#‘just thinking about the buffalo’ then i need to lovingly smile at both my boyfriends (gotta make sure they were endeared by my comment)

[spirkbitch]

everyone else on the bridge deserves a medal for enduring Kirk flirting with his boyfriends constantly

[likesomekindofcheese]

The BEN-nefits of Fake Dating

Hello! @littlespoiltthing​ it is I!!! Your Secret Santa revealed! Here is a one shot I wrote (with a title inspired by @littlespoiltthing​ ‘s own beautiful work) for @dtfrogertaylor​‘s Christmas Event. Enjoy everyone!!

Pairing: Ben Hardy x fem!Reader

Words: 2412

Warnings: Families, kissing, swearing, Christmas, grandparents, and parents being grandparents and parents. Sex, engagement, and kids are mentioned, nudity but nothing graphic. Plus a LOT was inspired by the Hallmark movie Holiday Engagement

Genre: Fluff and a bit of Angst!

“If I have to see you single again on another Christmas, I’ll jump off a bridge!” your grandmother whined over the phone. You sighed deeply, out of reach of the phone on the speaker in your hand.

“She’s joking, of course!” your mom interjected.

Yeah right, with another year and another ring less finger in the midst of an Instagram feed full of clean, French manicures with the largest diamonds sparkling on the left hand with two billion likes, you had had it. Especially since a lot of those clean, French manicured hands of yours with large sparkling diamonds on the left hand with two billion likes were in your family.

So now every head that was female and greying turned to you in anticipation. And every holiday, from their wrinkled, pink lips and their hot breath full of peppermint came the dreaded question with the monotone, dreaded answer.

Then came Ben.

Charming. Funny. Smart. Single. Ben.

He sat in your car on the passenger side and his eyes widened at your grandmother’s comment.

“Oh, I just want you to be happy, dear! And know you’re taken care of!”

Your grandmother forgot to recall the new world of college degrees, Netflix nights with friends, job choices, and vibrators to think a man could possibly be in the picture for women in the 21st century.

This was where Ben came in. Especially his job for the next week.

Ben clicked his tongue a little and bit his lips in a way that almost made you miss the turn.

He reached over the clicked the red button on the phone to end the call.

“Well, she’s a little mad.”

“She’s mad for babies, that’s what. I think she just wants babies to play with without changing diapers or, you know, responsibility” you said.

“Maybe I should’ve brought a dog, then” Ben quipped.

It was ideal. But too ideal. Ben and you were friends. Just. Friends. No matter what your stomach felt. No matter what fantasies you had at night. Just friends.

But it was nice to live that fantasy for a week. Merry frickin’ Christmas.

You pulled the car over to the park and walked into the big house. Already a lot of your family had entered in and were having drinks in red cups as a sports game blared on the tv as opposed to nice Christmas music tinkling away.

“Oh, honey, welcome!” your mother greeted, walking in with a big hug, the red arms of her red sweater outstretched.

“And is this your boyfriend?”

“Oh, yes, I’m Ben, Ben Jones.” He greeted. He had a polite smile and had engaged in his role. Today’s audition he had to read the role of boyfriend to shut up the Karens for a week. Only no real script except what was discussed, and pure improv. Good thing he was paid to leap off of trucks and shoot fake guns for Micheal Bay.

How hard could it be? After all hard was his name. His stage name.

Your grandmother gawked at you.

“Oh my gosh! What a cutie! I haven’t seen a butt that perky since your grandfather in ’72!” “Grandma!” you gasp, but giggling anyway.

You hug your mom very tightly, so much you can smell her. Ben merely gives her a platonic handshake.

But Ben handles being the dutiful boyfriend very well. People go over and drill questions into him. He hesitates a little and then replies quietly.

“So Ben, what job do you have.”

“I’m an actor, film, and television.”

Though one cousin of yours, who is at least six foot five and the size of a buffalo storms over, almost to Ben’s face. If it were not for the reindeer antlers hanging from his head, you probably would have been nervous.

“I’ll tell you Jonesey, my cousin, Y/N, is the sweetest, smartest, best girl ever.”

“I know! I wouldn’t be datin’ ‘er if she wasn’t!” Ben replies. His hands shoot out in front of him.

You can feel yourself biting your cheek insides in order not to smile.

Your cousin practically grabs him by the shirt collar and lifts him almost.

“If you break her heart or hurt her, I swear to God, man, I’ll cut your nuts off!”

“I-I won’t!” Ben insists being lowered to the ground.

But right as Ben turns around and sees your brother and you feel your stomach turn a little. Are your family members ganging up on poor Ben?

But he just nods his head and says “I think you seem like a nice guy, Ben, so ditto. But Y/N is a tough cookie, I trust you with her. And I trust her” he adds, he picks up his mug in the shape of Frosty the Snowman and lifts it as a toast in your direction.

Pretending to be dating was almost too easy. Natural, even.

It seems like forever, but the guests eventually filter their way out. Your family sighs deeply Your stepfather throws himself on the couch, almost melting into it.

“Well somebody has to pick up the dogs tomorrow…”

You can see Ben’s face light up.

“Dogs?” Ben interrupts, widening into the smile of a seagull offered a crumb of bread.

Your mom is a little taken aback.

“Uhm, yes…we have two German Shepherd puppies. We had to put them in a daycare center for the party. They’re cute, but a little rowdy,” she warned, shuffling her feet.

You have to hold Ben back from jumping into the car and picking them up now.

“I’ll go, why, I’ll even drive!”

“Well, thank you, Ben!”

“Anything for my best…”

You kick him softly into the back of his leg, threating harder later if he doesn’t keep it together.

“Anything for my best girl! That is! The best girlfriend ever!”

The night gets darker and everyone is exhausted from the greeting party.

“You guys are fine sharing a bed, is that right? Well, the only bed available is Y/N’s old bed…” your stepfather begins.

You are both muttering and Ben’s turning very pink.

“Yes, Dad! We are thinking about moving in, soon, so sharing a bed isn’t a problem.”

But you both head to the room, lock the door and sigh.

“This is gonna be harder than I thought.” You confess.

“I think we’re doing great!” Ben adds optimistically, looking around at the trinkets and clothes left on hangers and chairs in your room. “And we don’t have to sleep together, I brought an air mattress.”

Fighting the urge to wince from the comment, you begin chewing your bottom lip.

“I need to go to bed, when do you shower? There’s only two up here.” You suggest, fanning out your top from the sweat you gathered.

“Mornin” Ben added, noticing an old book on your shelf and curiously thumbing through it.

As you take some towels and walk off, you bump into your mother getting a laundry basket.

“Do you think they liked the cake I made?” she asked.

“Oh, they definitely did!” you assure.

“I just think I may not have put enough icing, you know the family always goes for the heavy sweet stuff”

“Oh, mom, your baking is always great! Fyi, Ben got a really big slice today if that’s a sign!” you tease.

She taps your shoulder lovingly.

“And how’s your relationship with Ben going?”

You pull your hands under the towel and squeeze.

“It’s…good mom, really good.”

“It’s just that today I noticed you didn’t hug or hold hands or kiss that much” she murmured, relaxing her arms so that the empty laundry basket seemed to dangle from her grasp.

“We wanted to be respectful. You wouldn’t want to see your daughter making out with a guy all evening, would you!”

Your mother’s eyes sparkled as if hesitant to give you an unexpected answer.

“Well, of course not!”

“Besides,”  you say, turning to the bathroom and opening the door “he’s the kind of person who’d rather be private about touchy stuff, you know?”

Your mother hums in understanding and turns off to her room.

A warm homey shower and a nice bedtime routine got you all settled. Cleanliness of your body and mouth seemed to free you from the weariness of the social demands and your mental worries of what could go wrong.

But there was one more thing that did go a little wrong. When you walked back into your room Ben was lifting the blanket to get into the air mattress.

In his birthday suit.

You let out a scream and turned away immediately, not sure whether to be thankful or mortified or both. Ben saw you and let out a small yelp as well, he grabbed an old pillow and put it right over his junk. His whole head turned pink.

“I’m so sorry. You were taking your time and I thought I’d be under by the time you…y’know!!!” He seemed to curl down and you fought the powerful urge not to let your eyes wander to his eight-pack.

“Just put on some underwear for the love of God!”

You manage to get him in underwear and your mother's fluffy pink robe full of flowers. Almost scoffing, you flop on your bed and fall asleep almost at once.

What you don’t see is Ben turning his head to look at you. He can’t go to sleep quite yet. Thoughts are racing thought his head far too fast for him to catch one and examine it.

Being in your room, seeing all your old trinkets, clothes, books, and even toys everywhere. Bits of your personality shine out to him. And now a younger, but your deeper, almost private self is now all around him.

He adores it and his heart is bursting silently. With widening eyes, he keeps still on the bed and observes each tiny detail as if it is a clue to reveal a bit more about you.

And there you are, your face turned right to face his, eyes closed and deep asleep. He admires how there’s a bit of moonlight from the window falling on you and he can see you.

There you are so close. If he got up now, he could touch your hand perhaps and even stir. He could place his head against your heart to feel how after everything today that it’s beating just, so, so slow. Your lips are curved into a smile. Is it a dream, perhaps? His hand almost reaches out, wanting to trace every bit of your face but he stops himself.

He nestles down on the pillow and your face is the last thing he sees before he closes his eyes and drifts off into uneasy rest.

Nights like these got quieter as the days got repetitive. There was a lot of smiling and conversing with each other in the day and in the evening, you both would be quiet. The air dripping with words that wanted to be said and yet could not be said for fear of something dying.

One evening the clock had struck one in the morning and neither one of you had gotten any sleep other than tossing and turning.

“Let’s just watch Christmas movies together!” Ben suggests childishly, and you nod. You two will sneak downstairs and watch The Grinch and Netflix together. One evening, Ben suggested The Snowman.

“It’s on Youtube, have you ever seen it?”

“No!”

“Let’s watch it!” Ben says, whipping out his phone and suggesting you scoot over.

It’s hard not to let your head fall on his shoulder and you force yourself to keep the slightest distance.

At the very end of the short little feature, the magical Snowman had melted, leaving the little boy alone in the snow as the credits rolled over a soft song with an orchestra and boy soprano.

Ben was bawling quietly.

“Oh my god…every bloody time…”

But as you reach over, you wipe off the tears and he looks right at you. You are both quiet.

“Go back to sleep, I need to have a smoke before I sleep.”

It had been a long smoke too.

On Christmas Eve, it was another small gathering. Mainly Grandma. She was eyeing you two as if she was watching the last five minutes of a Game of Thrones episode for any sudden, shocking twist or turn.

Like a kiss. Or a hug.

Ben could tell something was up and pulled up to her. “Well hello there, I’m Ben Jones, I don’t think I’ve talked with you much yet, but I’m dating your granddaughter.”

She nodded and gigged. Her eyes shone and brought energy not felt for about fifty years

“I know, we haven’t talked!” she replied, raising her shoulders a little in shyness.

“And I can’t leave a lovely lady all by herself!” Ben added with a wink.

You smiled. Ever the charmer where it counted.

You went over to the kitchen and heated up two mugs of hot milk and picked tow packets of hot chocolate.

But as you walked over to hand them to Ben right by the doorway there was a sudden burst of “OOOOOOOHHHHH!” from your brother.

There was mistletoe hanging over the two of you.

Mistletoe that wasn’t there yesterday.

You and Ben stared at each other, blinking. Then you looked at your grandmother, eyes wide and nodding.

You gave him a short peck. His lips were cold and reeked of onions from the pizza you ate, but it was soft and plump.

Ben looked back at you, dazed. You only half heard the cheering from everyone and the toasts.

You both looked at each other, the party went on, but it was as if you two were the only ones in the world.

“Y/N…” he starts….”I think I need some air…” he confesses.

“Me too…” you say, following after.

You both rush, the air is cool and soft, not freezing like the typical Christmas Eve and with a disappointingly green front yard in front of you and a semi-clear sky.

Before you can say anything, Ben looks up at you shyly.

“Can I kiss you properly? And date you proper? Not for fake…”

You take your hands on each side of his face, his green eyes grow to the size of your neighbors' bushes.

“Uhm…it that a yes? It was a pretty bad kiss back…”

“Shut up” you insist before locking your lips onto yours for a much bigger improvement.

[dreamer-of-dreams-ao3]

a bookmark near the end - sarawatine

Summary:            

Sarawat senses Tine's leg tensing next to his and he feels godfuckingawful, he could almost cry. The thing is Tine seems to have moved on from what happened in the past but sometimes, Sarawat finds his mind circling back. 'He didn't trust you.'

He has been reassuring himself that none of that mattered. They made it this far, didn't they? They are still together. He knows Tine loves him. He shows it in his own ways. The green curry he meticulously cooks for Sarawat, the way he moves closer to Wat until their hands brush when he thinks Wat wouldn't notice, the long gazes when he thinks Sarawat is not looking. He knows Tine loves him, that's all that counts.

'But he didn't trust you...' A tiny, wounded voice whimpers.

This is based on s2 ep 1 of still together. The boys are going to talk their hearts out.

Chapter 1 why didn't you ask?                     

He loves history. He wanted to write a biography of John Quincy Adams. I, shamefully, knew almost nothing about John Quincy Adams, so I went online and bought every biography of him I could find. One day, he called me, claiming that we wouldn’t work out long term. He said he loved me but that we had different interests. “What does love mean to you?” I said. “That’s an impossible question,” he replied. I, however, find love to be quite simple. Love is the stack of biographies on my nightstand with a bookmark near the end. — Julia Nicole Camp

"Can you trust me... again?" Sarawat asks softly, heart pounding with anxiety and blossoming hope.

Despite the cheering of the crowd, Tine hears him so clearly; he doesn't need silence if Sarawat is the pin drop. The whole world just swallows itself until there's nothing left but him and Wat.

"If I didn't trust you, what am I doing here?" he smiles, watching the colour rise on Wat's cheeks.

Sarawat swallows, mustering a smile as he reaches out to squeeze Tine's shoulder. As far as Tine is concerned, the rest is history.

*****

 One year later

Sarawat likes to think of himself as a sensible guy. He's romantic, sure, but he's sensible. He knows his boundaries, knows how to say no to things he doesn't want to commit to. Tine, on the other hand... well, Tine is kind. Compassionate. Tine cares too much about not being a nuisance to someone else. So, he agrees to help Green with the video for the music club - one promoting the club as a safe space for all kinds of expression including queer love. Sarawat sees it differently. He understands why queer visibility is important, he is openly queer himself. But the idea of using his relationship as a marketing technique is aggravating, to say the least. Why can't queer people just be? Why must every step they take in their personal lives be publicised?

He's seen both extremes - the homophobic violence and the fetishising attention. He sees the comments under his Insta post, people "thirsting" after him and "shipping" him with Tine and various others. He deletes the sexual comments that are directed to Tine, asking about the size of Sarawat's private business. His boyfriend is physically affectionate but even so, Tine is demisexual and gets overwhelmed when people violate his boundaries. Wat hates it when Tine goes snooping around on Insta and then spends the rest of his day averting his gaze and wearing oversized clothes like he is uncomfortable in his own skin. So, Sarawat figured he'll disable the comments on his page but then the flock travels like water-deprived animals to Tine's social media instead. After a couple of days of watching Tine stare at his phone in half-horror, half-something else that looks like revulsion, Wat can't help but feel personally attacked. The more people inquire after Sarawat in a sexual manner, the more withdrawn Tine gets. He seems to physically distance himself at times after such online encounters. And Wat can't sleep without spooning Tine so, no. Can't do. So, he once again enabled the comments under his Insta, herding the traffic back so they will let Tine be. Instead, he waits for Tine to sleep or go take a shower, then wastes his precious time deleting obnoxious comments and blocking people who create multiple fake accounts to ask intrusive questions. He can do that for Tine. Social media means nothing to him but it sure means a lot to Tine. After all, Tine is put in this uncomfortable position only because Sarawat is a bit of a celebrity (and oh God he hates it). If only people will just treat him like a dude in a band that plays the guitar and occassionally sings. But no, that would be expecting too much from this ass-backwards university.

Which is why Sarawat was completely against Green's idea, but would Tine listen? No. He hasn't before and he's not going to start now. Sarawat declined the offer to be interviewed together but after seeing Tine mope around the house, claiming that Wat isn't as sweet as he used to be anymore, he reluctantly agreed. But now... he thinks he's going to kill both Tine and Green.

"We want to know what happened with Pam," Green stage-whispers to Tine, that dramatic fuck.

Sarawat feels Tine shift to look at him and he feels caught in between... like he's having trouble breathing. His eyes search Dim's for help and the other man looks like he is about to run.

"We are just curious about how you resolved your problems. You forgave him after the whole Pam thing, okay, I get that, but like-- you forgave him even though he didn't look after you in the hospital? Like wow, you sure love him huh?"

Sarawat senses Tine's leg tensing next to his and he feels godfuckingawful, he could almost cry. The thing is Tine seems to have moved on from what happened in the past but sometimes, Sarawat finds his mind circling back. He didn't trust you.

The bleached look on Tine's face like he was sick from just looking at Sarawat. The way his eyes narrowed when he finally opened the car door only to tell Wat to leave him the fuck alone. The accusing glare that Mil threw at him. The revulsion directed at him from Tine's friends. Fong shoved at him when he tried to approach Tine in the cafetaria and told him that if Wat gave a shit about Tine, he would stay away from him. Ohm spat on the ground and swore that he'd deck him if he didn't.

He has been reassuring himself that none of that mattered. They made it this far, didn't they? They are still together. All of Tine's friends are his friends now. Type has begrudgingly accepted Sarawat as Tine's boyfriend. And he knows Tine loves him. He shows it in his own ways. The green curry he meticulously cooks for Sarawat after a long day at school, the way he moves closer to Wat until their hands brush when they are in public, the long, soft gazes when he thinks Sarawat wouldn't notice. He knows Tine loves him, that's all that counts.

But he didn't trust you... A tiny, wounded voice whimpers.

He hates Green for this, for bringing it up in front of people. What does he get out of it? More fans? More sponsorships? More members joining the club? Is any of that worth forcing Wat to relive the painful memories he's been trying to outrun for an entire year?

"Green, how do you know he didn't take care of Tine? Don't just assume shit." Dim barks, exasperated with Green.

Sarawat is now pinned down by Tine's curious gaze even as he refuses to return it. He swallows the lump in his throat and watches Dim drag Green out of the room. He almost wishes that Dim and Green could stay just so he doesn't have to face what's headed his way. When the figures disappear in the distance, the sound of their bickering fading away, he turns around, pretending to be nonchalant, and grabs their bags, announcing that it's time to leave.

"Well, did you?"

"What?"

"Come to the hospital?" Tine asks carefully like he's afraid of the answer.

Wat sighs deeply, looking away and combing his hair back before tersely replying, "Yeah."

"Why didn't you tell me?" Tine scrunches his eyebrows and tilts his head slightly.

Any other instance, Wat would have reached over and patted his head lovingly. This little buffalo of his is the cutest when he is confused.

With what's left of his energy, he pretends to be casual about it and retorts, "Because..." He shrugs, lips pursed.

Tine remains persistent and awaits an answer.

Wat shrugs again, adjusting the strap of his bag uncomfortably, "You didn't ask."

He swallows what's left of his thought... because you didn't trust me.

(continue reading https://archiveofourown.org/works/27242776/chapters/66550216)

[felinehypocritical]

fic request: bill and stan sleepover and their nightly routine (fluffy....if you would :)) thanks!!

“Yuh-you okay?” Bill stood behind his tiny boyfriend, wrapping his arms around his waist and setting his chin on Stan’s head. “Doh-hon’t think y-y-ourself to d-death.”

Stan looked up from his satchel, hands raised in surprise from his clothes. “What?” he asked quickly, his hands automatically floating to Bill’s. “What, Bill?”

That was one thing Bill appreciated about Stan- he didn’t resort to nicknames. He rather disliked them, actually, and rarely ever called Bill anything other than his given name. No ‘sweetie’s, no 'babe’s, no nothing. Just Bill. Short and to the point, just how Stan liked things.

Not to say he wasn’t funny- Stan was hilarious when he wanted to be and made Bill laugh all the time.

Stan wasn’t prudish, either, or necessarily strict; he just disliked babysitting his friends. He didn’t really understand that other people weren’t as mature and straightforward as he was, and expected everyone to have the same standards and reasoning as he did. Goofing off made him titchy and, though Stan looked cute with his hands on his hips and his foot tapping as he parented the other Losers, Bill preferred his partners happy and so always made sure he knew what to do.

His cynicism didn’t come from a place of hate or contradiction- Stan simply had a straight and ordered and mind, and if something misplaced one of his volumes of reasons, he would rush to jam it back into place, and could usually make it fit back in, which was nice.

The only problem with that was, he’d miss the spots in other parts of his imaginary library of reason that would fit the volume much better in his desperation to keep his world in constant order.

Temporary moral chaos was not an option for Stan. If he couldn’t immediately explain something with logic and reasoning, he didn’t want to think about it. All of these things were one of many things Bill loved about Stan, his scientific, mathematical little boyfriend.

“Nuh-nothing,” Bill replied. “Don’t wuh-worry about ih-it.”

“What?” Stan pressed, hating to be kept in what he thought of as the dark as always. “What did you say?”

“N-Nothing!” Bill rolled his eyes at the back of Stan’s head. “Stan, suh-seriously. I j-j-just wanted to know w-why you wuh-were so i-ih-nvested in your buh-buh-b-”

“Bag,” Stan finished for him. “I was just thinking about all the tests we have coming up.” Bill chuckled a bit at that. Of course Stan was thinking about tests on spring break.

Bill plugged his fingers into Stan’s sides, making him yelp and push him off. “Luh-het it go. That’s noh-hot impuh-puh-portant right now.” He kissed the stop of Stan’s head, inhaling sharply to smell the expensive shampoo the black-haired boy used in his hair. It smelled a little like rosemary, a little like campfire from the trip Stan just got back from. Most importantly, it smelled like Stan. “Juh-just focus on the /muh-moment/, Stanley.”

Stan pushed him off again, sitting on his bed and crossing his legs in his usual way; one ankle on the other leg’s thigh, hands bracing against the lower calf of the leg that was up, back almost stick straight. Very precise. Very Stan.

“Whuh-where are your p-p-parents?”

“Out,” Stan said shortly.

Bill grinned, striding towards Stan before taking his hands, nudging Stan’s long legs so they were both on the ground and pushing him back so he was laying flush against the bed on his back. “Yuh-you know what huh-h-happens when parents ah-aren’t home, don’t you, Stanley?”

“I do,” Stan agreed, twisting his hands so he was holding Bill’s wrists and rolling them over on the bed so that he was now on top of Bill. “What happens is that we watch a movie in my living room on the new television you desperately wanted to see and then take showers and go to bed.”

“/Showers/?” Bill said, laughing and scooting the two up the bed so that they were in the middle of Stan’s large, full-size bed. “Yuh-you take showers at sluh-sleepovers?”

“Yeah,” Stan said meekly. “I mean, I don’t get invited to many, and the ones I do go to are with Richie who doesn’t care. Is… is that not normal?”

Bill shook his head, propping himself up on his elbows and pressing a kiss to Stan’s lips. “Nuh-no. It’s not. B-b-but you’re nuh-not normal either, Stan U-Uris.” He made a sappy face at Stan. “Yuh-you’re eh-exceptional, b-buh-baby.” Stan could tell he was being purposefully cheesy, but he frowned anyways at the over-the-top sweetness, and Bill added quickly, “we c-can do whatever yuh-y-you want, th-though. We can t-take showers if y-you need.”

Bill knew, of course, about Stan’s obsession with cleanliness- anyone who cared about Stan did. But he also knew how important Stan’s routines were to him. Everything must be done in a certain way a certain amount of times, or a world-shattering catastrophe would happen, or Stan’s mother would drop dead, or Bill would get sick, according to Stan himself. He felt a quiet desperation to have everything just right, and nothing mattered more than that. For most people, cleanliness was next to godliness.

For Stan Uris, cleanliness /was/ godliness.

“That’s what we’ll do after the movie, then.” Stan finished the conversation promptly, detaching from Bill and standing up, heading downstairs. Bill had grown accustomed to this part of Stan, even to appreciate it, but many people thought it rude, he knew. When Stan was finished talking about something, he never changed topics- he simply walked away or picked up a book. He wasn’t ignoring you when he did it. He was simply finished. 'I’m finished talking’, it seemed to say, 'and I’m going to go away now.’

Bill pursued Stan down the stairs, looping an arm around the smaller boy and leaning into him a little at the hip. “Whuh-hat movie is it?”

“Buffalo Bill,” he replied, a faint smile splitting his lips. “I thought it was fitting.”

Bill raised an eyebrow. “Yuh-you hate Weh-hesterns, Stanley.”

“I know.” Stan smiled. “But Ben gave it to me, and I might as well watch it with someone who /does/ like Westerns.”

Stan was right- Bill did like Western movies. He liked the accents and the costumes. He sometimes thought about his friends as Western stereotypes- Mike the lone ranger, fingers hanging off of his huge, shining belt buckle. Ben the smiling sheriff, with his friendly gut hanging over his pants in his gingham shirt, his cheeks and face well-dimpled from grinning at strangers. Richie the drunkard in the saloon. Beverly the cowgirl. Eddie would be the young woman tied up on the train tracks, he thought with a smile. He himself would be the handsome lead, as people constantly told him he was. He never could figure out what Stan was, though. He couldn’t place Stan’s personality in Western tropes. He wasn’t a villain, but he wasn’t a hero either. Strange.

Bill gave Stan a quick, smiley kiss on the lips, leading him to the couch and pushing him into the cushions of the couch. “Thuh-that’s v-very juh-juh-generous of you. Th-thanks, babe.” He tried the pet name out, liking the way it sounded on his tongue. “I'l guh-guh-get your blankets.” He waited for Stan’s okay, and bolted upstairs to grab a fleece or two. He came back with a few, piling them all on Stan so that only his small face peeked out and his feet poked from the bottom, his wiry curls sticking through the woven quilt.

“Gee, thanks, stud,” Stan said sarcastically. Bill froze, looking up from where he was arranging the blankets.

“Huh?”

Stan rolled his eyes lovingly. “I said, thanks for the-”

Bill shook his head. “Nuh-no, I kn-know… What d-d-did you call me?”

“I- It was just a joke…” The boy looked at him carefully. “Why?”

“No, nuh-no, s-say it again.” Bill smiled toothily. “Juh-hust for fun.”

“I called you a stud.”

“Mhm.”

The two looked at eachother, before Stan rolled his eyes and scooted over to put his head on Bill’s shoulder. “You’re really something else, Bill Denbrough,” he said quietly, watching as the opening credits began to play.

“Buh-hut am I a st-stuh-stud?” Bill asked mischeviously, a glint in his eye that Stan recognized all too well.

“Bill Denbrough, don’t you even dare tickle me,” Stan said frantically, scooting quickly away from his boyfriend.

“I’m going to tuh-t-tickle you,” Bill responded, his voice firm and light.

“No, you’re not.”

“Yes I am!” Bill pounced, grabbing Stan’s hips and pinning them down, tickling all over Stan’s chest and torso until he was gasping for breath between laughs and twisting his hips to get Bill off of him. “Yuh-yes I am, yes I-I am!”

“Stop, oh please,” Stan gasped, tossing to and fro in his attempt to free himself. “Get off, I can’t breathe, Bill!”

Bill finally relented, dragging Stan so that his shoulder was, once again, Stan’s pillow. Stan slumped over, letting his head drop into Bill’s lap so he was glare-smiling up at him.

“You’re not a stud anymore,” he accused. “You’re a bad boyfriend.”

Bill pretended to flex his arm, trying to look ridiculous and ending up looking a little smug. “H-hey. Yuh-you can take th-the boy ou-ou-out of the st-stud, but y-you can’t take th-the stud out uh-of the boy.”

Stan snorted, lifting his arm to push Bill’s face away from him. “That doesn’t even make sense, jshut up.”

Bill pretended not to hear, pressing a finger to his lips and shushing his boyfriend. “The muh-movie’s starting, sh-shush!”

Stan complied, and they watched the movie in a lovely silence. Bill’s hands danced through Stan’s hair, winding his fingers through his coils and waves. Stan’s hair was thick, and curly, and a beautiful dark brown. It was beautiful, in Bill’s opinion. It went well with his olive skin and brown eyes. He loved running his hands through it and detangling the back for Stan, since he wasn’t flexible and didn’t ever quite reach the back of his hair. Everything about Stan was beautiful. Sculpted, even. He looked like a fashion model to Bill. Stan occasionally turned over or snuggled deeper into Bill’s lap, pulling the covers over his nose and sighing at the screen.

When the movie ended, Stan was sound asleep in Bill’s lap. The redhead smiled gently down at the snoozing boy, moving gingerly out from under him and sliding his arms under Stan so that he could pick him up.

He carried Stan to the bedroom, and no sooner had Bill set him down again then Stan woke up, sitting back and stretching. Bill looked at him in a mix of exasperation and love.

“Of c-course, the minute I puh-put you down you wuh-w-wake up.” Bill tutted, wagging a finger that Stan grabbed and used to pull Bill in so he could wrap his arms around the taller boy.

“Yep. It was my plan all al-long.” Stan punctuated the last word with a yawn.

Bill hummed into Stan’s forehead, leading him into the bathroom. “You b-big baby. Huh-how are you tired?”

“Westerns are boooring,” Stan complained, working on brushing his teeth and putting mouthwash in his cup at the same time.

Bill watched from the doorway, suggesting, “duh-did you forget about sh-showering?”

“Oh, shoot, I did forget!” Stan looked at Bill with the look of a caught rabbit. He HAD to take a shower. He HAD to.

The redhead took Stan into his arms, kissing him three times all over his face and looking down at him. “H-hey. Ih-it’s okay.” Bill rubbed the small of his back, trying to help him calm down. “Yuh-you took one th-this morning, didn’t yuh-you?”

“Yeah,” Stan said uneasily, “are- are you sure it’s okay?” he looked at his boyfriend with something akin to caution, begging Bill to not just say it was okay, but to make it okay.

Bill smiled reassuringly. “Y-yeah. We’ll be fine. You d-don’t have to wuh-w-worry quh-quite so much, Stuh-hanley.” Stan opened his mouth to object, but closed it quickly when he saw Bill’s sympathetic eyes. He was right, Stan knew, but worrying was safe. You didn’t get hurt quite so much if you were prepared for the worst.

But Bill was here, and he never got hurt when Bill was around, so he gave it a rest and stepped out of his small bathroom, shutting the door and letting Bill trail after him as he began to pick up his room, before hesitating and beginning to change into pajamas, seeming to change his mind about something.

“Whuh-hat’s that about?” Bill asked, referring to his boyfriend’s stop and start of cleaning his space. As we’ve already stated, Bill knew how much clean space meant to him.

“Don’t worry about it,” came Stan’s reply. “Just deciding not to do my routine for now.”

Bill shrugged. That made no difference to him; if Stan needed a break from routine, that was fine, because whenever Stan wanted a break from routine it meant great things for Bill.

As Stan changed, Bill took out his portable radio and began fiddling with the channels. Finally, he came upon the one he always listened to- the Bangor music station- and as Annette Funicello and her gaggle of backup singers started lilting 'Tall Paul’, Stan smiled and laughed a little.

“Whuh-what’s so funny?” Bill asked, turning to Stan happily as he snapped his fingers. Bill wasn’t much of a dancer.

“Nothing,” Stan said absently, beginning to make the bed into a two-person affair instead of the usual one. He moved his numerous pillows into different configurations as he said warmly, “this song just reminds me of you.”

“Thuh-this song?” He raised an eyebrow, thinking about the lyrics before grinning wide. “Juh-gee, that’s swuh-sweet.”

Stan ignored him, singing softly, “Tall Paaaul, tall Pau-aul, tall Pau-aul- he’s-a my all.”

Bill smiled at Stan’s back, walking up behind him and wrapping his arms firmly around Stan’s waist. He swayed back and forth a little, letting Stan hum and sing as he did so and kissing his cheek when he finished. “It’s guh-good to knuh-know you think uh-of me from time to tuh-tuh-time.”

“I think about you all the time,” Stan said earnestly, “so don’t think I don’t, Bill Denbrough-”

“I wuh-wasn’t saying that,” he said soothingly. “Luh-luh-love isn’t a cuh-contest, S-S-Stan.” Bill pushed Stan’s tensed shoulders down, leading him to the bed and sitting him down.

“Oh, I-” Stan cut himself off, thinking better of whatever he was about to say. “I know,” he said finally. “I love you, Billuick,” he began again, using the nickname just once for their special thing.

“Luh-luh-love you too, S-Sedanley.” Bill held up one half of a heart that he made with his hand, and Stan held up the other. They clicked them together- Bill with tempered excitement, and Stan with a noncommittal affection- and then let their hands fall into each other’s. Cheesy, they both knew and agreed, but it was something they’d always done. Like a secret handshake, but less… handshakey. More of a password, maybe.

Stan did it again, his little thing of walking away from conversations he was done with, and started to get into bed. He turned on his own, much nicer radio, letting the dull drone of Derry Public Radio wash over him. Stan always listened to things to help him fall asleep, and he supposed tonight was no different. Constant noise seemed only useful to Stan at one time- night. Bill wondered why that was.

“You coming?” Stan asked, patting the bed beside him. “There’s plenty of room.”

Bill grinned again, sliding onto the bed eagerly and letting Stan tease his way into Bill’s arms; hesitant at first, as he always was, before warming up to it and letting himself relax just a little. It used to bug Bill that Stan wasn’t ever comfortable with him, but he’d since realized that this was just the way it has to be.

They lay like that for a while, Bill separating and making little twists in Stan’s hair, Stan listening intently to the radio as he drowsed off. He occasionally would say something random or ask a question, one of the questions leading to a conversation that Bill would remember somewhere in the back of his mind for years and years to come.

“Bill,” Stan had asked, “do you think you’re ever gonna forget about me?”

“Of course not. Why do you think that?”

“I dunno… it’s just a feeling, you know? I mean, Eddie barely writes us anymore, and we hardly see Mike. I just… I feel like we’re all forgetting the same something. Something important.”

“Stuh-tan, you’re m-more important th-than anything to me. I cuh-c-could never forget y-you, okay?” Bill rubbed a circle into Stan’s back, his hands sure and strong.

“But what if you do?” Stan exclaimed, not sated, not satisfied. “what if I move and you forget about me, until you dont even remember we dated? And you wonder where your letterman’s jacket is? Bill, it scares me so bad, I- I never want to forget you.”

“You wuh-won’t.” Bill proclaimed this with perhaps too much confidence. “Stan, pluh-please, you’re oh-only working yuh-yourself u-u-up.”

Stan drew in breath, but didn’t say anything. “Okay,” he said, pained but agreeable, as always.

Bill’s stutter seemed to leave him for a moment as he focused on cheering Stan up. “And b-besides, I don’t think I’ll be able to forget you whuh-when you’re my lih-hittle house-husband.”

“Shut up,” Stan grumbled, hating the idea of house husbandry.

“Okay.” Bill mimicked Stan’s earlier tone, earning a kick from the annoyed Stan. “If you can make me.”

The rest of whatever they said is lost now- lost amidst the whispered 'I love you’s that Bill whispered into Stan’s ear as they did what any two teenage boys would do in an empty house. Lost amidst the quieter 'you too’s from Stan. Lost amidst the chatter of the radiohost and the whisper of sheets and the sound of sewers dripping in a slumber what would last another quarter century, and amidst car doors on the street slamming. But most importantly, lost in the infinitely changing winds of time, a small memory of no significance that almost no one would consider important, least of all the owners, until they lost it. Memories like those gave way to more adult worries, and slowly, they did end up forgetting.

Teenagers would always be wrong about what’s important, though, right?

An excerpt from the end acknowledgments in Bill Denbrough’s novel 'The Fallen Tree’, page 597:

’…And lastly, I’d like to acknowledge and thank the people I’ve forgotten indefinitely. I struggle to remember your names, I could not put it to a face in a crowd of two, but thank you. Your support has brought me here, brings me to new places.

One of you in particular eludes me, and I feel as if I have lost a part of myself whenever I remember you existed for me, in my minuscule universe. You helped me in ways I can neither remember nor imagine.

I loved you.

I loved you so much.’