#Not everything hare-y pot-or

[chartreuxcatz]

Hey guys, I'm sorry to be the one to tell you this, but to give a genuine and honest critique of a piece of media, you actually have to like. Consume it. And interact with it to an extent to get a feel for the context.

I'm getting tired of seeing people say, "This movie/show/book has bad representation because good representation would include (thing that is explored in the media)."

Guys you can't look at a couple clips on Twitter and think that's all there is.

[dezzymalfoy]

The Descendant Part 3: The Letter

Harry slowly gets up, grabbing his glasses which he has placed next to the picture of his parents.

His only possession of them,

His parents on the left, his mum holding him while his father has his arms around them both. On the right, a similar family with a little girl, mother holding her and father wrapped around them both.

Harry looks to the back of the cardstock, and reads the words he reads oh so often,

"Her name in (Y/n) Ravenclaw"

The Raven haired boy slowly gets up and begins making breakfast for everyone, then goes to collect the post,

Grabbing all the post from the bottom of the door frame, scanning through and surprised to see something for him,

"Mr. H Potter

The Cupboard Under The Stairs,

4, Privet Drive,

Little Whinging,

Surrey"

As he gave his uncle the rest of the mail, he kept his letter and began to open it,

"Father! Harry has mail!" Dudley yells as he snatches the letter out of Harry's hand and taking it to his father,

"Give it back! That's mine!" Harry yelled at Vernon,

Vernon laughed, "Who would be writing to you?" He questioned, looking at the writing on the front, then the wax seal on the back to see four quadrants, a lion, a snake, a badger, and an eagle with an H in the middle. Looking at Petunia,

"Off to your rooms both of you, boys." Vernon says,

"But dad-" Dudley started

"NO! To your rooms!"

Harry was curious as to what that letter was, and why it brought such a reaction from his uncle.

Harry woke up the next day and yet again did his daily routine, made breakfast, served it, picked up the post,

And yet again. There's another letter.

The same exact one.

Vernon noticed there was yet another letter and threw it in the fire place.

As Harry was doing his chores, he happened to look outside and see a load of owls in the mailboxes, houses, trees, house number signs, everywhere. Harry thought this was strange, but thought nothing of it, over all.

This happened for days, the letters would come in, and soon they were the only things the Dursley's were getting though their drop box, five, ten at a time!

Every single one went into the fireplace.

Harry woke up today in a slightly sour mood, it was Sunday.

He walks into the kitchen and began breakfast, his uncle Vernon was quite chipper today, and he knew exactly why.

"Good day, Sunday, any idea why Dudley?" Vernon asks his son, to which he shakes his head

"Its because there's no post on Sunday's" Harry said gloomily,

"Right you are Harry! No post on Sunday. Not one blasted lett-"

The house had begun to shake. The fireplace roared, Petunia took Dudley into her arms to protect him.

All of a sudden, the fireplace shot out hundreds of the letters, Harry immediately going to get one of them, jumping onto one of the chairs in the living room, trying to grab one of the letters falling from above him, letters stacking up on the floor of the living room, and just as Harry almost had one in his hands, Vernon grabs the back of his shirt and drags him out to the car,

"Daddys gone mad hasn't he?" Dudley asks his mum, to which she nods.

They drove for hours on end, then rode the boat in the storm, out to a dingy cottage in the middle of nowhere,

"They'll never find us out here, never!" Vernon exclaims as they pile into the small house. Vernon and Petunia going to the room up the stairs, Dudley taking the moldy, moth eaten couch, leaving Harry with the dusty old floor and another moldy blanket.

Harry was unable to fall asleep, so, he drew a birthday cake with 11 candles and happy birthday Harry into the middle,

As soon as Dudley's watch started beeping midnight, Harry looked at the cake on the dirt covered floor,

"Happy Birthday Harry", blowing out the "candles"

As soon as Harry had blown out the last of the candles, there was banging on the door, and someone had knocked it down, Harry smartly hid beside the fireplace, out of view of the door.

Peaking around the corner, Harry saw a large figure in the middle if the doorway.

As the figure walks in, Harry heard his aunt and uncle rush down the stairs,

"Sorry 'bout tha'" said the large -man, as Harry knows now- as he proceeds to pick up the door, surprising everyone.

The fire lights up the faces of everyone in the room,

"Get out! You're trespassing on private property!" Vernon points a double barrel shotgun at the man, to which the large man bends the shotgun,

"Dry up Dursley, you great prune!"

The man looks towards Dudley,

"'arry! Been lookin' for ya! Of 'ourse you're a bi' more rou'ded since tha last 'ime I saw ya! Espec'ally there in tha 'iddle"

Harry then decided to walk out from his hiding spot,

"H-He's not Harry, I am.", making the large man turn towards him,

"Well o' course ya are! I'm Hagrid, Game'eeper at 'ogwarts, (Y/n)'s back ou'side waitin on us in tha boa'"

"Hogwarts?" Harry's curious as to what that is, and if this (y/n) is the same one from his picture.

"Well ye', where'd ya t'ink yer 'arents learnt it all? Which 'eminds me, I go' this for ya. Rec'on I may of sa' on it, made it me'self, 'ords an all, with some 'elp from (Y/n)" Hagrid hands Harry a box and a letter, the same one from the fireplaces and the post back at home.

Harry opened the box to see a bright pink cake with green icing with the words, "happee birthday haree", making Harry smile then frown, setting the cake down

"My parents?"

"Yer 'arents were wizards, 'arry, and yer one too, af'er a bit'o trainin o'course"

"I-I'm not a wizard, I'm just Harry."

"Well, just 'arry, 'as anythin ever happened, tha' ya can't explain? When ya 'ere mad or u'set?"

Harry thinks back to the zoo, to the glass and the snake, Dudley falling into the water of the enclosure, and everything makes sense,

Harry finally decides to open the letter Hagrid had given him earlier,

Dear Mr Potter,

We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment. Term begins on September 1. We await your owl by no later than July 31.

Yours sincerely,

Minerva McGonagall , Deputy Headmistress

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry

UNIFORM:

First-year students will require: 1.Three sets of plain work robes (black) 2.One plain pointed hat (black) for day wear 3.One pair of protective gloves (dragon hide or similar) 4.One winter cloak (black, with silver fastenings) Please note that all pupil's clothes should carry name tags.

COURSE BOOKS 

All students should have a copy of each of the following:

The Standard Book of Spells (Grade 1) by Miranda Goshawk

A History of Magic by Bathilda Bagshot

Magical Theory by Adalbert Waffling

A Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration by Emeric Switch

One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi by Phyllida Spore

Magical Drafts and Potions by Arsenius Jigger

Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them by Newt Scamander

The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection by Quentin Trimble

OTHER EQUIPMENT

1 wand

1 cauldron (pewter, standard size 2)

1 set glass or crystal phials

1 telescope

1 set brass scales

Students may also bring an owl OR a cat OR a toad.

PARENTS ARE REMINDED THAT FIRST YEARS ARE NOT ALLOWED THEIR OWN BROOMSTICK"

"THAT'S ENOUGH!" Harry looked up from his letter as his uncle had yelled,

"We swore to put a stop to all this rubbish when we agreed to take him in!" Vernon argued,

"You knew? You knew all this time and you never bothered to tell me?" Harry was enraged that they had never told him of his wizard genes

"Oh! Of course we knew! With my perfect sister being what she was! I was the only one in the family who saw her for what she was! A freak! I knew you would be just like her. Then she had to go run off with that Potter and get herself blown up!" Petunia ranted,

"Blown up?! You told me my parents had died in a car crash!" Harry was enraged, they had lied to him! About his own parents, no less.

"Car 'rash killed 'ily and James 'otter! Cold'wap!" Hagrid yelled at the Dursley's,

"Enough! We're not paying for him to go to some school and get taught by some crack pot old fool!" Vernon yelled back

Hagrid points his pink umbrella at him, "never insul' Albus 'umbledore in fron' o' me!", then looking at Dudley, who was chowing down on Harry's birthday cake, pointing his umbrella at him and sending sparks, then making a pig tail form on his bum.

Hagrid walked out of the house as the Dursley's were freaking out about the tail that now rests on Dudley,

"Comin 'arry?" Harry smiled and runs out of the house, following Hagrid out to the boat, seeing a small girl laid down in the middle, sleeping.

"Ah, poor 'irl, must've fallen 'sleep, 'arry, tha is (y/n)"

[kimtanathegeek]

Two Brothers, Many Paths - Ch 24

Oh my gosh, this chapter was incredibly hard for me to write, and not for the reasons you might think. I don’t want to spoil it, so I’ll say this:

What Sans is able to do in this chapter is something I’ve never been able to do in my adult life because of constant hardship. Since I’ll never be able to have what Sans has in the first few paragraphs, I wanted to make sure to give these boys plenty of it. To be able to do what Sans does in this chapter is a privilege so many people don’t even realize they have. There are so many of us--myself included--who have to rely on...let’s call it ‘the hare’s crate behind the counter,’ in order to survive.

Thank you for reading! :)

—

Undertale copyright Toby Fox

Story and original characters by me, Kimtana

Please do not use without both permission and credit.  

Read below, or read it on AO3 here.  

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Sans walked down the market road, his legs still shaking and his mind swirling. The haversack on his back was much lighter, and the jangle of gold coins in the bottom of the bag still made his head spin.

9100 G. Sans now had 9,100 gold in his possession—large 100 G coins, medium sized 10 G coins, and small 1 G coins—most of which was tied up in the cloth scraps that had held the gems. He had stuffed a handful of coins into his pocket for shopping, and hadn’t removed his hand from his pocket since.

He couldn’t believe it—he went from foraging to stave off starvation to sitting on a small fortune in minutes. The exhilaration made him lightheaded, and he kept waiting to wake up from this dream and find himself in his bed with Papyrus to start another day of trying to survive.

He squeezed the coins again in his pocket. They sure felt real. He grinned widely and headed over to the bakery.

The smells of freshly baked breads and sugary confections made his mouth water, his stomach aching for a taste of everything. Sans swallowed back his hunger and searched through the various choices.

In the back behind the counter, the bear stood, a massive metal bowl cradled in one arm against her flour-speckled white apron as she mixed the contents with a large wooden spoon.

“Why, hello, sweetness!” she smiled. Her voice seemed much too small for her enormous body. “Welcome to my bear-kery!”

She giggled sweetly at her own joke, and Sans couldn’t help but join her.

“That was a good one,” he admitted, grinning at the baker.

“Thank you,” she smiled. “What can I help you with today, sugar?”

“Just need to pick up a few things, miss,” he said, his eyes wandering over the baskets filled with various breads.

“Well, sweetie,” she smiled warmly. “You just let me know if you’ve got any questions, all right?”

“Yes, miss,” he returned the smile. “I will.”

He considered getting a baguette that was taller than he was, but he knew it would go stale before he and Papyrus got halfway through it. Instead, he chose three medium, crusty wheat loaves—the size of his forearm—and a single loaf of soft multigrain bread.

He placed them up on the counter and stared at the luscious cakes, pies, and pastries behind the glass. He had enough gold to purchase them all...but he knew it wouldn’t be practical. Even though the jeweler had promised to purchase more of his gems, and even though he was currently carrying more gold than he had ever seen in his life, his parents had always taught him the importance of practical shopping.

His mind drifted to a marketplace trip with his parents when he was younger. He had asked them why they didn’t buy the bigger and better items—having no understanding of gold himself at his age—and they explained that gold was great and important, but needed to be treated with great importance. Even though they had enough to purchase a large item, they bought the smaller item and saved gold in the process.

“Sans,” his father had said gently. “Gold runs out, but hunger is every day.”

Having struggled to feed his brother since fleeing to the mountain, Sans now understood his father’s words, and why his parents taught him patience with gold spending. Anything could happen, and the gold in his bag might be the only gold he had for the rest of his life, so splurging on expensive items that he didn’t need was irresponsible—especially with Papyrus to care for.

Sans blinked back to the current, the baker standing at the counter, staring at him. He just realized that she had been speaking to him.

“Oh!” he said, startled and embarrassed. “I’m so sorry, I-I just.... My mind wandered, I’m sorry.”

The bear smiled sweetly at him. “It’s all right, sugar. You’re not the first little dumpling to stare at my baked goods and drift off to dreamland!”

Sans grinned sheepishly, his embarrassment waning slightly.

“I’d asked if you were all set, sweetie,” she said gently.

“Oh, no, I just,” he stammered, his eyes travelling over to the jars on the wall. “Miss, may I have one of the chocolate chip cookies?”

“Of course, sweetness,” she said softly.

She went over to the wall, pulled down the large jar of cookies, and brought it to the counter. With a tug, she popped off the glass lid and used a piece of parchment paper to grab one of the large chocolate chip cookies. She then held it out to Sans.

“Here you are, sugar,” she grinned. “Enjoy!”

“Oh,” he said, taken aback. “No, miss. It’s not for me.”

“It’s not?” she said, her grin faltering in confusion as she tilted her head slightly.

“No miss,” Sans shook his head. “It’s for my little brother. It’s been so long since he’s had a cookie....”

His voice trailed off sadly. There was so much that his brother had lost out on and suffered since leaving their house. He was just little, it wasn’t fair.... He blinked again and cleared his throat of the lump that was forming.

“I just want to surprise him,” he said in a shaky tone, grinning as he ignored the tears that started to well up in his eyes.

The bear stood there, still holding the cookie, lost for words.

“That...is...,” she whispered, finding her voice. “...the sweetest thing I’ve ever heard.”

Sans averted his eyes, embarrassment burning at his cheekbones again.

“Sugar, you are the best big brother your little brother could ever hope to have.”

Sans shut his eyes momentarily. Her words both stung his guilt and felt like salve on an open wound.

“Th-thank you, miss,” he replied softly, staring at the floor.

“Can I get you anything else?” she asked.

Sans composed himself. “N-no miss, just the bread and cookie, please.”

The bear totaled up the baked goods, and as Sans counted out the gold in his hand, she wrapped the loaves in thick, brown parchment paper and tied it up with baker’s twine. He handed her the gold, unshouldered his haversack, and put the loaves inside.

“Here’s your brother’s cookie,” she said, handing him a small, folded pastry bag. “And here’s a cookie for you.”

Sans gasped, sticking his hand into his pocket. “Oh! Sorry, I only paid for one, hang on....”

The bear shook her head and smiled warmly. “No, sugar, this one is my treat. For being such a great older brother.”

“Th-thank you, miss,” he breathed incredulously. “I-I don’t know what to say, except, thank you.”

“Sweetie, I just wish there were more unselfish monsters like you in this world.”

He smiled sheepishly again, and took the two little pastry bags, putting them in the front pocket of the haversack.

“You have a wonderful day, sugar,” she waved as he headed out. “Hope to see you again!”

“You too,” he said, returning the wave. “And you will. Thank you again!”

 -

 Now that Sans had bread, he wondered if he should get a proper knife to cut it, instead of tearing at it like he’d done in the past. So he wandered over to the smithy.

The Aaron blacksmith was pumping the billows of his forge, his thick muscles rippling with each push. He pulled the loosened bow of his dark green apron tighter on his back as he turned around. He noticed Sans looking through his baskets of cutlery and brayed.

“Now, now, son!” he said, his voice loud and haughty. “You shouldn’t be playing with those. You’ll cut yourself.”

Sans stood back timidly, feeling like he’d just been scolded. “S-sorry, sir. I’m just looking for a kn-knife to cut f-food.”

“Ah!” the Aaron exclaimed, his voice booming. “So you want a knife, eh?”

“Yes, sir,” Sans murmured. “One for cutting things like bread, vegetables, ch—”

“Well!” the aproned merhorse interrupted, putting his hands on his hips. “You’re looking for a serrated knife!”

“Y-yes, sir,” Sans replied, not really sure what “serrated” meant.

The Aaron floated over to the basket of sharp cutlery and pulled out a serrated kitchen knife, flipping it into the air with one hand and catching it deftly with the other. Sans noticed he was flexing as he did so.

“Is this what you’re looking for?” he said theatrically, holding up the knife in his fingertips.

Sans looked up at it. It was toothed like a saw, just like the one his mother had back home. She used it for most foods that needed chopping, slicing, and cutting.

“Yes, sir, thank you!” Sans nodded.

“Anything else, son?” the Aaron asked as he flipped the knife back up in the air and caught it expertly before putting it on the counter.

“I’m still looking,” Sans said, checking out the rest of the cookery items.

His eyes widened when he saw that there was a small cooking pot. He grabbed it and placed it on the counter with the knife.

“Just these, please,” Sans said, and handed the Aaron gold.

He put the pot in the haversack, shifting it under the loaves of bread, as the merhorse wrapped the knife in a thick piece of burlap and tied it up in twine.

“There you are, son,” he said, presenting the well-wrapped knife. “That will ensure you don’t cut yourself! Thanks for stopping by!”

Sans thanked him and continued on his way.

 -

 “Why, hello there,” the downy woodpecker who owned the woodshop said, his head tilting from side to side rapidly as he smiled.

“Hello, sir,” Sans said in greeting, smiling at the bird.

“Is there anything I can help you find?” the woodpecker twittered.

“Not yet,” Sans said, his eyes panning through the wooden items. “I’m just looking for a moment first.”

“Kay, kay,” he said, nodding quickly with each syllable. “I’ll be right here carving, let me know if you need help.”

“Thank you, sir,” Sans answered, looking at the shelves.

His eyes fell upon the piles of wooden cups, plates, and bowls. How nice it would be not to have to eat off pieces of burlap anymore! He took a pair each of the cups, small plates, and bowls and placed them upon the counter. Then he sought out the wooden cutlery, taking two each of the forks, knives, and spoons, and added them to the pile.

He looked at the crates, and as much as he would love to get them to store items, he decided against it. They cost a lot of gold, and if he and his brother needed to evacuate the shelter, they were just too large to take with them. Besides, he had plans to make baskets with the reeds they had been collecting, which would cost him nothing to make.

However, he saw a pile of wooden buckets and raised his eyebrows. These were definitely something he needed. He took three—one for storing melted water, another for washing clothes and their new dishes, and the third for soaking things like the pine cones and the reeds. They were much cheaper than the crates, and were far more useful.

Sans purchased the items, stuffing them carefully in his bag—placing the bread on top—and thanked the woodworker. The woodpecker nodded swiftly in appreciation.

 -

 Sans looked through the baskets teemed with skeins and spools as the sable ferret looked up and greeted him.

“Well, hey there,” he said, smiling kindly.

“Hello, sir,” Sans returned the salutations with a grin.

“Anything I can help you find?” the ferret asked, tilting his triangular head.

“Actually,” Sans said, thoughtfully. “Yes. Do you have a sewing kit?”

The ferret wound his way around the counter, pointing out various spots.

“I’ve got beginner sets, master sets, large sets, tiny sets.... What’s your fancy?”

Sans thought for a moment. “I’m looking for one of those small kits. You know, the ones with a few needles, a few small spools of thread, measuring tape, little scissors...you know, the little sets?”

The ferret nodded knowingly, smiling. “Yes, I know just what you mean.”

He twisted his way around the baskets, seeking the item, and reached over, grabbing it. He opened it up and held it out to Sans.

“This one, am I right?”

“Yes, sir, that’s the one,” Sans nodded sadly. It looked just like the one his mother gave him when teaching him to sew crafted items. It was a small case made from thick folded fabric with a snap button clasp. It had two rows of elastic straps sown into it and was partitioned so that each spool, tool, and small wooden box of needles had its own place, held firmly by the elastic so the items didn’t come dislodged when carried around. The only difference was that this case was yellow.

The ferret smiled, happy he had what Sans was looking for. He mistook the sadness in his eyes for a distaste in the color.

“There are other colors if yellow’s not your thing,” he offered. “What color would you like?”

“Blue!” Sans didn’t even hesitate. He blinked, embarrassed at blurting out. He regained his manners. “Sorry...blue, sir. If you’ve got it.”

The ferret smiled warmly, not at all offended by his eager answer. “No need to apologize! We’ve all got our favorite colors! I myself don’t like when I’ve got something I work with that is in a color other than my favorite.”

He continued as he rummaged through the stock of sewing kits. “I had these green shears for ages, absolutely loved them. Green’s my favorite color, and that’s why I got them. Well, then we had to evacuate, I wasn’t at my shop when the order came out—I was at home. So my green shears are back at my old tailor shop out there. I needed a new pair, but all I could purchase down here was a maroon pair. They work just fine, but...guh, maroon. Ah! Here we go!”

He pulled out a cobalt blue sewing kit of the same style as the yellow and showed it to Sans. His smile grew sadder with painful nostalgia.

“And I’m guessing,” the ferret said softly, straightening himself up from his twisted-up position, “that you had a kit just like this, just this color, that’s sitting back in your home, too....”

Sans nodded, unable to speak, tears brimming his eyes. It was exactly like the one his mother had given him.

The ferret smiled gently, understanding how the little skeleton felt. He placed it upon the counter and sighed, then smiled to brighten up the mood once again.

“Well, now, anything else I can dig out for you?” he smiled.

Sans wiped his eyes on his sleeves. “Heh, you mean, anything else you can ferret out for me?”

The two laughed softly, the sadness diminishing slightly.

“I do need a couple more things, if that’s all right, sir?” Sans asked, still grinning. “I need a tapestry needle, and a spool of thread which I can get right over here.”

The sable ferret nodded, seeking out some tapestry needles as Sans sifted through the baskets until he found a large spool of thick, white thread. The ferret showed him the different sizes and gauges, and Sans chose one.

He made his purchase, handing over the gold, and the ferret tucked the tapestry needle in the sewing kit so it wouldn’t get lost. Sans placed the items in the side pocket of his haversack, thanked the kind ferret, and left the stand as the ferret waved him goodbye.

 -

 Sans looked down the market path and sighed deeply. He still had three more shops to visit, and he had already been gone so long. How many hours had it been since he left? A shudder went down his spine as he thought of Papyrus leaving the shelter to go looking for him.

He sighed and looked up. Just three more shops. He needed to stay just a little longer, to shop for food. That was the whole reason he risked everything to get here. He pulled his hood and headed for the produce shop, determined to finish his trip quickly and return to his brother as soon as possible.

The lanky hare shopkeeper was rotating peppers as Sans approached. He had emptied the contents of the basket into a small wooden crate, filled the basket with new, fresher peppers from a larger crate, then started sorting the older peppers. He put aside any that seemed damaged or close to going bad, and placed the good peppers on top of the newer ones in the basket. Once the peppers had been sorted through, he piled the unsellable ones into the smaller crate.

“Hello, sir,” Sans said quietly, so as not to startle the hare. “Are those bad?”

“‘Fraid so, kid,” the hare answered, sighing. “S’ok, though, only just a few of ‘em.”

“I’m sorry,” Sans said, feeling bad for him.

“Nah, don’t be,” the hare said, turning to grin, his large front teeth glistening in the light. “Means more for the poor.”

Sans blinked. “What do you mean?”

“Wot, you don’t know?” the hare said, surprised. “All us here shopkeepers give all the food that’s damaged, soon to go bad, or otherwise unsellable to the public to the lesser fortunate. There’s so many monsters who ain’t got no gold, no family, no way to support ‘emselves that would otherwise starve if they didn’t have them charity workers helping ‘em out.”

“Oh,” Sans said, sadly.

He knew how hard it was to survive without proper means of getting food for him and his brother. Imagining other monsters going through the same hunger and worry about where the next meal was coming from made his heart break. He was glad, however, that other monsters were helping them get food.

“Anyways, what can I do ya for?” the hare asked, having put the crate of peppers for the poor behind the counter.

“Oh, I, uh,” Sans stammered, breaking out of his train of thought. “I’m just here, buying food, so, I just need a moment to look around.”

“Sure thing, kid,” he grinned. “You just holler iffen ya need me. I’m just gonna stock some more of this here produce.”

Sans nodded, then went around the stand, choosing items.

He saw a large basket teeming with potatoes, and almost grabbed some, but then he realized that he didn’t have a proper stove or oven to cook them with. He remembered asking his parents to bring potatoes to roast on the campfires when they’d go on night outings, and they always said that potatoes didn’t cook well on campfires. Since their little magical flame was much smaller than the campfires his parents had built, he knew he wouldn’t be able to cook them properly. As much as he loved potatoes, he had to pass them up.

Sans limited his search for vegetables that could either be eaten raw or roasted over a small fire. He didn’t get any mushrooms, as they could get plenty from the darkened area. But he chose two large stalks of celery, a dozen huge carrots, and three big tomatoes and put them on the counter.

“Sir?” he called over to the hare, who was working on rotating turnips.

“Yeah, kid?” he craned his neck over, smiling.

“I’d like to get some of the baby spinach here,” Sans said, pointing at a small basket filled to the brim with loose leaves. “Do I just grab a handful, or...?”

“Oh, I’ll get you a bag,” the hare said, jumping to his feet and heading over behind the counter. He returned, handing a medium sized parchment bag to Sans. “It’s sold by weight, so just fill’er up as much as ya want, and I’ll weigh the bag out for you.” He gave a large wink. “And don’t worry, the bag doesn’t count towards the weight.”

“Ok, thank you,” Sans nodded, then opened the bag up and started grabbing handfuls of the leafy greens.

When he had about a week’s worth in the bag, he folded it up and put it on the counter. The hare weighed the bag and wrote the cost of the baby spinach on the bag with a bit of charcoal as Sans continued shopping. He noticed that, near the baby spinach, as well as the lettuces and other greens, there were smaller baskets with glass bottles of salad dressing, so he chose a flavor he and Papyrus both liked and added it to the pile.

He then looked through the fruit and chose half a dozen each of apples, pears, and bananas. He smiled sadly as he looked at the bananas, thinking of how they had saved his brother when he needed something soft and easy to chew after waking up from when he had nearly died.

“May I also get some things from the jars, sir?” Sans asked as he placed the fruit on the counter.

“Sure thing, kid,” he grinned. “Same as the baby spinach—pay per pound, minus the bag. What can I getcha?”

Sans requested some dried fruit and some nuts, having the hare fill the small parchment bags as much as he could, only leaving room to fold the paper over to seal the bags. The hare then weighed the bags and wrote their prices on each of them.

“That will do, sir, thank you,” Sans said, and the hare added up the amounts out loud to him.

Sans handed over the total in gold, and unshouldered his haversack to start loading the items in. He put the glass bottle of salad dressing and the bags of nuts and dried fruit into the side pockets, then filled the main pocket with the rest of the produce, shifting things around carefully so they fit. He was quickly running out of space, but there were only two shops left.

He thanked the lanky hare, who gave an energetic farewell wave and a smile.

 -

 The little mouse adjusted his spectacles every so often as he continued stocking shelves with jars of preserves while Sans looked through the bags of foodstuffs. He chose a couple bags of granola cereal and a bag of rolled oats. As he held the bag of oats in his hand, Sans mentally ran through the recipe for oatmeal that his mother taught him.

“Sir?” he called over to the mouse shopkeeper. “Do you have salt?”

“Hm, hmm,” the mouse wiggled his whiskers as he adjusted his spectacles. “Salt...salt.... Ah yes, yes I have salt. Do you want a big bag or a small jar?”

“A small jar would be fine, sir,” he answered.

“Ah, yes, yes,” the shopkeeper said, walking over to one of the shelves and peering at its contents.

He picked up a tiny jar, held it in front of his face at arm’s length as he shifted his glasses down his nose and squinted. Then he placed the jar back on the shelf and chose another.

“Ah, yes, yes,” the mouse said, turning to hand Sans the salt. “Here you are, m’boy.”

“Thank you, sir,” Sans nodded. “This is the perfect size.”

He continued shopping as the little mouse returned to his stocking task. Sans picked up a jar each of peanut butter, grape jelly, mixed fruit jelly, and strawberry jam, and placed these and the other items in his arms on the counter.

He noticed that there were three big trays on the counter covered in large, glass lids. On the trays were some rectangular creations of what looked like oatmeal or cereal. Were they cookies?

“Sorry, sir,” Sans called shyly. “But, what are these?”

The mouse went around the counter to take a closer look, sliding his spectacles up and down his nose.

“Hm, hmm,” he said, inspecting the contents. “Ah, yes, these are different kinds of bars.” He pointed at each one as he named them. “This is a granola bar, made with granola, almonds, honey, and raisins. This one is a cereal bar, made with puffed cereal, honey, and brown sugar. And this one is a peanut butter oat bar, made with peanut butter, oats, chocolate chips, and honey.”

Sans’ eyes grew wide. They all sounded good, but the last one sounded delicious.

“May I have two of the granola and four of the peanut butter ones, please?”

“Ah, yes, yes,” the mouse smiled, his whiskers twitching. “Of course you may, m’boy.”

He lifted the lids and took a pair of tongs to grab and place each bar on a small square of parchment paper, wrapping them up before putting them in two parchment bags—one for each flavor.

“Last thing I need, sir, is some cheese,” Sans said, staring at the piles of cheese wheels around him.

“Ah, yes, yes,” the mouse nodded, his glasses slipping slightly. “Which kind would you like?”

Sans tried to recall the names of the cheeses his mother would give them. He knew which ones he and his brother liked, and which ones they weren’t fond of. But there were so many names for cheese, he hoped he’d get the right kinds.

“Um,” Sans thought. “Do you have, um...extra white...uh, sharp cheese?”

“Hm, hmm,” the mouse furrowed his brow, thinking. “Let’s see...‘extra white sharp cheese’.... Hm, hmm... Do you, by any chance mean extra sharp white cheddar?”

Sans rubbed the back of his hooded head. “Um...maybe?”

The mouse gave a deep, tiny laugh and smiled. “Would a taste tell you, m’boy?”

“Oh,” Sans said, dropping his arm. “I don’t want to buy a cheese I don’t—”

“No, no, m’boy,” the mouse said, going over to a basket of cheese wheels, selecting a waxy, black, medium sized wheel. “Tastes don’t cost anything. How can you buy something you’re not sure of?”

Sans waggled his hands and shook his head. “Oh, no, sir, I don’t want to take anything from you like that—”

“Nonsense, m’boy,” the mouse laughed again. “I do this for all my customers who aren’t sure if they’d like a cheese or not.”

He dropped the wheel on a small counter behind the main one, his back to Sans. Sans watched as the mouse grabbed a metal wire with two wooden handles at both ends. He slid the wire under the wheel and grabbed the two ends, then, holding the wheel with his free hand, he pulled the handles as the wire slid through the cheese, slicing the wheel perfectly in half. He pulled apart the halves and took a sharp knife and cut an extremely thin sliver off the wheel. He removed the wax, placing it in an open glass jar, and put the slice on a small square of parchment paper. The mouse turned around and handed the cheese slice to Sans.

Although the wheel he had grabbed was jet black, the cheese he handed him was almost white, with a hint of yellow. Sans sniffed it, recognizing the scent instantly. To be sure, he folded up the thin sliver into a thicker piece and popped it into his mouth. A pleasured “mmm!” told the mouse this was indeed the cheese he wanted. He laughed as he turned and picked up one of the halves, then, placing a larger piece of parchment paper on the front counter, he put the cheese down. Holding the sharp knife, the mouse looked to Sans.

“Now, m’boy,” he smiled warmly. “What size wedge would you like?”

Sans judged how much would last them over the course of a week or more, and indicated where the wedge should be cut. The mouse scored a notch with the knife where Sans had pointed and returned the cheese to the back counter, and, using the wire, cut the wedge from the half. He placed it on the scale, then wrapped it up in parchment paper, tied it with baker’s twine, and wrote the price on it with a piece of charcoal.

“Anything else, m’boy?”

Sans asked for “smokey good cheese”—which turned out to be smoked gouda—and “part of dawn”—which was parmesan—trying each to be sure they were what he was looking for. Wedges of these cheeses were cut, wrapped, and added to the pile.

Sans nodded politely. “That should be all, sir.”

“Ah, yes, yes,” the mouse said, his whiskers twitching as he calculated the total.

He picked up the bag of granola cereal and looked at Sans over his spectacles. “Would you like to get some milk for this cereal, m’boy?”

Sans’ eyes grew wide. “You have milk? Yes sir, I would! Sorry, I didn’t know you had any.”

“That’s fine, m’boy,” the shopkeeper smiled, waving his hand to dismiss Sans’ apology. “I keep it over here to make sure it’s always chilly cold. Let me fetch you a bottle.”

The mouse went over to the right-side corner where a purple brick structure stood, at shoulder height to the shopkeeper. It had three long iron doors, one above the other. There was a gap underneath it, where two large, deep metal trays sat, partially filled with water. The top of it was a stone slab, on which a pile of cheese wheels sat.

The shopkeeper opened the top door and Sans could see the compartment was filled with glass bottles of milk surrounded by ice chips. Sans laughed to himself, having thought the structure was a furnace or oven when he had first laid eyes on it. He realized that the trays below were catching drips from the melting ice. The mouse pulled out a bottle of milk and shut the door, fastening the latch. He wiped the moisture away with a hand towel behind the counter.

“Now, m’boy, you have somewhere cold for this bottle to store, I trust?” he said, placing the dried bottle on the counter. “Otherwise, it will go bad quickly.”

Sans grinned, thinking about how he and his brother lived in the snow. “Yes, sir. It’ll be stored in a nice, cold place.”

“Ah, good, good,” the mouse smiled, adjusting his spectacles again.

 -

 Sans left the foodstuffs shop and shifted the weight of the heavy, bulging haversack. He worried about his brother, but he just had one more shop to visit, then he’d go home.

“Pap, I sure hope you’re staying safe,” he whispered under his breath, sighing.

One last shop. Then he’d head back home. He couldn’t wait to see Papyrus’ face when he saw all the amazing food he had purchased. They’d have their first proper meal since leaving their house so long ago.

Sans smiled to himself, then headed to the last shop.

[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.

[freshdotdaily]

March 23rd 2012 Interview with FootAction

REAL TALK WITH FRESH DAILY @ SXSW

Star Club: First and foremost, explain your SXSW experience. Ups, downs, everything in between.

Fresh Daily: This was my 3rd (non-consecutive) year at SXSW and it was awesome. It just seems to have gotten way more hip-hop oriented than I recall in the past. I had a great time rocking shows and meeting fans and fellow artists that I knew online but never had the chance to make personal acquaintance with. That was dope. The main trick about SXSW to me is to meet artists you have mutual respect for, meet booking agents/promoters and make new fans. That and maintaining your cell phone life and sanity while carefully alternating between copius amounts of alcohol and water while navigating the pressing throngs of people crowding under the Texas sun.

SC: Explain your musical approach to hip-hop given that you are staying fresh, all day?  How is your rap different from the other up and coming MC’s out there?

FD: I don’t think the goal was to put the fresh wardrobe aesthetic out as a “persona” to market my music. The goal for me was always to remain consistently innovative with my craft and show progression while expressing myself artistically. I think that approach was the defining factor to making my music signature and creating the distinction from the rest of other artists. The freshness in my physical aesthetic came secondary and I suppose there’s also a difference in the technical sense that  I’m a wordplay/thought process emcee and not a punch line/metaphor rapper.

SC: What are some major differences you’ve seen in your music from your mixtape “Tomorrow is Today” to your debut album “Fresh Daily is the Gorgeous Killer in Crimes of Passion” to your current album you’re working on?

FD: Honestly,  just life’s progression. As a Brooklyn, NYC kid, I had the fortune to grow up in a melting pot of cultures and experiences that change as often as the neighborhoods do. Being artistically expressive played a huge role as well. When working on “Tomorrow is Today”, I worked with a synth-y, space-y sound that worked well for how I felt. I wanted to take people into the future with the sound of that project. My debut album however was way more traditional boom-bap rap. Soul and Jazz samples being flipped by some of indie hip-hops most elite producers like Skibeatz, Dj Spinna, Exile, Oh No, 88-Keys and !llmind helped curate a very NYC centric sound. I’ve always Made sure to be cohesively thematic and give each project their own flavor, so with my last 3 projects “Mothership/L A N D”, “The Quiet Life” and my current project, “The Brooklyn Good Guy”, each of them are unique and distinct in sound direction, subject matter and feel.

SC: There are not many people that are skilled in graphic design and can rap, but which passion came first?  When and how did you start both graphic designing and rap?

FD: I’ve been drawing since a toddler so I suppose visual art came before wanting to make music. The processes are both really different. Both of them are visceral, cathartic experiences for me but with rap I can see the end result quicker. The same effect I can have on people with my music I can with my design work, hip-hop just has an expedited process in the sense I can take an idea which doesn’t exist and speak on it and have a song and a large quantity of people can hear/enjoy/critique it, whereas the process to making an non-existing idea into visual art is more laborious with less room for error. It’s a more painstaking way to create and convey your expression. Rapping came natural for me as a writer and Bonafide hip-hop head. It’s a fair assessment that no other music genre has meant more to me and effected my life as much as hip-hop has. So it’s only right that it be the medium used to tell my story. However, they DO say a picture is worth a thousand words and I’m a fan of classic minimalism so there’s that.

SC: Given the graphic design experience you have, how has that worked as an advantage towards your music?

FD: Being a stickler for quality control, it’s made my  brand management and visibility really easy to navigate and keep things relatively in-house for the majority of the work I do. To be able to control and convey how I think things should sound AND look is definitely advantageous to the craft. Not having to depend on a graphics person to correctly convey my words is priceless. Being able to collaborate with other artists outside of rapping is also pretty awesome too. To re-interpret what I feel they said in a completely different medium is mad ill.

SC: How have you been able to balance out graphic design projects, putting out fan apparel, maintaining the webstore, and making music?

FD: I have a fantastic team of individuals working with me that handle a fair share of my merchandise as well as update my site and keep things running smoothly. For that, I’m grateful because it allows me some buffer space to actually just CREATE. To be completely honest though, it did get overwhelming. For the project “The Quiet Life” I had to go away and go back to nature and kind of revisit some of the things that made me appreciate this beautiful human existence. You have to pause and smell the flowers at time, yo. Straight up. For this current project though, I quit my wack-ass, dead end day job and put myself 100% into my career as both an emcee and visual artist/designer for the first time. It was scary because there’s no parachute for me, but you don’t bungee-jump off a milk crate do you? Sure, it’s safer, but that ain’t bungee jumping, fam. The thrill of that experience is the rush, the risk and the thrill of making an indelible action memory. You can really hear the urgency in the new record because of that.

SC: Who are some of your inspirations in music and art?

FD: Inspirations in music for me are artists like Hawthorne Headhunters, Sade, P.U.D.G.E, MF DOOM, Drake (yep, Drizzy), Iman Omari, Earl Sweatshirt, etc. Yo, I mean, just heads making good music to me that put me in a zone. The taste in music is constantly evolving in this digital age but the constant that remains is dope beats and dope lyrics executed artfully with quality will always rule my audio waves. As far as art goes, I’m a big graphic novel dude and I like alot of European graphic artists like Frezzata, Christophe Blaine, and Johann Sfar. I feel like it’s cliche for rappers to like NYC street artists like Haring and Basquiat so having said that, I’m reluctant to include them as influences for that reason solely, but truth be told I was born in 1980 and that’s what I saw and I’d be remiss to not mention those artists impact on me. Locally, there are some amazing artists in NYC like Nelson Caban, Lichiban & Stephanie Matthews that really have made visual impacts on how I view artwork recently.

SC: Describe your taste in fashion and how it reflects you as “Fresh Daily.”  What are some of your favorite brands and sneakers?

FD: Well, ultimately I’m more of a subscriber to style than fashion, as style is forever and fashion is fickle and fleeting. I’m a fan of clean, solid color blocking juxtaposed against patterned accessories and outerwear. My boy Suede (of The Brooklyn Good Guys) coined the term “Afro-Americana” for this look. I mean basically there’s all these influences mixed up from growing up in NYC. There’s alot of obligatory Polo Ralph Lauren because of the timeless factor, I mean, you can count on ‘Lo from 10 years ago to work 10 years from now. Within that there are alot of preppy nods being mixed in with strong ethnic aesthetics from my own closet collection to create a really signature look. I’d like to go as far as saying that 70% of my wardrobe is also sourced from Thrift/secondhand/vintage stores around the US and Canada so almost everything has a history and story to it. I’m almost utilitarian with my style to the point it borders on uniform if the weather is appropriate. 9 out of 10 ten times I have on an oxford or chambray buttoned all the way to the top with dark indigo raw/selvedge denim and a cap on.  As a firm believer in quality, consistency and heritage, most brands I rock with have been around for 15-30 years. Levis, Polo Ralph Lauren, Nike, Converse, Vans and Supreme. In a more contemporary sense, I also love Uniqlo and I almost exclusively wear RetroSuperFuture eyewear because I love the way they frame my face. My take on it is, your look should tell your story at a glance before you get a chance to speak.

SC: What can we expect from you in 2012?

FD: More music. More art. More collaborations. More live shows. More media content online. The launch of my collective “The Brooklyn Good Guys”. Only the freshness & only the real. Brooklyn, whattup!

Check out more Fresh Daily here!