#also rip Georgi he's just in the background getting abused through all of this

[hearteyesuris]

Home / Stenbrough

I haven’t written in like. 8 years!!! I’m sorry!! Anyway so you know how I wrote those Depressing brokenfamily!Bill headcanons? This is a one shot based off of that and it gets sad ,,, but its also fluffy!!

Warnings - Implied panic attack, bill is Fed Up, bill’s dad is emotionally abusive!! idk if there’s more but. be safe

Words - 2.2k (how)

Bill Denbrough did not have a home.

He had a house - of course, he had two. His Mother’s and his Father’s.

His parents (to put it frankly) did not care. At all. They didn’t care for Bill once Georgie had died. And he understood - really, he did. Everyone deals with bereavement issues differently, and his parents had finally pushed one another apart, after years of tension so thick that Bill’s stutter couldn’t even kill the silence between them.

Once Georgie’s death had been settled, and the period between November of the previous year and Bill’s painful thirteenth summer ended, so had their relationship. His Mother had left with the choice thrown upon Bill to chose who to go to.

And he picked his Mother.

But, he had decided, sixteen was far too young to be dealing with such a violent set of parents - not that anyone should be at any age. His Father had always used emotional blackmail as a twisted persuasive method, and his Mother had always taken it, turning his words into something as sweet as honey but lacking the backbone she needed to put him in his place. She’d listen to the words, plead out a strangled sorry and declare it all OK until it happened again. A routine of sorts, Bill had mused.

Despite the two not being together, Bill’s parents still managed to leave him stuck in the middle.

‘Bill? Shall we go and get your favourite dinner tonight?’

‘Bill, how about we go and buy you that new book you’ve wanted?’

‘Bill, make sure not to tell your Father about this,’

‘Bill, make sure not to tell your Mother about this,’

Bill, Bill, Bill. It was all he ever heard - and when he agreed to whatever his parents wanted to do, an awkward silence settled over him and whoever had taken him out that night, causing Adrenaline to course through Bill’s nerves, snagging on loose ends and pulling them free.

However, this became another routine to Bill, a new thing to get used to and accept as it was.

It just wasn’t until this night that he realised how bad it truly was.

Wednesday nights had always been spent at his Father’s house - a sad midweek visit, dragging a bag or two behind him and mumbling a hello in his direction as he sat and smoked, eyes fixated on a book, or a film, or the TV - anything that wasn’t his son. He might get an awkward pat on the shoulder or a greeting back on some days, but most of the time if he didn’t begin conversation, he wouldn’t get any.

Unspoken words hung in the air until the whistle for dinner flew upstairs. A degrading call to further prove that his Father truly didn’t care. But it was only once he’d reached the bottom step did he realise that something was not as it usually was.

Where Bill usually ate dinner alone, the news humming as it always did in the background, laid a second place mat and plate, his Father sat behind it.

Anxiety swam through his bloodstream, dipping and diving and dancing in the tawny vapour of anger and stress.

‘William,’ his Father began, his words dripping with a patronising tone, flooding Bill’s head and boiling until he felt his lungs burn and cry out for help. ‘Come and sit,’

He walked into the living room, cold linoleum sneaking past his thick socks due to his Father’s distaste of spending money on heating the house, took a shaky breath and sat down.

Questions filled his mind - what would this week’s activity be? Why was it being discussed on a Wednesday? Had a family member died? Had his father found out about something?

‘Don’t look at me like that, William,’ He scoffed, looking at Bill as though he was the disappointment of an empty packet of cigarettes, rather than his son.

‘I’ve been thinking - before you say anything, please hear me out,’ Bill steadied himself for the usual. Not to be friends with the losers? To come and do work experience with his Father? To stop writing? To stop living as he pleased?

‘I don’t … I don’t think your Mother is an appropriate person for you to be living with,’

Of all the things Bill had rallied up in his head, he wasn’t expecting his Father to say this. Of course, he’d never been all too fond of his Mother since they ended it, but he had never tried to deny Bill the rights to live with her in such a way. He had, of course, been dropping hints right under Bill’s nose that he was the better parent.

‘Being the patriarch of a broken family does not make you the better person,’ Bill mumbled under his breath, a way that prevented his stutter breaking through and making him seem more pitiable than brave.

His Father’s eyebrows shot up, a breeze of crimson fluttering past his face, growing stronger as he got angrier.

‘Excuse me,’ his Father stared him in the eyes, veins fluctuating with anger and writing as his voice increased in volume, ‘This is my house, William. If you refuse to listen to me then we shall go about this the hard way.’

Something in his voice sent a shiver through Bill, a cold sweat beading at his temples. He gulped back the words that had died up in his throat, feeling that all too familiar anxious tug at his stomach, the hand of Anxiety stroking up his ribs and tickling at them, gliding painfully slowly across each rib and suddenly ripping at his heart.

‘William, so long as I am your primary carer, you shall listen to me,’ Bill scoffed at this, a laugh caused by the unbelievable statement escaping.

His Father looked positively enraged, his face regaining its red hue as he picked up both his and Bill’s plates.

‘Go to your room, please. You are not to contact your Mother and we shall discuss this in the morning. Out of sight.’

Bill bit back tears - of anger and sadness - and made his way up the stairs.

He walked straight past his closed door into the significantly smaller room down the hall, the door of which was littered with crayon drawings of animals, plants and people.

Georgie’s room was quiet, and calm. It was one of the only things that had remained constant in Bill’s memories - ever since he could remember, Georgie’s room had looked like this. Pale yellow walls, one of which was coated in crayon from the time he and Bill had decorated it. The bed was made, a winnie the pooh bed spread adorned it, Georgie’s favourite - he had liked how he was always so happy, and in a way seeing him was bittersweet to Bill, due to how much Georgie had turned into a ray of sunshine, cheering up everyone he saw.

However, the main reason Bill sat on Georgie’s floor was because his room was at the front of the house. And Bill was not going to sit in his bedroom just to fulfil the duties his Father had given him. Definitely not.

So, instead, he decided he would go to the only house he’s ever truly felt was a home - Stanley Uris’ house.

Stanley Uris had been one of Bill’s friends since he was younger. Stan and Bill’s Mothers used to meet up for coffee on Sunday mornings and due to this, Stan and Bill became friends.

Ever since the year previously, when their closest friends Richie and Eddie started dating, the two boys were prone to spending time as a pair outside of the group - of course, all the others had their suspicions, but nothing needed to be confirmed. They laughed along with the jokes, held hands, linked arms, perhaps even kissed in private - but they didn’t have to confirm it.

Whilst Bill loved all of his friends, there was just something so prominent about Stanley. He had such a peculiar sense of humour that had Bill in fits, he was always able to make time for his friends (especially Bill) and would be so willing for him to stay at his or come over if anything happened at home. So Bill decided that he would ignore his Father - really, what was the worst he could do? - and go to see Stan instead.

The jump down wasn’t too steep and Bill had perfected it from all the times it was necessary that he left through his baby brother’s window. He looked back in, as if he expected Georgie to be sat on his bed with a book, and then dropped down onto the damp grass below him.

Not even allowing himself a minute to catch his breath, Adrenaline once again entered Bill and shot through his whole body, coursing smoothly and flooding all his senses.

He ran all the way to the Uris household, a whole 2 miles away - he could taste the metallic tang of blood in his mouth but shook it off, sitting on the curb of the road and breathing deeply to regain his senses.

He heard the sliding of a window above him, and turned around quickly, only to see Stanley Uris’ silhouette where the noise came from, his hand out of the window in a beckoning motion.

Bill stood up from the curb, scrubbing at his face with the sleeve of his jumper in an attempt to get rid of the tracks left behind by the tears, and entered Stan’s house.

The Uris household - another thing that had remained a constant in Bill’s life. The paintings on the beige walls, the hand stitched messages made by Andrea Uris, the vintage furniture in each room. Bill loved the familiarity of it, and the security that came along with it.

Gentle footsteps echoed from the old wooden stairs, tapping out in a repetitive pattern that reminded Bill of the closest thing he’d ever had to home - Stan.

Stan knew that he didn’t have to talk when Bill was feeling like this. He’d always let him talk first, so he could decide how he should initiate a conversation with the taller boy. He tapped Bill on the shoulder and traced his finger down his arm, eventually resting at his wrist and holding his hand. Still on the second to last step, he gave his arm a soft tug before twisting on his foot and making his way back upstairs.

The boy behind him was clearly exhausted, the bags under his eyes had almost tripled in size since Stan had seen him that afternoon. His face was red raw from what Stan assumed to be crying, and his eyes looked bleak yet held a world of emotion in them.

Bill Denbrough confused Stanley Uris - how could one boy hold so many emotions yet keep them all bottled away until he gave in and opened the gate?

Pulling back the duvet on his bed, Stan gave Bill a gentle nudge and settled him down in his bed, and before getting in himself set his vinyl of The Queen Is Dead on. He offered Bill a smile and got a watery one in response, but it was better than nothing.

He crawled into his bed and rested his head on Bill’s chest, knowing it kept him grounded, and felt his heartbeat clatter around his ribs, thrumming out an irregular beat and making the boy’s hands shake.

He felt those same hands come to rest on the small of his back, drawing patterns over the soft skin there, and then he heard him swallow deeply and open his mouth.

‘I just … Stan, I can’t stay at my Dad’s anymore,’ he choked out, digging his fingers into Stan’s back to ground himself, ‘I hate it there. I hate him. He makes me so sad. He doesn’t want me to go to Mum’s anymore and he just wants me to stay in my room - he complains when I don’t eat but then takes my food off of me and won’t let me eat. He gets angry when I go into Georgie’s room and right now he thinks I’m in my room contemplating how I was rude to him when all I did was tell the truth and-’

Bill’s breath came out in staggered junctions, his chest heaving beneath Stan’s head.

‘What’s your favourite flower, Bill?’

‘Daffodils - for Georgie,’

Stan smiled and squeezed his hand, pressing a soft kiss to his chest.

‘That’s nice, I always think of Georgie when I see daffodils,’ Stan spoke clearly to Bill, enunciating each word to remind him he was there, ‘I love lilies’

‘I’ll buy you some, I promise,’

Stan beamed at this, his eyes stinging and threatening tears.

‘I love you, Bill,’

Bill gave Stan a half hearted smile - half hearted as it may be, it was all he could manage in his state.

Stan gently hummed along to the music, letting the vibrations float across Bill’s chest and swim around the empty room, thick with the haze of falling tears and ragged breaths.

Bill Denbrough may not have a physical home - but he had Stanley Uris, and that was the best home he could have ever asked for.

/ tag list

@trashmoutheds - @t-rash-m-outh - @spicyymoon–lovve - @whipashwhipash - @rainy-kaspbrak - @trxshmouth-t0zier

#it 2017 #stenbrough #so? depressing #just shoving my emotions onto bill #ps stan is kyla pass it on #i cried a lot writing this and it took me a few hours #:') #eve writes