finally_ahead

For all of the things that have been getting better since that day, Stan's been putting something off, a quiet little extra kick in the ribs. He spends a lot of time not thinking about it, and feeling a shadow of the same buzzing compulsion that had led to him to use the bleach when he does.

Before anyone had found him that day, before he'd made it back to the Home, Stan had stood there, dripping from the hose, and pulled out his birding notebook. Everything he needed to know was in the way the color beaded up on the edges and dripped to the ground, blues and reds now murky with diluted sewer water.

He's not sure at all where he threw it it; the memory flickers too much. The image of the ruined journal sticks with him, and only over the span of weeks does the way it jabs him stop hurting so sharply.

Stan tries a few times to buy a new one, finally successful when he's at some colorful little store with El, and he doesn't even think about it so much as pick up the small book with a hard cover and smooth blank pages. He hardly puts it all together until they're walking down the street and he's got in in his hands, mouth opening to tell El how he's planning to start with a coastal bird, if he can.

The unfortunate linchpin in the realization happens to be the sharp tones of one of Evan's friends, walking the other way with some upperclassmen. "Oh look," says either Taylor or Tyler, Stan doesn't remember. "Sewer bitch out on dry land, new little coloring book and a girl--"

"Fuck off," Stan says, immediately, sharply, and he waits for the regret to set in.