#even though the school was literally across the street lmao. mind you it's shitting bricks and i have a clear tarp to cover me??? idk)

[butterballbuttnakey]

Oh I forgot to mention that I've had two dreams about jacob 🥴🙃

They're in the tags if yall wanna see how weird my mind is lmao 😅🙈

[kxhlzn]

[ii.] the birdwatcher & his lover.

➳ synopsis: it's the summer of '89, and you discover new things about yourself— some good, and some you wish you could swallow and never see again. dealing with the newfound confusion of sexuality, you must learn the ins and outs of friendship and what it means to grow up.

➳ genre: coming-of-age drama, crack, violence, fluff.

➳ characters/pairing(s): eventual stanley uris/reader, unrequited!bev x reader, eventual bev/ben, eventual richie/eddie.

➳ wordcount: 5.6k of trash.

➳ song rec: don't really have any for this one. prolly why it's so bad lmao. um maybe the kenzie smith piano cover of "unjust life".

➳ warnings: profanity, henry bowers, fights, blood, flashbacks (slight chapter 2 spoilers), sexual jokes, underage smoking.

➳ author's note: this became more and more crack at the beginning and i couldn't stop it. sorry for using the phrase "sitting on his face", i saw an opportunity and took it. also didn't like this one as much tbh. not as much bev/reader as the last. this isn't edited god save me

July, 1989.

"she's fucking insane!"

how right richie tozier was, staring in utter horror as you march your way straight toward the older boy who has tortured your friends for far too long. one of his greasy hands grips the short hairs on beverly's head, forcing her neck to recline against the bricks of the library— and in turn, your patience.

"someone's gotta stop her," eddie replies, his brows curved inward in concern. he'd be more vocal, if it wasn't for the fear of henry bowers that limited him.

stanley and bill bike their way down the uncrowded street, scanning the nearby area in search of ben, who requested they all meet him at the library for something he called fascinating. bill nearly crashes into stanley's bike when he spots you stomping your way up to bowers. he does, however, slam into the curb when you capture a handful of henry's mullet and slam your free hand up his nose until he cries out.

bill takes a rough tumble, but eddie and richie don't notice. eddie's palms are covering his eyes, and he tells richie to "let him know when it's over". stanley, on the other hand, is whipping his head between yourself and bill as he rapidly decides to minimize collateral damage from the two accidents: bill's bleeding forehead and scrapes, or the death bell slamming into his brain like a literal gong every time he hears a grunt come from bowers as he's reeling from your assault.

sorry, bill; you should have learned how to ride your bike properly. stanley slips off the seat of his transportation, for once not even bothering to stand it up properly before it is left bare, tipping over onto the curb. he's shaking from head to toe, and his footsteps are wobbly. each meter he's closer to bowers, the more he considers bolting and telling his father to never answer your calls. alas, he can't help but feel an obligation; you've saved him from more scraps with the blonde delinquent than he can count, and you always ended up with more bruises than he did— and you would clean his cuts first.

august 23rd of your 8th grade year, henry bowers takes it into his hands to destroy the lives of each and every child of derry. he's a sophomore at the high school, but that never stops him from picking on you. his first victim is stanley uris, one of your best friends of a year, as he shoves him down, forcing the boy to take a rough tumble.

eddie's prepubescent screeching exemplifies within every second that henry attacks, and by a couple minutes in, it's entirely indecipherable. henry's goon, patrick, crouches beside stanley's curly head, and retrieves his jewish kippah, examining it as though he actually cared what it was. his slimy grin makes your skin crawl.

"nice frisbee, flamer," patrick runs his calloused thumb over the fabric, waves the cap in front of stan's face, and tightens his grip as he stands. stan grasps helplessly for the cap, and you push through bowers (as he's holding richie's glasses above his head), and just barely catch the kippah before it soars into a passing bus's cracked window.

after your fingers are wrapped firmly around the rim, you slam your free hand right up patrick's nose, causing the greasy boy to take a few shaky steps backward. he grips the center of his face, blood slipping from his nostrils, and he growls.

he cries something pathetic and retreats behind henry, who licks his palm, and runs it down bill's cheek leisurely. eddie cringes at the sight. "this summer's gonna be a hurt train for you and your faggot friends."

"as much of a hurt train it'll be for you when you get home to daddy?" you mock with venom, and your stomach swirls in anticipation. you had been entirely aware of what mr. bowers did to his son, and you would have felt sympathetic if he wasn't such a fucking dick. you partially wish you could shove your words down into your shivering guts, and prevent the consequences of your spillage. bill's arms immediately grip around your waist, his bony shoulder turning to hide your torso. his own body trembles, but he doesn't want bowers to see the fear behind his stubborn irises.

henry was shaken at your words, entirely speechless— out of fear or anger, you weren't sure. probably a mix of both. he seems to not even realize what he's doing, but his arm is raised, and he backhands you right out of bill's shaking arms. you land straight on your ass and your ears ring; henry and his gang take a run for it, and slip into belch's car like the slimy no-good rats they are. your head is dizzy from the impact, and the losers crowd around you. four chaotic voices swarm you, and you wave them all away so they don't worry.

but you still grip stanley's kippah like your life depends on it.

the owner of the jewish cap collapses next to you, and he isn't swift to ask for it back or demand it. in fact, it's a thought pushed to the back of his mind when he sees how swollen your cheek gets, and how a trickle of blood is growing in the corner of your mouth. he is entirely aware that patrick is now determined to destroy you, or worse. he is entirely aware of what that means for you, and he knows that you know too. he knows that you know and you still caught the kippah for him regardless, and he feels his heart enlarge, growing pregnant with sadness and appreciation.

all of these voices slamming into your skull, mostly eddie's high pitched squealing, and all you can hear for a moment is stan's quiet 'thank you'.

you nod curtly, and gently push his shoulder with your fist, a lopsided grin on your bruised mouth. "ah, it's nothing, kid."

you wiggle your fingers at eddie, a sure sign that you want him to help you stand. hesitantly, the lithe boy grabs your forearm and pulls you up. you extend the favor to stanley, and yank him to his feet too.

"is everyone okay?" you chirp positively, reaching your hands above stan's head, plopping his kippah onto his mass of curls. his tall form retracts a bit, bending slightly so you didn't have to exhaust yourself. once you were content with the cap's position, you stood in a confident position, fingers wrapped around your hips.

stan removes the kippah and stuffs it into his bag, which he keeps slung around his shoulder. he eyes the losers curiously as they gape at your enthusiasm, but he's the only one that really catches your attention. he mouths a brief, "are you really okay?" and you smile at the ground.

you mouth back, "we'll talk later".

"is that.. are you seriously asking us if we're okay right now, 'cause last i checked..." eddie's words are drowned out.

stanley uris almost squeals when bowers's posture returns, and he's stalking toward your shorter self like he's going to slack his jaw and swallow you whole in one, frankly, sloppy bite. stan rushes in front of you seconds before henry takes an uncalibrated swing, and it knocks stanley straight across the cheek, and you scream. henry takes a handful of your hair and yanks you upward, lifting you off the ground slightly, but he's weak enough that the tips of your shoes graze the grass. the entire time, eddie is screaming, (or speaking really high-pitched, but you couldn't be sure, as you were getting your brains pummeled out), and richie takes a not-so-manly roar and rushes towards the bully. you'd be proud of him if you hadn't noticed his eyes were squeezed tightly shut, and his legs like jelly the entire dash over.

he pushes henry to the ground by wrapping his arms around his torso and taking himself down too. "you motherfucking slime-fucker, i'm gonna kill you, or someth—"

crunch. your first thought is henry "greaseball" bowers fucking ate richie tozier, and even after your brain rationalized the events after, you still thought that was an entirely plausible prediction. except, you think his screech would have been a little more muffled, and less annoying because you would have felt sympathy for him, for you know, being fucking inhaled like one of bev's cigarettes. both fortunately and unfortunately, it was just his glasses— and you were relieved briefly until it came to your attention that they were no longer sitting on his freckled face, which meant one thing: the poor kid couldn't see shit.

you witness beverly dig her knee right into henry's set of jewels, right before you feel a soft but firm hand on your shoulder, and you're pulled up by a flash of red — bill's gushing forehead — and shoved away from the conflict. suddenly, he's bursting towards richie, and he practically throws him out of the way as he snatches up his glasses and bolts towards the row of bikes laid out. beverly is already waiting for him, holding up the bike so he can grasp it and hop on. eddie takes his cue to get on his own, and you almost run towards stanley but bill grabs you and shakes his head.

"oh, fuck off, denbrough, this isn't a sad movie or whatever!" you break his grip and reach out as far as you can until you catch a handful of stanley's button up. fabric, or a button, tears, but you manage to get him far away from bowers enough to pull him onto the back of his own bike. before he can even adjust himself, you're pedaling rapidly after the others, with stanley's arms wrapped around your torso.

that is not how he imagined the bike moment to go: you know the one, where the girl is wrapped around the guy's chest, leaning her head softly against his shoulder blade, staring off into the sky as they pedal away from the cliche villain? yeah, no. stanley is practically squeezing your organs into your throat, panting in your ear, and not-so-gracefully swerving the bike's balance. you wiggle until he gets the gist that you want to survive the ride, and pedal as fast as your legs can; then when you've gained enough leverage against the others, you stand on the pedals, and stanley's arms slide down to your thighs.

he tries not to stare at the apple in front of his face, so he glances up, and is washed with the image of your face battered and bloodied, but you've got the biggest smile on your lips like you've just climbed mount everest— like saving him was just that exhilarating. but then you try to sit back down, and his arms around your thighs send the bike into a swirl, and you're pretty much sitting on his face until he releases your legs. as if things couldn't get more awkward.

"sorry," stanley mutters, mostly to ease his own embarrassment that's traveled to his cheeks and chest. you both look over at bill and bev, and scowl. they are literally the epitome of the "perfect couple" bike ride, and the two of you feel like barfing.

your reason much different than stan's.

"how are we going to warn ben?" you yell to the entire group.

"kid's a dead man!" richie shouts in reply.

bev jumps in. "we can't just leave him!"

"do you wanna go back?" richie inquires, raising a brow.

her silence is met with you taking a violent u-turn towards the library, and stan wants to cry. you tell the others to get to mike before he shows up unaware of the situation, while you curve around to the back of the building and park the bike by the steps.

"this'll lead us to the basement," stan states while he climbs off.

"i know," you quip.

"what if we get caught? this is a stupid idea," stan says, crossing his arms as you walk up the steps. you shrug.

"so?"

"so?"

"and? we get caught. what are they gonna do, take away our library cards?"

turns out they can do a lot more than just take away your library cards, but they let you both slide when they saw the bruises littering you and stan's faces— you were definitely a sight: two fifteen-year-olds caught in the basement of the library, covered in purple and red marks with innocent gleams on your lips as you try to sweet-talk the librarian into not telling your parents that you were discovered unraveled in the dark together. god, the look on the rabbi's face if he had heard that— it leaves you smirking the whole ride away from the building— through the back entrance, of course.

ben says he got lucky that you were there to warn him, 'cause he was going to come out and look for you all a couple minutes after the others departed. that gives you some relief, knowing that it was the right choice to go back. poor kid woulda been bloodied without anyone there to help him.

once you all meet in the alley outside the pharmacy, (with bev's help in distracting mr. keene, again), you mutually agree to patch each other up at the clubhouse, the only safe place for the losers' club anymore. it makes you a bit sad to think that, but nevertheless true. it's a bit worse that you guys are so terrified to leave your bikes near it, that you take a twenty-minute hike to the secret location once you've secured the transportation far away from its sacred grounds.

eddie scowls at the sight of the door in the ground, covered in weeds and unidentified muck, but he chooses not to say anything. everyone is worn out and drained, and he's just happy everyone survived it. his scowl melts into a deep frown as he goes over the events in his head— he was scared, and he hadn't helped a single one of them; he watched as bev was slammed against the library wall, he watched as stanley was decked by bowers, and he watched as each and every one of them defended each other. god, he was such a fucking coward— could he do anything right?

richie senses the weight on the smaller boy's thoughts, so he tentatively puts his hand on his shoulder. is this too much? he doesn't want to make eddie think he likes him, or anything. eddie simply sighs in response, but in his heart, he feels calmer, like maybe they do want him, even if he's a wuss.

ben crouches down to clear the entry to the clubhouse, while richie starts up a conversation about how he totally whipped henry to pieces, and how his sorry ass is gonna come crawling to richie for forgiveness. ben shakes his head with a soft smile, and richie pokes him with his foot.

"hey, you think it's funny, ben? you were stuffing your nose in a book being the biggest fucking nerd in the whole goddamn world! you just watch, bennie; crawling, i tell ya'. crawling," richie says, bending over enough to get an eyeful of ben's snicker.

"yeah, sure, rich," beverly laughs; she pulls a pack of cigarettes from her blouse, and fishes out a lighter. you can't help but stare when she places a cigarette in between her pink lips, and concentrates as she sets the tip aflame— it takes eddie's voice calling your name to draw you from her form.

"hey! take your inhaler!" he chucks it at you.

you catch it just in time and mutter to yourself about how ridiculous he's being. you roll your eyes as you release a breath of air, and place the inhaler between your lips. you push down on the bottle of medicine as you take a deep inhale, letting the contents push down your throat and into your lungs. you have to hold the air for a couple seconds and swallow.

eddie speaks after he takes a puff from his own. "getting scared like that and beverly smoking a cigarette is a death trap for us."

you blink at him, cigarette in your mouth. you inhale, release, and shrug, handing it back to beverly. "you were saying?"

eddie's face contorts to one of a miniature aneurysm, words falling short. he resorts to rolling his eyes and glaring at the dirt.

ben finally heaves open the hatchet and sighs contently. eddie slips in first, with his newly stolen med kit under his arm. ben enters next, and so on.

the clubhouse is rustic, with its oak poles and shelves of miscellaneous items, like puzzles, card games, med supplies, and non-perishable snacks. mike lights a lamp in the corner of the structure while ben pulls the hatch down to close it, and you take a look around, as though you hadn't been done here a hundred times before.

from right where the ladder drops, is a long step that extends from wall to wall, with a plush cushion positioned right next to the entrance. there's a pile of journals and books next to it, with a metal cup of pens on top of the first one. leaned up behind the ladder is a rather large one, a bit bulky and thick with all the pictures of bird species within its pages. (there's an even larger photo album seated on the biggest bookshelf in the clubhouse, shoved in the far back on a ledge where mike and ben hang out). that cushion is where stanley likes to sit, as one might infer. he doesn't like to fold his legs, so the step is nice for him to plant his feet as he sits stiffly on the, frankly, uncomfortable pillow. it explains the sour expression on his face when he spends hours sitting there, and the way he squirms the entire time like there's a nail protruding out of the cushion and into his ass. you wouldn't be that surprised, though, as he would be too unbothered or unmotivated to remove it.

on the far right of the entire clubhouse, not far from the ladder, there is a structure similar to a bay window that ben built for you after hearing you mention you'd always wanted one in your bedroom. he was eager to please everyone with the building (even though you frankly wished he hadn't put so much strain on himself by making it), so it was an easy decision to include it. of course, there really isn't a window, so it's more of a short stage covered in a colorful variety of plush pillows and blankets. he included a built-in shelf for your sketchbooks, journals, novels, and art supplies as well as enough space to include miscellaneous items that you like to decorate with. the space is a bit long, too— not long enough to be a bed, but not short enough to be a couch, either. ben, being the angel he is, included curtains you could pull pack around the section, as you often slept back there, too.

a storage section is tucked away behind a beam separating it with stan's small seat, and that's where the majority of your games and such are located. it has a wooden wall built on its left side, connecting to the open space set out for mike and bill's favorite place, which is more like a stage than your own. three extended steps stretching from the storage room to the far wall on the other side lead up to it, with a flat surface at the top of the third one. that's where you guys keep your larger things, like lawn chairs, toolboxes, and extra wood planks in case ben feels a bit creative. in the corner, though, there's a sandbox that ben enjoys building structures in (much to stan and eddie's dismay, as they both end up being the ones to clean up after him, even when the poor boy is apologizing profusely for making a mess). bill and mike prefer to have deep, intellectual conversations that are a bit too advanced for the likes of richie, and are just a bit boring for the rest of you. you like to have them too, but sometimes they become repetitive, or perhaps you just aren't in the mood to be a part of them, so the two boys retreat to the stage in the back.

eddie and richie constantly argue over the hammock that hangs comfortably in the center of the clubhouse, which is essentially a cheap old sheet tied securely to a couple beams that were set up for the sake of the structure of the hideout. they always end up a tangled mess in the middle, their heads on opposite ends. eddie likes to complain about richie's presence in the hammock majority of the time (if he's not kicking it back with you in your bay window), but he always seems the most at ease when richie is in it with him. he probably doesn't realize it, but he whines he's cold when the taller boy is absent, or hidden somewhere else amongst you.

ben and bev, arguably the easiest to please out of all of the losers, prefer to keep their hangout simple by placing a couple cheap cushions on the floor by the hammock, close enough reach so bev can pass a cigarette between herself and richie. she likes to lean her head against a beam behind her favorite location and drop her elbow onto a box of comic books that you and eddie share. as bev and richie share a smoke, you and eddie toss your inhalers back and forth between yourselves (it took you a while to convince him to do it, but he eventually decided you aren't as germy as the rest of them).

simply put, the clubhouse was home.

today, however, you decide to be a little mischevious, throwing yourself onto the hammock, with richie and eddie's eyes bulging out of their heads. you cock your chin at them, splaying your arms out to graze the dirt floor beneath you, "something wrong, boys?"

"yeah, that's my fucking hammock," richie scolds, crossing his arms while eddie places a small hand on his own hip.

stan doesn't take a seat, slipping his shoes off, while the others migrate to their most common places. "you guys get it every time. what's wrong with her taking a turn?"

you point your thumb behind you at him, nodding in tune. "see? stan the man knows what's up."

stan smirks, and just as he's preparing to plop down onto his beloved cushion, you swing the hammock close enough so you can capture a handful of his striped shirt. he stumbles into your lap, and quickly adjusts himself to save you both the embarrassment. his entirely too long limbs are lanky and take up nearly the entire sheet; you let your toes wiggle underneath his hips.

"i regret this," you mutter, stan's shoeless (thankfully with socks) foot placed next to your head. he apologizes, and swings one over the edge of the hammock, while sliding the other between your arm and your torso.

"is that better?" stan inquires, watching with amusement as eddie and richie groan and throw themselves onto your bay window. with all that space, you'd think they'd spread out, but no,— they're legs are just as tangled as usual.

"yeah," you say, "so, uh. eds, you gonna patch us up or are we gonna bleed all over our favorite shit?"

you hear an awkward crash behind you, and you pray it isn't your collection of display items on your shelf. there's a tumble, and then the patter of feet followed by an "oh, fuck, yeah". the medkit clatters quietly, while eddie digs through it to retrieve some alcohol and cotton swabs.

bill is the first, provided his injuries root from his inability to keep his eyes on the road. he doesn't talk much through it, rather sits there too calm.

"what happened?" you question and stanley shakes the hammock as he reaches over to his pile of books, and captures one in his hand. his foot digs slightly into your side, and you curse under your breath as you try to peer past his curly head.

stanley smirks slightly. "he saw you punch bowers, and crashed."

"too bad it wasn't 'cause he saw the color of your panties..." richie groans, "'cause then i'd have something to take my mind off my aching face."

your stomach curls in both disgust and amusement, rolling your eyes. "they're just blue, today, my friend."

you turn your head just enough to get an eyeful of richie pumping his fist in excitement. you scoff and throw an empty plastic bottle at him, one you found underneath the hammock.

bill hisses from his position on the floor beside eddie and ben. eddie's legs are tucked under his lap, his tongue peeking out to wet his lips in concentration; ben merely glances everywhere but the cloth on bill's forehead, face nearly a shade of green.

"stop moving!" eddie snaps, and bill mutters an apology, wringing his hands in his lap as he waits for eddie to finish up.

"on the positive side," you chirp, poking stanley with your toe, "henry might have a broken nose."

"i ain't fixing it," eddie says, a small smile evident on his lips. his eyes never waver from bill's cut, though.

"nah," you agree, reading the cover of stanley's book, "i wouldn't put my worst enemy through that."

eddie glares at the cut in response. he can't lose concentration, fortunately, but you're aware it was intended for you. "hey!"

richie snorts. "amen."

the sun disappears quickly behind the horizon, but you can barely tell from where you lay. an orange light passes through the doorway, illuminating ben's soft skin, his head in beverly's lap. he's asleep, much like bill, mike, eddie, and richie. beverly slowly drags on a cigarette, a small reflection of light gracing the freckles on her cheek. her eyes are glazed over, like she might fall asleep herself in the next couple minutes. stanley is contently flipping through his novel, the cover a tinge away from an oak brown. his brows are curled in, his entire body engaged in the pages. you tilt your head at him, curious as to what's enraptured him so entirely.

he doesn't notice, thumb tracing circles in the skin of your knee. his hand is warm, like your cheeks, but you don't notice it. seems to be a common occurrence between the two of you; not noticing things that are obvious.

beverly marsh, though, and that eagle eye of hers, notices. a smile appears on her lips, small and knowing. that's just how she is; small, and knowing.

stanley uris's eyes light briefly, and his lips pursue. he's surprised by something that has happened in the book. he seems to disconnect for a moment, glancing up at you. they drop back down and then rise to meet yours again. this time, he's captivated by you.

you take this moment as a chance to speak with him. "are you okay?"

"yeah."

"no," you press, leaning forward slightly to keep full attention of his eyes, "are you okay? i haven't had a chance to ask."

stanley licks his lips and taps your knee in thought. finally, he clears his throat. "um, yeah. just had a lot on my mind, is, uh, all."

"your pops?" you inquire, reaching behind yourself to get ahold of a box of graham crackers. you tear open the box and package, capturing a cracker and snapping it in half. you offer one of the halves to stan.

he takes it, and nods in thanks. "i mean, i guess. he's always nagging me, ever since my bar mitzvah speech."

you think back to that dreadful event.

"what the fuck do we do?" richie asks, legs crossed as he flails his arms. you pitch him a glare from across stanley, whose legs are tucked beneath him, his face in his shaking hands. his shoulders shake too, and he's vulnerable.

it's like watching a bird caught in a wire.

he's muttering barely coherent words, along the lines of "i can't do this", and "i'm gonna fuck this whole thing over". you grip his shoulders, and position yourself in front of his kneeling body. you give him a gentle squeeze, and he looks up just enough to meet your firm eyes.

"you, stanley uris, are the biggest loser i know, and i mean that in the kindest way. you will tackle this shit. if you choose to go the formal route, i support you. you lie to them as much as you want. if you want to tell them to shove it, i support you," you spill out, and before long, you're not sure what you're trying to imply anymore. "i... we are here, no matter the circumstances. if you want to light this whole place up, so be it. i'll be the fire."

stanley's eyes are bright, and his lip quivers. he doesn't know what to say or do. but he trusts you, and somehow that's enough.

stanley stands on that stage, and he recites every hebrew word he is expected to. it seems to drone on forever, and you can tell, even from your seat, that he is just as bored as you and richie are. his hands are trembling with each page flip, and somehow towards the end, you hear the subtle rip of one. stan chokes up but continues.

by the end, his father is (poorly) trying to hide his fury, and you resist every urge to stand and yell, "he's doing his best! shut up and accept that, you condescending prick!"

stan is silent once he finishes. he takes a minute to turn and face the crowd, but his expression is harder than what you expected when he does. "reflecting on the meaning of what i just read, the word "leshanot" comes up a lot, which means, um, 'to change, to transform'. which makes sense, i guess, because today i'm supposed to become a man."

his hands curl the microphone wire and uncurl it. a nervous tick. "it's funny, though. everyone, i think, has some memories they're prouder of than others, right? and maybe that's why change is so scary. 'cause the things we wish we could leave behind... the whispers we wish we could silence... the nightmares we most want to wake up from, the memories we wish we could change… the secrets we feel like we have to keep, are the hardest to walk away from."

his dark eyes pass over the room, examining the distasteful expressions of each jewish man, woman, and child in the synagogue. when they land on you, he feels a surge of strength, his soul hardening towards the judgmental others. all he sees is you.

"the good stuff? the pictures in our minds that fade away the fastest? those pieces of you it feels the easiest to lose. maybe i don't wanna forget," his eyes don't waver. he pictures all of the memories he has with you and the losers; the quarry trips, the arcade, the photo booth. you have brought him so much happiness. "maybe, i-i-if that's what today is all about, forget it, right?"

his father, the rabbi, surges forward, with a quick, "thank you, stanley".

you curse in your head. let him finish!

stanley dodges him. "u-uh, today, i'm supposed to become a man, but i don't feel any different. there are things i need to experience, still, i think. i'm still just a kid. i'm not ready for the responsibility, for the harshness of adulthood. i want to stay as i am, with my people. i need to."

he stumbles out closer to your pew, avoiding his dad. your nod of encouragement forces him to face him, determination in his bones. he needs this. a final "fuck you".

"i know i'm a loser, and no matter what, i always fucking will be," you say, quoting him. stanley becomes bashful, shaking his head at you. you nudge him with your toe. "still my favorite moment from that. should be your senior quote. love that for you."

"might need to change the wording a bit," he replies, picking at his fingers.

"nah, a final 'fuck you', you know?"

"wouldn't that be a sight."

"you've always been a looker."

stanley laughs softly. the hammock shudders suddenly as you crawl over to his side, and lean your head against his chest. the subtle beating of his heart lulls you into silence, and he doesn't know what to do with his hands. he feels entirely too lanky now, like his limbs might just curl around you like a vine. thankfully though, you tangled your legs with his, and wrap your arms around his torso. his palms finally settle on your back.

"you're my best friend," you mutter against his chest, and he shudders.

"thanks," he chokes out awkwardly.

he can feel bev's eyes burning holes in his cheek, and he can't bring himself to look at her, and she knows it, too. his face burns now, in turn, so he suddenly takes the new cigarette from her, and drags it quickly. he hands it back to her just as fast.

"w—" she begins.

"—shut up," stanley snaps, noticing you've fallen asleep like the others. you're so peaceful.

best friend? he thinks, why do his lungs burn like they've caught fire? why does he feel like he doesn't know himself at all anymore?

why do you feel more distant than ever?

taglist:

@hannarudick @cedricisnotonfire @russian-romanova