Chapter Text
The Sunday afternoon sunlight washed over the backyard in a warm, gentle glow. Stanley liked that — the way the heat settled softly against his skin as he sat on the grass.
With no birds around anymore, he let his eyes close and allowed the breeze to brush across his face, his arms, his legs. He hadn’t wanted to think about the night before, but his mind dragged him back there anyway.
He felt awful. Ashamed. Whatever had happened — whatever he still couldn’t name — clung to him like a stain. And there he was, sitting in his uncle’s yard, feeling pathetic.
He lowered one hand from his knee to the grass, letting his palm slide across the blades and welcoming the faint itch they left on his skin. Stanley liked that sensation — because it was real. He liked reality. He trusted logic. Logic kept him afloat. The real, the tangible, anchored him to calm.
The grass beneath his hand.
The wind against his skin.
The warmth of the sun soaking into his body.
All of it real. All of it logical. All of it keeping him here.
As his fingers drifted across the lawn, they brushed against his bird book. Stanley opened his eyes and looked down at it, resting beside him where he’d left it when he and Uncle Ted first came outside to watch whatever birds might visit the backyard bath.
He stared at the book and thought of the birds inside it.
Sparrows, robins, blue jays, pigeons, woodpeckers, canaries.
Birds he had never seen in person, too.
Parrots, cockatoos, toucans, golden eagles, peacocks, gulls, pelicans, vultures.
They always gave him a small kind of comfort when he felt like this.
Right now, he was alone. Uncle Ted had gone back inside about half an hour earlier, his leg starting to hurt — or so he'd said. He’d told Stanley he could stay outside as long as he wanted. But Stanley didn’t know if he wanted to go back in yet… and he didn’t know if he wanted to stay out here either.
He was caught in the middle.
Damn it. How could he not even know whether he wanted to sit or stand, go in or stay out? What the hell was happening to him?
And while Stanley wrestled silently with himself, the quiet inside the house carried a different kind of weight. Ted leaned against the kitchen window frame, his cane resting by the sink. That “half hour” had stretched longer than he’d admitted. The pain was real — but not the whole truth. It was also an excuse. A way to step back, to give Stanley space… and to watch from a distance.
Through the glass, he saw his nephew sitting motionless on the lawn, like one more garden ornament — a statue, a painted gnome. He wasn’t flipping through the book beside him. He wasn’t really looking at anything at all. Maybe straight ahead. Maybe inward.
Teddy knew that posture.
The rigid shoulders.
The slightly bowed head.
Hands still — but not relaxed.
It was the posture of someone fighting a quiet, exhausting war inside his own mind.
He’s in conflict, Ted thought, and the realization pressed painfully beneath his ribs. Not the simple kind of conflict a kid has when choosing a toy. This was something heavier — a paralyzing fear with no clear source, no clear escape. And Ted didn’t know how to reach him. Didn’t know how to help.
All he could see was a frightened boy… and he had no idea how to make that fear smaller.
Ted had never wanted children. The idea had withered long ago under the weight of his own family history — and the reality of the life he shared with Phil. It wasn’t rejection. It was certainty. He didn’t have the map for raising a child.
And now here he was, cane by the sink, heart in his throat — trying to guide a teenager through a minefield…
with no map at all.
Teddy had never been there. He didn’t know how you calmed a child with a scraped knee—much less an emotional crisis. He didn’t know what they used to sing to Stanley to help him fall asleep as a baby, didn’t know whether he was afraid of the dark, didn’t know what his parents did to make him laugh. Donald and Andrea were the ones who carried those files. All Teddy had was a stranger with his same hair, sitting in his yard, silently coming apart.
The temptation to walk into the living room and pick up the phone itched at his hands. To call Andrea, to spill his own frustration and fear across the line: “Your son is here, broken, and I don’t know how to put him back together. Come. You know. You must know.”
Andrea would help with her practical calm, with that kind gaze that had always seen Teddy as a person and not just the troublesome brother. She might have the key to helping Stanley feel better.
But then there was Donald. The shadow of his brother always stood between his hand and the phone. Donald wouldn’t help. He would turn Stanley’s crisis into another test of “weakness,” another reason to tighten the screws of discipline around him like prison bars. Calling Andrea meant calling the Uris household, and that meant opening the door to Donald—his judgment, his poison. Teddy could already hear his voice on the line: “I can’t believe you let my son go through that in your house, Theodore. You can’t even handle a kid for one week.”
A shaky sigh slipped past Teddy’s lips. His gaze didn’t leave Stanley. The boy had moved an arm, tracing slow circles in the grass, as if he were searching for a center, a starting point. It was such a tiny gesture—but Teddy had learned to notice the tiny things.
Phil wasn’t there. Phil was better at connecting with people, had a way of disarming tension with just a few words—especially with Teddy. But Phil was at work. He wouldn’t be there to help.
Teddy was alone. Alone with Stanley.
What the hell was he supposed to do?
His nephew was there, suffering in silence, and he didn’t know how to be an uncle—or a friend.
Wait…
A friend.
That was it.
What Stanley needed was the same thing that had kept Teddy afloat for so many years.
Stanley needed a Phil. A friend who was always there. A friend who showed up. An unconditional friend.
How could he have been so blind to that?
Stanley had mentioned his friends before. He was here because of them, after all.
He limped to the back door, opened it, and leaned out.
“Stanley, come in for a minute, please!” Ted raised his voice just enough to get his attention, and Stanley turned at once.
“I’m coming,” he replied softly.
Ted stepped back from the doorway. Stanley came inside a moment later, brushing grass from his clothes.
“Yes, Uncle Ted?”
Ted looked at him for a moment, taking in the exhaustion written so clearly in the boy’s eyes, feeling awful for how badly his nephew was struggling.
“You know,” Uncle Ted said, offering a small smile, “there’s a perfectly good phone in the living room. If there’s someone you want to call… you could. I’m not expecting any calls today anyway.”
Ted’s comment fell into the kitchen like a stone into a still pond—but the ripples it stirred inside Stanley were immediate and violent. His uncle’s forced smile, the mention of the phone… with the way Stanley had been raised, that sounded like trouble.
“It’s a test,” Stanley thought, his mind spiraling. “He wants me to call my father. He wants me to tell him I want to leave. This is his way of saying he can’t handle me anymore — that he’s seen how broken I am and doesn’t want to deal with it. He wants me gone.”
The panic that had been pulsing dully beneath his skin since the night before jolted awake. His mouth went dry. The sunny garden was no longer a refuge — it was the prelude to being sent away. He looked at Uncle Ted’s cane, at his tired expression, and interpreted it as exhaustion with him.
“Call my father?” he managed to ask. His voice came out sharper, tighter than he meant it to, betraying the tremor inside.
Ted blinked, confusion beginning to form on his face as he registered Stanley’s abrupt shift. He saw how the boy’s eyes widened, how his body tensed, ready to pull back.
Oh no, Ted thought, feeling his well-intentioned plan crumble. No, no, that isn’t what I meant.
“No, Stanley — not your father,” he said quickly, his tone losing any trace of lightness and becoming urgent, sincere. He straightened a little, wanting to sound convincing. “I don’t mean Donald. I mean one of your friends. Any of them.”
Stanley went still. The panic didn’t vanish, but it tangled now with a new, overwhelming confusion. Was… was his uncle giving him permission to call his friends? Wasn’t that what had gotten him into trouble in the first place? Shouldn’t Ted be forbidding contact with them?
“But…” Stanley stammered, glancing toward the hallway that led to the living room, as if the phone were some kind of trap. “But my dad… he doesn’t want me to—”
“Your father isn’t here, Stanley,” Uncle Ted interrupted gently, but firmly. He limped a step closer, then stopped, careful not to invade his space. “You’re in my house. And in my house…” He paused, searching for words that wouldn’t sound like defiance, but like an offering. “I think sometimes what a person needs is to hear a familiar voice — one that isn’t passing judgment. Someone who reminds you who you are when you feel lost.”
Stanley stared at him. Who you are when you feel lost echoed deep inside his chest.
That was exactly what he needed.
He needed to hear Bill say, “E-Everything’s g-gonna be okay, Stan,” in that steady stutter of his. He needed Richie to crack a joke so stupid it pulled him out of his head for two seconds. He needed Eddie to ask about homework or whether the grass on the ground might be poison ivy.
Stanley needed his friends.
But the fear of disappointing his father — of him finding out, of this being yet another transgression — weighed on him like solid iron.
“What if… what if my dad finds out?” he whispered.
Uncle Ted took a deep breath. This was the line he was drawing — a quiet act of defiance against his older brother.
“Well, unless my brother is secretly tapping my phone, he doesn’t have to find out,” he said, this time with a strange, steady calm — the kind that comes after a decision has already been made. “It’s a phone call, not a declaration of rebellion, Stanley. Besides, the phone line contract is in Phil’s name, so technically he’s the one letting you make the call, not me — if that helps.”
It was a ridiculous argument, delivered with such seriousness that Stanley almost let out a nervous laugh. The panic began to loosen its claws, slowly replaced by a swirl of cautious hope — and immense gratitude.
His uncle wasn’t throwing him out.
He was throwing him a lifeline — a bridge back to his real life.
Stanley glanced toward the living room again — and now the phone no longer looked like a trap.
It looked like a way to stay afloat.
“Thank you, Uncle Ted,” he murmured — and this time, his voice was steady.
Ted nodded, feeling the weight finally lift from his shoulders.
“Go,” he said simply. “The living room’s yours. I’ll… see what we’ve got for dinner.” It was an excuse to give him privacy — and they both knew it.
While Ted turned toward the kitchen, Stanley walked slowly down the hallway, his heart pounding now not with fear, but with anticipation. The possibility of hearing one of his best friends’ voices — when he felt like a truck had dragged him across the entire main street — was overwhelming. At the threshold of the living room, he stopped for a second and glanced back at his uncle’s back as Ted started fussing with the stove.
Stanley looked around the living room and noticed he’d forgotten the comics he’d been reading the afternoon before — one left sitting on the coffee table. A Fantastic Four issue, of course, its cover showing only Reed and Sue. He thought about their love story, and he didn’t know why, but somehow… it gave him courage.
He went straight to the biggest couch and sat on the edge, picking up the phone. He brought his finger to the dial — then froze, overthinking for just a second longer.
The idea of calling Bill was the first thing that crossed his mind… but he didn’t know if he’d pick up.
Then suddenly, the ringing sound filled his ear.
When did he even dial?
Shit. When did I dial?
“Hello?”
Bill’s voice — even through the phone — was a lifeline thrown straight into the chaos in his chest.
Something real. Something solid.
It was Bill.
His best friend.
“Bill… it’s me.”
“S-Stanley.” Bill’s voice broke on the first syllable — not from his usual stutter, but from raw, overpowering emotion. “Y-You’re still a-alive.”
The words filled the living room with a gravity that was impossible to miss. It wasn’t a casual greeting. It was an acknowledgment — one that made Stanley feel strangely… okay.
Bill’s words always made him feel okay.
“Yeah,” Stanley managed, his own voice sounding unfamiliar to him. “Yeah. I’m still alive.”
“A-Are you o-okay?” Bill asked. “H-How’s your u-uncle?”
“My uncle…” Stanley let the words hang in the air. He glanced toward the small hallway leading to the kitchen and slowly began to smile. “He’s… better than I thought, you know? He’s not the lonely hermit I imagined. He isn’t like my—”
“Like your father?” Bill finished gently.
Stanley tightened his grip on the receiver.
His friends knew his father was… strict. Rigid. A man whose harshness often slipped into cruelty. But out of the three, Bill was probably the one who understood him the most. Even though Stanley had known Richie longer, things with Bill were… different. Bill had a way of seeing and understanding the world — and of expressing it — that somehow cut straight through.
Which was ironic, considering the stutter.
“Yeah,” Stanley whispered. “He’s not like my father. He’s… different. His house is messy. He’s got this huge collection of old comics. He draws. And he doesn’t actually live alone like I thought — he lives with his best friend, Phil, who’s… loud. Kind of like Richie, but an adult version. And way less of an idiot.”
From the other side of the line, Stanley heard Bill laugh.
“S-Sounds l-less boring than your h-house,” Bill said, with his usual plain honesty.
A breath of laughter escaped Stanley.
It was true.
That was the most accurate description possible.
“It is. It is less boring. But at the same time… it’s scarier.”
“S-Scarier?” Bill’s voice tightened.
“Not scary scary,” Stanley rushed to clarify, rubbing the bridge of his nose. It was hard to explain. “It’s… fear of not understanding the rules. Things here aren’t clear. They’re messy. And sometimes… sometimes that mess feels good, and that scares me, because I don’t know what that means.”
There was silence on the other end of the line. Bill was thinking. Stanley could feel it.
“Y-Your h-head,” Bill said at last, slowly, choosing every word, “n-needs everything to have a p-place. Like your b-bird book. Your u-uncle… he sounds like a w-wild forest. With birds that a-aren’t in the book.”
The metaphor hit so perfectly that Stanley’s heart lurched. He didn’t even know how to answer.
Bill always understood him. He always saw the inner mechanism of Stanley Uris.
“Exactly,” Stanley whispered. “And I don’t know if I like those birds… or if I should try to get used to them… or if I should run out of the forest.”
“A-Are the birds b-bad?” Bill asked, sounding as practical as ever. For him, danger was measured in terms of direct threat.
Stanley glanced again toward the kitchen, hearing the faint clink of pots being moved. He remembered the fallen tape — Phil + Teddy. The peace on his uncle’s face during the movie. The time in the garden cleaning the birdbath. The quiet breakfast that morning. The talk about pizza. His attack the night before — and Ted... And Phil trying to calm him.
“No,” he said — with a certainty that surprised even him. “They’re not bad. They’re just… different. And seeing them makes me think about… other things. About myself. And I think that’s what’s scary.”
This time, Bill’s silence was warmer — the silence of someone who also had his own inner forests full of things that were hard to name.
“I-It’s okay to be a-afraid, Stan,” Bill said, his voice steady — the leader in him shining through. “D-Do you r-remember the first time we went to the B-Barrens?”
“Yes,” Stanley replied automatically.
“We were ten. You and E-Eddie refused to go,” Bill continued. “B-But Richie and I c-convinced you. And I t-told you nothing b-bad would happen because we were t-together, and we’d g-guide each other like a c-compass, and Eddie and Richie m-made a map.”
“They lost the map two days later…”
“But it still m-made you feel s-safe,” Bill insisted. “If your u-uncle isn’t b-bad… let him be your c-compass there.”
“Let him make the map?” Stanley asked softly.
“Y-You make the map w-with him,” Bill replied.
The words echoed through his mind, like a path opening up in front of him. Stanley felt a strange thump in his chest and looked down at his hands. They no longer trembled with panic — only with a deep, overwhelming relief that nearly took his breath away.
“Wow… Bill, that… that actually helps. A lot,” he managed. “Thank you.”
“N-No problem,” Bill answered — and Stanley could practically see him shrug with that stubborn little smile Stanley liked far more than he should… but he was not thinking about that right now. “B-By the way — W-Wednesday the guys and I are going to the a-arcade. We were g-gonna go today, but E-Eddie fell off his b-bike this morning and his mom took him to the d-doctor — you know she puts him in q-quarantine for two days.”
Stanley had to bite back a laugh.
“I’ll try to ask my uncle if he can… take me,” Stanley said, smiling.
“T-Try it,” Bill replied — and Stanley could hear the spark of happiness in his voice. “W-Wednesday. Two o’clock.”
“I’ll remember,” Stanley promised. “And Bill… thanks for picking up.”
"Y-you called,” Bill replied. “I-I’d never miss one of your calls.”
Stanley blushed, grateful they were only on the phone; if Bill could see how red his cheeks were, he’d be even more embarrassed.
“I’ll see you on Wednesday,” Stanley said quickly.
“T-Take care, Stanley,” Bill said goodbye, and they both hung up.
Stanley sighed, releasing all the air he’d been holding in for hours. He felt lighter. He closed his eyes as he rested his head against the back of the couch—and then he smiled again.
“I can see you’re feeling better.”
Stanley opened his eyes to find his uncle standing beside the couch, smiling at him.
“I…,” Stanley hesitated for a moment. “Yeah, I feel a lot better.”
“And do you know why that is?” his uncle asked.
“Because I talked to one of my best friends?” Stanley replied with a question of his own.
“Because you have very good friends, Stanley,” Uncle Ted said, moving a little closer before sitting beside him. “And I’m glad you have your Phils.”
“My… Phils?”
“When I was a kid, I wouldn’t have survived without Phil, because my father wasn’t the best,” he went on. “Phil was a lifeline for me—kept me sane. Physically? No, clearly not.”
Uncle Ted joked, pointing to his right leg as he laughed, and Stanley couldn’t help but laugh a little too.
“The point is… you have friends, Stanley. Very good friends who—even if your father insists they’re a bad influence—are good for you,” Ted said, looking straight at him. “If they care about you, if they’re willing to listen, if they make you smile the way you’re smiling right now… they’re good friends. Don’t let anyone make you believe otherwise.”
“Yeah. They’re my best friends,” Stanley nodded.
“How about you tell me how you met them?” his uncle asked. “And I can tell you how I met Phil.”
Stanley settled back into the couch, looking at his uncle’s kind smile, and he felt safe—truly safe, in a good place.
“Well… I met Richie back in kindergarten,” Stanley began.
Ted’s smile widened as he listened, watching the light in Stanley’s eyes while he talked about his friends.
At last, he felt a real step forward had been made—and from here, there was only moving ahead.