hidn’t n-notice you we-here in pain. I-I’m sorry I didn’t a-a-ask you ho-ow you w-w-were doing m-more often. I’m s-sorry I di-hidn’t force you t-to ta-ha-halk about what ha-a-appened wh-when we w-w-were kids. I’m just s-so sorry for being a sh-shitty boyfriend and fo-hor everything else. It’s m-my fault. I-I’m sorry.” Bill’s final emphasized apology sends Stan over the edge. He wants to shout at the top of his lungs and cry and get angry and be upset all at the same time. It’s not your fault! It’s mine! It’s all mine! his mind screams.

Then, Dahlia comes back in to check on his vitals again. She introduces herself to Bill who gives a clipped greeting. “Lovely flowers,” she comments, removing her rubber gloves and tossing them in the trash when she’s finished with her examination. “What are they?

“Th-they’re hyacinth,” Bill responds curtly. After Dahlia leaves, Bill returns to his spot by Stan’s side. He sounds remarkably calmer when he speaks: “Do you know th-the my-hyth how hyacinth got its na-hame?” Stan can’t answer, but if he could he would still say no. “Well, the sun god, Apollo, and the god of the west wind, Zephyr, were competing for the affection of a mortal boy they both loved. His name was Hyakinthos. One day, Apollo was teaching Hyakinthos to throw discus and Zephyr got very jealous. He sent a violent wind their way that made the disc come back at Hyakinthos, which struck and killed him. The brokenhearted Apollo named the flowers the sprouted from his spilled blood hyacinth to remember him.” Whenever Bill told stories, he never stuttered. It was like an override function that allowed to him to speak without ruining the flow of his tale. Stan always loves to hear stories from his boyfriend and this time is no exception, only he wishes the story was a little happier. “Th-that’s why I got you purple hyacinth. I’m sure you sme-helled them when I came in.” Bill lets out a short laugh. “Purple hy-hyacinth means asking for f-f-forgiveness and symbolizes deep regre-het. I h-hope you can forgive me for what a terrible boyfriend I-I-I’ve been, not being able to see when the only person I’ve ever lo-hoved was hurting.”

And suddenly, Stan is very angry, Because how dare Bill think he was to blame for Stan’s fucked up mind? How could he think he was the reason for aftereffects of that demented, child-eating monster? For the past two days, Stan kept telling himself how he wants to wake up, but now he was going to try. He focuses all of his energy on moving something, anything. I’m coming, Bill. Hold on. He feels his fingers tingle and tries to squeeze them around Bill’s hand. When he succeeds, he hears Bill suck in a gasp. “St-Stanny, is that yo-hou, love? Can you h-h-hear me?” Stan squeezes his hand a second time and Bill lets out a teary chuckle. “God, I l-l-love you so mu-huch. I’m here when you wake up, o-okay?” Stan gives one more squeeze before feeling totally drained and slipping into the darkness at the back of his mind.

~ ~ ~

When Stan comes to, he is surrounded by his friends. He blinks his bleary eyes open and studies all the familiar faces in his room. They are chatting in hushed tones with one another so they don’t see him wake. He shakily lifts his left hand to get Richie’s attention knowing his loud mouth will get everyone else’s attention. His fingers gently brush against his friend’s bare wrist, making him jump. When Richie turns to see his friend awake, tears immediately spring to his eyes and a sad smile turns his lips upward. He lets out a few quick breaths, saying “Stan” on one of his exhales.

Then, there are five more pairs of eyes on him. They are all crying, even Mike who Stan had only seen cry a handful of times, which makes Stan cry as well. All the pent up emotions from yesterday, the day before that, all the way back to the sewers come flowing freely out. He tries to speak, but his voice pains him from so many hours of disuse. Bev rushes to the windowsill where a pitcher of water was being stored to keep it chilled and pours some in a cup for him. She delicately lifts it to his lips because his arms are shaking like leaves.

When he’s finished with his drink, Stan clears his throat a few times before beginning to talk: “I’m sorry.” And his voice is shaky, from the crying or something else, he doesn’t know. “I’m sorry you all had to go through that.”

Bill takes his previous seat and holds Stan’s hand like it’s going to break. “Sh, sh,” he hushes. “Wh-what do you have to be sorry a-a-about?”

Stan lets out a few more heartbreaking whimpers before clenching his eyes and drawing in a shaky breath to order his thoughts. “I’m sorry that I didn’t trust you guys enough to tell you what was going on. You all- you just wanted to help me but I thought I could handle the horrors of my own mind by myself. I couldn’t.” Stan punctuates the awful explanation with a humorless laugh. None of his friends find that funny, though. “When It came to Derry and I was alone with that fucking clown, It showed me It’s true form.” Stan shivers as he recollects what happened that day.

They had ventured into the sewers to find Bev, the ominous bloody message sending them right into the heart of It’s lair. Stan, of course, was reluctant to descend underground through the house of Neibolt Street, but they had no choice. Bev was in danger and it was up to them to save her. They were almost all in the entrance way when Henry Bowers nearly killed Mike.

That’s when he heard it: Stanley, the wind seemed to whisper. He turned abruptly, his flashlight beam falling on another stretch of sewers. Stanley, come here, it said again. Against his will, Stan’s legs began to move towards the sound. He knew rationally that straying from his group was a bad idea, but he couldn’t stop moving. His lungs expanded and shrunk rapidly as he entered an open chamber. All around him he heard the voice and the dripping of the pipes. We all float down here, Stanley. And then he was attacked. He got knocked to the ground and he tried to scream but he couldn’t.

“It opened It’s mouth and I saw-” Stan shudders as he retells the story. Bev places a grounding hand on his left shoulder and Mike stands by her to rub his fingers over the back of Stan’s hand. “I saw It’s true form. It was dark and cold and I felt like there was no hope left in the world. I felt so- so alone, like I’d never be happy ever again. And then you guys came and-” He draws in a shaky breath. “If you hadn’t pulled that thing off of me, I think I’d be dead or crazy.”

“Why didn’t you just tell us?” Eddie says, a strange tightness in his voice. He looks a little angry with Stan, but Stan doesn’t blame him.

“Yeah.” Ben contributes, wiping his nose on his sleeve. “We would’ve understood. We were all tormented by It. We wouldn’t judge.”

“But you don’t know!” Stan says, frustrated tears rolling down his cheeks. He feels Bill put his elbows on the bed and raise the hand he was holding to his lips. He was crying as well. “I got so paranoid after that. If you guys didn’t answer my text messages in ten minutes, I got worried that you’d gotten taken, or worse, that you were ignoring me.”

“Never,” Richie says. It’s strange that he had been so quiet until now, usually the one to command a conversation’s direction. “Never, ever, Stan. Do you understand?”

“I do now,” Stan replies, reaching to link his pinky with Richie’s, the only movement his shaking arms could allow. “But before, nothing could convince me. I just- lost all hope. Food didn’t taste like anything, so I stopped eating. Whenever I slept, I would only see It and the horrible things It showed me, so I only slept as little as I could get away with. I’d get anxious every time I stepped outside my house alone, like people knew that I was depressed and suspicious about everything. Then I started- started cutting to release some of that pain. It worked for a bit but I still wasn’t happy or at least not sad. And then yesterday happened.” He realizes he’s taking short, choppy breaths and that his friends are crying full force again. They’re all silent for a while, long enough for Dahlia and Doctor Mendoza to check on him. His friends are banished from his room while they take his blood pressure and talk to him.

“We’re going to give you some antidepressants,” Doctor Mendoza says, pulling out a pad and pen from her breast pocket. “And there’s a therapist that’s ready to see you whenever you get out. She’ll want to see you for an two hours twice a week to assess you. Until then, you’ll talk to the one we have on staff here. Okay, Stanley?”

“Yes,” he says confidently. “I want to get better.”

“Well, that is certainly a step in the right direction,” Doctor Mendoza says, a smile lining her lips. “I’ll get your friends back in here.” She leaves with a small “thanks” from Stan. He sees, now that the door is open, that his friends only crowded together right outside. He smiles wide and finally realizes that these people are with him every step of the way.

~ ~ ~

Stan is getting better. He still sees Iris, his therapist, twice every month, but that’s an improvement. Some days are bad, yes, when he can barely get out of bed because he feels hopeless. But these are the days when Eddie comes by before and after school to make sure that Stan is still taking his medications and talks to him and brings him homework. These are the days Ben brings over Lego sets that have a thousand or more pieces to distract Stan. These are the days when Richie and Bev bring CDs and dinner and sit with him while they all eat and listen to whatever artist is singing. These are the days when Mike brings over his dog, Mr. Chips, so that Stan can pet him for focus. These are the days when Bill ditches school or work altogether to lay with Stan and hold him until he feels whole again.

These are the days that Stan realizes he has two caring parents, five incredibly persistent best friends, and one exceptionally devoted boyfriend who all love him dearly. And it’s all Stan could ask for.

~ ~ ~

I just want to say two things before I wrap this up.1. To the anon who requested this: you have the patience of a saint and I wish I had me some of that.2. Please, please, please talk to someone if you feel at all like Stan did in this. Even if it’s not a face-to-face conversation, it will help. I promise.Have a request? Submit one here. See my masterlist here.