#yes Eddie’s cheeks were too rosy in my last drawing and they needed to be immediately kissed. what of it!

[try-set-me-on-fire]

mmmmmmmwah!

[benji-deeds]

Stanlon, Day 6: Drawing

'I was sort of the artist in our group. My friends were always excited to see my art, especially Beverly. Really, Beverly and Richie were the ones that tended to go through my sketchbooks and tell me all about how much they liked it. Most of the others in our group were more quiet, (except for Eddie, but he was usually arguing with something Richie said), and just told me that my art looks nice, to which I'd reply with a 'th-thanks' and a smile.

As far as I know, the others didn't really partake in art. None of them. Ben wrote poetry, I think, and would sometimes sketch out something he wanted to build, but not even he really drew like I do.

So, my surprise was within reason when one of my closest friends, Stan, came to my room one day, asking for drawing lessons.

He'd already even bought a sketchbook of his own, and was clutching it to his chest. A pencil balanced precariously on his ear, and I wondered if it was stuck through one of his curls.

He sat on my bed, "Bill, can you do something for me?"

I nodded, eyebrows furrowed as I tried to figure out why he was acting so nervous and odd, "Wh-What's wrong, St-Stan?"

He looked at me, a hint of ambition in his eyes, "Can you teach me how to draw, Bill?"

I gave him a confused expression, frowning a bit, "Wh-Why?"

Stan's face turned lightly pink. He froze as he reached for his pencil, and stuttered out, "I... It's for someone."

I could see right through him, despite his efforts to maintain stoic. I pushed his shoulder lightly, "S-S-Someone y-you like?"

He gave me a deadpan expression, one which read, 'Don't push it.' I put up my hands slightly in a bit of mock surrender, "Okay. Well, I-I'll he-help you. I-I'll try, a-anyway."

I got up and went to my desk, shuffling around to find some paper and a few drawing pencils for myself and for Stan. I gave him the pencils, and briefly instructed him to draw something he liked, "A-A bird. Y-You like birds, s-so start w-with that. P-Passion br-brings out creativity."

Stan nodded, and fumbled as he held the pencil to paper. He was focusing perhaps too hard, so I told him to try and loosen up.

Stan took a while-I produced three portraits by the time he was finished-but he ended up with a fairly good looking bird. It was light and carefully drawn. There was a couple of issues with the claws, but otherwise, it was nice.

I smiled, "G-Great job, St-Stan. W-Want to try another?"

He tapped his foot on the floor anxiously, but nodded again, "What do you want me to draw now?"

I considered the question, then prompted him with another, "W-Well, wh-who exactly is th-this for, and f-for what oc-occa-occasion?"

The very tip of Stan's nose began to turn bright red; his cheeks and forehead were pink, contrasting against the purple circles under his eyes, "It's for this stupid class project. Mrs. Jones said we had to do some art thing about someone that means a lot to us, and-" his eyes were focused on the ground, "-I kinda thought I'd do it for Mike." He twiddled his thumbs. There was a thought he was holding back, and it'd take some coaxing for me to be able to bring it out of him.

I just gave him a smile, "O-Okay, well what a-are you dr-drawing for the project?"

Stan's shoulders tensed up, "That's the thing. I don't know. I'm not exactly creative with this kind of shit."

I shrugged, "C-Calm down. Y-You'll fi-figure it out. Wh-Why not just d-draw...L-Like, I draw B-Buh-Bev because I like her, s-so why not try and dr-draw him? I-I could help you."

Stan's eyes lit up a bit, and he lifted his chin, "You'd do that?"

My smile grew, "Y-Yeah, of course. Wh-When's it d-due?"

Stan's bit of snarkiness came back, and he said with a hint of nervousness, "Tomorrow."

I sighed. Of course. Pride would've had him do everything he could to avoid asking me for help with it, until the very last minute. "O-Okay. G-Get me a canvas."

The night was filled with me guiding Stan's hand to try and shape Mike's features, and after a few tries, it ended up pretty good looking. I then gave him some paints and gave him some time to paint the portrait. He needed to be able to do it, after all.

Stan turned to me when it was finished, a nervous wreck, "Is it good enough? I'm really not good at this."

I reassured him, "I-I'm sure it'll get y-you an A." I set aside the painting and sat beside him on the floor, my back leaning against my bed, "S-So," I threw him a slight smirk, "A-Are you g-going t-to show Mike, o-or an-anyone else, f-for that matter?"

Stan glanced back at his painting, and then to me, "I don't know. I still don't think I'm-i-it's good enough."

My eyes went wide, but I decided to not press the issue that just presented itself, "O-Okay. Hey, wanna st-stay the night? S-Since we a-already w-went past c-curfew."

Stan nodded, "Sure."

...

The next day, Stan carried the portrait under his arm. I heard him muttering under his breath, something about hoping noone saw him.

I gave him a pat on the back, and he sent a forced smile my way, then nodded to me and my mother as we stepped out of her car and went to out separate first hours.

He told me he was going to drop off his painting before he went to his first class, and that was the end of it.

I wasn't sure whether or not he'd share what he'd done with any of the others, and I suppose that's his business. But it didn't look bad, and I know Mike would love i-

"Denbrough, are you paying attention?" My teacher caught me day dreaming, and I nodded, "Y-yes, m-m-m..." The words got stuck in my throat, and so I just quit talking.

The day was a short one; each hour was spent in my own daydreams and curiosities. Lunch came and went. I love spending lunch with my friends, though it's admittedly gotten a bit more melancholy over the past years. We always tried to keep it lighthearted, especially Richie, who was always running his hands through Eddie's hair and cracking jokes.

Stan was always quiet, occasionally shooting back a funny comment at one of Richie's jokes, to which Richie would proclaim, "Stanley Uris Gets Out A Good One!"

Today he was especially quiet, though. He seemed to be contemplating something. I nudged him, "Wh-What's up, S-Stan?"

He sighed, "So, I, um, in my presentation for third hour, I sort of..." Stan's cheeks went back to that rosy red, "I might've shared too much."

I raised my brows, "You didn't t-tell them you w-were...with h-him?"

A smile, one that seemed pure and totally un-Stan like swept across his face, "Yeah, I did. And Hockstetter was in my class, and I'm sure he's making plans to chase after me with Bowers, but holy shit, Bill, it felt kind of nice."

Stan's bit of happiness was a disease that spread through our table like the black plague, "Th-That's great, St-Stan."

Stan nodded, "I mean, don't get me wrong. I'm fucking terrified, and I don't want Mike to get targeted by them any more than he is, but..." Stan stopped tapping his foot, "I'm going to tell him about it after school." The bell that signals the end of lunch rang, and Stan left with a, "Thanks for the lessons, Bill."

...

I've never had a phone call from Stan that lasted more than a few minutes, but I guess this last couple of days have been full of surprises, because he called my house phone and talked to me for almost an hour on how it went telling Mike about his project.

I've also never heard him so happy. He reminded me of the first time I saw Beverly, and then later, when I first met Audra. (She'd been auditioning for a school play, but that's a story for another time.)

He said he was calling from the Hanlon farm, which made sense-his parents never let him stay on the phone for this long, nor did they let him use it for anything but school related calls.

He said he had to go, as his parents wanted him back by seven, but he thanked me again.

I bid him a quick goodbye. Stan was an enigma, but he was also one of my beat friends. I looked around at my paints and other assorted art supplies, then smiled. I made my friend happy, and that's what I cared about. That's what filled my chest with pride.'

Bill took off his glasses, and set them on top of his head. He'd written that short story as a filler in between a couple of chapters of the book he was writing. He couldn't quite figure out where the inspiration for that came from, but it gave him a nice, somehow nostalgic feeling.

Bill rubbed his eyes, then went back to bed, where his wife, Audra, had already fallen asleep. He brushed a few strands of hair out of her face, and planted a kiss to her forehead, warm with a fever that she'd caught.

Bill drifted to sleep soon after, his last conscious thought being that the characters he just wrote about seemed all too real-perhaps people from long ago in a childhood memory that'd been suppressed-and he hoped if they were, they were happy, maybe even happy together.

The thought pulled Bill into a light, dreamless sleep.