Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Stan was the first to leave. He always had been. Maybe because being the first to leave meant no one left him. But that wasn’t even true. Stan rubbed the scars down his jaw: white, circular bite marks starkly reminding him of how he was left alone. Stan clutched the steering wheel, refocusing on the road pulling him out of Derry.

He left before Beverly. A couple years ago, he didn’t even think that would’ve been possible. But here he was, Stan Uris, freshly eighteen, not even staying for his last summer. The rest of the Losers saw him off, trying to be happy, excited for him, but he knew they felt betrayed. No, not betrayed, they felt guilty.

And maybe, stupidly, Stan wanted that.

Stan remembered Billy pulled him aside after he helped him tie his bike to the roof rack. He looked close to tears, which made Stan want to unpack the Volkswagen and stay the summer like everyone else.

“Stan, you can’t go off alone, not now. We have to stick together,” Billy pleaded.

And suddenly Stan hated Billy, hated his sad eyes, so noble, like he bore the weight of everyone, even though no one asked him to. Even though Stan was always right behind him, slogging through sewers without so much of a complaint, not like Eddie or Richie. But no matter how close he stuck, somehow he got left behind. “You have nice words, Bill, really nice. But those exact words got me alone in a sewer with my face almost chewed off.”

His words were savage, but they felt good. Billy blinked, like he’d been slapped. And Stan knew Billy was looking at the bite marks framing his face. Billy hating himself, blaming himself, wishing he’d died in that sewer.

Stan knew he should take it back, walk over the words, but he didn’t. He did what he always did. He left.

-

“Stan! Stanley, my boy, what happened—“
Stan was thirteen, his face was covered in blood, and he was running into his Dad’s office. He didn’t break his stride as his father stood up from his desk. He went straight to the painting, that soulless, lonely woman with empty eyes and ripped it off the wall. He hardly realized he tore it apart in his hands until his father stopped him, wrenching the bits of painted canvas from his grip.
“Stanley! What is wrong with—“ then his father stopped, choking on his words. “Your face.”
And Stan was crying. He pressed his bleeding face into his father’s coat, begging for it all to go away, to forget the realization that he’d been left to deal with It, even though Billy promised he wouldn’t leave him.
He wasn’t afraid of the woman, even as her teeth sunk into his skin, his body convulsing under the pain. He was afraid of what the woman didn’t have.
The painter of the woman was Amedeo Modigliani, and he didn’t paint the eyes of his subjects unless he knew their soul. Stan had only ever saw his paintings without eyes, but in a bid to stop his fear, his father had shown him Amedeo’s paintings of his lover.
Every single portrait had warm eyes, her dark pupils glittering in the oil paint. Each portrait different as her eyes changed slightly. Her eyes completed the painting, made it human, made her human.
But that did not stop his fear. His fear was not of an eyeless figure, but of someone solely unknown, alone; that no one knew enough to paint their eyes.
Did anyone know him enough to paint his eyes? Or would they be left blank, since no one ever knew him, since he was alone, since he left.
Stan cried all the way to the hospital, mumbling about dogs or bears or whatever he decided bit him. But all he could think of was his eyes, wondering if anyone looked into them long enough to glimpse his soul.

Chapter Text

“Stan, pick up the phone, man. Something is up with Bill, I don’t wanna blame you, but—“

Stan flicked to the next voicemail, cutting off Mike’s message.

“Did you fuck Billy’s mom or something before you left? Dude you beat me to it, but he is pissed. But it’s Billy, so he’s sad pissed, and it’s really bringing down the mood when he’s sulking—“

Stan pressed forward again, not wanting to hear Richie get even a little serious.

“Stanley, it is statistically proven that as few as 5% of high school friendships even last a year after graduation, but that doesn’t mean you fucking go and ditch—“

Stan hit the button again, stopping Eddie’s voice.

“Bev’s not gonna call cuz she wants to give you space or respect your distance or whatever, but uh…how’s Portland? Are you enjoying uhm, the financial stuff? With your uncle? You should call and explain what you’re doing, I’m actually really curious. Billy’s acting weird—“

Stan stopped the message, appreciating that Ben at least tried to genuinely check in on him. He almost wanted to call him back.

Stan scooted the nightstand away before sitting back on his creaky bed, not wanting to think about the voicemail that had sat on the phone since he got there. Bill’s voicemail.

Stan heard the door creak open, revealing his uncle, a New York Jew stuck in Portland.

“Hey Stan! Settling in okay?”

Stan nodded, thankful to have an interruption from his thoughts. His uncle smiled, walking in and sitting next to Stan on the guest bed.

“I’m glad you’re here, buddy. I don’t like Derry too well.”

Stan nodded again, twisting his hands together as his stomach flipped flopped thinking about his hometown. His uncle frowned at him, brushing his hand against the scars on Stan’s jaw.

“What happened here, Stanley?”

Stan moved his face away, shrugging. “Dog attack.”

“Hm.” His uncle didn’t believe him. “Your Dad didn’t let me talk to you at your bar mitzvah. I’m not religious like him, so I never got to congratulate you on your speech. It’s stuck with me since then. I appreciated your honesty, Stan. Very brave of you.”

“I’m not brave.” It came out too quickly, before he could stop it.

“Hm.” His uncle didn’t believe him. “Would you like to see what Portland has to offer?”

“I’d like that very much.”

-

Bathers and the Cleansed by Reggie Burrows Hodges, oil on canvas.

Stan read the plaque in the Portland Museum of Art, studying the painting that had captivated him. It was a dark figure, mid stepping into a bathtub, covered in a towel of shifting, muddy colors. She was vague, her figure undefined. She was not vague because she was unknowable, but because she was so known that out of respect, the painter kept her a vague shadow. Stan was puzzling over the painting, wishing for an artist’s statement to explain away his vague uneasiness. But there was no respite to talk over Stan’s understanding of the painting.

“I think I’ve made three laps on this floor and you haven’t moved.”

Stan flinched at the unknown voice. At his side was a girl. She wore a long skirt with boots under the hem and a baggy knit sweater, even though it was summer. She was taller than him.

Stan nodded slowly. “I like to take my time.”

The girl looked at the painting in silence for a moment, and Stan looked at her.

“So what does it mean?” She said after a moment.

Stan shrugged. “There’s nothing on the plaque.”

The girl laughed, her stoic eyes burning with a playful fire. “Obviously, dummy. I’m asking what it means to you.”

Stan looked at the painting again. “I thought the best thing was to be truly known by people, but I think this piece is challenging that. Maybe being too known is almost like not being known at all. Maybe there isn’t much difference between being alone because no one knows you, and being alone because everyone thinks they know you.”

The girl nodded, then looked at the painting again. “What do you think is worse?”

“The second one.” Stan said it immediately.

“Me, too.”

The two kids looked away from the painting, facing each other. The girl stuck out her hand.

“My name’s Patricia, but everyone calls me Pat.”

“Stanley Uris.”

They shook hands.

“Have you seen the exhibition on the first floor?” Pat asked. Stanley had, and he was supposed to be at the front in thirty minutes to leave with his uncle.

“No.”

Pat smiled. “You’ll like it, they’re all thinkers.”

Stanley smiled too, letting himself be led by Pat not Patricia, forgetting all about Bill’s voicemail as they roamed the museum together.

-

“Stan. Please pick up the phone. I don’t think you’ve ever left me on voicemail. It’s like y-your d-d-dead. Shit. Stupid s-stutter. Now you know I’m upset. I…Stan, I, shit I just…I’m sorry. I should’ve tried more. I should’ve been there. Stan if you could’ve just let m-me in, just let me know you a little, I could’ve…I shouldn’t blame you. I just wish I knew my best friend before he left.”

Chapter Text

Stan was settling in to the groove of Portland. He liked his uncle’s style of finance. He had a little loan store and obviously enjoyed talking to the people, hearing their stories, and figuring out how to help them with money. But his uncle loathed the meticulous finance math. So Stan took that. He liked getting the numbers to work, it was like a form of art to him. And thanks to Pat, Stan was seeing a lot of art, too. Pat didn’t just stick to museums, either. She found art everywhere: in shop windows, faded murals, on the docks. She collected a lot of it too, her pockets were always filled with random things.

“Stan, guess what?”

Stan was reading a bird-watching book on the park bench, and peaked over the pages at Pat. “I’m listening.”

Pat went over to Stan, showing the thing lying flat on the palm of her hand. It was a puzzle piece, freckled with what looked like pointillism. Stan made a noise of dissent, hating the idea of working on a puzzle and missing one piece at the end.

“I know. I’d hate to be the people who lost it. Still, it’s kind of interesting, maybe I could use it as a stencil for a painting.”

Stan closed his book, nodding. “Leaving something out in a painting can be just as important as putting something in.”

Pat sat down with a thump on the bench. “Like that guy who didn’t draw the eyes in his portraits.”

Stan clutched the book in his hands tightly. “Not true. He painted the eyes of his lover’s portraits. Only when he knew them did he draw their eyes.”

Pat glanced at Stan sideways, and Stan loosened his grip on the book. “Sorry, his paintings kind of freak me out.”

Pat nodded, looking at Stan for a moment longer. After a beat of silence she turned away, facing forward. “I’ve never tried a portrait before.”

Stan felt his heart beat oddly, like it did when he yelled at Bill.

“I could paint you.” Pat finally said.

Stan flushed, the scars on his jaw stark white against his burning face. Pat noticed, giggling shyly.

“You won’t have to pose, I can take a picture, dummy.”

Stan nodded, opening his book to the page he was reading. Pat stood up, kicking at the grass, obviously thinking. Stan turned the page of his book, not paying attention to the story woven in the words. Instead, he was fighting wobbly tears, knowing that Pat couldn’t fathom how much her suggestion meant to him.

-

When he got back to the little flat above his uncle’s store, Bill was his living room. His uncle was talking, maybe talking about Billy, to Billy. No, he was telling Stan to introduce them. Was it a joke? No matter.

“Bill, this is my Uncle Ted. Uncle, this is Bill.” Stan sounded normal, if a little stiff.

His uncle laughed forcibly. Bill seemed to look through Stan, his icy eyes staring instead at Stan’s uncle.

“I th-thought you died.”

The air seemed to suck out of the room. Stan looked at his uncle, and he laughed again, rubbing his chin.

“With the way Don talks about me you’d think I was dead. I just left the faith, is all. I’m dead to Don, that’s for sure.”

Stan studied his uncle, then looked at Bill. Bill was holding his tongue with all of his might, about to do something impulsive. Stan touched his uncle’s shoulder.

“Can we have some privacy?”

Uncle Ted seemed to snap out of himself, taking his eyes off Bill. “Sure champ. I’ll fix up some lemonade.”

And he disappeared into the kitchen.

Bill grabbed Stan’s shoulders, pulling him as far away from the kitchen as possible. Stan tried to pull off his arms, but Bill held him sturdily.

“Stan! Your uncle is dead.” Bill whispered fiercely. “He has an obituary in the old Derry newspaper. He d-died at twelve years old under mysterious circumstances.”

Stan shook his head slowly. “No. He left Derry then, there was a health scare, he moved to upstate New York with my great grandfather.”

“He told you that.”

Stan shoved off Bill. “You just don’t believe anyone who wants to leave that shitty town!”

Bill touched the spot on his chest where Stan pushed him. “Stan—“

“If you want to play ghost story again go ahead, but this time I’m not going down that sewer with you.”

Bill’s eyes widened, and Stan knew he couldn’t have hurt him more if he’d said Georgie’s name out loud. Bill shook his head slowly.

“F-fine.” He swallowed, blinking the water seeping from his eyes. “I was here to say sorry, but I-I-I-I—damn it!” Bill pressed his palms against his eyes, and Stan knew he was cursing the stutter that betrayed his feelings.

Stan tried to push down all the things swirling in his head, terrified he’d yell again, or say something he didn’t mean. This wasn’t him, he didn’t say horrible things to his best friend. Or was it? Did Stan not know himself, either?

Stan ran his hands through his curls, but they felt like foreign hands. Someone else was controlling them. He watched as his hands went to his eyes. His hands wanted to rip those hazel-green eyes out of their sockets. He felt the nails of those hands press against those eyelids that weren’t his. How could it hurt when nothing was his own? Nothing except these eyes, these eyes that don’t fit the empty shell that he’d always been. His eyes didn’t fit, they were a window into a soul that know one knew or cared to understand.

Those nails were pressing painfully against the eyelids. Maybe there were tears, more likely blood leaking out of his eyes. He realized even his eyes had a heartbeat, once you pressed hard enough. Maybe it would hurt. Maybe it would hurt to sever the link to his soul.

“Stan!” Bill pulled the hands away from his eyes. “Oh m-my God, your eyes, they’re bleeding—“

Stan couldn’t see. He tried to blink away the dark red blur, but it wouldn’t go away. He felt Bill hold him tightly, then another set of arms. He was being led somewhere. The car. Bill had wrapped a blanket around him. He was pressing scratchy gauze against his eyes. One was bleeding more than the other. Was Bill talking?

“Oh God, Stan. It’s all my fault. I got you hurt again. I’m so sorry, Stanley. I’m s-s-s-sorry.”

Stan wanted to say it wasn’t his fault. It was these hands, these hands that Stan had to keep from ripping out his eyes. But his voice was gone. Instead, he whistled. He whistled the call of the chickadee.

“Stan?”

Stan switched to cardinal, then the two note call of the mourning dove. Yes, the mourning dove seemed appropriate, that bittersweet call that he’d woke to so many times.

“That’s a dove, right?”

Stan smiled, switching to a jaunty bluejay.

“Bluejay.”

Stan changed to loon, beautiful and haunting, though he wasn’t as good as it.

“Sounds like a dying loon, Stan.”

Stan giggled a little, and all the way to the hospital he and Bill continued their game, feeling twelve again.