(A/N:) Alriiiiiiight here's chapter two- tis 2130 words long :)

h e c k

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26 years or so later...

Stan was roused by the obnoxious sound of beeping and groggily blinked back to reality. With a groan of dissatisfaction and dejection, he pushed himself up in his cramped seat, looking out the window at the dark, surging clouds that formed a melancholy quilt over the world below. It was almost everynight that he thought back to that summer after Freshman year. The pain, the fear... the heartache and denial- it all still seemed so surreal and vivid in his dreams. He realized that his fist was clenched on the thin arm rest beside him and he unfurled it, looking down at the familiar white mark that scarred his palm. It had seen so much- the edge of a blade, the spilt blood of oath, the rough scratch of tear soaked flannel and the caress of velvet hair. He was younger then.

As the plane began its descent, the pressure in the cabin pushed in on his ear drums and Stan squeezed his eyes shut, leaning his head back against the seat. He willed the flight to be over as soon as possible, in fact, he despised flying. It was cramped, musty and frankly, catastrophic scenarios always plagued him. The only thing that really got him through it was sleep and maybe some gin and tonic, although he didn't usually like to resort to alcohol. With a harsh rattling start and the low wailing of tires against pavement, the plane had touched ground and Stan let out an exasperated sigh, glad that he was about to exit this flying tin can.

Once the plane came to a halt and the overhead lights came on, Stan slid out from his seat, grateful to be able to stretch out his stiff limbs which had been laying dormant for his entire two hour flight from Georgia to Maine. As he walked through the airport, he searched for his mother who would be waiting for him near the entrance, not surprised when she told him his father couldn't make it.

Something about Stan's father never really clicked with Stan. Was it the infinite afternoons sheltered by the painfully familiar hometown Synagogue, or the nonstop practice of hebrew sing alongs after hours that got under his skin- he had no idea. Either way, he was never close with his father the way he was with his mother, and this hadn't changed one bit since he left home. He didn't wear his Kippah anymore, but brought it knowing that all hell would break lose if his father were to hear about it. Not to mention that it would break his mother's heart. To tell the truth- the only reason he kept up with judaism wasn't because he loved it, infact he didn't have any particular religion at all anymore it seemed, but because he didn't want to feel like he was letting anyone down. Especially his mother. So as he saw his mother practically bouncing on the tips of her toes in anxiousness, he quickly slipped his Kippah on, heaved a smile, and carefully walked up to greet her. "Hi, mom," he greeted softly, the echo of sleep rasping in his throat.

"My baby boy!" His mom said rather loudly, pulling him into a strong hug. Stan felt his face heat up with embarrassment as the eyes of pesserby burned holes into him. He did, however, hug her back firmly before they simultaneously retracted. It felt good to see her in person again and feel her motherly embrace, which was something he hadn't been aware that he missed until that moment. "Let's get you back home and get you something to eat. I mean, you look so starved, dear, honestly," she poked and prodded at his lean figure. "Don't think you're fooling me with those fasting excuses," Stan's mother said scoldingly before grabbing his suitcase and leading him out to the carpark of the airport.

There in the front row, parked underneath a light post, was a blue station wagon, sided with wood paneling. "You still have this old hunk of junk?" Stan asked with a chuckle of disbelief.

His mother huffed at her son, "It's not a 'hunk of junk', Stanley." She opened the trunk and put the suitcase in, "It happens to work better than any other car I've ever owned," she stated defiantly, walking around the side and getting into the driver's seat, Stan ducking his head to get into the passenger side.

"Whatever you say, mom." Stan rebutted, and they both let out a chortle at their friendly mother/son banter.

The drive home was a short and silent one, consisting of mostly dark woodlands and sparse street lamps on rural roads. Houses started cropping up and Stan watched as a familiar sign passed by quickly.

Derry Welcomes You. 'Welcomes my ass' Stan sighed.

They rolled up to a stop in front of an average, middle class suburban home and the car's engine whirled to a halt. Stan grabbed his luggage and walked up the mundane front steps to a neatly painted red door, the same one he remembered walking in and out of as a child. "Bring your things up to your room and then come down for food." Stan's mother instructed before disappearing into the kitchen. Slowly, he treaded with lead weighted feet up the wooden stairs and down the hall to the last room on the right. Hesitantly, he pushed open the thin white door and peeked inside. Nothing had really changed since he had been there last, and it was surprisingly clean, when he in fact expected to see dust coating his belongings. Belongings might have been an overstatement, it was more like his old bed, two lamps and several picture frames that sat atop the empty dresser. Lazily setting his suitcase on the end of the bed, he walked over to the dresser, picking up one of the picture frames gingerly in both of his hands, taking it in with a sad smile laced on his lips. The image was of the Loser's Club.

It was the day before their Sophomore year began, the very last whispers of summer drifted off on the incoming breeze of autumn. Bill's mother and father motioned for them to scoot in for a picture, looking to commemorate the summer that they had become friends. "On the count of three, say pickles- 1, 2, 3."

There was a chorus of the word pickle before Richie blurted, "I like to tickle pickles!"

"Beep Beep, Richie!" Eddie exclaimed, sending everyone into a hysterical fit of laughter. The camera clicked and there was a bright flash.

That moment was captured, immortalized with wide smiles and red faces. Stan looked at himself, his squinted eyes and toothy grin seeming like a completely different person from who he really was. To his left was Bill who had his arm wrapped loosely around his side, hunched slightly mid laugh. Stan scoffed a little and turned the frame face down against the dresser.

"Stan, dear," Stan heard his mother call, keeping his head down in thought as she opened the door. She stopped a moment as she saw his hand over the flipped picture. She cleared her throat and stepped closer, placing her hand on his, removing his hand from the picture, placing it up again. "Are apples and honey okay?" When Stan didn't reply, she sighed, putting her hands on his upper arms. "It's been awhile hasn't it?"

"Apples and honey are fine," Stan said faintly, although he didn't really care as long as his mother would give him a few more lonely minutes of solitude.

"Stan- " Stan's mother started but couldn't finish as she watched her son's hands clench and unclench, almost an unspoken will for her to stop. She knew that he would always do this if he wanted to be by himself, even as a child, so she nodded in understanding. She gave him a soft smile that didn't really reach her eyes and turned for the door, "apples and honey, comin' right up!" This made Stan cringe but he still tried to smile back all the same, muttering a short 'thank you' as she shut the door behind her. Stan's mother loved him, and he loved his mother, and that was just the way it had always been.

With a sigh, he shuffled to the bed and slowly unzipped his suit case, taking out his clothes before putting them into the abandoned dresser with care. Sighing, he took a seat on the untouched, neatly made bed, wringing his hands together in thought. This was the first time that he had been home in ten years. Not simply of his own accord, but also because of his father. After Stan left for college, they had a sort of falling out. It was nothing too dramatic, but it caused them to need some time apart.

Ten years, he thought solemnly... in hindsight, that was a long time to not see his dad. He hunched slightly, biting his thumbnail and staring at the floor intensely. "Stan, sweety, food's ready!" His mother called from the base of the stairs, causing him to jump as he was shook loose of his deep brooding thoughts.

"Coming," he replied back, forcing himself to stand and head downstairs. When he reached the first floor, he could see his mother sitting in her chair in the living room, a small glass bowl on the coffee table in front of her. Wordlessly, Stan joined her, sitting in the other empty chair to her left. He took in the food before him, thick, rich and golden honey mixed with carefully skinned apple slices. His mom always put such care into everything she did, no matter how dismal or infinitesimal the task.

"So, Stan," she began, taking an apple that was delicately coated in honey, "is there something that you'd like to talk to me about before your father comes home from the Synagog?" She questioned, raising her line of sight to stare directly at her son. Her demeanor made Stan think she was trying to imply something, but he wasn't quite sure what it was.

He silently picked up an apple slice, taking a bite. The last time he had eaten this treat was the summer after his senior year of highschool, and it was exactly as he remembered it, sweet and abundant with flavor. "I just wanted to say thank you..." he paused, "I know it's been a long time since I've been around, and I really do appreciate you... and dad reaching out to get together for Hanukkah this year." He announced, taking another bite of the apple slice.

Just as he said this, the front door slowly opened and heavy footprints made their way through the house. A dense air filling the once precious atmosphere. The room Stan and his mother had resided in became silent as a tall, sharp featured man took a step into the room. No one said a word as an uncomfortable aura surround the Uriss', unsettling the three and creating an awkward first family gathering. It had been so long since Stan had seen his father, whose hair had been peppered with flecks of gray and whom had grown a long beard, showing just how quickly time had passed. In return, Mr. Uris was surprised to see a full grown and respectable man sitting next to his wife, knowing exactly where his son got his good looks from, which was definitely not him. Stan's father didn't know how to feel as he searched through his son's eyes, seeing nor feeling anything but anxiety, choosing to look away fast. Stan couldn't move as his father gave him a curt nod, and watched as he slowly make his way up the elegant stairs of the house. A stair creaking here and there underneath Mr. Uris's weight. As Stan's father disappeared, Stan let out a long breath that he hadn't known he was holding, setting the half eaten apple slice back in the bowl, no longer feeling hungry. "Stan-" his mother started but quickly was cut off for a second time by her son.

"I'm going to go out for a bit, when will you want me back by?"

"Stan, I think you should-" Mrs. Uris tried again, but Stan wanted nothing to do with what she was going to say.

"It's about three now, so... six is when I will be home," Stan said in a final tone, his mother only nodded and looked at him with sympathetic eyes. Her son always had his way of doing things and for some reason she always just let it be and left him to his own devices, even if she didn't fully approve.

"I'll have dinner ready then," she said with a smile, which Stan knew was only for her own sake. He returned her smile with a bit less enthusiasm before turning to leave the house in a hurry as the house suddenly began to suffocate him. As soon as he closed his front door quietly and smelled the harsh and dreadfully memorable air of Derry, his mood, if even possible, plummeted lower. Hating the feeling of his childhood that he tried so hard to get away from, pushing upon his already stressed shoulders. He looked up at the sky and shook the feeling of eyes on him as he walked down his front porch steps cautiously. He fucking hated this town almost as much as he fucking hated himself: which was a lot if you couldn't tell. Well, to be real honest, he just fucking hated life in general; which, by the way, just so happened to be shitting on him constantly ever since he was born. He just prayed he didn't feel the need to kill himself before the holidays even started... that would really dampen his mother's mood for sure.

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(A/N:) Hi again- just want to say thank you for reading and any feedback about the story would be appreciated! :>